Vodka Doesn't Freeze by Leah Giarratano Read Free Book Online

her dressing-gown pocket. She should've let the call go to the answering machine. When she'd realised it was Carole on the line, she'd resignedly taken the phone and her cigarettes out the front door. At least she could distract herself with the sky and trees as she reassured Carole that she was fine.
     
Mercy had been proud of her saccharine chatter throughout the call. She'd worked with this woman for years, and knew that Carole would never back off if Mercy couldn't convince her that yesterday had been an anomaly, that she just needed a good rest.
     
Wrapping her gown closer around her body, Mercy went back inside and looked around guardedly, almost as though she expected to see something unusual there. As it happened, this was not an ordinary house. Perched on the precipice of a cliff dropping to a deep ravine in the Blue Mountains, almost the entire back wall of the split-level house was glass. The effect was of living in the sky above a vast bush canyon; indeed, at the moment, clouds on the balcony whorled insistently as though indignant at being denied entry. Two galahs scratched at the jarrah decking, calling occasionally for more seed to be scattered.
     
It was always at least ten degrees cooler at Mercy's home than anywhere else in Sydney, and she shivered slightly as she stepped down to her sunken lounge, reaching automatically for the remote to play some music. She nudged the volume lower and the Japanese harps soothed her somewhat.
     
What the hell was happening to her? She stared down at her bandaged hand, fascinated by the white gauze marked by the bloom of red blood.
     
Her clinical supervisor, Dr Noah Griffen, had been warning her for months that she was taking on too many abuse cases, that she was at risk of burning out. She'd listened impatiently, resentful at having to spend more time at the hospital to attend these sessions. Regular clinical supervision was a requirement of her employment, though, and if she missed more than six of the weekly sessions in a year she had to answer to the Clinical Director.
     
She had been attending supervision with Griffen for ten years now, and had, in fact, decided to consult at the Sisters of Charity Hospital because of her mentor's practice there, but she'd grown increasingly intolerant of his admonitions to reduce her caseload. It wasn't like he wasn't doing the same kind of work.
     
Mercy's expertise with survivors of childhood sexual abuse had led to a lengthy waiting list for her services, and she felt unable to turn down the individuals who sought her help. But as the years had passed working with this population, she found herself in tears more often than not as they told their stories. She was increasingly unable to stop her imagination from conjuring images of the abuse they had endured, which would vie for space with memories of the beatings from her own childhood. A flame of hatred for the offenders was stoked with each new tale of suffering.
     
One sleepless night, after speaking with an eighteen-yearold girl slowly dying of anorexia nervosa, she had realised that this patient's file was still in her bag. Snapping on her bedside light, she had pulled the thick hospital folder onto her bed, hoping to find something within its contents that could help her with this young woman.
     
The girl had been repeatedly hospitalised since she was twelve, when she had tried to kill herself by taking every tablet in her home, washed down with disinfectant from the laundry cupboard. It wasn't until the year before, however, that she'd disclosed that her father had been selling her to his mates for beer for as long as she could remember. Although she'd now made a police statement against him, the DPP was still struggling to gather sufficient evidence to bring him to trial. In the meantime, this man was at home while his daughter fought for her life in hospital.
     
Impotent rage engulfed Mercy as she flicked through the file. Suddenly something snagged at her