Rust Stains

At five o’clock sharp, I begin.
          ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ My voice lifts, round and polished, pitched to carry across the square. It still has that timbre, the one they used to describe as authoritative yet warm, the kind of voice that could tell you the market had collapsed or that a bushfire had swallowed a town and still make you trust things might be alright.
          Now it bounces off stone and glass and startles pigeons. I lower the blouse into the fountain, sleeve first. The spray needles my wrist – chemical water, colder than it should be – and I resist the shiver. A good anchor never lets the audience see discomfort.
          ‘Tonight’s top story,’ I say, wringing the blouse in two tight fists. Rust-coloured water swirls out of the cotton, spreading across the fountain’s basin like a weather front. ‘A high-pressure system moving in from the west. Cloud cover expected. Chance of showers.’
          Children stare. Their mothers tug them away. I catch the words crazy old bat hissed behind a manicured hand. I reward it with my smile, the one that once stopped viewers mid-bite, teeth neat as pearls, lips painted coral. I’ve practised that smile for decades. It’s muscle memory now, even when my teeth are yellowed, gums sore, lips cracked from cold nights.
          The pigeons shift closer. An audience, feathered but reliable.
          ‘And in finance,’ I continue, lifting the blouse for inspection, ‘the dollar has fallen to record lows… just like this hemline.’ I display the water-dark fabric as though to camera. The drizzle catches in the air and glitters for a moment, stage lights reborn.
          Yes, I still wear the blazer. Navy blue. Padded shoulders. Gold buttons dulled to bronze. My armour. It was tailored to skim the waist, emphasise authority without hardening me. Viewers liked a woman with lines, not edges. Beneath it, a slip clings to my thighs, damp and cloying. I can’t bear to part with the blazer, even when I sleep on the stone benches under the GPO arch. Without it, I’m nobody. With it, I’m the news.
          There was a time I had stylists to smooth my hair into place, powder my nose, murmur you’re live in three, two, one. Studio lights hummed above me, bright as interrogation. The red tally lamp blinked on, and the world leaned in.
          Now my studio is this square, the fountain my camera. Chlorine and pigeon droppings instead of powder and light. The audience drifts: mothers pulling children, drunks lurching from the pub, office workers slicing through with takeaway boxes and blank eyes. Some laugh, some film me on their phones. Others skirt the fountain like I might splash madness onto them.
          Still, I begin each day’s bulletin at five. Professionalism is habit, and habit is survival.
          I narrate my failures the way I once narrated fires and floods.
          ‘In breaking news,’ I announce, holding up a skirt blotched brown across the hips, ‘the anchorwoman was seen stumbling from the studio toilets, lipstick smudged, eyes glassy. Sources confirm she had been drinking. Management declined to comment.’
          A boy in a hoodie cackles, pulling his mate’s arm. ‘Look at her, doing the news!’
          I meet his eyes. Hold them. ‘And in sports,’ I say crisply, ‘another boy runs his mouth, mistaking cruelty for wit. Analysts predict a long season of loneliness.’
          They reel back, startled, then scuttle away. I feel the echo of victory in my gut. Small, bitter, but real.
          The fountain spray mists my face. I inhale metal, algae, piss – faint from the alleyway – fried chicken grease carried from a shopfront. My senses are tuned to it all now. The way the tiles stay slick under my knees, the way my fingers shrivel as I scrub, the stink of my own sweat beneath the blazer’s lining. I catalogue it as though composing a field report.
          ‘In health news,’ I murmur to no one, ‘the anchorwoman’s skin breaks out from stress. Her liver, battered. Her breath soured. Doctors warn of long-term complications, though viewers note she continues broadcasting regardless.’
          The pigeons coo. Applause.
          Once, sponsors adored me. I was Perth’s sweetheart. I could pronounce the foreign names without hesitation, glide from footage of bombings to weather patterns with a measured breath. Viewers felt safe with me. I sat on charity boards. I hosted the Cancer Council gala in gowns sent from Sydney. Men wanted me, women wanted my hairdresser’s number.
          Then the drink. Then the scandal. Then the camera pulling back.
          It began in whispers: lipstick slightly smudged on air, mascara leaking. A missed line here, a stammer there. Colleagues covered for me at first, smoothing the autocue, slipping me the right page. Then came the night I called the Prime Minister a coward. Offhand, under my breath, but the mic was still hot. Anchor slams PM screamed the headlines next day. Sponsors don’t like sloppy. They don’t like political. They certainly don’t like women who stop smiling.
          Now I scrub skirts at the fountain and narrate the evening bulletin for an audience that never requested it. My delusion keeps me upright. If I am still broadcasting, then I am still alive.
          And if I stop? If I fall silent, the rust will eat straight through me.
          I hold the blouse aloft. The stain hasn’t shifted, deep brown, iron-rich, soaked through the fibres. I stroke it like a bruise.
          ‘This just in,’ I announce to the pigeons. ‘The anchorwoman cannot remove the rust from her garments. Nor the stain from her reputation. More at six.’
          A man lingers. Not the first, but the only one who keeps coming back. Office suit, tie loosened, briefcase swinging like ballast. He arrives just before I start, stands under the shade of the plane trees, and watches. His gaze isn’t cruel, isn’t mocking. It’s heavier than that.
          When I say, ‘In local news, another marriage ends in flames. Anchorwoman reportedly found in bed with regret and vodka,’ his jaw tightens. He doesn’t laugh. He listens. It unnerves me. Most people’s eyes slide off me, like rain down glass. His hold.
          By the time the light fades, I’ve wrung the clothes half-dry. I drape them along the fountain rail, stains blooming like maps of forgotten wars. The square empties: shops closing, teenagers skating the tiles, cars shuttling past. I curl onto the stone bench, blazer buttoned, hair damp against my cheek.
          I whisper the sign-off into the dark. ‘That concludes tonight’s broadcast. Thank you for joining us.’
          The pigeons roost. The fountain burbles. The square doesn’t clap.
          But the man is still there, a silhouette under the plane tree, watching. I’ve learnt to square my shoulders before I speak, even here. The body remembers posture better than the mind remembers dignity. Chin lifted, diaphragm engaged. Project, don’t plead.
          ‘Breaking news,’ I announce, bent over the fountain as I slap a damp skirt against the stone lip. The sound cracks sharp, startling a flock of pigeons into the air. ‘The anchorwoman was seen stumbling out of the greenroom, eyeliner smudged, breath sharp with gin. Sources close to management confirm repeated warnings were issued. Sponsors express concern.’
          The water splashes up, cold on my chest. My slip clings, exposing outlines I’d rather not show. I don’t flinch. Anchors don’t flinch.
          Two boys, skateboards tucked under their arms, pause. One snorts. The other raises his phone, films me. I stare down the invisible lens. ‘And in entertainment,’ I continue crisply, ‘two youths mistake cruelty for content, filming tragedy for sport. Ratings expected to plummet.’
          They drop their eyes. Shuffle off. I win that round, but the victory is paper-thin.
          There are days the bulletin is lighter. Days when I can keep the script neat, clipped. Traffic gridlock on the freeway. Fire crews contained the blaze. The Dockers lose again. Easy enough to pretend I’m still at the desk, still in control. But more often now, confession seeps in, like water rising through stone.
          ‘And in national news,’ I tell the fountain, scrubbing at a jacket cuff mottled with brown, ‘the Prime Minister avoided questions today. The anchorwoman did not. She was heard calling him a coward before the cameras cut. Audio leaked, sponsors fled. Analysts warn of lasting damage.’
          A couple eating noodles glance over, whispers catching between them. The woman bites her lip. Recognition? Perhaps. I hope not. My face has sagged, lines cut deep. Surely no one sees the anchor anymore. Surely only I do.
          The listener comes again. He has the same suit, the same loosened tie. Always around five. Always leaning against the plane tree, briefcase dangling, as though he missed his train on purpose.
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t film. He listens the way audiences used to listen when something terrible was unfolding live and they wanted reassurance from my face.
          Tonight, I feel bolder.
          ‘Developing story,’ I announce, lifting my arms like I’m delivering a live cross. My hair hangs wet against my cheeks. ‘The anchorwoman engaged in a long-term affair with a married politician. Details suppressed at the time. Viewers now ask: was this a breach of trust, or simply human weakness?’
          The suit man doesn’t move. His jaw ticks. His eyes glint. I can’t tell if it’s judgment or recognition. I wring the blouse hard, water slapping down like applause.
          ‘In finance,’ I continue, voice tightening, ‘the anchorwoman withdrew too often from the company liquor cabinet. Debt mounted. Trust collapsed. Insiders say the collapse was inevitable.’
          The man’s gaze doesn’t falter. My skin prickles.
          Flashbacks cut through me with no warning. The studio’s red tally lamp blinking. My hand trembling just out of frame. Sweat sliding under the pancake foundation. My producer mouthing steady behind the glass. Then the laughter. Not the audience’s. My colleagues’. The night I slurred the outro and mispronounced the lead reporter’s name, calling him “Rodent” instead of “Rowden.” It went viral. I woke to the footage looped on every network but ours.
That was the beginning of the end.
          I kneel, plunging my arms deeper into the fountain, letting cold water burn up to my elbows.
          ‘In health news,’ I tell the spray, ‘the anchorwoman’s liver has sustained significant damage. Doctors recommend cessation of alcohol. She declines comment. The prognosis remains grim.’
          The pigeons shuffle closer. The man in the suit shifts his weight but doesn’t leave.
          ‘And in local interest,’ I add, lowering my voice until only he can hear, ‘her daughter has not spoken to her in five years. Not since the night of the gala, when the anchorwoman failed to collect her from ballet. The child walked home in satin slippers. Rain falling. Car horns. Her mother’s chair empty at the table.’
          My throat closes. The sentence hangs in the square like fog. The man’s face softens, just slightly. His grip on the briefcase loosens.
          Later, when the sky bleeds orange into black, I sit on the fountain rail, clothes dripping at my side. My blazer hangs heavy on my shoulders. My whole body aches, but I keep the anchor’s posture.
          The man approaches, finally. Steps slow, deliberate. He crouches, knees dampening on the stone. His tie dangles like a rope. He studies the blouse in my lap, fingers twitching as though to touch it but thinking better. The stains spread across the cotton, a map of old damage.
          ‘That was you,’ he says quietly.
‘This just in,’ I reply, summoning the smile. ‘Yes. That was me. The anchorwoman who couldn’t anchor herself.’
          ‘No,’ he shakes his head. ‘That story you told. The ballet. The kid in the rain. That wasn’t just… a metaphor, was it?’
          I meet his eyes. For the first time I don’t see an audience. I see someone hearing me.
The fountain burbles between us, a hollow applause. The stains never come out. I know this now. I scrub until my knuckles split, until the fountain water runs pink with both iron and blood, until my arms ache like I’ve been hauling anchors. Still, the blotches cling. Rings of rust, brown shadows of wine, dark smears no scrubbing can erase.
          I narrate it as though the square needs telling. ‘In consumer affairs,’ I say, my voice cracking but steady enough, ‘detergent has failed again to deliver on its promises. The anchorwoman reports that some stains are permanent. Experts suggest rust is not just corrosion of fabric, but of reputation. Warnings ignored. The damage irreparable.’ My laugh comes jagged, echoing too loud in the plaza. A woman hurrying past tugs her daughter close, muttering a prayer.
          The listener doesn’t move. He’s here again, under the plane tree, tie crooked, eyes fixed.
          I keep my smile pinned, but my voice sharpens. ‘And now, to the special report.’
           I straighten, blazer soaked through, hair dripping across my jaw. The pigeons scatter at my rise, as if they sense something shifting. The fountain gurgles. My throat burns.
          ‘Tonight we bring you exclusive footage,’ I declare, turning slightly so the man is framed in my invisible camera’s lens. ‘The anchorwoman confesses to negligence, arrogance, pride. She admits to drinking on air, to bedding a man whose speeches she later read with a straight face. She admits she liked the risk, liked the heat of it, liked believing she was untouchable.’
          The words strike like pebbles flung at glass. No one claps. No one jeers. Only traffic hums down Barrack Street and the fountain keeps spitting. The man crouches again, briefcase at his side, watching me with eyes that are too steady.
          ‘And in local news,’ I press on, louder now, ‘her daughter hasn’t spoken to her in five years. She remembers her standing in the rain, ballet slippers ruined, while her mother was in a hotel bed with gin on the bedside table and lies on her tongue. Neighbours reported hearing shouting, crying. The police confirmed nothing. The anchorwoman confirmed nothing.’
          My breath hitches. The word “nothing” ricochets back at me.
          The man lowers his gaze, rubs a thumb across the rust-dark stains on the blouse I’ve left across the stone rail. He says, almost to himself, ‘That’s not news. That’s confession.’
          For a moment, silence opens. The square holds its breath.
I lower myself to the edge of the fountain, blazer dripping, hair plastered to my skull. The water sloshes against my thighs. My chest rattles, laughter or sobbing or both.
          ‘And in breaking news,’ I whisper, eyes on him now, ‘confession is all that’s left when there’s no audience to spin for.’
          He looks up. There’s no judgment in his face, no derision. Just recognition. I have been broadcasting to pigeons and ghosts, but at last, someone has heard.
          The final bulletin. I feel it in my bones. The sign-off rising. I gather the rust-stained blouse in both hands, lift it high as if it were evidence, as if this ragged garment is the whole case against me. The fountain spray catches the fabric and it glows orange in the sodium lights.
          ‘This just in,’ I say, voice breaking but ringing clear, ‘the anchorwoman has reached the end of her career. Viewers are advised this program will conclude shortly. Final verdict: guilty. Sentence: silence.’
          The words echo across the plaza, sink into stone, vanish into night. I drape the blouse on the fountain rail. Water trickles down my arm, mingling with blood from my knuckles. The man doesn’t move. His tie flutters in the evening breeze.
          I square my shoulders, one last time. Feel the weight of the blazer, soaked and sagging but still armour. I look past him, into the dark, into the camera that has never left me, red tally light burning in my skull.
          ‘That concludes tonight’s broadcast,’ I say, voice softer now. ‘Thank you for joining us.’
          The fountain burbles on. Pigeons shift on their claws. The square is emptying, shop shutters rattling down, footsteps echoing off glass. The man stays crouched, eyes on me, as though waiting for the credits to roll. I turn. Step down from the rail. Walk into the shadowed stretch of Forrest Place, blazer dripping, hair plastered to my skull, rust stains spreading like continents across my clothes.
          Behind me, the blouse flutters on the fountain rail like a flag of surrender. No applause. No outro music. Only silence. The truest kind of broadcast.

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Dorit d’Scarlett is a CALD poet and writer whose award-winning work has appeared in Rattle, Meniscus, Antler Velvet, and many other international journals. Her work often explores the fragile intersection between visibility and vulnerability, shaped by desire, self-perception, and the quiet acts of becoming. Recipient of an Artist-in-Residence award in Provence, she can be found imagining strange new anatomies whilst sipping Ricard. Links to her published work can be found on her website: doritdscarlett.com