Beneath the Distant Star

by Lisa Shambrook

  Dread surged through her body and she almost tripped over her feet as she rotated, trying desperately to find her cousin.

  “Thomas,” she croaked. “Thomas…”

  Her fingers gripped the wire, so tightly she could feel the metal cutting in. She began to whimper, her breath coming in short, sharp gulps as she gazed across the track. She let go of the fence and wobbled, but stepped forward, her feet crunching in the gravel.

  “Thomas,” her voice was hoarse. “Thomas!”

  She turned and stared into the woodland behind, her eyes darting from tree to tree, trying to scrutinise the bushes and shrubs, searching desperately for Thomas’s navy mackintosh. It was dark beyond the brambles and the trees stood silent.

  Her voice cracked as she called. “Thomas…please, Thomas, answer me!”

  She gazed back at the railway, following the track, her eyes moving along the rails. Then a little way along the siding, where the gravel dipped, she saw a mound. Her hand clapped over her mouth smothering the cry that rose from the pit of her belly. Her whimpering turned into sobs and she stumbled along the gravel.

  “Thomas! No!” She could barely speak. She dropped down beside the navy lump and grabbed her cousin’s shoulders. “Thomas!” she wailed. “Thomas, get up! Get up! GET UP NOW!”

  She rolled Thomas over and stared into his eyes; they were open and glassy. He blinked as he stared back at her.

  “I thought you were dead, I thought you were DEAD!” she howled.

  He shook his head.

  “Get up!” she cried, “Get up!” She stared at her phone. “It’s almost seventeen, get up! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Thomas scrambled to his feet and Jasmine grabbed his arm. They lurched and staggered to the hole in the fence and crawled through. Jasmine did not let go of his arm as they clambered up the bank and back onto the woodland path. Safely away from the railway, Jasmine shook Thomas. “I thought you were dead…” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I thought you were dead.” She buried her face in his shoulder then slid down to the ground.

  Thomas stood still, his own face pale and tear stained. “I thought the train was going to hit you,” he said, shaking his head.

  “It didn’t, I moved!” cried Jasmine.

  “I couldn’t see. I didn’t know you’d moved.”

  “I couldn’t see you after it went!” she said, “I didn’t know if it hit you or not!”

  “It didn’t.”

  “Then why were you on the ground? You scared me to death! Why were you laying on the floor?” demanded Jasmine staring up at him.

  “Because I thought it hit you…and I didn’t want to see.” Thomas hissed. “I didn’t want to see you under the train.”

  “So you got on the floor?”

  “It blew me down! It blew me out of the way!” Thomas cried and fury puckered his brow. “It knocked me down and I didn’t get up because…because…” He took a breath, “because I didn’t want to see you squashed and torn apart by the train! I didn’t want to see your blood and insides and guts! That’s why!”

  Jasmine leaned back on her feet staring at her cousin, and shame left her speechless.

  “I’m going home!” said Thomas. “You can come if you want.”

  He sniffed noisily and wiped his eyes and nose on his coat sleeve. He sighed heavily and turned away from Jasmine. She watched as he stomped away, marching through muddy puddles without a thought for his trainers. She realised her own boots were filthy and her knees were sodden from kneeling in the mud. She rose and followed him.

  She followed in silence, her mind still too traumatised to process logical thought, and Thomas still too mad to speak to her. They trudged in silence. It wasn’t long before Thomas slowed down enough for Jasmine to catch up, and they moved into the fields. Jasmine glanced over at her cousin, several times, but he avoided her gaze, concentrating on walking instead.

  As they finally neared the field behind Jasmine’s house, she caught Thomas by the shoulder. “Thomas, look at me.”

  He reluctantly tipped his head towards her and met her eyes. “What?” he asked.

  “Do I look like I’ve been crying?” she asked.

  He shook his head then nodded. “Well, a little bit.”

  She pulled her sleeve over her hand and rubbed her eyes. “Now?”

  He shook his head. “You’re eyes are red…”

  She shrugged and he pulled away. “Wait a minute,” she said.

  He stared up at her.

  “You’re not going to say anything, are you? About all of this?” She gazed fiercely into his eyes. “You won’t mention the train? Not ever? Will you?”

  He shook his head.

  “I mean it, I really mean it!” she insisted.

  He pulled away, ducking out of her grasp. “Of course I won’t!” he glared. “I’m used to not saying anything!”

  She frowned. “It’s not like I’m bullying you!” she said. “You should tell people about that!”

  “You’re not bullying me…” he offered a dry laugh. “No, you’re no bully.”

  “Don’t joke with me!” She shook her head.

  “I’m not! Don’t bully me then!”

  She screwed up her face and shrugged. “I’m not bullying!”

  “Whatever,” he said and began walking off across the grass.

  Jasmine stood silent for a moment then called out. “Just don’t tell anyone!”

  He glanced back over his shoulder, but Jasmine couldn’t read his expression.

  “Please,” she called out.

  “You don’t call the shots,” he yelled back and started running.

  Jasmine’s chin wobbled as her cousin sped away over the field. She followed him, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. At the gate to the road, Thomas climbed over and hurried off down the street in the opposite direction to Jasmine’s house. She sighed and swung herself over the gate then walked down her road.

  At home, she avoided her mum and went straight to her bedroom. She changed her clothes and washed the blood out of the grazes in the palms of her hands.

  She heard her father arrive home from work. Her boots were still muddy when she went downstairs, but nobody noticed. Dad’s arms were around Mum as she stood against the kitchen surface. Jasmine took a seat at the table and watched her mum lean into her father. Jasmine frowned as she heard short sobs emanate from her mother.

  “What’s wrong?” Jasmine asked as her father gazed at her over her mother’s shoulder.

  He shook his head and breathed heavily through his nose. He rubbed his wife’s back and waited a few more minutes before answering.

  “There was a call at work today…” he paused as his wife wept and he stroked her hair. “There was a call came in from the Transport Police, a local one.”

  Jasmine paled.

  “Kids on the railway. Down on the line, this afternoon. Not far from here either!” He shook his head again. “They very nearly got hit by the Thirty-Two Eastern. The driver didn’t know if he’d missed them or not…”

  Jasmine could barely breathe.

  “He, the driver, was in a right state when he called, but when they attended, when they went down there, nothing, not a thing.” His brow creased as he sighed. “Don’t they teach them anything at school these days?” Anger tinged his voice.

  Mum pulled away from him and gazed at her husband. Her lip trembled. “Like Freya, like when I saw Freya…just thrust aside by the car…”

  He pulled her back into his arms. “But it’s okay, no one got hit, it’s okay.”

  Jasmine couldn’t trust herself to speak. Her father comforted her mother and Jasmine sat white-knuckled at the table. She knew she’d never stomach dinner. As she stared at the knots in the wood on the table, all she could see was the train driver, the terror in his eyes and his frantic hands waving wildly in the dark approaching window. And when she didn’t see the driver she saw her cousin’s terrified eyes staring up at her and heard his angry words rever
berating throughout her mind.

  Her head whirled, dizzy images coursed across her vision and bile rose in her throat. Neither parent noticed as Jasmine quietly removed herself from the table and hurried to the bathroom to throw up.

  Jasmine felt sick to her stomach for several days. She searched for Thomas at school on Monday, but he was conspicuously absent. She had no idea if she had her cousin’s forgiveness and her anxiety quickly turned to a querulous coil. On Tuesday she followed and hurried after him and the tear in the knee of his school trousers was enough to light the fire in Jasmine’s belly.

  “How did you do that?” she asked.

  He shrugged.

  Jasmine narrowed her eyes.

  “Playing football…” he replied.

  “Who with? I haven’t seen you playing football.”

  “What’s it to you?” Thomas was still mad at her.

  Jasmine pursed her lips. “Just wondered. Everything okay then?”

  He nodded and shifted his gaze down the corridor.

  “Really?”

  He stared down at his feet and hitched his rucksack up onto his shoulder. Several boys ran past as the school bell rang out, echoing down the hall. “I’m fine,” he told her, glancing at a group of oncoming girls. He stepped aside as the crowd approached. One of the girls caught his shoulder with her bag and he lost his balance, toppling into the wall.

  Jasmine stepped after the girl and Thomas grabbed her arm. “No, don’t,” he murmured.

  The girl cast a look over her shoulder and sneered.

  “The little…” began Jasmine.

  “Stop it, leave it!” hissed Thomas. “You’ll only make it worse!”

  “Is that her?” asked Jasmine.

  “Who?”

  “That girl, is she the one who’s bullying you?”

  He shook his head and glanced at his shoes. “I’ve got to go,” he said, “Don’t want to be late for class, and nor do you!”

  Jasmine shrugged.

  “See you later,” he said and hurrying into his classroom.

  Jasmine stood in the corridor staring after him. The girl’s expression had infuriated her and she wanted to storm into the classroom and…she shook her head, trying to quieten the urge. “See you, squirt,” she mumbled to herself.

  Giggles emanated from the class followed by shrieks of laughter. Jasmine’s hands clenched and she couldn’t stop herself. Her boots clomped heavily as she burst into the classroom full of surprisingly small year sevens. Several girls crowded a desk and Jasmine caught a glimpse of copper hair amidst the group.

  “Give it back, Stella!” Thomas couldn’t make his voice heard above the cackles and jeers.

  “You can have it back if you beg…” The girl’s voice was so like Tayla’s. Jasmine’s hackles rose. The brunette threw an exercise book on the floor and ground it underneath her shoe. “Beg, and I’ll let you have it back, but not until then.”

  Jasmine slouched against the door frame, watching as Thomas squirmed. She cleared her throat. “I think you’ll give it back now, Stella,” she said in an even but authoritative tone.

  The room quietened as students turned with anticipation. Stella swung round and looked Jasmine up and down. She sneered, but Jasmine caught the uncertainty in her gaze. “Why?” said Stella, “you his girlfriend?”

  Jasmine pushed away from the door and stalked towards the group of girls. Several backed away, but the bully stood her ground, albeit shakily.

  “I said, give it back. Now.” Jasmine stood tall and moved closer.

  The girl looked ready to speak, but thought better of it. She narrowed her eyes and crouched to pick up the book. “Didn’t want it anyway,” Stella said and dropped it into the boy’s hands. “Better go girls, don’t want to interrupt these two lovebirds, didn’t know you had it in you, Tommy!” The class snickered and fed her audacity. “Though, in my opinion, you could do better than that!”

  Jasmine lurched forward as the girl spun, attempting to reach her desk. Jasmine caught her elbow and yanked hard. Stella squealed.

  “What on earth is going on here?” Mrs Fitchling’s voice reverberated. “Why are you out of your seats, and Jasmine Scott, this is not your classroom.”

  “Miss!” Stella squeezed out tears. “Miss, she’s hurting me!”

  “Jasmine, let the girl go.”

  Jasmine growled and pinched Stella’s arm viciously as she let go. Stella burst into tears and grabbed her elbow.

  “Stella, take your seat. Class, settle down, Miss Almond is on her way.” Mrs Fitchling set her eyes on Jasmine. “And you, Miss Scott, can accompany me to your classroom.”

  “Mrs Fitchling, don’t you want to know what Stella was doing?” asked Jasmine, still standing by her cousin’s desk. “She was bullying Thomas.”

  “I can see what you were doing, and you’re lucky I got here before you did anything you might regret,” said Mrs Fitchling.

  “Ask Thomas!” cried Jasmine.

  Both Mrs Fitchling and Jasmine glanced at Thomas, but he refused to meet their eyes and gazed down at his desk. Jasmine’s heart dropped and she rubbed her temple. Still, Thomas refused to lift his head and defend her. Mrs Fitchling touched Jasmine’s arm and she recoiled. Defeat stung as she scowled and spun on her heels. She stalked out of the classroom. The titter that followed her burned to her core.

  Miss Almond rounded the corner at a trot and smiled at Mrs Fitchling. “Oh, I’m sorry I’m late!”

  As Miss Almond offered excuses, Jasmine hurried away down the corridor, keen to be gone before Mrs Fitchling could berate her further.

  Mr Fischer glanced up as Jasmine slouched into her own classroom. “Glad you could make it,” he said. Jasmine slid into her seat and stared out of the window.

  Fire still simmered in her belly.

  Thomas’s humiliation still stung during break, but she sent three year eight’s packing from her bench and brooded until it was time for class.

  She made her way to English and listened, enraptured, as Mr Gotham went over his plans for revision leading up to exams. He was the only teacher she knew who could recite the dictionary and make it sound like poetry! She half listened, made notes and gazed out of the window.

  When the class ended, chairs scraped back, pupils left, and she took her time. She smiled at Mr Gotham as she left.

  “Jasmine,” Mr Gotham called her back.

  She paused and the teacher glanced up from his papers and books.

  “Jasmine, could you give me a moment, just need a few words.”

  She nodded and hesitated at the door. He smiled and indicated a chair by the desk in front of him. She took a seat. He finished his notes and glanced at her. Jasmine couldn’t read his expression. He smiled. “Sorry to keep you,” he said and leaned thoughtfully on his elbows. “I just wanted a word about your last few pieces of work.

  She nodded.

  He flipped through a pile of books and pulled hers from the batch. He flicked through the pages, until he came to her last few pieces of homework. “I know we’ve been working on Steinbeck and I’ve asked you each to write your own responses, one from the text and one from your own point of view. And…” he paused, “And here’s your short story, or not so short story.” He grinned. “I don’t often get ten-page stories, including chapters, handed in these days!”

  She flushed and bit her lip. She threw her mind back to the story and wondered what might be wrong with hers. It was raw, but she’d meant it to be—how you could write your own interpretation of an abusive relationship without including cruelty and neglect? “I like writing.”

  He nodded. “I get that! And it’s good, really good, don’t get me wrong.”

  The door opened and Mrs Fitchling pushed through. “Sorry, I’m late, I got caught up. We’re all getting caught up today aren’t we, Miss Scott?”

  Jasmine tensed.

  Mr Gotham smiled again. “I hope you don’t mind that I asked Mrs Fitchling to join us for a moment. I thought a woman’s poin
t of view might help, so we got Mrs Fitchling instead of Mr Harvey.”

  Jasmine frowned. “What does Mrs Fitchling, or Mr Harvey, have to do with my English work?” she asked.

  “It’s delicate…” he began.

  “Delicate?” Jasmine’s eyes widened.

  He nodded. “Look, Jasmine, I don’t want to put you on the spot, but we need to keep on top of things…”

  “I am on top of things, I’m up to date with all my work, for English anyway,” she added.

  “It’s not your work, well it is, not the quality, that’s always good. Your words are very…bold,” he started, fidgeting with his hands, “You write with distinction and wonderful description, but I’m wondering…” He cleared his throat. “The last two pieces, the story in particular, were very…” He frowned searching for words. “They were very real.”

  “Jasmine, we know you’ve had—issues, lately,” interrupted Mrs Fitchling, “obviously I work alongside Mr Harvey, so we’re well aware of your, behavioural problems…”

  Jasmine’s mouth dropped.

  Mrs Fitchling smiled. “We want to be sure that you’re okay. That there’s nothing untoward going on, either here or at home.”

  “I’m fine, I really am! I’m fine!” Jasmine insisted.

  “We know you are, dear, but we’ve been keeping an eye on you, especially of late,” said Mrs Fitchling, “We just want to be sure that we haven’t missed anything?”

  Jasmine almost snarled. “What could you have missed? I’m sure you know my complete history, Miss, especially lately.”

  “If there is anything we can help with, you need to tell us,” Mr Gotham looked most concerned.

  “You do know my stories are made up, don’t you?” She stared straight at her English tutor.

  Mrs Fitchling cast a sideways glance at Mr Gotham.

  “They’re fiction, not true!” Jasmine declared. “They’re all made up or written to fit the subject!”

  “Of course they are!” replied Mrs Fitchling quickly, “It’s just that if they weren’t…”

  “They are.” Jasmine rubbed her forehead. “I have an overactive imagination.”

  “Like I said, your written work is very good, Jasmine. I always enjoy reading and marking your work.” Her teacher paused, trying to frame words in a casual way. “It’s very lifelike, very real…”