The Shadow Girl

by John Larkin

Cool. But you can’t use my name.

  I know.

  My uncle would kill me. I’d be fish bait.

  I won’t mention you by name. Or him.

  Or any of the places. Schools and suburbs and stuff.

  That’s going to be really hard. Making up fictitious names for schools and everything. Readers like to feel connected. Even if . . .

  You don’t believe me, do you?

  Of course I do. You found me, remember?

  He’ll kill you too. He’s a total psycho.

  Well, that’s a risk I’m going to have to take. My name has to go on the cover.

  Couldn’t you put ‘Anonymous’ or something?

  It’s been done. You always get found out. And then it seems like a publicity stunt.

  No names!

  You won’t even know which country it’s set in. Okay?

  Thank you.

  So can we go back?

  First homeless day?

  Is there one?

  It’s not something you try out.

  What I mean is, isn’t it gradual? Things start to fall apart. You leave, come back, leave again.

  Not with me. I had a home and then I didn’t.

  How about earlier? I’d like to get some more background on you first. What were you like at school?

  Smart . . .

  Yes, I can see that.

  You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say smart-arse. At least that’s what everyone said. I went to a Catholic school before it all . . . went wrong.

  Primary or high school?

  Both. It was K to twelve and it was great. The teachers were fantastic, the principal was cool. Or at least she was until I started causing trouble. I didn’t realise that I was causing trouble, obviously, or I would have stopped. And it only happened twice. The second time I had to leave.

  You mean you were expelled?

  I don’t know. That’s what my aunt and uncle said. I was living with them then. They said that I had to go.

  So what happened? The first time, I mean.

  Too much God. Not enough reason. Or at least, not enough questions.

  ‘HER NAME WAS MARIA LOPEZ AND SHE LIVED IN ONE OF THE POOREST areas of Tijuana. Or maybe it was Guadalajara. Anyway, it was somewhere in South America. And so one day –’

  ‘Central America.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘You said South America, but it’s actually Central America.’

  ‘I was referring to Mexico.’

  ‘Which is in Central America.’

  ‘No it’s not, missy! But if you want a geography lesson I’m happy to give you one. Central America refers to America, or the USA as we call it. North America is Canada and Alaska and perhaps Hawaii. And anything below the USA is South America.’

  ‘Hawaii? That’s in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The US and Canada, along with Alaska, make up North America, and Mexico is the start of Central America, which includes countries like Guatemala, Honduras and Nicaragua. South America actually starts at Colombia and . . .’

  ‘Sorry, Father. You’ll have to forgive her. She reads a lot.’

  ‘Maybe she reads too much. Perhaps we should look in the school library to see if there’s a book on manners.’

  ‘We could get you an atlas while we’re there.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing what?’

  ‘Nothing . . . Father.’

  ‘Please continue with your story, Father. And no more interruptions, boys and girls.’

  ‘Despite being poor, Maria Lopez was a good and kind woman. She went to church every day and three times on Sunday and prayed for the soul of her late husband who had tragically died on board a flight to the United States, which of course is in Central America.

  ‘And so one day, just as Maria and Jesus had returned home from mass, a terrible earthquake struck the city. It was nature at her worst. Or perhaps it was God’s wrath. Who knows? When the earthquake struck, Maria and Jesus’ apartment block collapsed. There was nothing but rubble where once a fifteen-story building stood tall. People emerged from their homes and started digging, using nothing but their bare hands. Trying to find survivors. Some workmen from a nearby building site joined in the search. All through the night they dug, always conscious that an aftershock might bring about a further collapse and bury the rescuers along with those already buried. And then just as dawn was breaking, the rescuers heard a faint cry. Somehow, through God’s good grace, an air pocket had formed around Maria and little Jesus. The rescuers doubled their effort and by midmorning they had opened up a small gap through which they could communicate with her. The rescuers asked Maria Lopez what she wanted. And do you know what she asked for, boys and girls?’

  ‘A Big Mac?’

  ‘A Coke?’

  ‘Nintendo DS?’

  ‘An atlas?’

  ‘She asked for a priest. And so the priest was summoned and he prayed for Maria and little Jesus. And others joined in the prayers. And they sang hymns and held hands and prayed for this miracle that was unfolding before their very eyes. And just before nightfall –’

  ‘You shouldn’t keep starting sentences with “and”.’

  ‘Ssshhh!’

  ‘– everyone’s prayers were answered. And Maria and Jesus were plucked from what had almost become their tomb. And do you know what, children? When Maria Lopez emerged from the rubble with her tiny miracle in her arms, she refused to lay on the stretcher –’

  ‘Lie on the stretcher.’

  ‘– and instead she walked up to the priest and got down on her knees and thanked God for saving her and her baby. Now isn’t that a wonderful story of how God looks after us, children? Are there any questions?’

  ‘How come she thanked –’

  ‘Hands up!’

  ‘How come she thanked the priest, and not the people who’d risked their lives digging her out? It sounds like the priest just stood there singing and holding hands and stuff when everybody else was doing all the work and then he goes and gets the credit.’

  ‘Sorry, Father Kelliher.’

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Henry. Despite her conduct today, it’s a fair question. You see children, God knew that Maria Lopez was a good woman and so he saved her and little Jesus by creating an air pocket for them when the building collapsed.’

  ‘So weren’t there any other good people in the building?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘How did God know?’

  ‘He knows all.’

  ‘So only bad people die in earthquakes?’

  ‘On this occasion, yes.’

  ‘But good people die in bus crashes and house fires and September eleven and floods and other earthquakes and tsunamis and stuff.’

  ‘You don’t believe, missy, like the rest of us, that God was looking after Maria Lopez and baby Jesus that day?’

  ‘Not really. No.’

  ‘So how do you explain Maria and Jesus Lopez’s survival if God hadn’t created an air pocket for them?’

  ‘Luck.’

  ‘Luck?’

  ‘If God really wanted to save them he wouldn’t have let the building collapse in the first place. Or when she was out at church or something he could have been a voice from the sky or a burning cactus plant or something and said don’t go home, go for a walk in the country or something where no buildings can fall on your head. Or he could have just not had the earthquake at all. Saved everyone a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Sorry, Father.’

  ‘Anyway, children. I really must be going. Thank you, Mrs Henry.’

  ‘Say thank you to Father, boys and girls.’

  ‘THANK YOU, FATHER.
’

  ‘Thank you, children.’

  ‘You can see me at recess.’

  SO YOU WERE PUT ON DETENTION?

  No. Mrs Henry said that I was right. About Central America and all that. She also said that it was okay to question him about his miracle story. She just said that I had to be more respectful to him. To Father Kelliher. He’d done a lot for the parish. He’d built the school, worked in Africa, blah blah blah. But he was just such a know-it-all. Wandering around telling his stupid stories about how God saved this person and that person and yet when this girl in year four’s mother died of cancer he told her that God had a plan. What sort of fucked-up plan involves taking a mother from a ten-year-old kid? Sorry.

  That’s okay; I can edit it out later. So you don’t believe in God?

  I didn’t say that. I just don’t think he’s involved in the day-to-day stuff. I mean, he’s either involved all the time or not at all. You just can’t say he’s involved in this bit to support your argument, but he’s not involved in that bit. You can’t make it up as you go along.

  So praying is pointless?

  Absolutely.

  What if a person finds comfort or gains strength through prayer, or meditation?

  Well, then the strength came from them. Not from some magic man with a beard floating around on a cloud.

  Does it matter? I mean, surely the important thing is that people find the strength, the comfort, whatever it may be.

  I just don’t think it’s right for God or priests to take the credit for it.

  What about you?

  What about me?

  Did you pray? When you first became homeless. On the trains?

  Yes I did.

  Did it work?

  You mean did my parents get back together and suddenly start to give a shit about me and my schoolwork and buy me a pony for my birthday? No, they didn’t. Because then that really would have been a miracle. Back from the dead. Lazarus and all that. But I did pray for God to get me out of it. Off the streets. Off the trains. Away from those creeps who just wanted to mess with me. That Creepo would never find me.

  And then you found the house.

  That’s right. I found the house, with my teacher’s help. If God had found it for me, how do you explain the old woman from next door springing me and phoning the cops?

  He moves in mysterious ways. Or maybe he had a plan. Testing your faith.

  Yeah, right.

  You mentioned that the area you grew up in was a bit rough.

  Yeah, it sucked. It wasn’t as bad as some places I’ve lived since, but you never really felt safe.

  What about at school? Was that safe?

  Yeah, it was like a sanctuary.

  Your teacher – Mrs Henry, was it? – said that you had to be more respectful to Father Kelliher because he’d built the school.

  In the sixties or something. He’d gone to Africa first, from Ireland, and then he was sent here.

  And he built a school? The sanctuary that you enjoyed? So he wasn’t all bad?

  Yeah, all right. I see what you’re getting at. I just hated the way he wafted around thinking that he knew everything and brainwashing kids with these made-up stories. I bet the whole Maria Lopez thing was total bullshit.

  He gave the children of your area a sanctuary; a place to learn and reflect. Listening to a few stories, which you could choose to ignore anyway, seems like a small price to pay.

  Are you supposed to be interviewing me or making me feel like crap? I was in year five, what the hell did I know about anything? I know that Father Kelliher was a good person, but that wasn’t obvious until later.

  You said before that there were two incidents at your school.

  I’ve had enough today.

  Okay. Can we meet up again tomorrow?

  You don’t think it looks a bit suss? You meeting a teenage girl every day and buying her coffee?

  That’s why I insist we meet publicly.

  Are you going to write this up tonight?

  I’ll make a start.

  Can I read it tomorrow? Before we begin the interview?

  Yeah, okay. Where did you say you were living now?

  I didn’t. See you tomorrow.

  [Tape stopped]

  [Interview resumed]

  So?

  Yeah. I like it.

  It still needs some work with the language. I can’t imagine a teenage girl thinking ‘barely audible above the pounding of my heart’.

  I didn’t think you would write it in first person, but it works. I love the image of the dying gum tree trying to get into the house. That’s what it felt like.

  Now, you said yesterday that there was another incident, at your school, and that you had to leave because of it. Could you tell me about that?

  It happened a few years later when I was in year eight. We had to do a creative writing exercise in English, which I normally loved and got top marks for. But this time it was different. We had to write about someone close to us. I’d been living with my aunt and uncle since I was nine but things were starting to get scary. Get bad. With Uncle Creepo, I mean. So I wrote about my parents. I didn’t really think it through, though, and almost ended up digging my own grave.

  I’M SITTING IN THE SMALL RECEPTION AREA OUTSIDE THE PRINCIPAL’S office looking at photos of ex-students and a bunch of dead priests and nuns. There’s an overly large trophy cabinet, its contents padded out with inter-house shields and ribbons to make up for the fact that we’ve only ever won one trophy – some minor diocese football tournament about twenty years ago.

  The office ladies keep casting me disapproving looks so that I know that they know that I’m in deep shitola. But how would they know what I’ve done, anyway? They’re not in the chain of command – teacher, deputy principal, school counsellor, principal, Father Kelliher, police. I wouldn’t say office ladies are omniscient, but they’re as close as a mortal can get.

  The principal’s door is closed, which is never a good sign. But it’ll be worse when I’m on the other side of it. There’s murmuring coming from under the door and the shadows of the powers-that-be move behind the frosted glass. I can hear the school counsellor’s monotonous drone, and I wonder how long they’ll let her waffle on about attention-seeking, calls for help and Ritalin before they lapse into a coma themselves.

  They’re all in there talking about me, of course. I just wish they were saying nice things. But nice things don’t generally involve closed doors, murmuring, school counsellors and disapproving looks from omniscient office ladies.

  ‘You can go in,’ says office lady number one, whose name, I think, is Joy. Talk about ironic. ‘They’re ready for you now.’

  I don’t know how she knows this because I didn’t hear a phone ring or intercom go off or whatever, but no sooner has she finished her sentence than the principal’s door swings open, as if operated by some celestial force.

  ‘Sit down,’ says the principal in her best so-it’s-come-to-this tone. She doesn’t use my name. I don’t think she actually knows it. She’s not great with children, which I suppose is why they moved her out of the classroom and into the principal’s job.

  Things are worse than I thought. Out of my chain of command list, the only one missing is the cops, though it’s early yet and they could still make an appearance. There’s a chair in the middle of the room, which I assume is the one I’m supposed to sit on. My captors are gathered in a semi-circle around the chair. They are either going to interrogate me about my ‘story’ or interview me for a teaching position. I can feel my bowels slowly beginning to liquefy. Father Kelliher absently touches the small silver cross that’s pinned to his collar. I wonder briefly whether, if Jesus had died of old age or been trampled by an animal rather than being crucified, would Father Kelliher w
ear a walking stick or a camel around his neck instead? Maybe I’m missing the point. I didn’t think I was missing the point of the creative writing exercise – Write a Brief Profile, Using any Style or Voice, of Someone Close to You. The principal hands me my draft book and asks me to read it.

  I pause for breath, look around and hit the launch button. ‘My father arrived here . . .’

  ‘Not out loud,’ snaps the principal. ‘We’ve all read it. Read it to yourself.’

  This seems a bit pointless because I know what I’ve written. However, I don’t want to upset anyone – more than I have already – so I stare intently at my writing, as if hoping that it will somehow reveal why I’m in trouble, though of course I know. I’m just playing dumb for their benefit.

  My Parents

  My father arrived here from Eastern Europe about twenty years ago. I don’t know what sort of beatings he took from his father when he was a boy but they must have been pretty bad. We are nothing if not the sum of our parents, as somebody wise once said.

  Most of the Eastern European men I’ve met through my family or at kids’ parties are lovely and gentle and would die for their family. My father wasn’t like that. Neither was his creepo brother, whom I now have the misfortune to live with. My father and Uncle Creepo were in the building game, supposedly. Kind of like the Mafia were in the horse-racing game. And I know what I’m talking about. I’ve read The God- father. I was going to say they must have read it too but the idea of Uncle Creepo actually reading a book is about as moronic as an oxymoron gets. Not that he would know what that means. My father was a reader, but he’s gone back to live in Europe now. Which is a gentle family euphemism for ‘he’s dead’. Not that I’m one hundred per cent certain. But having a carving knife embedded in your neck and the blood from your severed artery spray-painting the kitchen walls would probably put a kybosh on plans to emigrate back to the old country.

  I stop and look up at my audience, figuring that it might have been the last bit that caught their attention. I don’t even get to Mum’s profile, which is the really interesting one. She’s gone back to live in Europe too.

  As if to hammer home the point, the principal snatches my book off me and does exactly what she asked me not to do. Reads it out loud. She also stops at the bit about my father having the knife in his neck. So at least I’m right about that.