Black Glass (28 page)

‘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.'

‘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.

Of course she'd look after the birds. Violet had put an old wooden chair inside their cage and found it calming to sit in there, holding out one palm with a scoop of grain in it, snowy feathers whirring around her. How simple to be them, she thought: a trill in the throat, flick your wings, peck up your food, sleep safe each night in silent rows. Nothing to bug you but an occasional gust of wind or bossy cage-mate. And now, she thought, no need to be a prop in someone else's stage act either, to vanish into the centre of that black box and maybe never come out again.

Before, the birds had all looked identical to Violet, but already she could pick out differences: a speckle of ash-grey across a breast, a certain timidity, a broken toe that stuck out at a funny angle. There were sixteen all up, but she didn't count them anymore, it made her sad. (
One for sorrow, two for joy …
) She never smoked inside the cage, thinking of their creamy feathers, their tiny bird lungs, the way the air seemed to belong to them. Nor did she wear her wig in here: on day two a bird had inadvertently shat in it, and while Macy had declared this to be good luck, the chalky goo had been tricky to remove. Each morning up here with the birds, that was the only time she went without her wig now, aside from when she went to sleep.

This half-hour of birdwatching helped still her mind before she had to go downstairs and face what now amounted to her day: writing out columns of numbers, shaving off digits to string out her remaining cash as long as possible; walking around and around the city's theatre block, or searching damaged-goods shelves for soft fruit and cheap instant meals; sitting for hours at the Belladonna cafe, sipping her way through a pot of Nick's strong tea, turning the crinkled pages of trash mags she had turned many times before; watching TV in the lounge with the old guys, stopping by Kev's office to ask how Merlin was doing (‘Same, same,' he'd mumble, or ‘Haven't heard'). And the whole time, trying not to think about the horror of the past or dwell on what might lie ahead. That would only lead to panic.

All this activity had one purpose: filling in time before her audition. Her meeting with Diggy had been puzzling, but she hadn't pushed him for details, or gotten up the courage to ask about his cousin, the filmmaker. He'd been efficient but polite, glancing subtly at his watch every few minutes; hers was clearly just one of many appointments that day. He'd met her in a back booth at the Belladonna, made brief small talk and ordered them some food, then asked a string of questions as he ticked boxes on a form. No, she didn't remember getting any shots as a kid, but she hardly ever got sick — a cold maybe once a year, and the flu just twice that she could remember; yes, her teeth were pretty good, she'd never had a filling; no, she didn't know her blood type.

To Violet's surprise he'd then pulled out a gadget and taken her blood pressure, right in front of everyone; as he peered at the gauge the waitress delivered their toasted sandwiches (his shout, he insisted) without so much as a blink; the woman usually greeted Violet, but today she gave no sign of knowing her. Diggy asked how many decent dresses she owned. Did she have any bruises on her legs or arms? Was she comfortable meeting new people? Did she enjoy dressing up, how much exercise did she get, was she taking her vitamins? Did she have a phone — no? Well, if the client took her on, they'd provide a one-way phone so she was contactable. So she could collect her first pay packet — which, no offence (and here he smirked), would be more money than she'd ever laid her eyes on at once.

Now could he just snap a couple of headshots for the client? Relax your face a bit, that's it, beautiful. Now a little smile. Perfect! Really, she was a knockout. (
May the Lord cut off all flattering lips …
) As the flash went off, a funny-looking guy with slicked-back hair, sitting a few booths behind Diggy, kept glancing their way. Violet hoped she was holding her head right.

To finish Diggy recited a checklist for her audition. Grooming was important: clean, styled hair and light make-up (cover any spots, not that she had any); evening wear and polished shoes (heels, but not too high); don't overdo the jewellery or perfume. That green dress, he instructed — he'd seen her performing in that dress, it was perfect for stage work, just make sure it was clean. Brush your teeth, and don't go skipping meals (and here he squinted at her thin arms); the aim was to look both beautiful and healthy, not like some scrawny stick. And remember they're not keen on smokers, so don't turn up smelling of cigarettes; chew some gum on the way.

‘You got all that?' he'd asked, shooting her a sharp glance over his glasses. Yes, she nodded. She had been listening closely, had dressed herself mentally according to his instructions. She imagined walking onto the empty stage, looking into the darkened auditorium, searching out the eyes of the director sitting there in the gloom, clipboard in hand; exchanging a nod of greeting.
Make eye contact
, that's what you were meant to do.
Establish a connection. Breathe, be confident, take your time.
And then what? She didn't even have a script.

But Diggy was already sliding out of the booth so she followed him to the register. The slicked-back-hair guy was right behind them in the queue, so she kept her voice low as Diggy paid the bill.

‘But what will I have to do at the audition?' she'd asked him.

‘Just be yourself,' he'd replied with an encouraging grin. ‘The gorgeous Violet. You'll knock their socks off.'

On the footpath outside he shook her hand goodbye and was gone. She left their meeting none the wiser, holding an appointment card for an address downtown. Her audition was six days away.

On the way back to the hotel she'd stopped off at a phone booth: one last try, she steeled herself, and then she would stop pretending there'd ever be an answer. She dialled the numbers and waited. It was the same as always: thirty rings, then it cut out; thirty more, then nothing. Her coin returned, that sick-to-the-stomach feeling.
Don't think about it, pull yourself together, don't you dare cry out here in the street.