Black Glass (10 page)

Diggy turned his attention to Blue, indicated a map of the city grid stuck to the wall. ‘This run's all corporate ads, few different brands, all colour-coded. Green stickers in the Civic Zone — just the southern strip, around Flinders and Collins streets, up to here, don't overdo it. Black-and-whites — make sure you get them right, they're ads for my mate's casino — are the Civic Zone too: Chinatown, along Little Bourke Street, right from Spring down to Swanston. Red ones in the south of the Interzone, past the big eagle. Do the whole length of King and Spencer streets plus side roads, all round the strip clubs — don't skimp there, go all out. Nothing for the Quarter this run, and stay out of the Commerce Zone, too much heat right now. And teach her about surfaces, all that stuff.'

Diggy glanced at Tally. ‘You put them at eye level,' he instructed, ‘but not your eye level, higher. Around Blue's height. Rub the surface clean first. And don't stick them on crooked.'

He regarded Blue, who was visually tracing the map. ‘Got all that — or you want me to write it down?' Blue shook his head. Diggy laughed again, but to Tally's ears it wasn't a nice sound. ‘Course you don't,' he said. ‘You blackfellas got a good memory.' There was a knock on the caravan door, and Diggy was standing up, shaking their hands.

‘Welcome to the fold,' he said, giving them each a couple of coloured tickets. ‘Here, hot-dogs and a ride on me. If you got an empty stomach, I'd go the ride first.'

The rusty bulk of the Gravitron groaned as it began to rotate. Beside Tally, Blue tipped his head back and shut his eyes. He ignored her musings on the sleep habits of astronauts, so she too sank down and gave herself up to the press of gravity, its quickening spin. Pinned to the inner curve she watched the world blur and loop as the machine tipped on its side. The first time the ground rushed up she fought a twist of panic as her body recalled that other flight — the flash of the explosion, her blacked-out slam into the unforgiving earth. But this machine was controlled, like a clock: in a few minutes, up and down would be restored to their proper place.

She gave herself over to the swoop and dip of the ride. At last the air was cooling, and all across the darkening city lights had begun to dance. As they spun around, she caught glimpses of the far-off towers, which sparkled with pictures and logos: blooming flowers and butterflies; Hitachi, Sony, Panasonic. High over the CBD a blimp projected a hologram dolphin into the air, a sleek blue shape that dived and leaped in an endless pre-programmed circle, its logo sparkling above like a halo. Nearby, on the wall of a car park, a smaller string of projections fired out like a deck of coloured cards: a series of anonymous faces, each smiling, each selling something — cars, kitchen appliances, life insurance, shampoo. Old man, girl, teenage boy, baby, three young women …

There was a flash of red hair, then she was gone. Tally strained her neck up, trying to catch the image again — those half-shut eyes, that pale skin — but the swoop of the machine threw her back into the sky. It was her. (
Was it her?
) Tally struggled to move her limbs, turn her head back to the images, but the next loop revealed the wall had gone dark. She had to get off.

The machine took forever to slow. Blue had his eyes wide open now. ‘What you yelling about? Who?'

She fought the drag, and ignoring Blue's reprimand to wait, began to struggle from her seat as the ride groaned towards a halt.

By the time he caught up with her, she had climbed onto the back rail of an ice-cream van, craning for a better view. She was vaguely aware of tears on her face, but she didn't care. The wall was empty still, the images gone. The ice-cream man leaned out his van window and swore at her.

Blue pulled her down and led her away, glancing around uneasily. ‘Don't make trouble. Come on, you're alright. Let's get those hot-dogs and go home.'

On the way back through the tunnel, Tally stuck close beside him. It was dark now so Blue carried a tiny torch, keeping one palm pressed tight over its eye to dim it right down. The red glow of his illuminated hand cast a blob of warm light on the tracks ahead.

‘It was her,' she had insisted, as he'd led her from the fairground. ‘It was Grace.' But her voice, she knew, sounded doubtful. One split-second image: was it a real clue, or a trick of memory? Had it been Grace, or just some replica the city had conjured up?

Blue had shrugged. ‘It was just some ad shit. It's everywhere.'

When they reached the tunnel entrance, he shushed her gently and handed her the end of his belt to hang on to. Packages at their sides, they slipped through the gap and stepped into black space.

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

‘Luella, good to see you. Am I late?'

‘No, we're both early.'

‘Excellent. And this place is ...?'

‘A good place to talk. Private. I use it for all my outside briefings.'

‘Totally private?'

‘Well, there are cameras outside, of course, but not in here. Audio signals automatically scrambled. No point leaving your phone on.'

‘It's switched off anyway, I know time's tight … Ah, cheers — Luella?'

‘Espresso.'

‘Same for me. With half milk.'

‘That's a latte, Damon.'

‘Uh, yes. That's right.'

‘So what are you after, exactly? Are you following specific leads, or hunting for fresh material?'

‘Both. You know what it's like — constant pressure to churn it out. But I hate mistakes. I do as much checking as I can.'

‘Given the deadlines.'

‘Given the deadlines.'

‘Right. Why don't you tell me what you're working on, what you need. Then I'll brief you on a couple of our projects, and you can shoot me some questions.'

‘Great. I really appreciate —'

‘All ears.'

‘Okay. I'm working on a piece for next week, about the meth shortage: causes, impact, projections.'

‘Most of it's still made out in the Regions, isn't it?'

‘Yes, I've shot a lot of footage out there.'

‘Saw a clip on that explosion up country a few weeks ago, a decent-sized manufacturer. That was one of yours, wasn't it?'

‘Yeah, that was my story. Cook was killed, two kids never found. Interviewed a local cop, what a bumpkin. No follow-up, story's dead. Got some great images though, worth re-using. Whole roof blew off the house.'

‘Okay. So what do you need?'

‘Got expert comment and crying mums, and users are easy enough to shoot. But I'd like a manufacturer, someone who's currently clinked up. What do you think the chances are?'

‘I'll have to get back to you, but I imagine it could be done. Contra deal. It would depend on your angle, of course — what messages we can weave in.'

‘What are your thoughts?'

‘The shortage would need to be linked to the Security Minister's new funding announcement, leading up to the election — police numbers, wage increases. All the Crimbust stuff.'

‘But that's not in operation yet, is it?'

‘It's been signed. So, yes, officially it is.'

‘Alright. That should be fine. Would the minister do a brief grab?'

‘She's swamped. But I could probably arrange a few words, as long as this story screens prime.'

‘Great. So how would that place us, in terms of contra?'

‘We don't need to worry about our contra arrangements, finance will sort that out.'

‘True. But what's your sense here — who's black and who's red?'

‘They calculate that monthly, retrospectively. Leave it to them.'

‘Right. Once the clip airs.'

‘After it airs. That's why they call it reciprocal. They weigh up the end product.'

‘Right. Well, I'd love to shoot this before the start of next week.'

‘Done. But let's stay in close contact re. your story angles. You know we're entering a sensitive period right now: the international security summit coming up in a couple of months, the election later in the year …'

‘Sure, these are volatile times.'

‘The oil war, the bushfires, the water shortages, civil unrest brewing etcetera. We need to keep tabs on the messages that are circulating. The government can't be made into a scapegoat for things that fall outside our control. That won't help anyone.'

‘Sure, Luella, I agree completely. I think we understand each other.'

‘Alright. So what else are you working on? … Oh, Jesus!'

‘Shit, I'm so sorry, Luella. Quick, get a — Excuse me, can we have a cloth? It's all over … I'm so clumsy. Sorry.'

‘Pft. Don't worry. I keep a spare suit at the office.'

‘Here, let me —'

‘No no, I'll do it.'

‘I'm so sorry —'

‘Forget it. Work pays my dry-cleaning bills. Now, what were we saying?'

‘Ah …'

‘The other stories you're working on?'

‘Yes, yes … Besides the fluff, mostly corruption and exploitation stuff. That brothel guy who got done for kiddie porn? I'm doing a profile on him.'

‘The court psychiatrist is a department guy. Easy to work with — I can connect you if you like.'

‘Brilliant. Thanks, that's perfect.'

‘We can talk messages next time — it'll be pretty standard. They were mostly street kids.'

‘Great, great. And there's another story I'm keeping quiet for now. A scoop. About immigration and the blood racket.'

‘Ah. Well, I've got contacts in immigration. You're seeing an intersection?'

‘Possibly. But keep that low for now.'

‘That goes without saying, Damon. You like the underbelly stuff, don't you?'

‘Don't you? Keeps life interesting.'

‘True. Now, do you want to hear about our upcoming projects? This is an exclusive, so you might want to take notes.'

[Legends Hotel, North Interzone: Grace | unidentified female | clerk | Merlin | Peep]

From the outside it looked like a hotel in an old film, a flashback to an imagined time, all sharp shadows and smudged light; there was something familiar in its worn bluestone face and narrow windows, the dim red-carpet glow of the foyer, the silhouettes of potted palms. On one side of the building pulsed a glassed-in games arcade, where lone players gunned down foreigners; the shopfront on the other side was vacant and dark.

Grace watched the blonde woman shove the door open, her stiletto heels tipping a little against its weight. She caught a flash of bare arm as the woman entered the building's crimson mouth. She'd been following her — that long swoop of blonde ponytail, the black polka-dot dress — for almost an hour without once seeing the woman's face, except in brief profile. From the back she was straight out of a nostalgia flick, those ones she'd made Tally stay up late to watch, even though her sister always complained they had school in the morning.
Block and retreat, drop the curtain on those thoughts.
On cue, Grace replaced the memory with a harmless montage of still shots: heels stepping up a kerb, the swirling hem of a dotted dress; a cigarette held aloft, smoke spiralling up like calligraphy.

Earlier today she'd tried calling the number again. It rang, and rang, and rang: the line still open, the signal still travelling through space, flying from here to some unknowable place. Thirty rings, then it cut out. Her coin returned. And again: thirty rings, then the dead signal. The coin. A sick feeling, her heart gone blank.

Grace was standing there in the phone booth when the woman walked past. She'd seen this same woman before, she realised, but only from the back — at that Tiffany's place, heading into a room with an armful of towels, that blonde rope of hair swishing as she walked expertly in those high, high heels. A sense of old-school glamour. Grace hooked the receiver and shadowed the woman's confident walk, simply because she seemed to know where she was going — all the way from the park beside the river, through darkening streets and laneways, past strip dens and taxi ranks, noodle shops and building sites. But now she'd vanished into this hotel, leaving Grace hunched with exhaustion and thoroughly lost.

A scream broke the air from several streets away — a long, torn sound like furniture being dragged across floorboards — and she drew back into a doorway. The streets did not feel safe, and she was losing concentration. Her vision had begun to blur, and there was a dull ache in the pit of her stomach. What was it Max used to say about money?
It was like a boomerang: wouldn't come back if you were too fucked to throw straight. You had to look after number one.
All she could think about was a bed in a room, a door with a lock. Nothing else mattered but sleep. In the morning she'd forget the dreams (that fleet-footed shadow running through pine trees; ash all over her feet, her hands, in her mouth.
Ashes to ashes.
) Then she'd figure out what to do next.