The screaming ranged in pitch and tone, but the volume rarely dropped. From piteous wailing to screeching fury or shrieking terror, the woman in the cell next door was living in her own kind of h.e.l.l, locked somewhere inside a mind deranged by drugs. Seren had watched a couple of people coming down off ice before, but it had never gone on this long. On the outside, junkies were never very far from a dealer, and a pension cheque, a hot sat-nav stolen from a four-wheel drive, or a quick b.l.o.w.j.o.b in a car park would get them what they needed to shut the demons up for a while.

'f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h! How are we supposed to sleep?' Crash's gaol-issue tracksuit pants sat low on her hips; she'd pushed the bottom of her tee-shirt up through her bra so her flat, dark-brown stomach lay bare. She'd rolled the sleeves up too, exposing chiselled shoulders and the mostly gaol-drawn tatts that covered them. She pa.s.sed Seren's bed again and stopped at the cell door.

'Shut the f.u.c.k up, c.u.n.t!' she yelled. 'You wait till this f.u.c.king door opens!'

Seren put her head in her hands when the screaming intensified, magnified by the shouts of the other inmates, inflamed by the cries in the night. Little Kim chuckled quietly on the toilet, at home in the din, desensitised to the soundtrack that had played her whole life.

It wasn't like Seren hadn't also grown up with the screams and the threats, the sobbing and begging. It's just that she'd never grown used to it. She tried now to take herself back to the time when the nights had been quiet and she'd fallen asleep to the sounds of Neighbours on TV and her mum and dad talking quietly. She dived into the world of her past, each sight, sound and smell rubbed raw from use. This was where she came to try to stay sane when the world around her howled with madness; back to twenty years earlier, when Serendipity was five.

Little Seren Templeton tiptoed barefoot in pyjamas down the corridors of her memory. Soft flickering colours flared and vanished from the TV in the lounge room as she padded away from the tinkle of Mummy's laughter. Sometimes she wondered whether it had really happened, if Daddy had really existed and Mummy had smiled all the time. There was nothing left to prove it had been real.

There! It is there. Soft, deep breathing. She walked, mesmerised, towards the crack of blue light at the end of the corridor. Bradley's room. She pushed at the door softly. The breathing stopped. Seren shuffled towards his bed, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. She could see the yellow baby blanket that used to be hers, hear his soft chortle, like a smile set to music, and smell the sweetest, warm scent, better than lollies.

And there. His hand! A chubby little star, reaching out from the sheets, smooshing at her nose. But she could never see his face.

Little Bradley. Daddy. A mummy who smiled. Serendipity Templeton. Had they ever really existed?

On the hard mattress in Silverwater Women's Correctional Centre, Seren didn't know for sure, but she wrapped the memory tight around her to try to make it through another night.

8.

Monday 1 April, 9.15 pm.

Ca.s.sie Jackson straightened at the bathroom vanity, the remnants of a few deep-fried canapes sliding down the drain in front of her. She blasted the refuse with a spray from the cold tap and washed the offensive food from her life. Holding her hair back in a ponytail, she ducked her head under the tap to rinse her mouth. She checked her teeth in the mirror. Perfect.

Wiping at a smudge of charcoal eyeliner, Ca.s.sie searched for that crease under her right eye. She'd spotted it a week before, but it had been only intermittently present since, mostly when she woke up, typically late in the afternoon.

Must see Dr Teo about that, she told herself. f.u.c.k knew it was already hard enough battling the fifteen-year-olds for jobs without showing up at a shoot looking like a wrinkled old bat.

Ca.s.sie grinned at herself and her eyes glittered. The woman staring back at her was hardly an old bat. What had that reporter called her hair colour last week? Burnished toffee, that was it. A new, heavy fringe hung over her kohl-rimmed green eyes. The scattered freckles across her turned-up nose were a trademark feature and never hidden by the make-up artists. At thirty, she was still booked eight months in advance and got more work than ninety per cent of her peers.

Her body got her the jobs, but her friends kept her there. She'd had to call in favours a few times too often recently. She'd turned up late, sometimes with bloodshot eyes, a cold sore and even a black eye last month. Nothing that a little blow shared around wouldn't cover. Plenty of people in the business searched their letterboxes daily for one of Ca.s.sie Jackson's inspirational greeting cards. The cards were always beautiful cherry blossoms on fragile silk from Taipei; heavily embossed fabric from Milan; ochred desert scenes on hand-pulped paper from Darwin but the little snap-locked baggies inside the cards always brought the widest smiles.

Speaking of which . . . Ca.s.sie took a quick glance at the bathroom door and reached into her clutch bag. Her hand found the small crystal vial immediately. Looped around the neck of the pet.i.te, stoppered bottle was a thread of gold chain securing a minute golden spoon. Ca.s.sie smiled as she held the pretty little object up to the light. Along with its contents, it had been a perfect gift from Christian. She scooped the white powder up with the spoon, raised it to her nostril and snorted.

Lovely.

Ready now, Ca.s.sie took a last long look over her shoulder at herself in the mirror and sauntered from the bathroom.

9.

Monday 1 April, 9.15 pm.

'Now this is gonna be one for the road, okay, Templeton?'

Crash pulled her tee-shirt over her head and began to peel off her tracksuit pants, all the time staring hard at Seren. Crash, it seemed, had never been taught the basics of hygiene; Seren could smell sweat and worse from the other side of the room.

No. No way. I'd rather take a bashing, Seren promised herself. Bad enough she had to listen to these two sucking and moaning every night she was not going to join in now.

She got up on her haunches, ready to fight, and scanned the room. Little Kim still squatted on the toilet, but her close-set eyes now focused on the scene in front of her.

The wailing from the cell next door continued. The screws wouldn't come running to anything tonight.

'f.u.c.k off, Crash. That is not going to happen,' said Seren, one hand behind her back.

'Oh, it's going to happen, Templeton, and you're either going to enjoy it, or you're not.'

'If you come near me, I swear to G.o.d I'll kill you.'

'You can swear to G.o.d, Allah and the freakin' Buddha for all I care, b.i.t.c.h. This has been a f.u.c.ked-up night, my head hurts from that screaming c.u.n.t next door, and you're going home tomorrow. You owe me.'

Crash threw her dirty bra into the corner of the cell and walked naked towards her. Seren's eyes darted around wildly. Suddenly, she became aware that something was different. Little Kim. Ordinarily the big woman would've been right behind her girlfriend, ready to step in should Crash have trouble with one of her victims.

Little Kim hadn't moved.

At that moment Crash seemed to notice this too.

'Come on, babe,' she called over her shoulder. 'You gonna come get some of this?'

Nothing.

Seren tried to think. Her sight was pinpoint-focused on the threat in front of her and her heart scuttled madly in her chest. She tried her voice. 'What? Little Kim not good enough for you anymore, Crash?' she said.

Intent silence from the toilet.

'Shut up, b.i.t.c.h. Don't you go starting trouble now.' Crash stopped walking. 'Come on, baby.' She turned to her girlfriend. 'You know you like some three-way.'

'Why her?' Little Kim spoke.

'What do you mean? She's here. We're here. Why the f.u.c.k not?'

'I thought you didn't like her,' said Little Kim.

'What does like have to do with it? Come on, babe, don't act stupid. Let's all just have some fun over here. I'm tired, all right?'

Crash moved again towards Seren's bed, reaching a hand out to touch her. Seren slapped it away. Crash laughed.

'Don't call me stupid.' Little Kim stood up from the toilet, her pants still around her ankles.

'What? What's your f.u.c.king problem?' Crash straightened at the foot of the bed and turned to face Little Kim.

'I said. Don't. Call. Me. Stupid.'

'What? What are you going to do?' Crash stood with her arms out, staring down the huge woman opposite her. Seren made herself small on the bed.

'Why you gotta go near that s.k.a.n.k? Aren't I good enough for you?' Little Kim obviously wanted an answer to Seren's question.

'Look, babe. This has never been an exclusive thing, you and me. You know that. And you're p.i.s.sing me off over here. You know I don't like people telling me what to do.' Crash's tone was menacing.

'You're always telling me what to do.'

'Who keeps you out of trouble in here, huh? Now do me a favour, Kim. Either sit the f.u.c.k back down, or come over here and make me real happy like you do.'

Seren briefly considered that the woman in the cell next door must have invented some new kind of language. She crowed with madness. Crash turned back towards her and put one knee on the bed. Seren almost dry-retched with the musky stench caused by the movement. Time to move. She pulled the broom handle from behind her back at the precise moment that Little Kim said, 'I'm offering you out.'

Seren froze.

Crash whipped her head around. 'What? You are what?'

Seren couldn't believe she'd heard right. Offering you out: prison slang for a challenge to a fight. Seren pushed the handle back between the mattress and the wall, but kept it close.

Oh, f.u.c.king h.e.l.l. Little Kim was going to fight, and that hadn't happened since Rhonda Whiteman was shanked thirteen times in the shower block.

And Seren was stuck in the same cell.

10.

Monday 1 April, 9.20 pm.

Ca.s.sie knew that every eye was tracking her as she stalked across the foyer of the gallery. Even the outrageously gay artist exhibiting tonight took his eyes from his artwork to follow her movements. Doesn't she know the cat suit is so last century, he inwardly sniped, knowing full well that by the next season half the women in the country would own one, even though most of them would never wear it out and the rest of them shouldn't.

Ca.s.sie wore no underwear and the lush lycra acted as a second skin. Although sheathed neck to toe in black, she was more naked than had she been wearing the most minuscule dress.

Used to the attention, Ca.s.sie had her mind on only one thing.

Christian Worthington watched her approach from the other side of the room, a small smile playing on his lips. Although he'd just arrived, everyone in the room knew this woman would go straight to this man. It was natural selection. There was no one else present she would stride to with such purpose. Well, except perhaps the aged Western Australian mining magnate in the corner who'd previously been the most fascinating person there. But the Barbie doll he'd arrived with, with the trout pout and the silicon, would go to the mat pulling hair if this woman came anywhere near him. Half the men in the room would have paid plenty to watch that happen.

'Drink, darling?' Christian brushed Ca.s.sie's cheek with his lips, his fingers touching the small of her back. 'f.u.c.k me now,' he whispered into her ear.

'Yes please, darling,' she said.

'Red, white, or sparkling?' he asked.

'Tequila.'

'Back in a moment.'

Ca.s.sie felt the cocaine rushing through her body and it felt like love. h.e.l.l, maybe it is, she thought. She knew she felt great when she was with Christian. He treated her right and he had his own money; not like her last boyfriend, Aidan, who'd left her with a debt to their dealer and a black eye when she'd told him it'd been real, but see ya. She and Christian shared many of the same friends; he had a beautiful home and a nice car and he was absolutely gorgeous to look at. Top all that off with the fact that he seemed to be able to get the best blow and anything else she fancied, and Ca.s.sie thought that perhaps she'd hang on to this one for a while.

She glanced around the room, and just for kicks gave the mining magnate a luscious smile. When his date stood and blocked their eye contact with her t.i.ts, Ca.s.sie laughed out loud. A waiter offered crayfish hors d'oeuvres, but she simply smiled and declined. She waited on her man and her tequila.

Although not comparable to Sydney Harbour, tonight Darling Harbour was a jewel, throbbing and glittering, pulsing with colour. From the darkened balcony of a sixth-floor penthouse apartment, Ca.s.sie Jackson stood, completely naked, staring out over the bay and city skyline. Red wine sloshed from the oversized gla.s.s in her hand as she tiptoed towards the bal.u.s.trade of the terrace.

She thought she could fly.

Ca.s.sie took another deep sip from the gla.s.s and set it down carefully on the lip of the balcony. The pills and the wine had smoothed the hard wire of the c.o.ke and she felt fluid, sedated, liquid, like a part of the sky. She leaned forward into the night, the April breeze bathing her overheated skin. She boosted herself up a little, tilting further forward. If she could just . . .

Ca.s.sie felt Christian's hands on her back, smoothing and stroking, moving around to her belly, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She leaned back into him, reaching her arms over her head, revelling in his hands on her body, gliding down now over her ribs, her hipbones. He turned her face to meet his and his lips found her mouth. Christian turned Ca.s.sie around and led her by the hand back to the lounge room. He pulled her down onto the thick carpet, the only light in the room washing in from the city skyline. He bent over her body and continued to stroke her skin, reaching everywhere, until it felt as though his hands were all over, all at once. Ca.s.sie moaned and reached her arms wide, her throat exposed, like a cat at full stretch. He nudged at her legs with his hands and she opened herself completely to him.

Christian reached across to a low table beside them and brought out a small package. With her eyes closed, Ca.s.sie did not feel him sprinkling the cocaine between her legs, but she certainly felt him licking it off.

When Ca.s.sie stopped shuddering and he felt her breath relax into sleep, Christian rolled her onto her stomach and knelt behind her. Shaking a little more of the powder into his palm, he rubbed the tip of his c.o.c.k with one hand and used the other to spread the cheeks of her a.r.s.e.

11.

Monday 1 April, 9.20 pm.

The thing is, when the worst of the damage is being done, it doesn't even sound that bad. Seren knew that the moments in between the screaming and crying were the most dangerous. Of course, you could still hear it. Like now a dull splat, like a raw steak dropped onto a kitchen bench. And a whoof and sigh. And again, a wet clap. A moan.

Seren wanted to close her eyes and put her pillow over her head like she used to. But she forced herself to watch the scene playing out in front of her. Little Kim had tried to retreat several times, not because she was losing, but because she'd already hurt Crash so badly. The white bone of Crash's forehead shone where her left eyebrow should have been, and blood streamed from the gash. Seren had watched one of Crash's teeth float along in the rivulet of blood and come to rest in the nook of her collarbone.

Stay down! Can't you just pa.s.s out? Seren wanted to scream. But when Little Kim tried to move away, Crash would pull her back by her hair, or launch herself onto the mountain of the other woman's back.

The cells were otherwise silent. The new arrival next door was finally sleeping or too hoa.r.s.e to be heard. A dreamy stupor began to overtake Seren. For her, the fight had morphed into some macabre ballet. Little Kim had finally kicked off her pants and her huge fleshy thighs were mottled pink with exertion. Crash fought like some tribal warrior, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s slick with blood.

Surely, I'm not here, Seren thought. This can't be real.

The feeling was familiar. At night, when Bradley had gone and Daddy was dead, she'd stuff herself into her wardrobe with her toys. In the dark, with her winter parka and her skates, she'd pretend to be on her way to Narnia, ready to step out into a winter wonderland. Once, the fantasy so compelling, she'd snuck out of the wardrobe the screaming must be part of the battle with the Ice Queen for Narnia, she thought her friends needed help. She'd stolen down the corridor, Humphrey in hand, on her way to the adventure.

Her stepfather faced the other way, thank G.o.d. But Mummy could see her. Mummy was crying. She always cried now. He had hold of Mummy's hair. He pushed her head down there. Mummy talked to her, only she didn't speak. Her eyes told Serendipity that she should go away. Her eyes said Serendipity couldn't help Mummy and Mummy couldn't help her. Please, Serendipity, her mother told her silently, you've got to go.

Serendipity left that night, and Seren remained. She'd stayed in the house until she'd turned fifteen, for as long as she could take it. But Mummy had been right. Seren couldn't help her, and no one could help Seren.