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A fter the time she and her boyfriend Jack had open-air sex on top of Butterpot Mountain without using a condom, Tryphena Snook thought about all the possible consequences that might ensue. Finally she said to herself, What the heck, babies run in the family, they run in all families, don't they? That's life. The Snooks were like rabbits, what could you do? She sat back and waited for her next period to come, which it always eventually did, so far anyway, like clockwork, so it wouldn't be long before the news was in, one way or the other. She couldn't blame Jack, the policeman, the man she loved, for what happened up there. The way she remembered, it was a moment of passion, the two of them together, both of them fools. She thought about it at least six hundred times. She imagined an independent observer who had been there, though thank God there wasn't one, and she knew that any such independent observer would have said, with the wisdom of Solomon, that the careless young man should have had a condom on. It's his fault, not the fault of the girl. But Tryphena was not about to cast blame, it wasn't like her to do that, it was the two of them together, not just him. If she hadn't been there, lying directly underneath him as she undeniably was, like a target, there'd be no problem now at all and no concerns. Who could argue with that? Also, as her mother said, there's no use crying over spilt milk.

In the first week after Butterpot, he called her up just the same as always and they went out on dates, as usual. They went for one drive in the country, another one down to the shore. They did all the usual things and then he asked her out to a movie and they headed for the mall.

Well? he said as soon as she got in the car.

Nothing yet, she said. But I'm still not really due. Couple of days yet. Hold your horses, Sheriff.

Before the time on Butterpot, she'd called him Sheriff off and on, as a little joke, because he was a new policeman in the Constabulary. He'd liked it, then. He'd even whinnied like a horse, and slapped his hip like he was accelerating away, his hand on the reins. Now he said, Don't call me that Tryphena, I'm tired of that.

Oh? She said. Tired of it? She had the vision then of a cowboy riding off into the sunset, like they did at the end of old movies.

It makes fun of me, he said. It's belittling.

OK, Jack, she said, Sorry, that's it for the wild west.

He pulled into the mall and looked for a place to park. They finally found a place but they were a long way away from the entrance. As they walked in, he said to her, Tryphie, when will we know for sure, do you think?

The evidence is not yet in, Sherlock Holmes. Bide your time, Dr Watson, she said.

He didn't laugh at that either.

Two days, Jack, that's all. Give or take a week, she said.

For some reason, after he complained about being called a Sheriff, she wanted to poke him a bit, with a stick. She didn't like the way he looked, nervous, his mind off somewhere else. It was never like this before.

After the movie was over, they went back to his place.

What'll we do? he said.

I wonder, she said.

He put on a record they both liked and then he poured a glass of red wine for Tryphena. Then he opened a beer for himself. Then they sat down on the couch, which was a bit worn-out but still seviceable, to listen to the music. Then Jack leaned over and nuzzled into her neck, and kissed her there.

Use two condoms this time please, she said.

Two? he said, that's a waste.

Make up for last time, she said. She put her arms around his neck.

No, he said, one's enough. Maybe more than enough, if you're already pregnant what's the point? No condoms is fine then.

Well, she said, what kind of attitude is that? That's selfish.

Common sense, he said, that's what it is.

I'm the sacrificial lamb here, she said. I'm the one to decide about condoms.

They still had all their clothes on.

I think I'll go home and wait this out, she said. She stood up off the couch.

Wait, he said.

It seems to me you've got your priorities all mixed up here, she said. Worry worry one moment, to hell with it all the next. What about us? she said.

She walked out into the hallway. He came up to her and pressed up against her with the whole length of his body, against the radiator.

Drive me home, she said.

He got the car keys from his coat which was hung up on the rack. He walked out into the night air with just his shirt and pants on and they got into the blue car he owned and he drove her home.

Thanks for the ride, she said when he dropped her off. She didn't say Sheriff, like she might have done before, but she did look at him real nicely and blow him a kiss. It wasn't that she didn't love him, because she did. It was just that it wasn't quite as simple as it had been before. It was like there was a tiny wedge pushed between the two of them.

Home early? Everything fine? her mother said to her.

Oh I think so, she said. I got this test tomorrow, root canals, the anatomy of nerves to the teeth.

I could never do that, said her mother. Never ever. Imagine you, Tryphie, a dental hygienist, full-blown. By the way, how's the Sheriff?

Fine, but he doesn't want to be called that any more. Belittling, he says. What do you think of that?

Got himself on a high-horse, that's what it sounds like, her mother said, They can't take a joke, watch out.

Tryphena walked up the stairs to her room. She got down all the textbooks she needed and she sat there and studied diagrams of teeth until that was all she could see. She nodded off at midnight, got up from her chair and went to the bathroom. No sign of anything there yet.

OK Jack darling, she said, this is getting a bit scary.

Then she went to bed and lay in the dark, her thoughts a bit a-jumble but then she was fast asleep and dead to the world. Later on she had a dream that finally woke her up. She was at a lottery display, at one of those one-armed bandits. There were bright lights around her, like a carnival, and Jack was there, pressed up against her shoulder. There were a lot of shouts, a racket going on around them. Together they pulled on one of the arms of the money-machine, but instead of red cherries, a row of three shiny teeth came up on the screen. Molars, she shouted. Molars! They'd won! Jack jumped up and down and silver coins started to pour from the bottom of the machine all down her knees, down onto the floor in a wild cascade. She reached down to pick up a handful of those silvery coins but instead of money, all there was at her feet was a small pool of blood. There was no money there at all. What the heck? Oh it's my period, she thought when she woke up, but when she checked, there was nothing there, nothing at all. The clock said 4:30. Some dream, that one, she said to herself. Then she thought about where Jack was at that time of the morning. Halfway through the midnight shift by now, dealing with God knows what. That's where he'd be.

Actually, he'd had a pretty tame time of it so far, the way it worked out. He was doing some paperwork for a few minutes, 4:30 AM, when in came the Staff Sergeant.

There's something going on down Patrick Street, he said. Get out there Jack, check it out. Sounds domestic, weird call from some guy. They need someone, he said. Number 52.

Jack was back at the station only because he'd picked up a skinny old man wandering down by the water, wearing just a hat. That old guy made no sense at all, no surprise, so Jack put him in the back of the squad-car and took him in. The police kept a pile of gray blankets for people like that back at the station. Mostly though, the night had been quiet. He'd driven up and down the hills in one of those cold steady rains, looking left and right like he'd been trained to, but the streets were empty of those with bad intentions.

Low psycho count so far, he said to the sergeant. Let's hope it stays that way.

Zero, said the sergeant, it's the weather, that's why. Psychos, they're all indoors. They're not as crazy as they look. Number 52, Jack. We're the only ones have to be crazy enough for this. Go for it.

The constable went out and got in his car and turned the key and all the lights came on and he set out for Patrick Street. It was all of two minutes away. When he got to the bottom of the street and looked up the hill, which was probably the steepest in a town of steep hills, there was a low mist half-way up that blocked the view. Everything looked dark and peaceful though. He drove up the hill and looked for numbers. When he hit Number 40 the mist cleared some and he could see, further up there, a light cast out onto the street from an open door. That must be it. He pulled in front of the door and he got out. He didn't put on the red flashers because that wasn't part of the drill. Not for domestics. Stay cool and calm, keep a low profile. That's the secret when you got yourself into the heart of families, whatever troubled them at 4:30 in the morning. He took his training seriously. That's how he got by.

He went up the open door where the light was. He stopped and looked in. Even though it was raining harder now, he stayed outside. He had one of those clear plastic hat covers on, so it didn't matter about the rain. Don't rush in, he said to himself, take it easy. He'd been in these row houses lots of times, lots of times before he ever was a policeman, so he knew the layout with his eyes closed.

The first thing he saw was a man who sat on the bottom of the stairs that went up to the second floor. He couldn't see the man's face because the man had his head in his hands and his hair was all messed up and he had on one of those undershirts with no arms. Then Jack looked down the open hallway that ran back to the kitchen, all the lights on everywhere, the kitchen table neat as a pin, flowers in the centre. He thought he could hear a noise upstairs, like sobbing. He stepped through the doorway but stopped as soon as he was inside. Water ran off him onto the linoleum.

Hey what's up, Jack said in the friendly way he had. Police, he said.

The man looked up at him and stood up from the stairs. There was no smell of alcohol in the air so already there was a difference. The man had pyjamas pants on and there was something that looked like blood on the right knee.

Thank God you're here, Officer, for the love of Jesus, the man said, arrest her. She's broke the law.

He spoke louder than he had to, like he wanted to be heard throughout the whole house, through the whole neighbourhood.

Hold on, said Jack, what's the problem?

Jack didn't say, What's the problem Sir. There was something in the way the man stood there, the way he looked that Jack didn't feel like using the word Sir, even though that was part of the drill. It had to do with respect.

First she's a harlot, now she's broke the law. She's bad, bad through and through.

Who? said Jack.

He moved closer to the man.

No daughter of mine, that's for sure, the man said and he started to cry. Not like he was sad for someone else. It was like blubbering.

Where is she? said Jack but then he said, Forget this.

He didn't want to wait anymore. He brushed by the man and he went up the stairs two at at time till he was on the small landing and there was a low light on in the front bedroom. He went straight there and he looked in. There was a thick heavy smell in the room of some kind. There was a plug-in night-light on the wall and that's all he could see by. On the bed in the dim light was a woman in a white nightgown lying on top of the covers, and it looked like she had her arm around the chest of a young girl. The rest of the girl was under the covers and the lady was crying though now you couldn't hear a thing from her. She was cried out, it looked like.

There she is, there she is, said the man who'd come up the stairs. He gave Jack a little push on the shoulder.

Don't touch me, Jack said. Stand back and clear the room. You, get up please ma'am. We needs to have a look here.

The lady didn't move so Jack walked over to the far side of the bed and squeezed through the small space against the wall. The girl was maybe seventeen years old, it was hard to say. Her eyes were closed but that was good. If the eyes were closed, probably that meant they were still alive. When they were dead, the eyes were wide-open, staring. This young girl had straggly dark hair on her forehead, like it was pasted there, and her face was the colour of ashes, a gray-white which faded into the sheets. It was almost like she wasn't there at all. He bent down over her. He moved the woman's arm off the chest and a drop of rain fell from his hat onto the girl's cheek.

Excuse me, he said, sorry. He could see now that she was breathing, just barely. Enough for a mouse. He pulled the covers down off her, slowly. There was nothing there from the waist down but blood and the girl didn't move at all, or even twitch when he laid her bare like that. She was unconscious. She had some kind of slip on but it didn't look like clothing anymore, drenched in the red of her own bleeding.

What in God's name is this? he said.

No one said anything but then the man said, It's her own fault.

Jack pulled the covers back up. He moved out from the side of the bed and brushed by the man in the doorway and he went down the stairs as fast as he could. He got to the squad-car in about three seconds and he was on the radio back to the station.

Sergeant we need an ambulance. 52 Patrick.

What is it? said the Staff Sergeant.

Not your average domestic, that's for sure. I'm trying to figure it out, said Jack. Get them here fast.

He clicked the radio off and went back to the house. If anything, the rain was harder now. A few of the houses nearby had their lights on.

Take her to jail, it's OK with me, the man said.

He stood in front of the policeman in the hallway upstairs.

It's an abortion, the man said, it's a crime.

Get out of my way, you're obstructing me, said Jack. Then he added, Sir.

He was starting to feel emotional. That wasn't good but it was the hardest thing to learn in this job. He knew that.

A slut, that's what she is, the man said.

You shut up, Jack said.

Then he said to the mother, I've called the ambulance.

It was blood that caused that smell. It was the first time he'd smelled so much of it in one place. It was in the room, in the air, it poured through them all. He was sweating under the uniform even though it was cold and damp, the door still open to the outside and then he could hear the sound of the ambulance.

She's the one, she had it done, said the man.

Is this true? said Jack to the mother.

Last night, the mother said.

She sat down on the side of the bed.

Since then, she lies there like a bird, she said. Not a peep these two hours.

The ambulance pulled up outside and they came in with the stretcher. Hi Jack, they said. They all knew each other from various disasters they'd been to. They had their own small world.

Then they said, Holy Jeez, there's hardly a pulse. Here's a girl that needs blood.

They were cool, they didn't panic, they made Jack feel better. They put oxygen on her and they strapped her in and they tipped her down the stairs, with Jack out in front to lead the way.

Keep her head low, one of them said, it's better for the brain that way. Oxygen.

They rattled down the stairs but at the bottom, the father blocked the way. You can't take her to the hospital, he said, that's not for her.

Get out of the way, said Jack.

The man just stood there and he pushed Jack hard in the chest. Jack stumbled back into the ambulance man, the one at the lower end of the stretcher. He didn't fall though. He was a lot bigger than the other man.

There's got to be charges laid first, said the man. It's a crime in this country, all of this.

You're right, said Jack, so how's this? You're under arrest for obstructing a police officer.

He took the father by the front of his undershirt, turned him, and slammed him up against the wall, face-first. He'd seen it done on TV a million times and it felt good. Then he got out his handcuffs. He'd practised it and he was good at it, one or two quick moves with the wrists and it was done and he had the father out onto the street and into the back of the squad-car.

Sit there, he said.

He closed the door. Then he went back to the ambulance.

That was good, said one of the ambulance men.

Jack leaned through the back door of the ambulance and then he climbed in and stood over the girl's face and he bent down. He spoke into her ear, he said, You'll be fine. It'll all work out for you, dear.

More water dropped from him, onto her face. She didn't feel a thing. Her matted hair still stuck on her forehead like a rag. He got out of the ambulance and stood in the street.

She'll be OK, I hope, he said to the mother. You want a ride to the hospital?

She put on a coat and she closed the front door of the house and she got into the front seat of the squad-car. She looked back at her husband through the little wire cage.

What the fuck am I doing here? he said to her.

How'd it come to this? she said, but who she was talking to wasn't clear to the constable.

That was all she said and neither of them listened anymore to the man in the back. He drove down Forest Road to the hospital and pulled in by the Emergency and he left the car running outside with the heater on, though it occurred to him not to, and he and the mother went inside. He took down all the information he needed and he left the woman there and then he drove back to the station.

Here's the guy, Patrick Street, he said to the sergeant, and he went downstairs for a coffee. He did the paperwork and he walked up and gave it to the sergeant. Then for the first time in three hours, he thought about Tryphena. She'd be getting up around now. She had some kind of exam in the morning but he knew she'd have no trouble with that.

Then the phone rang.

Jack it's me, the Staff Sergeant said, I don't know about this guy, this arrest.

How do you mean? said Jack.

The real crime here's the abortion, not this.

Trust me, you weren't there. This is the crime, said Jack.

We'll get to the other part later then?

I guess so, that's not up to me, said Jack.

No, I guess not said the Staff Sergeant. I'll back you on this one.

OK said Jack.

Then he sat there because his shift was nearly over and he thought about Tryphena. Maybe he loved her, maybe not. He was up in the air. He didn't have a lot of experience in these things and there was no magic way to know, none at all. Why'd he ever do that up on Butterpot, anyway? That was craziness, lying there on top of her like that. Even then, when he made that mistake, when he lost his head, when he was crazy, yet it was still OK with her. Afterwards she was OK. What a girl she was. She even had the presence of mind to jump up and down, try to shake it all out. He could see her there in the sun, holding onto her pants, hopping. Did that girl on Patrick Street do that, when it happened to her? Probably not, it probably happened in the dark and she was afraid to move at all.

Was it way too early to phone her up, ask her Well? Tryphie? Any sign of anything?

Yes it was, it was still too early. Anyway, after tonight, it felt a bit crass, all of this. He put both hands on the side of his head.

All he was worried about these days, it seemed, everywhere he went, it was all the same, blood, bleeding, girls.