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