The Plot – Chapter 6
Stickybeaks and Sticky Ends
The torch beam swept around, picking out shapes in the darkness. Shadows swivelled as he moved slowly along the path.
He came to a halt in the cleared, mulched area beneath the canopy of the walnut. There was a swing hanging from a big horizontal bough, a circle of concrete mushrooms for seating. The night air was mild, redolent of things growing and decaying. It was not an unpleasant aroma. It evoked a faint nostalgia for – what? Something he couldn’t quite identify.
The allotments were pretty much as he’d thought. Worse.
Rambling pumpkins and beans, mildewed zucchini leaves. Cutesy scarecrows that wouldn’t frighten a sparrow. Pokey rectangular plots with decayed timber edging, dirt spilling out on to uneven brick paths. Over at the back, a rusty shipping container and a tatty porta-cabin with a water tank.
It was an OH&S disaster waiting to happen. Did they even have adequate public liability insurance? Doubtful.
More time, they wanted. Always more time. More, more.
What part of ‘Time is money’ did they not understand?
Anyway, he would just be making trouble for himself, delaying the build.
The more time they had to organise themselves, the more likelihood of them getting up to mischief. There had already been that kerfuffle at head office, recorded by an ABC camera crew for Christ’s sake.
They were a regular pain in the arse, these people. Particularly the fat, mouthy wanker in the camo pants.
If it hadn’t been for that Greenie on council, Leah What’s-Her-Face, this land would have been included in Phase 1. It would already have homes on it, families in them. Getting on with their lives. Getting ahead.
The obstacles that progress had to contend with. People had no idea how hard it was, getting things done in this city. Red tape.
Out of nowhere, a cool breeze sprang up. He thought he heard footsteps, but a sweep of the torch revealed nothing. It was probably just the wind rustling in the leaves above his head.
Tina would be wondering what had kept him. He turned back toward the entrance.
A crack; a swish; a great bell rang in his skull. The universe turned white, then faded to grey.
Nothing.
It was a week now, and it was all going as well as it could, under the circumstances. She had even settled into a routine.
Before it got properly light she would get up, roll her sleeping bag and tuck it away at the back of the container, where they all kept their tools. In her accustomed spot. The black plastic bag was clearly labelled ‘Jorja Smith’ and there was no reason anyone would go poking around in it.
After using the dunny, which was a bit gross with the cobwebs in dark corners and the stained, chipped bowl, but you can get used to anything when you have to, she’d weed and water her little plot of salad veggies.
It was important to have the fresh produce to supplement her diet, now that she had nowhere to cook for herself and no fridge.
Then the earlybirds would start to arrive, rushing in to water their crops before rushing off again to join the commuter crowds. They’d exchange a few cheery, hurried words with her. It was a comforting semblance of normalcy, still being part of society.
Even though she was homeless and they weren’t.
With a change of clothes in her backpack, she’d walk down to the public pool, get showered and changed there, put on a bit of make-up, and catch the bus to the lab.
It was ridiculous. That a postgrad with a job couldn’t afford a room in a crappy shared house in this city. Or to be more accurate, just couldn’t find one. Too many renters, too few places to rent. It was always ‘There’s been a lot of interest,’ and ‘We’ll let you know.’ They never did.
She’d get something from the canteen most days. The food was stodgy, but it was subsidised.
Increasingly, she avoided the lunch dates in nice cafés and after-work drinks at lively bars. Socialising ate too far into her meagre budget and there was the ever-present risk of conversation turning to uncomfortable personal topics. Like ‘Where are you living these days?’
The evenings were difficult to fill. The library was only open until eight, Wednesday to Friday. She couldn’t be seen hanging around here too much, or someone would realise what she was up to.
That would get easier heading into winter, as the nights drew in. But it would be bitterly cold in an unheated clubhouse. Dared she use the portable gas heater? Would the extra gas consumption be noticed? And what would happen when the Plot was finally shut down?
Best not to think about that. Tomorrow after work she’d take her dirty clothes to the laundromat down the road. She visualised the clothes spinning round and round behind the glass door, evoked the smell of detergent, the warm, humid air. Her eyes closed …
A pounding at the door jolted her awake. Someone was trying to break in.
Through the floor she felt more than heard the chair she’d wedged under the handle judder and slip. A few heavy blows and it fell with a clatter. The strip-light on the ceiling blinked and came on, dazzling her eyes, but she could just make out a hand on the light switch. A muscular, hairy hand. An arm clad in a checked shirt.
The sound which emerged from her throat didn’t belong to her. It was a long, animal wail of terror. She sat up, withdrew into her sleeping bag as far as she could.
The door was abruptly shoved open, sending the chair spinning across the linoleum.
A shoulder, a torso appeared. A face. Jaw lined with grey stubble.
‘Oh,’ said the face. ‘Sorry. Thought the door was stuck.’ It eyed the fallen chair in bemusement.
Then, peering at her:
‘Jorja, isn’t it?’
It was that weird old guy from the next allotment. The tomato guy.
Next week in The Plot:
Chapter 7: Dilemmas
Vince’s conscience is troubled. Meanwhile, Pravesh investigates.
Disclaimer: The people, organisations and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people, organisations and events. Some locations are based on real places, however the City of Corymbia and its localities are inventions of the author.
Dunny? You see, I'm learning Australian slang. I love how you keep things moving at an action adventure pace.