Читать книгу The Price of Fame - Rowena Cory Daniels - Страница 8

Monday Afternoon.

Sleeping days, working nights meant I started my day as the sun went down just like the Count, but then so did a lot of people in St Kilda. I pocketed my front door key and headed for the day driver's place to pick up the cab.

My tomcat followed me down the steps, a black shadow weaving back and forth. Lucky for him, the place had once been a fancy boarding house and the steps were wide enough for me to avoid standing on his tail.

In the foyer we ran into Mad Moll clearing her mailbox. She stooped to pat Pangur Ban, then stabbed me with an arthritic finger. 'They were at it again last night. What a racket!'

'They were?' The stray cats?

She fixed suspicious black eyes on me, pursing her ruined lips. Long ago, someone had taken a carving knife to her face, leaving permanent seams which had blended into a lifetime of wrinkles. 'Those punk rockers next door started up well after midnight. Screaming and screeching. Call that music?'

Was she going to start another vendetta? Maybe I should warn the punks.

Poor Moll. Before the punks moved into the terrace house some harmless students had lived next door. Mad Moll became convinced they were Satan worshippers and hounded them until they moved out. This left the house free for the punk rockers to move in and serenade the neighbourhood. The irony of it was lost on Moll.

'Genevieve and what's-his-name been having another domestic?' I asked. I only knew the girl's name because he was always shouting it.

Moll gave a derisive sniff and bent to stroke Pangur Ban again. He purred loudly, abasing himself for her. He only tolerated me, but for her… If this had been another century she would have been burned as a witch. She straightened, glaring at me. 'There'll be trouble. I can feel it building. St Kilda's growing hungry again. It thrives on suffering and misery, feeds on souls of the innocent. Another one will die soon. You'll see!'

With that, she stalked off - and this was one of her better days. At some time in her eventful life, the monitoring device we think of as sanity had developed a malfunction. Maybe she should have been locked up, but I was the last person to judge her.

I checked my mail. Nothing. As far as my family were concerned I was a non-person, had been for a while now. I told myself it didn't matter, that it was better to be numb than consumed with helpless rage.

Not long after Joyce dumped me for the dentist I'd stood in the bathroom looking into the mirror and discovered I couldn't see my face. That was the day I seriously considered walking in front of a train. Fast and certain.

Joe had convinced me to keep going, but I'd discovered just existing wasn't enough. Life had to have some point.

Right now, music vibrated through the walls of flat two, where Joe lived, reminding me that I owed him a visit. Not today. I was running late.

Out the back of the flats, I took a shortcut up the lane past the punk rockers' place. As I picked my way through the rubbish and puddles there was an incredible whine, like the roar of a wounded bull elephant. I winced. No wonder Mad Moll complained.

'You don't care about me!' a girl screeched.

A guy swore at her, vicious cruel words. My stomach clenched. I waited, straining to hear above the electric guitar. He must have said something else, real soft, because she gave a wail of frustration.

The sound made me sick. It always had - I could never forget Dad belting Mum and my impotent anger. It was the alcohol that had turned him into a monster.

Come on, have a drink mate. Sure, then go home and bash the wife and kids.

I should have walked past the broken back gate of the terrace house, instead I entered the overgrown backyard. As I expected they were at it again. Framed by the uncurtained kitchen window Genevieve and what's-his-name looked like they were in a kid's puppet show. But this was not TV, and when he shoved that frail girl she went flying. Her hip hit the kitchen table and she ricocheted off, her splayed fingers closing on a wine bottle. But it could not anchor her and she took it with her as she sprawled on the floor. He strode across the room to stand over her.

My hands closed in fists. If he made one move to hit her I'd be in there in flash.

He stared down at her. I was like a coiled spring. Go on, do it. Just give me a reason.

What's-his-name muttered something contemptuous then turned his back on her.

What Genevieve did next surprised me. Her dark head bobbed up as she sprang to her feet, bringing the bottle down on his skull. He'd already been moving so it was only a glancing blow, but it was enough to stun him. He staggered. She shoved past him, darting out the door and down the hall.

'Run little sparrow!'

I chuckled to myself and headed off to get the cab. Round one to Genevieve, but I knew the odds were against her. And I knew I couldn't sit back and watch him bash her without getting involved.

Tuesday

By 2 am Tuesday morning I was thinking of calling it a night. Too many cabs cruised looking for fares down Fitzroy Street and I already had too much unpaid mileage after driving around looking for the latest runaway.

Every driver has his favourite suburb and mine was St Kilda, and this time it paid off. A tall, thin figure stepped out from between two parked cars, helping a girl who looked drunk or stoned, probably both. I nearly drove past. The last thing I needed was someone throwing up in my cab. But business had been slow, so I double-parked for them.

The back door swung open and I swivelled in the seat, recognising Suze, one of the Street girls I hadn't seen for a while. She was followed by the dyke, Trigga, someone I knew by rep but not to talk to. The dyke slammed the door, muttering under her breath.

'Where to?' I asked.

'O'Toole? Hey, O'Toole!' Suze sat forward, hanging over the front seat. She was obviously off her face, speech slurred and rambling. 'It's O'Toole, Trigga.'

Trigga grimaced and named an avenue which was several blocks away, but still within the triangle of Acland, Barkly and Fitzroy Streets. Some clever journalist had dubbed it The Devil's Triangle because this was where the drugs and prostitution were concentrated.

'-baby, cutest little thing,' Suze mumbled.

It fell into place. 'Thought you weren't due for another month or so?'

'She wasn't,' Trigga answered. 'Baby's premature. Still in a humidicrib.'

I waited to pull out into the traffic. A foursome stepped out of the dark maw of a nightclub. I recognised the punk rockers from next door. A beautiful girl with impossibly white hair hung on what's-his-name's arm, while Genevieve laughed up at a tall, thin boy with orange hair. They'd been living next door for three weeks and I still hadn't sorted out who was with who. Maybe they were all with each other. Kids!

I sighed. At 20 I'd been a father with a family to support.

Suze slumped against my shoulder - the hit was taking effect. Sparing a hand from the wheel, I pushed her back into Trigga's arms.

'How long before Suze can bring the baby home?' I asked. My own daughter had been born premature. She'd been a mistake, and Joyce couldn't have any more, but I was grateful for my Jem. Of course, neither of them were speaking to me now.

'Tryin' to take me baby away. Won't gimme me baby!' Suze rocked back and forth, hugging her body, repeating her mantra. Weak sobs shook her, the emotion no less real for being partly drug-induced.

'She won't get the kid until she can prove she's off dope. So, what does she do? Scores some caps!' Trigga snarled. In the rear vision mirror I could see her scanning the footpath. 'If I find Moon Face-'

'He's back?' I went down a side street. It didn't make sense, Moon Face dealt in pills, not the heavy stuff. We passed number 60. It was doing a roaring trade - just another symbol of the rot. I'd been inside, I'd seen the little cubicles the girls rented for a fortune each night. There had been four deaths from overdoses in the last 12 months. Two of the girls had come to me and I'd taken them to Des's halfway-house, but they'd gone back to work.

'Yeah, Moon Face's back.' Trigga's hard eyes met mine in the rear-vision mirror. 'And he's dealing.'

Slowing the taxi to change down a gear, I took the corner. The wheels rolled over the cobbled gutter, making the car shudder as we stopped. Suddenly Suze moaned. Trigga threw the door open and the girl lunged across her to vomit into the gutter. Considerate of her.

'Friggin' hell,' Trigga muttered, patting Suze's back. 'She's got a urine test tomorrow. At this rate she'll never get the baby.'

'Aww gawd,' Suze whimpered, as the retching subsided.

'Out,' Trigga thumped her, all sympathy. 'Get out. And you better be through upchucking, 'coz if you throw up in my flat, you gotta clean it.'

Giving a heartfelt groan, Suze staggered onto the footpath and promptly passed out.

Trigga cursed under her breath then turned to me. 'How much?'

I told her and she tossed the notes in, tipping me in her rush.

I sat there watching her try to heft Suze across her shoulders in a fireman's lift. Trigga was not much shorter than me, but she was thin and wiry, and an unconscious body is incredibly hard to manoeuvre.

With a rueful snort I climbed out. 'You take her shoulders. I'll take her legs.'

We struggled up the path of a three-storey block of flats built in the '30s. Inside, it smelt of mould and cabbage. I heard a woman arguing in Polish. I glanced at the stairs. No lift.

'Which floor?'

Trigga hesitated.

I grinned. 'Let me guess. Third floor?'

'You don't have to do this. I can manage.'

It was patently untrue, so I asked, 'Do you want to go backwards or will I?'

She grimaced a smile, then secured her hold on Suze who was moaning softly, too far gone to help herself. 'I will.'

We managed, carrying Suze between us. It gave me time to wonder what was in this for Trigga. Her actions didn't match her rep.

We reached the top floor a little out of breath. Too much sitting, driving cabs for me.

'Put her down here,' Trigga said. 'And thanks. I'll be right now.' She turned her back to unlock the flat door. Clearly, she found it hard to accept help.

When she turned around I had Suze's legs again. Trigga said nothing while we carried the girl into the flat. It was spartan, except for a bookshelf made of planks and bricks, which was loaded with novels. After we placed Suze on the mattress in the bedroom, I wandered back to the living room. I just had to look at the bookshelf.

Penguin classics. Hundreds of them. A whole set of Jane Austens and Georgette Heyers. I knew the latter were Regency Romances because Joe read them. But Trigger reading Austen and Heyer?

'You a big reader?' Trigga asked when she found me hovering over the bookshelf.

'Uh, no.' I put the The Black Sheep back. 'Better go. Gotta earn a crust.'

She nodded and walked me to the door which was still open. I got as far as the stairs at the top of the landing before she called, 'Hey, O'Toole. Did you hear about the nine-year-old runaway?'

'They found her?' Relief hit me, then I tensed seeing Trigga's expression. I feared the worst, recalling Mad Moll's talk of innocent souls being sacrificed. 'Is she-'

'She'd been raped, burned with cigarettes.'

The gorge rose in my throat. I wanted to hit something. 'Bastards!'

Trigga watched my reaction.

'Men like that oughta be put down.' I meant it.

She nodded then closed her door. I headed downstairs, seething. If only I'd found the girl before they did. I could have taken her to Des's halfway house. If only. Frustrated rage filled me.

The cold night air hit my face as I stepped out into the dark street. I took a couple of deep breaths but it was no use. No matter how I tried, I could not remain unmoved by that child's fate. I wanted to find the bastards who tortured her and make them pay. God knows, they deserved it. And the worst thing was, I probably knew them.

I knew everyone on the Street by sight, and seemed to have a radar for runaways. St Kilda was filled with them. They flocked here because it was easy to live on the fringes of the adult world. Too young to go on the dole, they modelled themselves on the 16-year-old hardened veterans.

When I reached the cab the smell of vomit struck me and I headed for the car wash. That fare had cost me more than it made and what had I learnt? The little girl was safe; if you could call it safe. Suze'd had her baby. Moon Face was back and this time he was dealing in heroin.

Meeting him had been my baptism to Street life. After Joyce dumped me I'd moved into St Kilda and started driving cabs. My second night out, Moon Face hailed me. He was an obese, neuter of a man who had collapsed into the back seat. I mistook him for a drunk.

'Where to?' I'd asked.

'Just drive.' He massaged his face, fingers kneading his pudgy features like dough. 'Down by the Esplanade.'

Putting the car into gear, I studied him surreptitiously. He was trembling as he tried to pull the lid off a cough lolly tin. We were a block away, making a left-hand turn when two police cars drew up outside the flats. Moon Face sank low in the seat. My heart thudded. I kept going.

After swallowing something, Moon Face resealed the tin. We had turned onto the lower Esplanade before he spoke. 'You see those cops?'

I nodded.

A dry hacking sound came from Moon Face's chest. With mingled distaste and shock, I realised he was sobbing.

'Jesus,' he muttered raggedly. 'Jesus. They would've found her by now.'

My stomach muscles clenched. Flicking on the indicator, I guided the car to the kerb and turned off the meter. It was then that I decided not to get involved. 'That'll be three bucks.'

'What?'

'Three bucks,' I repeated, trying to slide the wrench from its resting place beside my seat. The blokes down at the depot had told me to be prepared, but I'd thought they were having me on.

'Jesus, you're a hard bastard. There's a dead kid back there. She's fucking dead,' he repeated. Then the outrage simply drained away. 'She was just lying there, her hair spread out on the yellow pillow. Lying there next to me-' Another shudder wracked him.

I realised he wasn't drunk. He was in shock.

'Robin and me, we came back from a party. We were both pretty high,' another of those obscene barking sobs interrupted him. 'And when I woke up she was still, cold like. Her face was all closed up, dead on the yellow pillow.'

He kept repeating the bit about the yellow pillow like he couldn't forget it, and neither had I.

That was nearly a year ago. Since then, the things I'd heard had filled in the picture. Robin, the dead girl, had been 14 years old. When her obituary appeared in the paper, there was no mention of drugs. It merely said that she would be sadly missed by the staff and girls of the children's home.

Then there was Mick; Thick Mick as he was known on the Street. At 17 he was older than most of Moon Face's hangers-on, but then, he was simple. They said Thick Mick died of heart failure. He would've lived despite his heart condition, if it hadn't been for the drugs. By calling it heart failure, they were able to hide his death in the statistics. Everyday murders. No one really knows how many kids are killed by the drugs and despair, and who really cares? They were disposable lives.

A knot of anger churned in my gut as the spinning brushes of the car wash retreated. I started the engine and drove out on the street. So kids were dying on the Street. What could I do?

When Moon Face had disappeared two months ago I'd been relieved, but apparently he was making contacts and now he was back. Was Moon Face the bastard who did the nine-year-old girl?

I dismissed this. I'd never known him to be deliberately cruel.

The thought of what they did to that little runaway made me sick. If only I had found her in time.

I cruised for a bit longer, but the night was slow and I booked in early, intending to make up the unpaid mileage next time.

Returning home in the cold autumn dawn I tried not to think. When I pressed the switch for the foyer light nothing happened so it must have blown. Again. I tensed. Anyone could be hiding in the foyer. The old building shifted like an arthritic retiree, full of creaks and groans.

I checked the letterbox by touch. Junk mail. Still no card from Joyce or Jemima. Come Thursday, I'd be 39, one year off the big 4-0. You'd think my daughter and ex-wife would remember my birthday.

I crossed the foyer's cracked tiles heading for the stairs. Only a feeble greyness penetrated the grimy skylight. The building had once been a select boarding house; all that remained of this was the grand, curved staircase. Living here had its inconveniences but at least it had character, and it was inhabited by characters.

Pangur Ban greeted me, wound around my calf, then was gone as he glided up the steps.

When I unlocked my bedsit, the faint glow of the gas heater greeted me. Pangur Ban streaked between my legs to stand in front of the fridge.

Out of habit I switched on the easel light and sorted through the junk mail - mostly catalogues, something from the council. I dumped them on my paint tray and looked at the canvas. The seascape left me cold. What was the point of being nearly 40, cut off from my daughter and working nights if the inspiration didn't come?

With a flick, I pulled the band off my ponytail and massaged my scalp, feeling the tension in my neck and shoulders. Joyce hated the ponytail. I'd cut it off, if it weren't for the way her top lip curled every time she saw my hair. Joyce couldn't see any point to my painting either. So what if you could paint a portrait of Aunty Doris, when you could take her photo and it would be a damn sight quicker.

Why bother to continue painting, now that I couldn't irritate Joyce? Guess I had something to prove. Having lost everything, I'd come to St Kilda with the intention of losing myself in my painting, now, even that failed.

To delay the moment when I had to face that accusing canvas, I fed the cat then heated milk for hot chocolate. Pangur Ban crunched with noisy precision on the tinned fish, while I rinsed a mug. The window above the sink looked out over the dawn sky. Beyond the Acland Street shop facades, the minarets and palms of Luna Park were just visible. I knew the view intimately - this was where I sat when the ideas wouldn't come.

'Who am I kidding?'

Pangur Ban lifted his great black head and regarded me with sulphurous yellow eyes. He yawned, revealing a perfect pink tongue and sharp little teeth.

'You're right,' I told him. 'Joe can talk about Paul Gauguin, but I haven't done anything worthwhile.'

The smell of boiling milk recalled me. I made the hot chocolate, then went to stand in front of my easel. Self-loathing filled me. Every painting I'd done since coming to St Kilda bored me. I wanted to burn the lot. For a heartbeat I considered taking them all downstairs to the incinerator and making a bonfire of my ambition. The thought of those leaping flames was very satisfying; except that canvases cost too much to trash, even the op shop ones I'd rescued. These could be painted over.

If only I'd found that little girl before St Kilda claimed her. My fist closed around the mug.

How dare Joyce and her dentist husband judge these people? It was all very well for them in their safe little world.

I felt a stab of guilt. I should never have taken that swing at the dentist. No wonder Jemima hadn't contacted me. Two months ago she'd convinced me to attend a family get-together for my grandson's first birthday. Where did the time go? It seemed only last week Jem and Garth had come to me. My poor Jemmy, pregnant at 17. Joyce was all for an abortion but they'd already decided to make a go of it.

Jem was lucky in Garth, he wasn't a dreamer like me. And they were trying to do the right thing by inviting the grandparents to Roddy's first birthday. It wasn't their fault it didn't work out. Joyce, ever ready to parade her rise in status, had been telling me about their new house. Then the dentist asked me what I was doing for a crust.

I told them I drove a taxi in St Kilda. Somehow I found myself talking about Laila, who was trying to break her habit while Sammy was being held on a break-and-enter. It was the second time Des and I had come to their rescue. The dentist began ranting about how these people ripped off the system. Why work, he argued when the government paid them not to? Joyce came up with one of her crackpot theories, claiming those kids should be left to sink or swim. She was trying to lay some kind of guilt trip on them for being in need of help. I lost my temper and Garth had to ask me to leave. Two days later Joyce rang to say the dentist's nose was broken and she had taken out a court order against me. I wasn't to go within a block of her. As if I wanted to.

Mr and Mrs Dentist would have been suitably horrified to hear about the nine-year-old girl, but it would pass like a mild bout of constipation. Frustration and anger churned through me.

How do you reach people like that?

I dumped the mug on the paint tray knocking the junk mail to the floor. An orange sheet fluttered like a wounded butterfly. The words Art Show caught my eye. I grabbed the page. The St Kilda Arts Festival was going to show local artists' work. The little hairs on my skin rose. I checked the entry date, next Wednesday. I had eight days if I wanted to get something ready. I would use the art show to expose the St Kilda everyone turned a blind eye to.

The suburb was becoming trendy. On the weekends the wealthy trendies slummed it, walking along the Esplanade, visiting the continental cake shops and galleries. It was their money the council wanted and it was the council who were staging the art show. If I painted a confrontational painting, would they hang it?

What the hell. If I didn't paint it, I'd never know.

I sorted through my op shop finds, discovering the perfect canvas right at the back. It was less than a metre high and nearly two metres wide. Someone had painted a truly awful landscape on it before I covered it with white primer. Since the canvas's shape was odd, it called for an unusual composition. I lowered the easel and dusted off the canvas. I wanted to paint the tragedy of the Street. What to paint?

I retreated to rest my hips against the sink. Pangur Ban prowled to his favourite spot in front of the heater. He stretched luxuriously.

'It's all right for you,' I told him, feeling an unfamiliar but welcome excitement. 'You don't have to worry about turning 40 with nothing to show for it but an ex-wife and a daughter who isn't talking to you. Talk about loyalty. And don't look at me like that. I've seen you creeping away to Mad Moll to wheedle another meal.' The cat yawned. 'You should look shamefaced. She's touched you know, claims she has the second sight. Why, only yesterday she told me St Kilda is hungry for the souls of innocents. She's forgetting it's filled with pimps and prostitutes.'

Pangur Ban began licking his balls. I snorted and turned back to the empty canvas. What to paint? A thousand images ran through my mind. The last year had really opened my eyes. God knew I was no saint but compared to some I was an angel.

Pangur Ban stretched and settled down for a nap. Something about the way the cat luxuriated in front of the heater reminded me of an afternoon in January. It was just after I met Dulcy, one of the street girls who wasn't totally damaged. We were walking down Fitzroy Street eating gelatis when we came across a boy of about 16, sprawled unconscious in the gutter.

It was a Sunday and the tourists were wandering up and down the wide footpath, dressed in their trendy outfits. The youth lay with his face turned up to the hot afternoon sun. How long he'd been there was anyone's guess. Dulcy and I checked him out - we guessed it was an overdose. Rather than drag him somewhere, Dulcy stayed to shade his face with her body while I called the police and an ambulance.

We sat there with our feet in the gutter while the tourists walked by. It was weird. Here was this boy who could have been dying for all they knew, yet no one even looked at us.

It took the ambulance seven minutes to arrive. We were still waiting half an hour later for the police; after another 10 minutes in the hot sun we gave up and went down to the beach for a swim. I never did find out what happened to the kid.

Tilting my head to study the canvas, I imagined Fitzroy Street on a summer afternoon, the footpath crowded with tourists all dressed up to contrast with the figure in the foreground. But I didn't want to paint the boy. It was too easy to sympathise with him. I wanted to confront.

Then I recalled the perfect person. I used to have trouble sleeping. Rather than go straight home after finishing work, I'd roam while the morning dew was still wet on the ground. My favourite walk was through Blessington Street Gardens. Not long after the break up with Joyce I'd been striding along, chewing over bitter memories, my heels crunching on the gravel when I rounded a corner and startled an old tramp. Thrusting off his blanket of newspapers, he'd staggered to his feet. When he saw it was only me, he'd glared and gone back to sleep. At the time I'd seen it as a warning. That tramp was me, if I didn't pull myself together.

I wanted to capture the tramp's defiant indifference. I wasn't trying for pity. Pity was easy. The bitter old tramp sitting in the gutter, glaring out at the viewer would be a stronger image than a youth who had so much to lose.

A thrill that was better than sex made my heart race. If I could pull this off, it would be the best thing I'd ever done. A long dormant surge of desire made me aware that my body was something other than a means to carry me around. This painting would give me purpose again. Today I'd skip sleep and get some references for the background.

At around three that afternoon, Pangur Ban followed me down the steps. Again, music vibrated through the door of flat two. The sketchbook and camera urged me to keep going, but Joe had been good to me on my blackest days, so I knocked.

The door opened. A teenage boy studied me insolently, hands thrust in his pockets. A long blond fringe hung in his calculating eyes. Joe was up to his old tricks.

'Who is it?' Joe called from the living room.

I pitched my voice to carry. 'Dropped in for that coffee you promised.'

'Show him in, Luke.'

The boy's lips parted in a satisfied smile, we could both hear the infatuation in Joe's voice. As I entered Luke gave me an appreciative up and down that was meant to be insulting. It worked.

Joe waved a greeting and indicated a seat. He was watching daytime television, that particular brand of idiocy reserved for housewives and the unemployed. 'Turn the TV off, Luke.'

The boy sprawled in front of the screen, ignoring us.

I propped myself on the sofa arm and asked, 'So where's my commission?' The last short story Joe had sold had been based on something that happened in my cab.

'They take ages to pay. But as soon as they do, tell you what, I'll buy you dinner.'

'Dinner? You wouldn't make that much.'

'More than enough, Playboy pays well.'

Luke shifted and I sensed his interest, carefully concealed.

Joe followed my gaze. 'Make us a coffee, Luke?'

'Next ad.'

Joe stretched and smiled faintly. 'Luke's hooked on the soapies. Used to watch them while his mum was away, instead of going to school. Take a seat, relax, O'Toole.'

'Can't. Got the inspiration at last.'

'Inspiration?' Joe teased. For Luke's benefit he added, 'O'Toole's an artist.'

The boy gave me a cold look, then went back to the TV.

'Heard from Michael?' I asked innocently.

Luke's unconscious foot tapping ceased. Joe grimaced. 'Not since he came asking for money. I threw him out, remember?'

I nodded, giving him a wink. Joe had the grace to grin. He'd given Michael 50 dollars, all he had on him at the time. Two days later someone walked into his flat and stole his TV. Michael knew where Joe kept the spare key.

The adverts came on.

'How about some coffee and biscuits, Luke,' Joe prodded. 'Any of those chocolate ones left?'

'Nah.' The boy uncoiled coming to his feet. His movements were calculated to arouse. 'We ate them all last night. Remember?' He prowled off to the kitchen nook.

A pleased smile lit Joe's face. 'We were watching Arsenic and Old Lace. Have you seen it? There's this really funny part where the little German doctor-'

'There's no milk,' Luke said truculently from the archway.

My hand itched. One good slap would wipe that look off his face.

'Well, go and get some,' Joe told him.

'No money.'

Joe levered himself out of the chair. He'd been in a car accident as a teenager and, if he sat still too long, he stiffened up.

While he went down the hall to get his wallet Luke studied me. 'Guess how old I am?'

I shrugged. It was that or belt him.

'I'm 13.'

'Bullshit. If you're 13, then I'm 21!'

He glared at me. He was shorter than Joe and fine boned with a remarkably pretty face. But I had looked into his eyes. He was an old 16.

'Here.' Joe handed him his wallet.

With a shrug Luke pushed away from the wall and went down the hall. The front door opened then slammed shut.

'You gave him your wallet. Will he be back?' I was only half kidding.

Joe pulled several folded twenties out of his pocket. 'If he runs off with ten bucks I'm well rid of him.'

I laughed, allowed my weight to slide over the arm of the sofa, onto the seat and put my feet on the coffee table.

'He's a good kid. He mightn't look it, but he is. He's been on his own since Christmas. His mum went off to find herself and found a new boyfriend instead, so Luke wasn't wanted. He's been sleeping on the streets but it's too cold for that now.' Joe shrugged. 'At least with me he's warm and fed. And if it wasn't me, it would be someone else.'

'Can't stay long,' I warned, patting the bag with my sketchbook and camera. 'Gotta get some references.'

'So tell me about this Inspiration.'

I shook my head. 'Not ready yet.'

Joe humoured me.

Two hours later, with a dozen useful sketches and some photos already sent to be printed, I headed back to the boarding house. Just as I turned into the lane, Genevieve shot out of the punk rockers' back gate almost colliding with the far side of the lane. One hand on the wooden palings, she bent double, with her back to me. Then she straightened up and staggered several steps towards the dead end. Either she was disoriented, or she meant to cut through the boarding house's yard and out onto the street.

She'd been running as if someone was chasing her, but no one followed. I watched her erratic progress. Her op shop shoes, one size too big, clattered on the bluestone cobbles.

Shrouded by dusk, she was a darker shape lurching down the lane between high, corrugated iron and wooden fences. Her scarecrow figure in a man's coat came to a sudden stop. Was she going back to What's-his-name? Would she never learn?

She swayed. Her thin legs carried her a few more paces before she slumped to her knees, retching weakly. Then she collapsed amid the rubbish, one more piece of human flotsam.

A pitted enamel sink glowed in the dusk while she was lost in the twilight.

I approached cautiously. She was just as likely to come around and panic, mistaking me for a scavenger. All skin and bone, her pale thin neck protruded from the bulky coat.

Maybe I was a fool, but I couldn't leave Genevieve in the lane so I carried her up to my flat, praying she wouldn't wake and panic. For the second time in less than a day I carried an unconscious teenager upstairs. Luckily it was only one flight and Genevieve was built like a bird. She moaned once but was still unconscious when I placed her on my mattress. My decorating hadn't extended past the essentials - a mattress on the floor, a fridge, the old stereo and my easel.

Genevieve's skin had an unhealthy colourless sheen and her pupils were dilated. I checked her arms for track marks but they were clean. After wiping her face and coat I wondered what to do. She wouldn't appreciate being taken to a doctor. Guessing she would come to when she was ready, I turned her on her side and covered her with a blanket.

Since I couldn't leave her, I put the time to good use, tearing out the sketches of Fitzroy Street and taping them on the wall, next to my easel. Should I do a rough first?

There was a rustle from the bed. I ignored it.

I decided to paint directly onto the canvas to capture the vitality of the line work. The canvas was wide and narrow, which meant I couldn't use a standard composition. All the better.

The insight came without warning. Excitement made my heart race as I turned the canvas upright. Now, I could do the people almost life-size and because the canvas was so narrow it would pull the composition in, to focus on the central figure. I went though my sketches of street scenes until I had the right background. With some neutral base paint I began blocking in the outlines, distorting perspective to make the buildings loom.

Genevieve sat up, muttering under her breath. She swayed and blinked, fighting to retain her wits. I concentrated on my painting. Her truculent, urchin face studied me and the room suspiciously. She was ready to fight or run.

'You passed out in the alley, you'd been sick,' I told her. 'Were you fighting with What's-his-name again?'

' 'uck,' she mumbled, shivering as she pushed the blanket away.

'Didn't see much point in taking you back to What's-his-name, so-'

'Tuck. His name's Tucker.'

Pretending to consider the canvas, I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she came to her feet, using the wall for support.

'At any rate, I brought you up here.' I nodded to the window so that she would recognise the view which would have been almost the same as the view from their back window. 'You can leave whenever you like.'

Walking with the care of someone who was used to being disoriented, she went to the sink and peered out the window. The palms and minarets of Luna Park were starkly silhouetted against a pale oyster shell sky. I watched the neons of Acland Street flicker into life. Far above these garish lights, a fine tracery of cirrus clouds glowed pink, picking up the sun's rays below the horizon. Gaudy, but home. The sight made my chest grow tight. God, I loved painting.

I cleared my throat. 'Like a hot chocolate?'

When I crossed to the stove, she was careful to maintain her distance.

She examined the offer for hidden meanings and, finding none, shrugged. 'Sure.' She sniffed. 'I smell gas.'

'Yeah.' I prepared two mugs. 'I've had the gas people here but they can't find the leak.'

Her eyes slid past mine.

'You can have a shower if you like.' I put the milk on to heat. 'Just don't bother me while I work.'

Resuming my seat at the easel I took up where I left off, filling in background while I waited for her to come closer. She was a wild creature from St Kilda's feral underbelly, whose trust I had to win. I could sense her at my left elbow, still beyond arm's length.

'Think I'll skip the shower,' she muttered.

'Wise move,' I agreed. 'The hot water's off again, but I would have lit the pilot light for you. The gas people couldn't figure it out. They'd never seen such a draft, not even in a 20-storey building. Somehow the pilot light's always blowing out and-'

'These your paintings?' She gestured to the canvases that littered the room.

'Uh-huh.' I nodded, used to comments from people who knew nothing about painting.

She studied the one I was working on. 'That's Fitzroy Street. You gonna paint the Street?'

'In a way.' I was finding it hard to concentrate. Maybe I should sound her out. 'It's going to be a sunny afternoon with tourists half-in, half-out of frame as they stroll along. Then in the foreground there'll be this tramp sitting in the gutter, glaring out of the picture at us.'

When she said nothing I turned to her. She was staring at the canvas intently. 'Say,' I began.

'Say, what?'

I figured I might as well ask. 'How about modelling for me?'

Her face closed up, suspicion thinning her mouth.

'You'd have to wear something summery,' I added quickly, knowing I'd given her the wrong idea. 'You'd be someone out for a Sunday stroll.'

'Fishnet stockings?'

'Huh?' I looked at her earnest face and felt old. 'I guess that'd be in keeping. You could be one the locals,' I said. 'The milk!'

We ran to the stove. She made a grab for the cracked handle, cursing as it burnt her. I was ready with the tea towel to insulate it. The milk subsided and I poked at the bubbly scum with a spoon. 'It'll be all right.'

'Yeah, just scrape the frothy stuff off the top.'

Juggling the saucepan so that the towel's tips didn't fall into the mugs, I poured the hot chocolates, then took mine to the easel. 'If you're hungry, look in the fridge.'

While she rummaged around, I studied the canvas, seeing what I intended to paint, not what was there. I could stylise the background, had to, with such a large area to cover, but with the figures I wanted realism so I needed models.

Genevieve joined me, silently waiting for my attention. I turned and she lifted a soft carton that held some stale crackers.

'I'm not that hungry,' I told her.

'What were they doing in the fridge?'

'It's the mice. Pickings are so poor, they eat the labels off cans. Anything that's remotely edible goes in the fridge. They haven't worked out how to get in there.' I smiled at her expression. 'Isn't there any bread?'

'Stale.'

'Toast it.'

'There's nothing to put on it.'

'Try Milo.'

'Milo?' She rolled her eyes.

I shrugged and began to clean my palette. I needed the exact shade of intense blue that you found in a hot summer's sky. To give a feeling of bright light, I was going to under-light the trims on the white-painted shop front. I just knew it would work, I could almost taste the excitement. Letting the colours mix themselves I blocked in the sky trying to match what I saw in my mind's eye.

'Gee, that got done quickly,' she marvelled, returning to my elbow.

I finished the last patch between the buildings and put the brush down, surprised to find my hand had cramped. As I massaged it, I stepped back to study the effect. 'This building's white, glowing with reflected light. The one next to it is red for contrast - '

'Want some?' She offered a plate of buttered toasted bread, topped with Milo.

I looked at it. 'Are you kidding? Milo on toast? What do you think I am, weird or something?'

Her eyes widened, then amused outrage made her thin face almost beautiful.

Taking the toast I crunched into it. Milo and melted butter mixed on my tongue. 'It's nice.'

She tried her piece. 'Nice.'

'It's good you think it's nice.'

Self-conscious, she wrinkled her nose and wandered over to the heater. Holding the toast in one hand, I ate and painted, needing to block in the buildings while I had the vision clear in my mind. It was best to get as much done as possible, before I hunted up models. A rush of pleasure warmed me, swelling to include Genevieve. Joe could be the tramp wearing some of my old clothes. He was enough of a ham to enjoy that. Once I had the tramp's pose worked out, I'd start on the background figures.

'It's a weird kinda painting,' the sparrow informed me, then heard what she'd said. 'I mean, it's not the sort of thing you'd hang over the mantelpiece.'

'Exactly. I want to challenge the viewer.' I turned to her. If she knew why I was doing this she might feel better about posing. 'You see, I'm going to enter it in the St Kilda Art Show. I want to-' Suddenly, what I wanted seemed pretentious. I battled on, telling her about the youth we'd found in Fitzroy Street.

'It'll be hard to imagine without seeing the finished painting, but I want to contrast the lives of the comfortably-off in the form of Sunday tourists, with the lives of the street people, as represented by the street rat, the tramp. I want to confront the same well-off people who ignored the kid. They'll be the ones who go to the art show.'

'Boy, will that cause a stink,' she muttered gleefully, then frowned. 'But will they hang it?'

'We'll just have to see. Maybe I can stir up some publicity.'

'Why do you want me to model for you? I'm not comfortably-off.'

'No,' I paused. 'But I want to paint people who really do walk the streets of St Kilda. You'll represent the arty people, punk rockers, painters and poets. You'll wear all black and your-'

'I was sick,' she whispered.

'You were sick, Genevieve.' She wasn't surprised that I knew her name. 'You passed out in the lane.'

'I ran out, an' Tuck didn't come after me.'

'That's right.'

She digested this, her eyes blank, concentration turned in on her drug-slowed perceptions. 'Think I'll have that shower now.'

'You do that.' I'd seen something I needed to change on the building so I picked up the palette to check that I had the colour right.

As I mixed more paint, I was vaguely aware of her moving off, closing the door to my minuscule bathroom. It was so narrow and the ceilings so high, that if you turned it sideways it would make a luxurious bathroom for dwarfs.

'Hey, mister?' A forlorn voice called. She stood in the doorway, thin white legs protruding from my red, flannel shirt. 'There's no hot water.'

I swore, stabbing the brush into the jar. The last thing I wanted was to stop painting and fiddle with the cantankerous gas.

Five minutes later, Genevieve waited for my signal. Her job was to spin the tap on full, so the gas would blossom into life the moment I had the pilot light lit. But each time a gust of wind extinguished the pilot light. To my frustration, the candle went out. I cursed.

'I don't want a shower, really,' she mumbled miserably.

'Wait. I'll get this bloody thing going, if it kills me.'

I struck a match, shielded it, lit the candle and ignited the pilot light all in one go. 'Now!'

She spun the hot water tap. Blue flames roared into life, and a gust drove them into my face. I threw myself back, collecting Genevieve. She squealed in panic, scrambling away from me.

'Hey, I didn't mean,' I rolled to my feet.

She was already standing. Unable to meet my eyes, she pointed to the window. 'It was that damn cat. It suddenly jumped onto the sill. One minute there was nothing, next there's these yellow eyes watching me.'

Yanking the old sash window open, I greeted the tomcat, and rubbed just behind his ear. 'Thought you'd get another meal outta me, eh, Pangur Ban?'

When I put the black cat on the floor he glided over to the fridge and I knelt to fix the safety cover over the heater, closing the door. 'Pangur Ban climbs onto the laundry roof, then jumps to the sill.' The cat let her stroke his back. 'You can take a shower now.'

'Funny name for a cat,' she muttered. He pivoted and stalked away.

I grinned. 'It's from a poem -

I and Pangur Ban, my cat

'tis a like task we are at

hunting mice is his delight

hunting words I sit all night.

'Written by a ninth-century Celtic monk,' I explained, coming to my feet. 'Only I hunt the inspiration for my painting. You can blame a friend of mine. Joe's a hopeless, romantic writer.'

The cat eyed the fridge door fondly.

'He's hungry,' Genevieve told me.

'He's only trying to scrounge an extra meal. He gets fed at dawn when I come in and he knows it.'

'You drive a taxi, I've seen you,' she said.

'And you argue with what's-his-name or the band practises, jams, what ever you call it.'

'Yeah. Pia sings, Tuck plays bass guitar, Arthur plays synthesiser, and he and I write songs. I play the rhythm guitar. We're called the Tough Romantics.'

'I've heard your punk rock.'

'It's not punk rock. We've got too much musicality for that.'

I hid a smile. 'You sing too?'

'I do, so does Pia. She's beautiful. Tuck says it sells the band to have a good-looking girl up front. He says Pia's got 'pull'. He's right,' she insisted bravely with an odd touch of pride.

'Tucker has vision. He says we need to be more than just another band and I agree, but he won't listen to my ideas. Just because I'm the youngest and I never studied music, like he did. Arthur writes some beautiful stuff. So what if it's hard to define? We shouldn't let other people's perceptions limit what we are. The band should be the best that we can be.' Her ridiculously expressive eyes turned mutinous.

I got the impression that Genevieve was replaying an old argument. From the way she spoke she had to come from a couple of rungs up on the social ladder which made her slang an affectation.

She took a determined breath. 'They're practising tonight and I should be there right now. That's what the argument was about, Tuck and I were having "artistic differences".'

'Does he always settle differences of opinion with intimidation?'

'He never used to, but since we moved into the terrace he's been getting worse. Pia and I had no idea he had such a temper. If we'd known we would never have shifted. You see, Tuck reckoned we could save money by just renting one big place. He said it was wasting time for him and Arthur to drive over whenever the band wanted to rehearse.' She frowned. 'I should go back before they start without me.'

'Poor Mad Moll,' I muttered, then saw her expression. 'She lives in the flat next to mine. She's doing it tough, living next to the Tough Romantics!'

Genevieve gave me a dry look. 'Think I'll take that shower now.' She walked off.

Pangur Ban uttered an insistent cry, more speech than common cat talk, and circled my calf. With a flick of my wrist, I opened the arthritic fridge door and leant against it. On the bottom shelf was half a pumpkin in the last stages of decay. I threw it in the bin, wondering why I hadn't noticed it before. The only thing remotely edible was a can of sardines, so I scraped some fishy fibres into the cat's bowl.

'If you eat this now, there'll be none later.'

Ignoring my advice, Pangur Ban pounced on the food. I grunted to myself, I was spoiling the cat. I could hear Genevieve singing her heart out in the shower. Funny, the acoustics had never made me sound that good.

The bright spotlight over the canvas drew me and I returned to the easel to check that the sky was still the right shade now it was dry. I made a mental note to ask Joe to model for me, which made me wonder about the pose.

'Can I wear your shirt?'

I looked up and realised from the stiffness in my neck that I'd been lost in contemplation. My red flannel shirt suited her colouring. She'd washed off her make-up and looked a little shell-shocked with mascara-smeared circles under her eyes.

'Sure,' I said.

'I'll go now.' She hesitated.

I picked up the palette.

She turned on her heel and marched out, with her clothes rolled up in a bundle, hugged to her chest.

'How about tomorrow?' I called after her.

'Tomorrow?'

'You said you'd pose. Bring the kind of clothes you'd wear to walk down Fitzroy Street on a sunny, Sunday afternoon.'

She nodded slowly. 'Okay, I will. And thanks, um?'

'O'Toole,' I supplied.

'Thanks.' She headed for the door.

On Genevieve my shirt was a dress. Her legs were bare and her op shop shoes slipped off her ankles with each step. She was so young. 'If you need anything-'

She glanced over her shoulder cautiously. The sparrow wasn't used to overtures of friendship that didn't carry price tags. 'Sure, bye.'

'Bye, Genevieve.'

She pulled the door closed after her. Young, angry, suburban punk. Sorry, not punk. I had to smile. Musicality. Artistic differences!

I wanted to call her back, to tell her that Tucker wasn't worth it - but a year's experience with kids on the Street had taught me that they must come to you when they're ready.