Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

  ‘When will he be better?’

  Kev shook his head. ‘Not for a long time. The guy’s heading for eighty. It was bound to happen sooner or later.’

  Violet was conscious of the envelope in her hand, but there were questions to ask first. ‘What hospital’s he in? Shall I go visit him?’

  He shook his head again. ‘He’s all drugged up for the pain, best to just let him rest. I rang his niece and she’s going to keep an eye on him, keep me posted.’

  Now she looked down at the white rectangle. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Old coot was in terrible pain, but his niece brought it in for you. Carol, her name was. He’s given you a week’s wages, plus a couple hundred extra. He says can you feed the birds for a week or two until he sorts something out.’ Kev looked glum and gestured downward at his belly. ‘I can’t be climbing up there, obviously. Don’t have a climber’s physique, do I.’

  She should have been afraid but all she felt was blankness. She opened the envelope: five grubby $100 notes.

  ‘He said to tell you he’ll be back, what was it, treading the boards again in a few months, that was his words, and he hopes you’ll still be around. But meantime, he understands …’ Kev trailed off, raised his hands.

  ‘But what do I do?’ she asked.

  Kev was riffling through a notebook, reaching for the phone, and he didn’t look up. ‘Sorry, Violet love, I don’t know what else to tell you. It’s hard luck.’

  She went straight up to Macy’s room, but there was no answer to her knock. She stood there in the corridor, her mind a blur of images: crumpled feathers, the cage up on the roof, Merlin putting one hand to the small of his back; a trick deck of cards, the stage curtains drawn shut, Macy heading out into the night. What the hell was she meant to do now? Improvise, she heard the director say. Things go wrong all the time, a talented actor turns the situation to their advantage. She could fall apart, but what would that achieve? She’d done that unravelling scene many times already, sometimes for an audience. She knew how to ad lib: on those rare occasions when something had gone wrong on stage — she’d missed a cue or fumbled a prop, been interrupted by a wolf-whistle — she’d soldiered on, kept the show on track. In her mind’s eye she saw Merlin’s grave nod. ‘You’re a natural,’ he’d said. ‘Stagecraft is all about fantasy, my dear, and you know how to sustain it.’

  But now she had no stage, no audience and no role; she was nobody all over again. The question of survival was what stirred the first flutter of panic, but deeper down another anxiety twisted in her gut: how would she fill up her days now? How would she keep the dark thoughts at bay? Violet collected her cigarettes and the dregs of last night’s wine cask, and headed up to the roof to feed the birds and pray that an idea would come to her.

  [12/26 Park Place, South Yarra, Subzone 2: various unidentified dissidents. See file ps-843b for profile details]

  ‘Go ahead. Explain it to us.’

  ‘Yeah, please explain.’

  ‘The problem is, even the private messaging system’s subject to filtering. They flag certain words and, pop, you land in the suspect folder. And everything’s traceable.’

  ‘So how else are we meant to spread the word? It has to be immediate so we can mobilise before the cops even hear about it.’

  ‘I guess it’s the only way. Word of mouth’s no good, just turns into Chinese whispers.’

  ‘So we get a bunch of disposable handsets and we send out two lots of messages: the first lot are a decoy, full of trigger words and phrases to trip the filter — protest, security summit, riot, uprising … fight government control. Uh …’

  ‘… police brutality, gather, march, placards …’

  ‘Yeah, yeah … civil liberties, human rights, injustice, threat … surveillance, profiling … um, undocs …’

  ‘… Smash the state! Grow your hair!’

  ‘… Cover me, I’m goin’ in!’

  ‘Good thinking, 99!’

  ‘Shut up, you two.’

  ‘And we send those alerts out amongst the decoy phones themselves — back and forth, you know, lay a false trail.’

  ‘This is all getting very ASIO.’

  ‘No kidding, Anna. Welcome to the real world.’

  ‘Bear with me. So we send out these decoy messages, right, using say ten of those handpieces — then, get this, we send the real message out from different handpieces, making sure it’s carefully coded.’

  ‘Who’s going to draft them? No, not you two fools. Come on, this is serious.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Great. Couple of hours?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll bring back two versions for discussion.’

  ‘Thanks. Now, anything else? I vote someone goes for coffee.’

  ‘Yeah, I got a question. If we’re mobilising dissidents electronically, doesn’t that cut out the very people we’re trying to speak up for?’

  ‘We’ve been through this. The undoc population doesn’t have the capacity to mobilise against this — they’re too busy surviving. That’s why it’s up to us. There’s thousands of us in the city, the inner ’burbs and upper subzones.’

  ‘Yeah, but do you see what I mean?’

  ‘Of course. You want to go down the Quarter and rustle up some troops? No, didn’t think so. So let’s just work with what we’ve got.’

  ‘White with two sugars, thanks.’

  ‘One sugar for me.’

  ‘Who said I was going for coffee?’

  ‘Black no sugar, thanks.’

  ‘And how am I meant to remember all that?’

  ‘Write it down, Mr PhD.’

  [Abandoned glass factory, Old Docks, South Interzone: Tally | Blue]

  The nights were getting colder now so they had to sleep under blankets: one each — Blue had picked them up from the St Vinnie’s van. Straight off Tally had protested that she didn’t want the girlie pink one, but now she felt kind of bad that Blue was stuck with it; he hadn’t seemed to care either way, but rolled up in that bubblegum-coloured fuzz he looked strangely vulnerable, like he had to take whatever he could get. It was too late to swap back now. Mental note, she thought: Think before you talk. Look after number two.

  At her insistence they’d scratched out the checkerboard on the floor again and were playing by candlelight with bottle caps for checkers. This time Blue was VB, she was Coke; red went first, but so far the head start wasn’t helping her much.

  ‘You gotta jump me,’ said Blue patiently.

  ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘You can stay there, I won’t jump ya.’

  ‘It’s the rules. If you can jump, you gotta jump.’

  She relented, jumped one of his men off the board, and promptly got triple-jumped herself. Blue made it to the far side and crowned himself king by turning his bottle cap upside down.

  She was getting sleepy. It had been a long, exhausting day, and they’d eaten a big meal that evening, the leftovers from some corporate do in a chain pub next to the casinos: roast beef and potatoes, coleslaw and these little egg tart things, even some cream-filled meringues to finish off. The unfamiliar fullness was making her limbs feel heavy.

  Earlier that night, after watching the suits stuffing their faces on the other side of the glass, they’d snuck round behind the building, found a cardboard box and started carefully sorting through the discarded food in the cleanest of the bins. When a waitress had suddenly stepped out into the alley, an unlit cigarette in her mouth, they leaped away like rabbits and hid behind a dumpster, hearts banging while she finished her smoke and went back inside. But the woman soon returned, holding a plate stacked high with food, glancing over her shoulder towards the kitchen. She peered out into the dark, straight at their dumpster, and they peered back. She held the plate high for a few moments under the light, then placed it on the l
id of a recycling bin. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

  As soon as the coast was clear they’d crept over to retrieve the paper plate, which sagged under the weight of the food she’d piled upon it. There was enough for two, and it was all good stuff, nothing chewed or mangled.

  ‘I love that lady,’ said Tally.

  They put the plate into the box and headed for home: better to get in and out fast, said Blue, and this would do them nicely. He’d had to convince her that leaving a thank-you note would only land the woman in hot water.

  Tally tried to focus on the checkers game. She’d been in tears earlier that afternoon but had hidden them from Blue, heading outside to walk around the block and get it out of her system. He didn’t need more drama, she figured.

  The day had not delivered on its promise. After a restless night — a long stretch of darkness in which she did no more than skim the surface of sleep, barely dipping into its depths — she’d jerked awake at dawn and lain there wide-eyed, watching the sun creep through a crack in the window-board. Blue was a light sleeper so she tried to be quiet; she jotted down some observations in her notebook, marked out their route from last night, the location of the burned-out factory. Her pencil rustled against the page for some time before he began to stir.

  ‘You awake?’ she whispered loudly.

  He lay there a few moments, then grumbled ‘no’, so she let him be for another half-hour, until she couldn’t wait any longer. They had a lot of ground to cover — no point getting a late start. An impatient sigh finally roused him.

  The first thing to do, they’d agreed, was get new batteries for Tally’s camera: the image of Grace had to last all day, so she’d buy spares from the Quik-Mart on the edge of the city. And before they began their search, Blue had insisted, they’d also pick up their pay from Moz. With that task out of the way they could concentrate on their detective work, aim to cover a decent section of the Quarter while it was still light.

  They tidied themselves up, drank a long swig of water each, made Tally a belt from a bit of old rope, and set off for the city. But they’d barely reached the edge of the Old Docks before Tally felt a prickle in the atmosphere, something amiss with the consistency of the air. Vague sounds bounced towards them — the muffled bark of recorded speech, the chop of a helicopter. This section of the Interzone was usually dead space, a derelict area marked by silence, an air of long-abandoned machines and tumble-down buildings. In these disused laneways they seldom came across other people, and those rare souls they had encountered always passed by quietly without drawing attention, bound for some private business or sleeping spot of their own.

  Now the scattergun shots of running feet, and three kids rounded the corner at a sprint, legs scrambling at the air like panicked animals. The kids flailed down the alley towards them, faces set in the grimace of flight, breath rasping. No time to pull back from that flurry of limbs, blood streaked down a forehead and hot, tear-wet faces; a moment of eye contact then they were gone, just the fading sound of sneakers slapping concrete. Tally stared dumbly after them. Before she could open her mouth, another noise emerged: a low roar punctuated by honks, an uneasy rumble, faint but unmistakably sour in tone. As they turned a corner they heard it, the blurred holler of a voice yelling into a megaphone; a three-syllable chant and its ragged echo, the sound of a crowd responding.

  Now, at the far end of the street, they saw a dozen people drifting their way, some staggering with their heads down, or arms looped over shoulders. One man broke through and ran along the middle of the road, knees and elbows pumping. Tally and Blue drew back into a doorway as he pounded closer, but he didn’t look their way, just kept running. His face was contorted and he left a ragged sobbing noise in his wake.

  ‘What the fuck?’ said Blue.

  More bodies were spilling around the corner, some holding sticks or poles topped by bent cardboard signs, the words hard to read from here. Tally shaded her eyes and squinted: NO SUMMIT! read one placard. ID-NET = BIG BROTHER read another.

  Two young women hurried past, coughing and unsteady, hands to their faces. ‘Don’t go down there,’ warned one. ‘The riot squad’s throwing gas canisters, protest got out of hand.’ Her top was torn at the neckline, but the two were both well dressed; they didn’t look or talk like streeties.

  ‘What is it? What’s going on?’ Tally called after them, but the women were already hurrying into the maze of laneways behind her.

  ‘Where are we?’ one asked her friend, still coughing. ‘How do we get back?’

  More people were appearing now, and the noise of the unseen crowd was growing louder. It made no sense to keep heading in that direction.

  ‘We’ll have to go around,’ Tally said. ‘Take the long way.’

  ‘What long way?’ said Blue. ‘Jase said that whole part of the Docks is a no-go.’

  ‘We can go round,’ Tally insisted. ‘Loop around the whole grid and come in from the top.’ She started walking back the way they’d come. She didn’t say you promised, but when she glanced back Blue’s long lope was catching up with her.

  They kept the trouble to their left and cut through the backstreets to come out in sight of the Princess Bridge. A few cops swaggered around in nervous groups of four, heads swivelling ostentatiously as they spoke into headsets, but there was no sign of the upheaval further west. Tourists snapped photos against the backdrop of the Yarra River, despite its scum of floating litter; trams dinged and screeched, commuters came and went. Tally and Blue crossed the bridge, skirted the Commerce Zone, and as the sun inched higher they looped back across the top of the city, heading for the top of the Interzone. To the south-west, helicopters circled in the sky, and a siren rose from that direction now and then, but otherwise the soundscape had returned to normal.

  ‘Long way round alright,’ remarked Blue. He pointed to a Quik-Mart. ‘Batteries,’ he reminded her.

  Tally’s feet were sore already, but she didn’t care. At last the trail was leading somewhere, she could feel it, and she’d walk till her feet were bloody stumps if she had to. Be there, she willed. It had to be Grace.

  To reach the Quarter, Blue suggested, they could walk along the verge of the old highway; made more sense than risking the new tunnel, with its exposed walkway, and quicker than trekking down to the old one. Besides, he had to stop off somewhere, just for a sec. Since they were already going that direction.

  It was late morning, and Tally was growing impatient when they stopped outside a wrecker’s yard in a run-down block.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Blue promised. ‘Then we go get our pay and look for your sis.’

  Behind the chain-link mesh, old car bodies hulked in rusted rows. A skinny German Shepherd trotted over to them, barking and snarling, but Blue poked his finger through the fence and spoke in a low voice, and the dog sniffed at him, gave a half-hearted lick and lost interest.

  A man in filthy orange overalls was approaching them, tools clinking on his belt. As he drew closer Tally felt his scowl turn on her.

  ‘Kid,’ he said, nodding to Blue, shooting him an appraising glance. ‘Who’s your mate here?’

  So Blue knew this man.

  ‘Just a friend,’ Blue answered, and there was something careful in his voice now. ‘Thought I’d stop by to check up on the old girl.’ He was staring at something through the fence.

  The man gave a laugh without humour. ‘Same as ever, ready when you are. How’s the savings going?’

  ‘I got two-fifty,’ said Blue.

  Tally looked at him in surprise. He had two-fifty what — bucks?

  ‘And I got your deposit, so only another six hundred to go.’ The man had a gravelly voice. Grease was lodged in the pores of his face, and his big stomach seemed to strain against the overalls like a hungry creature sniffing out food. He shook his head and smirked. ‘Can’t see it happening myself.’<
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  ‘I’ll get the money,’ Blue said levelly.

  Tally followed their eyes. Parked against the wall of a sagging shed was an old Land Rover that had once been yellow. Through the nicks and black marks in the paintwork she could just make out the words Road Maintenance on the door. In the tray were a stack of faded orange cones and a couple of road signs. MERGE, commanded one.

  The man leaned into the mesh of the fence, his belly pressing against it. He breathed down on them but he was only interested in Blue, looking him up and down in a way Tally did not like.

  ‘You want your deposit back?’ the man asked. Then he poked one dirty finger through the fence and touched Blue’s cheek, a move that was both strangely tender and sickening at once. Tally stopped breathing.

  Blue barely flinched, shook his head. ‘Don’t sell it to anyone else. I’ll get the money.’

  ‘Offer still stands,’ the man said. Now he was stroking his belly, and Tally recoiled, her heart banging in her chest. ‘You know where I am.’ The man whistled the dog to heel and walked off.

  Tally turned to Blue. Her throat felt thick. ‘You going somewhere?’ she croaked, but he wouldn’t look at her. He had both fists in his jeans pockets; they were clenched, she knew, around his two lucky stones.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, already walking. ‘We both got stuff to do.’

  They had worked their way across the Quarter methodically, starting in the west and zigzagging north–south, almost reaching the verge of the Carnie District. But their search had led to nothing. They’d walked for almost nine hours straight, asking everyone they met. Most said the picture was too blurred to make any sense of; some insisted that it could be anyone. Several refused to even glance at the image, and one crazy man threatened them with a scrawny fist, yelling something about the men in black. ‘My cousin’s got hair exactly like that,’ said one girl. Another had simply pointed at a looped video ad suspended over the freeway: a shampoo commercial featuring three beautiful girls, one blonde, one brunette and one long-haired redhead, with matching lipsticked smiles and white teeth. The ad winked off, and a new one took its place. ‘Good luck,’ the girl had said.