Mr Romanov's Garden in the Sky Read online

  About the Book

  Living in the commission, Lexie is left to fend for herself. Her mother is mostly absent, out searching for something to help her forget the tragic death of Lexie’s dad.

  But then, after witnessing the aftermath of a shocking incident, Lexie finds solace in the most unlikely of places – in a troubled old man called the Creeper. A chance, life-saving encounter on the commission’s roof seeds a friendship between the two and when they enlist the help of Lexie’s friend Davey, the three set off on an epic journey; one that will change their lives and the lives of those around them.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Inspiration

  My father was the only one who ever talked to me like I was grown-up, like I mattered. My favourite thing was when he’d come into my room at night with a bag of supplies and we’d pretend that we were camping. For some reason, no matter how many times we camped, he’d always make a big deal of the map. Before we set things up, he’d straighten it out on the floor then smooth it flat with the palms of his hands as if it was some sacred scroll. I’d kneel beside him, sit in his lap if his mood was right, and he’d point to the continents, rattle off cities with strange sounding names.

  It seems like forever now but I still remember the last time we camped. I remember it like it was yesterday.

  ‘Anywhere, Lexie,’ he said. ‘Anywhere at all. The world is waiting just for you.’

  But there was only one place I wanted to go.

  ‘Surfers Paradise,’ I said.

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Again, Dad.’

  ‘But there’s a big wide world out there, Lex. What about somewhere exotic like Morocco or the Kalahari?’

  ‘Surfers Paradise, Dad. Near the beach.’

  We built a tent then. We had chocolate milk and marshmallows and we talked for hours under the blanketed walls.

  For some reason my father seemed kind of different that last night we camped. It was as if the things he was saying were more important than usual, like they were things he had to say. He told me that everything in life happened for a reason, even the bad things. He said that life was full of ups and downs and twists and turns. There wasn’t one person alive who didn’t struggle with something or another, even the la-di-das who lived in the mansions on the hill. That’s the way it was, he said. One minute you’re on top of the world and the next you’re going for dear life trying to keep your head above a rising river of shit. Mostly, it was people like us that did all the swimming, he said, but it was the shit that made life worth living, made you appreciate the smell of roses.

  I’m not sure if what he said had made much sense to me that last time we camped but on the cold September I turned thirteen and met the Creeper everything changed and I came to understand exactly what he meant.

  It started with the Creeper’s Jack Russell.

  Someone threw him off the top of the commission tower. It was like one of those things you had to see but when you saw what was left on the ground, you couldn’t even tell it was a dog. You could only tell it was a dog because of the green collar. It looked like a caterpillar, a thread of green, arching from the broken bones and the bits of pink and purple flesh. Some of the bits had fur on them.

  Davey Goodman, a boy from school, was standing next to me. Davey had a bung eye and a dad who was in prison.

  ‘He should have relaxed,’ said Davey.

  Sometimes it was hard to know where Davey was looking.

  ‘Who should have?’ I asked.

  ‘The dog,’ said Davey. ‘If you relax you can survive a fall.’

  I wasn’t sure what Davey meant so I looked back over my shoulder and ran my eyes up the front wall of the commission tower, as if an explanation might be waiting at the top.

  ‘I saw a show on miraculous escapes,’ said Davey. ‘It was about a skydiver whose parachute got tangled.’

  You wouldn’t know to look at him but Davey Goodman was a pretty smart kid. I think that’s why our teacher, Mr McCormack called him an enigma. The thing was, whenever Davey heard an interesting fact or saw something on TV, it stayed in his head forever. Like, I still remember the time last year when the St John Ambulance lady came in to our class to tell us about medical emergencies. She told us that if we ever witnessed something serious the first thing we had to do was ring 000. After she said it, Davey told her that you wouldn’t ring 000 first if someone got shot in the head. If someone got shot in the head, you’d have to act fast and plug the bullet hole with a towel. Not every person who gets shot in the head dies, he said. Sometimes the bullet can get lodged in the brain or sometimes it can miss the brain completely. It was brilliant.

  People had a habit of keeping to themselves in the commission, so the small crowd gathered on the concourse that day must have seemed unusual. More and more people came over and joined the circle of onlookers. New arrivals gasped in horror when they saw the bloodied and broken mess. A little girl opposite me began to cry and her mother plucked her away and covered her eyes.

  Someone in the group called out then pointed, and we swung our heads to the solitary figure shuffling his way towards us.

  On our very first day in the commission, when my mother and I moved in, people had warned us about the Creeper. They said he was mad. They said he ventured out at night with his tiny Jack Russell dog and shuffled aimlessly around the commission grounds, collecting useless bits of junk. I’d never actually seen the Creeper myself. I’d imagined him often enough. Late at night in my bed I’d imagined an old man with frizzy hair, with crooked teeth and a busted smile, but now that I was seeing him for the first time, even from a distance, nothing I’d imagined seemed to fit.

  He shuffled towards us, his rickety old body weighed down by the heavy grey trench coat he wore. The small crowd parted as he approached and when he saw what was left of his dog he began to moan. The sounds he made didn’t seem human. They came in bursts, came from somewhere deep inside, but each one sounded more painful than the one before. He dropped to his knees in the blood and reached out a trembling hand as if he was searching for something to pat. Christos Marinatos from apartment 12C appeared beside me wearing a shiny black tracksuit. He tucked a hand into a pocket, got his mobile out and started taking pictures.

  ‘This is gold, man,’ he said.

  There must have been fifteen or twenty people looking on, but no one seemed willing to help. In fact, some of them took a few steps back. One lady covered her mouth as if crazy was a disease you could catch. The Creeper rocked back and began to sob, then he looked up at the sky with a twisted face and spat out some words I couldn’t understand. As he straightened himself up, people began to whisper in anticipation. And then the Creeper did something I will never forget. He reached two hands in, scooped up what he could of the broken carcass and got slowly to his feet. Once he was standing, he stopped for a moment and took in the small crowd around him as if he’d only just realised they were there. He looked down at the mess in his hands, at the blood trickling through his fingers, then he turned and crept quietly away.

  ‘Absolute gold,’ said Christos. ‘Did you see his face, Lexie?’

  I kept my eyes on the Creeper as he trudged slowly towards the commission tower leaving a trail of red behind him. When he pushed through the doors and disappeared inside I wondered what he was go
ing to do, if he was going to ride the elevator up or if he was going to take the stairs.

  ‘Here,’ said Christos. ‘Check it out.’

  Christos shoved the mobile in front of me.

  ‘Rack off, Christos,’ I said.

  It was like the end of a movie. Now that the Creeper had gone, there didn’t seem to be a reason to stay. People started drifting off back to whatever it was they were doing before, and soon it was just me and Davey and Christos.

  ‘Poor old man.’

  I said it to myself.

  ‘He’s mental,’ said Christos.

  ‘He is not,’ I said.

  ‘Why doesn’t he ever talk then?’

  ‘He’s shy.’

  ‘He’s mental,’ repeated Christos. ‘He’s probably going to eat it.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

  ‘He might eat it,’ said Davey. ‘People eat all sorts of stuff. Some people eat the placenta.’

  ‘What the hell’s the placenta?’ asked Christos.

  ‘It’s the stuff that comes out after a baby gets born,’ said Davey.

  ‘Out of, you mean . . .?’

  ‘Yep. My Aunt Bev ate it,’ said Davey. ‘After Mia was born. She cooked it in a frying pan and had it on toast.’

  ‘I ate a snail once for ten bucks,’ said Christos.

  I didn’t mind it when Davey and Christos left. The blood had made a love-heart shape on the concrete and the tiny green collar had turned blue. I thought about the Creeper up in his room alone and I thought about two weeks from now after the birds had feasted on the scraps and all that was left was the heart-shaped stain on the ground. All of a sudden I had an idea.

  I started to run. When I got to the grassed area beyond the concrete I searched underneath the trees and found a branch. After snapping off the unwanted twigs, I bolted back to the mess on the ground and inched myself forward so that the toes of my shoes were almost touching the blood. I gripped the end of the branch with my right hand, reached out and tried to hook the collar. After poking and prodding for a bit, the collar began to shift so I drove the tip of the branch into the loop and lifted it up. The collar came free and I swung it back towards me like I was fishing. And that’s when I noticed the tiny metal tag. I had nothing in my pockets I could use as a rag, so I hooked a finger into the hem of my sleeve then I wiped the tag clean, just enough to read the name.

  Boris, it said. Just Boris.

  My mother got home late that Saturday night. When she walked in, I stayed in my bed and pretended to be asleep, but I caught glimpses of her through my bedroom door, stumbling in her heels, her bird’s nest hair all messed and matted like some forgotten doll in the bottom of a toy box.

  After dumping her handbag on the small island bench, she wobbled to the kitchen, opened a cupboard door and poured herself something yellow to drink. She took a swig and despite our rule about not smoking in the apartment, she lit a cigarette. Everything about her seemed frantic and way too fast. The way she sucked on the cigarette, the way she heaved on its tip reminded me of Byron Walters, a boy at school, when he tugged on his purple puffer during sports.

  I lost her for a bit as she moved through the smoke haze and out of sight, then her glass clinked on the coffee table and she reappeared in my bedroom doorway. Her tiny frame splashed a shadow across my face and as she made her way into my room, I rolled over and faced the wall. A few seconds later, the mattress dipped as she sat herself down on the edge of my bed. She placed a hand on my shoulder and began to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lexie,’ she said. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  There was a time early on when sorry might have worked, when it might have got me to roll back over, but she’d said it too many times now, broken too many promises and the word had lost its meaning. I clung to the edge of the mattress, dug my fingers in and hoped she’d leave me alone, but after wiping the tears from her face, she lifted the blankets up and got into bed beside me. As soon as her head hit the pillow she began to fidget about. She inched herself closer then spooned against my back as if the two of us were pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and she was trying to make us fit.

  But we didn’t fit.

  Not anymore.

  I woke to the sound of screaming in the apartment next door. Mustaffa and his wife were going at it again, hurling insults back and forth like it was tennis. Something shattered on the other side of the wall, a glass maybe, and I raised myself up and clambered over my mother who was tangled in the blankets beside me. When I got to my feet, I stopped beside the bed and waited quietly for a breath. I watched her chest and listened, and when it came, the breath was shallow, a tiny gasp like a fish that’s been hooked then left for a few minutes in the sun. Despite her pale skin and the red sores around her mouth, she looked strangely peaceful lying there asleep in my bed. But the peace and calm never lasted. Tomorrow or the day after, the demons would come for her again. They’d come howling and screaming for more and they’d keep at it until her hands began to shake, until she scratched at her skin and made it bleed. Sometimes, if she was feeling strong, my mother would fight. She’d curl up in her bed, cover herself with blankets and rage against them as best she could. But in the end it was always the same. In the end she’d surrender. She’d give herself over to the demons and she’d head off into the night and fill her veins with poison.

  I tiptoed quietly across my bedroom floor to the pile of clothes in the corner of the room. I rifled through them, sniffed at armpits and undies before deciding on what to wear. When I was dressed, I grabbed the sparkling gold cowgirl hat from the dresser against the wall, the hat my father had bought me at a discount store the week before he died. I placed it on my head and walked quietly into the grey gloom of the living room.

  Everything in the commission was grey. Grey walls, grey floors and grey ceilings. Sometimes, when the sky outside clouded over, it seemed as if the whole world had turned to grey. But of course, I knew it hadn’t. Surfers Paradise wasn’t grey. Surfers Paradise was every colour you could imagine. It was brilliant blues and dazzling greens and it was blinding yellows just like the postcard I’d stuck to the wall above my bed. I’d found it one day, hidden between the pages when I was flicking through my father’s Rolling Stone music magazine. On the postcard, three meter maids wearing gold cowgirl hats, bikinis and heels were feeding coins into a parking meter. Behind them a beautiful blue sea sparkled as if it was dotted with jewels.

  One day, I told myself. One day I’ll move to Surfers Paradise and dye my hair golden like the sun. One day . . .

  While it was hard to know when my mother would wake, I decided I’d surprise her with scrambled eggs. I knew from last night that there was nothing in the fridge so I headed for the emergency money stash we kept hidden in an old biscuit tin. Not surprisingly my mother had been at it and all that was left were coins. I tipped them into my hand and after off-loading them into a pocket I made my way over to the spare key hanging on a silver hook below the shelves. When I lifted it off, Miranda came to life.

  ‘Please tell me you’re not wearing that hat out in public again.’

  I was hoping to avoid Miranda for a while. I was hoping she might have the decency to keep her mouth shut for a bit. But she’s here now so I may as well get it over with and introduce her. The thing is, Miranda and I used to be friends. That’s going to sound weird, I know, because she’s not actually a person. She’s a smiley face. My mother drew her on the wall beside the fridge with a texta just below her mobile number. She did it when she first started going out so that if ever there was an emergency I could call her. I guess the smiley face was supposed to make me feel better or something. Anyway, for the first few weeks the face just sat there on the wall doing nothing. Then one night out of boredom I grabbed the texta and added to the face myself. Above the two dotted eyes I scribbled a mop of black with two plaited pigtails dangling from the sides. Each night my mother went out, I added a bit more. I gave the face a proper smile, I gave her teeth and I gave her lashes and eyes
, I even gave her a name and the two of us became the best of friends. I suppose she was company, early on. I didn’t have any girls I could call friends so Miranda was someone to talk to, someone to fill the hole where my parents were supposed to be. But like always, the friendship didn’t last.

  ‘You look ridiculous,’ said Miranda.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No, I mean it. It’s not even a proper hat. It’s plastic. It’s just weird. No wonder you haven’t got any friends.’

  ‘Well I like it. My dad gave it to me.’

  ‘Your dad? God, don’t get me started. Why don’t you grow your hair, Lexie? You look like a boy.’

  From the corner of my eye I caught sight of my boyish reflection in the glass oven door. I shifted about, tried to find an angle that was all right, a piece of me that didn’t disappoint. I reached my hands up and smoothed my palms down my chest.

  ‘You can look all you want, Lexie, but there’s nothing there. And don’t think I haven’t seen you with the measuring tape. What, every Friday, is it? I mean, who the hell measures the size of their chest, anyway?’

  ‘Shut up, Miranda.’

  ‘I’m serious. You’re flat, okay? You could iron a shirt on that chest of yours.’

  ‘Goodbye Miranda.’

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Out where? You’re going to see that boy again. I know.’

  After tucking the spare key into a pocket, I headed for the apartment’s front door. When I turned the handle and pulled it open, I heard Miranda’s voice behind me.

  ‘Oh, by the way, Lexie. Happy Birthday.’

  I didn’t bother looking back. I closed the door behind me and started for the elevator at the end of the corridor. Outside one of the apartments on my left, I noticed a pile of plastic bags filled with offcuts of denim. I slowed down a little and peeked through the open door as I walked passed. Inside, the Vietnamese family called the Nguyens were sitting at a long, white table, stitching jeans. There were five of them, maybe six, and each face was lit by the tiny lights in the whirring sewing machines in front of them. The grandma at the end of the table looked up and threw me a toothless smile.