by John Larkin
‘Your mother’s a prostitute? Is that why you’re on the streets?’
‘She’s not my mother and I’m not on the streets because of her.’
Miss Taylor looks at me and then at Mr Thompkins. ‘I don’t understand. You said this morning that Tiffany-Star was a runaway and that we . . .’
‘She is a runaway,’ interrupts Mr Thompkins. ‘She hired this . . . this lady . . .’
You’ve got to love Mr Thompkins. Narelle might be many things, but she ain’t no lady.
‘. . . to pose as her mother so that she could get into school.’ Mr Thompkins turns to me and smiles. ‘I’d be asking for a refund if I were you.’
Miss Taylor reaches across and grabs my hand. ‘What have we done to you to make you do such a thing?’ There are tears welling in her eyes. Big I-don’t-understand-why-the-world-has-to-be-so-cruel tears. I just hope that teaching, teaching out here, doesn’t turn her hard. Turn her into Narelle.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, trying to comfort my distraught teacher. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Fine?’ snaps Miss Taylor and it’s as close to yelling as I’ve heard her get. ‘Fine? You’re reading Pride and Prejudice, writing essays on World War I, and doing year eleven maths, and you’re sleeping in bus shelters? You’re the brightest student I’ve ever met, and we’ve got you living on the streets. What sort of society does that to its young people?’
I don’t think now’s the time to tell her that I’ve finished Pride and Prejudice and that I’ve started re-reading Bleak House. I don’t want to ruin the mood.
Mr Thompkins also ignores Miss Taylor’s rant. ‘Before I ask our guests to come in, is there anything you’d like to say?’
‘Guests? It’s not –’
‘Police,’ says Mr Thompkins and he can see that I’m relieved. If it had been Creepo waiting out there in reception I would have sung like a canary. Told them everything and just hoped Mr Thompkins had a taser or some mace in his top drawer to deal with Creepo’s response. But with the police, I’ve still got a chance to get back to the rail yards.
‘No,’ I say. ‘It’ll all come out one day, I hope. But not today.’
Mr Thompkins gives me one of his looks. ‘You sure?’
I nod, though it’s probably not convincing.
‘May I just say then,’ continues Mr Thompkins, ‘it’s been an absolute joy and honour to have you as a student in our school.’
I shake Mr Thompkins’s hand and promise to visit again when I’ve got things sorted out.
‘One more thing,’ he says. ‘How much did Narelle charge you?’
I shrug. There’s no point keeping it a secret. Not now. ‘A thousand dollars.’
Miss Taylor gasps.
‘It was only meant to be five hundred, but she scammed another five hundred out of me. On the day.’
‘Is that why you were angry with her – during the interview, I mean.’
‘Well, that and the stupid name.’
Mr Thompkins flashes his big, wide smile at me. ‘I think I’ll have a little word to the police on the way out. They might want to have a chat with her about this.’
Before we go out to face the music, Miss Taylor hugs me, but unlike at my birthday party, it’s me who’s comforting her. The world has got to her a bit today and I’m sorry that she had to witness the uglier side of things because of me.
The police are happy to wait while Miss Taylor fetches my backpack from class. She walks over to the police car with me, hand in hand. I don’t want to say goodbye to my classmates. Not even Janyce, my temporary guardian angel. I don’t think I could handle the looks they’d give me. The whispers. This is the second time this year I’ve left school without saying goodbye to my friends. It’s sad, but better this way.
As I’m been driven out of school for the final time I wave at Mr Thompkins, Miss Taylor and Mrs Lee, who’s obviously just been told and ventured out of the library to see me off. The hooter’s just gone for recess, so there are also some students milling around and pointing at the police car while the teachers scamper over to the staffroom to bags the best seats and biscuits. Miss Taylor is crying on Mrs Lee’s shoulder, but I feel nothing. Despite the Post-It note in my pocket with her phone number on it, she’s already little more than a fading memory. They all are.
I’m proud of myself. I’m getting better at this. I can survive the streets, the trains, the rail yards. All I have to do is keep everyone else out.
‘THERE ARE A LOT OF PEOPLE WORRIED ABOUT YOU,’ SAYS SENIOR Sergeant Morrison once we’ve driven out of school.
‘I doubt that.’
She shakes her head and laughs. It’s a cold, bitter laugh, like the joke’s on me not with me. ‘I’ve heard of teenagers running away from school to become prostitutes, but never, in all my years on the force, have I heard of a teenager hiring a prostitute to get back into school. I’m going to be telling this story for a very long time. What do you reckon, Danny?’
Constable Lang just grunts and focuses on driving. He’s obviously not very good at multi-tasking. In fact, he hardly looks old enough to drive. He’s probably got more pimples than arrests. I haven’t quite figured out how, but he’s going to be my way out.
‘Your principal says you’re very smart,’ says Sergeant Morrison. ‘The smartest student at the school.’
‘I get by.’ The fact is I’m not that smart, not naturally anyway. I’ve just had time to work at it. And given that the current theory doing the rounds is whether or not your eyeballs will pop out of your head if you sneeze with your eyes open, it’s not as if there’s a huge amount of competition.
‘Which means you’re probably very good at manipulating people.’
I’d be happy if they just stayed out of my way.
‘Look. I know it’s not easy being a teenager. Hell, I’ve got one at home, a son, not to mention my partner here who is only barely out of nappies himself, and if I can manage to get a grunt out of either of them I feel I’m doing really well. Right, Danny?’
Constable Lang grunts right on cue, though he does it with a smile as if he’s used to being ribbed by his boss.
‘So where have you been living?’
‘The usual places.’
‘And what are the usual places?’
‘You know. Bus shelters. Parks. Doorways. Alleyways.’ Anywhere but the trains or rail yards because I’ll be back there again tonight while they’re out combing bus shelters, parks, door and alleyways.
‘That’s not safe for a . . . how old are you, sixteen?’
‘Fourteen.’
She shakes her head. ‘How you haven’t been eaten alive, I’ll never know.’
‘Maybe I’ve just been lucky.’
‘If it was up to me I’d take every single runaway down to the morgue. Show you what happens to young girls when they choose life on the streets. You lot think you know it all.’
I stare out the window. Her lecture is valid for kids who take off because they want their freedom, or they don’t want to do their homework, or they’re sick of being nagged, sick of rules, of structure. It’s wasted on me though. I took off because I chose life. Didn’t want to be a victim.
‘Just last week we had to take a young girl’s parents in to identify her body. She wasn’t much older than you. Sixteen, seventeen maybe. That’s not something we’ll forget in a hurry, right Danny?’
‘You’re right there, Sarge.’
‘When the sheet was pulled back her mother made a noise like her soul was being torn out. Little girl lying there all bruised and beat-up like that. Autopsy revealed that she’d been pumped full of enough heroin to kill a horse.’
Now it’s Sergeant Morrison’s turn to stare out the window, trying to get the image out of her head. It’ll probably be with her for years. For ever.
> ‘She had to pay for her hits somehow. It’s not cheap you know, that shit. Know how she could afford it?’
‘Sarge.’
‘I got to see the coroner’s report. Not very pleasant reading, let me tell you.’
‘Sarge.’
‘Not when you’ve got kids of your own.’
‘Sarge.’
‘Shut up, Danny! She needs to hear this.’
I don’t think I do.
‘She was only a little thing. Not much bigger than you, really. Limbs like sticks. Plenty of sickos happy to cough up the cash for her services, especially if she wore her school uniform. You know what I’m getting at?’
Yeah. I get it.
‘Autopsy report said that her vagina had prolapsed so far it was as if she’d had a freight train through her.’
‘Jesus, Sarge!’
‘She didn’t OD accidentally with that last hit. She knew what she was doing.’
‘C’mon, Sarge, that’s enough. This one conned her way into school, remember? She gets it.’
I don’t say anything because I’m not that girl. Poor thing. I will never be that girl. God, I hope I won’t be that girl.
Suddenly Sergeant Morrison softens. Going from bad cop to good cop in the space of a breath.
‘Look, we know about your parents. It must have been tough on you, them disappearing like that. But your aunt and uncle are doing the best they can. It can’t be easy for them either, not having children of their own.’
She’s obviously been to their house. Their mansion with its McParthenon supporting columns. She’s seen their home. My home. She’ll have been inside. Seen my room. Seen what I’ve given up for bus shelters, parks, doorways, alleyways and yet she still doesn’t get it. I’m sorry for that girl in the morgue, but she hasn’t done me any favours. Now because of her, and others like her, Sergeant Morrison is blaming the victims. Easy to do, I suppose, when your dreams are haunted by teenage girls laid out on cold, metal slabs like lumps of battered meat.
I could tell her the truth but she’d probably believe Creepo’s version instead, especially with Serena backing him up. She already knows about my parents disappearing when they moved back to the old country. She knows how deceitful I can be – conning my way into school by hiring a prostitute and letting Miss Taylor and Mr Thompkins put Tiffany-Star Beauchamp forward for that straw hat and blazer scholarship. It’s blatantly obvious that I’m a liar. But I’m a liar out of necessity, not by choice.
We don’t enter the police station from the front like everyone else but through a side door, which makes me feel special, sort of like . . . well, a criminal.
Sergeant Morrison offers me a seat and then tells Danny to contact the Sanchezes.
‘What happens now?’ I ask.
‘Well, you and I and Constable Lang, along with your aunt and uncle, and a case worker from social services, are all going to get together over a cup of tea and have a little chat.’
‘You’re not just going to hand me back?’
‘We need to make sure everything is as it should be. There’s a restraining order out on your uncle, and that certainly gets our alarm bells ringing. We’ve been in touch with the person who put the restraining order on him. Do you know who that might be?’
I shake my head. I want to see how this plays out.
‘The doctor who fixed your fractured arm. She claims he was verbally abusive towards her. He says that’s because she let you go, which doesn’t seem unreasonable given the circumstances. Him being angry, I mean.’
Creepo’s got everyone twisted around his disgusting little finger. Even the police.
‘She didn’t let me go,’ I reply, because I look after people who look after me. ‘I ran off as soon as the cast was set. It’s not as if she had any choice.’
‘She also claims that your uncle broke your arm. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he did break your arm? It’s not just another one of your lies?’
‘You think I’m a liar?’
‘I know you’re a liar, Tiffany-Star. The question is how big a liar are you, and why?’
I feel pissed at her for this. Then again I am sitting in a police station with over five grand and a loaded gun in my backpack.
Constable Lang has finished his phone calls. ‘They’re on their way.’
Sergeant Morrison gets up. She seems edgy and keeps fidgeting and drumming her fingers on the desk. ‘I’ve just got to duck out for a minute. Keep your eye on her.’
When Sergeant Morrison has disappeared out the side door, Constable Lang looks at me and makes a smoking gesture in the direction of his boss. We both smile.
‘I’ve got to write up my report,’ he says, turning on his computer. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘Yeah. I’ll just sit here and read, if that’s okay.’
I reach into my backpack and randomly pull out Pride and Prejudice as well as my hoodie. I don’t know how Elizabeth Bennet would have handled this situation, but I think I can safely say that she wouldn’t have dreamt, even in her wildest fantasies, not even as a way of getting out of marrying Mr Collins, of contemplating what I’m about to do. I actually feel a bit sorry for poor Constable Lang. But I’m not hanging around to chat with Creepo. No way.
I hope Sergeant Morrison has ducked down the shops for a packet of smokes rather than just outside to suck one down. Either way I’m on limited time, so I’ve got to get this right. I’ll probably only get one chance.
I gasp deliberately and hunch forward, cradling my lower belly. ‘Oh no.’
‘Mmmmnnn?’ says Constable Lang, who I can see is thoroughly distracted by his inability to spell Beauchamp.
‘Oh no!’ I say, a little louder this time. I’m actually thinking of throwing in a ‘woe is me,’ but decide to leave it.
Finally he looks over. ‘What’s up?’
I half-stand, tie the hoodie around my waist and make an embarrassed sort of face.
He looks at me blankly, so I pretend to stammer. ‘I think I’m, um, you know . . . Aunt Flo.’
‘Aunt who? Serena, isn’t it?’
For God’s sake. Do I have to spell it out for him? ‘Time of the . . .’ I keep hold of my hoodie with one hand and make an encouraging gesture with the other.
It takes him a little longer to register what’s going on.
‘Oh. Sorry!’ he says. Obviously he has neither a girlfriend nor sisters in his life, so this is a big deal for him.
‘Relax, Danny,’ I say, trying to keep him calm because I don’t want him to go looking for Sergeant Morrison. Not yet. ‘Can you just let me run to the loo?’
He practically leaps up from his desk. ‘Right. This way.’ He starts leading me through the office and around the desks like I’m an expectant mum about to give birth. He’s actually quite sweet. Maybe I should hook him up with Miss Taylor.
When we get to the toilets, I order Danny to wait outside in case I need anything. Fortunately there’s no one else inside.
After a cursory search through my backpack, I open the cubicle door and peer out. Danny is waiting by the sinks.
‘Everything all right?’ asks Danny, apparently concerned that I might be bleeding to death.
I shake my head.
‘Sorry, but I’m out of pads.’ And then I hit him with the heavy artillery. God, I’m cruel. ‘So I need you to find Sergeant Morrison and ask her if she’s got any spare ones.’
I close the door and listen to Danny race off, then I hitch on my backpack, take a deep breath and open the door again.
Danny’s not there. Probably running around like a headless chook because, like a lot of men, he thinks that time of the month is a strange and dangerous thing not to be discussed under any circumstances.
I decide against using the side door in case Sergeant Morrison is out there chuffing on a deathstick. Instead I head down the corridor towards the front desk, where the duty officers look busy and harassed. I slip into reception unnoticed and make it out through the automatic front doors, then head down the street towards the train station with the sun on my face. It’s hard not to sprint but I don’t want to draw any attention to myself, so I kind of run with one leg and walk with the other, under some sort of insane delusion that this looks inconspicuous.
When I get to the station there isn’t a city train due for seventeen minutes. Not good. Once the cops notice I’ve gone, the train station would have to be one of the first places they’d look. I’m stuffed.
Unless. Unless I head west. There’s a train due in now. I could catch that and then make my way back to the city and the junction station later, when things have settled down.
There’s an announcement over the PA apologising for the train’s late arrival and saying that it should be here in five minutes. Great. The one time that I need . . . And then I see her, walking back up the street towards the police station from the shops. Sergeant Morrison did go out to buy smokes. She’s probably one of those people who’s always quitting but now, having given me the bad cop lecture on that poor girl, she’s got herself all worked up and needs a cigarette or ten to calm herself down. She’s going to be pretty excited with Danny in a few minutes. She’ll need another packet. Maybe even a carton.
I actually feel sorry for Danny. He’s probably hanging around outside the toilet and wondering if I’m okay, blissfully unaware that he’s about to get his ear chewed off for letting me escape.
Finally the train slides in. It’s not in any hurry or anything, it just sort of loafs into the station like, chill, dudes, what’s the big deal? The doors open and I race up the steps through sheer force of habit. I always sleep upstairs when I’m in the rail yards. I grab a three-seater and slide over next to the window to keep a look out. If I were a real Catholic I’d be saying the rosary now, but as it stands I’d happily pray for whichever god will cast his magnificent radiance upon me and get me the hell out of here.
