by John Larkin
Now that I’m safe it’s time to get bored. Blissfully bored.
It was easy slipping onto the train and hiding out in the yards where no one can bother me. Much easier than I thought it would be. In fact, I’ve only made one mistake, and that’s the train itself. I should have waited for one of the newer trains. The silver ones with the yellow trim. Those trains have comfortable seats. They’re made out of soft material, sort of like stretched velour. The train I’m on is older so the seats are covered in hard vinyl. But I’ll get better at this. Better at working out timetables and what time they start yarding the newer trains – sometime after rush hour, I would imagine.
Dark creeps up on me slowly like something out of the woods. I didn’t even notice it coming. It’s only when I have to squint to read that I finally become aware of how dark it is.
I delve into my shopping bag and pull out my new book light. When I’ve inserted the batteries, I attach it to The Diving Bell and the Butterfly and switch it on. It illuminates the carriage like a sideshow alley at the circus. I gasp and flick it off again. I hardly even stirred when a couple of other trains were driven into the yards and parked alongside mine. But my book light terrifies me. It’s giving away my hidey-hole. Signalling to the world: come and get me.
I take out my sleeping bag and unzip it completely so that it’s a large square. I flip over the seat opposite me so that it has its back to me. Then I hang my sleeping bag over the backrest of both seats, erecting a sort of makeshift tent. I slide my backpack along the seat to use as a pillow. When everything is perfect I crawl inside, wriggle myself comfortable and switch on my book light.
I couldn’t get any closer to heaven if St Peter was to turn up with a lamb and a couple of gates. I’m so comfortable I could almost weep. But I’ve blubbed enough already today, soaking Miss Taylor’s top with a stream of birthday tears. Enough.
I finish The Diving Bell and the Butterfly in about three hours. It’s really short, for obvious reasons. But every word, every syllable counts. Maybe authors should be made to blink their books. At least the first draft. Might cut down on paper. Save a few trees. The book, though, literally took my breath away and I was choked up when it ended because I didn’t want it to finish. It’s amazing what people can do if they put their minds to something. I wonder if Jean-Dominique Bauby would have even written a book had he not had that stroke. Would Stephen Hawking’s genius have been so widely remarked upon if he hadn’t been struck down with motor neurone disease? Would Anne Frank have written her diary had she and her family not been holed up in that wall cavity trying to avoid capture by the Nazis? Bauby, Hawking, Frank, Christ and a whole host of others might not have benefited from their suffering, but the world has.
Because I have time – no danger, no distractions – I check and double check both my homework and the extension work that Miss Taylor and Mr Singh, my maths teacher, have given me. When I’m positive that it’s all correct, I flick off my book light and squirm out of my nylon chrysalis. I emerge a better person for having read The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Jean-Dominique Bauby died in 1997 but he’s still reaching out from the grave. That’s a legacy worth leaving. Step lightly upon the earth, but leave a little ray of hope. I’d like to do that. But I’ve got to stop Creepo from killing me first.
I comb my hair and clean my teeth, swallowing the mixture of toothpaste and saliva. It’s a taste I’m growing to like. After that I squat down and try to pee into my new drink bottle. I feel awkward and clumsy at first, like a baby giraffe bending down to drink at a waterhole for the first time, but I eventually mange to direct my steaming stream into the bottle while recalling the stationmaster’s comment that even we wouldn’t pee where we sleep. There’s only a tiny puddle of pee on the floor when I’m done, but hopefully that will be absorbed by the floor grime during the night. The bottle is half full, or half empty depending on how . . . no, it’s definitely half full. And it’s surprisingly warm through the plastic. The homeless person’s hot water bottle.
I dismantle my tent, zip it up and slip inside. I stuff some of my excess clothes into my sleeping bag carrier and use it as a pillow, then settle down for the night. It’s comfortable on the seat. Warm inside my sleeping bag. Safe in the carriage. Home.
This has been one of the best days of my life. It started with a birthday present, a birthday party, and finished with me finding a way into my new home. I made it into the rail yards because of my ingenuity. And if it didn’t work at first, I would have tried again and again until I found a loophole. A blind spot. There was no higher force working with or against me. No predetermined path allowing me in or keeping me out.
Miss Taylor is right. There is no fate. Whatever I do from this point on is down to me. I choose my own path. Write my own story.
Nullum fatum est.
SO YOU FOUND YOUR PLACE?
Yeah and it was great. I didn’t have to escape into the fantasy world in my head any more. I had the rail yards. My books. And on the weekends when I wanted to get out of the city, I had door number 4 up at Death Valley.
Was it quiet at night in the yards? I’m trying to imagine it.
Deathly quiet. The first night I heard voices outside around midnight, but it was just a couple of teenagers tagging some carriages. I heard someone call out to them, a security guard probably, but they shouted at him to piss off and ran off laughing. The only other time I heard something was the most terrifying night of my life. It was even worse than when I was hiding under my old bed and Creepo came creeping around my things.
Did someone get in the train?
Someone. Or something.
What happened?
I’d been sleeping in the yards for about two weeks. I really had it down to a fine art by then. After school I’d catch the train to the mega-mall for homework and reading with a hot chocolate at Alistair’s café. Then I’d either have toasted sandwiches there, or something healthy or more substantial from the food court for dinner. Around five, five-thirty, I’d catch a train up the ivy belt to the junction station and then slip on board the first terminating train that came in. Then, when the train was safely tucked up in the yards and everything shut down, I’d set up my tent so that I could read and check my homework by book light or torch. I even found a brochure on the Orient Express that someone had left behind and so I tore out some of the pictures and stuck them on the back of the seat with Blu-tack. Then, when I’d had an evening snack of fruit and Tim Tams, I’d dismantle my reading tent, zip it back into a sleeping bag and go to bed. But that night was different. We’d had sport that day so I’d stayed behind shelving books for a while with Mrs Lee and then had a shower in the staff toilets when I was sure everyone had gone, so I was running late for everything. It was also raining and when I eventually got to the junction station there wasn’t a terminating train for ages. I didn’t get much reading done that night because when I finally got into the yards it was after ten o’clock and I was exhausted. At some point during the night I was sound asleep and then suddenly I wasn’t. Something had woken me but I didn’t know what. And then I heard it again. A door slamming shut. Somewhere off in the distance but close enough to wake me. It sounded like one of those connecting doors between the carriages. I was just starting to relax when I heard it again. It was closer this time and it was then I understood what was going on. Someone was walking through the carriages and banging the connecting doors closed behind them.
What did you do?
What do you think I did? I froze. I was literally paralysed. My heart was pounding away like a bass drum. Whoever was there was getting closer and the way they were slamming the doors sounded like they meant business. Then the door downstairs slammed shut and he was in the carriage with me. And it got cold. Deathly cold.
My heart’s thumping just thinking about it. What did you do?
I was praying, begging, that he would go downstairs and carry
on with his insane walkthrough, but of course he didn’t. I could hear him climbing the stairs in his heavy boots. Slowly. Deliberately. And the carriage was like ice. My throat burned with cold just breathing. When he got to the top of the stairs he paused, just for a moment, like he was listening for something. Someone. I don’t know, I was practically insane with terror by this point.
The thing was, now that he’d stopped, I couldn’t even hear him breathing or anything. I just sensed him. Him and the cold that he brought with him. Then he was off again, stomping down the aisle towards me. Almost on top of me now. I had my sleeping bag pulled up so that only my eyes were visible. And there was enough external light for him to see me and me to see him because he was almost directly opposite me now. I heard his footsteps, felt his footsteps right in front of me, his hand reaching for the grip on the seat. The carriage was even colder now. My eyes were as big as beach balls trying to see who it was. But he kept on going. Walked right past me. Only there was no one there. He was a big guy by the sound of it. Huge. And he stomped past and I didn’t see a thing. No silhouette. No shadow. Nothing. Just the sound of his feet, his heavy boots, clomping past. And then he was stomping down the stairs and into the next carriage, slamming the door behind him as he went.
What did you do?
Every muscle, every nerve and fibre, every sinew I’ve got was tensed up like steel. I slowly tried to relax, tried to breathe normally but it wasn’t easy because I was absolutely petrified that he’d come back and find me. It was obvious that he was looking for something. Someone.
Who did you think it was?
At first I thought it must have been a new security guard. So new that he didn’t know that he wasn’t supposed to patrol the trains. And then I realised that it was Creepo. It had to be. He must have tracked me down. Put a private detective on my case or something. And he’d come to finish me off, only by some freak of nature, something to do with the light or, I don’t know, a miracle, he hadn’t seen me the same way I hadn’t seen him. When I was sure that he’d gone, I checked my watch. It was just after four in the morning.
The dead hour.
I didn’t think anything of that until the next morning. I mean, I tried to get back to sleep but I couldn’t. Even though the cold had gone, I was just too worked up. I was lying there with my eyes wide open, my heart racing.
I bet you were glad when it got light.
It was one of the happiest moments of my life when the sun came up and the train kicked into life the next morning; when the lights came on and the heating exploded into warmth. It seemed like for ever before we were rattling over to the station to pick up the first load of passengers of the day, all business suits and corporate heels. As soon as the doors opened I tried to jump off but everyone just pushed past to bags their favourite spot.
That’s not very nice. I mean, where’s their train etiquette?
Well, there’s not supposed to be anyone on board. The train’s come over from the yards. I used to stand in the middle of the carriage and then sit down when the other passengers came pouring on so they’d assume that I was the first on and had come through the other door. And then if the announcement said that it was a city-bound train I used to jump up like I’d made a mistake and get off before the doors closed. Had it down to a fine art. But that morning I just got off as quickly as I could. I stood out in the open, staring up at the sun with my eyes closed, trying to thaw myself.
I found out later from my friend Cinderella the real reason the homeless didn’t like the rail yards. About fifteen years before, there’d been a young guard who was a bit of a punk, though he couldn’t have been a real punk, more early onset emo or maybe a goth. Anyway, this young guard didn’t wear the normal guard’s shoes apparently, but these big black Doc Martens. One morning he turned up for work a little worse for wear. The boss felt sorry for him and assigned him the express train heading north, which was a pretty cushy gig – long stretches between stations. Unfortunately, though, the young guard was still feeling sick as the train hurtled north, and when he stuck his head out of the guard’s compartment to puke onto the tracks, he was decapitated by a south-bound freight train.
Oh my . . .
Lead item on the six o’clock news. Haunted the train ever since. Never finished his shift, so he’s stuck doing walkthroughs for all eternity.
Are you serious?
Someone or something was in the carriage with me that night, storming right past me in heavy boots and the cold breath of eternity, but there was no one there. Nothing. It was absolutely terrifying. But you know what? Given the choice between Creepo and a headless ghost, I’d take the ghost every time.
IT’S FRIDAY MORNING AND MISS TAYLOR AND I ARE MEETING WITH Mr Thompkins. We’ve met like this a couple of times now; we talk about our weekends, the movies we’ve been to, politics, history, what we’ve been reading (she’s been giving me books on philosophy and religion and World War I – I read Fly Away Peter and Somme Mud over the weekend up at Death Valley). But today she seems sad. Distant.
‘Tiffany-Star,’ says Mr Thompkins, in a weird sort of way. It’s not the usual teacher-marking-the-role sound with the inflection at the end, more a ‘What are we going to do with you?’ tone.
‘Yes, Mr Thompkins.’
‘Tiffany-Star Beauchamp.’
This doesn’t sound good. This doesn’t sound like the ‘good luck with the blazer and straw hat scholarship exam’ meeting that I thought we were coming to.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’
Does anyone? ‘Miss Taylor said it was something about the scholarship test.’
Mr Thompkins looks over at Miss Taylor. ‘Well, yes, origin- ally. Things have taken a slightly different course since I scheduled this little get-together with Miss Taylor.’
I look at Miss Taylor. She’s staring off into space. I’ve never seen her like this. She looks seriously pissed.
Mr Thompkins is looking down at a piece of paper on his desk. Although it’s upside down from me, I can see that it has a picture on it. A face maybe. Mr Thompkins picks up the paper and holds it towards Miss Taylor and me. Immediately all the blood flushes out of my face as if I’ve seen another ghost. A ghost of school years past.
‘Does she look familiar, Tiffany-Star?’
It’s my year three photo with MISSING plastered over it. Probably the most up-to-date picture Creepo and Serena had of me. It’s the last school photo I ever got. Creepo and Serena never ordered one after that. Didn’t seem to want any photographic reminders that they had someone else’s kid living with them.
There’s no point arguing. It’s me all right. Younger. Cuter. Naive. Innocent. Taken just before I learned to shut everything out and read with my fingers wedged in my ears.
‘When did you realise?’
‘I should have twigged from the start. There was something about the way you interacted with your mother that just wasn’t right. The look you gave her when she called you Tiffany-Star could have floored a horse, but I just dismissed it as a bit of mother–daughter tension. By the time we’d finished the interview, though, I thought to myself, if she’s your mother then I’m Jack Kerouac’s.’
I don’t know who Jack Kerouac is, but obviously Mr Thompkins isn’t his mother.
‘I wished I’d followed my instincts and delved deeper, especially when Mrs Grimshaw found you out in the bus shelter. But you’d settled in so well I decided to leave it. I apologise for that.’
I don’t understand. ‘What do you have to be sorry about?’
‘I’m worried that you’ve been sleeping rough and I could have done something about it. Got you home sooner.’
I look straight at Mr Thompkins. ‘I’m happy on the streets.’ I tell them I’m on the streets rather than the trains because I’m not finished yet. Not by a long shot.
‘Oh, Tiffany-Star,’ say
s Miss Taylor. ‘How could you possibly be happy living in bus shelters and doorways and parks?’
I look at the door. Miss Taylor is blocking it slightly. I’m not sure if I can get round her quickly enough. My backpack is still in the classroom. I can’t leave it. It’s got my things. My money and the gun.
‘The real giveaway was last Friday,’ continues Mr Thompkins. ‘I wandered down to the shops for a coffee. Do you know who I ran into while I was there?’
No, but I can guess. ‘Narelle?’
‘She was standing beneath the big clock like she was waiting for someone.’
Nature of her career choice. Always hanging around waiting for someone.
‘I went up to say hello and she asked me if I was Trevor, which threw me a little. I told her I wasn’t and she seemed confused. When I reminded her that I was your principal, I may as well have been speaking a different language. She told me where to go and believe me, her language was rather forthright.’
Despite the seriousness of the situation, I have to bite my lip at this point.
‘It was only when I mentioned your name that the penny finally dropped. She apologised for the language and asked how you were going, but by then Trevor had turned up and I’d worked things out.’
‘Who is this Trevor person?’ asks Miss Taylor.
I turn to my teacher. God, she’s so sweet. ‘He was her client.’
‘Client?’ asks Miss Taylor. ‘What does she do?’
I look at Mr Thompkins.
He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Do you want to tell her or should I?’
I decide not to sugar-coat it. ‘She’s a prostitute.’
‘Oh my go . . . odness,’ Miss Taylor bails out of her blasphemy, but it makes her sound a bit wet, as if God is actually sitting up there on his cloud putting a black cross against anyone who mentions his name. That’s one pedantic supreme being if he is.