Black Glass Page 3

  No one was paying her any attention. The cars passed in an elegant stream, the drivers’ sunglasses all facing in the same direction. The city was still a long way off, beyond a maze of flyovers and construction sites — she would have to zigzag to reach it. She scanned the distant towers, and there it was: the first sign. The seventh tower from the left, one of the tallest, shaped like a sharpened pencil. Like the silver pencil Grace had rattled against her teeth, back amongst the morning-glory vines, humming ‘Summertime’; the pencil that had calculated the cost of their escape. It was all about signs: when Grace saw this skyline, she would recognise that shape.

  Tally checked her pockets. Tucked far down, the camera was safe and sound, the bruise of her impact with the ground marked in deep purple beneath one bony hip. But their precious mobile phone, which had been stashed in her back pocket, was lost, vanished, gone. This small machine had been their connection — they’d chanted the number back and forth between them until they had the digits memorised, as if it were a joke, a times table for international spies. But the phone had been flung aside in the explosion. Tally felt its absence every waking moment, like grief or a bad toothache.

  The walkway swooped down steeply, and she was in a shop-lined street. People walked rapidly, eyes down, dressed in black with neat hair and clean clothes. Nobody glanced at her. She hummed a little tune, all casual, like she belonged here too. Summertiiiiime, and the living is easy … The heat had already begun to gather, thickening the air and warming the footpath beneath her bare feet.

  She walked, one amongst many, until she saw an old phone booth with its glass all smashed. It sagged inward like a wet spider web. She stepped inside and scanned the coloured leaflets taped to the walls: women called Babette and Lola and Honey posing in their underwear, promising full service; ads that said girls wanted and man-to-man and make fast cash. All junk, she thought, all bad stuff and scams.

  As Tally checked the position of her distant tower, sunlight flashed across its face, the glass winking right at her. She smiled back — everything was going to be fine. The display requested a dollar. She stood there a long time, cradling the receiver in her hands, listening to the dial tone hum its reassuring song.

  [Table 6, Belladonna Cafe, North Interzone: Grace | unidentified cafe owner | male patrons]

  Shouting. A man’s voice, thin and bitter: ‘Mind your own fucken business, you make ya money I make mine, mate, keep ya fat mouth shut ya stupid wog fucker, ya nothing round here.’

  A yellow tabletop, a twinkle of spilled sugar. Grace found herself sitting in a booth seat, bag tucked safely at her side. A long room with lamps drooping from the ceiling like limp flowers. Framed black-and-white photos of old movie stars — Marlene, Marilyn, Greta. High overhead the soft rhythm of a fan, the whisper of foreign dollar bills fluttering up in the gloom.

  Grace did not recall arriving here. From over her shoulder came that ugly voice, still yelling: ‘Ya fucken foreigner, don’t tell me where I’m welcome ya don’t even speak right, yeah well that’s how it goes round here, mate, so if you don’t like it go back where ya came from …’ She glanced around to see a scrawny, ragged figure screaming at the guy behind the counter, a heavy-set man who stood with his arms folded calmly across his chest.

  An old man in the next booth lifted his face from his newspaper to frown at the noise. He surveyed Grace, made a sharp sound of disgust, hitched his body upright and navigated it out the door with surprising speed, the bell tinkling behind him.

  Through the glass Grace watched a girl about her age clop past in pony heels, bare thighs painted blue with light. Motorcycles leaned in a shiny row, and a neon sign blinked out the promise of roast chicken. None of this was familiar.

  Abruptly a face pushed in close to hers: sour breath like sickness, cheeks scooped hollow, eyes bright as a kicked dog. ‘See you round, fancy girl,’ the thin man hissed. A slam, the jingling bell, and he was gone.

  The cafe owner took the man’s place, hovering at her elbow. ‘My niece, she is your age,’ he was saying. ‘What is your name? I am Nick. You like coffee, something to eat?’ He kept saying he was sorry, she didn’t know why; his pudgy hands cut apologetic circles in the air. Grace wanted to ask for a cigarette but couldn’t bring the words to mind. She muttered her name. She was so tired: the tabletop wavered like a cartoon, and the white of the man’s shirt seemed to give off a faint electric hum.

  Now he was sitting opposite her. ‘Grace, you have ID, your papers? Somewhere to sleep?’ he asked.

  Grace couldn’t tell how much time passed, seconds or minutes, before she realised she was shaking her head. So tired, the edges of objects turning bright and hazy like a dream — the saltshaker, the gold band squashing his fat finger. But something in her remained coldly alert, like an animal. He shifted in his seat, tipped his wrist to check his watch, picked up an empty sugar wrapper and folded it into neat squares. She could sense him rather than see him: hefty, soft around the middle, built with a slouch.

  He folded the wrapper into a zigzag shape. ‘I have one spare room. Have a lot of junk in there, just equipment and things like this, but … it’s not so bad.’ He released the wrapper and it squirmed on the tabletop. ‘A room okay for sleeping. Nothing funny.’

  Grace kept quite still. She wondered how she looked from the outside, whether the blank chill in her stomach showed in her face. What would Vivien Leigh do? She wouldn’t just sit here like a lump. Grace scanned the walls, but Vivien wasn’t there. She composed her face while she considered what to say. Things could go one way or another, that was all she knew. She had no lines; she would have to improvise.

  This had always been her downfall — this inability to read a stranger. That had been Tally’s strange knack.

  Not that name: push it down, bury it, think of something else. Not charcoal and burned hair and vomit and bad dreams. Block it. Erase. Stop. Cos if you fall into that black hole you won’t ever get back out.

  Had she searched long enough? Had she missed something? How long did it take her to scramble down the bank, over the railway lines and through the trees, race over the scorched lawn, get as close as she could, until the heat rose up against her like a wall?

  Her fault: she’d made her little sister go back for cigarettes. And after the explosion had ripped the night to pieces and flames tore up into the sky, Grace hadn’t checked everywhere. She’d been too weak, too terrified to search until she knew for sure. Too frightened of what she might find down there. Not with the heat battering against her skin, the siren crying towards her; not when she imagined her sister’s face burning with a wordless scream, a scream shaped like her own name. She hadn’t kept searching.

  No. She had run like a dog.

  It was time to speak. Grace picked a phrase at random, based on the whiteness of the man’s shirt. ‘I’m a very light sleeper,’ she said. It sounded right.

  He nodded and moved back behind the counter, started switching things off. He brought her a glass of orange juice, locked the door, dropped the blind on the street, opened the till and began to count money. ‘Not too long,’ he called.

  She drank the orange juice without tasting it and watched him: a large man, with dark smudges under his eyes, stacking notes into one hand.

  He shut the till and sat down opposite her again. He leaned forward, the downlights carving lines into his face. ‘You are very beautiful,’ he began. ‘But listen to me, please. After tonight you never go somewhere with a man you don’t know. You don’t trust people. People!’ He made a short sound, almost like a laugh. ‘Not me. No, you don’t worry there. Me — I’m the exception of the rule. But I hope to god you remember this.’

  She looked at him. He was lifting a set of keys from a hook, asking her name, ushering her out the back door of the cafe.

  ‘Grace — so young. You sleep in my spare room, a good long sleep, and tomorrow you go back home.
Go home to your family, make peace, forget your trouble. Don’t stay in this city, these streets, it’s no good. Come down here, watch out for the bins.’

  Grace followed him into the night like a sleepwalker.

  CHAPTER 2:

  THE SMELL OF GOOD LUCK

  [Double Six Casino, Waterfront, South Interzone: Carol | patrons]

  It’s Ladies’ Night and Carol can already feel it: that kick to the heart when the roulette wheel spins, those black Pai Gow rectangles rattling under the dealer’s hands, a slot machine surrendering its coins. Even the glimmer of goldfish in the foyer tank seems to promise something but, as always, she turns away on reflex at the sight.

  Certainly there are fools in this place, and at first glance Carol could be one of them. But no: she understands probability theory, the fickleness of dice and the dangers of misplaced hope. Decades ago, before dropping out of school to cut strangers’ hair for a living, she got an A-minus in maths for three years running.

  Back then, she was still painting: watercolour dreamscapes, tropical fish vibrating against the walls of sunken wrecks. People admired them cautiously but never had room on their walls to make a purchase. Booked her for a haircut instead. Now she avoids aquariums — the bright shapes give her an almost homesick pang.

  But the maths is still useful. Every Friday night the women of Madison Springs tuck their free coupons into their purses, head for the bus stop just outside their gated suburb and board a coach bound for the Double Six, one of the smaller casinos down on the city’s waterfront. At a quarter to nine, when Carol hears the troupe of heels clacking down the footpath, she turns off the box, pulls on her coat and quickly does her face. Joins the shuffling queue, where drifts of perfume intersect with the soft, disjointed buzz of exactly one week’s news — missing nephews, rising rents, horoscopes and lucky numbers.

  She climbs the coach steps, almost catching the eye of her not-quite-handsome driver; feels that fleeting thrill as the coach jolts forward and good old Louise gives her half-drunk whoop from the back seat. As they shoot through the night air, the subzones gradually retreat, and the city’s glassy skyline gets closer and sharper. The seat next to Carol is empty. Half of her misses whoever might have sat there, but her other half is thankful for the silence that allows her eyes to track the glinting landscape through the dark glass.

  A sudden underground plunge, concrete rushing at the windows, and their vehicle surfaces into light. The skin of every building pulses with logos, messages, pictures. Down on the waterfront the casino blasts its furnaces into the black sky. The coach lurches over the speed traps and comes to a stop beside the giant LED koala that scans the casino car park with floodlit eyes.

  Out the bus window she sees a small figure crouched beneath the creature’s bulk: just another lost kid, plenty of them in the city. Don’t dwell on it, she tells herself. You’re here to enjoy yourself.

  As the bus ejects the women onto the warm tarmac, several shapes approach tentatively from the darkness — ragged kids, fleet-footed and dirty, palms held out in hesitant appeal. Amongst them is the short dark-haired figure from beneath the koala, boy or girl she can’t quite tell, holding out something in its hand, tilting it to show the stream of women as they pass: a bright rectangular glow, the screen of a camera. Carol glimpses the image, a blur of red and white, looks like a face; the kid insistent, imploring. The women ahead clutch their bags tight and keep walking, do not look at the children, and before Carol reaches them a security guard swoops. The small figures immediately scatter and disappear.

  An escalator lifts the women into the foyer, where a perma-tanned hostess hands them each a free cocktail voucher.

  Carol knows the truth: gambling is an unlikely friend, a long shot that guarantees nothing but that vain kick of hope to the heart. But there’s no denying the fact that someone has to win. If you keep filling your seat and playing the game, eventually your number will come up. But you know how it looks to the casual observer: to them, you are nothing more than a rat with a hopeful squint.

  [Intercept: BREACH internal msg system: Milk | casino owner]

  To: frankwins@doublesix.com

  From: milkman@mood.com

  Subject: proposal

  Mr Agostino,

  I realise you are a busy man who cannot waste his time on vague promises. So here’s a solid promise: I can increase your profits in the main room by a minimum 12 per cent (that’s after my fee is paid). No increase as promised, no fee.

  My proposal relates to the environment of your establishment. I hope you won’t take offence when I say there are many potential enhancements that would boost Double Six’s ambience, reputation and profit margin. About me: I’m male, full ID, clean papers, no record. My work is legitimate. In my other life I’m an artist, and I like to think there’s an element of art in what I do for a living. If you’re interested we can meet.

  — Milk

  PS re. your frontage — I recommend replacing those harsh globes with rose-frosted 40-watters, and the scrappy plants with a shiny broad-leafed variety (real, not fake). You’ll see an immediate increase in patron retention. The street kids hanging around the car park make punters uneasy — suggest placing more security out there. Your koala needs new lasers, and there’s a dead goldfish in the foyer tank — I’d remove that immediately.

  [Excerpt, audio interview, location unspecified: Milk | Damon]

  Like certain colours make you hungry — you know, that juicy tomato-red. Others calm you down, relax you. I can’t get too specific. You journos have your trade secrets too, right. Protect your sources, all that.

  Ah, okay. Well, this certain orange. Special mix, has to be right on the dot. It brings on a deep concentration, but with this strange flipside — almost Zen, only more reckless. This colour actually alters time perception: subjects can focus on a risky, repetitive task for long stretches without getting bored or spooked. Good casino wallpaper. That’s just one example.

  Yeah, yeah, but it’s more than psychology. Tuning is an art. Take an abstract painting: no subject matter, right? It’s all colour and form, light and texture. We’re affected by the painting because of how those elements interplay, the way the colours vibrate, the subconscious — sorry for the psych talk — the subconscious imprint of those shapes. That’s what makes us feel something. But you hang that beautiful painting in a really foul-smelling room. What happens? The image gets tainted. Subconsciously, that beautiful picture stinks. People won’t linger. It won’t sell.

  Now say you pair that image with a nostalgic smell — cut grass, baking bread. Or something more personal — the scent of a lover who never loved you back … Right, now you get it. Ouch, huh? Now that painting is hooked up to a completely different mood. So every experience can be enhanced, shifted. That’s what we do.

  No it’s not an exact science — memory’s a big part of it too, and memory’s subjective. Take me, for example: can’t stand the smell of boiled cabbage. To me it smells like failure, like poverty, and that goes right back to my upbringing. But say mint, or ginger, or lemons — to me, they never smell anything but good.

  Anyway, you get the picture. A moodie is … What’s a good way to put it? A moodie is an architect of atmosphere. He makes life into art.

  Ah, come on, man — Damon, isn’t it? What about you? Your job paid for that watch — Gucci, right, I can read the brand name from here. And that Regions accent: you must have come to the city for some reason. Why should we starve, us creative types? What does that prove to anyone?

  [Intercept: internal msg system: casino owner | operations manager]

  To: jj@doublesix.com

  From: frankwins@doublesix.com

  Subject: Fw: proposal

  JJ — this msg just came out of nowhere. Who the hells this guy? Does this sound like something vyable? And how did he get this address, thought you said it
was private?

  [Machine 1267, main floor, Double Six Casino: Milk | Carol]

  From up here Milk can monitor the whole place: every blind corner, the gaps between a patron’s fingers. A croupier’s blink, the tone of a bartender’s voice, blood jumping all nervous in a young gambler’s veins.

  Black one-way glass fronts the tiny booth. In its surface Milk is a pale streak hovering over screens and consoles. A bank of monitors brings the whole room under his gaze. He checks the drive, aligns the scent vials, adjusts his silver airbox, double-checks the cables snaking off into the casino’s ventilation system. The set-up is not ideal. Milk’s equipment is factory fresh and customised, but the casino’s gear is older; where the two meet, he’s had to improvise with duct tape. And the boss had shot him a hard-eyed look when he’d said he always works alone. The guard was eventually sent away, but in his place is the black stare of a surveillance camera. Milk glares back, then looks away. He works best invisible.

  Ignore it. Focus. The Milkboy is ready. For luck he’s wearing new sneakers, immaculate white Pumas. He reminds himself that no one else on this planet can claim his particular mix of skill and intuition. The world is on the verge of realising this. That funny-looking journo with the hair gel who’s been hanging round lately: recognition-wise, he’s just a sign of things to come.

  The floor is busy, and it’s impossible to watch everywhere at once. He needs one average gambler, midway between a first-timer and a lost cause, to be the room’s emotional barometer. Once a mood starts to roll through a space a strange kind of automated beauty will take over. Tune your test bunny, goes the theory, and the rest will follow.

  He scans the patrons, searching for his subject, your typical punter. A couple of excitable young guys, look like students, probably first-timers — no use, too green. Man in a tracksuit with thinning hair, tattoos poking out of his sleeves, watching the croupier with a starving look — no, too desperate. A woman with a long blonde ponytail, retro-style polka-dot dress, shapely legs crossed atop her stool, tapping mechanically at her machine, sipping a martini with an apple slice … He zooms in — no. Older than she’d looked, spike heels and face worn hard from a tough life, that ruined look of women who’ve survived too much; sex worker, most likely, long-termer. Not her.