Little Secrets Page 2

  Since she was a kid, she’d always wanted to be a journalist. There had been a lot of setbacks, the local paper The Colmstock Echo closing being the worst one. Then she’d got an email saying she had been long-listed for a cadetship at the Sage Review, a national paper. A week later she was told she had been short-listed. Still, she hadn’t let herself get too excited. It was just too good, too amazing to happen to her. Then just eight days ago she was down to the final two. It was just her and one other hopeful person out there refreshing their emails today.

  Her friend Mia was certain she would get it. Rose had laughed and made some joke about whether she’d seen it in her crystal ball, but really, she had believed her. In her gut, Rose knew she was going to get the cadetship, for the simple fact that no one could want it as much as she did. It just wasn’t possible.

  She hurried past the lake, which was surrounded by dry knee-high grass, home to snakes and mosquitoes. It reeked of stagnant water. Next to it, the bare frame of a swing set stood, taken over by an insistent flowering weed. Someone had cut down the swings a few years back, leaving the skeleton of the frame. She wondered if the swings had been rehung in the backyard of one of the nearby houses or if they had been destroyed just for the entertainment of a few kids.

  Rose turned away and picked up her pace, the rubber soles of her new shoes slapping against the sticky bitumen, trying not to remember how, once upon a time, when the water was still blue, she’d gone for picnics by that lake with her mother. Her mother, who had sat mute next to her new husband Rob James when he’d told Rose it was time for her to move out. It was okay, since the cadetship was in the city and board was part of the deal, but still, it had hurt.

  She crossed over toward Union Street, careful to hop over the cane toad that was squished into the road. Here, people would swerve onto the wrong side in order to squash one. They’d stay there, flat as pancakes, covered in ants, until they turned stiff and hard like dry leather in the baking sun.

  The main street of Colmstock was three blocks long. There was only one set of traffic lights and, farther up, a pedestrian crossing in front of the squat redbrick church. Not far from where she stood was a pub. She could see the dog racing on screens through one of its grimy windows, which were often splattered with blood from bar fights by the time it closed. There was the Chinese takeaway joint with its loud red lit-up sign, nestled between the Indian restaurant and the antiques store, which had both closed years ago.

  Farther down was the primary school and the Colmstock council building. From where Rose stood, waiting for the lights to change so she could cross the street, she could almost see the burned-out courthouse. It stood between the library, which had escaped the blaze, and the grocery store, which hadn’t. In front of the steps to the courthouse was the memorial to the kid who had died there, Ben Riley. The picture of him was fading, bleached by the constant sun. The building was cordoned off with plastic tape. Barricades should have been put up, but it hadn’t happened yet.

  Rose stared at the charred remains. Now that all the files inside the courthouse were ashes and the computers were melted blocks of plastic and wire, did that mean the scheduled trials wouldn’t go ahead? Did it mean that people who would have been criminals no longer were? Would the law be put on hold until they rebuilt the place? Even from here, she could smell it. The burned wood, bricks and plastic frying in the sun. It had been three weeks and the smell hadn’t gone away. Maybe that was just how Colmstock would smell from now on.

  Her pocket buzzed. Forcing herself to keep her hand steady, she took out her phone. She half expected it to be some dumb text message from Mia or a spam email. But it wasn’t. She opened the Sage Review’s email, her mouth already tugging at the corners, ready to grin, ready to hold in a scream of excitement.

  Dear Ms. Blakey,

  Thank you for applying for the Sage Review Cadet Program. Unfortunately

  Rose didn’t read the rest. She couldn’t.

  Her mouth hadn’t caught up yet. She was still smiling a strange hollow smile as she crossed the road to Eamon’s Tavern Hotel.

  3

  Like many of the businesses on Union Street, Eamon’s Tavern Hotel had once been one of the grander houses of Colmstock. It was larger than the others and more imposing with its wide stoop and double windows. However, any opulence the place had once possessed was long gone. It had been due a fresh coat of paint about twenty years ago. Now the facade of the building was crumbling and dirty. In the windows were neon beer signs: Foster’s. VB. XXXX Gold.

  Inside Bruce Springsteen played on repeat. The smell was musky: stale air and beer. The lighting was always dim, probably an attempt to hide the deterioration. Still, no darkness could hide the fact that everything was just a little bit sticky. It was the kind of place that had a few motel rooms around the back but no one would ever want to sleep there if they weren’t drunk off their arse.

  The bar was half-full of tradies and cops downing their paychecks, sitting heavily on dark wooden chairs. The place was popular with the law. The police station next door served the smaller towns in the region as well as Colmstock, though the boys didn’t like to drink more than a stone’s throw from the station. Seeing the things they saw some days, even walking the ten paces to Eamon’s felt like too far for a beer. The other pub down the road was where you went if you wanted it to be clear that you didn’t like the company of cops. Still, anyone who still drank in public rather than staying home with a baggie of crystal and a glass pipe was considered an asset, no matter where they chose to do it.

  Underneath a faded black-and-white portrait of the Eamon family, the original occupants of the house, was the L-shaped bar where Rose chatted with Mia. They had worked at the tavern together for years and had spent hundreds of hours doing exactly what they were doing now: leaning against the bar, drinking Coke and talking shit.

  Laura wasn’t the only one who thought Rose looked like a princess. Senior Sergeant Frank Ghirardello, for one, was watching her from the corner of his eye as he drank his beer. Even with the tattoo up her tricep, she looked as pure and perfect as a movie star. That first sip of cold amber poured by Rose herself was the closest thing to bliss he knew. Frank had been keen on Rose from her very first shift at the tavern. She had served him a beer with foam six inches deep. The way she had looked at him, he was sure in that instant, she was The One. So he had taken the beer, tipped her and tried to drink the thing even though he had received a face full of froth with every sip. Frank had never been big on alcohol, but in the last few years he had developed a small drinking problem just to be close to Rose.

  Around him, his squad discussed their theories on the most recent case, which had already replaced Ben Riley in their minds. Not for Frank. Some arsehole pyro had been causing a stir all year. It had been small blazes at first, a bush or a letter box smoking and smoldering. They’d liked to believe it was bored teenagers, although that had never been very likely. The high school had shut down this year because of low enrollment, the class sizes less than a quarter of what they used to be. Most of the teenagers either worked at the poultry farm or had adopted the pipe full-time. The ones on meth were still committing crimes, assault and robbery mostly, but none of them seemed to have the patience to light a fire just for the joy of watching it burn.

  Then, last month, it had escalated very suddenly. The psycho had been too trigger-happy with his lighter and burned down half a block of Union Street. Ben had only been thirteen, and he was what they called “special.” “Brain damaged” was the real term. The boy acted more like a little kid than a teenager, but he was the darling of Colmstock. A smile for everyone. His parents owned the grocery store and sometimes he would play in the storage shed behind the courthouse next door. He had made it into a little cubbyhole. Poor kid had no idea the smoke meant run.

  At first he’d been sure it was Mr. Riley, his dad. The guy had made a mint from the insur
ance and Frank suspected that he wouldn’t have been opposed to lighting up his own son if it came to that kind of cash. But he had an airtight alibi. Frank had checked it and no way it was bogus.

  Around him, the other men were joking now. Enough was enough. It was no time to be laughing. He cut into the conversation.

  “Any headway?” He was looking at Steve Cunningham, who was the council chair. He knew what the answer was going to be, but he asked Steve every time he saw him anyway. He needed them to demolish the wreckage of the courthouse; it’d been almost a month. The rest of the group stopped talking and looked at Steve.

  “Not yet,” Steve said, and even in the dim light Frank could see his shiny bald patch reddening. “We’re still trying to bring together the funds. It’ll happen.”

  “Right,” he replied.

  “I’ll get the next round,” Steve said, standing. “Frank?”

  “I’ll pass, mate.” He knew it wasn’t Steve’s fault, but he liked to have someone to blame. That black mess felt personal to him. It was a sign, blaring his failure to the whole town.

  Frank had seen a lot of bad things. Of course he had. But seeing Mrs. Riley, telling her the fire was already too bad, that he couldn’t go inside, that he couldn’t save her son. The expression on her face as she was forced to stand back and let her child burn. He’d never forget it.

  He ignored his friends again and watched as Rose finished pouring Steve’s round and went back to flicking through the newspaper. She was talking quietly to Mia Rezek, whose father, Elias, had been a cop himself before he’d had a stroke about five years back. The two of them were acting as if they were hanging around at home rather than on the clock. Rose smoothed a hand over her hair. The movement was so simple, so casual, yet it made his throat constrict. God, he wanted her. It was almost unbearable.

  He leaned back in his chair. The tavern was just quiet enough for him to hear what she was saying.

  “‘With Saturn lingering in Aquarius, nothing is off-limits,’” Rose read. “‘Something unexpected will surprise you today.’” She snorted back a laugh. “Look out, single gals.”

  “It doesn’t say that,” he heard Mia say. Then their voices quieted.

  Raising his head, Frank saw they were looking over at his table. He quickly downed the dregs of his drink and made his way toward them.

  “Ladies, what are you staring at us for? See something you like?”

  He flexed his biceps at Rose, but she wasn’t even looking at him. She was already pouring his beer. Mia had noticed it though, and she smiled. He noticed the pity in her eyes and hated it.

  “Don’t waste your breath, Frankie,” she said, leaning her elbows on the bar. “Rose is getting out of here.”

  “I still have a few weeks, don’t I?” he asked. He was hoping she, or Mia, might give him news on the program Rose was hoping to get into. They’d talked about it like it was already guaranteed, but he didn’t think it was. Or at least, that was what he hoped. His life would be so empty without her.

  Looking at Rose, he saw her hand shake ever so slightly, spilling a droplet of ale onto her wrist. She rubbed it onto the seat of her shorts and handed him the beer.

  “Something like that,” she said. He was about to question her further, probe her like he would a perp in his interview room, but Mia interrupted.

  “Let’s see, then.” She picked up his empty glass from the bar and peered into the foam inside it intently.

  “Anything about my love life in there?” he said, looking at Rose again. Her smile back at him was thin. He should stop; he knew it. He should ask her out for real, not keep making these lame, obvious jokes. He was past thirty now and he was acting like a horny teenager. It was embarrassing.

  “Well,” said Mia, spinning the glass around, “I’m seeing a lot of positivity here. It’s telling me that nothing is off-limits. That something unexpected is coming. Something that will surprise you.”

  They looked at each other, not knowing that he was in on the joke. It didn’t matter; he took the opportunity.

  “Is it an invitation for a double date? I think I could convince Bazza.”

  Frank’s partner, Bazza, a newly-minted sergeant, was a good-looking guy. He was tall, he had muscles and he used to be one of their best footy players a few years after Frank had. Frank loved him like a brother, but even he knew the guy was more Labrador than man. His eyes lit up with pure delight every time Frank mentioned lunch, he eyed strangers with suspicion and he was as loyal as he was thick. Frank was fairly sure if he told the man to sit he would do it, without a thought.

  They turned to look at him, just as Bazza burped and then chuckled to himself.

  “We’ll let you know,” Rose said, and Frank smiled as if he was only kidding, turning before the hurt could show on his face. He had to grow some balls and ask the girl out properly. Otherwise she’d leave town and that would be that.

  Behind him he heard Mia say, “You know, I think Baz is kind of hot.”

  His shoulders tensed, hoping like hell that Rose wouldn’t agree.

  Thankfully, he heard, “He’s a moron.”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  They laughed quietly, and he sat back at his table, thankful it wasn’t him they were laughing at, and took a sip of his beer. He could picture it: Mia with Bazza and him with Rose, barbecues on the days off; Bazza at the BBQ; Mia tossing a salad; Rose bringing him a beer and sitting on his knee as he drank it.

  4

  Rose heaved the keg onto its side. It was heavy, pulling on the sockets of her arms and tightening the ligaments in her neck. She let it fall the last few centimeters, for no other reason than to enjoy the violent thud as it hit the cement floor. The windowless storage room at the rear of the tavern smelled like damp. Squeezed into the small space were the beer kegs, a large freezer full of frozen meat and fries, and a few boxes full of dusty beer glasses.

  Bending over, butt high in the air, she pushed the keg around the tight corner into the back corridor with little baby steps. She looked ridiculous. If Frank could see her now maybe he would stop looking at her like she was hot shit. Or maybe he’d get off on it. The thought of that made her straighten up. She hated having men’s eyes on her. It made her feel as though she didn’t own her own body. As if by staring her up and down they were possessing her flesh. If it weren’t so damn humid she’d wear long pants and turtlenecks and never, ever shave her legs.

  She was starting to get blisters. Every step she took her heels grated down against the rough fabric of her shoes, slicing through another layer of skin. She was starting to wince as she gently kicked the keg down the corridor. She passed the stain on the carpet from where Mark Jones had puked up his beer and the crack in the wall that seemed to be getting slightly bigger every day. She tried to remind herself that sometimes she didn’t totally hate this job. Quiet nights goofing around with Mia could be fun. But right now she wanted to pull her hair out. Every night, for years and years, the same bloody thing, one shift identical to another. The only difference was the aging of the patrons.

  The numbness she’d felt earlier had worn off now. Her stomach was crumpling inward with shame and disappointment at the email from the Sage Review. She hadn’t told Mia yet; she couldn’t. If she did, then it would be real. Mia would ask her what she was going to do, where she was going to live, and she didn’t have the answers. Instead, she kept her body moving and tried to breathe. Rose had written about everything she could think of. She’d written about the financial crisis and its effects on her town; she’d written about the search for the arsonist who had killed poor Ben Riley and burned down the courthouse. She’d written film reviews, celebrity gossip and, worst of all, attempted an awkward video series on YouTube.

  Regardless of the topic, the rejections were always the same. “Thank you for submitting...” they would begin, and alrea
dy she knew the rest. Everyone always said the only person who stood in your way to success was yourself. She knew that; she really did. Rose just needed one good story, something truly unique. If she just had a great story, they couldn’t say no.

  This cadetship had been made for her; she’d fit the requirements exactly. It had been so perfect, so exactly right.

  The corner of the keg whacked against the wall, causing a framed picture to fall to the floor.

  “Fuck.” She hadn’t been paying enough attention. She couldn’t cope with this. There was now a large crack in the glass across the photograph of the Eamon family: the husband with his war medals, the wife with her strained smile, the little curly-haired girl with her curly-haired doll and the boy with his frilly shirt. Rose hung it back on the wall.

  The feeling in her stomach was turning to pain, and she was struggling to swallow it away. It was like acid reflux, spilling out from her gut in a poisonous torrent and into her throat.

  She put her head into the kitchen. “All right if I take my break now?”

  “Sure,” the manager, Jean, said, not turning around as she chopped a mound of pale tomatoes.

  Sometimes she took her break up at the bar, attempting to eat something Jean had made and continuing to chat with Mia and whoever else was sitting there. But if she was going to get through today she needed to have a few minutes to herself. She grabbed the first-aid kit off the shelf and went back into the corridor. She pushed open one of the motel room doors and sat on the end of the bed. Carefully she slid one of her shoes off and examined her heel. The skin was bright red. A blister was forming, a soft white pillow puffing up to protect her damaged skin. Carefully, she traced her finger over it, shuddering as she touched the delicate new skin.