Black Glass (9 page)

‘Good luck, pretty girl,' said Josette. ‘And remember where we are. Just in case you change your mind.'

At the door Grace turned back to say goodbye. Perry half raised his hand in farewell, but Susie wasn't looking. She was watching the box, where a cartoon cat had overshot a cliff and was pedalling empty air. ‘This one's funny,' the girl was saying, her voice deadpan, as Grace pulled the door shut.

[Unmarked shopfront, shopping strip 3, subzone 18: Milk | Chase]

‘Come in, man. Shut the door. How ya been, Milkman?'

‘Alright.'

‘Business good?'

‘It's alright, Chase. Nothing to brag about. Everything okay with my order?'

‘All ready. Here, siddown, push that shit on the floor. Haven't seen you this side of the tunnel in a while.'

‘I'm not shopping anywhere else, promise. Just been busy. Smells good in here. What is that — something new?'

‘Ah, you like it, huh. Something I'm working on. I blew out the room half an hour ago and vented this number. You like?'

‘Yeah. It's … I'm thinking … You tested it in the field yet?'

‘Kinda. Shut your eyes. Go slow. Just breathe. You getting it?'

‘Hang on a minute.'

[—]

‘Yeah. I'm getting a feel for it. Or some of it, anyway.'

‘Aha. Right then. Give us the components — your best shot.'

‘Well … there's definitely some girl in there, in the top note. Quite young. Maybe a bit too young, actually, Chase …'

‘Heh, smart guy. Ain't nothing illegal about a smell, my friend. First thing you noticed too … interesting. What else?'

‘Ethics-wise, I'd bump the age up if I were you. This one might confuse the dads.'

‘Thanks for the moral advice, Milkman, but let's just stick with analysis. What else you got? Come on, you're a machine. Don't censor, just interpret.'

‘You want my professional take, or personal?'

‘Hell, both. What's the difference when you're a fucking
artiste
like us, right.'

‘Okay … There's boy in there too, bit sweaty — but the girl's stronger. And definitely some Beach in the core note. Sand, ozone, seaspray, negative ions. Waves — bit of a crash, but not too rough. Dry notes too: little flash of rock dust, like ignition. Rocks banged together, almost sparks.'

‘Brilliant.'

‘That gunpowder note, it's one of my favourites.'

‘Me too. You're a genius. Go on.'

‘There's a touch of something adrenal halfway down. But not fearful, exactly — more anticipation, butterflies in the stomach. Lower down there's greenery: moss, with some sharp stuff, juniper maybe. Actually it's a bit lemony, I'd knock that back a bit.'

‘Why?'

‘Kind of clashes with the girl note.'

‘Depends what you're using it for. Go on.'

‘Near the bottom, there's what — cat fur? And a tiny dab of jet fuel, nice touch. But the best element's your base note: Hope. Not the painful, misguided kind. Not self-delusion; something young and clear. Verging on elation. Not bad, Chase. What is it? You've spliced something new onto H18, right?'

‘Close, maestro. But like Mr Freud said, no cigar.'

‘You're getting mixed up, Freud never said that.'

‘Whatever. What about the visuals? What kicks in?'

‘What have you spliced on the bottom there? On the H?'

‘Aha. Specialist information, my friend. Shut your eyes again. What can you see?'

‘You want visuals? That's extra, Chase. Specialist info.'

‘Come on, don't be like that. Gimme that special Milk magic. I always look after you, don't I?'

‘Okay, okay … This is purely subjective, remember. Right: I can see sand dunes, beach grass. Well out of the city, but under a flight path. A gothic kind of beach: black sand, volcanic. Wildlife lurking around, just out of sight.'

‘Christ. Go on.'

‘Cumulus clouds. Sunny, but a chilly wind. Freedom — with just enough risk to feel exciting. That sense of hovering on the verge of being airborne, about to leave the ground … It's definitely late adolescence, this one. Those sudden shots of self-belief you got in your late teens, with the hormones kicking in?'

‘Jesus. Every time. That's impressive, man.'

‘Nice mix, Chase. The idea's not exactly new, but you've done something original with it. Needs some finetuning, but still …'

‘So let's talk business.'

‘Okay, review's over. That base note, the hope variant. What is it?'

[Disused rail tunnel: links Docklands and Carnie District, The Quarter: Tally | Blue | Diggy | miscellaneous unverified persons]

The air inside the tunnel smelled of motor oil and rat piss. Up ahead, in the dim shafts of light falling from the vents, she could just make out Blue, a skinny shadow stepping over puddles and broken pipes, trailing the curve of the tracks. She squinted after the logo on his hoodie, a beacon floating in the gloom. He'd wait for her to catch up, then set off deeper into the tunnel's black throat. Blue had insisted that Tally not go barefoot in here, pulling an old pair of sneakers from the weeds near the tunnel's overgrown mouth and dropping them at her feet.

‘Gotta be quiet down there,' he'd instructed, edging through a gap in the boards. ‘Stay right behind me. Your eyes'll get used to the dark. Anyone comes, just let me talk.'

At least it was cool in there, a welcome relief from the pressing heat outside. The entrance to the old rail tunnel was all but invisible. In a corner of the Docklands, past the empty towers and overflowing bins, an ancient pair of railway tracks, blackened with age and lichen, led to a dead-end tangle of vines. Blue tugged aside a piece of plywood, and there was the hole. Tally laced up the sneakers, belted her detective coat tight and glanced back at the silent wharf: nobody around. She squeezed through the gap and followed Blue into the dark.

This old tunnel was a shortcut, she'd gathered, a portal leading onto the back lanes of the Quarter's Carnie district. Blue had told her the elevated walkway that skirted the official tunnel to the north, with its bright lights and random checks, was a hassle unless you had papers. Down here there were no cameras or cops, nobody asking for ID. But don't ever come alone, he'd warned, you don't know your way round yet. Being secret didn't make a place safe.

They'd only known each other a week, but so far it had been easy. In daylight hours Blue came and went, and Tally insisted she had her own stuff to do, but the two of them had an unspoken pact. He'd materialise beside her as she jotted a landmark into her notebook; later he'd walk off with a half-wave, indicating a distant skyscraper, saying, ‘I'll be back when the sun gets up there'; at night, tucked into their regular sleeping spot, she'd hear a low whistle and he'd re-emerge. ‘Yo Sherlock,' he'd whisper. ‘You 'wake?' Often he brought food — dried-out sushi, leathery donuts, once a whole watermelon bashed in on one side — and always water. He'd shown her the taps where you could fill a bottle without getting caught. Already, automatically, on her travels Tally also scavenged for two. Forget about what Max used to say:
Look after number one
. Look after each other, that's what her and Grace had always done. Look after number one
and
number two.

Blue didn't talk much, and at first she'd babbled to fill the gaps, but she soon grew tired of her own voice and was surprised to discover an easy silence, saved the ruminations for her notebook — although her voice still tumbled out fast in nervous moments. Blue was keen-eyed, always on the move, and Tally shadowed him like an apprentice, learning the complex patterns and codes of the streets, the flight lines and disappearing acts it demanded of those with nowhere else to go.

‘Need those batteries,' she'd reminded him last night, tucking the camera deep in her coat pocket.

‘Tomorrow,' he'd answered, tossing her an old towel to use for a pillow. ‘Get some sleep.'

In the tunnel they met no one, but the concrete and damp amplified every tiny noise, and twice Tally froze, realising they were not alone: once the sound of laughter and scuffling bounced down the walls to reach them; later she heard a sigh rise, short and soft, from the nearby darkness.

‘Blue!
Did you hear that?
' she'd whispered at the top of her lungs.

‘Shh,' he'd replied quietly, not pausing, ‘just keep walking.'

After a few minutes a grey-green light yawned ahead, and rounding a corner Tally could hear the muffled drone of a streetscape. The tunnel ended in a makeshift wall of boards, and they slid through a gap, back into noise and sunlight and the ever-pressing heat.

‘Who was that in there?' she asked, trailing Blue's long stride through a maze of laneways and flapping washing lines.

‘Just tunnel kids,' said Blue, pausing to take his bearings. ‘Come on.' And he set off for a shape poking high above the dirty buildings: the white arc of a Ferris wheel curved against the sky.

A sideshow — she remembered this. The cries of spruikers, the gaping mouths of swivel-necked clowns, plastic hoops and axle grease and the hot sugary drift of fairy floss. Stuffed animals dangling in bright rows, rubber ducks bobbing and cheap watches glinting, rifles bolted down tight. Taped screams from the Ghost Train, real screams from the Hurricane. Kids wolfing down hot-dogs, teens pashing under the stands, tattoo-faced men ushering you towards the glowing entrances of tents. A memory came back to her: Max, handing them money and waving them away, in the direction of the rides. ‘Just dropping something off,' he'd say over his shoulder, heading to the rows of tatty caravans behind the cheapest stalls. Once he came back with one eye all swollen, the smudge of a bruise already blooming beneath the skin. Despite herself, remembering his crumpled face and the blow he'd never mentioned, Tally felt a tug in her throat.

Signalling her to wait by the ticket booth, Blue crossed beneath the swooping arms of the Hurricane, conversing in mime with the ride operator as the machine thrashed the air overhead to a noisy blur. The guy, who had the pinched features and long-term hunch of a junkie, pointed one scrawny arm at a row of caravans; nodding thanks, Blue tipped his head for Tally to follow. As he rapped on the caravan door, the curtains trembled almost imperceptibly. Tally felt eyes on them.

‘When did the fair get here?' she asked as they waited.

‘It's always here,' he said, and the caravan door swung open. In the doorway, dog-less but unmistakable, stood the puppy guy. It was him alright: that crackle of certainty, an aura of handshakes and split-second judgements; an air of detached concern, like he knew all the answers but was kind of pressed for time. He nodded at Blue, then looked Tally over.

‘New kid,' he observed, and beckoned them inside.

Later, lining up for their Gravitron ride, Tally ran the encounter through her head. The first thing she'd done, after shaking the guy's hand and learning his name was Diggy, was scan the caravan for the pup. Where was it? Diggy was watching her closely, and for some reason she knew not to ask. In the corner sat a bag of dog biscuits, unopened. It was him alright.

‘So. You need some work,' he'd announced.

‘Guess so,' Tally had replied carefully.

‘You guess? Everyone needs work! You don't eat, you die.' He chuckled, wiped his glasses, waved them to sit down. ‘How much you got coming, Blue?'

‘Just twenty,' said Blue as Diggy peeled off a note and passed it over. ‘Do a day this week if you got it?'

Tally watched Diggy weigh her up. Suddenly she didn't feel like much: short and scrawny-looking, no doubt, although she knew she was strong; light frame, thin wrists, stick-legs. Dirty hair, dirty fingernails, dirty sneakers two sizes too big. Diggy's t-shirt was spotless; the caravan bare and clean. Clearly this place was used for business, not leisure.

‘You fast?' he asked. ‘You can run?'

Tally nodded hard: she'd topped the two-hundred-metre sprint in at least four schools.

‘Look smart enough,' he said. ‘Blue explained how it works?'

She nodded again.

‘Right. Do the job without getting caught, you get paid. You get caught — you're on your own. You don't know me, we never met. And you get paid zilch.' He paused to scrutinise her. ‘You fudge a job, and I'll know about it, you'll never work again. I know everyone. I see everything. Understand?'

A reflection from the overhead light glanced off Diggy's glasses; blinded by the dazzle, Tally nodded. ‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘I'm very reliable.'

‘Good,' he answered, dipping his head, his eyes reappearing. ‘You hungry?'

She was.

He laughed. ‘You reliable
and
you hungry. Excellent.' He rummaged in a cupboard, handed them each a bulky plastic bag, tied up tight. ‘You can start with posting, that's easiest. They're just stickers, ads that companies pay us to put up round the place.' He stopped to make sure Tally was listening. ‘It's illegal, hence the running bit. You'll graduate to other stuff later, once you prove yourself. Watch Blue here, he'll show you what to do. Most times you'll collect your mission and pay on the other side, not from me. That was your induction. You're in.'