The Shadow Girl

by John Larkin

  The woman at reception is terse with Narelle, who is terse right back at her. Though at least she’s reined in the swearing. She’s much smarter than I gave her credit for. She knows that if she rages on here, the only door that will open is the one to the exit and she’s got five hundred dollars riding on this.

  She starts filling out the forms so I whisper to remind her that she can’t use my real name in case I pop up on a radar somewhere.

  ‘No worries,’ she says. ‘Leave it to me.’ Actually it sounds more like ‘loive it to moy’.

  As soon as Narelle has finished with the forms we’re ushered through to the principal’s office.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Beauchamp. Robert Thompkins.’

  ‘G’day, Bob,’ replies Narelle, bunging on the accent even more. ‘And it’s Ms. Mz.’ Narelle really emphasises the ‘Z’. Apparently cheating someone of five hundred bucks is all good, but being addressed by the wrong title is insulting.

  ‘Duly noted, Ms Beauchamp,’ says Mr Thompkins.

  ‘Old man shot through as soon as I missed my period.’

  Although Mr Thompkins seems unfazed by this, I want the ground to open up and swallow me – or, preferably, her.

  Mr Thompkins turns his attention to me and I immediately relax. He has a kind face. The sort an uncle ought to have. He also has a moustache, but unlike my father’s, his actually suits him. He looks down at the form and then back up at me and smiles. ‘And you must be Tiffany Star.’

  Oh, great. Why didn’t she just call me Tinkerbell and be done with it? Tiffany Star Beauchamp! I’ll get beaten up every day as a matter of principle.

  I glare at Narelle.

  ‘Say hello to Mr Thompkins, Tiffany-Star.’ She’s biting her lip trying not to laugh.

  Every nerve and fibre. Every molecule and atom of my being is cringing at the moment. ‘Hello, Mr Thompkins.’

  ‘Hello, Tiffany. Welcome to our school.’

  ‘It’s Tiffany-Star,’ corrects Narelle. ‘Loike, with a hoifen.’

  I don’t even know what Narelle is banging on about at first because her accent is becoming more exaggerated the more she talks. But then it dawns on me that this skanky cow is insisting that my name be hyphenated. She’s enjoying this way too much.

  ‘So what’s your favourite subject, Tiffany-Star?’

  ‘She’s, loike, royal smart,’ says Narelle, ratcheting up the cringe factor, which was already running pretty close to critical.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’ll discuss my academic preferences with Mr Thompkins.’

  ‘Soi what I moyen.’

  ‘I like all subjects, really. But I suppose my favourite would be English.’

  ‘And what would be your favourite book?’

  I’m about to say Matilda but for some pathetic reason I want to impress him. I also want to show him that I’m nothing like Narelle. ‘I would have to say Bleak House.’

  Mr Thompkins’ eyes widen slightly. ‘Not the one by . . .’

  ‘Charles Dickens. Yeah. I’ve read it a couple of times.’

  Mr Thompkins recovers enough to jot this down on his notepad like it actually means something.

  ‘And what are you reading at the moment?’

  ‘Pride and Prejudice.’

  He writes this down too. Then he glances over at Narelle, who looks like she could barely read the cancer warning on a packet of smokes.

  I’ve overdone it. By miles. Kids out here don’t read Dickens and Austen. They don’t read full stop. Not at home, anyway. They get dumped in front of the Sony babysitter as soon as they’ve got neck support.

  ‘And what is it you want to do when you leave school, Tiffany-Star?’

  Again I speak without thinking. ‘I want to be a doctor and work for Médecins Sans Frontières in Africa.’ Although I leave out the bit about the worm vaccine, Mr Thompkins still looks at me as though I’ve just flown in from the Andromeda Galaxy. I should have kept everyone happy and said that I want to work in a clothes shop. Now the poor guy has to deal with an alien in his midst.

  Mr Thompkins looks at Narelle’s proof of address and summons one of the office ladies to make a photocopy. He then announces that the school doesn’t have a Gifted and Talented program because, he says, all children are gifted and talented – some obviously a little more than others. But there is still a top English class, which he’ll put me in.

  ‘Now?’ I say.

  He gives me that big, friendly grin of his. ‘You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys being out of school, Tiffany-Star.’

  I nod because it’s true.

  ‘By the way,’ he says, matter of factly. ‘What happened to your arm?’ He glances between both of us as he says this. He’s obviously fishing.

  I reply without thinking. ‘I broke it ice-skating.’ Oh no! That was my New York, five-star hotel, barrister mum lie.

  ‘She’s smart,’ offers Narelle in support, ‘but she’s a bit of a klutz.’

  It seems as though Mr Thompkins doesn’t have a problem with the ice-skating ruse. Then I remember that the mega-mall where I met Narelle has its own ice-skating rink.

  Outside the office I say goodbye to Narelle but decide I want to pay her back for turning me into a target with the whole Tiffany-Star thing.

  ‘I’ll need some money for lunch, Mum.’

  Narelle glares at me. ‘What about that money I gave you earlier? At the mall.’

  ‘I spent it. On books.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with the library.’ I’m sure she wanted to throw an ‘effing’ in there somewhere but she’s on her best behaviour in front of Mr Thompkins. Instead she reaches into her pocket and pulls out five dollars. She hands me the money and gives me a hug.

  ‘Have a great day, Tiffany-Star.’ Then she whispers in my ear. ‘I’ll be waiting for you after school, with a fucking baseball bat if I have to.’

  Then I turn and walk off with Mr Thompkins.

  ‘Bye, mummy,’ I say, looking back over my shoulder. ‘Enjoy Oprah.’

  My mummy. My dear, sweet mumsie, standing there in her pink tracksuit, her body crying out for a smoke, flips me the bird.

  DID YOU REALLY NOT PAY HER THE OTHER FIVE HUNDRED?

  No. I didn’t need a psycho prostitute after me as well. We both knew that she could have phoned the school and said that the whole thing was bullshit.

  So how did you find her?

  I didn’t. She lived up to her threat. Came and met me after school, with all of the other parents. She didn’t look too happy to be there and for a minute I thought she was going to charge me extra. In the end she just stuck out her hand for the cash. Luckily I had enough on me to pay her off. She said that it was nice doing business with me and to let her know when the parent/teacher interviews were on. She said she might even give me a discount.

  How was school?

  It was really good. I thought the other kids would look at me like I was from a freak show or something, but they hardly even bothered to look up when Mr Thompkins introduced me. I guess they were used to seeing kids come and go, especially with the jail being so close by. At lunch a couple of Islander girls told the teacher that they’d look after me. I was really nervous at first. I thought they might try to mug me or drag me into the toilets and flush my head down the bowl. But they just lined up in the lunch queue with me and afterwards took me over to the uniform shop. They couldn’t have been nicer.

  What were the teachers like?

  Really lovely. My favourite was my year advisor and English teacher. Her name was Miss Taylor, not Mz like Narelle. I don’t think she was long out of uni – really young and enthusiastic. Her eyes lit up when she marked the roll, like she was thrilled to see us back. They were about to do an assessment task when Mr Thompkins dropped me off and sh
e said that because I was new and might not have been studying the same stuff as them, I didn’t have to do it, but I said that it was okay and I was happy to give it a go.

  How did you do?

  Aced it.

  Miss Taylor was so excited that I thought she was going to explode. I thought the other students would hate me after that. But they didn’t. They were almost as encouraging as the teacher. Patting me on the back and everything. I don’t know, going to school out there really taught me a few things. Not so much about them but about me. Afterwards it felt weird walking into the hotel lobby in my second-hand school uniform but nobody seemed to mind. There was another student there as well but she was a bit older and her uniform included a hat, a blazer and a flashy laptop computer. Still, no matter how much cash her parents stumped up to send her to school, I doubted if she had a principal who cared as much as Mr Thompkins or a teacher who was as enthusiastic or kind as Miss Taylor. You can’t buy that sort of stuff.

  When I got to my room I made myself a cup of tea and scoffed the free biscuits they give you. After that I read Pride and Prejudice for a bit and then, because I was so tired, just fell asleep.

  It was after seven when I woke up the following day. I should have packed my stuff ready to check out the next morning for my first full day at school but it was so nice and safe in the hotel, I just couldn’t leave. I phoned Alistair McAlister and got him to book me in until the end of the week.

  Your bill must have been mounting up.

  Yeah, it would have been, but it didn’t matter anyway because I’d decided to use Serena’s credit card rather than cash.

  How were you going to do that?

  Figured it all out. By myself, too.

  Did it work?

  That’s another story.

  I SLOWLY OPEN MY EYES AND TRY TO FIGURE OUT WHERE I AM. Somewhere safe. Somewhere comfortable.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Dr Bennet. We’ll be departing soon. Can I get you anything?’ The young woman’s smile is so wide it’s like one face isn’t big enough to hold it.

  ‘A glass of champagne, perhaps? You have much to celeb- rate. And it is our finest French champagne.’

  Why not? If anyone deserves a glass of finest French champ- agne, it’s me. ‘Okay, then.’ I reply. ‘Merci.’

  The woman returns with my champagne and then retreats to leave me alone with my thoughts.

  It’s been over twenty years since I was homeless and living on the trains. Fifteen years since Creepo was incinerated when someone torched his house. Following uni graduation, I did my internship and then volunteered to work for Médecins Sans Frontières. My team and I didn’t invent a vaccine for the eye-eating African worm. We eradicated it. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the arbitrary annihilation of an entire species, but I consoled myself with the idea that it was a heinous mistake that evolution had thrown up.

  And now, two years after the worm had infected its last eye, I’m travelling to the Nobel Prize centre to collect my prize. But on the way, I have one more thing to do. Something I had promised myself a long time ago when I was homeless and living on the trains.

  I’ve just arrived at Edith Piaf Railway Station, Paris, and settled into my luxurious cabin aboard the Orient Express.

  Because it’s quite late, the bed beside me has been turned down and the linen smells fresh. I run my hand over the pillow, which is soft and inviting. It’s been a long day and my eyelids are getting heavy.

  I lift up my feet but they’re practically stuck to the floor. Some selfish a-hole has spilled their fizzy drink and left it to turn into glue. I notice on the seat across from my bed someone called Davo has used a black marker pen to express his undying love for Shazza – he’s gunna luv her 4-eva, apparently. Someone else is of the mind that Rita sux big ones.

  ‘The train on platform six stops all stations to the city.’

  Well, that does it. How many invasions can you handle? So much for my romantic overnight journey from Paris to Venice on the Orient Express. No crisp white sheets in my first-class sleeper cabin. No French champagne.

  I realise of course that my fantasy needs a bit of work. If I’m going to drink the finest French champagne, I need to know its name at least. Plus if I am fluent in French, I have to be able to say a bit more than merci. I don’t know where they hand out Nobel prizes, though I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be called the Nobel Prize centre. My mum used to listen to an Edith Piaf CD. She’s the only famous French person that I know of. Still, I doubt they would have named a railway station after her. Still, it’s a work in progress and I’m happy with the way that it’s developing. Certainly better than being slumped on an electric train as it clatters its way around the suburban rail network with its sticky floors, illiterate graffiti and liberal sprinkling of sad, mad people going absolutely nowhere.

  SO YOU LEARNED HOW TO GET AWAY BY ESCAPING INTO A fantasy world?

  Is that weird?

  Understandable given your circumstances. Who wouldn’t want to travel first class from Paris to Venice on the Orient Express?

  I found this brochure on the train that someone had left behind – ‘Exotic Rail Journeys of the World’ or something. I took one look at it and decided that’s where I was going. In my imagination at least.

  I suppose a psychologist might say that the sleeper cabin represents the safety of the womb.

  Oh, cut the psychobabble. It was just a happy place to go in my head.

  Can we go back a bit? Your first week at your new school. Was it hard to leave the hotel? Especially since you had the money to stay longer.

  Yeah it was. Really hard. But as much as I loved it and felt safe there, I knew I couldn’t stay for ever. Eventually someone would have come knocking on my door looking for my barrister mum or a down payment on the bill. Besides, I wanted the option to go back there again later, if things got too hard or the weather turned really cold or stormy. So on Saturday morning at the end of the first week at my new school, I packed up my gear and headed down to reception.

  I want to hear how you did this.

  It was easy, really. I gave the clerk the room number and asked for the bill saying that my mum was still in the room but on an important call to New York. The clerk printed it off, I took it back to the room, then I came back with the credit card explaining that my mother was still on the phone and could I take the credit card charge slip back for her to sign. The clerk didn’t have a problem with this and so I trotted off back to the room again and returned a couple of minutes later with the signed receipt – I’d spent an hour practising Serena’s signature at breakfast that morning, which was some sort of bizarre couldn’t-be-bothered-with-a-proper-signature scrawl anyway. And that was that. I told the clerk we’d be leaving via the car park and that my mother said thank you for a wonderful stay. The clerk said we were very welcome and that she hoped to see us both again. Then she gave me a copy of the receipt. I smiled, picked up my stuff and walked out of the hotel through the underground car park and headed for the station at the mega-mall. And with that I was officially on the streets. Or the trains. Whatever you want to call it.

  How did you manage at school? Carting all that stuff around?

  I’d arranged to drop off my sleeping bag and other excess stuff at Alistair McAlister’s café on school mornings. And on uni days he organised for another waitress to mind it for me. Lugging that to and from school, I would definitely have shown up on someone’s radar. But on the weekend I was on my own. I’d got myself another bag by then, for the extra stuff that I was carting around, so I really was turning into a bit of a bag lady.

  How did you manage to survive? What did you do?

  Well, the first day out of the hotel it was pretty cold so I decided to go back up to my weekender, at the beach.

  Why would you go to the beach if it was cold?

  Fewer
people.

  Right. Sorry. Carry on.

  I got some scallops and chips from my Croatian friend – paid for them this time too – and then I walked the rest of the way to my weekender, scoffing the scallops and chips as I went and enjoying the warmth of my hands on the greasy wrapping. I timed how far it was this time. Two hours, walking on dry sand. No wonder I was stuffed when I got there. But I wanted to be as far away from the houses as I could. As far away from people.

  I climbed into the dunes and then when I got my sleeping bag and stuff sorted in a hollow, I went for a bit of a poke around to see if I could find any shelter. There was a storm building up down south, the clouds were starting to seriously churn, and I could see that unless the wind changed direction and pushed it out to sea, it was going to be a big one. If I couldn’t find any shelter and the heavens let me have it, I’d have a two-hour schlep back to Death Valley in the lightning and rain.

  Shelter? What were you looking for? A cave or something?

  Just something to cover the hollow in the dunes that I’d set myself up in. Some driftwood or something.

  Did you find anything?

  A door.

  A door? In the sand dunes?

  It used to be somebody’s front door. On their house. It even had number 4 on it.

  So how did it . . .

  Get there? Who knows? I knew it’d been there for a while because it was quite rotted. It was sturdy enough to sit over my hollow and keep out some of the rain if and when the storm kicked in. I even poured sand over it to keep it camouflaged, but of course it blew away. Duh!

  I spent the rest of the day perched on top of the dunes near my hollow watching the clouds darkening and the storm gaining strength. I also carried on with Pride and Prejudice, and then did some extra homework that Miss Taylor had set me. She really was a fantastic teacher. A bit delusional in some ways but hey, nobody’s perfect.