This last newsclip hadn’t been his best work, he’d known that, but still he’d felt it had a certain charm. So far he’d filed a run of great stories, real hard-edged stuff, and the feedback had been positive — they’d loved the story on the brothel guy, especially that interview with the little kid. But they’d asked for a mix. Why not lighten the mood? A puff piece on a local stunt rat, a rising star on the international action-movie scene … it seemed like a good idea at the time. But as the end scene rolled, as the rat parachuted down slow-mo to land on a polystyrene bomb shaped like a giant cheese, he’d felt a twinge of doubt.
There was silence for a moment before George spoke. ‘What a crock,’ he said. ‘This one’s not going to fly.’
Damon felt his stomach lurch.
Rochelle, usually his ally in these briefing sessions, was doodling carefully on her notepad.
‘I have to agree, Damon,’ Brian said. ‘I just don’t see the news value here. Has this rat been involved in some controversy? Did it attack a co-star, or rescue a small child? Did it walk away from an on-set explosion completely unscathed?’
‘It’s just a rat,’ offered Diana, almost apologetically. ‘It doesn’t even seem that smart. Any rat could do that.’
For once, Damon was stuck. ‘I thought it would work as a nice light segment,’ he ventured.
Brian frowned. ‘You saw the last poll. Viewers have been loving the harder stuff: crime, corruption, all that. That number you did on the subsonic cannon thingo, the prototype, with the guy getting knocked down — that was a gutsy piece. But this one …’
‘I guess what we’re trying to say,’ said Diana, ‘is that the gritty, topical stuff seems to be your forte.’
Damon couldn’t look at them. From the corner of his eye he could see the other journos on his side of the table, heads down like they were deep in prayer. Alice had filed a piece about vitamin-infused biscuits. They were pink. Where was the news value in that?
One of his co-journos, a pimply young guy called Adam, lifted his head briefly to give him a sympathetic look. Last week Adam’s clip about a termite invasion in Subzone 6 had been ditched on the basis of poor visuals. But this was different: this was content.
‘We’re going to have to can this one,’ said George. Trying to hide his inward cringe, Damon did some rapid calculations: bad news on the bills front. Bloodhound covered access costs and basic expenses, and the pay per broadcast clip wasn’t bad, but there were no kill fees for stories that got spiked.
‘I’m sorry,’ Damon managed. ‘I guess I was trying to push the envelope a bit.’
‘Well, push it back,’ ordered George. ‘Don’t fix what ain’t broke, and other applicable clichés.’
‘It’s not a disaster, Damon,’ said Rochelle at last. ‘Your other stories are fine, all the underworld and Polbiz stuff. Maybe focus on those and leave the curiosities to Alice.’
‘Can do,’ Damon had replied. ‘Sure.’
But he wasn’t sure. Things could change so quickly, he thought. You’re only as good as your last story. And other applicable clichés.
Now he really had to dig deep, regain ground, come up with some infallible material. He looked down at his notepad. Under the heading ongoing story ideas, he’d written:
Dead Meat: health dept raid beef-packing plant (16 March). Spk to fixer, confirm live access.
Proj. Streamline: draft dots for L. Find cool angle. Slashing crime? City of tomorrow? City that reads your needs? No more traffic jams? Jesus …
Vandal Scandal: billboard ads insurance scam, chase up w disgruntled staffer (N-Vision Branding)
Cage Fights: confirm dates, sort out disguise (grow beard?), pay X for access
Blood Racket: track down leads — not just rumours. Follow up poss. sources.
Summit Protests: gain trust, get booze budget, get sources on record. Think up cool story title. Power Play? Street Clash? Home-Grown Terror? Note: run angle past L. Keep her happy.
Hidden Persuaders: Moodies — subliminal ads, biz-manip, crowd control. (Angle/peg??) Follow up w Frank at casino for bckgrnd.
The Robot Diet: nuts-and-bolts slimming or deadly scam?
He cursed, crossed out the last entry and sat there staring at the page. It wasn’t a long list, and hardly Pulitzer stuff. This job … it relied on an endless supply of human folly and greed, criminality, bad luck and exploitation. But what if the city should have a quiet week, if nothing bad happened? Already, it seemed, he’d typecast himself: Damon Spark, your inside man on the mean streets. It had its benefits — that woman in the post office, for instance, the one who’d started giving him that sidelong smile, he was pretty sure she recognised his face — but all this dirt-chasing could wear a person down. No wonder he’d resorted to a quirky animal story.
There was stuff going on right here, no doubt, in this immediate neighbourhood — he just had to keep his eyes open. This was the north end of the Interzone, the haunt of all that teetered on the edge of wrongness. Damon looked out the window: a run-down fried-chicken joint, a dog chewing a squashed cardboard box, two kids tagging a wall. A frumpy middle-aged woman walked along carrying a lamp. A heavily tattooed skater rode by. A wizened old man in black stovepipes teetered past. Was it innovative, or desperate, to just pick someone at random and follow them? The question hardly mattered, he decided: at this point, all that counted was results. He swilled down the last of the bitter coffee and made for the door.
[Site Bookings booth, Carnie District, The Quarter: Violet | Diggy | Merlin]
‘You can hold him if you want. But watch he doesn’t pee on you.’
‘He’s so cute! Hello, little one … His ears are so soft. Aww, aren’t you cuddly.’
‘Yup. He’s a sucker for cuddles.’
‘Look at your speckles! He looks like a — what do they call them …’
‘He’s half Dalmatian, that’s the spots. I think the other half is Kelpie.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Ah, Zorro. I just rescued him from the pound. They were about to put him down.’
‘No! Don’t tell me that! Bastards. Look at his little face …’
‘Well, he’s got someone taking care of him now. He’s safe now.’
‘Poor little Zorro … ooh, he’s snuggling up.’
‘Yeah. So, you work for old Merlin, huh?’
‘I’m his stage assistant.’
‘I know, I saw the show. He’s lucky to have you. How long have you been in the job?’
‘Six weeks, maybe seven … He’s giving me some lines soon.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Just getting us some pretzels. Then we gotta go home and practise. This new routine, a juggling trick. I have to catch the balls in a hat.’
‘What’s he paying you?’
‘What?’
‘Sorry, that came out wrong. I just meant, I hope he’s paying you properly?’
‘Look at Zorro, he’s falling asleep on me.’
‘Yeah, he likes you. Hey, I didn’t mean to be nosy, sorry. It’s just that it’s my business.’
‘Being nosy?’
‘No. Ha-ha. Asking questions. I’m kind of a talent scout.’
‘A talent scout.’
‘Yep. All kinds of talent. See that billboard up there?’
‘What … the barbecue one?’
‘No, no, higher up. The toothpaste girl.’
‘Oh yeah. She’s real pretty.’
‘Liza. One of my clients.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Met her in a pizza place, saw she had talent. Gave her some help to get presentable, lined up a couple of auditions, and bam … Five grand, she got for that job. Plus a small fee for me, but that’s separate, paid by the ad agency.’
‘Five gr
and?’
‘Yeah. They put all this special shit in her hair, you know like product, shiny stuff. To make it sparkle for the camera. Three days all up.’
‘Five grand for three days?’
‘Yeah. And she’s got an audition next week, for Neighbours. Things have really turned around for her.’
‘Neighbours … Are you serious?’
‘Dead serious. Look, here’s my card.’
‘Digmond Jones, Talent Agent and Broker. Fancy card. How come you don’t wear a suit?’
‘Well, I’m … Hey, sorry, I didn’t ask your name?’
‘Violet.’
‘Well, Violet, wear a suit round here and everyone looks at you sideways. I’ve got plenty of suits but I never wear them in the Quarter.’
‘—’
‘It’s like this. We’ve got two parallel worlds going on here, Violet: the high life and the low. I’m kind of like the ferry driver — I go between those worlds, link them up.’
‘Right … so what are you saying, I’m some kind of low-life?’
‘No, no. I’m talking about a socio-economic division, a question of haves and have-nots.’
‘I’m not a have-not. I’ve got a job.’
‘Of course. And clearly, you’ve also got talent. All I’m saying is, nobody working in the Quarter has it easy. Life can turn nasty if you don’t have papers. But some people get born with lucky faces. And some … well, maybe we’re meant to help you lucky ones along.’
‘I think I know the kind of help you mean. I’ve heard about that stuff. I’m not interested.’
‘No, you’ve got me wrong. I only deal with clean operators. I have no connections with the skin trade. That’s pure low-life stuff.’
‘Films, that’s what I really want to do. Real films, acting. One day, I mean.’
‘There you go! My cousin is a director.’
‘Really? What films has he made?’
‘Well, he’s my second cousin. But he’s very well connected. Crime stuff mostly, but he wants to go more art-house.’
‘Like noir?’
‘Yeah, sure, noir. Keep my card, okay, Violet? Be good to catch up for a business lunch one day. Talk about your career, where you’d like to take it —’
‘You! What do you want?’
‘Nothing, old fella, no need to yell. Just chatting to Violet here.’
‘You will stay away from her. You and your kind have done enough harm.’
‘Old Merlin … he-heh. Knows talent when he sees it. Getting all protective, hey.’
‘Uh, here, you better take Zorro back.’
‘You’re a parasite, boy. Get out of my sight. Now.’
‘Come on pup. Bye for now, folks, have a good night. Be seeing you round.’
[Railway hoarding, Kipling Street, Richmond: Tally | Blue | Pearl]
Tally watched the night, alert for misplaced sounds and shadows. The smallest thing could signal trouble: footsteps that seemed too soft, a distant car making a u-turn, the scrunch of gravel shifting, just out of sight. She could miss nothing.
They had a code: if the lookout gave one short upwards whistle, that was a warning someone was coming; one long whistle dipping down at the end meant all clear; a series of urgent blasts meant run! Somewhere above her, the soft hiss of a spray can came and went, like the rasp of some nocturnal creature breathing in the shadows. She heard Pearl’s low laugh, the rumble of Blue’s voice, a wet rattle as the can was shaken. Paint fumes floated down.
Camera-wise this was a blind spot, but someone could have seen them coming in. Peering down the dead-end street, she saw nothing but one fizzing streetlight, silent warehouses and tall weeds waving in the warm night breeze. Behind her was the railway hoarding, a sagging line of board and wire, the gloom of the tracks beyond it. A plane rasped by overhead, its lights cutting the sky diagonally in a long line of descent, and Blue’s silhouette popped up on the rooftop as he stepped back to survey his work. There was a clatter as he moved his milk crates and climbed up to spray the next letters.
This was their last job tonight, one of those Dreamtime billboards that had pissed Blue off, the one with all the tourists swarming over that big rock you weren’t supposed to climb. She imagined he was enjoying himself up there now, messing up the ad.
In her jeans pocket was a copy of the list Moz had given them: six billboards to be slashed, six slogans to be sprayed big and clear, with different coloured paints and in different handwriting. To Tally’s relief the trio’s first night of work had gone smoothly, aside from some barbed-wire scratches on her legs, so Moz had teamed them up with Pearl every week for the next month. After that, he’d said, they’d have to lie low while the clean-up crews did their thing and the fuss died down. Diggy had a hand in that racket too, Blue had explained: the clean-up crews and small-time insurance outfits chipped in to fund their night-time vandalism, then charged the companies a bomb to tidy up and put things right. Did protection work too — that’s why they had to be careful round the casino sector, especially the Double Six, his mate owned that. Tally didn’t grasp the whole thing completely, but apparently Diggy ran it and took a big fat cut each way. ‘She don’t need to know all that,’ Pearl had told Blue scornfully. ‘She just needs to not screw up.’
As a team they already had a routine going. Before dark Tally and Blue would wash their faces, comb their hair, pull on some charity-bin clothes clean enough to pass scrutiny. Not her detective coat, Blue insisted, not on these missions: it was too big for her and getting grubby, made her look too much like a streetie. There were distances to cover in this job, so trains were a necessary evil. The transport cops were nasty types but if you washed yourself, kept a low profile and bought a ticket, mostly they stayed off your back.
Just on dusk they’d meet Pearl under the old clocks at Flinders Street Station, then walk to a quiet place down by the river and plot the evening’s work by streetlight, using torn-out pages from an old street directory Tally had found in a bin. Pearl and Blue had certain expert knowledge: the cops hung around Richmond Station till midnight on weekdays, so that ruled it out as an early stop; the rubbish trucks worked the CBD from west to east, so unless you wanted them rumbling behind you all night, it made sense to start out from the east side. The compact spray-cans were easy enough to hide down the front of your pants if you wore something baggy on top. It was best not to make eye contact with anyone. ‘Be like a ghost,’ said Pearl.
Lookout was the best job, but also the most nerve-wracking. Tally didn’t want to think what would happen if they got caught and the blame fell on her. More than once, as they raced from site to site, she felt herself shuffled to the back of the trio as Blue and Pearl kept pace ahead. The first time this happened Pearl looked back. ‘Keep an eye out behind us, make sure we don’t get followed,’ she instructed.
From beyond the fence rose a barely perceptible sound, the hum of rails vibrating under a distant weight. ‘Train,’ Tally called up softly. Pearl stuck her head over the edge. ‘Shush, Squirt,’ she whispered. ‘Almost done.’ The corrugated roof winced as Pearl and Blue pressed themselves down flat against it. A roar gathered in the near distance and white light slid across surfaces, throwing a fan of shadows over the road, the buildings, the fence. Then the train was on them in a rush of noise and light. A horn blast, loud enough to cover a scream, and Tally tensed in fright as the sound tore through her. She dropped to her knees and crouched against the fence, hands over ears, as the thing stormed past them just metres away. The noise tailed off, and she listened to her blood pulsing in her head. The roof creaked; then the hissing sound began again.
A minute later Pearl stuck her head over the edge. ‘Give us a hand, Squirt,’ she said softly, then turned and dangled one thin leg down into the dark.
Last week they’d parted ways near Southern Cross Station around t
hree in the morning, Pearl stepping off the kerb and throwing a ‘See ya’ over her shoulder, Tally and Blue setting out for home via the backstreets.
Tonight’s run had been shorter: by two they were finished up. They left their last billboard a safe distance behind them, caught their breath and found themselves heading for the river by silent consent. The air had taken a cool turn, and Pearl rubbed her bare arms. ‘Got some clothes stashed down here,’ she said. ‘And some beers. Youse want one?’
She disappeared into the bushes. When she finally came out she was clasping a plastic bag and swatting at her face. ‘Fucking cobwebs!’ she yelped. ‘Hate ’em.’
‘Pearl’s real scared of spiders,’ said Blue.
‘Bullshit,’ said Pearl. ‘Just cos you hate something doesn’t mean you scared of it.’
‘I hate pork,’ offered Tally. ‘Tastes like how a pig smells.’
‘So you scared of pigs?’ asked Pearl. She stood there jiggling.
‘Nope.’
‘Well then.’
Blue didn’t say anything, just took the long-neck Pearl held out. He squatted down, laid the bottle against the lip of the concrete path, gave it a sharp kick to pop the lid off. Tally took her beer, peered down to find the magic spot, but Blue held out his hand and opened hers the same way. Pearl just prised off the cap with her broken teeth, her face all squinted up.
‘Let’s sit up there,’ she pointed, ‘out of sight a bit.’ Nimble as a deer, she scampered up a slope of dead grass that overlooked the river; they followed, Tally’s legs trembling from all the climbing and jumping they’d already done that night. Near the top the slope dipped into a neat hollow, almost like a couch. They settled in there, lay back side by side against the earth, Tally in the middle. Behind them stood the tall buildings of the Commerce Zone, whole blocks of lit rectangles stretching upwards. Higher still, in the bright glow of the radio towers set on top, winged things flew in circles — birds or bats, you couldn’t tell from here. Tally stared up at those wheeling scraps, her beer balanced on her ribs. The liquid tilted as she breathed.
‘Are there people up in there all night? They work this late?’
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