Care Factor Zero by Margaret Clark

one shrink had described her.
    Now, what to do with fifty bucks? Get a taxi? Get a room for the night? Go to the movies? She was rich. She was free. No ties, no worries, not a care in the world. She hit Toorak Road and turned towards the city. She’d get a tram. One came trundling up out of the rain and she sprinted across the road, the tote bag banging against her as she dodged between the crawling cars and swung herself up onto the step.
    The tram was full of school kids, private college types. They looked sideways at her as she threw back the hood, sending a shower of droplets all over anyone who was within a metre radius. She looked atthem boldly. Some of the girls dropped their eyes. Several of the guys looked interested. With her shiny red hair and devilish green eyes she radiated a magnetism that concealed a contemptuous attitude to anything or anyone that reeked of money and prestige. And anything that smacked of institutionalism — schools, hospitals, psych wards, and residentials. She was free. They were strangling in a web of conventions and social systems that made them prisoners in mind, body and soul.
    She gazed out the window, caught in her own thoughts, as kids got off the tram, slogging through the rain to their houses, their prisons of respectability. She chuckled. Several people glanced at her and then away, perturbed, because you weren’t supposed to sit on a tram laughing at nothing. The tram rounded the corner into St Kilda Road. Larceny saw the spire of the Cultural Centre and on a whim. decided to get off there and explore. Why not?
    Jumping down, she walked across the expanse of paved brickwork, past the sculpture that looked like a beached hippopotamus and through the sliding glass doors. Lush red carpet, polished brass and mirrors everywhere, and an escalator going down to a lower level. She got on it. Down below there was an exhibitionof costumes worn by opera stars. Larceny stood gazing in wonder at the richly embossed dresses and all the colourful silks and satins. She reached out a tentative hand to stroke one of the dresses.
    ‘Don’t touch the exhibits,’ said a custodian who was standing nearby.
    Larceny flicked him a scathing glance. ‘Say “Please” and I won’t,’ she said gently, her hand still stroking the fabric.
    ‘Did you hear me? I said don’t touch!’
    ‘ Please !’ Larceny snapped. She put down her bag and deliberately stroked the dress with both hands.
    He grabbed at her.
    ‘Don’t touch me, per- lease !’
    She tugged hard, and the delicate fabric of the skirt parted from the bodice. He stood aghast, as with a mocking laugh Larceny whipped up her bag and whirled away towards the stairs.
    ‘He only had to say “Please”,’ she said to a woman who was standing there with a shocked look on her face. ‘It doesn’t cost anything to say “please” you know.’
    ‘You’re mad,’ gasped the woman, backing against the wall.
    ‘I know!’
    Taking two stairs at a time Larceny raced up to the street level and darted through the doors. She pulled up her hood again as the driving rain stung her face. Head down, clutching her bag tightly against her, she headed over the bridge towards Flinders Street Station. She glanced back over her shoulder. No one was following her. Pity about the dress: she hadn’t meant to tug it so hard. Still, it could be sewn back on again. If he’d only spoken nicely to her she wouldn’t’ve lost her temper.
    She reached the station, a familiar comfort zone, and squatting against a wall she lit a cigarette. Smoking was something to do. The nicotine had somehow never become an addiction: she could take it or leave it. She looked round at the food stalls, the hustling, bustling people. Home sweet home. She looked back down at her feet.
    ‘Larce!’
    Her head jerked back up again. Now what? Did everyone in this pisshole of a city know her? A familiar foxy face was staring down at her.
    ‘Hi, Jane.’
    ‘You owe me,’ said Jane,