Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

  So the story didn’t end badly. But there was one thing Violet needed to know. ‘Did he ever give her any lines?’

  Sherri frowned. ‘Lines?’

  But a waiter had swooped in at her elbow, a sarcastic-looking guy in a grubby t-shirt and elasticised bow tie, and Macy snatched up the drinks menu. ‘Thank god,’ she said. ‘We’re dying of thirst over here.’

  Moscow Mule. Flaming Goanna. Appletini. Down Mexico Way.

  Sherri half raised her glass, mulled it over and finally held the drink aloft. ‘Ladies, I propose a toast to my new haircut: a hundred smackeroos well spent.’ They clinked glasses, Macy warning Violet to meet everyone’s eyes or risk a lifetime of bad sex (‘Too late,’ said the other two in unison). Lena toasted the uprising. ‘What uprising?’ said Macy, and Lena shook her head. ‘Don’t you watch the box? The world’s going to hell in a handbasket. People ain’t happy, trouble is brewing.’ Macy snorted. ‘The box is so full of shit.’ She raised her glass to make her own toast — a deposit for a one-bedroom unit, halfway there and counting, provided she could stay away from the casino, that is — and downed a third of her Appletini in one swallow. Sherri drank a toast to her sister in Perth, who was getting married soon. ‘I miss her,’ she said, her face solemn for a moment.

  Violet blocked out this comment. She focused hard on her breathing, willing her heartbeat to calm itself: it was her turn. She thought for a second then raised her glass. ‘To showbiz, I guess.’ She let out her breath, pleased she had held it together, not let the bad thoughts in or said the wrong thing; there were nods, clinking glasses and eye contact, and before very long, talk of another round.

  The orange-juice dream seemed to go on forever. There were litres of it, splashing around wetly, sloshing into overflowing glasses. Violet drank and drank, but could never get enough, was horribly thirsty. Surfacing from sleep she realised the juice was just a cruel trick, that it didn’t exist, but the thirst itself was all too real.

  Her room was dark except for a strip of light under the door. Her head pounded like a squeezed fist, pain shooting through her eye sockets with every beat, and her mouth tasted like a birdcage floor — and like something else too, the sour and unmistakable taste of vomit. Violet groped around for the matches. Her hand landed in something cold and slimy.

  She opened the door, and light from the hallway revealed the damage: a vomit-spattered towel bunched on wet floorboards, a glass of water knocked over, a suspicious mix of liquid soaking into the edge of the mattress. Someone, Macy probably, had moved the matches and candles as far from the bed as possible. Violet was still fully dressed, but her shoes were placed neatly by the door, her wig hooked over a nail. She had no memory of coming home, but the night swam in her head like a collection of hazy out-takes: Lena and Sherri dancing rock’n’roll style, twirling each other around, sure-footed on the crowded dance floor; a round of flaming shots on a tray, blue fire licking across the surface of the liquid, Lena showing her how to huff out the flame; a bleary-eyed man leaning over their table, staring at Violet, slurring a half-intelligible comment before the older women turned on him, sending him backing away, palms raised defensively; Lena plucking an unlit cigarette from Violet’s lips, shaking her head, ‘Wrong way round, goose’; a gentle admonition, a tall glass of water, Sherri helping her into her coat, then up some steep stairs. Then a blank. That’s all she could remember.

  Now she lit a candle and peered in the mirror. She didn’t recognise the girl looking back: spooked raccoon eyes, black rivulets down her cheeks — had she been crying? — hair askew, a matted reddish clump. She had to get herself cleaned up.

  The water was hot for once. Violet fed in coins and stood under the thin stream for a long time with her mouth open, swallowing now and then, rotating slowly to spread the heat, her skin turning pink. She dried herself in the narrow cubicle and pulled on the polka-dot robe Macy had given her. Halfway up the stairs she met Macy coming down, a dark shape against the landing window, one hand groping in her bag, the other applying lipstick. Macy stopped and let out a low whistle. ‘How’s your head?’ she asked.

  Violet felt ashamed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drink so much.’

  As they drew level Macy peered at her; she looked distracted, but her voice was sympathetic. ‘Don’t worry, love, happens to us all. Fun night. But I should have vetoed that last Mojito.’ Violet held on to the banister while Macy rifled through her bag, pressed a blister pack into her hand. ‘Ibuprofen,’ she said. ‘Eat a greasy breakfast, take two of these and drink plenty of water. You working tonight?’ Violet nodded, swallowing the question she wanted to ask. Did I do anything stupid last night? Did I embarrass you? ‘You should be right in a few hours,’ said Macy. ‘Take it easy on yourself, hon. I’m running late for work, catch you later.’ A quick smile and she was gone.

  Had Violet blown it? The anxiety niggled at her. Macy had seemed a bit distant, but then she was late for work. Anyway there was no point in dwelling on it now. She had a room to clean up, a head to nurse back to health and, in just a few hours, a job to do. On the dot of five, Merlin would be waiting for her in the foyer to run through tonight’s act; the alarm clock by her bed was already sneaking towards midday.

  Mopping up the mess on her floor, she decided the towel was not worth saving: the smell would stick in its fibres, a reminder of her own foolishness, her lack of control. She’d throw it out — she had a spare. She hid it in a plastic bag, washed her hands thoroughly and dabbed some rose oil on her neck, laced up her sneakers and padded downstairs. The desk clerk was in his usual position, listening to the greyhound races on the radio. He nodded hello, just like normal.

  ‘Hi Kev,’ she said, clearing a rattle from her throat. ‘Where are the bins — out the back?’ He pointed to the fire exit: down the alley, hang a right.

  It stunk out here. The ground was littered with detritus, and gusts of wind shot down the narrow chute between the buildings, stirring up litter and acrid smells. A can rattled back and forth, the sound bouncing loud against the concrete walls. In the gap overhead hung a thin strip of sky, grey and dirty-looking. She hurried to the nearest bin and lifted the lid.

  There, on top of the rubbish, lay a spent white shape: feathers splayed and soiled, claws clenched shut, one dead eye staring up at nothing, absolutely still. Violet spun away as the nausea rose in her throat, and her empty stomach lurched against her ribs. Bent double, she placed her palm against the concrete wall and gave in to the nausea, her mind a perfect blank.

  [Unmarked shopfront, shopping strip 3, Subzone 18: Milk | Chase]

  ‘Oh, Milkman … it’s you … What’s happening?’

  ‘Not much, just dropping by to pick up my groceries.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘Okay … So are you going to let me in, or what?’

  ‘Sure, guess so.’

  [—]

  ‘What’s up, Chase? You been getting high on your own supply again?’

  ‘No, Milkman. To be quite frank I’m not so happy with you right now. Come the fuck inside, hurry up.’

  ‘What? I paid upfront last time, we’re all square.’

  ‘Yeah, Milky, you’re my number one customer, but I can’t be having this kind of attention on me. Not from the straights, I got no credit there.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve got stuff to do. Please, Chase, just spit it out.’

  ‘Some Polbiz chick came knocking here, looking for you.’

  ‘What? Way the hell out here — she came to the outer subzones?’

  ‘Yep. Short little shaved-head chick, dressed all tidy like some lesbo crime-show bitch. Big old wide-eyed stare on her. She came to my door, my personal door, looking for you. So … what the fuck?’

  ‘What are you on about? That can’t be right. Nobody knows I come out here. Exactly when was this?’

 
‘It was exactly three days ago, Milk.’

  ‘Why didn’t you message me?’

  ‘I’m not your secretary or any other bastard’s. I got a degree in chemical engineering. I’ve done time and I don’t need straights sniffing round here. You want to be more careful who you mix with.’

  ‘I don’t know any tidy girl with a shaved head. What did she say?’

  ‘Said she was looking for this super-talented underground moodie they call Milk — that’s her words, not mine. Said she had a job offer for him.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘What do you think? Nothing, just played dumb. What’s a moodie? Never heard of a dude called Milk. Stupid-sounding name.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Look, man, I don’t mean to break your balls, it’s just I thought we had a private arrangement. You know I’m undoc, and that was my choice, to start over. But I got rent and bills and —’

  ‘And the last thing you need is Polbiz types sniffing round. I know. But I have no idea who you’re talking about. Jesus, now you’ve got me worried. I’m so tired, Chase. Been burning the candle both ends, and I swear I don’t know why anyone would be looking for me. I just make my living and keep my head down.’

  ‘Fine, let’s just run through your order and get that sorted, okay? No hard feelings, you’re still my best customer. Hell, you’re a friend. But maybe you should use the back door from now on. And check you don’t get followed.’

  ‘Chase, I’d apologise, if I had any idea what the hell you’re on about. But I don’t know this person and I can’t take responsibility for them. My nose is clean and my conscience is clear. So can we just get on with it?’

  ‘Sure. Forget it, man. Alright … check this out. I’ve got two newbies this month. I call this first one Purple Haze. Gonna knock your socks off, Milkman.’

  ‘Okay, great. Talk me through it.’

  ‘Think of it as the elephant tranquilliser of aromas: the big calm, eye of the storm. Subdue any fucker inside ten seconds. You with me? You ready?’

  ‘Yeah, okay, hit the button.’

  ‘Hey, pull that blind down, will ya? Your little visitor’s put the shits up me.’

  ‘She’s nothing to do with me. Better have a big sniff yourself. You need to calm down, this paranoid stuff doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘Alright, alright. Here we go …’

  ‘Uh. Yeah. Whoa. I see what you mean.’

  ‘See? Here, sit down.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. Whooooaaa! Oh yes, indeed that is, what do we call it, I mean it’s … Nice.’

  ‘Hehe. Told ya so. That feels better, huh? Much better. Lasts about ten minutes.’

  ‘Whew, I’m sideways. Give me a minute or two.’

  [—]

  ‘Okay, the verdict: it’s a fine piece of work, Chase. Might just be a curio, not sure where I could use it, but still a fine piece of work.’

  ‘Come on, Milkman, you’ll find a use for it. You always do.’

  CHAPTER 9:

  TALENT

  [Old glue factory, Warde Street, The Quarter: Tally | Blue | Pearl | various undocs]

  The party was roughly a twenty-minute walk from home, counting stops to hitch up pants and check their bearings; Tally’s belt had broken and her jeans had developed a habit of trying to slither off. They got there just on dusk and picked their way through the gloom of the abandoned factory building, guided by a buzz of voices and music, Tally sticking close behind Blue.

  A trail of sparks rose from behind a busted brick wall, and they walked through a gap into a shell of a room that opened onto the sky. There were figures scattered amongst the weeds and rubble, a fire burning in a drum, hip-hop clanking on a dinky stereo; cigarette smoke and the sweet stink of dope. Faces turned towards them, and someone raised a cup aloft in greeting.

  There were twenty-five people tops, Tally guessed, perched on milk crates and piles of blackened bricks, or just standing around. Blue had heard about the party that night he didn’t come home, when he was out searching for his old crew to ask them about that girl Junie who’d been found under the bridge. He said he’d know people there, but anyone was welcome. ‘Open house,’ he’d said. ‘Got no roof.’ She liked to catch his rare smiles. His face creased up like a happy kid and that made her grin too.

  ‘Keg!’ called a voice. ‘Grab a cup, it’s going fast.’

  ‘Fell off the back of a truck,’ said someone else.

  Introductions were brief but friendly enough. The burned-out factory was on the edge of the forgotten Maribyrnong River, a dank and boggy waterway that smelled like it had taken its last gasp; the occasion was Easter, whatever that meant. As a friend of Blue’s had put it when he’d passed on the invitation: ‘Any excuse for a piss-up!’

  You could see the city from here, a cluster of bright stalagmites. Despite the location, there was something lovely about the geometry of the ruined factory, a set of shapes that had not quite succumbed to the forces of destruction.

  Blue was busy exchanging a complicated handshake with the guy who’d invited them, so Tally found a vantage point near the fire to assess the situation. She recognised a couple of faces and saw one of Diggy’s crew members, a chubby kid called Ralph, the one Moz always picked on worst. He nodded at her; she nodded back, then stood there wondering if she should go over and say something, or find a seat, or what. Hard to tell what the rules were.

  When they were younger, Max had dragged Grace and her along to a few parties, rowdy nights full of spilled beer and smoke butts, lurching bodies and shrieking laughter, sometimes a fight out in the backyard, but this seemed like a more subdued affair. It was early, Tally reminded herself. Parties always started off quiet.

  Two dark-skinned girls were toasting marshmallows over the fire, and the sweet smell of burned sugar gave Tally a familiar pang. We used to do that. A white blob caught alight; there was a hiss of blue flame and a squeal of laughter. ‘Blow on it, quick, blow on it!’ said the older girl.

  ‘Pour them kids a drink,’ instructed a weathered old man sitting on a milk crate near the fire. His teeth were chalky stumps, but he perched on the crate primly, like it was some kind of throne. He should have looked ridiculous, but there was a kind of dignity about him, although Tally could pick no reason for it.

  Blue handed her a plastic cup of beer and took a seat, waved her to a nearby crate, still talking to his friend in a low voice. She waited to be introduced, but they were deep in discussion about people she did not know. Conversations rose and fell from nearby huddles, but nobody was looking her way.

  ‘What happened to the roof?’ she said loudly to no one in particular.

  The old man grunted. ‘Some kids were living here last year, with tomato plants and chickens and everything. Fell asleep and didn’t put the campfire out properly. Bloody lucky they didn’t get barbecued.’

  ‘What about the chickens, did they escape?’ asked Tally. She’d always liked those goofy birds.

  ‘Chickens? Went up to the great Kentucky Fried in the sky,’ said the old guy, wheezing at his own joke. ‘Straight to drumstick heaven!’

  That was the kind of crack she’d never found funny. ‘Well, I hope they got out,’ she said. ‘We had chickens once. This one called Mindy was real smart — we taught her to be a stunt chicken. She’d balance on your head.’

  Nobody said anything. The girls blew on their marshmallows.

  ‘You can train chickens,’ added Tally. ‘They’re actually quite intelligent.’

  ‘Train ’em into a frypan,’ chortled the old man. ‘That’s my kind of chicken.’

  More people showed up, the stereo got louder and the party spread further into the roofless room. A man with matted hair busted up a wooden chair and put the bits into the fire drum. Sparks flew into the sky, and Ta
lly watched them snaking upwards, a line of dots and dashes vanishing on the wind. She sipped her beer and watched new faces emerge from behind the wall, into the light and sound.

  ‘Keg,’ she remarked casually to a couple of new arrivals. ‘Fell off the back of a truck, grab a cup.’ Her position, to one side of the hole that served as a doorway, meant she could monitor all comings and goings.

  The old man squinted at her. ‘Who ya barrack for, kid?’

  ‘Eh?’

  He repeated himself, but still it made no sense. Barack, she thought — that old president guy, the one who got shot in the leg?

  ‘Richmond, St Kilda, what? Ya bloody footy team. Who’s your team?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I don’t have one.’

  The old man looked offended. ‘What, you’re an Aussie, aren’t ya? Not like these bloody raghead tunnel kids, wouldn’t know one end of a footy from the other.’ He jerked his head at the marshmallow girls, who ignored him.

  ‘I don’t have a team. I’m not from around here,’ she said.

  He snorted. ‘That don’t matter, you barrack for a team or you’re not a real Aussie.’

  ‘I used to play softball at school, up north,’ she offered. ‘Once I hit a home run and they never found the ball — I coulda run round and round all day.’

  But the old man shook his head and went back to his beer.

  Blue was tapping her on the arm. His friend rummaged in a shopping bag and held up two ovals wrapped in coloured foil. ‘Hollow or cream-filled?’ he said. ‘Scored a whole lot of Easter eggs. Bit broken but they’re fine.’ Tally chose a big red one, peeled open the foil, poked at the dented-in shell to break off a piece. It was good. Eggs were passed around, wrappers winking in the firelight. ‘Mugged the Easter bunny, did ya,’ said a guy Tally had seen a few times at the soup van. ‘Don’t give me that rubbish,’ snapped the old man. ‘Ya know I can’t eat sweets.’