Black Glass

by Mundell, Meg;

  Her drink was almost finished when she saw the young woman approaching, reflected in the bar mirror behind her. Violet stared: this place was full of beautiful people, but this one looked like she’d come straight off a catwalk clip, all shiny hair and lean limbs, dark flashing eyes and one of those pouty mouths.

  When the woman noticed Violet in the mirror, her face broke into a wide girlish grin; disarmingly, it was a little crooked. She took the barstool next to Violet, perching elegantly with her long legs crossed at the knee, shook her hair back over her shoulder and offered her hand to shake.

  ‘Ah! So lovely to meet you, Vee-oh-letta,’ she said in a strong accent. ‘Wow! You are so gorgeous. I am Katerina.’ This is a woman from a film, thought Violet, stunned. This is a supermodel or a movie star; she was so beautiful, she couldn’t possibly be anything else.

  ‘Phoooh,’ said the woman, raising her voice over the music. ‘I am rushing!’

  ‘You’re from Russia?’ asked Violet, and the woman laughed.

  ‘No, silly. I am rushing to meet you! I keep you waiting, sorry for this.’ She took out a tin of green lozenges. ‘These ones, they are good for the meetings when you feel nervous.’ She winked, putting one in her mouth and offering the tin. ‘Good for the figure too!’

  Violet took one. It tasted of mint and something bitter, like the juniper in gin. ‘So you’re not from Russia?’ she said.

  Katerina laughed again. How old was she? Twenty-one? Twenty-five? Older? Her face was unlined, skin clear as the surface of a pearl. ‘I am from Ukraine,’ she said. ‘You know this place?’

  Violet had never heard of it. ‘Not really, sorry. I’m from up the Regions.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Katerina vaguely, ‘is nice?’

  The barman had appeared again. ‘May I get you a drink, miss?’ he asked Katerina.

  ‘I will take a whiskey with ice,’ she said. ‘And you, Violet? Your glass here is finished.’

  Was this a test? Diggy had been clear about the drinking: they liked their girls healthy, he’d said, wouldn’t hire a boozer.

  ‘I can’t drink before the audition,’ she said, but Katerina waved her hand like she was shooing flies.

  ‘Darling, just one. If you walk nice, it’s no problem. What do you like?’

  Violet relented. ‘Vodka, lime and soda, please,’ she said to the barman, feeling foolish. ‘With vodka this time,’ she added; it didn’t show up on your breath. The barman went off, with only a slight roll of his eyes.

  ‘Won’t we be late?’ Violet asked, but Katerina said her appointment was half an hour away. Plenty of time, she said. Relax.

  Their drinks arrived, and Violet noticed that no money changed hands. The beautiful woman raised her glass. ‘Budmo!’ she exclaimed. ‘In Ukraine this means: We will live forever. Like you say Cheers, but better, yes?’

  Violet echoed the toast. ‘Budmo!’ Her nerves, she was surprised to note, had disappeared completely.

  Katerina entertained her over one slow drink, then led her to the far corner of the room, a dark little alcove tucked away behind a screen of greenery. She pressed a button in the wall, and two steel doors slid open onto a lift. As they stepped inside Katerina insisted that Violet take another mint. ‘Good to relax.’ She winked at her. ‘So you don’t be nervous.’ Then she pressed the whole tin into her hand. ‘Keep them.’ She giggled. ‘But don’t have too many each day!’

  Before Violet could respond the doors opened to reveal a small foyer. It was done out like a posh hotel, luxurious but unfussy, cream with pale green and gold trimmings, a red leather couch and lush plants. An enormous chandelier glittered. The whole place smelled of fresh flowers.

  After introducing her to the receptionist, Katerina skipped off down the corridor with a little wave. ‘Good luck,’ she sang back.

  Violet was shown to a couch, oddly unperturbed at her new friend’s departure. You’ll just have to improvise, she told herself. Ad lib. She felt unusually calm.

  Emerald vines rose up the walls, with shiny leaves and spiky tropical flowers, too perfect to be anything but artificial; but when she looked closely she saw slight irregularities — a tiny hole, a new bud sprouting. The plants were real, the chandelier no doubt crystal. She heard low murmurs from a nearby hallway, people coming and going just out of sight.

  The receptionist spoke quietly into a phone, then led her to a plush room where two women and a man were waiting. They rose and shook Violet’s hand across the table, welcomed her with perfect white smiles. She didn’t catch their names, but they were well dressed, with pleasant, unremarkable faces. One woman wore a white lab coat like a scientist, the other a pink sleeveless dress, the man a dark suit. They were thirty-ish, she guessed, maybe more; rich people did all sorts of things to make themselves look younger. Make eye contact, thought Violet. Build rapport.

  The woman in pink began: this was a health club, she explained, a top-class, very exclusive one. They were interviewing only the most outstanding candidates to fill a limited number of positions, and Violet had come highly recommended. The club offered a specialised health treatment, a rejuvenation therapy that was in high demand. Their clients were mostly wealthy businessmen, but lately several women had also joined — all high-flyers, and all very nice people.

  Girls worked just one shift per week, which paid a basic retainer of $200. ‘That’s just to turn up,’ said the man genially. ‘The girls watch the box, or read, chat to each other. They’re very friendly — although a lot of them don’t speak much English.’

  Now the woman in the lab coat spoke. ‘Most of our hostesses are undocumented. We don’t discriminate. In fact, we prefer it that way. Less hassle with paperwork.’ There were strict rules: everyone had to have a blood test before starting her shift, and girls could only do one rejuvenation session each per week, no more. And they had to look after themselves — avoid alcohol, not smoke, no recreational drugs. They’d be given free nutritional advice and were welcome to use the in-house gym. Free fruit platters too; the girls loved them. They all had a one-way phone so they were contactable 24/7 — the number of the club was programmed in, but you couldn’t make any other calls on it — and if you rang in sick you’d need a medical certificate. And obviously, everything was strictly confidential; the club did not operate within the traditional structures, and the generous pay reflected this, so nothing must go beyond these walls. If that should happen, the repercussions could be serious for everyone concerned.

  All up, said the man, the pay was $600 cash per shift. Violet felt her eyes widen. A quick calculation: $200 just to show up; $400 for something else. What was it?

  Leaning forward, the woman in pink placed a cool hand on Violet’s arm. She spoke earnestly, as if soothing someone anxious, but Violet felt quite calm. ‘We want to make this very clear, Violet,’ she said. ‘No man will touch you. This is not that kind of place. There is no sex, no nudity.’

  Violet nodded. ‘There’s acting, though?’ she asked.

  The woman looked surprised, hesitated. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘The girls do little parades for our clients. And the therapy is quite theatrical.’ Now all three of them were smiling at her expectantly. She had no idea what to say.

  ‘So, Violet. Are you interested in the position?’ asked the lab-coat woman, and she found herself nodding.

  ‘Thank you, yes.’ She blinked. Had it been that easy? There were handshakes: apparently she had the job. Doing what? She hushed that voice and smiled sweetly at them.

  Now there were some formalities: a blood screen to check her type and health status, and the catwalk test, they added, almost apologetically; it’d be over in two minutes, and she could pick out some brand-new lingerie to keep. Madame Krane liked all the new girls to take a turn on the catwalk for her, just to check they were in good health.

  And finally, if she liked, she could observe a re
juvenation. One was scheduled for ten-fifteen this evening. Violet nodded again, as if she was used to making such agreements.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said the lab-coat woman, standing up briskly. ‘Let’s get that little blood test out of the way.’

  In the taxi on the way home, Violet laid her head back on the seat and watched the city slide by behind the glass. A security guard at the club had hailed her a cab and handed the driver a cab charge. The taxi driver, dark-skinned and turban-clad, drove smoothly and without hurry.

  She was still trying to piece it all together. It had hardly been an audition at all: no dialogue to learn, no scenes to play out. But they had liked her, that much was obvious. The job was hers, provided her blood tests came back clear. She started next week. Her mind drifted back to what she had seen that night. She waited for the shock, even a twinge of disquiet, but it did not come. Since meeting Katerina an odd sense of calm had settled on her, soft as a blanket, and there it had remained.

  The two women had shown her into a darkened room, where they sat on comfy chairs to watch the rejuvenation treatment through one-way glass. Before them was a clean white room, softly lit, a vase of star-shaped red flowers placed on a table between two low beds. A woman in a white nurse’s tunic was setting out equipment on a silver tray. A girl in a long silky robe reclined on the left-hand bed, propped up on a mound of pillows; an older man, his shirtsleeve rolled up, lay on the bed to the right. The man kept lifting his head and glancing across at the girl with a nervous sort of smile, but she had her eyes closed.

  ‘The rooms are heated to body temperature,’ said the woman in the pink dress, sitting beside Violet in the dark. ‘There’s no discomfort, just a slight prick. And all our therapists are medically trained.’

  As Violet watched, the woman in the tunic chatted pleasantly to the two prone figures, her mouth curling into a smile, her soundless words relaxing them back into their pillows. A screen set into the wall showed two sets of zigzagging red lines, one atop the other; they were pulsing out of synch and the top one was going noticeably faster. The tubing that connected the patients — Violet couldn’t help thinking of them that way, as patients — was discreet, just a thin red cable running along the wall and down to each bed. It ended in two pieces of white tape, one stuck to the crook of the girl’s left arm, the other to inside of the man’s right elbow. Both of them had their eyes shut now, and their faces wore the same calm smile.

  The woman in the tunic laid her hand on each of their arms in turn, and spoke a few words to them; the girl nodded, the man nodded, and the woman reached up and turned on a switch. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the two zigzagging lines on the screen slowed down and began to pulse in time with each other, dipping and rising together in regular waves.

  The taxi braked, and Violet shook her head: she’d fallen half asleep in the car’s warm interior. She was home now, she could see the hotel’s bluestone face heavy and reassuring in the dark. She thanked the driver, picked up her bag and opened the car door. She did not see the second taxi pull up behind them. It idled at the kerb as she punched in the night code and shoved open the door. The car waited a few minutes then drove away into the night.

  [Abandoned glass factory, Old Docks, South Interzone: Tally]

  The second she walked into the old factory Tally knew something was wrong. She trod over the winking shrapnel, a feeling of dread weighing stone-like in her guts with every step. Overhead the pigeons whirred and fluttered softly. The place was too quiet.

  She stood in the doorway to their room and felt disbelief wash over her. Blue’s fuzzy pink blanket lay right where he’d left it. Hers was not crumpled in its usual spot against the opposite wall; instead, he had folded it neatly into a square. There was something resting on top of it, a round object that made a dint in the fabric. She bent down to pick it up: one of Blue’s special red stones, half of his lucky pair.

  Tally closed her fist over it and looked around the empty room. It smelled of spray paint and above the doorway he had left her a message scrawled in red: ULURU, the big rock just near his hometown. Then, STAY STRONG, SHERLOCK. The bastard. She sat down with her back to the wall, wrapped her detective coat around her, and sobbed until she was empty and the daylight had begun to fade from the room. Eventually, exhausted, she curled up in the pink blanket and inhaled his scent until sleep took her away.

  In the morning Tally jerked awake, sitting upright with her eyes wide open. She hadn’t placed the board over the window last night, and the sky outside was already getting light. There might still be time to catch him. She pulled on her school uniform and sprinted the whole way down to the wrecker’s yard. The German Shepherd sprang out from under an old truck, raced to where she stood at the chain-link fence, and began weaving back and forth, barking and growling at her, but she paid no attention to the animal. She peered through the mesh, her chest heaving puffs of vapour out into the cold air. Over by the old shed she could see a gap in the line of rusty vehicles: the Land Rover was gone. She was too late.

  Then the shed door swung open, and there was the fat man standing in the doorway, his overalls unzipped to the waist and his stomach poking out white and swollen. He stared straight at her, like he was issuing a challenge. They stood there looking at each other across the junkyard for a long moment, neither of them moving. Then the man hawked deep in his throat and spat a gob of phlegm deliberately onto the ground, a gob so big she could see it from here. He turned away, went inside and slammed the shed door behind him. The dog began to hurl itself against the mesh, growling horribly, snapping a mouthful of wet teeth at her. Too late.

  Walking back to the glass factory alone, she felt close to hating Blue. How could he leave her alone like this — just take off without a word? They were meant to be friends, but he’d betrayed her, without any warning or good reason. What had she ever done to him? Why had she trusted him?

  That was it, Tally thought, anger welling up in her chest. Here was a promise: she would never trust anyone again. You couldn’t rely on people, couldn’t believe the things they said. They never stuck around. They up and overdosed, they died, they disappeared and left you all by yourself. They just took off and started their lives again in some new place, without her; just forgot her, like she’d never existed, like she was dead. Forget looking after number two: from now on she’d look after just one person — herself. Everyone else could go to hell; she didn’t care about them anymore. She hated them all.

  Tally felt in the pocket of her uniform. The stone was still there, safe and sound, but that was all.

  [Unmapped alleyway, rear of South Yarra Station: Damon | 4 unidentified dissidents, Coalition for Civic Freedom. see file ps-863a for profile details]

  ‘Stand over here, guys, with the graffiti behind you. That’s it, great.’

  ‘Is my balaclava on straight? Does it look alright?’

  ‘Can’t see a thing, just your eyes, and I’ll blur them out in the edit so they can’t get an accurate scan.’

  ‘Can you check my balaclava, please, Simon?’

  ‘Nice one. Not that Simon is my real name.’

  ‘Oh god, sorry.’

  ‘Forget it, guys, I didn’t hear a thing. We don’t have a lot of time. You okay to start?’

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You’re going to alter our voices, right?’

  ‘Of course, that’s standard practice with a protected source.’

  ‘Alright, I’m ready. Shoot.’

  ‘So tell me: what’s the coalition’s plan over the coming week?’

  ‘This footage won’t screen until the eve of the summit, right?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Got to keep our powder dry.’

  ‘Just so we’re clear on that. Okay. In the lead-up to the summit we will be making our objections known in no uncertain terms.’

  ‘Great.
Could you outline those objections for us? Objections to what, exactly?’

  ‘This summit is not about security — it’s about control. Increasing Polbiz control over public and private space, control over citizens. The ID-Net scheme, if it goes through, will take this control to a global level.’

  ‘Good, good. So why is this a bad thing?’

  ‘ID-Net will widen existing social gaps. We’ve already got growing inequality — a global downturn, rampant unemployment, attacks on outsiders … This is the worst possible time to launch a major crackdown on civil liberties.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because people are running out of choices, and a punitive categorisation regime like ID-Net will create segregation, disadvantage and resentment on a massive scale. The consolidation of databases is not reversible. Once that regime’s implemented —’

  ‘Whoa, whoa. Too many syllables, mucho jargon. Can you say that again, in plainer words?’

  ‘I thought that was pretty plain.’

  ‘It’s just that you sounded a bit earnest and wordy … a bit uni-student.’

  ‘I am a bloody uni student!’

  ‘Okay, but we have ten seconds to get their attention. It has to be punchier. Try to sound more like an everyday person. An excited one.’

  ‘Hey, please don’t tell us how this works. I’m majoring in media studies.’

  ‘Guys, look … I have to get this to air. You wouldn’t believe the bullshit I go through at the station trying to get these substance stories up. Help me out here, please.’

  ‘He’s right, they don’t air complicated stuff. No long words.’

  ‘Right. Plus, no offence, guys, but it sounds a bit dry. Can we get some bites on what you actually plan to do? You are going to do something, right?’

  ‘Of course. Alright: we are disrupting the summit to get the world’s attention, to say this scheme is dangerous, oppressive and blatantly unjust. It’s a mistake, an attack on personal freedom, and it must not go through. We have a duty to stop it. And we will prevail — we have the numbers.’