Crime in the Country: Little Lies Everywhere, #1

By Victoria Kosky

Gabriella is pursued on every side and hiding a secret past. She is on the run for her life.

A mob killer is after her, lusting for revenge. The widowed doctor is lusting after her despite his principles. While Gabriella has her hands full with her headstrong son and a sex-crazed, homicidal employer.

As a committed Catholic, Gabriella knows she shouldn't sin, commit crime, or tell lies. But to protect her son she overdoes all three. When she finds a surplus of corpses at the funeral home where she works, she devises a desperate plan that hinges on involving the upstanding doctor. She doesn't expect to fall in love with him.

What will happen when all her lies start unravelling? Does God forgive pre-meditated sin? When the doctor discovers that she's from the wrong kind of family, how will he react?

After offering a large reward, the killer finds her hiding in a small rural Australian town. He brings guns and his henchmen with him. Can she save herself and protect her son from the mob's tentacles?

Imagine the Sopranos on laughing gas!

Fans of Analyze This with Robert De Niro and Billy Crystal will love this hilarious page-turner filled with mayhem, underworld intrigue and aging mobsters trying to reform before they meet their maker.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Kosky
• Release date: Jul 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201656119

Victoria Kosky

Victoria Kosky refuses to let age or approaching senility prevent her from accomplishing a lifelong dream. She writes satirical crime fiction and crafts gay, light-hearted stories of murder and mayhem. As Ray Bradbury said, ‘I don’t believe in being serious about anything. I think life is too serious to be taken seriously’.  With two degrees, she has enjoyed several diverse careers that no one is interested in. Motherhood was a highlight for her; she achieved two high distinctions in child-rearing. One of her son’s is six-foot-four-inches tall, and the other measures six-foot-five. ‘Retirement is the greatest adventure of my life,’ said Victoria. ‘Sure, the body isn’t what it used to be, but as long as I have my marbles, I’ll keep writing.’ Although her primary goal is to not die yet, she has even bigger goals: writing fifty novels before her mind goes. (I’m not kidding her father had brain atrophy in his seventies. You can see that bewildered look, and she’s only sixty-six.) Take pity on the old girl and read her books before her time runs out.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The battered Toyota screeched to a halt in front of Wagga Wagga High School, spitting up dust and gum leaves. It was 4pm on the knocker. Gabriella unclenched her fingers from the steering wheel. She fished in her pocket for the rosary. ‘Lord, make him understand,’ she whispered.

The dormant red-brick giant disgorged children like ants swarming from a flooded nest. She spotted Joe sauntering along, head and shoulders taller than his peers. A bunch of younger kids gathered around him. They were checking out his workshop project, making wisecracks. After weeks of secrecy, she now saw that he’d made a coffee table with three legs. Or at least that’s what she thought it was. She’d loaded the car to the max. One metal trunk strapped to the roof rack, another hogging the back seat, the boot tied down with rope. She’d just managed to squeeze in her chest of herbs. Where the heck would that thing fit?

She knew better than to toot the horn, amid this sea of Lexuses and Land Rovers. Joe would go ballistic. The car was a major humiliation for a fifteen-year-old; thirty years old and on its last legs. And for a moment, she wondered if it was just the car that embarrassed him. The second he spotted the old heap his grin faded. It hurt to witness. He’d suffered this routine before. She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans and steeled her spine.

‘Have you lost your mind? You said we’d stay,’ Joe shouted when he reached the driver’s window. It was more of a plea than a question. A plea for her to come to her senses, for her to forget this foolishness, for her to turn the car around and take them back home.

‘We’re leaving,’ she said. ‘Things aren’t working out with the business.’

‘Make them work. You were happy last week.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Let’s not make a big deal out of it. We’re going.’

He thumped the roof of the car with his fist. ‘Where?’ he yelled.

‘Some place new.’

‘Don’t I get any say? I’m fifteen; you treat me like a child.’ His strident tone caught the interest of the crossing guard. A small group of kids collected nearby, hoping for a show.

‘When you’re the parent. Then we’ll do what you say.’

‘Well, I’m not bloody going anywhere!’ he growled. It was the noise made by an injured animal. At that moment, she knew he hated her.

Joe’s face filled with venom. His blue-grey eyes darkened, reminding her briefly of his father—the father he didn’t know. For a heartbeat she hesitated, tempted to explain. But she stopped herself. She did what she always did: she lied.

‘I lost my job. Mrs Barkly can’t afford me.’

He stood there, jaw set, skin heated, lips clamped. He stared at the ground, kicking the parched dirt at his feet. ‘Why can’t we leave tomorrow? Or next week? I could say goodbye to my mates.’

‘That won’t make it easier. Anyway, I’ve returned the keys,’ she said, clenching her teeth to hold back a weary sigh. She clutched the steering wheel and dropped her head, so it rested on her hands for a few beats. Then she drew herself up again. ‘I rang the principal earlier. Requested copies of all your results and reports. They’ll post them when we’re settled.’

‘What about my studies? You’re always going on about how important education is!’ He released the schoolbag that hung off his shoulder and dumped it in the dirt. Kicked it for good measure. ‘It’s not fair—’.

‘It’s year ten; it won’t be the end of the world. You’re a smart boy.’ Someone was squeezing her head in a vice. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘Put your table in the car and we’ll get going.’

‘I made this for you,’ he said, brandishing it by one leg. ‘But you’re not getting it.’

‘And it’s not a table! It’s a stool.’ Then he smashed his woodwork against the nearby rubbish bin. Three loud crashes that drew every eye to the racket.

Gabriella noticed the crossing supervisor aiming for them and groaned. She levered her body out of the car with an effort and marched to Joe’s side. Hands fisted on her hips, she glared at the gouged pine stool. It remained intact. ‘Joseph! Get in the car!’ Her volume startled him. ‘Now!’

‘You can’t make me,’ he challenged, jutting out his jaw.

She picked up the stool and wondered if she could wallop him with it.

‘Is there a problem here?’ asked the crossing guard. His appraisal of Gabriella lingered more on her body than her face.

‘No problem at all,’ she replied, gritting her teeth, and trying to keep her tone even. ‘Joe’s upset. He just realised he’d forgotten to make another leg. But I like it this way,’ she said, turning and strolling back to the car.

She heard the man ask, ‘Who is that woman?’

‘I don’t know,’ lied Joe. ‘She’s nuts! I think she could be a child molester. She’s trying to get me into her car.’

Kids sniggered. Even some adults watched the performance. She noticed Joe’s friend Noodles aim his camera-phone at her. He was probably hoping to score a post for YouTube.

Gabriella hated cameras. She ducked around the car and opened the back door, determined to get the stool to fit. He’d made the ugly thing for her; and she was keeping it. She called over to the budding photographer. ‘Hey, Noodles. Would you tell this man who I am?’

The kid blushed. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, trying to support Joe.

Gabriella glared at him. ‘You might not recognise me with my clothes on. Want to see my boobs again?’

Laughter came from the group. Noodles’ blush deepened.

‘I caught him peeping in through the bathroom window,’ she blasted out to everyone.

Wearing a defeated expression, Noodles thumped Joe’s back. ‘Later, mate,’ he said, shuffling away.

‘Anyone else want to see my boobs?’ she offered, whipping off her windcheater.

She heard the crossing guy say, ‘Yeah’.

‘Don’t be disgusting!’ said Joe glaring at the fellow. In a few strides, he reached her side. ‘You can’t say that in public,’ he grated. ‘And did you have to embarrass Noodles?’ he ruffled his fingers through his black curls.

‘You didn’t leave me much choice.’ She hoped the kid didn’t develop a complex. ‘I’d rather not go to extremes, but I will if I have to.’ The look on his face meant he was a minute away from losing his temper.

Joe stared into her eyes, weighing up the threat. After a few laboured breaths, he searched for control and for a moment she didn’t know whether he’d cry or strangle her. ‘I’m never going to talk to you again for as long as I live.’ He punctuated each word with pain.

Overhead, parakeets wheeled and dipped in a carefree dance, flitting from one place to the next, never settling for long, just like her. The scents of wattle and canola wafted on the breeze. Spring was coming. The school kids shuffled off, casting back curious looks.

She’d thought that living in the sticks would somehow protect her; that changing towns and identities so many times she’d lost count, would somehow protect her; that not letting anyone close would somehow protect her.

Gabriella’s eyes cut across to her son and her heart lurched. He leaned against the car for support, jaw clenched, arms tightly folded, hands clamped under his armpits.

‘Joe. Please try to understand…’

‘Understand what? I don’t understand. I’ve never understood—how can I? You never tell me anything,’ he accused, his voice edgy and rising higher and higher.

How much longer could she protect him? ‘You’re right. You’re old enough to know.’ A sound between a sigh and a sob escaped from her.

‘Something bad happened. Years ago, before you were born. I saw something and now he wants to kill me.’

‘Who? Who wants to kill you?’ His tone was doubtful as if he thought it might be a trick.

‘Not now!’ she screeched. ‘Joe, if you care for me… for heaven’s sake, get in the bloody car.’

He looked horrified: huge eyes in a contorted, pale face, as if the blood had drained from it. He chucked his gear in the back and got in the car, slamming the door so hard the whole car rocked wildly. ‘Do you even know where the hell we’re going?’ Joe accused. He slumped low in the front passenger seat, yanked his school cap over his eyes and pretended to sleep.

Gabriella congratulated herself. Endings: She was great at endings. And loss. If there was a degree in it, she’d have it. Everyone she cared about she’d lost.

She hadn’t seen her mother for sixteen years. And still, she imagined her mother’s voice spouting forth her proverbs. ‘People choke themselves with possessions,’ she’d often said. Of course, it sounded much wiser in Italian. She’d told Joe his grandparents were dead. It was half the truth. Today she’d learned that her mother was still alive. She’d just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. How much longer did she have?

She had missed her father’s funeral. It wouldn’t have been safe for her to attend. Later, she read the write-up in the paper. You’d think a celebrity had died not a bookkeeper. The Sacred Heart at Rookwood looked like a mob reunion: black limos, black cashmere coats, black sunglasses. The sky was overcast. The hearse was piled high with wreaths and flowers. Eight of his associates struggled beneath the weight of his rosewood coffin complete with gold handles and carvings of angels. No one cried. Yet over three hundred of his cheek-kissing cohorts had sent him off. Ironic, since they had kissed his arse while he’d been alive.

The papers said that leukaemia got Salvatore Balzarini in the end. It was a kinder death than he deserved.

Joe had noticed her interest in the newspaper article. He’d asked her who the man was. She’d said she had no idea. Some criminal who would answer for his sins. He’d read the headline and asked what alleged meant. She said it was a legal word to protect newspapers from being sued. Everyone knew the person was a crook, but they didn’t have enough evidence to prove it.

Near Howlong she pulled into the roadhouse for fuel and oil. Joe didn’t stir when the car stopped at the pumps. She bought a snack for him and a newspaper, itching to find details of the Gorvello’s court case.

Her sister’s words earlier today still reverberated in her mind. ‘It’s unbelievable! The cops offered him a deal. If he helps bring down the Gorvello brothers, he gets his sentence reduced.’

Vince was getting out.

She’d just merged onto the highway when her mobile pealed. A tight feeling squeezed her chest. She saw the caller was her employer, Mrs Barkly. With a small moan, she pulled over and answered.

‘Gabby, where are you? I went to the house to check on you.’

What could she say? ‘I’m fine, Mrs Bee. Don’t worry about me,’ but her brittle voice lacked conviction.

‘Was it that woman today? Did she upset you?’

Today her sister Sylvie had found her after sixteen years. Despite the precautions she’d taken. What could she say? The silence between them stretched as taut as a guitar string.

‘Gabby, trust me,’ Mrs Barkly said. ‘I always figured you were running from something. We’ll work it out.’

Gabriella cracked the window and scents of pine and eucalypt filtered in, with the occasional whoosh from a passing car. ‘I’m grateful for all you’ve… I’m sorry, Mrs Bee,’ her voice quivered. No one could do anything to help. She ended the call.

It was now dark outside. The moon cast mottled shadows on the landscape. They travelled another kilometre along the highway, Joe still playing Sleeping Beauty. She wound her window down and tossed out the mobile. When she peeked at his face, she thought he looked flushed, so she dialled up the air. A long time ago, she had made her choice and only Joe mattered. If Sylvie had found her, Vince and his thugs could too.

Gabriella clung to the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, watching the rear vision mirror. The reminder burned. She tugged up her sleeve and soothed the pulsing scar that ran the length of her inner arm, just missing the major veins. Thirty-seven stitches.

‘A reminder of what will happen if you ever try to leave,’ Vince had said. The old wound throbbed in sync with the drumming of the tyres on the highway.

They needed to get more distance from Sydney, try another state. However the court case panned out, Vince could be free. Six years short of his sentence. Her hands trembled on the wheel.

Out of the swirl of her muddled thoughts came a hint from the past; Vince Carlucci had once sworn he’d never return there. She could still hear the spite in his voice: ‘I’m never going back to that shithole as long as I live.’

She had wondered what had fomented such hatred for the town he’d grown up in. At sixteen he’d left home and gone to live with his uncle Marcello in Sydney. At eighteen he’d killed a man.

In the distance, a shimmering haze glowed over the hillside, and she imagined it was God’s guiding hand. The twinkling lights of Albury on the NSW–Victorian border came into view. She would cross into Victoria and find that back-of-beyond town. It was a sure bet that Vince Carlucci would never search for her there.

Chapter 2

Doctor Andrew Stewart drove his son Sam one block to the local primary school for a nine o’clock start. His itchy eyes felt saturated with sawdust. He blinked them a few times.

Sam glanced across and grinned. ‘Six yawns since we got in the car,’ he announced.

‘I didn’t know you were scoring.’ Andrew yawned again, and they both laughed. He ruffled his son’s hair and gave him a hug. ‘Have a fun day. Mrs Turner will pick you up after school.’

Sam hopped out, brimming with the joy of life. He hitched his backpack over his shoulder and skipped away with a wave.

The doctor’s surgery was part of the council offices. A utilitarian three-room space, with a too small waiting area, he rented from the shire. He parked the car and sat there. Four minutes to nine. He stared at the orange-brick building, the pressure tightening around his neck and shoulders. The hint of a headache bloomed behind his eyes as he summoned the willpower to get moving.

He noticed Kimberley’s blue and silver Morris Minor was not there; her official start was 8:30am. The old-fashioned round rimmed black glasses he wore pressed ruts in his nose. But he never seemed to find time to buy a new pair of lighter frames. He caught himself in the mirror, thinking he looked fifty, not thirty-nine. Releasing his death grip from the steering wheel and taking a deep gulp of air, he grabbed his doctor’s bag and left the safety of his vehicle.

Mavis, the senior receptionist, bustled about, preparing for the morning session. She switched on the computers and printers. Andrew had no chance to greet her. ‘Have you found that cleaner?’ she snapped.

‘Oh, sorry. It’s on the top of my list.’ An interminable mental note of jobs weighed on him, but he was making no progress with it. Not enough hours in the day.

Mavis muttered something about having to do things single-handed around the office.

He said, ‘Could we ask Kimberley?’

Her narrow-eyed glare sent him a clear message, but Mavis voiced it anyway. ‘It’s difficult getting her to do her normal duties.’ Mavis shook her head in disgust, and he knew she was cursing the day he’d employed Kimberley. But, after his deathbed promise to Kim’s mother of finding her daughter employment, and month after month had passed with no prospects, he’d had no choice but try her in the surgery.

The appointments diary on the screen stared at him; first up he saw his number one heart-sink patient and expelled a helpless groan. The woman came frequently, listing a new complaint every visit. He’d ordered every test and was at his wit’s end to know how to treat her. Hard to dismiss, she always overstayed her appointment time, which caused him to run late for the rest of the morning. He took deep breaths and gathered his composure before calling her. ‘Get through the day,’ he told himself. He plastered on a wooden smile. ‘Only nine hours to go.’

At ten-thirty, Mavis buzzed him to say the fax machine had breathed its last. He couldn’t decide whether to repair it or replace it and vacillated until Mavis exploded on the other end of the line, ‘For goodness sake, I’ll order one and ask for immediate delivery.’ The sound of the phone crashed in his ear.

In the fourteen years of their association, he’d never witnessed the lady lose her temper. Not that he blamed her; between his lethargy and Kimberley’s laziness, they were tipping her over the edge. Nowadays, making even a small decision was slogging through thick snow up a steep mountain.

During the lunch break, all he had time for was a biscuit with some coffee that Kimberley made him. He stared at the examination couch; it was so tempting to rest for a while and forget everything, but paperwork waited, as did the patients at the hospital-hostel, so common sense won out.

At 2pm Andrew called his new patient, Joe Fiorelli. Greeting the young man, he reeled back as garlic fumes slammed him. The kid followed him, sweating, along the hallway to his consulting room. He braked before entering.

‘You don’t need to come,’ said Joe, to someone behind him.

Andrew recoiled from the boy’s pungent aroma.

‘Don’t be pig-headed, Joe,’ said a woman as she swept past Joe into the room. ‘Hurry up,’ she urged, ‘we don’t have all day.’

As Andrew hustled to open his window, the kid croaked, ‘Mum still thinks I’m five.’ The boy stooped in his chair, embarrassed, arms crossed.

The mother stood beside Joe and Andrew thought she was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. Her face was a painter’s dream: high cheekbones and flashing brown eyes, brown hair curling to her shoulders. A simple full skirt, peasant blouse and sandals highlighted a gypsy air. Even with the occasional garlic gusts from Joe, her scent of lavender and peaches surrounded him.

‘Won’t you take a seat… er… Mrs Fiorelli?’ Appearing uneasy, she moved from one foot to the other but took the chair beside her son.

‘Mum doesn’t like doctors,’ offered the boy.

She didn’t bother to dispute the statement.

Andrew found that disconcerting because he realised that he wanted her to like him. He tore his eyes away from the woman and focused on the minimal details on the computer screen. His pulse had sped up and his breathing accelerated. One finger tapped on the desk, a nervous habit. Only the hum of the computer, Joe’s congested wheezing and his tap, tap, tapping filled the room.

He should take the kid’s history, but his brain seemed frozen. The synapses sputtering and sparking out of rhythm. Liquid heat poured through him; and other parts, lower appendages long dormant, reacted on their own, surging to life. Andrew sat motionless, appalled by his own response. This was unprecedented in his years of practice. He was trapped between distress and a staggering relief that his parts remained operational. Stalling, he brought himself under control. Where was the gown he used for procedures? But it hung on the back of the door, out of reach.

Under normal circumstances, he would examine Joe’s ears and throat, check his temperature and listen to his chest. But he’d have to pass by Mrs Fiorelli to do that.

She broke through his deliberations, with a cough. ‘Aren’t you going to say something?’ she asked, wide eyed. ‘Ask us why we’re here?’ She had expressive eyes with long lashes reminiscent of a pet calf he’d had. A frown marred her forehead and her eyebrows rose. Her voice was a gentle wave, low and sultry and smooth as rich claret, making the nape of his neck tingle.

Get a grip. He nodded and thought how captivating she was, despite the sparks of irritation being transmitted.

‘Which school do you attend, Joe?’ he asked.

‘Just got here, haven’t decided—.’ said Joe.

Joe’s mother interrupted. ‘Who cares?’ she moaned. ‘Ask him about his cold?’

‘Just developing rapport.’

‘Forget rapport.’

‘What are your symptoms, Joe?’

As the boy described his sore throat, Andrew’s gaze caressed her honey-coloured skin and traced the planes of her face. Her nails were bare and, apart from a light lip-gloss, she wore no make-up. He found her unadorned, natural appearance compelling.

‘Not just a thousand razor blades,’ repeated Joe. ‘A million razor blades stabbing me.’

Andrew nodded, dragging his gaze back to his patient. ‘A million razors slicing into your throat.’

‘I can’t even swallow,’ said Joe with a loud gulp and a grimace.

While Andrew waited for his resurrection to dissipate, he composed his expression and listened to the kid’s complaints. His steepled fingers rested beneath his chin as he summoned an air of calm.

‘It even hurts to talk. I’m losing my voice,’ rasped the boy.

The mother rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, ‘That’ll be a relief.’

When Joe shot her a look, she amended it. ‘It’ll be a relief if you don’t talk.’ Then addressing Andrew, ‘Couldn’t we speed this up?’ she said, looking up at the clock and wriggling in the chair as if she might take flight.

He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, plastering his concentration on the kid.

‘When did your symptoms start, Joe?’

The boy answered, sounding like a seasoned smoker. While Andrew tried not to stare at the mother, he gave himself a stern reminder of his code of ethics. Then he reiterated his long-time rule regarding the propriety of patient involvement. But the attraction was too strong. His gaze returned to her, but she’d turned aside, watching her son with concern.

‘You’re staying at the caravan park,’ said Andrew.

‘Yeah,’ said Joe, ‘The cheap place, not the fancy one on the river.’

‘I haven’t seen you in town; are you passing through?’

Joe’s eyes cut to his mother his expression stroppy. ‘Might stay awhile.’

There was an underlying tension between them Andrew couldn’t interpret as Mrs Fiorelli gave a drawn-out sigh.

‘Does your husband have a job in Nagambie?’ Apart from the retirees seeking peace, few young people settled here. The wineries, horse studs or mushroom farm offered employment, but there was little in the way of attractions.

‘He’s dead.’ She had her hands spread out in a pleading gesture. ‘Could you snap to it?’ Her hand motion urged him forward.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Joe, go over to the examination couch and lie down.’

The buzz in his brain, repeated: her husband’s dead.’ He collected his equipment and using a folded Medical Observer as a shield, he moved across to his patient. He doubted that Joe needed a full examination but drawing the curtain part way around the bed protected him from any attention. It was a simple enough diagnosis after seeing Joe’s throat. But taking his time, he listened to the boy’s chest, heart and took his pulse and blood pressure. By then his own pressure had declined. At last, he relaxed; he was out of danger.

‘Psst,’ she called from outside the curtain. ‘You’re taking a long time. Is he going to survive?’

Andrew pulled aside the curtain and her concerned face filled his view, both hands clenched in her lap, her lips and lush mouth set in a serious line. He observed the adoring looks she cast at Joe and wished she aimed them at him. Well, not in the same way, but he wished she would notice him. He might as well have been transparent; she refused to meet his eye.

He wasn’t proud of alarming her. ‘Let me reassure you…’ he began, when the phone interrupted him and Kimberley snapped, ‘What’s going on in there? Patients are spilling out the front door.’

His gaze bathed the contours of Mrs Fiorelli’s face and tracked the restless movement of her hands while squeezing the handset, imagining it was Kim’s neck. He had never been a man who’d ogled women, and he was at a loss to explain why she fascinated him and drew him with such force.

‘Thanks, Kim.’ He replaced the phone and returned his attention to the two intent faces watching him. ‘There’s nothing much wrong with Joe apart from a strep throat.’

She breathed out a loud relief filled sigh. ‘Thank God.’ Flinging up her hands, she ran her fingers through her hair as if he’d given her a fright. ‘You took your time working that out.’

He gave her one of his noncommittal smiles; he admired her direct forthright manner. ‘I’ll prescribe a course of antibiotics.’

She signalled with her hand to halt him, shaking her head. ‘Not necessary. We don’t use antibiotics. It destroys the body’s natural immunity.’ She started rising but Joe put out a restraining hand.

‘Herbal Antibiotics: Mum has read it from cover to cover.’ Joe rolled his eyes.

‘Don’t be smart,’ she said. ‘Thanks to me you’ve never needed antibiotics in your life. They’ll change your intestinal flora and weaken your immunity.’

‘I kno-ow,’ he grumbled, sounding as if he’d heard it many times before. ‘You made me drink that garlic juice this morning and I’m worse. Much worse! I’ll die. Then you’ll be satisfied.’

‘When we get home, I’ll give you oregano oil, and echinacea. They’ll boost your immunity.’

‘Raw garlic?’ queried Andrew. That explained why the kid was sweating.

‘Heat destroys the allicin,’ she said.

‘I don’t imagine it’s very palatable?’

‘I added honey and orange juice to it.’

Unconvinced, Andrew gave a wary nod.

‘Albert Schweitzer used garlic in Africa to cure typhoid fever and cholera,’ she justified.

‘Don’t mind her.’ Joe shook his head. ‘She’s obsessed with this stuff.’

Andrew nodded in agreement. ‘I believe that during World War II they called garlic Russian penicillin. They used it to treat infected wounds when antibiotics weren’t available.’

She smiled at him then: a wall-to-wall smile that reminded him of warm sand and tropical islands. That smile made him wish for things out of his reach.

Andrew cringed whenever he heard alternative therapy types dismiss scientific evidence. But, listening to her philosophy of natural remedies fighting infection, he thought she made perfect sense. He felt more alive than he had all day, as though he’d escaped from a stark, grey world. Outside, the clouds had passed; golden rays shone through the window. Around him things became vivid as if someone had lifted a gauzy veil. Her sultry voice poured over him as she expounded her ideas on healing, microbes, and Mother Earth. He drifted into a fantasy, seeing her lying beneath him on a grassy meadow, her hair strewn out behind her. Until the phone buzzed, and Kimberley’s voice sobered him.

‘Joe, your temperature is high; take Panadol four hourly until it returns to normal,’ he said.

‘I’ll use Kudzu root from my herb chest. It’s a vine in the