Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

[inaudible]

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Bang. Whole fucken house on fire, roof blown off. Flames and smoke everywhere, two fire trucks, the whole deal.’

  ‘Wh—?’

  ‘Whole roof gone, flames shooting up.’

  ‘Hang on. Coming up the hill now.’

  ‘Go slow. Have a look. You can smell the burning.’

  [kkkrrkkkrkk]

  ‘… Whoa …’

  ‘Nasty, hey.’

  ‘What happened there?’

  ‘Who knows, mate. Nothing’d survive that, not with the fucken roof gone.’

  ‘Mmmm. Looks pretty suss.’

  ‘Everyone just standing round, staring?’

  ‘Yeah. Ah, cop car too. Got that plastic tape up. I heard — ’

  [krkrk—krkkk]

  ‘You’re breaking up.’

  ‘Said I heard some certain cooks get the recipe wrong, there’s a big bang blows the whole place to smithereens.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘Right, got ya. So. You sleepy at all?’

  ‘Not a bit, mate. Not at all. Batteries fully charged.’

  ‘And me. Bing! You going the whole way through tonight, mate, straight run?’

  ‘Yep. Rent to pay, cream load, no point stopping. How about that. What a bloody sight.’

  ‘Tell me ’bout it. Keep your eyes on the road, eh. Catch ya.’

  ‘Not if I catch you first.’

  [Interstate Highway, The Regions, 1608 km to Southern border: Tally]

  When the first flash of the truck appeared in the heat-blurred distance, she knew it would stop.

  It began as a silver dot but soon became something shuddering and huge. Tally steadied herself, felt the gravel shift minutely beneath her bare feet, her head still fuzzy. The drone of the engine sounded familiar, almost comforting, but she knew this was a foolish thought to have on the side of an empty road.

  Now the dusty air was filled with red and silver. The truck’s bulldog face hung low to the ground like it was following a scent, the gleam on the grille almost blinding. She could see the driver’s shoulder working, hear the growling descent of gears as he changed down, down, down again, as the braking distance was eaten up.

  But the mass of the thing was too much. Tally stepped back quickly as it overshot her, left her swaying there in her bare feet, dizzy from the smell of hot rubber spinning off the wheels.

  When she looked up, the truck was waiting in the curve of the road, tail-lights blinking in the sun. She started to run towards it. There would be time to read his eyes before she got in.

  [Recorded interview, digital AV format, uncut version: Damon Spark | Sergeant Jeff Peel]

  ‘… this thing, because it’s new. Right. Could you just say something, a test run?’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like testing one, two … your name, whatever. Thanks. Go ahead.’

  ‘Peel, Jeff, Sergeant. Enough?’

  ‘Great, just checking the light, bear with me …’

  ‘I’ve been interviewed live several times.’

  ‘Don’t worry, this will be edited, it’s not live.’

  ‘Edited is what I’m worried about. I’ve done this before. Is that thing turned on?’

  ‘I just need a few shots. If you could start by describing the scene … Sorry, time’s a bit tight.’

  ‘I hope I’m not going to be mis-edited here.’

  ‘—’

  ‘It happened a while back. The word morons was used.’

  ‘Morons ...?’

  ‘Look — will you cut that word out? What I just said?’

  ‘Morons?’

  ‘Yes. Last time it got used completely out of context, in a story about bike gangs. Certain parties were less than delighted.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can’t afford to mis-cut you, I cover this whole area. We’ll meet again. It’s an opportunity, four million viewers, let’s just relax a bit. You could start —’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve seen your face plenty of times. On that Scoop show. Damian Stark, News from the Sidelines. I’m familiar with your work.’

  ‘Spark.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s Spark. Damon Spark. And it’s called News from the Margins. Not the sidelines.’

  ‘Oh right. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Let’s come back to what’s happened here. You could start by describing the damage?’

  ‘What are you going to ask me after that?’

  ‘Ah, say … damage, fatalities, survivors, probable cause, bit of a round-up. In that order. Feel free to add some colour. Okay?’

  ‘Okay. So I’ll start now. Right?’

  ‘Great. Here we go.’

  ‘There was a loud explosion around nine last night. The blast could be heard two kilometres away, on the far side of town. The fire service arrived before the flames reached the overhead powerlines. But this wasn’t a normal fire, as you can see.’

  ‘Gesture over behind you.’

  ‘What? Oh right. Like this? Okay. As you can see the entire house was gutted by the sheer force of that initial blast, rather than the fire that followed it.’

  ‘That’s excellent. So what do we know about the residents?’

  ‘Looks like a family was living here, renting — a father and two teenage daughters, very recent arrivals, a week at the outside. No contact with neighbours. And the girls weren’t in school.’

  ‘Chin down a bit. That’s better. Descriptions?’

  ‘No details yet.’

  ‘Fatalities?’

  ‘So far we have one fatality confirmed. Adult male. Due to the force of the blast we can’t say for certain yet if that’s a final count.’

  [inaudible]

  ‘… doing an interview, be with you in a few minutes, Jim. No, just go over there, thanks, don’t say anything, the camera is still … Thanks. Sorry.’

  ‘No problem. Any names?’

  ‘No. We don’t know who these people were.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘Well, the Regions are full of people like that, people who are hard to identify, people on the run. Undocs everywhere. As you’d know.’

  ‘What’s the likely cause of an explosion like this?’

  ‘Police are still investigating the cause of the explosion.’

  ‘An explosion like this, though — it would have to be a drug lab, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Police are still investigating the cause of the explosion.’

  ‘But what do you think happened?’

  ‘Give me a break.’

  ‘Okay. That’s it.’

  ‘That’s … You don’t want any more?’

  ‘I can’t do much more if we can’t get a probable cause. They might not run it at all, in fact.’

  ‘After all that?’

  ‘You were great. We could just do a quick shot of you saying, “Possibly an amphetamine laboratory …”’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Okay. Well I’d better be off. Good to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise. Will this run tonight?’

  ‘I certainly hope so.’

  ‘You like your job, right, Damon?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Wouldn’t do anything else.’

  ‘Me too. Not if you paid me.’

  ‘Ah, okay, I get it. Don’t worry, you’re safe with me. Can’t afford to cause any grief. I’ve just applied for a transfer.’

  ‘Let me guess — the city.’

  ‘Right. Ever thought of working there?’

  ‘No way. Fake place, fake people. Trick you with lights and weird gases and god knows what.
You’re crazy if you think that’s any place to spend your life.’

  ‘Well. I mean, turn around, mate. It’s not exactly Tahiti out here either, is it?’

  ‘One man’s meat, they say …’

  ‘True, another man’s cake, sweet, whatever. Hey, do you think this place was really a meth lab?’

  ‘That camera’s still on, isn’t it?’

  [Room 9, Interstate Motor Inn, The Regions: Grace]

  The motel ceiling was painted with strange stains. Faces and animals bloomed in tea-coloured patterns across the low, shiny paintwork. Grace watched them with a rare concentration. In one corner a cheap plastic fan stirred the hot air back and forth.

  Over the years, in between houses, they’d slept on borrowed couches, lounge-room floors, in old caravans, even in the car when there was nowhere else to go. But Grace had never stayed in a motel before, although she’d dreamed about them often: places you passed through between rehearsals and costume fittings, a series of mirrored rest stops in a life where you moved from one place to another according to a timetable.

  She refused to be disappointed by the door’s flimsiness, the rusty smell that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep beneath the carpet. Instead she washed her face, combed out her hair, lay back very still against the yellow bedspread and — click — slipped inside the imaginary film set in her head.

  In the next room, behind the wall, an older woman brushed her dark hair again and again to make it shine. Down the hallway the director drank slowly, studied the script, reminding himself to maintain a professional distance from the new cast member — a quiet young woman (too young, perhaps?) whose ability to vanish into her character at will, without fuss, was proving distracting. And in the cheapest room, the understudy sat alone, playing a solitary game of doubt and reassurance.

  A truck engine roared to life, loud and unexpected, and there she was again with the marks on the ceiling, only now their mood had taken a mean turn: blooms of dark smoke, slithering flames, faces melting and hair bursting alight. The ceiling was a write-off; none of it could be coaxed back into more gentle shapes.

  ‘There’s a television,’ she heard the director say from behind the wall. ‘Use it.’

  But at this time of night there was nothing on the box but crime porn. Grace watched for a few minutes, flicking from body to body. The images made parts of her twitch in recognition, sparked by some vague and involuntary hunger, but the story was always the same and it left her feeling distant and shapeless. Then a female newsreader appeared, smiling in a reassuring way, and delivered a smooth series of reports — oil glut, military coup on small Pacific island, hostages shot in terrorist hijacking, prime minister’s birthday cake, successful separation of Siamese twins. At the end of the bulletin the newsreader gazed straight at the camera, winked and touched her neck for a suggestive split-second. Grace winked back and replicated the gesture. (She checked it in the mirror: almost perfect.)

  But the distraction didn’t last: her mind kept looping back to the verge of horror. The Siamese twins were sisters. Both had survived the operation. Grace felt a panicky lurch in her stomach, then a great blank nothing, a whiting-out that felt as deep and familiar as sleep. A feeling that numbed almost everything, wiped the word sister from the newsreader’s lips.

  Tally. A ghost word. Erase.

  Breathe, strike match, light cigarette: inhale. Ashes to ashes. Then she was stubbing out her cigarette. She didn’t remember smoking it; there was just a blank space in time, then the butt curled there, crushed into the saucer.

  She should be tired. The bed was motionless, but she still felt the rock and sway of the train beneath her, the lonely clatter of miles being eaten away to nothing in the darkness.

  The wall clanked: someone in the next room was running a shower. In the drawer next to the bed she found a bible and flipped through it, smoking as she read. Some of it sounded beautiful, some cruel; most of it made no sense. May the Lord cut off all flattering lips, and the tongue that speaks proud things … Bondservants, obey in all things your masters according to the flesh, not with eye-service, as men-pleasers, but in sincerity of heart, fearing God. The language was passionate, absolute. Whoever wrote this had felt something.

  Grace returned it to the drawer and turned her face back to the flickering screen.

  [Freightliner, vehicle licence plate RECO8862: Tally | unidentified long-haul driver]

  Can I grab one of these? Yeah, sixteen almost. I just look young. Does this thing work? Marlborough, right? That’s what my sister smokes, Grace. Only the light ones not these red ones. Whoa no I’m okay, it’s just this cough … a cold I’ve had, hang on a sec. Phew …

  Yeah, Grace. She just took off. To the city I think, well I don’t know she just left. The kids round here they’re mean as, and she’s real pretty, you know how it goes, some people. Write stuff on the walls and that. Just shit, I mean stuff.

  We got separated. By accident. But I know where she’s going. I’ll find her.

  Don’t need any. I like to travel light. Hey, who’s that talking there, your friend? Do you say radio stuff to each other like ten-four big buddy, over and out, and that shit, I mean stuff like that, do you? Oh right, I always … I never been in a truck before.

  Well, she’s got this red hair, real long, she looks like a movie star, wants to be a movie star, will be too, I reckon. What, I mean pardon? She’s fifteen, two years older than me, I — Ah well okay right busted. Thirteen. So what that’s close enough, I said I was nearly sixteen not far off, eh. No. Right, Bob. Hi Bob.

  Okay it’s … they call me Tally … Well, Tallulah. Yeah I know girlie name, ha-ha. But I look like a boy with a toothache right, yep I know, that’s what they say. Right. I know that’s not what you said, look just don’t worry about it okay, can I have another one of these?

  Course I do, I always hold it like that, that’s just how I do it. Got my own way of smoking.

  Eh? My cheek? Yeah well maybe I got … just some dirt from moving some boxes out of the garage, it’s … well, maybe not soot, I think there was some ash and dirt and stuff … Look, are those, are they bulls or cows do you reckon?

  Whoa strong cigarette huh, sorry, no really I like them strong. Pah …

  So. What’s it like in the city? How big — like is it hard to find someone? Sure yeah I got money don’t worry about it … Jesus, I mean sorry, I mean I can take care of myself. Got a camera, might pick up some work taking photos or something, gotta get another phone, lost mine when the — Hey what’s this song? That old group right, with the short guy used to dress in a school uniform and just rock out, like go crazy playing guitar on his back what’s their name? AC/DC, yeah. It’s good music it matches the road, don’t you think it matches the way the road just rolls under the wheels like one of those things at the supermarket, what do you call them … conveyor belts.

  Okay. No I don’t mind I thought you wanted to talk. Yeah I like quiet too, helps you think. I’ll just sit back here and watch the road, right good idea. Right. Mind if I just grab another smoke?

  [Service entrance, Howzat Donut kiosk, Southern Cross Station: Grace | unidentified security guards]

  ‘Ask her again.’

  ‘I told ya, no use ringing this one’s bell — lights are on, but nobody home.’

  ‘Ask her.’

  ‘Hey, kid. You gonna move or what? Cos you can’t sit here all … See? Told ya: bing-bong, no one home.’

  ‘What a pretty thing. Check out her hair, that’s auburn that is. Nice. I could dye mine that colour.’

  ‘Hair schmair, I’m checking out the legs.’

  ‘That’s not funny, Carl.’

  ‘Alright, don’t get all femmo on me. Hey. Kid. You got ID? You know we can get the jacks down here in about two minutes if you don’t shift?’

  ‘Clap your hands or something. Hey! H
ello? Ah, Jesus. Poor love. Sad, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, sad for us if we don’t move her. My contract says shift ’em outside within four mins, not have a little clap-along.’

  ‘That’s real harsh, Carl.’

  ‘No kidding. Don’t shoot the messenger.’

  ‘Let’s just leave her. No one’s watching this late anyway.’

  ‘See that? Up there? Manned twenty-four hours, sweet-cakes.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘Aw. You way too serious, Marie.’

  ‘Come on, let’s just go. These kids get me down.’

  ‘Get used to it, toots. Not our fault. Here, you take that arm. Come on, kid, you can’t stay here. Find somewhere else to go.’

  [Overpass 19, off-ramp 4, Hume Highway, city outskirts: Tally]

  It soared up against the morning sky just like Tally had imagined: every dream of a city, every TV show and magazine ad. Light leaked in from a low angle and the skin of the buildings shone, rectangle upon rectangle, pink air repeated in a hundred thousand mirrors. Behind the towers the shadow of a plane blinked upwards.

  The city had always been their shared destination: that had not changed. Long conversations about what they’d do when they got there, about the life they’d lead, Grace waitressing until the auditions worked out, Tally doing her photography and earning money as a bike courier, maybe, or selling tickets in the cinema; the apartment with the pretty lamps, the teapot for two, the friends they would make. That was where they’d both been headed. And like everyone else who came here, Grace would leave tracks.

  Tally climbed the cement lip of the freeway overpass. The roads were scrolled together in a sailor’s knot, slick ribbons woven over and under one another; this was nothing like the worn flat stretches out in the Regions, the gravel roads and bare horizons she was used to. Where were they all going? The cars zinged past, a multicoloured swarm making the structure rumble and moan beneath her feet: red-white-red-green-blue-white-yellow. A woman tilted her rear-view mirror and ran lipstick around her mouth, one hand steady on the wheel as her car sped along, the bright string of vehicles snaking towards its destination. As the sky grew lighter, Tally saw that a brown haze hovered over the city, like a thick smudge of cigar smoke.

  Sleep last night had been brief and broken. She had found a triangle of space down there, between the concrete and dirt, a wedge where a small body could wriggle away to almost nothing. She’d slept to the hum of the freeway: a slight vibration, like moths against a window.