Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

  He wondered what she made of him: expensive dark-toned streetwear, unfussy and unobtrusive, teamed with his newest acquisitions, spotless white leather sneakers with the understated simplicity of top-dollar design. In fact they dressed alike, the two of them. He wondered if she batted for his team or not.

  Luella suggested they head offsite to talk — there was a safe cafe just around the corner. This made sense to Milk: her office tower was clearly monitored to within an inch of its life, awash with guards both human and digital, not the ideal environment to discuss business — or not his, at any rate.

  As they slid into a private booth, he reminded himself to play this carefully. She’d hardly been forthcoming over the phone, edging out of giving details, saying just enough to ensure his curiosity would win out — and vanity too, perhaps. The phone call had been brief, but she’d certainly buttered him up in that department.

  She took a folder from her bag and pulled out a map, unfolded it and spread it across the table. It was the city grid, coded into coloured sections. Luella smoothed the paper down and began talking.

  Times were tough, as he knew. The government could not afford to make assumptions or mistakes. In the current climate — the water crisis, soaring interest rates, job cuts, crime on the rise, troop losses in the oil war — people were feeling uneasy and resentful; they were looking for someone to blame. That someone must not be the government. There was an election on the cards, and the race would be a close one. The CBD electorate, along with certain upper subzones whose population base worked and shopped and dined in the city, could make or break it.

  What was needed, she explained, was a communal lift of spirits, a kind of spring-clean for the city’s collective unconscious. Luella was leaning forward now, and her enthusiasm was plainly genuine. This was important: it was a law-and-order issue, a morale issue, a security issue, a commerce issue. Everyone — tourists, shoppers, working people, investors, brand managers, CBD residents —wanted to feel safe, positive, gratified. They wanted to feel a sense of belonging and pride. There were limits to how far you could take it, of course, but the city needed to be reinforced and revitalised — cleansed, if you like, of anything resembling disquiet. To put it simply, chaos was bad, harmony good; unrest bad, order good. With a bit of subtle tweaking, this could become the World’s Most Liveable City — get things ticking over again, attract residents and tourists and other spenders back into the grid. Just think of the potential economic flow-ons.

  ‘Is this tied in with all the Crimbust stuff? Or ID-Net?’ Milk interrupted.

  In a sense, Luella told him, but it went much deeper. Crimbust was your basic PR law-and-order campaign. And ID-Net, as he knew, was a global initiative. Project Streamline was something else, something unique to this city. It was about re-calibrating the way the city operated as an organism: identifying and neutralising trouble spots and disruptive elements, eliminating inefficiencies, cutting out the dead wood, designing the negative elements out of existence. What they needed right now was a smoothing of the waters. If he’d pardon the jargon, a positive re-calibration of the aggregate psyche, achieved via the artful finetuning of public space.

  He broke in again. ‘Whose psyche, exactly? And what do you mean by dead wood?’ He knew better than to be dazzled by her lingo. Words could be used to dress up all kinds of dubious ambitions.

  ‘There are those who make a positive contribution to the city,’ she answered patiently, ‘and those who do the opposite. They’re just a drain on resources and they don’t portray the place in the best light.’

  ‘But it’s not that black and white. What about all the people in between?’

  She nodded, as if he’d just cued her next line. ‘That’s where you come in. Sometimes the public just needs a nudge in the right direction. Your skill set is unrivalled, and we’d like to invite you on board as a principal project consultant. The remuneration ...’ She paused. ‘Let’s just say the remuneration would do justice to your expertise.’

  ‘I already have work,’ he countered, ‘high-paid work.’

  ‘And have you had to negotiate your remuneration,’ she asked coolly, ‘or are you free to name your price? Because that’s what we’re talking about here. This is a world-first and we have substantial commercial backing — tourism, real estate, prestige brands, all the big guns. There are parameters, of course, but you’d be given a high degree of creative control.’ She sat back, held out her palms over the map spread before him. ‘We’re offering you the whole city, Milk. The whole city.’

  He looked down at the map: the entire city grid and its immediate outskirts, with sections rendered in a gelati-shop palette: pistachio, blood orange, pineapple. He ran a finger over the map key, tracing the various risk ratings and hot spots it identified, the swirls of human activity, of commerce and leisure and crime. All that humanity, all that potential: the whole city, all his.

  ‘What about aesthetics?’ he asked. ‘Maybe you can’t track it on a balance sheet, but you know, don’t you, how important aesthetics are when it comes to human behaviour?’

  ‘That’s why we’ve come to you,’ she said. ‘This project requires technical expertise, certainly, but it also requires creative direction. An artist’s touch. That’s why I wanted to meet with you.’

  He looked up. ‘But we’ve already met, haven’t we, Luella? Or close enough to it.’

  Her smile came on again and lingered for a moment or two. ‘Okay, busted,’ she said. ‘But you can’t blame me for wanting to experience your work firsthand.’

  He supposed she was right. That didn’t explain her visit to his scent supplier, but maybe she was just thorough; he couldn’t detect anything hostile in her demeanour. His hand was resting on the surface of the map, spanning an entire city block. ‘So where do we go from here?’ he asked.

  ‘So you’re interested?’

  ‘I’m interested.’

  ‘Fantastic. I can introduce you to my director, and we’ll talk over the details together. And as well as the macro stuff …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘As well as the whole-of-city project, there are smaller one-offs we’d also like your help with. Particular events, you could call them.’

  ‘Mmhmm.’

  ‘Around the summit, for example, working with the Department of Security. The main event itself is several weeks away, but protests have already begun.’

  ‘You want my help with that too?’

  ‘That’s a minor aspect of the job; we’ll discuss that next time we meet. You’re on a retainer, effective immediately, so I’ll need your digits. But in the meantime, I’d like to think about a figure you’d be happy with.’

  ‘As in payment?’

  ‘Exactly. I’m so pleased to have you on board, Milk. This really is an exciting project, and the skill fit couldn’t be more perfect. Welcome to the fold.’

  He hesitated. Tried to sound casual. ‘We’ll be working together — you and me?’

  That fleeting smile again. ‘We will.’

  They shook hands on the footpath outside, and Milk walked home with something close to elation flitting around in his chest. Recognition, he thought, it never hurts. He might call home, check how his mother’s doing. Just mention it casually: government consultant. They’d like the sound of that.

  [Weekend trading market, The Quarter: Esmeralda | Tally]

  There’s only one of me, far as I know. You see many women walking about with one of these beasties round their neck? Depends who’s asking, sweetheart. Who are you?

  Okay, I see. No, sorry, love. Well, there was a redhead worked round here a while back, but I’m ninety-nine per cent sure it was a wig — her real hair was black. And anyway she’s long gone. Have you tried the brothels? That’s where most undoc girls end up.

  Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to upset you. Come on now. It’s alright.
Here, do you want a hold of Sebastian? Hook him over your shoulder, like that. No, he won’t bite you, he’s a squeezer. See?

  Just a girl who worked for Merlin, this old guy who used to run a magic show down the Carn. Look, she’s gone, love. Way too red to be real, and she only wore that wig for a bit. Like I said, her real hair was black, cut in a bob, to here.

  And don’t take this the wrong way, but she didn’t look anything like you. That’s not what I meant. Come on, you’re a cute kid. But yeah — she was a stunner. Sorry, love, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. She didn’t say much, but I do remember this: her name was Violet, not Grace. Violet.

  Course I’m sure, her name was written on the chalkboard just above mine. VIOLET, in capitals. She was Carnie stock, for sure. Looked like she’d been doing it all her life. No, taller than that. About up to here. Towered over Merlin.

  He’s gone, vamoosed, finito. Poor old bugger. Heard he had a fall and won’t be back, his train’s about to leave the station. No idea. Probably some dingy rest home somewhere.

  Like I said: black hair, name of Violet. Not the person you’re looking for, is it, love? Well good luck, kiddo. I’m sure you’ll find your sister someday. Here, I better unwind you. Come on, Sebastian, we got a show to do. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You take care.

  [Market Lane, Chinatown, Civic Zone: Tally | Blue]

  Tally usually paused here, at the electronics shop with the wall of TVs. Screen after screen, all showing the same grab. Most times Blue walked ahead, but this time the frenetic images stopped him short too: a surging crowd, banners lurching lopsided in the air, stumbling bodies; a line of police with shields and clubs, more police on horseback; people staggering away, hunched over coughing, tears and snot streaming down, trying to cover their faces against the camera; close-ups of people with goggles and bandanas, turning away. A gasmasked cop firing a canister into the crowd.

  Tally grabbed Blue’s arm: she recognised the buildings in the background. ‘That’s down near home, where we saw all them people running! Those kids, remember!’ The sound was turned off, and the blind ebb and surge of bodies was strangely hypnotic, repeated across the entire shop window, scene stacked upon identical scene like some horrific ballet. They saw blood, red and messy on a forehead, a girl with her face twisted into sobs.

  ‘What’s ID-Net?’ she asked, as a protest placard flashed on screen.

  Blue was frowning, watching the churning crowds, the batons rising and falling in unison. ‘Too much shit going down around here,’ he said. ‘Not good.’

  Then the reporter’s face came up on screen, mouthing serious words, moving his head slightly as he spoke in that practised way they did, little birdlike tilts of concern.

  It took Tally a few seconds to place him: the slicked-back hair gave him away. ‘It’s that funny-looking guy!’ she said excitedly. ‘The one who was snooping around asking about Diggy and drugs and the kids in the tunnel, all that stuff.’

  Blue looked doubtful. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yep. Look at his hair with that crap in it, all swoopy like a soft-serve. It’s that same guy!’ So that was why he’d been so nosy: he was some kind of TV snoop.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  Tally was indignant. Why did he always assume she’d blabbed her mouth off? ‘Nothing, I already told you. Jeez, Blue.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  She sighed. ‘Well, I might of mentioned the funride operators, how they’re always smacked out, but nothing else.’

  ‘Great.’ He was walking off now, shaking his head.

  ‘What? I had to tell him something just to get rid of him. What’s the harm in that?’

  But Blue was still shaking his head. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We got to get this stickering done. I reckon it’s gonna rain.’

  As they turned away a voice yelled out behind them. ‘You kids piss off, get away from my window.’ A short Chinese man was standing in the shop doorway, making shooing motions with his hands. ‘You get my window dirty, go away.’

  ‘Keep your hair on,’ Tally yelled back. ‘We didn’t touch your stupid window.’

  ‘Get lost! You dirty!’ He waved a fist in the air.

  ‘We’re not dirty,’ she shouted. ‘We just had a frickin’ shower!’ This wasn’t strictly true, but she didn’t like being called dirty. She knotted the belt on her detective coat and lifted her chin a little higher. The coat was a bit stained now, she had to admit. Maybe she’d give it a wash somehow.

  There was a lull in the billboard-slashing work, so most weeks they were out doing ad stickering, although the crackdown was making it harder to work undetected: the cops seemed to be everywhere, and even if you weren’t doing anything wrong, they’d still tell you to move on. To avoid getting busted, they’d often start work at three in the morning during the week, when the streets were almost empty. Moz had also mentioned some stink-jobs coming up: dress tidy, walk through a swish department store, drop a rotten-smelling little capsule near the busiest counter, and get the hell out of there. Easy, but you had to wear a school uniform, one of the snooty private schools, so you’d pass as fully doc and have no trouble getting in the doors. Cost those big stores a bunch of money, apparently, when all their customers ran off to escape the stink. Took days to get rid of it, Blue said. ‘Don’t get any on you, Sherlock, or you’ll be sleeping outside all week.’

  Last night she’d broached the subject of the Land Rover. When had Blue started paying it off? How had he saved all that money? Who was that creepy guy, and how did Blue know he wouldn’t rip him off? Did the car even work? Blue’s replies were gentle, but still they shook her up. He’d told her already: he planned to head home sometime, drive back up country on his own set of wheels. Wear some old overalls and the cops wouldn’t look twice, dismiss him as some young road worker, a nobody. Maybe she could come too. But only if she could promise not to talk his ears off the whole way.

  Tally couldn’t imagine Blue leaving. He’d taught her everything: where to find food and water; how to pick an undercover cop; who to avoid and what to keep quiet about; how to dig a makeshift loo in a deserted back lot. But she knew he was still several hundred dollars away from owning the vehicle. That meant he’d still be around for months and months. She’d saved some money too, although she didn’t know exactly what for: $64.20, concealed behind a loose brick back at the glass factory. Photography gear, that was it: her photos were getting better all the time; one day she’d get a job as a photographer for sure.

  Anyway there was no way she’d be leaving the city, not until she’d found Grace. By the time Blue got the vehicle paid off, the three of them could leave together. There was still plenty of time.

  The crackdown had them worried. Every night Blue double-checked that the window was blocked off tight before he’d let her light a candle. Another kid had disappeared last week, a boy from the stickering crew who’d never missed a day of work. Blue was sure bad stuff had happened to him — picked up by the cops for vagrancy, if he was lucky. Or something worse. He didn’t say what.

  ‘I gotta keep an eye out,’ he said. ‘Some bad shit’s going down.’

  ‘We,’ she’d corrected him. ‘We gotta keep an eye out.’ He peeled an orange and handed her half. She didn’t mean to say it, just blurted it out. ‘What if something happens to you? What am I meant to do then?’

  ‘You’ll be alright,’ he’d answered. ‘You’re a pain in the arse, and most of the time a pain in the arse is alright.’

  She got out her notebook and pencil then, tried to get him to write down some names, people she could look up if she ever went up north, to the big rock. ‘Your uncle,’ she’d insisted. ‘Your cousins or something, just a name.’

  He had waved the book away. ‘Write it down yourself,’ he said. ‘Noel Forrester, that’s my uncle. Everyone knows him round there.’

&
nbsp; ‘How do you spell it?’ asked Tally, but Blue went quiet.

  ‘You work it out,’ was all he’d say.

  They heard the choppers again that night, and the sirens wailing back and forth, some of them sounding like they were just a few streets away. They never used to come this far, she thought as she lay in the dark waiting for sleep to come. They’re getting closer.

  CHAPTER 11:

  BLOOD MONEY

  [Legends Hotel, North Interzone: Violet | Macy | Kev | Carol]

  Each day, after she woke around noon, Violet went up to the roof to feed the birds. Three scoops of grain, top up their water and grit, check the roosting box for dawdlers or sick ones. And be careful not to let them out.

  Two weeks had passed since Merlin’s accident, and the birds were her responsibility now. His niece Carol had come around with another envelope from Merlin on her way back from visiting him in hospital. She asked to see Violet, and Kev sent one of the old guys upstairs to knock on her door. Carol was waiting nervously in the foyer, the envelope clutched in one hand and her handbag looped neatly over her elbow, but she smiled when she saw Violet descending the stairs.

  Carol was older than Violet had expected. She had sensible clothes, puffy blonde hair and over-plucked eyebrows, and although her smile was sweet she seemed eager to get out of there. Violet had asked how Merlin was doing, and Carol sighed. ‘He’s getting on,’ she’d said. ‘It was inevitable sooner or later. The family doesn’t know quite what to do with him.’ She pressed the envelope into Violet’s hand. ‘He did speak fondly of you. He knows you’ll look after his birds until we can make some other arrangement. I visit when I can, but I live way out in the far subzones, so it’s not always …’ Her voice trailed off. She’d patted Violet’s arm, told her to take care of herself, and hurried out the door.