Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

  ‘I don’t feel so great about setting some dude on fire, even if he is a cop.’

  ‘They’re just a deterrent, to keep the cops back. They’ll make a whole lot of smoke and put up a screen between us and them.’

  ‘Can I just say, if anyone chucks one near a police horse, I will personally kill you.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to do that. No civils either. These are reserved for the actual cops.’

  ‘You said all this was just backup. Just in case, you said.’

  ‘We already agreed. If they get violent, like last time, they get some fireworks. If they don’t, we keep it peaceful.’

  ‘No prizes for guessing which way it will go.’

  ‘How do we define violent?’

  ‘Violence is usually pretty easy to spot, dude.’

  ‘Physical force. Use of batons, tear gas, that big air-cannon thing …’

  ‘I saw that on the box. What does it shoot, just air?’

  ‘Air? Big deal.’

  ‘Don’t they put projectiles in it — tennis balls, potatoes, whatever? Or tear-gas canisters.’

  ‘Potatoes … that’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Are they using that thing already?’

  ‘I heard it just shoots out air, blows you over.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very scary.’

  ‘What if they start shooting actual bullets?’

  ‘Then they’ll look like a bunch of trigger-happy thugs. Bad PR for the national brand.’

  ‘And someone gets a hole shot in them and maybe dies. Don’t forget that part.’

  ‘I doubt that they’ll want to start shooting. There’ll be cameras everywhere.’

  ‘Hey, our masks — they better not be flammable. If something goes wrong I don’t want my face catching on fire.’

  ‘Good point. Everyone put the word out on that.’

  ‘We’re coming in from the north this time, right — top of the Interzone?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got the assembly point sorted. Then head south.’

  ‘For the main event, the Chambers will be all cordoned off. I don’t reckon we’re going to get anywhere near the actual meeting.’

  ‘That’s not so important. The most important thing is to create a spectacle, show some concrete display of resistance.’

  ‘And to avoid getting beaten up or killed by the cops. That’s kind of important to me.’

  ‘I second that.’

  ‘Look, we’ve all got our roles sorted. Work with the photogs, not against them. We mobilise the numbers, and this will beam all around the world.’

  ‘I’m kind of excited.’

  ‘It’s not a game, Sarah.’

  ‘Don’t be so patronising. I meant this is important. This is history.’

  ‘No, this is about the kind of world we want to live in. It’s about the future, not the past.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to jail.’

  ‘So don’t get caught. Here, you want to try one? Who’s got the lighter?’

  [Ace Swan Motel, The Quarter: Tally | Blue | Moz + unidentified affiliates]

  Tally checked the lock on the bathroom door before undressing: the last thing she needed was one of Diggy’s thugs busting in on her. She could hear them out there in the poky motel room, Moz and his mates, cracking beers with the footy turned up loud on the box, shouting abuse at the enemy team. Blue was out there too, waiting for her, standing quietly near the door. Moz had shelled out their pay on arrival, but none of the men offered Blue a seat or a beer. They just ignored him.

  ‘Wash yourself good and fix up that mop on your head,’ Moz had growled, handing her coins for the shower. ‘There’s hair shit and a dryer in there.’ The school uniform hung on the back of the door, a shapeless blue tunic with white piping, a matching blazer with an emblem on the pocket, and a white hat with a blue band. Christ, she thought, the frickin’ hat’s ridiculous, like a pudding bowl. A cheap pair of cotton knickers, the price tag still attached, dangled from a coat hook.

  She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a real shower, one with hot water. Twice a week she and Blue took turns snatching a quick wash behind the glass factory, using a tap with a short hose taped to it and some boards rigged up for privacy; it wasn’t much fun. Tally pulled off her jeans and t-shirt and kicked them across the floor. A shape caught her eye: there in the bathroom mirror stood her naked self, a thin figure with a scowl on its face and dirty smudges on its bare arms. Her once-cropped hair was a tangle of dark wavy curls falling almost to her shoulders, longer and wilder than it had ever been in her life. But something else had changed too: a slight but unmistakable swelling around her nipples, the beginning of breasts, and a dark triangle lurking between her legs. She covered herself with her arms, fed in all the coins at once, and turned on the water full blast. The bathroom filled with steam, erasing the girl in the mirror.

  If anyone asked, she was in Year Eight at a posh school in Toorak: Laurie-toe Mandy-ville Hall, Moz had made her pronounce it properly, repeat it back to him ten times with a snooty little twang in her voice. ‘Best keep your trap shut though,’ he said. ‘Fuck knows how you’ll scrub up, but you sound like white trash.’

  The water hit her skin like solace. She gasped: how had she forgotten how good it felt, hot running water? She opened her mouth, swayed in the stream of it; used far more soap than she needed, breathing in its flowery smell, the calculated luxury of cheap scent. She scrubbed her grimy feet, but the dirt seemed lodged beneath the skin. The shampoo smelled of apples, synthetic but delicious, like a memory of childhood. Water poured off her body and dashed down the plughole, murky as the dirt dislodged then gradually running clear. There was even conditioner; she caught herself reading the instructions, it had been so long. Rinse thoroughly. Clean, clean, clean: the simple beauty of it. She’d forgotten.

  Someone hammered on the wall. Moz had told her not to waste water, it was costing him. She stole a minute more, just standing still enjoying the hiss and rush of the shower, then reluctantly stepped out as it slowed to a drizzle, then just drips. The mirror was still fogged over as she squeezed the water from her hair, towelled herself dry and pulled on the uniform. It was slightly too big. She rubbed a hole in the misted-up mirror and tried to comb her hair. ‘Eww,’ she practised, raising her nose a few degrees. ‘Ahd laake to tray some of thaat there parfoom, if yew don’t maind. Thaat great big fancy bottle.’ She tested out a side part. ‘Ewww, gracious,’ she whined. ‘Eet fucking steenks. Yew are dismissed!’

  More hammering. Moz growling at her. ‘Hurry up, shortarse, stop pissing around in there.’

  She blow-dried her hair, combing it out as she went. The person in the mirror was older and taller than she’d expected, with softer features. The tomboy was disappearing. She looked like a girl.

  She jammed the silly hat onto her head and swaggered back into the motel room barefoot. Blue shot her a grin but said nothing. She crossed her eyes at him. The men glanced at her without interest then went back to their game, all except Moz.

  ‘So that’s what’s under all the dirt,’ he said with something like approval. ‘A normal-looking kid.’ He threw her a pair of white socks, tossed a worn schoolbag in her direction, and pointed to a jumble of second-hand shoes against one wall, a pile of black lace-ups. ‘Pick the pair that fits best and stand up straight. Rich kids don’t slouch like that.’ He warned her not to get the uniform dirty, but she could hang on to it for now: there’d be another stink-bomb job next week.

  Before they left Moz showed her how to break the capsule, gave instructions on making a clean getaway. Then he turned back to the box, where a fight had broken out amongst the footy players. His henchmen were egging the home side on, roaring at the screen.

  Blue signalled for her to wait. He needed to confirm his next assignment, Tally knew, and sh
e guessed he hadn’t done it yet. They waited for the ruckus to die down.

  ‘So,’ said Blue, his voice coming out too faint. He spoke louder. ‘So when you need me next?’

  Moz gave no sign that Blue had spoken. He sucked on his beer and cursed as the away team scored a free kick.

  ‘Moz? When’s the next job — stickering, next week?’ Blue had a knack of keeping his voice low and polite, but Tally could see it in his face: he hated this man, hated having to depend on him for survival.

  Moz was still watching the TV. He burped obscenely, a long, loud, tearing noise. He took his time in answering and sounded almost cheerful. ‘Nothing coming up the next few weeks, kid. Heat’s on lately so we got to keep a low profile.’

  Tally’s stomach did a little lurch. This hadn’t occurred to her, that their trickle of cash jobs could be cut off just like that, for no apparent reason. What had Blue done? He was a hard worker, certainly more productive than her.

  Blue just stood there. He spoke softly. ‘I got to work, Moz. Must be something you and Diggy need done.’

  Moz flicked his ash on the carpet. He looked irritated as he turned his gaze on Blue. ‘You know the situation, kid.’ He scowled. ‘Whole CBD’s swarming with cops and shit-stirrers, even the Interzone’s getting dicey. We got to lay low for a bit. Not worth the risk.’

  Blue took his eyes off Moz’s face and spoke as if addressing the dirty carpet several metres away. ‘I heard there’s a crew going stickering next week, east of the Civic Zone. I could help out, you know I’m fast.’ A pleading note had crept into his voice and it made Tally uneasy.

  ‘You arguing with me?’ Moz asked, and there was a threat in his face now. Blue shook his head. ‘Good,’ said the man. ‘Deal with it: we’re scaling down for now until the heat’s off. Anyone who draws attention is off the roster.’

  Tally almost spoke; she wanted to say how unfair that was, how hard Blue worked, why couldn’t they just divide the jobs between the two of them? But Moz shot her a look that cut that idea dead. She was learning when to keep her mouth shut. If she didn’t, she knew who’d be next.

  They were dismissed, that much was clear. They left without another word.

  Instead of going back via the old tunnel Blue headed for the longer route, skirting the edge of the old highway. No, he said, he wouldn’t come with her into the city; by the sounds of it, he’d better stay right away from the whole CBD.

  The idea of Blue having no work niggled at her. Tally felt guilty, although she couldn’t work out whether the guilt was justified or not. He didn’t want to talk now, just trudged along a few steps ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, head down. At first she’d kept up a running commentary — what a bastard Moz was, how she’d make sure they were alright, how stupid-looking was this hat, boy would she kill for some cheese right now, had he ever seen a penguin?

  ‘Why you got to keep flapping your gums all the time?’ was Blue’s eventual response, but he sounded tired rather than angry, so she fell quietly into step beside him.

  As they walked she was aware of the breeze on her soap-scented skin, the unfamiliar bounce of her shampooed hair. She tried to concentrate on the task ahead, prepare mentally for the assignment, but her thoughts kept coming back to their situation. Blue had some cash saved, he’d said, the money for the busted-up old vehicle, so they’d be alright even if he got no work for a while. But two people trying to live on the meagre trickle of money she earned — Tally didn’t want to dwell on that. Maybe she’d gotten too used to being the little sister, letting Blue make all the decisions. Now he was out of work, and who knew when more would turn up. Over the months that they’d become friends — and that’s what they were now, although the word had never been said out loud — he’d always been the one with the tips, the inside knowledge, the practical advice and warnings. Without him, she knew, she’d have been in deep shit right from the start.

  Was it her fault for taking jobs that should really have been his? Or was there another explanation for Moz dropping Blue? ‘Us black kids got to watch out,’ Blue had said once. ‘The cops will zero in whenever they want someone to blame.’ Undoc, desperate, up to no good: that’s how the cops saw them, and immigrants didn’t have it much better. She was lucky to be white.

  They parted ways where the old highway ended. Blue wished her luck, told her not to mess up: don’t get caught, just do the job and get out of there. Then he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

  ‘I’ll bring us back some food,’ she yelled after him. Blue half raised his hand, almost a wave, but did not turn around.

  Tally had never worn a school uniform before. The schools out in the Regions didn’t have them, the kids just wore whatever they liked — when they bothered to turn up at all, that is. She missed the learning side of school, the books and pens, the storybooks and long division and adjectives. She missed coming home to swap notes with her sister, tell Grace her newfound facts: about the dinosaurs, the stars, all the strange animals that had died out when the planet had gotten sick. She didn’t miss her classmates so much; they’d never stayed in one place long enough to get close, and Max had always drummed it into them: best not to say goodbye, it was bad luck. You just leave quietly when everyone’s asleep. Look after number one. A stupid saying, that. She’d never liked it. People had to look after each other.

  She enjoyed the way it felt, this uniform. Like she was going somewhere and she had a job to do. When she was dressed this way people no longer shot her suspicious glances, but nor was she invisible. She seemed to occupy a different space in the pattern of the crowd: she didn’t have to fight for it so much, she realised, to constantly step out of people’s way. She was a schoolkid with a bunch of important learning to get done, and that in itself deserved respect. She made her way through the Commerce Zone like she had every right to be there.

  As she walked into the shiny glow of the department store Tally held her breath, sensing the black-clad security guard with his arms held out from his sides, a puff-chested presence lurking near the doors. But he didn’t even glance her way. She was in. Forget the detective coat, this disguise was perfect. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She’d stay in here a while, get a feel for the place, before she dropped the stink bomb.

  Tally rode the escalator upwards. The place felt like a dream, all mirror glass and soft music, the colour-coded beauty products and vanilla-tinted air; the click of shoppers’ heels and the lipsticked women behind the counters, with their gold jewellery and bored, pretty faces; the luxurious hush of expensive things, the racks and racks of dresses and scarves and handbags, umbrellas and kitchenware and cards and gift-wrap. Grace would love it here, it’s like a palace.

  A thought came to her, a stab of hope: this is exactly the kind of place where Grace would like to work while she was getting her stage career together, lining up auditions and all that. There were no ugly people on the staff: they were all elegant and good-looking. The longer Tally loitered, she figured, the better her chances of casing the joint properly. Just browsing, she practised under her breath. She allowed herself to drift down the wide aisles, treading polished marble, drinking in the faces and colours with her eyes, just like Grace would do.

  [Undisclosed location: Damon | fixer ds-38a]

  ‘I’m quite a rare type, myself — O.’

  ‘Actually O’s the most common blood type.’

  ‘Really, O’s a common one? I must have gotten mixed up.’

  ‘There are some really rare ones, with names this long, a whole string of letters and symbols.’

  ‘Right, well you’re the blood analyst, not me. So with all the different blood types, how does the transfusion process work?’

  ‘Rare ones aside, you’ve got your four basic types — A, B, AB, and O — each with negative or positive antibodies: A-minus, A-plus etcetera.’

  ‘So me, for example: I can on
ly receive blood from another O person?’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that. Like can take like: O-negative can take O-negative, A-positive can take A-positive, and so on. But then you get some cross-type compatibility too. So AB-negative, which is a relatively rare blood type, can also take AB-positive. And B-positive can take O-positive.’

  ‘Hang on, let me get that …’

  ‘I’m not sure you need that level of detail. This is just background information.’

  ‘Sure, but I want to get this right.’

  ‘I want to be helpful here, but as I said, we need to ensure I’m not traceable as your information source. That means I’ll need to be a little vague on some things.’

  ‘I understand. This is all deep background, all unattributable.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not familiar with those terms.’

  ‘It means I won’t directly use or even partially attribute the information you’re giving me. It’s just to expand my background knowledge of the topic.’

  ‘Alright. You know I’m not interested in taking payment for this.’

  ‘Yes, you said that, but I’d like to compensate you for your time.’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m speaking to you because I find this whole thing abhorrent.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘It’s exploitative and dangerous. It should be stopped.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Going to the police would mean being identified, and I can’t afford to have that. From what I’ve heard, this is a huge money-spinner, and the people running it … they’re not people you want to upset.’

  ‘I’ll take the heat myself. That’s my job.’

  ‘Alright. So what else do you want to know? My information’s patchy so you’ll have to do a lot of checking. Some of this may be nothing more than rumour.’

  ‘But it’s happening?’

  ‘It certainly is. I know one of the phlebotomists.’

  ‘The …?’

  ‘They take the blood. This guy’s a drunk, he shouldn’t be let near a needle. And when he drinks he talks. Thinks it’s impressive, I guess, having links with the crim world.’