After I abruptly left Carerlink, I decided to look for another permanent full-time job on reception. Instead of trawling job ads myself, I called Marie — the placement officer at the business college where I’d studied. I asked if she had anything going, and she did.
World Youth Explorers.
That’s not the real name, but it won’t take a genius to guess who I’m talking about. For the sake of anonymity, let’s stick with World Youth Explorers — an international organisation that runs programs for young people, teaching outdoor skills and “good values” and all that. Their Adelaide branch needed a receptionist.
Marie lined up an interview. I met the charming CEO, and almost immediately he asked about my surname — not in the usual “Are you related to your father?” way, but specifically about my mother. I said yes, and he mentioned that one of Mum’s friends, Jeremy, was involved with WYE. I told him I knew Jeremy, and we chatted about the world Mum and her friends moved in. By the end, he’d all but offered me the job.
Later that day, my brother called to say Jeremy was annoyed with me. Apparently, Jeremy had told him he was happy to be a reference — but I should have asked him first. I’d never listed him as a reference, but clearly the CEO had phoned him anyway, simply because he knew him. Thanks to Jeremy, I got the job.
Once the paperwork was done, I started soon after. Thinking back, there were no police checks then — this was 2004. I don’t recall filling one out. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I was clean back then. It’s only now that I carry this stain — on my name, and on my soul.
My role as receptionist at WYE also came with some PA duties for one of the commissioners. He was deeply committed to the organisation — I’d guess he’d been involved for forty or fifty years.
I dealt with staff and a large number of volunteers. In fact, most of the youth-based groups were volunteer-run. WYE is a high-profile organisation, and sadly, like many youth groups, it’s not untouched by scandal — there have been stories of predatory behaviour and abuse.
The staff were a mix of young and old. Some had started as volunteers before becoming paid employees, while others were professionals who came in from outside and eventually got involved. I answered a lot of calls and became close to the administration officer who worked upstairs near the chief. She was about my age, and we bonded over cigarettes.
It was a social environment. On Fridays, we’d often have drinks at the office after work. WYE is known for its youth groups — once boys-only, now mixed — but they also run programs for an older cohort, roughly ages 18 to 30.
That group reminded me so much of the Young Liberals. So, in the spirit of immersing myself in my new job, I joined them. They didn’t call themselves this, but I will: the Masters. Like the Young Liberals, the Masters weren’t just young and ambitious — they had factions. At first, I went to a few meetings. But as time went on, I got more involved.
Meanwhile, I’d moved into a unit directly behind the Frewville office. It was ridiculously convenient. I liked the balance of reception work, PA duties, and the social side of the job.
One of the big events that year was the WYE Ball at the Adelaide Entertainment Centre. The CEO even asked me to invite my parents, and they came along. During his speech, he mentioned them, introducing them as “the parents of our receptionist.”
I had a good relationship with the CEO — nothing like the cold, distant vibe at Carerlink. He was down-to-earth, approachable, the kind of boss you could go to with a problem. But that night, while he was talking to my parents, I came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He shrugged me off without even turning around. I was genuinely offended — and a little pissed off.
Later, the band started up. I’m a massive Meat Loaf fan, so I asked the lead singer to play Bat Out of Hell. He didn’t play the whole song, but throughout the night he kept slipping bits of Meat Loaf into other numbers. I even ended up having a little kiss with him — he was nice. On Monday, people were still talking about how the band kept breaking into Meat Loaf for no apparent reason.
Back to the Masters. This was so long ago that I can’t even remember what the fight was about — but they were going hard at something. I sat with the progressives, and somehow I became a bit of a hero to them. I know I either wrote a letter or made a speech — something that put me in good standing. After that, I started hanging out with them socially.
We went on a weekend away once. They hired a bus, and we stayed overnight in a WYE Hall. I didn’t fit in — not really — but I was glad I went. It gave me a chance to get to know the progressives better.
That’s when I started a relationship with one of them: an awful guy named Richard. He sort of looked like Tom Cruise. At first, he was really into me. We spent a lot of time together. Then one day, he told me he’d once spent the night with another woman in the Masters — long before me — but the woman, Minnie, was in a relationship with this absolutely picture-perfect, beautiful soul named Leon.
I told my friend Karen in admin, and she told someone else, and it got back to Leon. Richard found out I’d told Karen and sent me a message: You are a very dangerous person. It made me feel awful. I really questioned myself. But honestly, I meant no malice. I never imagined Karen would repeat it.
Richard and I broke up after that, but I was desperate to get him back — and I acted desperate. One night, I begged him on the phone to come over to my little unit in Frewville. He did.
It turned into one of the most degrading experiences of my life. He knocked on the door, pulled me straight into the bedroom, had sex with me, and then got up and left. His car was still running outside.
It was… yucky.
It took me a while to get over that. The CEO later told me I shouldn’t have gotten involved with him at all.
My unit was small — so small that when a girlfriend stayed with me for a while, it quickly became obvious it wasn’t going to work.
Back then, my best friend was Evan, a mate I knew through the Young Liberals. He worked at Parliament House, and we did almost everything together. There was never anything romantic — he’s just the kind of guy who’s always surrounded by female friends.
One night, I was alone in the unit when I heard a noise from the spare room. I got up to check, heart thumping, but there was nothing there. Still, it unsettled me.
The next day I called Evan. “I think my unit’s haunted,” I told him.
That night, he came over. We got online and started searching for ghost hunters in Adelaide — and, by some weird coincidence, there was a paranormal investigations group meeting that very night at a pub just outside the CBD. So we went.
They were giving a presentation on unexplained phenomena — UFO sightings, strange lights, that sort of thing. Afterward, we went up to the convenor and asked if they did ghost investigations.
He said they did.
I told him about the noise in my unit. His eyes lit up. “We’d love to come and investigate,” he said. We set a date.
When the night came, it was a Friday or Saturday. Evan and I stocked up on food for the paranormal investigators. About four of them arrived, lugging all sorts of electronic equipment. They set up cameras and listening devices in the spare room, switched everything on, and then we all gathered in the living room to talk.
That was our first mistake.
They started telling stories — ghosts, secret societies in Adelaide, UFO sightings — just enough to scare the absolute shit out of a sensitive soul like me. And they were… odd. The convenor, Laurie, had these evil eyes. At one point he looked over at a shelf, saw a photo of my father, and said he knew who he was — that he was a big fan. Then he looked me dead in the eye. I shuddered.
I questioned what we were doing there, but we ate, drank, and talked until the small hours. When they packed up, I asked how much I owed them. They said there was no charge.
While I waited for the results, I rang the Catholic Church. I told them I thought there was a spirit in my unit and asked if they could come and exorcise it. They took my address. A few days later, after work, there was a knock at my door.
An older Catholic priest stood there. “I’m from the Catholic Church,” he said. That was it — no other explanation. I invited him in, he sprinkled holy water in the spare room, said a prayer, and left. I asked what I owed him. “Nothing,” he said.
I personally think the Catholic Church operates like a criminal organisation — but that was nice of them.
Eventually, I heard back from the paranormal investigators: there was a ghost in the spare room. I moved back to my parents’ house immediately. My brother took over the lease of the haunted unit.
Looking back now, I wouldn’t be worried about ghosts. I’d be worried about a home invasion. But at the time, that stuff absolutely freaked me out.
Even more horrifying — a few years later, my friend Evan was on a ghost tour at the Old Adelaide Jail. He casually asked the tour guide if she knew Laurie, since they were in the same sort of industry.
Her face changed. “We don’t talk about Laurie,” she said. “He’s in jail.”
I couldn’t believe it. I had let that monster into my home.
Life at work, meanwhile, rolled on. We were preparing for a huge international gathering of WYE branches from around the world. Children came from everywhere and camped up at WoodHouse.
Back then, I still wanted to be a journalist, so I went up there a few times to help with their newspaper. Mostly, though, I stayed at the office handling the admin that kept it all running.
Karen was nice, but she scared me a little. She lived way down south and caught the bus to work every day. Sometimes I’d drive her all the way home — a massive trek — and once I got into the habit, it was hard to stop. Her dad was a bikie, and she liked telling people about it. Once, there was a police sting on Glen Osmond Road involving bikies. Karen was walking back from Macca’s and they all said hello to her.
WYE was such a good workplace. The people were nice, and it had a real community feel. I had a good relationship with everyone, especially the older man I worked as PA for. I heard recently that he passed away. He lived and breathed WYE for most of his life, and I’m sure they honoured him for it.
The 2004 Christmas party was at the Arkaba. I drank a lot that night and brought Evan as my date — the staff loved him. He’s great with people.
We were upstairs with a band playing, and after a few drinks I asked if I could sing Meat Loaf’s You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth. They said yes, and I got up on stage in front of a packed house — not just WYE staff, but all sorts of workplaces having their Christmas dos.
When I came back to our table, people were saying things like, “Why aren’t you lining up for Australian Idol auditions?” and “You’ve got such a good voice.” I’m not sure I had a good voice even then — and I definitely don’t now. It’s cracked with age.
I kept drinking and drinking, and eventually a few of us decided to go into town. I was so drunk they refused me entry to the Casino. I think Evan and I went somewhere else, but I can’t remember.
What I do remember is ending up in the front seat of a taxi. I had a massive craving for Hungry Jack’s. The driver was a youngish, creepy-looking guy. I asked if we could go through the drive-through. He agreed.
Back then, I was young, outgoing, chatty. I can just imagine I would have been talking about some random crap. He kept looking at me.
We pulled up to the first window of the drive-through and I ordered. I don’t remember exactly, but I’m fairly sure I asked for a Whopper with cheese meal — no beef, no pickle. That’s how I like it.
After I’d paid, the taxi driver grabbed my hand and put it on his hard penis. I just went along with it. I was drunk, but I sobered up fast. Fear does that.
He grabbed my meal and I started giving him directions to my unit. But he wasn’t going that way. He drove into a dodgy part of the parklands and parked.
I was terrified. He looked like a serial killer. I was sure he was going to kill me. He leaned over and kissed me.
Here’s the thing about me: I’ve always been a deep, complex thinker. In that moment, I decided to go along with it. I had no other option. I couldn’t scream — there was no one around — and I was completely at the mercy of this absolute motherfucker.
He climbed on top of me. I was wearing a dress. He lifted it, pulled down my underwear, and had sex with me.
I just lay there. I stared through the windscreen at a tree dancing in the wind and focused on that until he finished.
It was the worst thing that could happen to someone. And I allowed it to happen. I thought, briefly, about fighting back. But I couldn’t.
The thing is, I don’t care. It was bad — dehumanising — but I didn’t feel like I’d been raped. It was just this physical thing that happened that was bad.
When it was over, I asked him to take me home. Thank fuck, he agreed.
When we parked outside my unit, he told me I didn’t have to pay for the ride — thanks so much. He got out and followed me to my door, telling me how much he loved me and saying something about Jesus Christ.
Up close, he seemed smaller, less physically threatening. I managed to get inside, and I never saw him again.
Years later, I told Mum I’d been in a cab once and the driver touched my leg. She went off her tree. She said she knew the owner of Yellow Cabs and was going to call him. I didn’t know which company that creep was from — it could have been Yellow Cabs — but I thought, if she’s this angry about a touch on the leg, imagine how she’d react to what actually happened.
I told a girlfriend once, and she said if someone had done that to her daughter, she’d have hunted them down. I know it was bad, but I feel completely removed from it.
I’d been at WYE for a while when I heard that a security guard from Parliament House had died in his sleep. I knew him. He’d been kind to me — once, when I was crying at Parliament House, he’d helped me.
I completely lost it. I was devastated. On a whim, I went straight to the CEO’s office and quit. It was strange, because I didn’t actually know him well. But the grief hit me hard. I remember crying and saying, “I can’t work here anymore.”
The CEO was kind. He asked what was really wrong, and all I could say was, “I don’t know.” He told me to take as much time as I needed to think about it. But my mind was made up.
I even put a notice in The Advertiser for the security guard — he was barely older than me.
And just like that, I started my career as a temp.
It’s funny — there’s a girl my age who used to work for my mum. She got a job at WYE not long after me. I was there for barely a hot second. She’s been there nearly twenty years.
