Legacies

By Terri Mitchell

Mickey and Katie share a strange bond; Mickey's abuse of alcohol and drugs almost costs his life, and Katie's alcoholic demon is Bob, her father and abuser. 

As Mickey faces his mor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terri Mitchell
• Release date: Jan 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9780646838878

Terri Mitchell

Terri wrote the first draft of Legacies after completing a short Creative Writing course while living in Sydney Australia. She has also written six other diverse and engaging books, ranging in topics from Fear and Motivation to health and nutrition. Prior to this, Terri trained as a Psychiatric Nurse, which amplified her already growing fascination with the human mind, psychology, and social conditioning, fuelled by surviving her traumatic childhood. She has walked Hot Coals, completed the International Money and You program in San Diego, been an international summit guest speaker, and is currently writing her next novel, the first in a Private Investigator series. Terri founded The Speakers Initiates, an Emerging Speaker platform, helping people to find their voice. She is also the founder of Voice on Fire - Interviews with Intention, a unique YouTube Channel and Podcast focused on emerging Change Agents and Action Takers. Her global interviewees have included musicians, founders, coaches, authors, explorers, and advocates, all driven by similar motivations - to tap into Human Goodness and create positive global impact. Terri is an advocate for The Lilian Dibo Foundation in Cameroon, Africa, and currently lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her ginger cat, George Howard.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

"S tormy weather since my man and I ain’t together. Keeps raining all the

Stephen’s time." skin shivered as Lena Horne’s sultry voice resonated across his darkened bedroom. The cool night air whispered through the open window, danced like the breath of angels over his body. The hairs on his forearms stood on end. He hugged his knees closer to his body, dropped his head against them.

This once favourite song, a gift from a love no longer, now incised his heart; it bled freely, profusely.

On the eve of his fortieth birthday, Stephen was facing his worst dread; being frumpy, single, old and alone. Discarded like disposable razor blades… Dreams of love barely pulsed, in a broken heart that he knew would never mend. He had faced each day of the past year with little will to move on. The one recent spark of hope, extinguished.

Earlier that evening, he had attended Mass. As the crowd of church attendees thinned, Stephen remained deep in prayer. Begging forgiveness for the sin he would commit.

The soulful song drifted into silence. Slowly, Stephen rose from his bed, pushed the ‘open’ button on the stereo and extracted the compact disk. Flipping through his CD collection he paused, a maudlin expression marking the terrain of his haggard features. A sardonic smile twisted the edges of his tight mouth as he fingered the plastic cases of the CDs.

He had found the music for this final moment’s accompaniment.

Key-locking all the windows, leaving only the one in his room, he dead-bolted the front door and turned the key to his bedroom door then returned to his cotton and linen sepulchre. The telephone lay idle beside the bed, its plug trailing on the floor.

A Sixties melody began to fill the room, harmonising with the discord of his soul; he felt wasted, like a carcass hanging in the butcher’s refrigerator - cold, empty, eviscerated.

In the soft breeze the lace curtain billowed, dancing and swirling into the stillness of the bedroom.

"Bye bye, love. Bye bye, happiness… Hello loneliness. I think I’m gonna cry.

Bye bye, sweet caress… Hello emptiness. I feel like I could die. Bye bye, My love, Goodbye."

CHAPTER

ONE

Candles fluttered in the ado of waiters, the flames licking at their own curling shadows in the intimate restaurant. Among the Friday night patrons sat two young men, together at a table bedecked in heavy damask cloth dressed in ornate gold napkins and candle holders. Crystal wine glasses were yet to be filled.

An ice bucket graced the side nearest the older of the two men. At thirty-two he was slender, of average height, his small frame athletic and well-tanned, his hair highlighted blonde and cropped close to his skull. He was immaculately dressed in an Italian suit, Italian pure leather lace-ups and a gold silk shirt. A matching silk handkerchief in the top pocket completed his ensemble.

Opposite him, the younger man had purchased the finest wool suit he could afford, matching it with his best linen shirt. His shoes were freshly polished, and the tie was a bold yellow statement. His thick dark hair had been meticulously slicked with comb marks still evident. His gold earring glinted in the candle’s luminescence.

Jamie and Mickey were celebrating their first anniversary together as a couple.

Would you care to sample your champagne, sir?

Please.

A delicate sniff, a small sip, a connoisseur’s quaff.

Yes, that’s lovely, Jamie declared. Thank you.

Attentive waiting staff knew when to appear. A quick glance while passing the table would see a waiter pause to discreetly fill each glass with the finest French wine.

That’s one quality I really adore about you, Mickey declared romantically.

What’s that?

Your class. Your ‘savoir faire’, he said, in his most practiced effort at sophistication.

Jamie affected a smile, masking his growing detachment.

The feeling of passionate anticipation flushed Mickey’s cheeks as their eyes locked. Quiescence settled over them, a draft of air caught the candle flame and it wavered, their cupid-like faces briefly candescent in the swirling light.

The rousing chirp of a mobile phone broke the spell of their romantic evening. As if expecting the call, Jamie quickly retrieved the phone from his jacket and excused himself from the table before speaking to his caller.

Mickey silently watched on, his suspicious antennae alerted. Offended by Jamie’s action, Mickey’s eyes following to where Jamie discreetly entered the quieter reception area. However, his intense reaction to the interruption soon transformed, his own face mimicking the grimace of grief on Jamie’s stricken countenance.

The bearer of bad tidings had set about unburdening news of proportions apparently too distressing for Jamie. News he obviously wasn’t expecting. He struggled with it when he returned to the table.

Take me home, he said, reaching for his jacket, averting his cold eyes from Mickey’s unfaltering gaze.

The curt instructions left a stinging heat in Mickey’s face as though the flesh of his cheek had been struck.

He reached a hand out to Jamie, who flinched away.

Jamie? What is it?

Silence was the only response.

What’s happened, Jamie? Talk to me. It was bad news, wasn’t it? Jamie?

But Jamie wasn’t talking.

Except to say; Take me home, now.

The anger in his voice devoured all compassion.

For ten long minutes, Mickey manipulated the gears, clutch and brakes without daring to glance sideways at the morose man beside him. The tension settled between them, ice cold, as dense as a chilling fog.

Tears streamed in salty rivulets to Mickey’s chin and dripped on his shirt. He focused more attention on the task of driving. His gut churned in despair as he edged Jamie’s car into the curb near the apartment.

Jamie’s words filled the seething air.

He’s dead.

What? Mickey spun to face him, eyes wide in shock.

He’s dead. Suicide.

Who? Jamie, who?

Jamie scowled at him, his fierce expression unrelenting.

Stephen. Is. Dead, he enunciated through clenched jaw, indignant at Mickey’s perceived ignorance.

Mickey felt sick.

Stephen? Oh, no. Jamie… oh, I am so sorry.

For these last twelve months, their relationship had endured despite Jamie firmly intimating there would be no discussion about his past love affairs. Mickey did his best to respect his wishes, but throughout their romance, small things would trigger niggling suspicions.

Plans that would change at short notice. Late nights at the office. Jamie taking calls on his mobile phone when with Mickey but speaking privately and discreetly. Never referring to the call when it ended.

Who was that? Mickey would ask in simple curiosity.

A friend.

It reached the point that, each time the mobile rang, Mickey instantly felt on edge with panic and doubt. The intimate nexus between Jamie and Stephen, the one ex-partner Mickey knew of, pierced his heart with jealousy.

Yet, tonight he reached over instinctively to hold his partner and to share the tonnage of grief dumped by the Lorries of Hell.

The rebuke was sharper than a slap in the face as Jamie shirked the touch, released the seatbelt and pushed on the car door.

Stephen’s death registered under a cloud of shattered dreams for Jamie. Dreams he had secreted away.

Drop the car by in the morning. Jamie’s cutting demand did not leave room for negotiation. He withdrew like a snail, encapsulated within the safe confines of its shell.

Jamie? Jamie! Don’t leave like this, please!

The car door closed forcefully.

Jamie!! Mickey yelled, but heard his own voice sobbing back.

There was no forewarning for Mickey of the impact of Stephen’s suicide. Twelve months of intimate love disbanded by a two-minute telephone call. Suddenly, they had become strangers.

He did not watch after Jamie; he couldn’t see through the tears. He saw only the darkest hole through his heart, the deep abyss of an emotional void.

CHAPTER

TWO

The hot water reserves were turning cool just as Katie rinsed the conditioner from her hair. Cursing the useless plumbing, she stepped from the shower and suddenly hesitated, the towel still at her hair catching drips.

A sound, barely distinguishable yet like knuckles rapping on a door, caught her attention. There was silence for a moment, and then the rapping started again, this time distinctly louder and clearly at her own front door.

Katie cautiously stepped from the bathroom, hair in a towel turban and another draped around her body.

Who is it? she asked meekly.

There was no response other than the knocking becoming louder and more insistent.

Laboured breathing beyond the door brought Katie to a terrified halt. The noise was so frighteningly familiar-sounding that she instantly backed away from the door, clutching at the towel that barely afforded her any shield.

Katie, open up. It’s me, came a pathetic voice.

Mickey?

She hadn’t realised how tightly she held her breath, until it burst out in a gasp of relief.

Please let me in.

Mickey, I, um... she stammered, taking stock of her vulnerable state of undress. Flushed with awkwardness, she held still.

Katie, please! Will you just let me in?

The urgency in his voice so alarmed Katie that she was at the door, fingers fumbling with keys, deadlocks, latches and chains. With the security now released, she peered around the barely opened door to find Mickey squatting against the wall outside her apartment.

The closure of another door on the next landing passed Katie’s attention. A nervous, inquisitive neighbour retreated to the safety of her own dwelling, satisfied that the young man posed no threat.

Mickey, you look awful.

Thanks, Katie. His puffy red eyes glared back at her. I’m sorry, I just needed someone to talk… and the rest was lost in heart-wrenching sobs, the heavy breathing that Katie had heard earlier.

She stood peering around the door at him, for a moment lost and absorbed in his grief. But her mind still ticked over, wondering what could possibly have led Mickey to her door. Neither knew each other that well. They’d met through classes at university. Their awkward friendship germinated through simple needs; his to be heard without judgment and hers to be accepted despite her disfigurement. Katie; reserved and unwilling to share aspects of herself. He; less circumspect about his illicit drug habits, his propensity for alcohol consumption and about being gay. So, why would he come to her for solace?

I have to get dressed, Mickey, she said and left Mickey at the front door as she disappeared into her bedroom. Fumbling with knickers and bra, nervously aware of Mickey’s presence, she grabbed at clothes from her closet, needing anything quick and easy to dress in. Hearing the sound of retching then a running tap, she pulled on leggings, singlet and a cotton shirt and hurried out to be with Mickey.

He emerged from her bathroom with his face distorted by physical and emotional pain. His eyes met hers and it was clear something was wrong.

Katie, he’s dead.

His words didn’t quite register for her.

Mickey looked at her through bloodshot eyes.

Katie, he’s dead. He killed himself.

Jamie’s dead?

Shock struck her with a painful gasp in the way death of an acquaintance can.

Not Jamie. Stephen. Stephen’s dead.

Stephen?

She couldn’t place the significance of the name, nor why Mickey should be so distressed by the death of ‘Stephen’.

It took a little while for him to relay the story. Mickey vacillated between wretched sobbing and guilt-ridden confessions of jealousy and loneliness.

Now, it’s over. He’s so upset. He was soooo angry with meeee… he wailed. What have I done? I just keep thinking there must have been something going on between them behind my back. I always thought there was something. Last night, he just wouldn’t speak to me; wouldn’t even look at me. Wouldn’t let me touch him. As though I was poisonous to him… I, I only just dropped his car off, but he wouldn’t even come to the door…

The rest dissolved into bitter tears so violent he began dry-retching.

Katie sat anxiously beside him, reaching out to rub his arm in comfort.

She had no clue how to console him with words. There seemed little to say, given how loose their bond of friendship really was.

It was all because of Jamie, really.

Jamie had disliked Mickey’s mixed collection of university friends, and they’d fought over how little status any of the dope-smoking layabouts held. These same friends despised Jamie’s pretentiousness and Mickey was soon left with few people to turn to. Many of them had walked away from the tempestuous couple, feeling sorry for Mickey and disdain for Jamie. Katie had remained in the wings, a temporary confidante drawn in from the outer to proffer comfort.

Early evening light soon began to seep through the window of Katie’s apartment. Peak hour traffic was streaming by on the street below with headlights illuminating her small lounge room. Mickey was curled foetal-like on her couch.

Mickey, I… I have to go out soon.

There was no response. He’d stopped crying, his eyes almost blue again though a little puffy.

Mickey? I have to leave soon. I’m going to a friend’s place for dinner.

Yeah, I’ll go.

Come with me, she said with a rush, feeling guilty and yet suddenly thinking maybe he shouldn’t be alone.

He hoisted himself off the couch.

It’s okay. I’m going, he told her, self-pitying sarcasm clipping his voice.

In that moment, there passed between them an uncomfortable silence.

Mickey was ill at ease with the revelations of the afternoon leaving him feeling particularly vulnerable.

His previous familiarity with Katie had never stretched these bounds of social affinity. Yet, he’d singled Katie out for his emotional confession. With no one else available to turn to, he’d risked exposing his fragile side to her and now he wanted to escape.

Yvan was sitting in the coffee shop, elbows upon the gleaming redwood counter. It was the day off from his roster as an ambulance officer and he’d called in for his usual café latte.

He was rarely at the café at this hour, so it surprised him the number of customers still demanding Naomi’s attention so late in the day. He remembered Naomi had spoken of plans to catch the home-bound commuters looking for an easy take-away for dinner. It was evident her plan worked as people traffic streamed through the doors for her home-style pies, pastries and other fare.

Naomi had told him she was thrilled with the success and the increase in revenue. But, at times, it seemed to tax her personal reserves. Like now. She was distracted and tired, in her own world as she stood at the sink, rinsing the cloth she’d used to clean the counter surface.

Shop’s been pretty busy, he said, as the last of the café dwellers walked out.

Yeah, at the end it was. Not so busy earlier, Naomi responded absently.

What’s happened to Katie?

What do you mean?

Isn’t she usually here when it’s busy? You haven’t sacked her, have you? he joked.

Naomi turned from the sink and set her eyes upon him.

What? He reacted to her ‘look’. I just meant that I haven’t seen her in the shop for a while.

It’s been a bit quiet during the day. These late afternoon crowds have only been building really recently, she pointed out. You know that I call her in if I think there’ll be a rush, she added, a little too tartly.

I do know that. I guess it seems a while since she was here.

He tried again to inject some light relief.

I figured maybe she had a boyfriend?

Naomi simply shook her head, no. But, she paused, leaning against the sink.

You know, I have been a bit worried about her, she offered.

You? Worry? he quipped with a cheeky grin on his face, while his fingers anxiously fiddled with a sugar sachet.

Naomi stopped. Something about Yvan’s attitude was irritating her. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, aware of the increasing tension in her body and a dull ache at the back of her eyes.

I’m sorry… he offered, presuming he must have said or done something, or not said or done it. Whatever it was.

She simply cast another ‘look’ upon him.

He raised his hands in surrender, relinquishing attempts to convey understanding.

Okay, okay. Whoa! What button did I push? he asked defensively, aware after the fact that the topic of Katie was a sensitive one.

Naomi breathed out heavily and turned away from him, occupying herself with wiping the salt and pepper shakers. Perhaps she’d keep her concerns to herself for the moment.

So, what’s worrying you about Katie? he persisted, though warily.

Okay, she began sarcastically, I guess I’ve been a bit protective of her -

When he raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, Naomi turned away from him.

Never mind. Bring the A-board in. She added a please as an afterthought.

Recognising the rebuke for what it was, he slid off the stool and walked out into the early evening. It occurred to him that he was being an insensitive jerk. Naomi obviously felt concerned about the girl. Flipping the A-board sign together, he came inside.

Nome? Hey? I’m sorry.

Yeh.

Why don’t I go see if Katie’s home? She can come have dinner with us.

Naomi turned and smiled at him, surprise evident in her eyes.

Would you? That would be really great. I’ll see you both back at my place, within the hour?

She didn’t mention that she’d already invited Katie over. His gesture coincided nicely, because if he got his act together, he’d arrive at her front door and catch Katie well before she left.

He knocked several times at her door, but there was no sound from within. So, at a quick trot, he set off down the darkened stairwell where globes had blown at almost every level. Sitting in his car, he turned the stereo up and pushed into the peak traffic.

His repeated thumping of knuckles on the door had not gone unnoticed. The peering eyes of a reclusive woman watched him nervously from behind a chained door, but she saw nothing to warrant alerting the police.

Slipping through busy intersections, he stopped at his own apartment then at the bottle shop and grabbed a chardonnay. Back in the car his thoughts turned to Katie. Where was she, he wondered?

He thought of calling Naomi to let her know he’d not caught up with the girl. But then, as happens, his mind became centred on more selfish orientations.

He considered how he’d been a jerk back at the shop. It meant nothing. It was just his way, really, even more so if he’d just finished a hectic duty. He knew it wasn’t the first time he’d mouthed off, trying to lighten the mood between them. It was just a habit, a method he used to switch off from thinking too much. His job was tough enough at times and it was too easy to get bogged down if he let it happen. That was why he found himself spending a lot more time after work at Naomi’s coffee shop. He enjoyed their usually relaxing, light-hearted and easy conversations, and the fact that he could usually joke around with her.

He remembered a few years ago, he’d had a pretty tough shift. A whole family, including two children, one of them a six-month old baby, died in a house fire he was called to. That day, two off-duty ambulance officers from his station were severely burned trying to rescue the family. It shook him badly for some reason and he didn’t want to be alone at home in his apartment at the end of his shift. So, he’d changed from his uniform and drove from the station through the back streets, idly filling in the time, music blasting from his car stereo.

On a side street, half way between the station and home, he saw Naomi’s Café and on impulse, decided to go in for a coffee. The attractive young woman behind the counter seemed to sense his intense mood and left him in peace as he stirred the froth round and round, this way, that way.

Tough day?

He looked up at her, half smiling, awkwardly conveying that indeed, it had been. Her intense brown eyes watched him warmly and he blushed.

She placed a fresh coffee in front of him, then turned away to serve other customers.

He remembered that she never charged him for that second cup.

You looked like you needed it, was all she said.

He made a point of returning after his next shift in his uniform, a silent gesture, and one she quickly picked up on. Their comfortable banter soon drew him to return several times afterward.

In fact, any excuse he could find became a good reason to go to the café. It was a little like the old-fashioned local pub and the ‘bar-maid’ who genuinely listened to your woes or put a welcomed drink in front of you just when you needed it.

There’d never been anything more to it during that time, just his end-of-shift coffee. Conversations soon lingered, and their friendship matured into mutual appreciation. In more recent times it became appropriate to visit at each other’s apartments. He valued their companionship.

It was when he acted like an ignorant idiot, the way he had today, that he started to wonder what Naomi might think of him. But his brow creased when he realised what was bothering him now. Why did it matter what Naomi thought?

He suddenly felt flushed and foolish about his pre-occupation with their friendship. Yet he was struck with the strangest thought. What if he was in love with her? His pulse did a brief arrhythmic quake, daring that he doubt himself and this new realisation.

As if on auto-pilot, he approached the driveway of Naomi’s apartment. But, his thoughts weren’t at all focused on parking the car. He sat there a few long minutes, stunned by his fragmented reactions. Unaware of time, his heart beat pounding erratically, he ran his hand through his hair and was brought back to reality when a set of headlights behind him was accompanied by a car horn.

Waving apologetically, he moved the car into a visitor parking bay, switched off the engine and grabbed the Chardonnay. In a comic rush of ideas, the thought of flowers sprung to mind.

Shit! he thought aloud, not knowing whether to be happy, or distressed.

Arriving at Naomi’s door, he rang the doorbell. His heart lurched. His palms were sweaty.

Ah, she wasn’t home, he offered clumsily when Naomi opened the door.

Yes, I know. She called and said she’s on her way over.

Why didn’t you call me?

Ï would have, she said, then held up his mobile phone. He realised he hadn’t even missed it after he left the coffee shop.

Are you okay? she asked, bemused by the expression on his face.

He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable, and produced the bottle of wine.

I, um… I guess I just wanted to say I’m sorry.

Taking the wine, smiling, Naomi asked, What for?

The way I was back at the shop, he offered, sincerely. Nervously.

Not being the type to dwell on heated exchanges, she looked at him quizzically. Sure, he’d started to grate on her nerves back then. But, it was a long day, and they were both edgy. The moment was over and that was all there was to it.

Yvan wasn’t sure he’d explained himself.

You seemed pretty annoyed with me for not, I don’t know, not understanding your concerns for Katie.

You can forgive yourself.

Huh?

You’re right. I was annoyed with you. Now, I’m over it.

Oh.

She shirked his attempts to speak further about it because something unusual about the way he was acting unsettled her. Not so much what he said. He’d apologised before when he annoyed her with his silly jokes. No, his manner was different, and the tension made her blush.

Embarrassed by his feelings, Yvan could easily have crawled into a hole. Perhaps he’d been saved from a foolish heart-felt declaration.

The doorbell brought the perfect interruption.

Opening the door quite eagerly, he stepped aside. Katie, hey!

Oh. Hi Yvan, she said shyly.

Hi, hon, Naomi greeted her with a light kiss on the cheek. How was your day?

Okay, she shrugged, and entered the small dining alcove. But a strange thing happened.

Mmm? What’s your news? Naomi asked, as she went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

You know Mickey? The gay guy I know from Uni?

Sure, what about him?

He came to visit me this afternoon.

OK… How come? Naomi looked at her curiously.

It’s sad. His boyfriend Jamie broke up with him -

Gee, that’s bad, Yvan said, in an attempt at compassion. His homophobia was like a ship’s beacon to Katie. He had always avoided Mickey as though his every move could be construed as a sexual overture. Katie looked quizzically at him before replying.

- because Jamie’s ex-boyfriend committed suicide.

Oh, my God, came their unified reaction.

Mickey says it’s his fault. Somehow.

Why? Naomi asked.

He says he caused Jamie and Stephen to break up. And that somehow makes him responsible. Not that she supported his irrationality.

When did Stephen, ah, when did it happen? Naomi asked tactfully.

Not sure. Mickey was at dinner with Jamie last night when they got the call.

Oh.

The three settled into pensive silence. Mickey’s visits to Naomi’s café had acquainted him with this small group of friends. Jamie had only ever waited outside the café for Mickey.

Naomi spoke through the quietude.

Well, is he okay?

I guess, Katie said. He’s pretty upset.

You’d expect that, of course, Naomi concluded. She sought to change the subject. So, what about you? Have you made an appointment with the doctor about your hands?

Katie blanched, fidgeted. Yvan squirmed.

I’m sorry, honey. Naomi sensed the girl’s intense discomfort and realised how insensitive she’d been. If you’d prefer not to talk about it…?

It’s okay, Nomes.

The topic of her hands was acutely distressing. Glancing briefly at Yvan, she attempted a smile.

I called for an appointment. The receptionist said I need a referral.

Yvan’s attention peaked. He’d always been curious about the scars but never dared to ask, suspecting some awful reason for their existence.

There was.

He was disappointed not to discover the answer to his unasked question that night.

The ridged and ragged flesh of her hands gave the appearance that the skin had been torn off then haphazardly attached by a slapdash surgeon.

No-one knew the actual cause of the obvious scarring; Katie never spoke of it. However, every time Katie saw her hands, she was forced to remember the terrifying event that led to their disfigurement.

Katie, your father’s due any moment, love.

Merle Harris anticipated an immediate response from her grand-daughter.

She’d known the child to become quite anxious when Bob’s car pulled into the driveway on his way home from work. Or the pub, depending on the kind of day he’d had or the mood he was in.

But the tinkle of ivory continued, and it concerned Merle. The small child remained focused upon the scales she had been practising for the last half-hour. Listening intently for any indication that Katie was finishing the exercise, Merle looked at the clock above the stove.

Katie! Your father is on his way. You must pack up dear and be ready when he arrives. You know he hates to be kept waiting.

The quiver of panic was evident in Merle’s aged voice but lost on little Katie, who was deeply absorbed in her music.

Katie’s failure to respond brought Merle nervously into the hallway where she saw the child’s stern face, her fingers prancing furiously across the ivory. For a brief precious moment, Merle was susceptible to appreciating this precocious slip, her grandchild.

But fear of another one of Bob’s explosive outbursts kept her emotions in check and returned her to the task of token baby-sitter. At the back of her mind lurked a nagging urgency to have Katie ready for her father’s arrival.

Katie!

The elfin character at the piano turned squarely on her stool like some diminutive maestro and said;

Nan, can’t you see I’m busy! Mrs. Amarant says if I can play ‘Flur Delise’ by next week, I’ll be ready for the grading. But she says I need to practise the scales, so I can stre-e-E-tch my fingers.

The ‘stretch’ was emphasised by raising and fanning her fingers until the palms turned yellow.

That’s ‘Fur Elise’ dear, and if you’re still at the piano when your father arrives… she left the sentence hanging, so as to incite the panic she expected Katie would feel.

Still, the girl remained at the piano, fully engrossed in her own personal challenge. With a dismissive shake of the head, Merle walked back into the kitchen to put on the kettle. A cup of tea might settle her nervous tummy.

Meanwhile, Bob hurled down the busy road in the old Chrysler concerning himself little with the rules as he ran red lights. He negotiated traffic as though in an army truck, abusing other drivers who dared to move into the lane ahead of him.

He’d had a shitty day, and not surprisingly, the motto of his life expressed itself in a sticker attached to the dashboard of his car; ‘Same shit. Different day’.

He’d gone to the TAB after work and put a two-way bet on Bamberry Cross, thinking to himself it would be funny if it were a cock horse as the nursery rhyme suggested. He didn’t laugh when it did cock up, running into a barrier. The jockey was treated for a broken pelvis; the horse was put down. Bob lost fifty dollars and his temper, and so went to the pub for a few beers.

These events came with Bob as he turned into Merle’s street without indicating and stopped the car on the nature strip of the neighbouring home.

Inside, Katie laboured over a section of ‘Fur Elise’, determined she could make her small fingers manipulate the keys.

Bob walked in without knocking. Katie didn’t see him; instead she smelled the beer and perspiration as he walked past her into the house. He found his mother in the kitchen. Merle was preparing to brew a pot of tea. There were no pleasantries exchanged.

Girl not ready? he asked.

Before Merle had an opportunity to respond, Bob yelled out at his daughter; Shut that godawful noise up and get ready, girl.

Little Katie flinched, but in her intense concentration she did not pay attention to him. She continued to prod the keys over and over.

I told you to shut up!

He had stormed out into the hall where the piano stood and directed his venomous words almost into Katie’s face.

She jolted obviously in fear, waiting for the slap across the back of the head. In a little pleading voice, she said, But, Mrs. Amarant says I’m nearly good enough.

Bob was in a particularly bad mood and cared little to hear her whine.

I don’t give a damn what your bloody teacher says. I said, ‘shut up’!

The child, terrified of his harsh booming voice fuming with beer smells, and desperate to impress her father, to make him proud of her, dared to insist that he hear the piece she had been labouring over.

But, Daddy, I can play it really well -

She wasn’t given the chance to display her budding talent.

The next thing Katie remembered was the ferocity of the language Bob spat at her. Grabbing her two wrists in his huge paw-hand, he pulled her away from the piano. Katie recalled screaming in pain as the piano stool fell from under her legs. She wet her pants in fear.

Not one of the participants in this reckless nightmare could foresee the events that followed. Neither the two fragile females nor the father could gauge the extent to which his ogre-like aggression would change his daughter’s life.

Still crying and screaming, urine trickling down from her already sodden underpants, Bob dragged Katie into the kitchen. Merle backed away from him, fearing he might lash out at her. Such was the state of her self-preserving panic she remained inert, her hand clasped over her mouth which gaped open in a silent shriek. Dreading what she might see, the woman squeezed her eyes shut and for a brief intangible time, the world she inhabited became impervious to her son’s abuse.

Wisps and tendrils of steam vaporised from the kettle beside the sink, boiled moments earlier for Merle’s pot of tea. Two things transpired in that moment; Bob pulled Katie closer to him, clamping his arm vice-like across the girl’s elbows; he grabbed the kettle and poured a litre of scalding water over his daughter’s hands. Katie’s deafening screams filled the silence.

CHAPTER

THREE

"H ow am I supposed to live without you?

Now that I’ve been lovin’ you so long.

How am I supposed to live without you?

And how am I supposed to carry on?"

The smooth doleful sounds of Michael Bolton’s rendition filled Mickey’s room. It washed over him in tear-jerking expressions of lost love, almost drowning him under a tidal wave of lyrical sentiment. Yet he increased the volume a little, raised the glass of red wine to his lips and hugged his knees closer.

His hurting burned in his heart as the acid of the Cab-Sav burned in his gut. A sizeable hangover and his glazed eyes were testimony to the bottle of alcohol that blurred his mind and his vision.

He began drinking after leaving Katie’s flat the day before. But he’d lost track of just how much he’d had. The rubbish that sprawled across his bedroom floor made it impossible to know how many other bottles lurked beneath the mess.

Stopping long enough to fall asleep on his bed, when he came to sometime this morning, (or was it afternoon, he couldn’t tell), he simply picked up the glass from beside the bed and the bottle that sat near-empty on the window sill and started drinking again.

Mickey was oblivious to the compact disk coming to an end. Where previously it had been his favourite recording, now it tormented him. It was the sort of gift Jamie liked to give, a piece of memorabilia from a special occasion. That occasion had been Michael Bolton’s concert, the one Jamie had made sure they had tickets to on Mickey’s birthday.

But now, sitting huddled in the corner of his room, he sang balefully to himself, memories of Jamie tearing his heart to shreds.

Mickey?

The hard rapping on his window broke through his reverie, startling his boozy sluggish brain.

Mickey? Mickey, it’s me, Katie.

Yielding no response from thumping upon the front door, Katie walked to the back of the flat. Then she heard music, and so began her earnest tapping on the window.

Open up, Mickey. Please.

He told himself to stand up. Every last measure of energy pooled in his weakened knees, but rather than find his feet, he found his face embedded in the filthy two-inch pile of the bedside rug when his legs caved in under his drunken weight.

Mickey?

Katie found him in his bedroom and was instantly alert to the stale stench of alcohol and body odour. He came to as Katie shook him. His face slipped in the bile and other rancid contents of his regurgitation he had puked up when he collapsed.

Oh, Mickey. You’ve been sick, she said, covering her nose, almost retching herself.

The stink of vomit and the alcohol seeping from his pores that mingled with the myriad of other tainted smells wafted up Katie’s sensitive nose.

How’s m’bloody door?

It occurred to him that he couldn’t have gotten up to open the door for her.

What?

M’door… how’ja get in? Figured ya’musta broken m’bloody door.

I used the key, under the mat.

She dangled the key in front of him.

Oh.

He reached up and gripped the bed, determined to make it to his feet, but failing.

Can’ya givvus a han’? he asked her, stretching out a hand to her.

She didn’t offer him assistance.

Instead, she scratched at the itchiness of her own hands. The redness flared and pained her, raised welts stung where finger nails dragged across flesh, the appearance resembling roughhewn wood.

Unable to contain her reaction, the confines of the small room and the stench of alcohol and vomit threatened to overwhelm her senses and she started to fidget. The itch of her skin intensified.

Mickey sat up against his bed and focused on Katie.

What’s bugging ya?

Nothing! She kept scratching.

Then why are ya scratchin?

I can’t help it, she said defensively.

Well, stop scratchin’.

It annoyed him, though he couldn’t figure out why.

She might have sought to tell him she hated being around drunks; that this was all just a little too close to the memories of her past. Instead, uncomfortable with standing in Mickey’s bedroom, faced with the horrid odour and the closeness, Katie excused herself and went into the tiny lounge room where she opened the window.

She called out quietly to him; Mickey, please have a wash. It smells… awful.

He was about to fiercely object as he forced the physical energy to shove his still languid body off the floor. Then a sense of urgency propelled him from his knees to the porcelain bowl, in a bathroom be-speckled with spores of mould.

Oh no! Clean it up, don’t add to it, she mumbled out loud.

There was no mirth in her words. Nothing other than dreadful memories underscored her feelings.

It was an awful retching that sounded from the bathroom. Katie’s own stomach churned; she dared herself not to breathe in the foul stench tainting the air in case her own stomach relieved itself of its contents.

I’m going to have a shower, he called out some moments later.

The shower streamed like Niagara Falls, seeping through the layers of his drunken emotional sludge. He felt physically ill, his stomach churning and gurgling with bilious acid. His thoughts became as bilious as his tumultuous stomach with unbidden images of Jamie sending more anger and distress coursing through his body.

Standing awkwardly on buckling knees, he steadied himself against the cool tile wall. He turned his back, to let the heat and the water pummel hard on his shoulders to massage the weight of the misery he carried there.

As the water turned cool, Mickey turned off the taps, wishing he could extinguish the memories as easily. That was the trouble though. It seemed to him that the last two days were filled only with every word Jamie had ever spoken, every passionate kiss he’d ever planted on Mickey’s receptive mouth. While towelling his body dry, he recalled the day Jamie entered his life. It seemed such a long time ago…

Jamie walked into the music store, seeming to be arguing with an older man. Although their voices were raised, each cast cautious glances around, aware that there were eyes upon them. Mickey watched them intently, his gaze settling upon the handsome Jamie.

I will not allow them back in the house. I’m sorry -

Jamie’s face flushed when he realised Mickey’s eyes were upon him. Thank you, Stephen. If you don’t mind, my love, let’s keep our little domestics at home where they belong. His voice was cool, hard and quiet.

Without averting his eyes, Mickey smiled at Jamie, oblivious to the presence of the older man.

Can I help you? Mickey offered flirtatiously.

Jamie smiled at Mickey, Stephen gave Mickey the ‘death-stare’ and Mickey’s pale complexion reddened with the heat of the moment.

Yes. I’m looking for an LP. You know, an old vinyl? I’ve searched everywhere -

I haven’t seen you in here before, Mickey said with a hint of the salacious in his words, clearly implying there were some places he hadn’t searched.

Jamie seemed ignorant of the intimation. Stephen, however, interjected; Yes, well, you don’t shop at the tip for quality, do you? Besides, what we’re looking for can be returned if we don’t want it! Unlike some things…

Perhaps I’ll call in another day, Jamie suggested politely to Mickey, then glared at Stephen.

I look forward to it, Mickey smiled.

He emerged from the bathroom, both he and the toilet bowl marginally refreshed. Wrapping a towel at his waist, he remembered Katie’s presence and shook his head, which he regretted immediately. His brain pounded in his skull. Dressing instead, he carried the balled-up bedroom floor rug and threw it with disgust into the washing machine. Realising he had no laundry powder, he poured disinfectant and fabric softener into the cold-water wash.

His head still throbbed with a nasty dehydration headache, and he decided to make himself a cup of coffee. Katie waited patiently, awkwardly, at her place by the little lounge room window. Certain that he didn’t want company, preferring to wallow in self-pity alone, Mickey nearly said as much to Katie as he stepped into the kitchenette to fill the kettle.

"Um,