The Ink Bridge by Neil Grant

Author:Neil Grant
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: JUV000000
ISBN: 9781742696232
Publisher: Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd
Published: 2012-02-20T05:00:00+00:00

THE TRAIN SHRIEKED INTO DANDENONG station and Hec crossed the platform and turned left into Little India. He pulled the scrap of paper with directions from his pocket. Dad’s stencil-sharp lettering, his ruler-edge streets, the ladder of rail tracks. Beyond the boundaries of the map, a wino scummed fags and change, a teenage girl bought a hit from a guy in a Metallica shirt. Hec turned the paper over and noticed his dad had written something on the back, but changed his mind and scrubbed it out. He held it up to the light, but the blue frenzy of biro lines was too thick and there was no way of knowing what Dad had thought he needed to say.

Polynesian girls in butt-huggers and hip-hop hats sat staring at the concrete in front of the Alfy Travel Centre. Tall Africans in shirts and dark trousers with skin like ripe eggplant loafed outside of Heritage India – its chaos of bright saris not even worth their cool stares.

Hec walked without catching anyone’s eyes, glancing up to get bearings – Café Lahore, Victoria Bitter, Tattoo City, African and Australian Grocery Store, Club X Adult Megamart, Najafi Carpets, Balkh Bakery, African Braids and Beauty, Greenleaf Hydroponics. Each corner clustered with languages, people swapping fistfuls of DVDs, lowered cars rumbling by.

Past a wasteground of shattered glass and fists of broken concrete, the laneway fed into a courtyard in front of the factory. A guy sat on a low step, arms on his knees, head slumped. Three kids, the youngest only just old enough to walk, smashed bottles with stones nearby.

The building was red brick, knackered with soot and the jumpy lyrics of tags. No Brayden loves Kayla here, no 4 eva. Just hard-arse ghetto tags imported from rap video clips. It was the only factory in an area of mean houses, derelict shops with papered windows and migration agents’ offices. The sign above the front door was in big boxy letters: ‘Hope Candle Works est. 1966’. And below it in tricky curled writing: ‘Light is Hope’.

Hec watched the workers arrive in torn tracksuits and velour twin-sets, clutching plastic bags and cans of drink. At 7.29 a.m. Hec took a deep breath and walked towards his brilliant new life.

Inside the door, past the time clock and a wall of neatly pocketed cards, the air was greasy with wax. Machinery shouted. Radios were blaring on different stations. The piercing sound of high flute knocked against Farnesy and Barnesy. Ragged squares of insulation foil hung like skin from the roof. Hec focussed on the door marked ‘Office’ – twenty long steps ahead.

‘Watch where you’re goin, dick’ead.’ The man wore scuffed boots and a hairnet; he had dabs of shaving cream on the lobes of his ears. As he trundled a trolley-load of candles into the gloom, Hec heard him mutter, ‘Another half-baked lamb to the slaughter.’

Hec made it to the office door and knocked.

‘Come in.’

It was a small office, tiny, as if it had been added as an afterthought.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.