The Shadow Girl

by John Larkin

  ‘Can I help you?’

  As hungry as I am, it’s still embarrassing. I mean, it’s hardly worth the guy’s effort to fire up the oil. But I’ve got to eat, otherwise I’ll faint. And then it’ll be a phone call, an ambulance, hospital, ID, Creepo, forest.

  ‘How many scallops can I get for three dollars?’

  The guy looks at me and then looks at my sleeping bag again. But he doesn’t scowl. He has a pleasant face, though by the looks of his skin, he’s spent a bit too much time standing over boiling oil.

  ‘How many would you like?’

  ‘I’d like four.’ I look up at the price board. Just as I thought, they’re eighty cents each. ‘But I don’t have three twenty.’

  ‘I think we can stretch to four.’ He gives me another smile and I kind of grin back but only half-heartedly. He’s only giving me twenty cents after all and now that I’m on my own I can’t go around smiling at strange men. If he’d thrown in a whole lobster and a bucket of chips then he might have got a smile.

  Between the smell of the hot oil and the general oppressive heat of the shop I can actually feel my eyes starting to roll back in my head. There’s a plastic chair that I’m forced to sit on before I collapse. And even then I can hardly hold my head up. My eyelids are getting heavy but I have to stay focused. Alert. Creepo knows that I like the north coast. Sitting on the beach with a book. It was one of the few places that we regularly came to as a ‘family’ when my parents . . . went away. Creepo knows some people who have a penthouse apartment overlooking the beach and he used to send me and Aunt Serena over to the beach or for coffee while he conducted his ‘business’. They even talked about moving up here.

  ‘Would you like a drink to go with it?’

  ‘I told you. I only have . . .’

  ‘I wasn’t asking if you wanted to pay for it.’

  I’m half-inclined to say no to his charity. I need to learn to take care of myself. But I weaken. Although my water bottle’s full, I wouldn’t mind a caramel milkshake or Coke to go with my scallops. I could call it karma.

  ‘A mineral water, please.’ I’m proud of myself for opting healthy.

  He waves his hand at the refrigerator, telling me to help myself.

  I grab a bottle and look at the photos he’s got around the shop. Suddenly I feel sorry for him. He might see me, but I see him too. He aches for the old country. His shop overlooks the ocean but he’s pining for a different ocean. A different sea. The Mediterranean. His kids have probably left home. His wife dead or dosed up on something to see her through the day. He’s giving me stuff not so that I’ll feel better, but so that he will. That little squirt of joy juice through the brain.

  God! I am turning emo.

  ‘Would you like a bag?’

  ‘For four scallops?’

  ‘I gave you a bit extra.’

  ‘If you think I need one.’ I give him my three dollars and he hands me the bag. It’s quite heavy. I can see that he’s thinking of handing me back the money. But we both know that I have to save face. Being human is hard work at times.

  ‘I’ve had a good day,’ he says, explaining away his charity. ‘And I’m closing up soon. Don’t like letting good food go to waste.’

  I smile at him despite myself. He’s a good man no matter what his motivation is. I want to tell him to sell up and move back to Greece. But he’ll never do it. He’s a victim. Like the rest of us.

  By the time I lug my parcel down to the sand, I’ve almost nothing left in the tank. While I was waiting I imagined myself ripping into the steamy bundle like a crocodile into a wounded wallaby and licking the grease and salt from the wrapper. But when I finally open it I’m like a child on Christmas day – there’s too much happening to focus on one thing. Apart from my four scallops, my Mediterranean friend has thrown in fish, chips, two battered savs and a couple of those crabstick things. And even though I’m hungry enough to eat the bum out of a dead seagull, we both know that I’ll never get through this lot in one sitting and he’s given me dinner as well.

  There’s an old guy of about forty staring at me while I’m hoeing into my kill. He starts walking towards me but I turn my back on him hoping that he’ll take the hint and piss off. And when I look back I’m grateful that he is walking away, though he keeps glancing back at me over his shoulder as he does. What a creep!

  By the time I’ve scoffed down half my food and waddled back up to the shop like an expectant mum on a burger-only diet, my guardian angel is clattering the shutters closed.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘It would have only gone in the bin.’

  ‘You should go back,’ I offer. ‘If you miss it that much.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘To Greece.’

  ‘Greece?’ he says with a chuckle. I can feel myself turning red like I’ve just told a tampon joke to a bunch of nuns. ‘I’m not from Greece.’

  ‘But all those pictures.’ I gesture towards the shop.

  ‘Croatia,’ he says. ‘I’m from Croatia.’

  ‘Well, wherever it is, you should go back.’ I want to add, ‘Before it’s too late,’ but I leave it as it is.

  He fumbles with the padlock. ‘The Croatia I knew is gone.’

  ‘But still . . .’

  ‘You can’t go back.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He finishes locking up and looks up at me. ‘Can you?’

  He’s not yearning for a place but for a time. A time that may not have even existed. There’s a name for that I think. A simulacrum or something. I reckon only about one per cent of the population would know that word. Not that it matters. I’m still homeless.

  He nods goodbye to me and walks away. Down on the beach, a wicked southerly buster has blown in. Even the lifesavers are packing up their flapping flags for the day. I have to dig out my tracksuit pants to stop the sand whipping at my legs. I sit there dragging on my pants and watching the families heading for home. For safety.

  Back in the city I suppose the birds and the homeless will be staking out their territory for the night, screeching or squawking at anyone who encroaches on their space. I’ve got to find somewhere to stay. I think about heading back to the station and finding a train to sleep on. But it’s Saturday night, probably the worst time on the trains. The more the night drags on, the more leeches, lechers, drunks and thugs will pile on. Not the safest place for a teenage girl. Or maybe I should just go with it and see what happens.

  No! I’m not going to give up. I don’t believe in fate. Everything I do, every decision I make from this point on is down to me. God’s not going to look after me. Neither is Allah or Krishna. Buddha, for all his peace-loving navel-gazing, couldn’t give the remotest shit about me. When are we going to wake up to the fact that we’re on our own? Look at that couple in America. Their daughter was sick, so all their friends and church buddies came over and prayed with them. They were still praying when the poor kid died in front of them of dehydration. An inquest found that if she’d been given fluids she would have been fine. She needed Gatorade not God.

  I’ve wandered back to the beach, which is practically deserted. Families all off to restaurants. To home. It’s just the seagulls and me now. The tide is coming in and reclaiming the beach. Washing away the sandcastles and memories of the day.

  I notice a flash in the distance. A silent sentinel is guarding the rocks at the far end of the beach, which appears to stretch for ever. The lighthouse seems minuscule hiding there among the rocks, peeking out occasionally to warn sailors not to get too close. Hopefully no one is there because what I want most of all right now is to be where people are not.

  I pull on my jumper, hitch up my backpack and begin the long trek north.

  TOUGH FIRST DAY.

  You think?

  But it must have got easier.
Being homeless, I mean.

  It did. But not until it got worse.

  So you went to the lighthouse?

  I tried. I know that they’re not manned any more. That they’re automatic. But I thought there might be an old cot bed or a hammock or something. Maybe tea-making facilities, like in the old days.

  Tea-making facilities?

  Don’t laugh!

  Sorry.

  I was new to all this. For all I knew every lighthouse came with a freshly made bed and fully stocked pantry.

  Did you make it to the lighthouse?

  About halfway, I reckon. Have you ever tried walking along a beach when the tide’s coming in? The surges drive you up to the dry sand and then it’s like trekking through the desert. It’s also sloped, so you end up walking at a funny angle.

  So where did you spend the night?

  Out in the open.

  Wasn’t that risky? Or scary?

  As opposed to lying awake waiting for Creepo to slither into bed with me? I didn’t get much sleep, but it was still one of the most peaceful nights I’d had for a while.

  I PASS A FEW OLD SURF SHACKS AND SOME MCMANSIONS AS I TREK out of town along the beach. The surf shacks are crumbling to driftwood, while the relentless pounding of the ocean is reclaiming the yards and value of the McMansions. Beach fishermen are setting themselves up for their evening cull – hooks, bait, knives, thermoses. There’s going to be blood spilled and coffee sipped tonight.

  I walk for ages, not thinking, not planning, just enjoying the feeling of being safe. Of freedom.

  After a while I stop and look back along the beach. The lights from Death Valley are flickering faintly through the sea mist, while up at the far end of the beach the lighthouse continues its relentless sweep. The night is fast drawing in and I’m still only about halfway there.

  I clamber up the incline into the sand dunes. I look at the distant road and follow the headlights of a car heading north out of Death Valley and notice that the road veers inland once it passes the houses. It’s just beach and bush this far up. I slip down into a hollow in the dunes which will keep me out of sight if anyone happens along. Though the chances of that seem pretty remote. I dig a small hole for my fish and chip parcel, hoping that the sand will still contain enough heat to keep it warm, then I scamper up out of my hollow, park myself on top of the dune and stare at the view. Out at sea, ships waiting to load their cargo are lit up like Disneyland. Soon they’ll be hauling up their anchors and sailing off over the horizon. To somewhere exotic. Somewhere else. Maybe somewhere safe. I wonder if it would be possible to swim out to one and stow away. Though, when I think about it, a cargo ship is probably not the safest place in the world for a thirteen-year-old girl. The closest ship looks to be about five kilometres away. I couldn’t swim that in a year, especially with a fractured wrist. I also read somewhere that sharks like to feed at dusk. The idea of going for a five-kilometre swim with a broken arm while being circled by a pack of ravenous sharks kind of takes the wind out of that set of sails.

  I dig up my parcel like a dog with its bone but my dinner is stone cold. I’m not in the least bit hungry after my earlier blowout and the remnants have congealed into an unidentifiable greasy lump, but I have to eat to keep my strength up. I don’t know when I’ll get to eat again. I also have to read or my mind will congeal into a greasy lump too. It’s my second night on the streets (okay – the church and the beach) and apart from the fish and chip shop menu, I haven’t read a single sentence. I’ll have to watch that. I can’t invent that eye-eating worm vaccine, or keep one step ahead of Creepo, if I don’t have my book smarts about me.

  After dinner I climb up out of my hollow and lie high on the dune, staring out to sea. The moon has just peeked over the horizon like God with a lantern. The backlit cargo ships fade into irrelevance against the lightshow from the heavens. People think they’re so important, but we’re just bacteria under a microscope compared to the infinity of space. No wonder we invented God to explain it all – the universe, life, everything, I mean. And maybe God’s existence is proof that we’re not as smart as we like to think we are. Because what we can’t explain, we put down to an invisible magic man hiding in the sky. That doesn’t seem enough somehow.

  The smell of the ocean – that intoxicating mixture of salt, seaweed, waves and air – makes me opt for The Old Man and the Sea rather than Matilda. If I tilt the pages towards the horizon and squint slightly, I can just read in the moonlight. I feel bad for Santiago and the marlin, whom Santiago refers to as his brother. Bit of a harsh way to treat your brother if you ask me: stick a spear through his head and lash him to the side of your boat. Still, Creepo buried his brother out in that forest in a big garbage bag, and he was the same species. Well, near enough. If there’s a lesson in The Old Man and the Sea it’s about not getting in too deep. Going out too far. Venturing into unchartered waters. Swimming out to cargo ships.

  I leave the sharks to it and crawl into my sleeping bag. The cold had crept up on me while I was out in the Gulf Stream with Santiago, and it’s nice to snuggle down deep where it’s warm. I don’t know what I’ll do if it rains. Lug my stuff back to Death Valley, I suppose. Find a bus shelter or a train. Head back into the city.

  I look up to the heavens and the billions of twinkling stars. How are they possible? How is anything possible? The ancients explained the night as the gods throwing a blanket across the sky; the stars were tiny holes in the blanket. It seems pretty dumb now but at least they were thinking about it. Trying to understand and explain things. Now it seems as though we’ve just stopped thinking. We laugh at the people who thought night was caused by God’s blanket having holes in it, but if you told those same people who were doing the laughing that everything in the universe, the stuff that we’re made of, everything that is around now or has ever been – sand, sharks, scallops, beach fishermen, cargo ships, books, Frisbees, Father Kelliher, Dr Chen, my parents (what’s left of them), Creepo’s forest, Madagascar, Roald Dahl, Ernest Hemingway, toast, sea monkeys, Charles Dickens, everything that has ever been, everything that ever will be, the stuff that we’re made of, matter, time itself – was once compacted down into an area the size of an orange, well, then they’d probably just smile at you and go shopping or start watching gameshows. Because that’s way too much to have to think about.

  So as I’m staring at the stars, I think about the Big Bang and how everything that ever was and will be was already there at the moment of creation. And I think and think and think and it doesn’t do any good because although I kinda get the Big Bang and the idea that everything was there when it went off, what I can’t get my head around is ‘why?’. Why it went off. Why it exploded. And you can almost understand why we invented an invisible magic man in the sky lighting the fuse. But if you put the invisible magic man there with his box of matches, then you have to start thinking about where he came from. His being here for ever, as most religious people reckon, doesn’t cut it because we can’t get our minds around for ever. It’s like when you try to think about the edge of the universe and you can almost get there (there are no more stars, no more anything, just an empty void) and then someone says, ‘Okay, we’ll build our brick wall here because this is the end of the universe’, and then someone else says, ‘Okay, so you’ve built your brick wall at the end of the universe, now what’s on the other side of it?’ And you say, ‘Well, nothing,’ but even as you’re saying it you realise that nothing is something, and the more you think about it the more you realise that you’ll never have an answer even if you think about it for ever, so you go shopping or start watching gameshows. The comforts of a mindless life.

  A breeze whips off the ocean, bringing with it the odours of distant lands. I decide that’s where I’m going to go as soon as I can. I’m going to get away. Properly. To distant lands. Asia. Europe. Somewhere else.

  It’s been a long day and my ey
elids are getting heavy and so I abandon myself to dreams.

  In the dead hour the ghosts creep out of the bush and go howling across the dunes, screaming their unfinished business to the night. But I’m nothing to them so they ignore me.

  YOU WERE TURNING INTO QUITE THE PHILOSOPHER.

  That’s the thing when you spend so much time on your own. You do a lot of thinking.

  That’s pretty intense stuff for a . . .

  For a what? For a girl?

  No. I was going to say a thirteen-year-old.

  I was almost fourteen. Anyway, I didn’t think exactly like that. But that’s the sort of stuff that I was thinking about. I can put it more into words now.

  So you became an atheist?

  No. I never said that I was an atheist.

  Agnostic?

  That’s just a chicken-shit atheist. You die and go up to heaven and say to St Peter, ‘I never said that God didn’t exist. I said that he might not.’ ‘Well that’s okay, then. In you come.’ Either we all turn to dust or we’re all welcome. Except Hitler, of course. He’s stuffed. And the rest of the Nazis.

  Anyone else?

  People who appear in infomercials. And television evangelists, of course.

  Now you’re talking.

  They just make it up as they go along. They all do. Everyone thinks that they’re the chosen people. The saved. Catholics, Protestants, born agains, Muslims, Mormons, Jews, the Amish, the Brethren; you name it. They can’t all be right. God I hope it’s not the Brethren. Imagine spending the rest of eternity wearing beige and not being allowed to log on to Facebook. It mightn’t be hell, but it’d be close.

  So what were you?