Cold Hard Truth: Prologue.

Merely two years older than me, Nila Diesel was my ultimate idol. She wasn’t an extremely famous, well-known author; she wasn’t a graceful, beautiful, talented actress – no. Surprisingly, she was the local loudmouth girl who often stole some tasty sweets from Mrs. Pilligram’s corner shop.1

It wasn’t so much the fact I worshipped her because she actually had stolen the sweets in the first place, it was because of her reasons for it. Nila Diesel originally was born into a rich and prosperous family, though due to her unreliable, drug-addled grandfather gambling it away, she and her little baby brother Connor were literally scraping and stealing for their lives.2

Previously, they had desperately collected some money together, and had presented enough money to a lodger so they could stay in a decent, satisfactory home.3

Incidentally, the lodger was named Cathy Moore – who I’d like to add was my biological mother.4

I remember the first day Nila arrived in our house: it was nearing my tenth birthday; I had just arrived home from another tedious and boring long day at school, and I certainly wholly wasn’t expecting the onslaught of the new, not very pleasant smell of cheap cigarettes in the large house; the rough shuffling of sneakers on our pristine oak flooring.5

Curiously, I had tiptoed along the hall and into our immaculately clean, large dining room, and to my immediate somewhat naďve surprise I saw my mother, perfectly made up with clear lip gloss and eyeliner applied, wearing her smart white work blouse, tailored black trousers and slim-fitting knee-high black boots; and this complete unknown stranger, wearing a worn, faded white, partially open regulation school shirt, a loosened green-and-silver tie around her long neck, slightly torn, boot cut school trousers, those damn sneakers, and an ancient, thoroughly used old skateboard tucked under one of her thin arms.6

“I’m willin’ to pay one and an ‘alf ‘undred quid rent per month,” stated the stranger, taking a mild drag of her cigarette. I was confused. Mother had told me sharply that smoking was wrong!7

My mother started to negotiate, but I interrupted inquisitively, “Why you smokin’, stranger? Mummy said smokin’ is bad.”8

Mummy glanced at me in surprise.9

The stranger did the same, but recovered more quickly, and throatily chuckled, “Yeah, kid, an’ your mom’s right. Don’ smoke; it’s bad for ya health.”10

“But why you smokin’?” I persisted, but my mother cut me off.11

“Holly,” said my mum gently, “I just need to have a little chat with this young lady here; Miss. Diesel. Do you want to go play with Lily for a bit?”12

Lily Noir was my childhood best friend from just next door at sixteen Hawthorn Avenue. As was mine, her house was grand, luxurious and elegant, but that certainly was not the main reason we became so close.13

With her shiny black hair falling to her collarbone and her clear crystal eyes sparkling, she was a calm soul, but could be excited if a powerful opportunity rose. Kind and generally content, she was a true friend – one who would break off huge chunks of delicious Galaxy’s chocolate for me at lunchtime at school (my mother detested me eating chocolate as it was ‘remarkably unhealthy’) and one who would instantly laugh and tell Holly if she was making a complete and utter fool of herself in front of prestigious, well respected people.14

So, anyway, obediently I had obliged, giving the stranger one last curious, thoughtful yet childish stare and disappeared, hurtling down the street, viewing a blurred vision of what appeared to be a block of fresh countryside until I finally reached Lily’s huge house (just as large as mine was, incidentally). Loudly I rapped on the door, and looked interestedly through the double glazed, ornately pattered glass on the door as I saw a blurred figure stumbling hurriedly to open the door.15

“Hols,” breathed Lily, evidently panicked about something, “I need your help.”