Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

  ‘Jesus. Every time. That’s impressive, man.’

  ‘Nice mix, Chase. The idea’s not exactly new, but you’ve done something original with it. Needs some finetuning, but still …’

  ‘So let’s talk business.’

  ‘Okay, review’s over. That base note, the hope variant. What is it?’

  [Disused rail tunnel: links Docklands and Carnie District, The Quarter: Tally | Blue | Diggy | miscellaneous unverified persons]

  The air inside the tunnel smelled of motor oil and rat piss. Up ahead, in the dim shafts of light falling from the vents, she could just make out Blue, a skinny shadow stepping over puddles and broken pipes, trailing the curve of the tracks. She squinted after the logo on his hoodie, a beacon floating in the gloom. He’d wait for her to catch up, then set off deeper into the tunnel’s black throat. Blue had insisted that Tally not go barefoot in here, pulling an old pair of sneakers from the weeds near the tunnel’s overgrown mouth and dropping them at her feet.

  ‘Gotta be quiet down there,’ he’d instructed, edging through a gap in the boards. ‘Stay right behind me. Your eyes’ll get used to the dark. Anyone comes, just let me talk.’

  At least it was cool in there, a welcome relief from the pressing heat outside. The entrance to the old rail tunnel was all but invisible. In a corner of the Docklands, past the empty towers and overflowing bins, an ancient pair of railway tracks, blackened with age and lichen, led to a dead-end tangle of vines. Blue tugged aside a piece of plywood, and there was the hole. Tally laced up the sneakers, belted her detective coat tight and glanced back at the silent wharf: nobody around. She squeezed through the gap and followed Blue into the dark.

  This old tunnel was a shortcut, she’d gathered, a portal leading onto the back lanes of the Quarter’s Carnie district. Blue had told her the elevated walkway that skirted the official tunnel to the north, with its bright lights and random checks, was a hassle unless you had papers. Down here there were no cameras or cops, nobody asking for ID. But don’t ever come alone, he’d warned, you don’t know your way round yet. Being secret didn’t make a place safe.

  They’d only known each other a week, but so far it had been easy. In daylight hours Blue came and went, and Tally insisted she had her own stuff to do, but the two of them had an unspoken pact. He’d materialise beside her as she jotted a landmark into her notebook; later he’d walk off with a half-wave, indicating a distant skyscraper, saying, ‘I’ll be back when the sun gets up there’; at night, tucked into their regular sleeping spot, she’d hear a low whistle and he’d re-emerge. ‘Yo Sherlock,’ he’d whisper. ‘You ’wake?’ Often he brought food — dried-out sushi, leathery donuts, once a whole watermelon bashed in on one side — and always water. He’d shown her the taps where you could fill a bottle without getting caught. Already, automatically, on her travels Tally also scavenged for two. Forget about what Max used to say: Look after number one. Look after each other, that’s what her and Grace had always done. Look after number one and number two.

  Blue didn’t talk much, and at first she’d babbled to fill the gaps, but she soon grew tired of her own voice and was surprised to discover an easy silence, saved the ruminations for her notebook — although her voice still tumbled out fast in nervous moments. Blue was keen-eyed, always on the move, and Tally shadowed him like an apprentice, learning the complex patterns and codes of the streets, the flight lines and disappearing acts it demanded of those with nowhere else to go.

  ‘Need those batteries,’ she’d reminded him last night, tucking the camera deep in her coat pocket.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he’d answered, tossing her an old towel to use for a pillow. ‘Get some sleep.’

  In the tunnel they met no one, but the concrete and damp amplified every tiny noise, and twice Tally froze, realising they were not alone: once the sound of laughter and scuffling bounced down the walls to reach them; later she heard a sigh rise, short and soft, from the nearby darkness.

  ‘Blue! Did you hear that?’ she’d whispered at the top of her lungs.

  ‘Shh,’ he’d replied quietly, not pausing, ‘just keep walking.’

  After a few minutes a grey-green light yawned ahead, and rounding a corner Tally could hear the muffled drone of a streetscape. The tunnel ended in a makeshift wall of boards, and they slid through a gap, back into noise and sunlight and the ever-pressing heat.

  ‘Who was that in there?’ she asked, trailing Blue’s long stride through a maze of laneways and flapping washing lines.

  ‘Just tunnel kids,’ said Blue, pausing to take his bearings. ‘Come on.’ And he set off for a shape poking high above the dirty buildings: the white arc of a Ferris wheel curved against the sky.

  A sideshow — she remembered this. The cries of spruikers, the gaping mouths of swivel-necked clowns, plastic hoops and axle grease and the hot sugary drift of fairy floss. Stuffed animals dangling in bright rows, rubber ducks bobbing and cheap watches glinting, rifles bolted down tight. Taped screams from the Ghost Train, real screams from the Hurricane. Kids wolfing down hot-dogs, teens pashing under the stands, tattoo-faced men ushering you towards the glowing entrances of tents. A memory came back to her: Max, handing them money and waving them away, in the direction of the rides. ‘Just dropping something off,’ he’d say over his shoulder, heading to the rows of tatty caravans behind the cheapest stalls. Once he came back with one eye all swollen, the smudge of a bruise already blooming beneath the skin. Despite herself, remembering his crumpled face and the blow he’d never mentioned, Tally felt a tug in her throat.

  Signalling her to wait by the ticket booth, Blue crossed beneath the swooping arms of the Hurricane, conversing in mime with the ride operator as the machine thrashed the air overhead to a noisy blur. The guy, who had the pinched features and long-term hunch of a junkie, pointed one scrawny arm at a row of caravans; nodding thanks, Blue tipped his head for Tally to follow. As he rapped on the caravan door, the curtains trembled almost imperceptibly. Tally felt eyes on them.

  ‘When did the fair get here?’ she asked as they waited.

  ‘It’s always here,’ he said, and the caravan door swung open. In the doorway, dog-less but unmistakable, stood the puppy guy. It was him alright: that crackle of certainty, an aura of handshakes and split-second judgements; an air of detached concern, like he knew all the answers but was kind of pressed for time. He nodded at Blue, then looked Tally over.

  ‘New kid,’ he observed, and beckoned them inside.

  Later, lining up for their Gravitron ride, Tally ran the encounter through her head. The first thing she’d done, after shaking the guy’s hand and learning his name was Diggy, was scan the caravan for the pup. Where was it? Diggy was watching her closely, and for some reason she knew not to ask. In the corner sat a bag of dog biscuits, unopened. It was him alright.

  ‘So. You need some work,’ he’d announced.

  ‘Guess so,’ Tally had replied carefully.

  ‘You guess? Everyone needs work! You don’t eat, you die.’ He chuckled, wiped his glasses, waved them to sit down. ‘How much you got coming, Blue?’

  ‘Just twenty,’ said Blue as Diggy peeled off a note and passed it over. ‘Do a day this week if you got it?’

  Tally watched Diggy weigh her up. Suddenly she didn’t feel like much: short and scrawny-looking, no doubt, although she knew she was strong; light frame, thin wrists, stick-legs. Dirty hair, dirty fingernails, dirty sneakers two sizes too big. Diggy’s t-shirt was spotless; the caravan bare and clean. Clearly this place was used for business, not leisure.

  ‘You fast?’ he asked. ‘You can run?’

  Tally nodded hard: she’d topped the two-hundred-metre sprint in at least four schools.

  ‘Look smart enough,’ he said. ‘Blue explained how it works?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Right. Do the job without getting caught, you get paid
. You get caught — you’re on your own. You don’t know me, we never met. And you get paid zilch.’ He paused to scrutinise her. ‘You fudge a job, and I’ll know about it, you’ll never work again. I know everyone. I see everything. Understand?’

  A reflection from the overhead light glanced off Diggy’s glasses; blinded by the dazzle, Tally nodded. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m very reliable.’

  ‘Good,’ he answered, dipping his head, his eyes reappearing. ‘You hungry?’

  She was.

  He laughed. ‘You reliable and you hungry. Excellent.’ He rummaged in a cupboard, handed them each a bulky plastic bag, tied up tight. ‘You can start with posting, that’s easiest. They’re just stickers, ads that companies pay us to put up round the place.’ He stopped to make sure Tally was listening. ‘It’s illegal, hence the running bit. You’ll graduate to other stuff later, once you prove yourself. Watch Blue here, he’ll show you what to do. Most times you’ll collect your mission and pay on the other side, not from me. That was your induction. You’re in.’

  Diggy turned his attention to Blue, indicated a map of the city grid stuck to the wall. ‘This run’s all corporate ads, few different brands, all colour-coded. Green stickers in the Civic Zone — just the southern strip, around Flinders and Collins streets, up to here, don’t overdo it. Black-and-whites — make sure you get them right, they’re ads for my mate’s casino — are the Civic Zone too: Chinatown, along Little Bourke Street, right from Spring down to Swanston. Red ones in the south of the Interzone, past the big eagle. Do the whole length of King and Spencer streets plus side roads, all round the strip clubs — don’t skimp there, go all out. Nothing for the Quarter this run, and stay out of the Commerce Zone, too much heat right now. And teach her about surfaces, all that stuff.’

  Diggy glanced at Tally. ‘You put them at eye level,’ he instructed, ‘but not your eye level, higher. Around Blue’s height. Rub the surface clean first. And don’t stick them on crooked.’

  He regarded Blue, who was visually tracing the map. ‘Got all that — or you want me to write it down?’ Blue shook his head. Diggy laughed again, but to Tally’s ears it wasn’t a nice sound. ‘Course you don’t,’ he said. ‘You blackfellas got a good memory.’ There was a knock on the caravan door, and Diggy was standing up, shaking their hands.

  ‘Welcome to the fold,’ he said, giving them each a couple of coloured tickets. ‘Here, hot-dogs and a ride on me. If you got an empty stomach, I’d go the ride first.’

  The rusty bulk of the Gravitron groaned as it began to rotate. Beside Tally, Blue tipped his head back and shut his eyes. He ignored her musings on the sleep habits of astronauts, so she too sank down and gave herself up to the press of gravity, its quickening spin. Pinned to the inner curve she watched the world blur and loop as the machine tipped on its side. The first time the ground rushed up she fought a twist of panic as her body recalled that other flight — the flash of the explosion, her blacked-out slam into the unforgiving earth. But this machine was controlled, like a clock: in a few minutes, up and down would be restored to their proper place.

  She gave herself over to the swoop and dip of the ride. At last the air was cooling, and all across the darkening city lights had begun to dance. As they spun around, she caught glimpses of the far-off towers, which sparkled with pictures and logos: blooming flowers and butterflies; Hitachi, Sony, Panasonic. High over the CBD a blimp projected a hologram dolphin into the air, a sleek blue shape that dived and leaped in an endless pre-programmed circle, its logo sparkling above like a halo. Nearby, on the wall of a car park, a smaller string of projections fired out like a deck of coloured cards: a series of anonymous faces, each smiling, each selling something — cars, kitchen appliances, life insurance, shampoo. Old man, girl, teenage boy, baby, three young women …

  There was a flash of red hair, then she was gone. Tally strained her neck up, trying to catch the image again — those half-shut eyes, that pale skin — but the swoop of the machine threw her back into the sky. It was her. (Was it her?) Tally struggled to move her limbs, turn her head back to the images, but the next loop revealed the wall had gone dark. She had to get off.

  The machine took forever to slow. Blue had his eyes wide open now. ‘What you yelling about? Who?’

  She fought the drag, and ignoring Blue’s reprimand to wait, began to struggle from her seat as the ride groaned towards a halt.

  By the time he caught up with her, she had climbed onto the back rail of an ice-cream van, craning for a better view. She was vaguely aware of tears on her face, but she didn’t care. The wall was empty still, the images gone. The ice-cream man leaned out his van window and swore at her.

  Blue pulled her down and led her away, glancing around uneasily. ‘Don’t make trouble. Come on, you’re alright. Let’s get those hot-dogs and go home.’

  On the way back through the tunnel, Tally stuck close beside him. It was dark now so Blue carried a tiny torch, keeping one palm pressed tight over its eye to dim it right down. The red glow of his illuminated hand cast a blob of warm light on the tracks ahead.

  ‘It was her,’ she had insisted, as he’d led her from the fairground. ‘It was Grace.’ But her voice, she knew, sounded doubtful. One split-second image: was it a real clue, or a trick of memory? Had it been Grace, or just some replica the city had conjured up?

  Blue had shrugged. ‘It was just some ad shit. It’s everywhere.’

  When they reached the tunnel entrance, he shushed her gently and handed her the end of his belt to hang on to. Packages at their sides, they slipped through the gap and stepped into black space.

  [Zero coffee shop, Little Lonsdale Street, Commerce Zone: Damon | Luella]

  ‘Luella, good to see you. Am I late?’

  ‘No, we’re both early.’

  ‘Excellent. And this place is ...?’

  ‘A good place to talk. Private. I use it for all my outside briefings.’

  ‘Totally private?’

  ‘Well, there are cameras outside, of course, but not in here. Audio signals automatically scrambled. No point leaving your phone on.’

  ‘It’s switched off anyway, I know time’s tight … Ah, cheers — Luella?’

  ‘Espresso.’

  ‘Same for me. With half milk.’

  ‘That’s a latte, Damon.’

  ‘Uh, yes. That’s right.’

  ‘So what are you after, exactly? Are you following specific leads, or hunting for fresh material?’

  ‘Both. You know what it’s like — constant pressure to churn it out. But I hate mistakes. I do as much checking as I can.’

  ‘Given the deadlines.’

  ‘Given the deadlines.’

  ‘Right. Why don’t you tell me what you’re working on, what you need. Then I’ll brief you on a couple of our projects, and you can shoot me some questions.’

  ‘Great. I really appreciate —’

  ‘All ears.’

  ‘Okay. I’m working on a piece for next week, about the meth shortage: causes, impact, projections.’

  ‘Most of it’s still made out in the Regions, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve shot a lot of footage out there.’

  ‘Saw a clip on that explosion up country a few weeks ago, a decent-sized manufacturer. That was one of yours, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, that was my story. Cook was killed, two kids never found. Interviewed a local cop, what a bumpkin. No follow-up, story’s dead. Got some great images though, worth re-using. Whole roof blew off the house.’

  ‘Okay. So what do you need?’

  ‘Got expert comment and crying mums, and users are easy enough to shoot. But I’d like a manufacturer, someone who’s currently clinked up. What do you think the chances are?’

  ‘I’ll have to get back to you, but I imagine it could be done. Contra deal. I
t would depend on your angle, of course — what messages we can weave in.’

  ‘What are your thoughts?’

  ‘The shortage would need to be linked to the Security Minister’s new funding announcement, leading up to the election — police numbers, wage increases. All the Crimbust stuff.’

  ‘But that’s not in operation yet, is it?’

  ‘It’s been signed. So, yes, officially it is.’

  ‘Alright. That should be fine. Would the minister do a brief grab?’

  ‘She’s swamped. But I could probably arrange a few words, as long as this story screens prime.’

  ‘Great. So how would that place us, in terms of contra?’

  ‘We don’t need to worry about our contra arrangements, finance will sort that out.’

  ‘True. But what’s your sense here — who’s black and who’s red?’

  ‘They calculate that monthly, retrospectively. Leave it to them.’

  ‘Right. Once the clip airs.’

  ‘After it airs. That’s why they call it reciprocal. They weigh up the end product.’

  ‘Right. Well, I’d love to shoot this before the start of next week.’

  ‘Done. But let’s stay in close contact re. your story angles. You know we’re entering a sensitive period right now: the international security summit coming up in a couple of months, the election later in the year …’

  ‘Sure, these are volatile times.’

  ‘The oil war, the bushfires, the water shortages, civil unrest brewing etcetera. We need to keep tabs on the messages that are circulating. The government can’t be made into a scapegoat for things that fall outside our control. That won’t help anyone.’

  ‘Sure, Luella, I agree completely. I think we understand each other.’

  ‘Alright. So what else are you working on? … Oh, Jesus!’

  ‘Shit, I’m so sorry, Luella. Quick, get a — Excuse me, can we have a cloth? It’s all over … I’m so clumsy. Sorry.’