Page 3 of Secrets of Riverside

‘I really have missed you lots, buddy.’ She smiled as he glanced up at her through wide eyes and then got back to his food. ‘Don’t be leaving so many days between visits next time, my friend.’

Turning to the early-morning light now spilling through the kitchen window, she was momentarily caught up in the splendour of the kaleidoscope of colours bouncing off the pretty suncatcher she’d made at one of Ebony’s Art for Healing classes down at the youth club. Along the windowsill sat her recent addition to the apartment, three pots of herbs: the parsley, basil and mint were flourishing in the warmest spot. Growing edibles brought her happiness. As did music – country, seventies rock, old crooners, none of this modern-day stuff the radio stations quite often played. It was little things, the simple things, things with heart and soul, people with old-fashioned values, that filled her with joy, along with wide open fields, being around horses, sunshine on her face, the smell of freshly cut grass, the scent of leather in a tack room, the stillness of a star-studded country night sky, a campfire – all the pleasures that came with country life.

Apart from the sunshine on her face, she lacked for all the rest. As an orphaned fifteen-year-old who’d known nothing else but country values, life in the big smoke had been like a slap to the face, over and over again. The hectic heartbeat of Sydney didn’t provide such simplicities. The skyline of the city she’d called home for fifteen years now was a far cry from the untainted Blue Mountain landscape of her youth. Ebony and her parents had moved to Sydney not long after the fire, to start afresh, and Millie had come with them. Shirley and Greg Strathmore had taken her in as their own, loving her and caring for her, and Felix the first, unconditionally. And for that, she would be eternally grateful. It made Ebony the sister she’d never had, and Ebony’s wonderful parents the only family she’d ever been graced with after losing her own.

Plucking a leaf from the mint, she popped it into her mouth, savouring the refreshing flavour as it took her back to happier days, when she would spend time with her mum out in the garden, playing beneath the sprinkler with her brother, or in the heart of the house cooking up a storm with the fresh produce they’d just picked from the lush vegetable patch and laden fruit trees, not to mention the deep orange-hued eggs from their healthy, happy, free-to-roam chickens. Her proud-as-punch father would always arrive home from policing their little township to a feast fit for a king. And as for her little sweet-toothed brother, he’d always had his hand in the biscuit tin her mum kept filled with homemade delicacies like crispy Anzacs or gooey jam drops. And Lilly Price’s lamingtons had been to die for. The Country Women’s Association ladies had always tried to lure the recipe from her, but her mum had remained tight-lipped, vowing it was a secret family technique, passed down through generations. If only Millie could get her hands on the recipe, but just like everything else, the fire had taken it.

Life back then had been filled with so much love, so much security. Just. So. Much. The fire, deliberately lit by a group of hoodlums, had changed all of that. Thankfully, some justice had been served, and the ringleaders, both sons of the well-known mobster Carlo Martino, had been caught. As for the others, being involved with the key players of the Kings Cross underground must have had its perks, because they received only a slap on the wrist – just another example of life being extremely unfair. Joey, the younger brother, got away with it. He’d been let off scot-free, in her opinion. The older brother, Luca, had served almost eight years in prison. He should have been given life, after taking three. It frustrated her that she knew so little about this man, or why he had done what he did. She didn’t even know what he looked like, aside from the court sketches she’d seen in the newspaper reports; he’d kept a jacket draped over his bowed head as he was hustled in and out of the courthouse. Why they had targeted her father, a dedicated police officer who lived hours away from their cartel, she hadn’t a damn clue, and neither did the investigating officers. They’d been unable to provide the answers she so desperately needed. To kill a man and his family over nothing; she’d never be able to let the anger of the injustice go. Not ever. She would be taking it to her grave.

Sucking in a breath, she shook off the distressing thoughts. She didn’t want to focus on the hurts and injustices of her past. Instead, she wanted to hold dear the memories of her family. That’s what brought her some kind of peace – the fragments of each of them that she held locked away in her jaded, shielded heart. Most fond memories were of billowing barbecues, and stirring bubbling pots, of chopping vegetables while sitting on a stool and licking delicious mixtures from beaters with her little brother. Her mother had lived in her apron, and food had been at the centre of their lives – it had been what had brought them together every day, laughing and chatting and sharing stories while they ate.

Her stomach growled. Thinking about all the yummy food they’d shared around the dining table made her think about the fact that she should really eat something now, before heading off to look for a job. Glancing at the clock above the stove, she swore beneath her breath. Time was ticking. She needed to get a move on so she could put her best foot forwards, and hopefully return with a job at the end of the day, one that she might actually want to get out of bed for.

A glance in Felix’s direction made her smile from within. Curled up on one of the dining chairs, he was fast asleep. She took comfort in knowing she and Ebony made him feel welcome and at peace. Flicking the kettle on, she then grabbed her favourite mug from the draining rack to make her first strong cuppa for the day. Coffee was the only saving grace from her sleepless nights – the caffeine helped get her from one minute to the next, to the next, day after day, week after week. As she popped a heaped teaspoon of the instant dark-roasted grains into her cup while longing for a freshly brewed latte, it made her ponder running her own café or a quaint teashop where she could embrace the love of cooking her mother had instilled in her. It would be like a dream come true. But it was a pipe dream. Never could she afford such an endeavour. If life had taught her one thing, she rarely got what she longed for and she certainly wasn’t one of the lucky ones.

As she busied herself making a couple of pieces of toast with a thick slathering of Vegemite, and with the remnants of her nightmare still at the corners of her mind, her thoughts wandered to the places she’d travelled to many times before. Yes, her nightmare was a terrifying reminder of how close she’d come to dying that day, and it should make her grateful for every breath she got to take when her family’s lives had been so brutally stolen, but then the reality was that her real life was frequently a living nightmare too. After years of living in an abusive relationship – because, like Ebony had lovingly explained to her, she’d believed she deserved the mental, emotional and physical hurt just for being alive when her family was dead – it was hard to find daily gratitude in the mess of her existence. Even so, with Ebony’s help, step by step, she was doing everything within her power to make things right, so she could finally be at a stage in her life when she could honestly say she’d placed all the broken bits of herself somewhat back together. Then, maybe, possibly, by some miracle, she could find the elusive eternal happiness she longed to feel.

Ha, and pigs might fly too!

She had to learn to at least be fair on herself.

And brutally honest.

After going through such a traumatic event as a young girl, would she ever get her life back on track? Could anyone ever get back on track after what happened that night? She was starting to believe the answer was unequivocally no. Because no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t seem to shake the shadow of it. Bad things followed her. Shit happened. She fell over, time and time again. Dusting herself off was becoming exhausting. Fifteen years on, and she still couldn’t move past it. She couldn’t stop picturing her family being burnt alive, then what was left of them being buried beneath ten feet of earth while she sobbed at their graves.

She’d survived what the newspapers had stated was ‘un-survivable’, because of her brave, quick-thinking, nameless rescuer. But as grateful as she would forever be to whoever her saviour was, the guilt of surviving still sat like lead in her stomach, and all that talk about time healing wounds was absolute bullcrap. The grief never got easier, nor did the cavernous sensation in her heart. She’d just learnt to somehow, some way, live with it. Most of the time. Other times, she crumbled into a heap. And all the while, time marched on, and she just had to march along with it if she was going to survive living. No amount of counselling, or meditation, or praying to a god she wasn’t sure she believed in – what kind of god would take people in the cruel way he’d taken her family? – had ever freed her of it, nor would it ever. She couldn’t even set foot in a church now because the last time she had done so was to bid her family one final goodbye.

Anyway, enough overthinking everything, she thought with an almighty huff.

It was time for her to spend her day pounding the pavements with resume in hand, and from what she’d experienced the past week, also deal with getting knock-back after knock-back, only to arrive home to an empty apartment, too exhausted to eat anything with substance, before hitting the sack. On the plus side it was Friday night, which meant she could enjoy a drink or two, but no more. She knew all too well where hitting the bottle to numb herself got her. Waking up with a hangover from hell.

And that was no fun, no fun at all.

***

Twenty-three hours later, and still jobless, Millie was slapping off her offensive alarm. In her drunken state, when she’d basically faceplanted on her bed, she’d forgotten to turn the damn thing off. Glaring at the empty hipflask of vodka and packet of cigarettes on her bedside table, she rolled over and heaved her begrudging body out of bed. She needed caffeine. And lots of it. Tugging on her robe, she skated her feet into her well-worn slippers. Then, plucking a menthol cigarette from the almost empty packet she’d only bought yesterday, she thrust it between her trembling lips. Thinking she’d be able to savour just one, after quitting smoking almost three years ago, had clearly been a massive mistake.

Hindsight was a big ugly B.

Shoving open her bedroom window, she leant on the sill. There was no sign of Felix. Which sucked, because she could really do with a cuddle and idle chitchat with her feline friend. He must be off on his adventures again, somewhere out in the yonder of Sydney. Illogically, she found herself jealous of his freedom and his escapades. If only she could enjoy the same liberties, and hit the road, destination unknown, on some wild quest, without a care in the world, knowing there was a safe place to call home when she felt like a meal, some tender loving care, and then curling up for the night.

The weather had gone from hot to cold overnight, and a chilly draft whisked up from the backstreet below, snapping her from her thoughts and tempting her to retreat inside. But she stubbornly dug her slippers into the rug-covered floor. For once, she wasn’t going anywhere until she was good and ready. Cupping her hand, it took three attempts to light the cigarette clenched between her teeth. Her first deep inhale was pure heaven, so she quickly had another. She knew the right thing to do was to put it out, and throw the last few remaining cigarettes into the bin. But, rebelliously, she took another satisfying drag. To hell with caution. Life was short. She wanted to live it while she could.

Her exhaled rings of smoke spiralled upwards and then dissipated into thin air. As hungover as she felt, she really did love this time of the day, when most of humanity was still sleeping, and she could find a moment of peace. With her chin resting on her hand, she watched the early morning unfolding as if on time elapse. Dawn was busy painting its sky-face with strokes of rosy blush upon its cheeks – it wouldn’t be long before the sun rose high in the bold blue sky to brazenly claim ownership of the day. A few floors below, a baby’s sharp cry broke the rare moment of silence, followed by a hacking cough from someone above, and then a vicious-sounding catfight erupted from the back of the apartment block, near the abandoned train tracks. Her heart thudded as she honed her hearing and held her breath. Hisses and strident meows ensued. Metal clattered and clinked. More catcalls echoed. This was one all-out cat brawl if ever she’d heard one.

Oh no, please don’t let it be Felix.

She couldn’t bear to think of losing another she loved.

Thirty breath-held seconds later, Felix the second appeared, strutting his stuff down the passageway below, and she breathed a huge sigh of relief. She quickly stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Hey, buddy.’ Her voice bounced off the neighbouring building as it carried down to him. ‘Are you okay?’

Pausing, and looking up at her, he meowed. Then, nimble on his paws, he climbed and pounced until he was upon her windowsill. Gathering him into her arms, she cuddled him close and carried him into the kitchen, where she dumped her empty flask of vodka and packet of cigarettes into the bin, then busied herself taking care of him.

CHAPTER

2

Riverside Acres, Banshee Bay, Far North Queensland

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