Bendigo, 1999.

It sounds a cliché. Really.

The dark, mysteriously handsome detective.

The young police reporter who not so long ago removed an engagement ring from her finger.

A passing touch . . . longing look . . . locking of hands.

Then, the late-night call to the silent number.

The number traced because, well, he was a detective after all.

Next thing the fresh-faced reporter’s driving her hatchback in pink brushed satin pajamas . . .  towards coffee . . . connection . . . casual . . . but not so casual . . . banter . . .  about throwing jobs in and opening a hat shop, because, well, why not?

Hell, what else would one do if they left “the force”.

Like the reporter had left her job.

Her engagement.

A guitar rests in a corner, beside the open fire.

“Can you play?”

A melody reverberates as the clock on the kitchen counter clicks over to 3am.

Where do you go to my lovely

When you’re alone in your bed?

Tell me the thoughts that surround you

I want to look inside your head . . .

By 5am unspoken, unanswered questions circle the room.

. . . Driving back to Bendigo in the dark . . . alone . . . returning from a weekend at her folks . . . time to reflect, to rally . . . the recently resigned reporter hits a roadblock.

She winds down the window.

Stares at the blue uniform.

Serious (seriously scared?) eyes.

Urging her to turn right.

Away from the direct route home.

Away from danger.

She senses it.

Smells it.

Asks what’s happening.

No police scanner to set her straight.

A police reporter fixture, inherited by her replacement.

She pleads her case.

“But you can tell me, I’m a journalist!”

Hits a figurative roadblock.

Soon she turns right. As directed.

Unsettled. Slowly heading down the eerie road.

Bewildered.

The next morning she’s woken by a knock on the door.

Greeted by a girlfriend with coffee and croissants in a brown paper bag.

“I didn’t know what to do … I wanted to tell you before you heard it from someone else … this is for you …”

And that’s how she discovered she’d been directed around the ditch he lay in. Shot. Seriously injured in the notorious 1999 Kangaroo Flat Siege.

A few days later, unannounced, she turns up to the hospital.

Treated as a threat.

“No reporters!”

Even though technically, she isn’t.

Not any more.

He grants her access.

She enters his room.

Is introduced as something akin to a work acquaintance.

And realises she’s “the other woman”.

How can she grieve?

Stereo Story 849

Kate Foulds will be part of Storytime at the Library at the Words In Winter Festival in Daylesford, Victoria on Saturday morning, 23 August, 2025. Kate will be reading and discussing her children’s book Grumps and the green fishing rod. Festival details.

Kate is a Central Victorian short fiction / memoir writer who grew up on the family farm in Musk before becoming a regional newspaper journalist. Her debut children’s book, Grumps and the green fishing rod, was published in May 2025. The picture book carries the stories of four generations through simple, traditional narration and stunning photographs taken in a beautiful bush setting. Kate’s short fiction, Grandma’s Gift, was published in the anthology, Mother – Memories, Moments & Stories, compiled and launched as part of the 2020 Bendigo Writers Festival programme. Her Flash Fiction, Acorn, was shortlisted for the inaugural Minds Shine Bright Writing Competition Confidence 2022 and appeared in the first MSB Confidence anthology. She is mother to a son and twin daughters.