Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

  Early afternoons were easy enough. They could be spent in a back booth of Nick’s cafe, where he would let her read old magazines and drink cheap tea. Some days she’d walk over to the theatre district to look at the billboards for upcoming shows, peep into the red-carpeted foyers; or wander down to the Commerce Zone to gaze at the jewels and dresses behind thick glass, the businesswomen chopping past in their heels and shades. There was a small park over there too, a rare slice of shaded green between two office towers, where she could sit without interruption. The people in this part of the city were all in a hurry, on their way somewhere else.

  She had taken to making lists in this park: what she’d earned and spent, what she’d put back in the envelope; her role in their magic routines — the vanishing fish, the watch swap, the miraculously hypnotised volunteer; even ideas for lines she might say one day, if such a day ever came.

  All that was fine. But then the late afternoon would roll around, long hours of sour heat, when the city began to stink and people set their shoulders and walked faster, and the traffic gathered in honking, squalling knots. The heat brought the bad thoughts back; the only way to fight them was to blank out, load up her mind with a calm white nothing, walk and walk until the panic fell away. It was a relief to meet Merlin at seven, have a kebab at the diner over the road while they ran through the show, then gather their stuff and head out for the night.

  But Merlin was seventy-four years old; four shows a week was his limit, he said firmly. Who was she to argue? He was her boss. A phrase sprang to mind, a line from that book with the tissue-thin pages, back in the motel by the highway: Bondservants, obey your masters …

  Their weekly routine left her with whole evenings to fill, hours and hours when daydreaming only took you so far before other things started creeping in at the edges. Pictures you did not want to see, thoughts you could not bear. That’s when Grace went onto the roof.

  Six storeys up, the world seemed far away. The rooftop air smelled of tar and birds, the faint bread-scent of their grain, the tang of the disinfectant Merlin used to rinse out the cage once a week. He’d hunch over a broom and sweep the chalky poo out through the mesh, swill a bucket of water to chase it down the drainpipe. On hot days the tar on the roof melted and stray white feathers stuck to it, fluttering like alien plants.

  Grace had offered to help look after the birds, but Merlin shook his head: they were used to him. When he opened the grain barrel, they crowded against the wire, ducking and bobbing, making excited whirring noises in their throats. They were pretty — neat bird bodies a dense creamy white, like marble — but Grace couldn’t tell them apart. Once she’d counted nineteen but she must have got it wrong. Next time she checked there were seventeen.

  ‘Why do you have so many?’ she’d asked as he padlocked the cage door shut.

  ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the box,’ he’d answered, and shuffled off downstairs. An old rhyme danced into her head unbidden: One for sorrow, two for joy … but she shook it away. The ones he called April and June took it in turns to be in the act, Merlin explained, because they were the best trained. ‘Don’t want to exhaust the stars,’ he’d say, popping June back on her perch. But Grace couldn’t see how he knew which was which.

  None of the other residents seemed to bother coming up here; most of them were old guys, unsteady on their feet from age or booze, or both. First you had to find the dusty corridor at the very top of the hotel, then climb a set of metal stairs with no handrail, duck through some saggy wires strung like a falling-down farm fence, and shove against a door that opened with a pained yelp.

  She’d found the rooftop in her second week, wandering the building after spending a dull hour on a smelly couch in the lounge downstairs, watching a US cop show with a handful of other residents. One guy had offered her a cup of tea. But there were things floating in it, so she’d spent a while pretending to sip then tipped it down the sink when he wasn’t looking.

  Tonight Merlin was resting in his room. Grace had painted her fingernails, washed her hair, counted her money. Gone for a walk to buy cigarettes, read all the old magazines in the foyer. Painted her toenails. Counted her money again. She felt like a drink, but being refused service in a bottle shop was humiliating, and she didn’t feel like facing that. Even with lipstick, she didn’t look any more than sixteen.

  From up here, she could trace this whole stretch of the city. A string of streetlights sloped past the brothels and cheap hotels, the amusement arcades and all-night diners, down to the orange glow where the road split into the bright tunnel that led to the Quarter, and the wide motorway that swept towards the subzones out west. The twin dots of tail-lights were swallowed up by the tunnel, blinking red as they hit the slope; the white stare of headlamps rose up to meet them, slid past, kept going. A paddy wagon with lights whirling screamed into the tunnel and disappeared. Grace listened, but the noise did not re-emerge on the far side.

  Down in the streets she sometimes felt hemmed in. All that concrete, the buildings rising up on every side, like the walls of tunnels. Her throat would get tight, at times, as if the whole city itself were about to crumble in on her. The past was like another life now, a film she’d sat through years ago — the red dust, the long horizons, the roads spread out so thin and far, like distant veins stretched across all that space.

  A whistle cut the air, rising over the buildings from another street. Often a whistle like that would leap from the audience, a shrill blast made by teeth, fingers and tongue, some unseen breath beyond the lights. Applause, whistles, all those voices calling out: was it vain to wish for that? Wasn’t it brave getting up there onstage, in front of everyone? A coward wouldn’t do it. A coward couldn’t.

  Then two girls crossed the road below. They were laughing. One voice sang out a simple songline Grace almost recognised: Laaaa-la-la, laaa-la-la, la-la-la-laaaa … The other mimicked her, an octave higher: Laaa-la-la … Now they were just silhouettes and voices: the tall one grabbed the other’s arm, mimed shaking her. The shaken girl went limp, flopped around like a ragdoll, her singing broken up by laughter: La-aaaaa-la-haa …

  Grace felt warm tears all down her face. Sobs jerked at her insides, tight soundless spasms that gave nothing but water. She watched the girls get smaller and smaller, then they turned a corner and were out of sight. Her body felt wrung out as if she had the flu, her limbs hanging heavy and useless, the sobs tugging at her chest and stomach in little lurches, like an animal retching.

  She was standing there holding the rail when the door gave its urgent squeak. Quick as a reflex, she dried her face on her arm and spun around in the half-dark. Someone was crossing the roof towards her. It wasn’t Merlin.

  Without her heels the woman looked smaller. She walked barefoot through long rectangles of shadow and artificial light, a burning cigarette held low at her side, hair swinging like a rope. She clinked as she walked, and the neck of a bottle poked from a large handbag slung over one shoulder. She’d reached the birdcage before Grace got a proper look at her face: ruined, she thought.

  ‘Nice night for a cry,’ said the woman, leaning her arms on the rail beside her. She looked out over the city.

  ‘I wasn’t crying,’ said Grace, almost sharply. ‘I was practising.’ She could smell the woman beside her: a mix of perfume, tobacco smoke, shampoo and baby powder, a trace of booze.

  ‘Nice night for practising then,’ the woman replied. She pulled a wine bottle from her handbag and set it on the ledge before them, then rummaged in her bag and held up an implement that Grace recognised from old films.

  ‘Don’t see these anymore,’ said the woman, holding it up. ‘Gone the way of the dinosaurs.’ When she produced two wineglasses from her bag, she caught Grace’s eye and laughed.

  ‘Bag o’ tricks. Want a drink? Thing’s got a freakin’ cork in it, probably worth a fortune. Not that it matters. All ends up in the same place a
nyway.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Grace. ‘I’d love one.’

  The wine made a gulping sound as the woman poured and squinted, exaggerated getting both glasses level. She handed one to Grace and raised her own. ‘Here’s to practising,’ she said, and they both drank the dark liquid, the taste rich like moss and blackberries and forgetting.

  ‘So,’ said the woman after a while, ‘Merlin, huh.’

  ‘I’m his stage assistant. I just started. He’s going to give me some lines once I get more experienced.’

  ‘Lines?’ She laughed. ‘That old bastard. Watch out for him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, sweetheart. Bottom line he’s a man, that’s all. Don’t believe everything he tells you. The velvet waistcoats, the fancy manners … he’s no better than the rest of them.’

  ‘He’s okay,’ said Grace evenly. ‘He hasn’t said any funny stuff. He just does his magic and I help.’

  ‘Right. And I’ve got a heart of gold.’ Her cigarette was finished so Grace offered her one of her own. She took it without a word.

  ‘I’m going to switch to rollies,’ said Grace. ‘It’s much cheaper.’ Then instantly regretted it. Did that sound stingy?

  The woman blew her smoke out hard and gave her a look. ‘I hope he’s paying you alright, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘We had a big audience last night. I got a bonus. Ten bucks.’

  The woman stretched her eyes wide in mock surprise. ‘That’ll buy a whole box of tampons.’

  Grace concentrated on lighting her own cigarette.

  ‘I’m joking, love,’ said the woman. ‘They call me Macy.’

  ‘I know,’ said Grace. ‘I mean, hi. I’m Grace. Or Violet, that’s my stage name.’

  ‘No stage here, darling. Good to get up high, don’t you think? Clears the head.’

  ‘It does.’

  They watched the traffic like it was a campfire.

  ‘You like a drink?’

  ‘When I can afford it.’

  ‘Most times I buy the cheap stuff, or an apple martini if I’m celebrating,’ said Macy, topping up their glasses. ‘I guess you’d call this one a gift.’

  ‘It does taste expensive. Not that I’d know. But it’s nice.’ Grace felt that familiar melt, her blood starting to run more smoothly. The world had shifted back a fraction, leaving her some space.

  Macy drank fast. ‘I take it you got no ID?’ she asked after a long swallow.

  ‘Not on me, no.’

  ‘Well I make regular trips to the bottle-o, Grace, so feel free to place an order if the fancy ever takes you.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a pain, any trouble, I mean.’

  Macy looked her over. ‘You don’t look much like trouble to me. I’m in room 14. Across from you, only I got a window and enough room to swing a cat. Not that I’d be mean enough to do a thing like that.’

  When had she seen Grace’s room?

  Macy dumped the rest of the wine into her own glass. ‘Come knock some time. Not before noon though. I work nights, so I’m not what they call a morning person. No siree.’ She picked up the empty bottle. ‘I gotta head off.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Grace. ‘Nice to meet you finally. Thanks for the drink, it’s cheered me up.’

  Macy was already wandering off. ‘Night, Grace, night little birds,’ she called back. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  [Zero coffee shop, Little Lonsdale Street, Commerce Zone: Damon | Luella]

  ‘So what are you looking for — a security expert? Immigration Department?’

  ‘That would be ideal. It’s a slow burner, this blood story. Investigative, I guess you’d call it.’

  ‘I didn’t think they were in vogue anymore. Those long dry stories with all the details.’

  ‘The pendulum’s swinging back a bit, I think. Things are getting so bite-sized the public feels sold short. Anyway, it’ll be like a hybrid piece — some depth, but still pacy with lots of flash.’

  ‘Sounds interesting. You want this guy’s contact?’

  ‘Thanks, Luella.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. So, your blood story. Very mysterious. How would you classify it in civil-order terms?’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘What I’m asking, Damon … Is this something the government needs to be made aware of?’

  ‘I’m still trying to uncover the facts; I don’t have much to go on right now. The whole thing’s way, way underground, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. A slow burner.’

  ‘Right. It’s just that I have my obligations too. Timing and message — they’re both crucial.’

  ‘Sure. I know the security summit’s coming up in early autumn. I doubt I’ll have the piece ready by then.’

  ‘And the election in August.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like I said, anything that could potentially be inflammatory — anything that could reflect negatively on the government — we’d be wanting to calibrate that.’

  ‘Of course. This really just involves a pocket, a subculture. But I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘Subcultures cause trouble. All this talk about protests, trouble in the lead-up to the summit. Some of those elements are causing real concern higher up.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll keep an ear out on that front too — see if I can get you some names. Just on the quiet.’

  ‘Excellent. Of course. Thank you, Damon. I just want to reiterate — anything to do with immigration is potentially high voltage, you realise.’

  ‘I do. I’ll keep you posted all round.’

  ‘Perfect. I think we’re working well together. So our big one: Project Streamline. You’ve thought it over?’

  ‘We can definitely do something exciting there. I’m thinking maybe even a series, with updates.’

  ‘How are you thinking of framing the story?’

  ‘Just off the top of my head, some key words, all positive stuff of course … Streamline is a great name by the way, it’s got that ring of efficiency, speed, waste reduction, you know?’

  ‘It was the clear winner. The focus groups were unanimous.’

  ‘I can see why. Were you involved in the branding process at all?’

  ‘Picking the name? Well, yes. Actually, that one was my suggestion.’

  ‘Wow, that’s fantastic, Luella.’

  ‘That’s just between you and me, of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Wow. Anyway, I’m thinking: your city, the intelligent city, smart spaces, anticipating your needs, a city that’s alive.’

  ‘Okay, but that could sound creepy if you push it too far.’

  ‘True, it’ll need to be carefully modulated. But I assume we want to stay away from any suggestion that this is about increasing state control over public space?’

  ‘That’s exactly the line we want to avoid. So the message must be tailored to neutralise even the seed of a thought like that.’

  ‘Well, yes. Hence the notion that the city responds to the people, rather than vice versa. I’m thinking maybe … harmony?’

  ‘Harmony … I like that. So how would you anticipate framing the monitoring aspect?’

  ‘The surveillance? Cutting down on crime, maybe? That always works.’

  ‘We thought the word foresight or protection would work better than surveillance. In fact, we don’t want the word surveillance used at all. It’s becoming very outdated.’

  ‘Foresight could work. It’s about filtering and zone regulation, right? So the harmful elements don’t slip through.’

  ‘We don’t want to use the word regulation either. I’m thinking, the city centre as a protective entity, a healthy organism that resists infection — not that you’d use the wo
rd infection. No negative terms at all, ideally. I’m just throwing ideas around here.’

  ‘Okay. I get the sense you’ll want final approval on the script.’

  ‘With this one, yes. We’d appreciate that greatly. You have artistic control, of course. We just need to make sure this psycho-spatial redesign is embraced as a positive thing. And no mention of cost, not in the current climate.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I mean economically, the spend makes perfect sense, it’s all about priming the pump and so on. But that’s too complex a message to embed in this particular story.’

  ‘Sure. There’s been a lot of finger-pointing since the crash. No need to make people nervous.’

  ‘That’s it. Now, if I can just throw some phrases into the mix …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘… some key phrases we’d like to see included in your coverage: revitalisation, renewal, enhance the city experience, streamline the flows, a new vision, vitality … Are you getting this? I can provide you with dot points.’

  ‘Feel free.’

  ‘What else? Protection, smart spaces, security and harmony, as you said — good suggestion.’

  ‘A fit city, a city with a heartbeat?’

  ‘Well, yes … maybe. But you want to be careful making those bodily comparisons.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because bodies have their dark sides, their messy aspects. Excrement, for example. Plus, they eventually die.’

  ‘Okay, Luella. Sounds like we need to dedicate a whole session to this story.’

  ‘You mean the series.’

  ‘Yes, the series. I’ll draft some dots and schedule a meet-up.’