McBryde - The House of Lies

Pseudonyms have been used in this book and other details altered where necessary to protect the identity and privacy of people mentioned. While every effort has been made to recall past events accurately, the memories contained within this book are the authors own and may differ from those of others.

Published in Australia and New Zealand in 2017
by Hachette Australia
(an imprint of Hachette Australia Pty Limited)
Level 17, 207 Kent Street, Sydney NSW 2000
www.hachette.com.au

Copyright Renee McBryde 2017

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the National Library of Australia.

McBryde, Renee, author.

The house of lies / Renee McBryde.

978 0 7336 3721 6

978 0 7336 3722 3 (ebook edition)

McBryde, Renee.

Children of criminalsAustraliaBiography.

Abused womenAustraliaBiography.

Cover design by Christabella Designs

Cover photograph courtesy of Trevillion Images

Text design by Bookhouse, Sydney

Majoring in Community Welfare at university, Renee McBryde has worked in the community services sector for the last fifteen years, primarily working with disadvantaged children. She currently works in Child Protection for the Northern Territory government. She also teaches various Community Welfare courses in Alice Springs to upskill other professionals within the sector.

Renee grew up in Sydney and has travelled the world extensively, notching up over fifty countries to date. She is passionate about community development and has spent time working in Africa, including volunteering in a remote Internally Displaced Peoples camp in Kenya.

Renee moved to the Northern Territory in 2015, in the final months of her third pregnancy. She and her husband chose Alice Springs because after all their escapades together they still wanted to have a life full of adventure, even though everyone told them it would be impossible with three small children.

For John. My light, my laughter, my love. Always.

There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you.

Zora Neale Hurston

S trip clubs, prostitutes, drugs, corruption; or maybe just one last drink? No matter what your vice is youll find it in Sydneys Kings Cross. Its 1981 and the lure of the Cross is at its peak: raw, edgy and laced with danger. The laws are loose and the morals are looser; the streets a playground for the misfits and transients who have nowhere else to go, nowhere to rest their heads between the darkness of the night and the breaking of a new day.

Knowing the Cross makes it easier for me to imagine them there. To see them walking hand in hand around El Alamein Fountain or to glimpse them through the window of the video arcade where they met only months ago. Gemma and Michael, Gem and Mick; two troubled hearts seeking salvation among the wreckage of broken lives in the Cross. These two swear theyre going to be different. They are going to leave the Cross behind and really make a life together.

Gem is so young and pretty it hurts to look at her, especially like this standing outside Central Station. Her athletic swimmers body had always made heads turn, but now she looks too starved to swim even a single lap, let alone in under twenty-five seconds. Her thick chestnut mane is pulled back loosely from her face, her smile exposing perfect white teeth. From a distance you might think shes collecting money for her school charity, a walkathon perhaps, but if you get close enough and strain against the whipping wind, youll hear shes begging, pleading with the passers-by for some loose change. She hasnt eaten properly in days. Gem tries to make eye contact with those desperate to avoid her. The scabby infected sores beneath her unwashed jeans begin to ache.

Hours later she carefully counts her meagre collection, enough for just a couple of cheeseburgers. She decides to call it a day, setting off towards William Street, back to the Cross, back to him.

Her hunger pains fleetingly satisfied, Gem lets herself in to Michaels place and sits staring at the four grubby walls, waiting for him. The door handle turns and Michael walks in, and they lock eyes, each breaking into a smile. Everything is tolerable now. Intoxicated by his authority and control, she wonders how they ever drew breath without each other. In his arms, in his bed, she is consumed by him.

Whispering in her ear, he says, Tomorrow lets just go and get away from all this shit. The drugs, the squats, all the sick child fuckers with their filthy money! We dont need it! We are done. As of tomorrow, babe, we are going to live the good life!

She nods into his shoulder, believing his words because at nineteen, he knows these things, and because growing in her belly is their reason to start afresh: a tiny new life that will soon rely solely upon them to nurture her and guide her in life. A new beginning.

In this moment they are bound to each other. Him and her. Their baby. Everything else falls away. They fall asleep entwined, full of hope and the promise of a new day, a new life.

Neither stirs as the wailing sirens and screeching tyres pull up outside their window; both have lived rough for too long to be disturbed by the sounds of the Cross. Its not until wood cracks as the door detaches from its hinges that their eyes fly open to see the door momentarily airborne before it settles inches from their tatty mattress. Six armed police officers storm the room, jaws clenched.

Michael Caldwell, you are under arrest.

Gem draws the discoloured sheet around her as they drag him from the bed. Clawing at him, at them, she is confused, desperate, her fifteen-year-old eyes wide in disbelief. Mick, whats happening? Whats going on? He is silent, doesnt look at her, so she turns to the officers. Please dont take him from me, he hasnt done anything wrong!

Then she is alone, sitting silently in Michaels room, not knowing what to do or where to go next.

T he weekend started like any other. Nan appeared at the door of my classroom well ahead of bell time as she always did on Friday afternoons. Twenty-two pairs of eyes flew to the doorway as she filled it with her round frame. She wore her good black slacks and a red knitted jumper, and it was no accident that Nans freshly permed hair and carefully painted nails were the exact same shade of vermillion red as her jumper. She sailed into the classroom like a vibrant splash of paint on a tired canvas, beaming at Manly Wests most infamous kindergarten teacher. Good afternoon, Mrs Beltcher. Would you mind if I steal Renee away a little early today? We have quite a way to travel this afternoon. With a wink and a grin, Nan collected me by the arm and we made our getaway, only just managing to hold on to our giggles until we were out of the room with my bag. If only Mum knew!

And then the journey home: bus to Manly, ferry to Circular Quay, train to Redfern and finally the slow walk up to the big sky-scraping units, stopping every few minutes so that Nanna could catch her breath. In the lift we would count the floors 3, 4, 5 12, 13 14! Ding! Every leg of the well-trodden journey taking me further away from my weekday life with Mum.

As soon as we were in the door, Nan stripped down to her bra and knickers, peeling off the steaming layers that, in spite of the heat, she insisted on wearing, because, Rennie, darling, everybody knows winter clothes make you thinner! I wondered if this was the latest pearl of wisdom from Nans Weight Watchers meetings.