jenny spence - no safe place (extract)

7/30/2019 Jenny Spence - No Safe Place (Extract)

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NO SAFE

PLACEJENNY SPENCE


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First published in 2013

Copyright Jenny Spence 2013

Excerpts rom T.S. Eliot are reproduced with the permission o

Faber and Faber Ltd publishers.

All rights reserved. No part o this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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1

I wake at dawn to the call o a lone magpie. The breeze through

the open window bites, and I pull the covers over my head and

wish my way to Canton Creek, where the birds sing all day. I

I lived at Canton Creek I might be someone who rises at dawn

to go running over the stony ridges, scaring up kangaroos and

cockatoos, my breath making little white clouds in the rosty air.

Or maybe I would sleep late, waiting or the sun to creep through

the stained-glass windows o my hand-made house. Either way,

I would be answerable to no-one.

This city is ull o people like me who dream o escape. My

parents and their optimistic riends thought they could get there.

They ormed what they grandly called a collective and bought

a hundred hectares o scrubby land, goldelds land, where thesoil is thin and poor and the rain can hold o or years. Now

Ive inherited their share in Canton Creek, and its my turn to

dream as I drit through the long weeks and short weekends,


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shes supposed to be driving my car another great knot o worry

lands in my stomach down to Augusta Creek today.

Mirandas natural enthusiasm will kick in once she gets there,

but like many urban kids she has a terror o country towns, imagin-

ing they wont have heard o espresso coee, rap music or Pink.

How about that, I think, noticing that shes dragged out all her

dirty clothes and sorted them into piles or me. Very thoughtul.

I step over one o the piles and turn on the shower. Itd teach her

a lesson i I ignored them and she had to go o to the countrywithout any clean clothes. Its time she grew up.

But all along I know that ater my shower Ill start the washing

o or her. Its either that or tackle the pile o documents I need

to go through or my horribly overdue tax return.

My mind rebels and strays once again to Canton Creek, where

in my antasy lie Id be outside the tax system and Miranda would

be transormed into an idyllic daughter, serious and responsible,

with a nice boyriend who delivers her home, with old-ashioned

courtesy, well beore midnight.


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I think a lot about artists. In my dream lie at Canton Creek I

would be writing a book about Vermeer. My avourite Vermeer

paintings are like scenes rom a story. Beautiul, unpretentious

domestic situations, glowing with colour, with something myste-

rious going on just outside the rame. Vermeers own story is just

as tantalising, as so little is known about him.

The tram pulls to a stop at Bourke Street and we all lurch

to our eet. As the girl leans orward to pick up her cello, her

too-short jacket slides up to reveal mottled white fesh andbuttock cleavage, below a broad yellow belt which balances the

glow o her cello case. Gauguin materialises beside Renoir, and

they chatter excitedly. Then the crowd closes like the Red Sea.

Girl and cello are gone.

I need to make a couple o calls this morning, which means I

can put o the moment when the oce swallows me up. I make

my way towards the glossy high-rise building that houses the

Department o Water Resources and make a call to reception.

Surinder Kaur comes down to the lobby to sign me in. We uss

around with security badges, then make small talk in the lit.

As usual Surinder, impeccably dressed in a western style

business suit with a bright sea-green shirt, makes me eel shabby,

even though Im wearing my good black pants and a new beige

cashmere jumper. The colour o the jumper suddenly looks

drab. I never see clothes like Surinders in the shops I can aord,

and I suspect she gets them hand-made or her in India. Hal a

head shorter than me, and much slighter, she has a vivid, prettyace and a glossy black braid that hangs below her waist. Her

eyes, today, are also sea-green, and I have to remind mysel

not to gaze into them. She has several pairs o jewel-coloured


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contact lenses which she wears with matching shirts, and I nd

them oddly disconcerting.

Surinder is a perect bureaucrat: smart, ambitious and good

at getting her own way in meetings. We treat each other with

guarded respect, both slightly bafed by the others job. Over

the last couple o years Ive transormed her sections incoherent

procedure documents into a simple, logical inormation system

which her sta are supposed to be maintaining. However neither

they nor Surinder seem to be able to get their heads around it. Theidea is to achieve whats laughingly called a paperless oce. We go

into a meeting room, where a pile o printouts is sitting on a table,

and I eye them apprehensively.

Just a ew changes, Elly, Surinder says encouragingly. We

think maybe two, three weeks work?

You should be making the changes yourselves. Thats what all

the training I gave you was or, I murmur, wishing I could orget

said training session at which the audience muttered discon-

solately while Surinder smiled and nodded enthusiastically at the

back o the room.

Were so happy with your system we think itd be a pity to

mess it up much better i you look ater it, says Surinder, her

eyes fashing green as the contact lenses catch the light. All the

new inormation is here and I have budget approval.

She inclines her head towards the printouts. They must have

dredged up the old les and edited them, and I know rom past

experience that the job o sorting out the bad English and movingit all into the new system once more will be mind-numbing.

I can just see Derek, my boss, rubbing his hands with glee at the

thought o how much he can charge them.


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Id intended to go straight to my next appointment ater Water

Resources, but Im so rustrated I catch a tram down Bourke Street

to our oce. Sot Serve Solutions is on the second foor o a seedy

building just o Spencer Street. Derek is on the phone as usual,

and when I catch his eye through the glass partition and mime

talking he holds up ngers to indicate that he can see me at eleven

oclock. Ill just have to wait.

Derek puts teams o specialists into organisations that preer

to outsource their IT. Some o the work thats generated is back atthe oce, where the programmers develop and update custom-

ised sotware. My main job is to make sense o what theyve done

and write it all up. Most o the programmers are hal my age, and

theyre late starters, so there arent many people in the oce. A ew

can be ound in the lunch room, eating cereal and ficking through

The Age. I make mysel a coee and let their talk, peppered with

acronyms, wash soothingly over me until Derek looks in and tells

me hes ree.

I ollow him to his oce and shut the door behind me. I quit,

I announce.

Okay, okay, he says. Unless?

No more Department o Water Resources, or whatever theyre

calling themselves today, I say. This particular department is

always splitting, reorming and restructuring, and has had hal a

dozen names since I started working or it.

Dereks smooth Chinese ace doesnt change. We both know

this is an ambit claim.Well, okay, I relent a little. At least get me a sub-contractor.

You can get someone to do their shit-work or even less than the

pittance youre paying me.


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3

Its stopped raining and theres some sunshine outside now, so I

decide to walk to my next job. Leaving my raincoat at the oce,

I stride past the green haze o the Flagsta Gardens and make my

way to the narrow back street in West Melbourne where Carlos

Fitzwilliam lives and works. Carlos is the star o Sot Serve, a bril-

liant programmer who works entirely on his own terms. Carlos

wouldnt be his original name neither would Fitzwilliam, or

that matter. Like many o his tribe he has made himsel an avatar

or real lie, something like the avatars he uses in game-playing.

The battered-looking door o the converted leather actory is

three inches o solid steel. Carlos ears invasion and hes got a lot

o up-to-the-minute electronic equipment he doesnt want to be

stolen. I hate to think what he paid or it all. The door swingssilently open as I approach it. Carlos would have known I was

coming as soon as I turned into the street. He might even have

tracked me all the way rom my oce.


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As I enter he waddles over to greet me holding a steaming latte

rom his industrial-strength coee machine in one hand and a

brioche rom our avourite French bakery in the other.

Inside, its clean, white and bare. Apart rom the minimal-

ist kitchen, and a bathroom somewhere, the building is one big

space: long, high and a bit wider than the average terrace house.

Tall glass doors at the back lead out onto a tiny brick-paved yard

with access to a lane. Carlos opened the doors or me once when

I insisted on putting some stu in the recycling bin, but I dontthink he ever goes out there himsel. When I tell him he should

try to breathe real air now and again, even get some sun on that

dead-white skin, he just gives me a unny look, eyebrows raised

and lips pursed, and changes the subject.

The apartment itsel could be sunny and pleasant i he allowed

it, but he keeps all the doors and windows bolted and the blinds

pulled right down, relying on skylights and halogens or the

limited light he needs.

This place is perect or Carlos, with every surace taken up

by computers and related equipment. Even the enormous tele-

vision screen is likely to be displaying lines o scrolling code, with

whatever movie Carlos is watching banished to a small display

in the corner. Carlos barely distinguishes between his paid work,

mostly writing and adapting sotware or Dereks clients, and the

electronic games he plays. Like all my programmer colleagues, he

plays complicated adventure games as though his lie depended

on the outcome.A separate array o screens reveals what Carlos takes most

seriously o all, and how he knew when Id be arriving. Carlos

has somehow devised a program allowing him to run eeds


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rom numerous CCTV cameras around the city through his

main computer. The screens show endless fickering streets and

building lobbies, with icons that fash whenever something

unexpected happens. Several twenty-our-hour news broadcasts

run soundlessly in separate windows on another screen, and there

are tabular displays o data, most o it incomprehensible, end-

lessly rolling through a couple more.

With all o its expensive equipment, along with tales o Carloss

legendary programming skills, my colleagues think this placesounds like paradise and are horribly envious whenever I tell

them Im coming here. Most o them havent seen it, except in the

background on Webcam, because Carlos doesnt welcome visitors.

I dont think anyone is allowed in besides me, Derek and his lie-

lines: the people who deliver ood and the grave Korean couple

who come once a week to clean the place rom top to bottom

while he hovers unhappily nearby.

My colleagues havent seen Carlos in corporeal orm either,

because Carlos doesnt go out. Ever.

I used to nd Carlos a little spooky. He seemed to know

everything about me beore I knew it mysel. When I mentioned

Id bought a new laptop, he said: I dont know why you keep

buying Dells. You should let me build you a laptop. And I hadnt

even mentioned the brand. Similarly, when we started working

together and I said something about living in Brunswick, he said:

Some o those little streets in Brunswick are nice. Youre in one

o the best parts.Now Ive got to know him better it doesnt seem so strange,

because Carlos checks up on everyone, particularly the rare ew

people he allows into his sanctuary, but its still a bit weird to


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eel him looking over my shoulder, so to speak, whenever I do

anything that leaves an electronic trail.

I wouldnt say it, but I think theres more than sel-preservation

in the way Carlos keeps tabs on me, the way his eyes ollow my

every move when Im at his apartment, the solicitous hand he

places lightly on my back as he ushers me to a comortable seat

in ront o his largest computer screen. Hes about my age but

looks ten years older. His hair, greying and thinning, is tied back

in a scrawny ponytail, but his brown eyes are gentle and, or allhis paranoia, guileless. Every time Ive seen him hes been dressed

the same way, in a baggy black t-shirt and shapeless black jeans.

And rom the sour smell that emanates rom him he doesnt seem

to have many changes o that outt. The company pays him huge

amounts o money, in line with his value, but I guess he only

spends it on things that matter to him.

We get down to work as he runs through his latest masterpiece,

an addition to one o Dereks smartest and most popular bits o

sotware. Several companies are willing to pay lots o money or

it, and theyll be pretty happy with what Carlos has come up with.

Wow, Carlos, I say. I never imagined I could get excited

about a parsing engine, but this is really clever.

To his vast amusement I take notes by hand in an exercise book.

But although he scos, he knows that my method works or me,

and he wont allow anyone else to write about his stu. Weve

made a good team or three years now. In act hes been dropping

hints about me leaving Derek and setting up a business with justthe two o us. Much as I respect Carlos, the thought o working

here with him every day makes me eel claustrophobic.

While I explore his sotware on my own and take more notes,


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Carlos busies himsel doing hal a dozen other things. Hes got

a chess game going with an unseen opponent on one computer,

hes up to some staggeringly high level in an adventure game on

another, hes ingesting a steady stream o music CDs and hes

engaged in several cryptic online conversations. He swivels and

scoots around in a specially reinorced oce chair, like a bee

attending to a fower garden, in his element.

At the same time hes chatting to me, eager to give fesh to his

ghostly visions o the outside world.Been to the movies lately? Seen anything good?

Youve probably seen all the stu thats out, I say, gesturing

towards his big screen.

There is a slight lapse, he grins. Some o them arent even

digitised yet.

You dont say. I laugh. My neighbour Jason was annoyed that

he couldnt buy a pirate version o the latest Baz Luhrmann in

Bangkok. I told him Id heard that it wasnt even nished yet, and

he just said So?

Thats the neighbour who works in the Supreme Court? Has

he told you anything about that Athena Resources swindle?

Hes just a lowly clerk, Carlos. All he talks about is his next

holiday and the woman in HR whos got it in or him.

A display changes on one o his screens, and he zooms in or

a better look. Theres a map o Texas with some annotations

in gobbledegook.

What are you tracking there? I ask. The killer behind thegrassy knoll? Proo that they never landed on the moon?

You may sco, he says, but those guys who stole the moon

rock rom White Sands in New Mexico had it analysed beore they


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put it back, and it came up totally terrestrial. Ive got the data

somewhere.

Oh, right.

Whats Miranda been up to? he asks.

I squirm whenever he mentions Miranda. And I always get the

impression he knows exactly what shes doing. To avoid personal

talk, I start griping about the Department o Water Resources. For

some reason Carlos has always been very interested in anything to

do with water, and hed been quite excited last year when I toldhim I was putting their procedures online.

Carlos, its the most tedious material you can imagine. Paper

clips and re drills, Id said at the time.

Well, you never know. There could be gold dust, hed replied.

Hes always on the lookout or gold dust, by which I assume he

means anything dodgy or scandalous. He hadnt bothered to ask

me or a copy o the procedures, though, and we hadnt pursued

the conversation. Today hes not terribly excited to hear that

Surinders people have added more inormation to the system, so

he may have hacked into the site and seen or himsel that theres

nothing interesting.

Derek should drop Water Resources, he says now. Theyre

going to be closed down in the next eighteen months, and all

those people will be out. Derek should be going or that tender

with the Bureau o Meteorology.

I dont know where you get this stu, I say, but i you want

to give Derek advice you should tell him yoursel.Hes not listening, his mind still on water.

Do you ever do any work or Water Conservation and Catch-

ment since the Water Department was split up? he asks.


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No, even though Derek has had the Water Department

contract or ages, Ive always worked with Surinder in her depart-

ment, I reply.

Well, there might be something interesting there. Ive ound

an anomaly. Dont you love that? Like Finding Nemo: In an

anemone. Ive watched that DVD a thousand times. Special

directors cut. Doesnt make sense, does it? Directors cut o

an animated movie? Youd think theyd plan it all in advance,

rame by rame. No dispute about whats in and whats out. Inan anemone.

As he talks he rolls past the shelves that hold his precious DVD

collection, and his hand hovers lovingly over the special boxed sets

beore it moves on to his chess game and sends a bishop shooting

out in pursuit o his opponents queen.

Yeah, an anomaly. Youd be interested, he says, wheeling

himsel close to me. He has this habit o invading your personal

space. I press back in my chair.

That public servant who disappeared on the mountain was

rom Water Conservation and Catchment, he says. He was on a

bushwalk, just checking out his kingdom, so to speak. They tried

to track him by triangulating the signals rom his phone? Said

they knew where to look? Huh.

Carlos does seem to know a lot o stu rom behind the scenes

that he probably shouldnt, courtesy o his obsessive hacking, but

sometimes I lose patience with his conspiracy theories.

Carlos, i youve got something, spit it out.Got nothing yet. Just an anomaly. But Ill give you an analogy.

He looks up gleeully. What i someone sends you hunting an

asp, but they know what you really need is an anaconda?


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Carlos, thats a metaphor, and you only said it because youre

playing with words!

Possibly. But heres you thinking I was an analphabet!

I have to laugh. And Ill have to look up analphabet when I

get home.

I nish my notes and pack away my exercise book.

Do you want to have lunch? he asks. Theres a great Viet-

namese that does home deliveries.

Its a nice day, I say teasingly. We should get something andhave it in the park. He shudders. Seriously though, Id love to,

but Ive got stacks to do at the oce. I need to scope out this

Surinder thing so I can insist that Derek passes it on to some

contractor.

Okay. Well Ill Dropbox the screen captures . . . he says,

gesturing at the computer Ive been working on.

Sure, Carlos. Thanks. Its all great stu, as usual.

When will you be back?

Possibly not or a ew weeks. I might be going to Sydney.

His interest is aroused. What would you be working on in

Sydney?

I immediately regret mentioning it. Some development appli-

cation or the coal industry. Derek only just told me about it. Hes

sending me the email.

The coal industry? Whos the job or? Elly, Ive got something

I think you should . . .

No, Carlos, its just an editing job. I really have to go.I make my escape, and breathe the resh air with relie. The

rain is still holding o, and there are a ew people strolling

through the streets, enjoying the respite. A man is hovering in a


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doorway on the other side o the street, possibly trying to decide

i its sae to go out. He raises his head and looks around. When

he sees me watching him he puts up the hood o his jacket and

hurries away.


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4

On the way back to the oce, I get a text rom Miranda:

1 horse town weird adults gr8 kids

I smile at her message. So she got to Augusta Creek in one piece,

and has already started work. The part o my brain thats reserved

or worrying about her relaxes.

Have a nice lunch I reply.

wd if you cd get real food here is her huy response.

Back at the oce I nd a comortable corner in the lunch roomwhere I can eat the soup Ive bought or lunch and have a fick

through the paper. At the pool table, India is playing The Rest o

the World and thrashing them, as usual. Ravi and Sam, or India,

are watching attentively while Viet Lei, or the Rest, lines up her

shot, giggling. Chang, her partner, lounges by the window, talking

on his mobile.Im going to bounce it o the cushion and into the middle

pocket, declares Viet Lei. Sam sniggers. Chang, waving his ree

hand around, takes no notice. Wah, wah, he says into the phone.


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Viet Leis ball wobbles back and orth across the table, knocks

a couple o the oppositions balls out o position and disappears

into a corner pocket. Sam and Ravi coner, rowning.

Luke sidles up to me tanned skin, white teeth and dreadlocks.

Hows Carlos? Any new stu?

Between mouthuls o soup I try to describe the latest elec-

tronic gear Carlos insisted on showing me. Squeals o excitement

come rom the pool table as Viet Lei, on a roll, wipes the foor

with India.I spend the aternoon elding emails, outlining the updates

o Carloss sotware, writing a proposal or the dreaded re-hash

o Surinders material and day-dreaming about Mirandas

country experience. I imagine her meeting some brooding young

country type, like a nice Heathcli. Even Heathcli as written

would be an improvement on some o the company shes been

keeping. I see her in a picturesque rural school-house with apple-

cheeked kids gazing adoringly at her, or sitting at her eet under a

spreading peppercorn tree no, get a grip, Elly, its winter. Perhaps

a big roaring re in the schoolhouse, Miranda with her hair

blowing and an armul o logs . . . I see her alling in love with the

quaint country community and deciding that this is the place or

her, she cant wait to get back ater shes qualied, theres a little

miners cottage on the edge o the town thats ridiculously cheap

and . . .

I wish I could stop imposing my own dreams onto my daughter.

The truth is I dont know what antasy is right or her yet. All Iknow is that shes placed a altering oot on the path to her uture,

and I lie awake at night worrying about where it might take her.

*


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At last its time to go home to the luxury o an empty house. The

same morose people rom this morning crowd onto the tram,

the white o the cables snaking into their ears the only relie

rom their black and grey clothing, the tinny beat o the bass line

leaking through like a tap dripping. No cello girl to provide a

splash o colour.

I dont mind. Im thinking about the nice solitary dinner Im

going to have with Sundays letovers, and playing with a book

idea in which Vermeer akes his own death and travels to Londonwith John Evelyn, the intrepid seventeenth-century diarist and

ounding member o the Royal Society. Vermeers got his own

antasy: to start a new lie without his crippling debts and the

mother-in-law rom hell, Maria Thins. Something goes wrong,

though. He completes one painting a jewel waiting to be discov-

ered in our century and dies.

But when I think it through that plot seems corny, and Ive

got a weird eeling that Ive already read that book. Better

start again.

Its drizzling and nearly dark when I get o the tram. I pull

up the hood o my raincoat and hug my bag close as I turn into

our narrow street. Cars are already parked on both sides, dripping

branches overhang the ootpath, and I walk in the yellow pools o

streetlights on the road. Cats wait expectantly on ront verandas,

and here and there neighbours greet each other as they umble or

their keys. Jason, who lives directly opposite me, whizzes past in

ull cycling gear, then I see him up ahead at his gate, un-strappingthe panniers rom his bike. Headlights wash over me as a car turns

into the street and I draw to one side o the road. I hear it close

behind me, but it seems to be moving very slowly. The headlights


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give me a long, long shadow, extending crazily the length o the

shimmering street.

My house is a single-ronted terrace, nestled up against its

mirror image. As I step onto my ront path theres no gate my

next-door neighbour, Mabel, darts out. Shes thrown a shapeless

old cardigan over the aded garment she wears to do her cleaning

her house-dress, she calls it. I groan inwardly. Mabels a good-

hearted old thing, but Ive tried all sorts o tricks to sneak in

without her spotting me, especially on cold nights like this whenall I want to do is pour mysel a glass o wine and put my eet up.

Oh, Elly! she carols. Ive . . .

Then she makes a little Ooo sound and slumps orward,

knocking me onto my back. I land heavily on the rough, wet path,

with Mabel sprawled on top o me. She gives a little cough, then

goes quiet.

Heart thumping and winded by the all, I cant move because

o Mabels weight. I hear a car accelerating, then the sound o

running ootsteps.

Mabel! I gasp. Can you please . . .

But she doesnt move, and I struggle to get into a position

where I can breathe. Looking down, I see my raincoat has allen

open and my ront is wet. I hold up a hand and look at it in the

ading light. Its dark and sticky.

The screaming is getting closer and next thing Jason appears

and hal drags Mabel o me. He holds his hands up in ront o his

ace and theyre dark and sticky too.I gaze down at Mabel who lies twisted on the wet path, her

legs still sprawled across mine. The top hal o her cardigan is

a crumpled, shiny, dark, wet mess. I see her ace properly or a


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moment in the streetlight. Her eyes are open, her mouth is slack

and theres a trickle o blood running down her chin. I twist my

head away, knowing already that its a sight which will haunt me

or a long time.

Jason! Jason! I shout, struggling up and grabbing him in an

awkward embrace. Its okay. Come on. Its okay.

Its a pretty meaningless thing to say, but it does the trick, and

he stops screaming. My brain still isnt processing what Im seeing,

but one thing is clear. Poor old Mabel is lying dead on my rontpath, and Ill never again come hurrying in through my gate on a

reezing night, rain burrowing like needles under my collar, or sit

on the veranda with a glass o wine exchanging gossip with neigh-

bours in the balmy summer dusk, or stand on the path with the

hose, coaxing my straggling pot-plants into lie, without seeing

her staring eyes, her obscenely gaping mouth, her ruined house-

dress and her blood on my hands.

jenny spence - no safe place (extract)

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