“Whadidya say?”
Thump. Her body lurches forward, her upper body, starting just below the shoulder where he had hit her, falls first, and then the rest of her body catches up and she takes two quick stumbling steps to regain her balance. The only noise she makes is the smallest of whimpers. She does not run or try to find help. She just keeps walking.
But so does he. “Were ya talkin’ to me? Is that what ya were sayin’ to me? He swings his left arm around, in a wide circular motion. Thump.
Her whole upper body falls forward and she struggles to stay upright. This time the cry is louder. His punches are getting harder.
She quickens her pace a little. So does he. He walks behind her, shouting at her over her right shoulder. She never looks at him, avoids making eye contact with him.
Then silently he creeps up on the right side of her, grabs her right shoulder and pushes her against a closed aluminum roller door to her left.
He takes a few steps back into the street and away from her. He gives himself space for a run up. Then he begins to run at her. One, two, three, four steps before he is in front of her. He cocks his left arm back like a javelin thrower, and then unleashes his entire body. From his planted left hip he pours all his power into the punch.
She lets out a cry and her knees buckle under her. She falls to the ground.
His punch lands just above her falling head. The crash of his fist into the panel door echoes up and down the street.
He screams at her.
He’s wearing a loose singlet top, and his tensed muscles stand out under the street light, he looks fit enough to be a boxer and he has just aimed a punch at this woman that has all of his strength and speed behind it.
She’s hurrying now further up the street. They walk just out of sight and then it happens again. Thump.
I can no longer see the pair but I can hear his punch landing on her.
This is not a fictional account of domestic violence. This happened in my usually quiet side-street in Fitzroy last night.
Thankfully a police van came past minutes after this exchange and intervened.
But I was up for hours after I saw this woman being beaten in my street.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About what a woman must have been through to not cry or scream or try to escape a violent attacker. I thought about her reaction and realised she didn’t seem shocked. Apart from the small stumble she barely broke her stride after his first punch. I wanted to cry for a woman who was not shocked at a man beating her.
I worried that the final punch I heard might not be the last time that man punches the woman.
I kept thinking about her safety.
But I shouldn’t have been shocked.
Just five days ago Victoria’s Police Deputy Commissioner Sir Ken Jones said our state could lower its high homicide rate if we took domestic violence more seriously.
“There was a reluctance and reticence to talk about it in the UK in the ‘80s and ‘90s and that has changed,” he said.
“There is now a broad acceptance that we need to flush this out, this is not acceptable.”
Having seen the violence that Sir Ken was talking about with my own eyes, I hope more than anything that his words are taken seriously by policy makers.
I hope whatever is needed to flush out a man chasing a woman down a street and beating her up in public is provided to Victoria’s police and emergency workers. And I hope that man doesn’t hit that woman again.
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