Unforgiven, p.1
Unforgiven, page 1
SARAH BARRIE is the author of eight novels including her bestselling print debut Secrets of Whitewater Creek, the Hunters Ridge trilogy and the Calico Mountain trilogy. In a past life, while gaining degrees in arts, science and education, Sarah worked as a teacher, a vet nurse, a horse trainer and a magazine editor, before deciding she wanted to write novels. About the only thing that has remained constant is her love of all things crime.
Her favourite place in the world is the family property, where she writes her stories overlooking mountains crisscrossed with farmland, bordered by the beauty of the Australian bush, and where, at the end of the day, she can spend time with family, friends, a good Irish whiskey and a copy of her next favourite book.
Also by Sarah Barrie
Secrets of Whitewater Creek
The Hunters Ridge Trilogy
Legacy of Hunters Ridge
Shadows of Hunters Ridge
Promise of Hunters Ridge
The Calico Mountain Trilogy
Bloodtree River
Devil’s Lair
Deadman’s Track
www.harpercollins.com.au/hq
To all the perfectly imperfect parents who love their
kids and try their best.
And to all the kids who should have had those
parents but didn’t.
The Spider and the Fly
‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said a spider to a fly;
‘’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to shew when
you are there.’
‘Oh no, no!’ said the little fly, ‘to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come
down again.’
Mary Howitt (1829)
CONTENTS
Also by Sarah Barrie
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Acknowledgements
My townhouse is a small eighties box at the end of a row of identical boxes in the dankest corner of suburban Ourimbah. Its backyard is a steep slope of unstable mountainside thick with scrub, stunted gumtrees and insects that hum like distant traffic for most of the year. Though the sun never penetrates the damp three-by-five-metre paved courtyard, the skeleton of an arbour leans heavily over the small space, held up by the privet-lined wooden fence of an annoying neighbour and the twisting, clinging ropes of wisteria and Madeira vine that slowly devour it. Lantana encroaches from two sides, adding colour to the otherwise endless green void. The courtyard is cold, dark and never dries out. Moss and mould are at home here. And so am I.
Inside, the heavy drill curtains are drawn, to dissuade another annoying neighbour from popping in and because the driveway gets sun. The faint glow of it sneaking around the edges of the curtains is already too much to tolerate.
I have to stop drinking. This is not an epiphany, more a daily mantra when I wake sometime between eleven and one. It means I miss breakfast, often lunch. Dinner might be JD or scrounged with whatever change I have in my pocket; a street kebab, a hotdog. My body is constantly on that verge between thin and too skinny, my skin is pale against the black hair I occasionally hack off without too much skill. The fact that my sister calls the effect ‘fragile’ makes me laugh. There’s nothing fragile about who I am. What I am is deliberate. But, God, I have to stop drinking.
I drop my head back against the smooth vinyl lounge and close eyes that feel too heavy in their sockets, like they want to sink right back down into unconsciousness with me. A churning nausea crawls up from my stomach and touches base with the back of my throat, tags a headache that migrates up my jaw before settling in my temples, forming a tight band across my forehead. I drag my head up, and my eyes open long enough to take another careful sip of the hot black coffee I’d poured into yesterday’s mug on my way from the kitchen to the lounge. I hope for the best.
I give in to the need to close my eyes again. If the world can stay silent, dark and still, there may be a slight chance of riding this out without full toilet-bowl-hell-hangover breaking loose.
On the edge of oblivion, images drift through the fog of my mind and hold, refusing to let go. Last night. The very dreamy Jonathan Davies of the chiselled features, stunning baby blues and long, dark lashes. A tall, muscular powerhouse, precision toned and sculpted to be appreciated. So commanding, so sure of himself. The images form into a memory and I groan in resignation.
Shit. I have to get up. His body is still in the boot.
CHAPTER ONE
Friday, March 5
Hurry up!
I catch a glimpse of the hotel’s archaic clock radio as I bounce up and down on Henry Elliot’s erection. 8:43pm. I take pride in my work, and I like to make sure my clients get their money’s worth. But tonight there’s somewhere else I need to be and Henry’s distracted, taking longer than usual.
The hotel walls are a dull beige—scuffed and scarred from furniture being carelessly bumped against them. A darker rectangular patch shows the place a cheap painting used to hang. I’ve spent a fair bit of time staring at that painting over the years and I kind of miss its cringy, colourful landscape. I wonder what happened to it. By the door, a roundish indentation suggests someone’s attempted to put their fist through the gyprock. Maybe the painting was a victim of whatever drunk did that little bit of angry redecorating.
The walls are thin and I can hear someone snoring up a storm in the room next door. The shattering rumble is competing with the noise from the crowd downstairs and the blaring of an impatient driver’s horn on the road outside. I tune it all out and stretch up, lifting my arms over my head and squeezing my shoulder blades together. The move might look like a posture of wild abandon but in reality I’m just trying to stop anything from cramping. My eyes catch the movement of a daddy-long-legs as it picks its way along the corner of the ceiling and my mind wanders again. I remember hearing that they’re highly toxic, but their fangs are too small to penetrate human skin. Probably a fallacy.
Okay, my patience is running thin. I’m considering a change of position, maybe adding some more serious sound effects, but then with pure gratitude I hear the quick catch of his breath. His hands grip my hips and convulse and—there it is—the breathy snort that trills into something like a happy horse whinny.
I relax and wait it out, give him a moment to pant and mop at his brow as though he’s been doing all the work rather than starfishing underneath me, then slide off his ample belly with a smile I know he thinks means I enjoyed the hell out of it. In reality it’s the two-fifty in cash and the JD waiting for me in the pub downstairs that puts this smile on my face. I take another glance at the clock and grimace. There won’t be much time. I’ll have to drink fast.
‘That’s some stamina you’ve got there,’ Henry puffs, his eyes warm in his damp face.
‘All part of the service,’ I reply. I hope I can get off the bed without my legs giving way.
The hotel window is open a crack and the early March air is cool with the predicted southerly change. My skin prickles. I move off the bed and self-consciously reach for the lingerie I’d tossed on the floor. I can fuck a client six ways to Sunday without batting an eyelid but somehow picking up the pieces afterwards is always awkward. I have this way of switching off when I’m working that flicks back to life in the aftermath. I suppose the cleaning-up process highlights the emptiness of the experience; in a relationship, this’d be the part where you snuggle into your partner feeling all warm and fuzzy. I think. I wouldn’t really know. But what I do know is you wouldn’t be getting showered and dressed while the other participant reaches for a wad of cash in his wallet.
I don’t often question what I do, so it annoys me that whatever conscience I own has decided to start gnawing at me now. What I do makes a few lonely men happy and keeps a roof over my head. Both of these are good things. Important things.
I shake off my thoughts and visit the tiny bathroom, give myself a quick moment to enjoy the shower spray. When I come out Henry’s still sprawled naked on the bed.
‘Lexi, honey, it’s my birthday on Tuesday. Think you can fit in a couple of hours for a little get-together? I’m going to call in and see Mum, then the girls from the bank and a few of my friends were thinking beers
For the sake of appearances I pretend to ponder that. But of course I can. I only see three long-term clients these days, leftovers from when I had no choice but to take on anyone for whatever they offered just to stay alive. It gives me enough to get by, and that’s fine. I can’t be bothered dealing with strangers or the rough, kinky or downright warped requests anymore.
‘Sure. Is that what you’ve been dreaming about tonight?’
‘Dreaming about? It’s always you,’ he says with a wink. But I know he’s lying.
‘Come on, you got something going on the side here, Henry?’
I sometimes wonder why he hasn’t found a Mrs Right. He’s on a slippery slope towards fifty and there’s no denying he’s let himself go, but he has a pleasant enough face, is well versed in basic manners and hygiene and has a gorgeous waterfront home and million-dollar inheritance from a great aunt secured in the bank he manages.
I sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Someone to buy you a birthday cake? Celebrate with you? Stay the night?’
‘I’d be happy for you to do all those things.’
I pull a face and Henry chuckles. ‘Marry me and I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted.’
‘It’s a tempting offer. But I’m not the domestic type.’
He shifts up to lean on his elbow. His face goes endearingly red. ‘Actually, there might be someone.’
‘Oh?’
‘A new investment manager. She was helping me with my portfolio last week and we just kind of clicked. I don’t want to think too much of it yet. She’s quite a bit younger and I would have said out of my league but I don’t think I was misinterpreting the signals.’
Oh you poor, sweet, blind man, I think as warning bells clang, but I punch him playfully on the arm. ‘Good for you! But make sure you have fun and protect that big heart of yours.’ And big bank balance. Maybe I’m just cynical.
‘Oh … I don’t know,’ he groans, dropping back down on the mattress. He stares at the roof for several seconds before his gaze shifts back to me. ‘You really think I should ask her out?’
Now I’m playing counsellor and I’ve got no one to blame but myself—I started it. ‘Sure. If she can’t make it, I’ll be available. Let me know.’
‘She’ll be there. She’s on staff and they’re all coming. But maybe if she sees me with you …’
My left eyebrow lifts in amusement. ‘Are you trying to make her jealous, Henry?’
‘Not exactly, it’s just that with someone like you on my arm she might see me as more … appealing.’
I lean over and kiss him. ‘If she doesn’t already know how amazing you are, she doesn’t deserve you. Text me a time.’ Before I can surprise myself even more with all this niceness I take the money he’s tossed on the pillow, blow him another kiss and walk out.
The narrow hallway is dimly lit and the lingering stench of stale alcohol, vomit and cheap air freshener follows me down the stairs. All three odours seem to be permanent fixtures of the place. I push through a heavy glass door to the noise and general chaos of the busy lounge and head straight for the bar. Tom, the skinny Canadian bartender, is wiping down the counter with an overused checkered cloth. He greets me with his usual all-over stare of appreciation and a jerk of his head.
‘Usual?’
‘Thanks. Make it a double.’ I slide onto a bar stool and dump my bag by my feet. The bar is still damp under my elbows as I lean on it but I leave them there.
His big, friendly grin flashes as he grabs the bottle. ‘That is the usual.’
‘So make it a double double.’
He doesn’t bother to measure the shots, just pours me a glass two-thirds full. Tom’s always generous with quantities.
‘Rough night at the office?’ he asks, sliding the glass across the bar before glancing at the door to upstairs.
I shake my head and toss back half the contents of my drink, feel it burn down my throat. ‘I’m in a hurry. Need to be somewhere.’
‘Want any food to go?’
‘Nah, but thanks.’
‘Hey, before you gulp that down and rush off,’ he says and leans over the bar so he can speak quietly, ‘a couple of weeks back you stumbled through some story about pretending to be a kid on social media to catch a perv for your sister. Remember?’
The glass stalls just shy of my mouth while my mind races for exactly what I told him. Must have been drunk. Very, very drunk. I take another large swallow. ‘No. Why?’
He jerks his chin towards the booth by the window. ‘Owen reckons one of his mates showed him a picture of some girl he met on Facebook. Said she looks like a younger version of you. A much younger version.’
‘One of his mates, huh?’ I know Owen is keen to become a client. I shudder as I consider the tattered flanno, the jeans that are held together by beer stains and the beard that—well, I’m not sure how long some of those leftovers have lived there. ‘Let’s just say if this mate starts sending dick pics to photoshopped twelve-year-old me, he might get more than he bargained for.’
Tom laughs but he’s looking at me with a weird intensity.
‘What?’
‘I have trouble picturing you as the superhero type.’
‘Because I’m not!’ I answer, appalled. ‘I was helping Bailee out.’
‘Ah, I see.’ His smile gleams with humour. ‘You thinking of signing up as a child protection officer like your sister? Interesting career change.’
‘Ha. No.’ Then, because he’s still looking at me with curiosity, I sigh and wiggle my finger at my glass for him to top it up. If I have to make conversation, I may as well squeeze in one more drink. ‘When Bailee started work last year she got a lot of grunt cases. One guy was stalking this kid online and I offered to help out, that’s all. A few years back I developed some interesting computer skills working for this guy—doesn’t matter. Anyway.’ I smile a little in satisfaction at the memory. ‘We made up a fake child profile with Photoshop to trick the guy into nailing his own arse. And it worked too well. She reeled in six of the bastards.’
I shrug like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t need to know just how much of my time it’s begun to take up. Or why. ‘Keep it to yourself, okay? I don’t know why in hell I told you, but I don’t want to ruin my reputation.’ I swallow the extra shot and get to my feet. If I get my butt into gear, I’ll still make it home on time. ‘I need to call a taxi.’
‘You told me because I’m one of the few people on this planet you like.’ My surprised expression inspires a cheeky grin and a wink. ‘You told me that too.’
‘God, how drunk was I?’
He laughs. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t drag yourself out on all fours.’ He glances outside. ‘There’s a taxi pulling up now. I called it for Travis. Take it. I’ll call him another one.’
I glance across to old Travis’s favourite booth. Every time I see him his hair is a shade whiter and yet he’s still the only person I know who can drink more than me and keep his legs under him. He’s looking relaxed with his back to the door and half a glass of something amber in his hand as he chats to a mate. I reach across the bar for Tom and plant a noisy kiss on his mouth. ‘Thanks.’
‘You are so welcome.’
Pleasantly dizzy, I smile over my shoulder then step outside into the blustering winds. The main street is littered with people, mostly older teens arriving in town for a night out. A girl dressed in marginally more than me almost knocks into me as she laughs and stumbles past with a couple of boys. Further down the road, towards the waterfront, I hear a commotion from a larger group of already inebriated partygoers waiting for the nightclub to open at the local leagues club. There’s few other options—a couple of pubs, a wine bar—but the younger crowd are all headed in the same direction. Gosford might only be an hour or so north of the city, but its nightlife options are dismally limited. I shiver. My little red dress is no match for the sudden drop in temperature but it’s tight, so at least it doesn’t blow up anywhere it shouldn’t. It’s been hot for a week and the change was expected, but I’m glad the taxi is sitting waiting as the rain starts to spit down.
I climb in and give the driver the address, lean back against the smooth vinyl seat and stare blindly out the window as we cruise through the quiet suburbs towards home. I’m tired. I hadn’t realised quite how tired. But I still have work to do, just a different sort. I open my phone. I can’t believe I told Tom I stalked perverts on Facebook. I never talk to anyone but Bailee about that. Then again, other than Tom or my sister, who do I talk to? Tom’s right. I don’t like many people, so the list is short. My messages come up. Two of the three paedos I’ve been stringing along have replied. One wants to know if I’ve seen a dick before, the other wants a photo of me naked.
