The Big Smoke

by Jason Nahrung

  Greaser sneered. 'Aren't you all cut up about your boyfriend?'

  'He's, he's gone, and I'm… I've got no one.'

  Greaser snorted as she got back in the car.

  'The other girls hated me for being Johnny's. I don't have anywhere to go.'

  Greaser stuck her head out of the window. 'There's the factory.'

  The pleading gave way to mettle. 'Do I look like a dairy cow to you?'

  'Sure.'

  'I should rip your tits off, Snipe.'

  Kevin sat in the driver's seat and Rabbit tottered behind him, more assured on bitumen. She caught the door before he closed it. 'Wait.'

  He stared at her.

  'I'm a good top girl. The best. We could look after each other. Better than any Snipe. She's not even a red-eye, just a chewie.'

  'Greaser's not my top girl. I don't keep favourites. You should get out, while you can.'

  She let go the door. 'You'll be sorry. They'll take your head, and I just hope I'm there to see it!'

  In the rear-view mirror, Kevin saw her hugging herself as she watched them drive off. Then she turned and started trudging in the opposite direction.

  'Will she be all right?' he asked.

  'That sort always is. She'll find someone new to abuse her.'

  Greaser gave him directions to get back to the northside.

  Once he was on the main drag, he asked, 'So who do you think put them on to me? Someone going behind Maximilian's back?'

  'You should talk to the Needle or Mel about it. They're up with all that stuff.'

  'I might just do that,' Kevin said. 'So you're not a red-eye, eh.'

  'I'm just a Snipe. Eyes and ears for the Needle. Errand girl.'

  'Chewie?'

  'Don't get any ideas. No one slurps on me.'

  'I said I was sorry.'

  'Whatever.'

  'I've just not heard of a chewie before. So Mel isn't one of the Needle's Snipes. She's with Blake and his bunch of—'

  'Romantics.'

  'Yeah, real romantic. Why do you do it, then?'

  'The Needle's a good man. He keeps us safe.'

  They hit the Story Bridge, lanes of traffic thudding across under the skeletal twin peaks. The city rose to their left, the shorter, shadowed Valley waiting to their right.

  'Mel's kind of friends with everyone,' Greaser said. 'It's the way she is. I hope she's okay.' She pulled out her phone and made a call. 'The Needle says to go to ground till we hear from him.' She pointed to the left. 'Maybe swing past Blake's; see if Mel's got in touch. He should know where she's at, given their blood link and all.'

  Kevin followed the sign to the city. 'As long as he doesn't want me to recite poetry.'

  EIGHTEEN

  He was going to be late for drinks.

  The security men marched Reece to the quartermaster's office on 2 where he was issued new interim ID. He'd also had to forfeit all false documentation for dealing with the mundane world, but he didn't mention the off-the-books dossiers that he considered to be his insurance policy, tucked away off-base at several bolt holes. No point dealing with forgers if you couldn't get the occasional favour done.

  He wasn't allowed to return to his room. A carton of his belongings was delivered for him to store in a locker in the barracks. Half his clothes, none of his books and a few of his CDs arrived.

  'Where's the rest of my gear?' he asked the orderly, who admitted that the cleaners had thrown out his "musty old books" and that was all the music that had been found. 'Who the hell uses discs these days?' the whippersnapper said as though by way of explanation. No grog, either, and his laptop had been repossessed. They'd never been as quick to issue equipment; things obviously went faster going downhill.

  He collected his over-starched olive-green uniforms and leather boots, new and squeaky and uncomfortably pinchy. Stared at them, realising only now just how low he'd fallen. He squared his gear away and headed up to 14.

  Felicity was at the bar, either being hit on or being quizzed by an off-duty guard. The guy shoved off when Reece approached, his curiosity or his hopefulness not stretching that far. They had a drink, he told her about his books and the barracks and his fear of snorers; she touched his hand and told him she was sorry, and admitted she had yet to be evicted from her room on 6. She was still a Hunter, however long her secondment might last.

  'So you've still got a room?'

  'Sure.'

  She touched his hand again. They went to her room, and he made sure he was gone by morning.

  NINETEEN

  They carved through the city, headed west along the river, into a hilly area where the streets were narrow and lined with trees and parked cars, and the peak-roofed cottages were dug from the slopes or projected out on stilted platforms.

  Kevin parked on the footpath where Greaser indicated, outside a high-fenced property with a strip of unkempt lawn shaded by a mango tree, a rattan sofa on the front porch, cobwebs curtaining the balustrades.

  Kevin got his gear from the car, feeling better for the comforting weight of pistol and Staker around his hips; the sword he left behind.

  The gate opened with a quiet protest, one hinge gone, as they entered. Candlelight glimmered through a crack in a curtain.

  Greaser bashed on a lion-headed knocker.

  Blake opened the door, releasing a waft of incense and some soft instrumental tune, the strings rising and falling like surf.

  'You've got a nerve.' Blake clutched his cane in one hand, the fingers stained with red and black ink. His face twitched, as though threatening to change shape. His shoulders slumped and he gestured helplessly as he told them, Maximilian has taken Melpomene. I've seen it.' He pinched the bridge of his nose, as though to drive the image away.

  'Fuck,' Greaser said, and Kevin looked away, swearing under his breath, feeling the gauntlet of despair squeezing his heart.

  Scarlet dotted Blake's cravat, his shirt cuffs. 'Got her up in the tower as we speak, I suspect.'

  Visions of being interrogated by Mira rocked Kevin. Her nails, her fangs. The way she'd taken him into her, the way she'd invaded him and turned him inside out, shaken out his secrets and left him empty and soiled. He grabbed the door frame, pushing down the sudden rush, locking it away. And now they had Mel.

  'We got separated. There was an attack—'

  'Vultures, maybe,' Greaser added. 'They might've killed Johnny Slick.'

  'Maybe; might've. You are a fucking gold mine of information, Snipe.' Blake pointed his silver-headed cane at Kevin as though the blade was already drawn. 'And you are bad news, chum. I've been asking about you, and the word is, everyone around you loses their head.'

  'Not everyone,' he said softly.

  'I've got a good mind to shop you, chum, an even trade: my muse for the bad penny.'

  'I wouldn't do that, if I were you.'

  'And why's that, then?'

  Kevin smiled at him in what he hoped was a scary fashion. 'Because they're frightened of me, and they aren't frightened of you.'

  'I don't follow.' But Blake stood back, the tip of the cane falling away, propping him up once more.

  'They know why I'm here, and it scares them. Help me, and not only will we get Mel back, but we'll tear that tower down around their ears.'

  'The way you tore down Jasmine Turner's farm? The tower ain't no squatter's humpy, chum. It's fuckin' near impregnable. You know how many fangers they got in there?'

  'A lot less since they tangled with me. Surely you heard how we kicked their arse?'

  'Sounded more like a draw, to me.'

  'I'm still standing.'

  'There's only one of you.'

  'There's only one of everyone.'

  Greaser thumped the door to get their attention. 'Can we maybe discuss this inside? I need to piss.'

  Blake pointed with his cane. 'Loo. We'll be in the drawing room.'

  Greaser went off down the central hall while Kevin followed Blake into a candlelit room. The walls were lined with piles of unshel
ved books. The only furniture was a small, upright desk and a high-backed stool before it.

  Bella lay on a beanbag by the window, her corset torn loose, cuts in her breast and throat. Roses lay about her head.

  'Is she all right?' Kevin asked.

  'Of course. She's modelling as Erato. Don't disturb her.' Blake's gaze flitted to the desk. Papers covered the surface, and were scattered all over the timber floor. 'Why are you here?'

  'If Max does have Mel, I want to get her back. Interested?'

  Blake waved with his cane. 'Me and my murder are at your disposal.'

  Kevin resisted the urge to choke the living shit out of the poet. 'You haven't infected that girl there, have you?'

  'Infected?'

  'Made her one of us; whatever you call it.'

  'Giving someone the night without Maximilian's express permission is punishable by incineration. Balance of trade and all that.' Blake leaned his cane against the wall and fingered his fountain pen.

  'Listen,' Kevin said. 'Someone in the tower is working against Max. I need your help to narrow down the field of possible suspects. Who might want to replace Maximilian?'

  'Short answer: everyone. Except Heinrich, the Preceptor. He would die to protect his boss. Old, old blood buddies, they are.'

  'Can you be more specific?'

  'Fine.' Blake grabbed a sheet of paper, flourished his pen and scratched out a rough family tree. 'Max has five lieutenants, each responsible for a different part of the operation: supplies, business, security, that kind of thing. There's Heinrich, his loyal stooge, and four others. That's the Von Schiller Corp board, right there.

  'They've got their own sergeants: Familiares, PAs, whatever they want to call them, right; all keen for the big kiss — the goodbye daylight, hello eternity.

  'Out here—' he dashed off two Xs, one big, one small '—is the Strigoi and her Seer — daddy's girl, forget about her; if only you could, right? Ha!

  'But her offsider—,' he scrawled a big circle around the smaller of the two Xs '—is a strange egg. That one, gives me the willies. So who knows? Power corrupts and all that.

  'And then there's the rest of the council — what they call vassals: gangs who've got down on bended knee in return for scraps from the table. And then there's the villeins, which is all the rest of us streeters — most of them would give their left nut for a seat on the council.'

  He scrawled a mass of violent Xs across the page, ending in a brutal jab that ran out of ink, tore the paper and broke the nib. The diagram looked like a game of hangman played by a maniac.

  'What would you give for a seat on the council?'

  'Me?' Blake's hand went to his throat as though he was choking. 'I'm an artist, not a politician.'

  Kevin pointed at the mess on the page. 'Someone in there tried to sabotage Jasmine Turner's operation and then made a deal with Johnny Slick to bring me in. I need to know who!'

  'Strange, innit? You'd think they'd hold the door open for you, let you top Mira. Although if she's in bedlam, what's the worry? Maybe they've got more to gain from handing you over.' Blake crossed his arms. 'Now, there was talk of getting our dear Melpomene back.'

  Greaser entered and ran across to Bella. 'Jesus, Blake, what've you done to her?' She held up the girl's limp hand, fingers pressed to her wrist, then her throat.

  'Strawberry girl,' Blake said, as though it was obvious. 'Like a taste?' he asked Kevin. 'Love lies bleeding? Such sweet sorrow?' He groped at the air as though catching moths.

  'Just see if you can find out who Slick was working for,' Kevin told him. 'Find them and we might have an ally inside the tower. Someone who can help us rescue Mel.'

  Greaser snorted. 'I think he's already casting for a new muse. Bella?' She shook the girl, who lay unmoving.

  Blake ignored her. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend. And yet,' he pointed his pen at Kevin 'you lose my Melpomene and you refuse my hospitality. I'm getting the feeling we're not friends.'

  'You find out what I need to know, and we will get Mel back. I promise you that.'

  Greaser swore. 'Kev — I think she's dying.'

  Kevin went across to Bella. Barely any heartbeat. Next to no breath.

  'Hold her mouth open.' He pulled his knife and sliced his wrist, forcing the blood to flow, a trickle he fed into the girl's mouth as Greaser massaged her throat. His body fought him; it didn't like giving up its vitality.

  'Idiots!' Blake said. 'There's no beauty in this!'

  'We should take her with us,' Greaser said.

  'I'm not the safest person to be around.'

  'Safer than his nibs there.'

  'Yes,' Blake hissed, 'you should leave, and take that blood sack with you. Thoroughly uninspiring. And now you've gone and polluted her with your rural taint.'

  'Is he all right?' Kevin whispered as they heaved Bella to her feet.

  Greaser raised her eyebrows, a universal sign for fucked if I know.

  Blake thrust papers into his leather satchel. 'Let's reconvene tomorrow night, what do you say? Maybe dream up a new plan?'

  Kevin hefted Bella into his arms. There was colour in her cheeks, a flush in her throat. One pink nipple pointed up at him from the mess of her chest. He ground his teeth against the desire to take back what he'd given, to bite into that tender flesh and drink his fill.

  'Just see if you can find out who Johnny Slick was working for, Blake. We'll be here after dark.'

  'Not here! No, that will never do,' Blake muttered. 'VS is a ponderous beast, but it won't be long before they have a good snifter of our Melpomene's claret and come a'knocking. It won't do to have you here, in revolutionary discourse. No, that won't do at all.' He tapped his chin, stared at the ceiling, mumbled, then raised one finger in a eureka moment. 'Toowong! Let us converse with the spirits, seek inspiration among the whispers of the dead, those silent, blind witnesses to our talk of treachery.'

  'You talkin' about the cemetery?' Greaser asked.

  'The Mayne crypt. An hour after sundown. Enough time for you to fly from your belfry?'

  Kevin looked at Greaser and she answered, 'That's doable. I can show you, Kev.'

  Blake snapped the satchel shut with a flourish. 'My, aren't you quite the little tour guide.'

  'Mel's my friend, too.'

  'Yes, and I have remonstrated with her about the low standards of company she keeps. I do hope I get the opportunity to say, "I told you so".'

  'A charmer, aren't you, Blake,' Greaser said as she followed Kevin to the front door. She hauled it open for him.

  Blake followed them and stood at the door. He rubbed his hands as though wiping off his guilt.

  'At the graveyard, tomorrow,' he called. 'We three can meet again. Fair is foul, and foul is fair.'

  TWENTY

  'You want me to drop you two off somewhere? Hospital?' Kevin asked.

  'You juiced her up; she'll be fine. You trying to get rid of me?'

  'What Blake said was true. VS will be after me for sure.'

  'You don't get off that easy. I'm sticking with you till we've got Mel back. Besides, where would you go?'

  He hesitated. 'Back to base.'

  'Don't be a dickhead. They got Mel. Chances are, they know your shoe size by now, not to mention whatever she took outta your blood at the Poeticals. You go back to the coffee house and you'll be Max's daily blend, for sure.'

  'You have a better idea, obviously.'

  'I know a place.'

  'Even after I got Mel captured?'

  'Because you said you'd get her back.'

  'You got any ideas about how to do that?'

  'No. But we can sleep on it, yeah?'

  He drove, following her directions back toward the Valley.

  'One thing,' she said.

  'What's that?'

  'Keep your fangs to yourself. You get peckish, you get your own.'

  'I'm doing my best.'

  'Dude, half-cut the way you are at the moment, you're no good to anyone. I see you go off into deliri
um; I see you eye everyone you meet like they're a rump steak on special. You need to feed if we're gonna save Mel.'

  Bella groaned and prised herself up off the back seat. Her eyes flashed red as they caught the glimmer of passing street lights. Greaser filled her in on recent events.

  'He called me Erato,' Bella said. 'He gave me roses. Do you think he wanted to bring me across?'

  'He was killing you,' Greaser said.

  'For rebirth.' A hand fluttered at her throat, her lips. 'Oh.'

  'God,' Greaser said. 'Honestly, that lot should be called the Melodramatics.'

  Kevin laughed.

  'We'll drop her in the Valley,' Greaser said. 'She's strong enough to make little dove noises, she's strong enough to catch the train home.'

  They watched the girl totter off on her high heels into the station. Then Greaser guided him into a nearby northern suburb.

  They pulled up at a long, thin building holding down the corner of a whole row of copycats. Whirly gigs dotted the tin roofs at regular intervals. The roller door was down but there were cracks of light around the edges and the sound of mechanics at work: metal banging, a radio, bursts of conversation, bad karaoke and swearing.

  Greaser rang the bell.

  Silence fell behind the wall. The light went out.

  'It's Greaser,' she shouted.

  A door opened; footsteps approached from the lane; a man in overalls appeared, wrench in hand.

  'It's late, Greaser.' He looked around and then caressed the Monaro with his gaze. 'But that's worth it.'

  'Not for sale,' Greaser said. 'I need to garage it for a few days.'

  'I don't have room for that.'

  'We'll make it worth your while.'

  'We?'

  'My friend and I.'

  Kevin rolled down the window. The man stiffened. Probably no stranger to people with funny-coloured eyes, then.

  'He doesn't have a name,' Greaser said. 'One of them amnesiacs.'

  'As long as he remembers where his wallet is. C'mon round the back. We'll make room. But two nights. I got orders to fill.'

  'You're a sport, Barnie.'

  The workers pawed the Monaro, a late-model Mazda sports car momentarily forsaken in its advanced state of dismemberment.