Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

  When she returned to her doorway she found a woman in an apron slapping bleach-water around with a mop. She looked tired or angry, it was hard to tell, so Tally ducked round the back to find something to eat.

  You had to learn where to look. Rice was dumped in the alleys every night, and the clumps on top were usually clean. Sometimes there was a whole chicken wing, sticky with sauce, but you had to watch out for grit and bits of glass. There were burgers in the Hungry Jack’s bin, but they locked the lid so you had to jam your arm in up to the shoulder and grope around in the dark; once Tally heard something scuffling in there. At night the Jesus people parked a van near the train station and doled out dented apples and lukewarm soup in polystyrene cups, but most of the people lining up were much older than her. The drunk ones yelled, and sometimes the police came and asked questions. A stringy woman puffing badly rolled cigarettes told Tally to watch out: the cops grabbed scruffy kids with no papers and took them away to juvie, which was just like prison only with no box to watch, no music, nothing to do. Smokers are chokers, thought Tally, departing with what she hoped was a mysterious look. (After the truck journey she hadn’t tried smoking again. She hadn’t fooled the guy anyway.)

  Hunger was always there to be beaten, but thirst was the nasty one. Thick coils of heat lay trapped between the buildings, the sunlight burned your eyeballs, and a constant slick of sweat coated her skin. All day she hunted fresh water, and at night she dreamed of mysterious taps rising from the asphalt. People threw away unwanted food all the time, but liquid was more elusive. The rare trickles she found were of suspicious origin and soon vanished into the filthy cracks of the city.

  A river slid through the casino district, but it was choked with plastic bottles and old coupons; its tea-brown depths merged with the oily harbour of the Docklands, where vacant high-rise towers and basement strip joints marked the dodgy part of town. Most of the fountains in the city grid were dry now, just drifting spots for dead leaves and fast-food litter. The fountains in the rich part of the city still ran clear, but they were monitored; thick-necked guards materialised like magic if you stopped. Tourists could throw coins in, but you weren’t allowed to drink. The city was already teaching her tricks: scoop and slurp, slip away, keep moving.

  And all the while, every moment, your eyes scanning the crowds; even when you were asleep it didn’t stop, always scanning for that familiar shape, that pale skin and red hair, a certain way of walking.

  Someone had left an old coat on the church steps. It smelled inky, like newspaper, and came down to Tally’s ankles. It was too hot to wear in the daytime so she stashed it in a crack between two buildings and pulled it out after dark. When she wore it, her steps became lighter and her senses sharper. Fear could not creep in when the belt was knotted tight. It was a beige detective coat with inside pockets, one the perfect size for her camera. In the others she stowed two shoplifted pencils, an old docket book for making notes and maps, and a fresh box of bandaids she’d found at a tram stop.

  Tally was wearing the coat the second time she saw the puppy guy. He was outside the 7-Eleven talking on his mobile, the golden pup tethered to his belt by a long droop of string. It stared up at him in adoration as he paced a restless semi-circle back and forth under the store’s fluorescent lights. Tally marked the pair’s position carefully on her map, then sat back to watch. She’d discovered this vantage point in the cheap and noisy part of the Docklands: a sliver of space between an abandoned hot-dog stall and a stack of cement bags solidified by time and rain. Sheltered from the street by a scraggly plastic tree, the lookout seemed to render her invisible. The moment she found it, Tally knew it would reward her patience with clues.

  It was late, but not late enough to begin searching for somewhere to sleep. Words danced across shopfronts, music throbbed and overlapped in discordant waves as people stumbled along the footpath, pouring into fast-food joints and eddying at the open mouths of bars.

  The puppy guy jabbed the air with his forefinger as he spoke, then hooked it into his jeans pocket while he listened, the pup’s eyes following him as he paced out his tight arc on the footpath. It was hard to tell his age: maybe eighteen, maybe twenty-five, short and compact with a sharp jaw and quick eyes. Clean clothes, baseball cap, glasses flashing in the white glaze of the convenience-store lights.

  From her hideaway across the street Tally watched him clock each passer-by, attention flicking from face to face. He had a certain stance she recognised: the bearing of someone who spoke to strangers and connected this with that; someone familiar with fire escapes, with punching in digits and making swift decisions. His body seemed to transmit a code through the air, a complicated ripple of meanings that jumped off his skin like electricity. Tally caught snatches of it — cash, chance, opportunity — but the content seemed to shift according to the flow of people. The guy was hard to decipher, but the puppy lent him a benign air. Grace loved dogs. The girls had always wanted one, but no dice, Max had said: they moved around too much. Just another mouth to fill, no point.

  Two skinny kids, a boy and a girl with matching slouches, drifted closer to the pup. When he spotted them, the puppy guy immediately ended his phone call and bent to ruffle his dog’s ears, smiling at the kids, welcoming them closer. The three of them squatted on the footpath, stroking the animal. The kids were relating some story that seemed, from their gestures, to involve injury and exhaustion. The puppy guy made a series of shrugs and pointing motions, a gentle invitation, and the trio rose and walked off together with the animal trotting along behind. Its owner’s body radiated certainty, and people moved out of their way.

  Then a taxi screeched to a halt, blocking Tally’s view; a group of men in matching striped scarves spilled out, chanting some drunken footy theme song. She heard a bottle smash. By the time the men had straggled through the honking traffic and into a kebab shop, Tally was distracted, and the puppy, the guy and the kids had disappeared into the ebb and swirl of bodies.

  [Bloodhound TV, Flinders Lane, Civic Zone: candidate two, interview, Journotainment unit: Damon | senior editorial staff]

  ‘So you shoot, you cut, you talk. Got your own gear?’

  ‘Everything. I’m all set to go.’

  ‘Your reel wasn’t bad, Damon. Bit folksy in places, but I know good stuff can be scarce out in the Regions.’

  ‘That’s true. You really have to keep your contacts healthy. The material’s there, it’s just buried a bit deeper.’

  ‘I believe we’ve run some of your freelance work before — that two-parter on the reptile smugglers?’

  ‘Ah, yes, that was mine. I had to pixellate a couple of sources, but most of it went okay.’

  ‘When did we run that?

  ‘Back in May. That lizard-cam number. You edited the damn thing, George.’

  ‘Ha, yes. Of course. Nice images. Police busted them pretty fast I recall. Pity.’

  ‘Got a certain look, haven’t you, Damon — with the hair slicked back and so on? And your, ah … I remember your face, is what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I guess so. I’ve always worn it that —’

  ‘Diana programs our series. But mostly we need more immediate stuff. You’d know about our story output. We rely on partnerships with security firms, government contra deals — cash very rarely. You’ve done most of your work solo, I take it?’

  ‘That’s right. But I mix well with all sorts.’

  ‘I assume you speak Beige? We have arrangements with Polbiz high-ups, business conduits, mid-ranking coppers. We need someone who can maintain those strong links. It’s easy to grab bites from your basic bystanders and snitches, but that won’t carry you far here.’

  ‘I understand that. Those more complex relationships, that reciprocal work, that’s exactly what I’m looking for. And I’ll talk to anyone.’

  ‘Rochelle here handles that side of things. We can usually provide
freelancers — productive ones, that is — with a few hook-ups. Say one government partner, a data agency source, someone from the security industry.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Right, but let me state this up front: I just do the intros and oversee budgets. It’s the consultant’s job to foster those ongoing relationships. That takes time and patience, not to mention social skills. And you can forget that old line about separating work from life. What’s your trust quotient like?’

  ‘Pretty high, over eight on most tests. I sent the transcripts with my —’

  ‘Ah … yes.’

  ‘Brian? Did you want to ask Damon anything?’

  ‘I’ll be honest. I’m concerned about the transplant issue.’

  ‘What — his source base?’

  ‘That’s part of it. It takes a long time to know a city, Damon, and you’ve only just transplanted to the big smoke. The other thing is the accent.’

  ‘My accent?’

  ‘Don’t take offence, but it’s just a shade bumpkin. Don’t you think?’

  ‘That’s easily fixed, Mr Rosslin, I’ve developed a few variations. And I’ve been down here most weekends with the express purpose of building contacts. I’ve already got bartenders, casino croupiers, a dog handler and someone from the middle rungs of interdepartmental liaison. Plus a brothel receptionist and a junior morgue technician. And I’m working on a street grifter and a geek.’

  ‘Not bad, nice little bunch of fixers. And the man can speak tidy when the need arises.’

  ‘Got any story leads?’

  ‘I’m already following several. The Big Bang: the truth behind the methamphetamine shortage. Blood Money: illegal aliens in blood-trafficking racket. Who’s Your Daddy: tunnel kids and brothel bosses …’

  ‘Hm. Sounds alright for a start, I guess.’

  ‘I like your tie, Damon. Is it silk?’

  ‘Ah, yes, thanks. An airport number, I have to confess, but people seem to respond to the colour.’

  ‘Alright, alright, the paperwork looks fine. You understand we’ll need fluid samples and a full background check — covering mental health too, of course.’

  ‘Sure, that won’t be a problem.’

  ‘Then consider this a trial period. You bill as you file. Monday mornings you run your ideas past Brian and myself. No moonlighting, no leaks — any issues, you come to us.’

  ‘We’ll expect eight strong stories in the next eight weeks, including one series and a couple of print versions. The hard stuff, plus some sex, some fluff, heartstring bizzo, corruption, whatever … Visually arresting, low corn factor, nothing too dumbed down or highbrow. Work with integrity, excitement — material that gets us noticed.’

  ‘Great. I can do that.’

  ‘Excellent choice of words. So ... has Georgia cleared out her cubicle yet? Good. Then you might as well get started.’

  [Unmapped building interstice, South Interzone: Tally | Blue]

  What — what? Get off my, I’m sleeping, get … No, I’m sleeping, what the fuck are you doing?

  Well how am I meant to know that, I’ve slept up here the last three nights. Get off — you’re standing on my coat. Your bed is it, well I don’t see your name on it, I don’t see a bed either mate.

  Oh right. Yeah of course I can see it. Did you spray-paint that up there, what does it say? Blue? What kind of, well are you a graffiti dude or something, nah it’s alright just kind of hard to read, I said it’s good I mean better than most of that shit, I mean stuff.

  Pillow … what, this piece of …? Oh. Alright, here you go.

  No don’t worry about it. Me too … yelling like that I mean, I was just — it’s confusing when you wake up like that, I couldn’t remember where … Well okay sure I’ll stay on this side then I guess … yeah you stay on that side.

  Just around, up north. What about you? Alice huh, I like that name that’s where they have that big rock right, have you climbed up that big rock thing?

  Right — but people still climb it, don’t they?

  Oh, just stupid whitefellas. Right.

  Fourteen, soon I mean. What about you — no way April the what, man I’m the nineteenth! Yeah so what only by five days don’t get a big head, well I said soon, whatever, few months. Boy you like to be accurate huh.

  Just here on holiday … What’s so funny, I am on bloody holiday plus I’m looking for someone. So I might stay a while. Here look: wait I’ll turn it on, now check out this picture here.

  Yeah I know she is, watch your mouth alright, that’s my sister. Grace. You seen her? Are you sure?

  Nah. We just lost each other by accident, way up country. Okay give us the camera back. Don’t fiddle with it, Jesus I only got one picture of her.

  Hey it’s flickering this light here what does this mean? Ah Jesus, how much do batteries cost, I need some batteries. I need some money.

  What kinda work? Yeah well what’s wrong with questions, you ask them too don’t ya.

  Okay sure tomorrow.

  You got enough room? Cool …

  Hey look up there. Whoa in that gap, that chopper guy is speeding what a freakin’ maniac, speed kills right, what goes up must come down … Hey Blue?

  You still awake? Hey Blue! Okay, okay, jeez. Well who woke up who before, eh? Alright. I said alright. G’night.

  [West foyer, Silvacom Tower, Elizabeth Street, Commerce Zone: Damon | Luella Martin, state liaison agent]

  He’d arranged to meet her in the foyer at ten-fifteen, but couldn’t see anyone who matched her name: just a muted trickle of public servants making for the lifts, clasping donut bags and umbrellas, and some telcom nerds chortling over a bulky folder. As he navigated the revolving door, the steady gazes of the security staff drew him towards the reception console. The verbal shorthand of the official visitor came easily to Damon’s lips, but his body always felt vaguely puppet-like when surrounded by so much marble. Or was this stuff fake? Apparently you could only tell by tapping your teeth against it, which didn’t seem feasible.

  He’d practised saying her name in the mirror that morning as he’d wrestled his hair into an amicable but crisp shape, somewhat like a meringue, with the help of some hi-tech moulding paste that had cost almost as much as his tie. He had to get this right: he’d tried pronouncing her name with authority, with warmth, then with various combinations of the two. Inexplicably, he’d even tried it with a slight Korean accent. The swoops carved into his scalp felt overly ornate, but it was too late for that now.

  ‘Luella Martin,’ he said to the guard. ‘Ah, Damon Spark — to see Ms Martin, state liaison.’

  She didn’t move. ‘Mr Spark, from …?’

  This question always irked him, but he produced his ID card with a practised air.

  ‘Freelance information consultant,’ the woman recited as she swiped it through the scanner and shot a beam of pale blue from her eyes to his. ‘Take a seat over there, please, Mr Spark.’

  Luella Martin: a tall and long-limbed name, he thought, a glossy name; a dark swish of hair, a library card, perhaps a weakness for fountain pens and expensive perfume. He’d run a search, of course, and narrowed her down to three possibilities: a teenage rowing champ; a controversial cat breeder; and a youngish honours graduate from the state’s most efficient university, who had presented papers at dull policy forums throughout the country and been extremely careful not to let her photo loose in the virtual realm. Damon was confident she was this latter Luella, fairly certain she wasn’t the cat breeder and as yet undecided about her rowing history. He could have uncovered much more, obviously — including her exact shoulder measurements — but money was tight and, given the context, his searches could well be monitored. He had learned the hard way not to blithely type his own name plus the word brilliant into search engines. (Now, when he couldn’t stop
himself, he logged in through a privacy screen.)

  A woman was standing before him, speaking his name and holding out her hand: a tiny brunette with a buzz cut, intense greenish eyes, no make-up whatsoever and a smile that left as swiftly as it arrived. She stood very straight and wore an androgynous suit cut like a flight attendant’s uniform. Fighting the urge to check his hair, he conveyed his greetings and let the diminutive Luella Martin usher him to the lifts.

  In a windowless room on level 42, a water jug and two glasses sat waiting. They both took their seats, Luella suddenly seeming taller. Damon fumbled surreptitiously for a lever to raise the height of his chair, but there wasn’t one.

  ‘So Damon — this is just a get-to-know?’ She was straight in, that quick smile blinking on and off. He attempted to slow things down by pouring her a glass of water, but the jug was heavier than it looked and liquid slopped onto the table. He poured his own glass with more care, but now the jug seemed wilfully erratic and the water tumbled right to the very rim, where it bulged and trembled, threatening to spill over the edge. They both watched it.

  ‘You could lean down and drink a bit off,’ observed Luella.

  What does it matter, he thought. As he craned forward he had a fleeting image of an antelope teetering over a waterhole. Luella watched him, her face inscrutable. He puckered his mouth to avoid slurping but wasn’t entirely successful.

  ‘Well, that’s broken the ice,’ she said with some warmth.

  He decided to take the frank approach and began to speak, making small, open-handed gestures. Of course he’d been looking forward to meeting her, and hated to rush things. But he hoped to start fishing immediately, as his timelines were crunched. He wasn’t sure what she could spare, but he’d be grateful for half an hour a week.