Some Shall Break

Other novels by Ellie Marney The Killing Code None Shall Sleep White Night No Limits The CIRCUS HEARTS series All the Little Bones All Fall Down All Aces The EVERY trilogy Every Breath Every Word Every Move First published by Allen & Unwin in 2023 Copyright © Ellie Marney 2023 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act. Allen & Unwin Cammeraygal Country 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com Allen & Unwin acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Elders, past and present. ISBN 978 1 76106 801 0 eISBN 978 1 76118 679 0 For teaching resources, explore www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers The extract from ‘Making a Fist’ by Naomi Shihab Nye is taken from Everything Comes Next: Collected and New Poems, Greenwillow Books, 2020, and is reproduced by kind permission of the author. The extract from ‘Power’ by Adrienne Rich is taken from Dream of A Common Language, W.W. Norton & Company, Inc, 1978, and is reproduced by kind permission of the publisher. Cover design by Jenny Kimura and Sandra Nobes Cover illustration by Janelle Barone Text design by Karina Granda and Jenny Kimura For all the survivors ‘How do you know if you are going to die?’ I begged my mother. We had been traveling for days. With strange confidence she answered, ‘When you can no longer make a fist.’ Naomi Shihab Nye, ‘Making a Fist’ CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE CHAPTER FORTY CHAPTER FORTY-ONE CHAPTER FORTY-TWO CHAPTER FORTY-THREE CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE CHAPTER FORTY-SIX CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT CHAPTER FORTY-NINE CHAPTER FIFTY CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE AUTHOR'S NOTE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS CHAPTER ONE In a dark, unfamiliar bedroom in Beechview, Pittsburgh, Patricia Doricott, a twenty-year-old Duquesne poli-sci major, wakes up groggy. She lies there for a second until her brain regurgitates the cab ride to Stanley Theatre with Fletch and Lori. The concert. Patricia’s older brother, Tom, bought the tickets for her as a gift, so she was glad Elvis Costello delivered. The music was great. Her memory is hazy post-concert. She remembers afterward, another cab to Zack’s on Fourth Avenue. Then another club: getting drinks, chatting to a guy at the bar. It was crowded. There were any number of drinks. She’s gone home with someone, which is not a first, but it’s the first time she can’t remember the guy’s name. The bedroom she’s in now smells of some kind of nauseating air freshener. She makes out a nightstand but no lamp. The room is damn dark: maybe she just can’t see the lamp? Her mouth tastes terrible and her head hurts. Fumbling off the blanket, she realizes she’s still in her clothes. Not the typical Walk of Shame scenario, then. Patti stubs her toe on the way to the door, then twists the handle and opens onto— Light, god. A white hallway with dark dado and beige carpet, wincingly bright. She has the world’s most awful headache. Framed pictures in the hall show her reflection in the glass. Her dark hair has gone from tousled to bird’s nest, yeesh. But framed pictures mean she’s in a house, not a dorm room. Okay, this is better. Easier, in some ways. Just say hi to the guy, thanks for being a gentleman, ask to call a cab, get home. Patti walks onward until the hallway reaches stairs. She descends slowly, holding the banister, turns right past a front door, walks until the trail spills her out into the kitchen. A plain wooden table with one place setting: a bowl, spoon, glass of water, white coffee cup in a saucer. A box of Cheerios and a carton of milk on the table. Maybe the guy has gone to work. She’s honestly trying to remember his name, but that information lives somewhere just out of reach. She sits at the table and drinks the water, wishing her head wasn’t fracturing everything into bright, painful prisms. Low music, somewhere farther away – KC and the Sunshine Band. Jesus, how much did she have to drink? The sound of a door opening, closing, and a young man walks into the kitchen. Tallish, medium build, brown hair, white dress shirt and dark trousers, cute professor glasses. He looks like the guy from the bar, but she can’t be sure. ‘Hi, honey,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Hi,’ Patti replies, but she is thinking, What? He takes the chair opposite, across the table. ‘How are you feeling?’ ‘Uh, yeah.’ Her tongue, thick in her mouth. ‘Like my head got steamrollered.’ ‘Oh, would you like something for that?’ He grubs in his trouser pocket, pulls out a blister pack of tablets. Pops two and pushes them across the tabletop. ‘Here you go. Tylenol.’ ‘Thanks, it’s fine. I’ll wait until I get home.’ Better not to accept strange tablets. Nice place, do you mind if I call a cab? she