Donna Joy Usher - Chanel 01 - Cocoa and Chanel

by Donna Joy Usher

  And of course in training my hand hadn’t been shaking so hard that I missed the target totally.

  Roger’s laugh was evil, excited. ‘Shoot me once shame on you,’ he said.

  I squeezed again, and missed.

  ‘Shoot me twice shame on me.’ He lashed out with his boot, smashing my head into the hard metal of the bin. Pain exploded through my mind and darkness threatened to take me. But I held on. I wasn’t ready to die. Gripping the gun I raised it again, screaming hysterically as I fired again and again and again.

  I missed him every time.

  ‘Jesus Chanel,’ he said, ‘that’s the worse bit of marksmanship I’ve ever seen.’ He shook his head at me as I lay panting in the dirt at his feet. ‘If I’ve been counting right, and I’m not sure if I have, you’ve fired 14 of your 15 shots. That leaves one.’ He laughed quietly to himself before saying, ‘Do you feel lucky punk? Well do you?’

  ‘That’s…my…line,’ I said through gritted teeth, and then I aimed at his stomach and fired.

  He had counted right, and the last of my bullets must have missed him by millimetres. I saw the look of triumph on his face. He threw back his head to laugh, and then he stopped. His eyes went blank, rolled back in his head and then he collapsed forwards on top of me.

  13

  What Doesn’t Kill Us Makes Us Stronger - Or So they Say

  When I came to, Roger’s weight was pinning me to the ground. I screamed and fought, biting and clawing and then I realised he wasn’t fighting back. I managed to shove him off me and I crawled to the side and threw up. My head was throbbing, my ribs were aching and I was still having trouble breathing. On a scale of one to ten my arm was a twenty.

  It seemed like a good idea to have another little nap.

  I could hear my name being called through the fog in my mind. It was distant and crackly and it sounded like Dave. I felt around on the ground, finally finding my phone, and I lifted it to my ear.

  ‘Mmmm,’ I said.

  ‘Jesus Chanel.’ It was Dave. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I hurt,’ I said. And I started to cry.

  ‘The boys are on their way. Where are you exactly?’

  ‘In the alley,’ I whispered.

  ‘Behind the Fook Yuen?’

  ‘Yes.’ I put my head back down on the ground but kept my eyes open, trying to stay conscious. Tears trickled down my cheeks and onto the ground. It felt like forever in my world of pain before I could see the torch lights bobbing down the alley. I tried to stand up to meet them, but my body refused to co-operate.

  ‘Over here.’ My voice was pathetic.

  ‘Christ,’ Trent said, shining his torch on the dead woman. The light scanned around onto Roger before he finally found me. He knelt beside me and examined me in the torch light. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘I’ve felt better,’ I croaked.

  ‘The ambulance is on the way,’ he said.

  ‘What happened to Detective Richardson,’ Daniel asked.

  ‘I tried to shoot him,’ I said, ‘but I missed.’

  Trent snorted and shook his head. ‘You’re lucky to be alive.’

  ‘Lucky unlucky,’ I said. And then my brain decided to turn off for a while.

  ***

  When I woke I was lying in a bed in a strange room. I gathered by the pristine white sheets that were tucked tightly around me that it was a hospital bed. Mum sat by me reading a book. She had on a full face of make-up and was wearing a low cut blue dress. The colour looked amazing against her fiery hair.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ I mumbled.

  She dropped the book and smiled down at me as she held onto my hand. ‘No just here with my hero daughter.’

  I snorted. ‘Hero Schmero. You’re awfully dressed up for the hospital.’

  ‘Never know when a cute doctor might walk by.’

  ‘If anyone’s getting the cute doctor it’s me,’ I said. I tried to sit up and winced. Wow, I really hurt.

  ‘Careful darling,’ she said. ‘You’re pretty banged up. I doubt you’re going to get the doctor looking like that.’

  She handed me a mirror and I automatically reached for it with my right hand. I stared in dismay at the cast that covered my entire arm.

  ‘You had an operation,’ she said. ‘They had to put some pins in.’

  I reached out my left hand and grasped the mirror. I had two black eyes and my nose was strapped and swollen. There was a large bandage wrapped around my head.

  ‘I might get the pity vote,’ I said, handing her the mirror. The image disturbed me more than I was letting on but there was no use crying over spilt milk, or in my case a split lip.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ she said. I got the feeling I hadn’t fooled her.

  ‘Detective Bailey rang earlier.’

  ‘Detective Bailey?’

  ‘Trent.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Well apparently they heard a lot of what went on through the phone – that was a stroke of brilliance darling – but he still needs to talk to you.’

  I wasn’t sure if I was ready to relive it yet; didn’t know if I ever would be ready to relive it. I wasn’t just physically battered I was emotionally destroyed. Someone I trusted had violated that trust in the worst possible way and I didn’t know if that was something I was ever going to recover from.

  I looked around and realised that vases of flowers covered every available surface in my room. ‘Who?’ I said, pointing at them.

  ‘Ever since the news got out they’ve been turning up.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep but my mind had woken up even if my body didn’t want to. There were a lot of unanswered questions. How long had I been unconscious? What had killed Roger? Where had Mum got that dress?

  ‘Detective Bailey I assume,’ I heard Mum say. I opened my eyes to see Trent stride into the room.

  He had a small bunch of pansies in one hand and he stopped and stared at all the others flowers. ‘Umm,’ he said, ‘these are from my garden.’

  ‘I like a man who knows his flowers,’ Mum purred, jumping up and taking them from him. She put them in a glass right beside the bed and sat back down, crossing her legs to reveal a length of brown thigh.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Trent, this is my Mum, Lorraine.’ I tried to smile but my lips were too swollen to move much.

  He nodded his head at her and then looked back at me, shaking his head. ‘You look worse every time I see you.’

  ‘You know how to make a gal feel special,’ I said.

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive.’

  ‘You said that last night.’

  ‘And that was before I counted the spent shells.’

  ‘I told you I missed him,’ I murmured.

  ‘Fifteen times? He was standing, what, two metres away? How is that even possible?’

  ‘I was using my left hand. And it was trembling.’ I tried to cross my arms, but the blasted cast got in the way totally ruining the effect. ‘And I had my eyes closed.’

  He burst out laughing. ‘Your eyes were closed?’

  ‘It was pretty scary; you had to be there to appreciate it.’

  ‘Scary for the far wall,’ he said. ‘Anyway you only missed him 14 times. The last one rebounded off the dumpster hinge and hit him in the back of the head.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You shot him in the back of the head,’ Mum said, standing up and leaning towards me so that Trent copped an eyeful of cleavage.

  ‘Jolly good,’ I said. I’d never realised how impressive her breasts were before. Between them and the head injury I was feeling pretty distracted.

  ‘Anyway you’re being given a VA and Ramy has reluctantly withdrawn your formal warnings.’

  ‘That’s big of him,’ Mum said, leaning back against the bench behind her.

  ‘Between us,’ Trent said conspiratorially, ‘the head honchos weren’t too happy with him giving their shining star two formal warnings. They’
re looking into it even as we speak.’

  ‘Isn’t that good Chanel?’ Mum turned to look at me.

  ‘What about my gun?’ I said. I mean surely I was going to pay for that. I was pretty sure that my career in the Police Force had finished in this blaze of glory.

  ‘You mean your gun that I gave you permission to take with you when you followed a lead?’

  I stared at him for a few seconds before his words sunk into my drug stupored head. Wow. He had covered for me.

  My arm had started to ache with all the talk of shooting and the pain was increasing with each beat of my heart. ‘Thank you,’ I said, tears welling from the pain.

  ‘You don’t look so good.’ Trent stared at me, concern etched his features.

  ‘I feel awful,’ I croaked. I was suddenly extremely tired, and sad. I felt like someone had died, and then I realised they had, and I felt even more tired and more sad. Combined with the pain, it was overwhelming and I wanted to dive deep into the unconsciousness I had only just returned from.

  Mum hit the call button and within a handful of seconds a nurse had appeared by my bed. She seemed more interested in Trent than me, so I let out a pitiful moan.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said, suddenly the picture of efficiency. She left and was back shortly with a syringe which she injected into my intravenous line.

  Almost immediately I started to feel better. The world took on a rosy, smudged glow.

  ‘For the pain,’ the nurse said to Mum. ‘It’ll make her drowsy.’

  ‘Trent,’ I said dreamily, wondering which of the two Trents I could see was the real one, ‘what’s a VA?’

  ‘You can’t remember?’

  ‘I have a head injury.’ I figured I may as well take advantage of my injuries while I could.

  ‘It’s the Valour Award, an in-service bravery decoration.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. A tear slipped out of the corner of my eye and trailed lazily down my cheek.

  Trent moved closer to Mum, and even through the fog starting to cover my mind it seemed weird, as though he was standing too close to someone he had only just met. He leant back against the bench behind them, his shoulder almost touching hers. She turned her face towards him and for a wild second I thought they were going to kiss. My heavy eyelids traitorously drifted shut of their own accord, and I could feel myself being drawn away from the room and reality.

  Just before I passed out I distinctly heard Trent’s voice. It sounded amused and a little frustrated as he said. ‘So Tess, long time no see.’

  And then my head was filled with white fuzz.

  ***

  I would like to thank you for purchasing Cocoa and Chanel. I really hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Please feel free to check out my website www.donnajoyusher.com or find me on twitter @DonnaJoyUsher.

  About the Author

  Born in Brisbane, I started my working life as a dentist. After 15 years of drilling and filling I discovered there was more to life, and put pen to paper. Now I drill by day and write by night.

  When not doing either of those things I like spending time with my husband and two little dogs, fishing and camping, motorbike riding, traveling, drinking wine on my deck and eating chocolate. Last year I ran my first half marathon and took up paddle boarding.

  I have lived in a myriad of places: Melbourne, Perth, England, Rockhampton, Roxby Downs, Sydney, Cairns and am now situated on the New South Wales Central Coast.

  The Seven Steps To Closure – a humorous chicklit novel.

  Winner of the 2012 elit Publishing Award Humor Category.

  Finalist in the 2012 Shirley You Jest Book Awards.

  Finalist in the 2013 Indie Excellence Awards Chicklit Category.

  Tara Babcock awakes the morning after her 30th birthday with a hangover that could kill an elephant – and the knowledge she is still no closer to achieving closure on her marriage breakup. Things go from bad to worse when she discovers that, not only is her ex-husband engaged to her cousin – Tash, the woman he left her for – but that Jake is also running for Lord Major of Sydney.

  Desperate to leave the destructive relationship behind and with nothing to lose, she decides- with encouragement from her three best friends – to follow the dubious advice from a magazine article, Closure in Seven Easy Steps.

  The Seven Steps to Closure follows Tara on her sometimes disastrous- always hilarious – path to achieve the seemingly impossible.

  A credible and amazingly touching debut novel from Donna Joy Usher, this is a solid, light-hearted and honest read with plenty of laughs.

  “The Seven Steps to Closure’s heroine Tara is an endearing character and her entertaining journey to closure is packed with laughs and plenty of heart.” Tonya Plank, Shirley You Jest! Book Awards judge and author of Swallow.

  Chapter One

  Polly want a crackhead. Polly want a crackhead.’

  The voice, more piercing than any alarm, dragged me from my slumber.

  ‘Who’s a pretty boy?’

  I peered blurrily at my bedside table. What time was it? What day was it? Snapshots of the night before flashed before my eyes. Dancing on a table? Surely not.

  ‘Mary had a little lesbian.’

  Harrumphing in annoyance I lifted my head and pummelled my pillow into a more comfortable shape. My efforts were rewarded with a spinning head and an urge to throw up.

  Ahhh crap. I had a killer hangover. What did I get up to last night? I concentrated hard and finally more flashes of memory assaulted me – bad karaoke, skolling wine out of a bottle, falling over in a bar, telling complete strangers how my husband had left me, and finally being taken home in a taxi while I sobbed uncontrollably.

  I groaned in shame.

  ‘The money’s on the dresser.’

  Rolling my eyes, I turned my attention to the problem at hand. It was really no surprise Cocky had ended up at the animal shelter where my mother volunteered, but I was still perplexed as to why she’d given him to me.

  ‘He talks,’ she’d advised when she’d dropped him off. ‘It’ll do you good to have some proper company.’

  ‘Show us your knockers.’

  It begged the question: just how sad did she think I’d become if this was proper company?

  Gingerly, I swung my legs out of bed and sat with my head between my knees as I made my plan. A quick dash across the lounge to the toilet, ten or so minutes of puking my heart out, and then I could deal with the bird.

  He waited until I was almost at the bathroom. ‘You’ve got a fat ass.’

  I spun menacingly towards the cage.

  ‘Nice tits though.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, automatically looking down. I stopped and sighed, realising there was a chance that the cockatiel’s compliment was the nicest thing that would happen to me that day. I had obviously reached a low point in my life.

  I looked at Cocky bobbing up and down on his perch, obviously very pleased with himself. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ I asked. I was glaring into his beady eyes – determined to outstare him, when all of a sudden a hot sweat and waves of nausea washed over me. Breaking eye contact I rushed to the toilet just in time to relieve the contents of my stomach in a terribly undignified manner. I heard his cackles echoing around the lounge room and into the bathroom where I lay panting on the floor, tears rolling down my face.

  Quarter of an hour later, my face pressed to the cold floor tiles, I considered my options. I couldn’t give him to anyone. I couldn’t kill him – I mean really, I couldn’t.

  ‘Mary had a little lesbian.’

  I’d have to let him go; there really was no other option.

  Before I had time to rethink my decision I placed the cage on my balcony, with the door open, and then riffled desperately through my pantry searching for the Nurofen. After I had consumed two I went back to bed willing myself to sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. I sighed, letting my mind wander where it wanted to. It did an experimental poke at my heart. Ouch. It s
till hurt, after all this time.

  Why couldn’t I get over him? Last night had been the anniversary of our break up; surely now I should be able to move on. Instead I felt caught in an emotional time warp. I yearned for the day I would wake up and know that deep inside me, the wounds had healed – but at the same time I still fantasised about a reunion with him. I had become an emotional schizophrenic.

  It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried. I’d seen a therapist, a psychologist and a palm reader. I’d read heaps of self-help books, even done an exercise from one; feeling a little stupid as I’d stared into the mirror visualising Jake’s face instead of my own tear-swollen reflection, while quoting lines from different movies, sitcoms and songs.

  ‘Tomorrow is another day.’

  ‘Asta la vista baby.’

  ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’

  ‘Goodbye and thanks for all the fish.’

  ‘And that, my friend, is closure.’

  I practised them again and again, but no matter how hard I tried, how much emphasis I put into it, how much I wished it and willed it, I couldn’t get the thrilling feeling of power that I felt when I said them to stick. The sad truth is – even now – after all this time, if he walked through my door I would beg him to stay. And even sadder, I knew I wouldn’t be happy. Yet it seemed I couldn’t be happy without him.

  ‘Men,’ I sighed, rolling over and trying to get comfortable, ‘you can’t live with them…..’

  And in my case, that about summed it up.

  ‘Polly want a crackhead. Polly want a crackhead.’

  I sighed, realising he was still in his cage, and then clambered back out of bed. If he didn’t want to leave I was going to have to give him some encouragement. Initially I tried to grab him, intending to gently remove him from the cage and place him on the table, but the little bastard was far too fast for me. He darted around the cage, biting me as hard as he could whenever my hand got close. I stopped to rethink the situation and moved to Plan B.