by Ellie Marney
I’ve never actually sat in the front before. You can see every detail–when Fabian does a series of flick-flacks, I see drops of perspiration spatter onto the sawdust.
Zep goes on one knee beside me and leans close. ‘Are you comfortable?’
‘Uh-huh.’
He watches me watch Fabian. ‘You’ll be performing again soon.’
I sigh.
Zep grins. ‘Do you want to help me with my act?’
‘What? How?’
Zep produces a deck of his signature black cards, fans them slowly in my lap. He makes that wicked grin I love. Wah, this boy.
Fabian does a tumbling somersault and flings out their arms. The somersault was the finale–now the tent goes dark, in anticipation of the next act.
Zep’s whisper is right against my cheek. ‘You need to pick a card.’
I turn my head so our mouths meet. Zep’s lips are firm and sweet, melting. My whole body feels warm. It takes me a moment to realise that’s because the spotlight has risen over us. Hundreds of people are watching me and Zep kiss.
When we break apart, he’s smiling. He has no performance face, I realise. His expression is as unguarded in front of an audience as it is in his room.
‘Pick a card, Ren.’ The entire gallery is watching our private theatre, and Zep doesn’t seem to care. Somehow I don’t care either.
‘I already picked my card,’ I say. I raise the card in my hand, to show Zep.
‘The Bike lucky ace you gave me?’ He looks at me in surprised delight. ‘Where the hell did you get that?’
‘I stole it out of your jacket pocket,’ I admit.
Zep belly-laughs, the sound rebounding in the tent, and throws his handful of cards up into the air as he stands. I grin and blow him one last kiss, then watch him walk into the ring to begin his act, as the cards fall around me like rain.
Read on for the first chapter of
NO LIMITS
Australian YA romantic crime from the author of the award-winning Every series…
Boozer, brawler, ladies’ man–nineteen-year-old Harris Derwent is not a good guy.
His one attempt to play the hero–helping out his old flame, Rachel Watts–has landed him in hospital. Now injured, broke, and unemployed, he’s stuck back in the country, at his father’s mercy. Harris needs to pay off his dad’s debts, and fast. But working as a runner for a drug cartel is a dangerous path– especially if Harris agrees to narc…
Eighteen-year-old Amita Blunt is the perfect police sergeant’s daughter–practical, trustworthy, and oh-so responsible. Getting involved in Harris’s case was never part of the plan. But working at the hospital, she’s invisible–which makes her the ideal contact for a guy feeding information back to the police…
Harris and Amie’s connection is sizzling hot–but if the cartel finds out about them, things could get downright explosive. Backed into a corner, with everything at stake, it’s time for Harris and Amie to find out if love really has no limits…
“A novel of bruising empathy and excitable romance…This is modern Australia for so many growing up on the periphery right now, picked apart with exquisite and smart insight from one of Australia’s best crime and YA writers.” –Danielle Binks, ALPHAreader
Chapter One: Harris
Blue-and-red lights swirling over a windscreen white-out, and the siren sounds exactly like the guitar feedback loop on an Arctic Monkeys track.
Through it all, the haze of people talking, people moving, people’s breath in my face, my own hair in my mouth, the rancid taste of vomit and a blur of fast noise–
‘…gethimouttathe…’
‘…just easy now…’
‘…transfer, but Mildura won’t…’
–and a constant slow thump in my head, like the heavy beat of night-club bass. I’d like it to shut up now, but it doesn’t. It can’t, although I’ve got no fucking idea how I know this.
‘…lift him up and onto a trolley…’
‘…two, three–that’s it, nice and…’
‘…stabilised, if you’ll take…’
Firm hands hold me steady so I don’t tip. Sense of movement, the ka-chunk of wheels over bumps in the floor. Reverb travels up my bum and back, through the rest of me, so I vibrate into the bed I’m lying on. Then–the glare, the whiteness. Those lights, thrown right in your face.
‘…get them off and have a look, don’t…’
‘…wait for Doctor McGaven? He’s only just arrived, so…’
‘…keep pressure on, gimme the scissors…’
Sudden draught on my skin. It travels up from ankle to shin to thigh–my thigh, fuck–so fast I don’t realise I’m cold until the gooseflesh rises. Now everything hurts, hurts bad, the pain in my leg like a crosscut saw on bone. Fighting against it forces my mouth open. I hear a long lowing moan somewhere far away, like bulls roaring for food, lost love, the end of fences, the open road–
‘…his arms in, Nick, for god’s sake!’
‘…holding him, I’m holding him, just cut off the…’
‘…theatre’s clear, if you want to do a CT we should…’
‘Wait!’ someone says. ‘I know him! I know him. Just let me get in there.’
Sight returns without warning and there’s a face above me. Dark eyes, white teeth, brown skin, pulled-back hair a little frizzed from sweat and effort. The girl smiles at me, smooths my forehead.
‘Harris! Hey, Harris, it’s okay. You’re all right, yeah? You’re gonna be fine.’ Something red smeared on the girl’s face, near her cheekbone. She swipes at it with the back of one gloved hand. ‘It’s okay, mate. We’ve got you.’
My lips, swollen and gummed-up, move to no effect. Words are so dry they won’t come.
‘Shh, don’t try to talk yet,’ the girl says. ‘We’re gonna go to sleep now, okay? Just watch my face, that’s it. We’re gonna have a rest. Watch me count–ten, nine, eight, seven…’
Her nose is strong and her bottom lip is full. I got no idea who she is. Her lip is round and powerful and pillowy. I stare at it, sink into it, sink back like I’m falling, clouds soaking me up, all the noise, all the blood, calm and quiet and soft and–
Me and Rachel are on a bright white beach, someplace the air is really soft. Sand trickles between my toes. The moon is still out, in that way it sometimes is in real life, hanging up in the blue sky like half a Jatz cracker. I’m playing with Rachel’s hair, and she’s letting me…
I wake up to the smell of Tang.
Tang is this fluoro-orange powder you stir with water into something that’s supposed to taste like juice. What it actually tastes like is Fanta that’s gone flat in the bottle, if you let the bottle sit in a hot car all day. The powder has a bitter chemical graininess. Mix it up with vodka and it’s almost bearable.
We used to go into Five Mile for immediate needs–bread, milk, tobacco, baked beans, eggs–and there’d be half a dozen dusty packets of Tang sitting next to the antacids. For years I thought it was some special thing they used to stock for the exclusive use of my father. Later, I realised I was right. Nobody will drink that shit except my dad.
Which means I know straightaway who’s breathing on me, even if the voice isn’t already too familiar.
‘Harris. Harris, come on, mate.’
I try to ignore the jet-fuel burn of vodka and Tang. Go back to the beach dream.
‘Harris, wake up. Get up.’
Throat’s so parched I can’t even make the obvious response, Get fucked.
He flicks my face with the backs of his fingers.
If there’s one thing my dad excels at, it’s being a pain in the arse. He can be a pain in the arse all fucking day, not even break a sweat.
He keeps flicking.
‘Harris, we’re gonna get you outta here, mate. Hospital’s no place for you.�
� He leans closer, whispering. ‘I know we’ve had our disagreements, son, but we can discuss that later.’
I don’t know what he’s talking about for a second. Then it comes back to me, like an ice-water drench. I groan, shift my head.
‘That’s it, boy. Wakey wakey. Coppers already gimme your bag, with your stuff from the Watts place. Just crack open those eyes and we’re outta here–’
There’s a mechanical hiss, a shuffle, and I feel how the air in the room has shifted. Someone else in here now. A large someone, I reckon.
‘Hands off, if you don’t mind, Mr Derwent.’ A large voice, for a large someone. Female. Full-throated and brassy. A Bette Midler voice.
‘He’s me son.’ Dad’s got that narky tone. Automatic Defensive Aggro mode. ‘Do what I like with me own son.’
‘Not really, no. He’s on the ward, so he’s my responsibility at the moment.’
Bette, I bloody love you. Did you ever know that you’re my hero?
‘I was waking him up,’ Dad says. ‘He’s been sleeping for ages–’
‘He’s recovering from the anaesthetic,’ she says
matter-of-factly. ‘He’s only just out of surgery, he’s in no shape to be getting up. Leave him be, Mr Derwent.’
Bette moves nearby. I hear the scritch scritch of chafing polyester. The wheeze in her breathing. She must be right beside me, her quilted padding against my dad’s barbed wire.
‘Come on, Dennis,’ she says. ‘Your boy’s not going anywhere. Look at him, eh? Come on out of the ward, I’ll find you a coffee. You can have a smoke out in the ambulance bay. No more trying to wake him, or I’ll have to ask less nicely, okay?’
More scritching, the shuffle of shoes on lino, taking the smell of Tang away. Herding my father towards the door, please god.
‘I just wanted him to see me. Know I’m here and stuff…’ and bullshit bullshit bullshit, Dad lays it on like this all the way out. I stop listening after the first bit.
The door hisses shut and I’m in the clear. I can prise my eyes open for a peek around.
Hard to tell what time it is, but I’m gonna say night. The lights are dim. Everything in the gloomy room is powder blue–a dilapidated shade of blue, like Mr Metcalfe’s old ute. Now Dad’s gone, the smell of antiseptic slices its way up into my nostrils.
My eyes remember how to focus. A privacy curtain is pulled aside to my right. Two other shadowed beds lie empty. The vent blows air-con cold, the sheet over me is starched, and I’m not wearing a shirt. I don’t think I’m wearing jocks, either.
I must be on some cool drugs, because I feel okay. I mean, not fighting fit or nothing, but I don’t feel too bad. About as good as you can feel lying in a hospital bed without your jocks.
My gaze runs down to the humped shape over my left leg.
I make my hand–the one without the IV tubing stuck in it–work enough to flick the sheet up. Catch sight of my Betadine-yellow leg, the cage over it. The sickly gleam of plastic that’s coming out of my skin, Jesus Christ.
I finally figure it out.
I am not okay. This is not a dream. I got shot. I’m in hospital, just out of surgery. Rachel’s gone. I’m back in the country, back in Ouyen, flat on my back, at my father’s mercy.
I’m fucked.
Well and truly.
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Ellie Marney is a teacher and author of YA fiction, best known for her YA romantic crime trilogy, the Every series (Every Breath, Every Word, Every Move), and the companion novel, No Limits. Ellie promotes and advocates for Australian YA literature through #LoveOzYA, runs #LoveOzYAbookclub online, and has contributed to the highly awarded Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYA Anthology. Her fifth book for young people, White Night, was released in March 2018, and the Circus Hearts series came out in the same year. She lives near Castlemaine, Australia, with her partner (also a teacher) and their four sons.
Find Ellie online:
Website: www.elliemarney.com
Twitter: @elliemarney
Facebook: Ellie Marney
Instagram: @elliemarney
#LoveOzYAbookclub on Facebook
Also by Ellie Marney:
Every Breath
Every Word
Every Move
No Limits
Begin End Begin: A #LoveOzYA Anthology
Circus Hearts 1: All The Little Bones
Circus Hearts 2: All Fall Down
Circus Hearts 3: All Aces
White Night
Acknowledgements
Thank you, first of all, to the readers. Without all of you, I’m just shouting in the dark!
Big ups to every single person who has supported me through the writing and creation of the CIRCUS HEARTS series: the women of the Vault, the women of the Sub-Binder, friends and buddy writers from retreat, friends from Castlemaine and surrounds.
My most heartfelt thanks to Alison Croggon, who is a rock. These books were made possible with the help of Lucy Marney. The covers are by Debra Billson, who is bloody awesome.
Special thanks and gratitude to Diem Nguyen, Lauren Rosenberg, Angelique Gouvas, Andy Johnston and Adeline Johnston. Shout outs and hugs to Amie, Jay, Cat, Kylie, Sarah and Lucy.
It was only possible to write these books because of the eternal love and patience of my family. Geoff, Ben, Alex, Will, Ned – love you all xx.
Notes on the language
Travelling show folk have their own slang, called ‘parlari’ or ‘parlyari’, which is a mixture of vocabulary from a number of different language groups in Europe and the Mediterranean. The parlari in these books is taken directly from the ‘shelta’, ‘cant’ or ‘gammon’ of traditional Irish tinkers, which was freely adapted for use in circus slang. Cant (or ‘jib’ in parlari), like all traveller’s slang, is part of a long heritage of private language used by traders, sailors, circus and fairground people, and others – the common thread of a population that is traditionally itinerant, lower class, and requiring a language unintelligible to outsiders.
Most circus and fairground people consider the term ‘carnies’ a pejorative, and prefer the term ‘show folk’.
Indonesian language used in this book is a mix of
Bahasa Indonesia and Prokem (Bahasa gaul). Many thanks to Meg Phillips, Denny Herlambang S. and Maria Pilar
Albarran Ruiz who checked the language use–any mistakes are mine.