Crisis of Identity

During one of my many Monday morning work site visits, I took a slight detour to visit the Births, Deaths and Marriages Registry in the city.

A copy of my birth certificate sourced direct from the government registry of births should be enough to end this Dawes witch hunt.

Their website provided the address and also listed the proof of ID documents required.

I parked my work Ute on street level and took a fast elevator ride to the 10th floor.

The friendly guard at the front door directed me to the computer kiosk, located just inside the door.

After selecting my level of inquiry as being “Births” the machine spat out a number with a “B” prefix on a small receipt. A screen message told me to take a seat until my number is called.

A row of bank teller style windows numbered one to five, lined the front of the office. Three rows of moulded plastic seats, already occupied by a dozen or so people, stretched across the front of the counter windows.

In the corner, a TV screen displayed the last number called for each prefix of B, D and M. The TV screen showed B16 was currently being served. My receipt was number B24.

Thirty-five minutes later and several impatient glances at my watch, a computer generated female voice announced, “now serving B24 at window two”. Finally.

The middle-aged female public servant at window two was all business. She took my completed application form and copied my ID documents. After relieving me of $50, she said the copy birth certificate will take around 10 business days to arrive via post.

It left somewhat of an empty feeling leaving the office with nothing to show for my time there, but at least the wheels are in motion.

Five weeks passed without so much as a squeak out of Dawes. Part of me felt reassured, while the other part of me knows how the crossing of our paths in Queensland only served to reignite an internal pilot light in him that had all but flickered out.

I know first-hand not to under estimate the relentless hunger Dawes has to find answers to this missing kid’s whereabouts.

It is no surprise, to me at least, that the copy of the birth certificate I received via post from the Births Registry is an exact match to the copy mum has. It is a genuine record.

Hopefully Dawes will use the same initiative and source a copy for himself. Maybe he already did and that is why we haven’t heard from him for so long.

Either way, I have reached the stage where every day I don’t hear from Dawes, is a day where the weight he dumped on me all those weeks ago, gets that little bit lighter.

The way I manage Dawes and what he has done to me is to immerse myself in my work. A large part of what I do involves project management of commercial constructions, so it occupies most of my thoughts and time.

Once I complete an engineering design job, I oversee the build to ensure strict compliance to my engineering specs.

My work is challenging through the design phase, but also rewarding to witness the final build come together, as per my engineering designs.

Unfortunately, the builder, the developer engages, rarely shares the same ownership of a job, as I do. Consequently corners get cut, or laziness and ineptitude often result in the builders missing fundamental measurements, or technical requirements in the build.

Any failure in the structural integrity of a build comes back to bite me, not the builder, even if the calculations of my designs were accurate.

So to control the quality and progress of the build, I need to regularly have feet on the ground at each job, from mark out stage to preparation of footings and foundations, through to the framing and cladding stages. Only then can I confidently tick off on the build compliance.

Thursday morning was no different. I swapped my suit jacket for a high-viz vest and hard hat to visit one of my job sites on the outskirts of Perth.

We stood in the bright morning sunshine with my engineering plans opened across the bonnet of my D-Max, while the site foreman updated me on the progress of the build.

It is common in almost all my meetings to be disturbed by an incoming call on my electronic leash – my mobile.

My other jobs sites have numerous questions at all times of the day and often the sites cannot progress until these questions have been addressed. Therefore, I have no choice but to break mobile phone etiquette and leave my phone on during meetings, to ensure I am contactable at all times.

This morning’s meeting with the site foreman was no exception. The calls kept coming. We were close to wrapping up when a fifth call came in. I checked the display. This one was more important than any of the other calls I have received today. I excused myself to take the call.

‘Hi Mum… Is everything alright…?’ I asked while stepping away from the Ute.

‘Sorry to bother you, darling… I know you are busy but…That detective from Queensland who has been bothering you…Is his name Dawes…?’

‘It is… Brent Dawes. Why?’

‘He just called me. He’s here in Perth at the moment and wants to visit me this morning…He said he wants to discuss that missing young boy.’

‘Are you kidding me…?’ My jaw tightened. The blood throbbed in my ears. I found myself pacing aimlessly. ‘What is it with this guy…? Why can’t he leave us alone?’ My voice unintentionally raised to a yell. The site foreman shot me a concerned gaze.

‘I was hoping you could be here when he gets here… I don’t feel comfortable talking to him on my own.’

I checked my watch. ‘When’s he coming…?’

‘Well… now. He called to check I was home and he said he is on his way.’

‘OK. I’ll be there as soon as I can…’ I ended the call.

After quickly wrapping up the meeting with the site foreman, I headed off to mum’s.