Black Glass (24 page)

‘A bureaucrat.'

‘Well, yeah, but we all know how accurate job labels are. You'd know better than anyone.'

‘Go on. What does he want?'

‘She. She's asked me to put the two of you in contact. From what I understand, she's keen to discuss the possibility of working together on a project she's handling. It's huge.'

‘Me and who — the government?'

‘Well, technically, yes, but essentially you and Luella. She's extremely well connected and as discreet as they come. At first I wasn't too sure myself, about working with a Beige, I mean, but she's really impressed me these past couple of months.'

‘Hard to do, impress a journo.'

‘Hehe. Not for everyone, Milk.'

‘This is all very vague, do you know any more? Is this about a commission?'

‘Absolutely. And it would be extremely well paid.'

‘Well, I don't mean to sound uninterested, but I'm already being extremely well paid. Things have really taken off lately.'

‘So I've heard, Milk. You're doing some real high-end gigs these days.'

‘You heard from where? From who?'

‘Okay, maybe I phrased that wrong, don't get paranoid. Let's just say I've put in a good word or two behind the scenes …'

‘Oh really.'

‘Yeah, really. I was pretty blown away by your work and I've had a quiet word in some very select ears. Coming back to that story of ours, that's why I haven't rushed it. Last thing I'd want to do is turn public opinion the wrong way.'

‘No kidding. I insisted it had to be handled extremely carefully, as a condition of me talking to you. I still get to approve the final edit, right?'

‘Of course, that hasn't changed, and we'll need to shoot updates too, now that things are on the up. Now, this woman. Can I put the two of you in touch?'

‘Hang on — you've met her, right?'

‘Many times. Very professional.'

‘What does she look like?'

‘Ah … short, petite. Buzz cut, wears plain dark suits. Why?'

‘Jesus.'

‘What?'

‘Nothing. Christ. Do you trust her?'

‘She's my primary Polbiz liaison. I'd better hope I can trust her, my job depends on it.'

‘What have you told her about me?'

‘Very little, just sketched out your creative talents and field of work, said you're top of your game. Just enough to pique her interest. I really think you should meet with her. It's a fascinating project and it'd be well worth your while.'

‘Alright. Give me her details and I'll contact her, not vice versa. But Damon?'

‘Yes?'

‘This had better not go sour.'

‘That's not in either of our interests. You got a pen?'

[Legends Hotel, North Interzone: Violet | Kev]

She was always on time to meet Merlin, he'd made it clear that he did not tolerate lateness, so Violet arrived back at the hotel ten minutes early. They'd meet in the foyer then head down to the basement together to rehearse; they'd never said so outright, but she guessed neither of them much liked being down there alone.

The door swung open on the dusty plastic plants, the stained carpet, Kev parked in his usual seat, his head and massive torso framed by the aperture in the wall. She called out a greeting to him and plonked down into a chair in the foyer to rest her feet and wait for Merlin. No point in traipsing upstairs, she could rehearse in jeans, and the wig was a permanent fixture now.

It no longer hurt to look in the mirror: the guilty party had effectively been erased. A disguise worked like a kind of armour, she thought, keeping the world at one remove; when she stepped outside the front door her dark hair felt more anonymous, almost protective. Violet smoothed down the black strands like it was her own hair, the movement already second nature. Thankfully the weather had cooled; a wig would be a hassle in a heatwave.

But Kev was beckoning her over, not saying anything, just gesturing slowly with one meaty hand, an odd look on his face. She crossed the foyer to his window, and it seemed ages before he spoke. He held up a white envelope. She had no doubt that this was going to be bad news.

‘Merlin's had an accident,' he said. ‘He's in the hospital downtown.'

‘What?' She wasn't ready for this. ‘What kind of accident? What's happened?'

He let out a slow huff of air, shrugged. ‘It was one of those falls old people have. You know, like when they say
he's had a fall
. He's broken his hip.'

‘So he can't walk?'

‘He can't do anything much. Lucky he's got some cash squirrelled away. They're operating in the morning.'

A whirl of panic swept through Violet and mixed in with it was guilt. Her first thought was for herself, not for Merlin: how would she survive if they couldn't work? How long was he going to be out of action? ‘How did it happen?' was what she said.

‘Up on the roof,' said Kev. ‘Feeding the birds. He slipped and fell, had to crawl down to the fifth floor and yell for help. I took him to emergency in a taxi.' He held the envelope out to her. ‘He wants you to have this. Got his niece to drop it off.'

She took it, ashamed to note her own swift assessment of its slimness.
So selfish
, she thought.
What about poor Merlin?

‘When will he be better?'

Kev shook his head. ‘Not for a long time. The guy's heading for eighty. It was bound to happen sooner or later.'

Violet was conscious of the envelope in her hand, but there were questions to ask first. ‘What hospital's he in? Shall I go visit him?'

He shook his head again. ‘He's all drugged up for the pain, best to just let him rest. I rang his niece and she's going to keep an eye on him, keep me posted.'

Now she looked down at the white rectangle. ‘What's this?'

‘Old coot was in terrible pain, but his niece brought it in for you. Carol, her name was. He's given you a week's wages, plus a couple hundred extra. He says can you feed the birds for a week or two until he sorts something out.' Kev looked glum and gestured downward at his belly. ‘I can't be climbing up there, obviously. Don't have a climber's physique, do I.'

She should have been afraid but all she felt was blankness. She opened the envelope: five grubby $100 notes.

‘He said to tell you he'll be back, what was it,
treading the boards
again in a few months, that was his words, and he hopes you'll still be around. But meantime, he understands …' Kev trailed off, raised his hands.

‘But what do I do?' she asked.

Kev was riffling through a notebook, reaching for the phone, and he didn't look up. ‘Sorry, Violet love, I don't know what else to tell you. It's hard luck.'

She went straight up to Macy's room, but there was no answer to her knock. She stood there in the corridor, her mind a blur of images: crumpled feathers, the cage up on the roof, Merlin putting one hand to the small of his back; a trick deck of cards, the stage curtains drawn shut, Macy heading out into the night. What the hell was she meant to do now?
Improvise
, she heard the director say.
Things go wrong all the time, a talented actor turns the situation to their advantage
. She could fall apart, but what would that achieve? She'd done that unravelling scene many times already, sometimes for an audience. She knew how to ad lib: on those rare occasions when something had gone wrong on stage — she'd missed a cue or fumbled a prop, been interrupted by a wolf-whistle — she'd soldiered on, kept the show on track. In her mind's eye she saw Merlin's grave nod. ‘You're a natural,' he'd said. ‘Stagecraft is all about fantasy, my dear, and you know how to sustain it.'

But now she had no stage, no audience and no role; she was nobody all over again. The question of survival was what stirred the first flutter of panic, but deeper down another anxiety twisted in her gut: how would she fill up her days now? How would she keep the dark thoughts at bay? Violet collected her cigarettes and the dregs of last night's wine cask, and headed up to the roof to feed the birds and pray that an idea would come to her.

[12/26 Park Place, South Yarra, Subzone 2: various unidentified dissidents. See file ps-843b for profile details]

‘Go ahead. Explain it to us.'

‘Yeah, please explain.'

‘The problem is, even the private messaging system's subject to filtering. They flag certain words and, pop, you land in the
suspect
folder. And everything's traceable.'

‘So how else are we meant to spread the word? It has to be immediate so we can mobilise before the cops even hear about it.'

‘I guess it's the only way. Word of mouth's no good, just turns into Chinese whispers.'

‘So we get a bunch of disposable handsets and we send out two lots of messages: the first lot are a decoy, full of trigger words and phrases to trip the filter —
protest
,
security summit
,
riot
,
uprising … fight government control
. Uh …'

‘…
police brutality
,
gather
,
march
,
placards
…'

‘Yeah, yeah …
civil liberties
,
human rights
,
injustice
,
threat
…
surveillance
,
profiling
… um,
undocs
…'

‘…
Smash the state! Grow your hair!
'

‘…
Cover me, I'm goin' in!
'

‘Good thinking, 99!'

‘Shut up, you two.'

‘And we send those alerts out amongst the decoy phones themselves — back and forth, you know, lay a false trail.'

‘This is all getting very ASIO.'

‘No kidding, Anna. Welcome to the real world.'

‘Bear with me. So we send out these decoy messages, right, using say ten of those handpieces — then, get this, we send the
real
message out from different handpieces, making sure it's carefully coded.'

‘Who's going to draft them? No, not you two fools. Come on, this is serious.'

‘I'll do it.'

‘Great. Couple of hours?'

‘Yeah, I'll bring back two versions for discussion.'

‘Thanks. Now, anything else? I vote someone goes for coffee.'

‘Yeah, I got a question. If we're mobilising dissidents electronically, doesn't that cut out the very people we're trying to speak up for?'

‘We've been through this. The undoc population doesn't have the capacity to mobilise against this — they're too busy surviving. That's why it's up to us. There's thousands of us in the city, the inner 'burbs and upper subzones.'

‘Yeah, but do you see what I mean?'

‘Of course. You want to go down the Quarter and rustle up some troops? No, didn't think so. So let's just work with what we've got.'

‘White with two sugars, thanks.'

‘One sugar for me.'

‘Who said I was going for coffee?'

‘Black no sugar, thanks.'

‘And how am I meant to remember all that?'

‘Write it down, Mr PhD.'

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

The nights were getting colder now so they had to sleep under blankets: one each — Blue had picked them up from the St Vinnie's van. Straight off Tally had protested that she didn't want the girlie pink one, but now she felt kind of bad that Blue was stuck with it; he hadn't seemed to care either way, but rolled up in that bubblegum-coloured fuzz he looked strangely vulnerable, like he had to take whatever he could get. It was too late to swap back now. Mental note, she thought:
Think before you talk. Look after number two
.

At her insistence they'd scratched out the checkerboard on the floor again and were playing by candlelight with bottle caps for checkers. This time Blue was VB, she was Coke; red went first, but so far the head start wasn't helping her much.

‘You gotta jump me,' said Blue patiently.

‘Nah,' she said. ‘You can stay there, I won't jump ya.'

‘It's the rules. If you can jump, you gotta jump.'

She relented, jumped one of his men off the board, and promptly got triple-jumped herself. Blue made it to the far side and crowned himself king by turning his bottle cap upside down.