Yesterday I went to the place where Jill was last seen. Walking past the church which had become a makeshift shrine for her... past the bridal shop where the influential CCTV footage had been taken of her attacker... walking past Hope street... it made me shiver. Still does.
I had to buy her flowers. After I did my jobs on Sydney Road, I went up to a shop I had driven by on my way there. The thought had been in my mind as I drove towards the area: "What colour flowers?" I don't know why it was but the thought kind of lingered in my mind, and yet there was no real question, no real hesitation in the colour that I had already chosen before the question even existed in my mind.
I reached the shop and at the front saw a small bouquet of bright red.
The image of her on all the posters we've been seeing - on the news, street poles, online - smiling with her mass of dark hair waving behind her, punctuated by her dark red lipstick, is so fresh in my mind.
However red can be a cruel colour. On the flip side, it means rage; anger; fury.
For me though, red stands for everything that is powerful, for all that is great. It means passion, desire, strength and love. It stands for old-fashioned virtues, and everything that is bold and new in this world.
The red I bought is a reminder to her, her family, and to everyone out there: the fury may have momentarily taken a beautiful woman from this world; however the love and light of the community, the city, and the world, will always win out over the scum.
The passion of red will always endure. No one can take that away.
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