Born Under The Same Star

Author note: This is my entry for the Crime & Punishment 2024 Story Event.

Part One

"You wouldn't believe the day I've had," Dad said when he came through the door, tossing his bag down in its usual spot. Mum and I were in the kitchen, making dinner, although in my case I had spent more time on my phone than actually cooking anything.

"Good or bad?" Mum asked, washing salad in the sink. Dad came through to the kitchen, wiping sweat off his forehead, patting my shoulder affectionately before hugging Mum from behind and kissing her cheek.

"Bad," he sighed. "You know I've been going on and on about that precision metals firm back in England that has been avoiding me for weeks?"

Both Mum and I nodded vigorously. Dad had spoken about little else for a fortnight, when it came to work. His real passion was actually rugby, so it had been a difficult choice for the two of us whether to listen to him bore us about precision metals or bore us about rugby.

"Well, that little saga has finally come to an end," Dad said cryptically, sitting down heavily in a dining chair and pulling off his tie.

"You don't want a shower before dinner?" Mum asked when he took his jacket off, eyeing the damp patches under his arms. December in Cairns was hot and sweaty as usual, and Dad had never quite let go of his English habit of considering air conditioning in the car as an unnecessary luxury to be used sparingly.

"Nah, I'll manage," he said, irked to have had the subject changed from his big reveal. "Turns out, this company's been under investigation from the English financial crime people for months. Some irregularities in their shares on the stock market."

"Interesting," Mum said insincerely, making brief eye contact with me as she arranged the salad in a bowl. We suppressed smiles.

"Nah, nah, wait," Dad said, beginning to get more annoyed. He mopped his bald forehead with a tissue, his strange hybrid Anglo-Australian accent becoming more obvious as he got stressed. "It gets stranger. It's all come out today because they finally arrested the person responsible."

"Responsible for what?" Mum asked, putting the salad on the table. "Burgers won't be a minute, they're just browning off."

"Thanks, love. Responsible for these share irregularities, I mean."

"What's a share irregularity?" I asked, clueless, putting down my phone and consenting to actually listen to him.

Dad loved answering questions. He was a born explainer, and he beamed at me. "Well, in this case, someone who had access to the company's secret financial information, like new orders and contracts and so forth, was using that to buy and sell the company's shares on the stock market and make a profit."

"And that's illegal?" Mum asked.

"Yeah, it's illegal. It's insider trading."

"But don't company CEOs do this sort of thing all the time?" Mum went on.

"Let's not get bogged down in the technicalities," Dad said, waving his hands. "What you need to know is this: they arrested the person responsible, and it turns out, it was this young girl working for their auditors."

He waited for Mum and I to sound shocked, or maybe impressed, but we didn't give a flicker.

"Oh come on," he said, shaking his head.

"It would make more sense if I knew what an auditor was," I told him.

"Forget it. You two are the wrong audience for this. Michelle would understand."

"She might do, but she's probably more concerned with looking after little Henry than share auditors in England," Mum pointed out. Michelle, my big sister, was on maternity leave from her job at a bank in Cairns.

"No, tell me, I'm interested," I protested, not liking being compared unfavourably to Michelle.

"There's a news story over there about it, I'll just send it to you," Dad said, resigned to his fate now. "That explains it far better than I can."

"Speaking of Michelle, remember that she's coming on Monday and bringing Henry, because Damien is away for a week," Mum said. "I'm working nights at the hospital for the first half of the week so you'll have to sort out meals."

"We can manage it together, can't we, Zoe?" Dad said, grinning at me.

"What do you mean 'together'?" I replied, looking surprised. "I never agreed to anything."

Mum laughed but then turned stern. "Both of you had better help out. Henry's a bit of a handful and I don't want Michelle to get stressed."

Dad only remembered to send the article to me when I was ready for bed, lying in my pyjamas and procrastinating turning the light off. In the hours since he'd got home I'd lost interest in the whole subject, but I thought that if I read it and said something knowledgeable over breakfast, Dad might be impressed. So I opened it on my phone and immediately regretted it: there was no picture, only a headline and a dense wall of text underneath, and as I scanned it I could see phrases like 'share placing' and 'legally privileged' and I really couldn't be bothered with it. Instead, I searched for the woman who'd been arrested, Leah Black, on social media. The name was uncommon enough that I found her profile fairly quickly, and when I clicked on it I immediately thought 'she's too pretty to go to prison'. The profile picture was a selfie she'd taken, all glammed up, probably before a night out. Her long, dirty-blonde hair was done in a sexy tousle, pushed back on her head and tucked behind one ear; she was blowing a kiss, her brown eyes smiling at the camera; and she was wearing a jersey dress in a sort of metallic grey, or silver. I gazed at it, since it was one of the only things on her profile that was public, wondering where she was now: sitting in a police station somewhere? The only other public photo on her profile was something posted by a nightclub in London, a photo of a group of women, including Leah, with the caption 'Seeing in #newyear2022 at La Placia London!! #laplaciaLDN', and a couple of comments underneath from Leah's friends saying 'Happy Birthday Leah!' and 'Hope your hangover isn't too bad, have a fab birthday today', posted the next day, on New Year's Day.

It took a second for it to sink in properly. Her birthday was New Year's Day, which was the same as

my

birthday. I went back to the news article.

'Leah Black, 22, was arrested on Thursday afternoon at her place of work by..."

I

was twenty-two. We had the same birthday: what a weird coincidence. Looking at the picture of Leah again on her profile, I felt a strange sort of kinship with her. It felt unfair that a girl born on the same day as me had been arrested for something. We were so alike: both blonde, although mine was strawberry blonde and I was covered in freckles right down to my chest. I went to a nightclub for New Year's Eve too. I even had a dress not too dissimilar to hers. What if it had been me, being arrested on Thursday at work? There were police at the airport all the time and I'd seen dozens of arrests, mostly for visa breaches or other unexciting things like that, but I'd never pictured myself on the other side of it. It would be terrifying; but then, maybe Leah knew what she'd been doing and it was just the law finally catching up with her? Perhaps she was resigned to it, ready, offering her wrists for the policeman to cuff like you saw on TV.

I switched off the light and put my phone on charge. It must be the middle of the day in the UK. What was Leah doing? Talking to her lawyer, maybe? Preparing a courtroom defence that would leave the jury unable to convict and walking triumphantly free? Or, I reflected, if she was anything like me, she'd be sitting there, crying and wishing she could wake up from the nightmare.

After discovering that we shared a birthday, I became a little bit obsessed with 'the trial of Leah Black', as I called it privately. Getting ready for church on Sunday morning, I saw an update that said, after questioning, she had been charged with 'insider dealing' and released on bail, with a trial due in two weeks, which almost took us to Christmas. During the service, when there was a pause to pray for 'those known to us', I thought about Leah. She must be back at home now. Did she live with her parents, or did she have her own place? Maybe she had housemates. Were they avoiding her, or supporting her? I asked God to help her, then wondered if that was allowed, because maybe she was guilty after all.

I had the early shift on Monday morning at the airport, and two things put Leah out of my mind. The first was a large shipment of canned food from the Philippines, which was flagged as high risk for drug activity and consumed my entire morning. The x-ray scanner was going slowly for some reason and I rebooted the computer several times trying to speed it up, since the chance of getting a new one was nonexistent. Nobody liked spending money on the border force, no matter how important we were supposed to be.

The second was Tara Durond. Tara and I rarely worked the same shift pattern, but she was covering for Joan, who was on holiday seeing family in Brisbane, which meant four days together. Four amazing days.

"Did you look in this box already, Zoe?" she asked me, rousing me from a daydream about a long, passionate snogging session with her in the staff break room.

"Um, yes, I did all the ones on this side," I said, pointing to a row of neatly stacked cardboard boxes.

"How many more do we need to do?"

I loved the way she said 'do' at the end of the sentence, with her Australian intonation. Unlike my family, who'd emigrated to Cairns ten years ago, Tara had lived here her whole life and she was like a poster girl; trained scuba instructor, surfer, paddleboarder, swimmer... And she was all boobs and bum. The kind of girl who automatically looked incredible in a bikini.

"How many, Zoe?"

"Um, just the ones on that cart and then one more of the towers," I said, blushing slightly. I blushed easily, unfortunately, and my pale skin went very red. To hide it, I turned away from her and pretended to be filling in paperwork, while she went over to the cart and manhandled it in the direction of the scanner. I loved how strong she was, her long legs pushing hard on the floor to get the cart moving, her dark hair swishing out behind her in her ponytail. I fancied her so much.

Of course, being gay and religious was a bit of a contradiction. But the church in Cairns was one of those churches that just pretended gay people didn't exist: we didn't condemn them or oppose them, but we didn't support them either. I'd liked other girls for as long as I could remember and on some days I really wanted to come out to my parents, but I didn't think Mum would understand and I suspected Dad would go along with Mum. Now they had their first grandchild, it felt like there was less pressure, but if I openly had a girlfriend it might make things hard for them. It was very conflicting. The only person who knew I was a lesbian was Michelle, who'd got suspicious after discovering me playing girl-girl wedding with her dolls and confronted me. But that was Michelle's way: confrontational.

"I just don't see why they couldn't have told you before you flew out," she thundered into the phone, holding it jammed tight to the side of her head. "Or why you couldn't have told me earlier, at least."

I put my car keys down on the side and crept into the house, ignoring the glare Michelle gave me when I closed the door with a clunk.

"What's going on?" I asked Mum, who was sitting in the lounge, cradling Henry. He was asleep and I kissed the top of his tiny head, smelling that comforting combination of soap and newborn baby.

"Damien's got to spend another three days out there," Mum told me, keeping her voice down as Michelle launched into another tirade. "I told her she's welcome to stay here as long as she needs. I'm happy to help with Henry."

"Aren't you going to work?" I asked, looking at her nurse uniform.

"Not for another half hour."

Michelle started up again. She was the opposite of Dad: the angrier she got, the more English she sounded.

"I don't bloody care about the overtime payments, Damien, I'm the one getting up five times a night with the baby."

"How was work?" Mum asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah, good. Busy." I wanted to tell her about Tara but couldn't.

"One day closer to buying your own place, huh?" she said, smiling.

"Exactly." Henry wiggled slightly and almost smiled too, but I wasn't sure at what age babies start smiling properly instead of accidentally.

When we were growing up, Michelle had always been the perfect big sister: she was glamorous, cool, liked all the right kind of music, didn't mind lending me things, and hung out with the best crowds at school. She had a mean streak, especially if she thought I was being annoying, but sibling fights were common in all families and Mum and Dad turned a bit of a blind eye to it unless I really kicked up a fuss. But since the pregnancy and Henry being born, the cool side of Michelle had faded and the mean side had come to the fore.

"Fucking bastard," she spat, coming back into the room and startling Mum, who had been staring at Henry.

"Don't worry, love, we can survive a few extra days," Mum said, trying to soothe her as Michelle reached over and scooped up Henry, who stirred slightly but then snuggled into his mum's arms.

"I knew this would happen, you know," Michelle said, pacing up and down the room, bouncing Henry. "Men are all like this. You get pregnant and they start to get distant. Then the baby comes along, and they disappear completely."

"He's just away working, he'll be back before you know it."

"It's not an accident, Mum. He had to apply for that overtime. He could have said no."

"I think he just likes to think he's providing for the two of you."

"Well fuck that. He can provide a million times better when he's not a thousand miles away in the outback."

"I know, love."

Henry stirred again, making a high-pitched whinging noise which built to a proper cry. Michelle was instantly calmed, settling down in an armchair and shushing him as she hitched up her shirt to start breastfeeding.

"I'm just going to jump in the shower," I announced, and Michelle looked up like she hadn't even noticed me.

"Keep the noise down, I'm hoping he'll sleep a bit more after this feed," she said, sharply.

"Okay, okay." I crept out of the room, only getting halfway out before Michelle started up her ranting again.

If I could have asked God to answer one question, it would have been this: was Tara gay? She never spoke about having a boyfriend or being interested in guys, and over Christmas she was going on a scuba trip with her family, no partner included. We got on well when we worked together and I thought she was funny, smart and gorgeous, and she was by far the closest I had ever come to asking a girl for a date. In fact, what I really wanted was for her to ask me, maybe a casual drink after work, or a weekend day on the beach. But she never did, however much I clumsily tried to flirt with her or compliment her. As usual, then, I spent four days in her company and came away with nothing to show for it except a vague sense that I had missed an opportunity.

"You don't dive, do you?" she asked, when we were taking our final break of the week, cramming a biscuit into her mouth slightly before she'd finished the question.

"No; I'm not a very good swimmer," I replied. "Too small." That was an excuse: I was afraid of sharks. But I didn't want to tell Tara that.

"You don't have to be tall," she countered, but casting her eyes over me, she realised what I meant. "Anyway, I was going to say, if you want to try it sometime-"

My heart lifted. Was she about to ask me on that mythical date, her mouth full of biscuit?

"-one of my mates has just started up a dive tour company. I can probably get you a cheap ride while he's getting set up, you know, a rehearsal kind of thing."

And my heart sank again. "Uh, maybe. I'm pretty busy at the moment, actually, what with my sister's baby and everything."

"Oh, yeah, I remember you saying. Well, let me know if you change your mind."

Next time we worked together, maybe I'd get the courage together to ask her, I told myself. Always next time.

And those were the three issues central to my life: being an aunt; wanting to date Tara; and wondering whether being a lesbian was sinful or not. Then, a week before Christmas, I was scrolling on my phone before breakfast, enjoying the peace and quiet now that Michelle and Henry were gone, when the headline appeared and shocked me completely.

22 YEAR OLD STOCK FRAUDSTER SENTENCED TO 2 YEARS BEHIND BARS

"Go in peace to love and serve the Lord."

"Amen."

It was another tropical day in Cairns and my first thought as the service ended was that I did not want to go back outside into the heat. The church was nice and cool, and while Mum and Dad got up to dutifully socialise with the rest of the congregation, I stayed sitting. The day had a kind of unreal quality to it, like when you find out a relative has died.

"Zoe?"

I blinked. I hadn't been daydreaming: I hadn't really been thinking about anything at all. My mind was blank, but I arranged my face into a smile as the minister, Reverend Jones, sat down beside me, avoiding the throng around the coffee cups at the back.

"You look thoughtful," she said. "Thinking about the nativity?"

I laughed gently, feeling embarrassed. Reverend Jones was an old lady in her sixties with a bush of grey hair and a kindly, wouldn't-hurt-a-fly demeanour, but she was razor-sharp and had won the annual fundraising quiz five years running.

"Not exactly," I replied.

"Thought so. Care to share? It'll mean I don't have to hear the oldies complaining about the heat."

"It's okay. It's nothing, really."

"Okay." She put her hand on my shoulder for a moment, then got up. "Have a good week."

"Wait-"

She paused and I looked up at her.

"Yes, Zoe?"

"Are you allowed to contact people who are in prison?"

Reverend Jones sat down again. "Not quite the question I was expecting," she said, giggling in a most unlikely way. "Is it someone you know?"

"Not exactly... I know her name."

"Well, if she's a she, there's a scheme called

Letters for Hope

, for Christian women to write to other women who are in prison to provide support and guidance. Usually I think you are assigned a prisoner randomly, but there's no reason you couldn't request someone."

Strangely, I started to feel excited. "You mean, like old-fashioned letters?"

"A lot of prisoners don't have phones or computers for access to email or social media, so old-fashioned letters, as you call them, are usually best."

"Thank you. I'll look it up online."

"Please do, and let me know how you get on."

She patted my shoulder again and then got up and left. I nibbled the corner of one of my fingernails, excitement turning to nerves. Was I really contemplating contacting Leah? I knew almost nothing about her, except what I'd read on the news. In my head I pictured her like one of the popular girls from school, the kind who'd bullied me for being English. She'd probably laugh at a letter from me and throw it in the bin, thinking it was pathetic.

Then, as we walked out through the humidity towards the car, I thought about her sweating in a prison cell. Were they air-conditioned? But in Britain it would be the winter, so actually she'd be shivering in the cold. For some reason, I couldn't get the idea out of my head that there was a real, living, breathing human woman out there called Leah Black who, right this second, was in an actual honest-to-God prison with the other criminals. A girl my age, and not some kind of sinister murderer or something. She seemed... normal. And real. And yet, I couldn't imagine what it must be like for her.