Beautiful Collision

by T. G. Ayer

  Here nobody bothers you unless you encroach on their territory. And I'm good at not encroaching.

  As I walk I open the brown bag and retrieve a burger. I always eat far away from where I sleep. I fear crumbs. Because crumbs call the roaches and if there is one thing on earth that scares the shit out of me, it's roaches. I eat both burgers without them. Meat, bread, sauce, a limp pickle. Same as the last time. Tasteless.

  My feet take me down a skinny alley that reeks of mold and urine and god knows what else. At the end of the shadowed lane a metal door hangs loosely on broken hinges. The entrance doesn't look all that safe, but I am smarter than that.

  I push the door and wait. Metal rattles behind it, telling me that nobody has entered my space since I left it. I'd arranged a couple of tire irons so that they leaned against the metal door on the other side of the entrance. My little early warning device.

  I'm not stupid though. The place has plenty of alternative entrances, plenty of other occupants too, but I'm mostly concerned with my own space. I don't own the building, don't care who beds down next door as long as they leave me alone.

  Swinging the door to the left, I slide through the small opening. Before I enter the building I secure the door using a handful of thick nails left in a pile on the floor. I'd figured out how to push the door shut, align it to the hinges and shove the nails in to hold the door in place. It only works from the inside so I know I have a semblance of security.

  And if a semblance is all I am going to get, I'll take it with open arms.

  I walk down the shadowed passage, where thin streams of light angle inside through broken windows and open doors. The first apartment on the left is mine and I don't have a front door. I drift through the living area and enter the main bedroom, the one with the bathroom attached. Not that the possession of a bathroom mattered. With no running water it isn't as if I can use the facilities. I wrinkle my nose at it, but it's not because it stinks. I'd been meticulous since I'd arrived, using public toilets at all times. I'm probably dehydrated but I don't care. The less I need to pee the better.

  I'm facing a bedroom door which hangs drunkenly on its hinges. I haven't tried to fix it yet because it too serves its purpose.

  Then, I jump as the sound of a gunshot shatters the silence. It's close. Too close. I fall into a crouch and creep towards the bare window. I plaster myself against the wall and peer outside. The street is empty except for some guy smoking on the corner. He is so asking for trouble but I'm not about to go down and educate him. There is way too high a chance of getting killed in the process. I watch for a while but there are no more gunshots and the smoker on the corner has sauntered off.

  I sigh and move away from the window, heading to my bed. I'd made a sleeping area inside the closet from a worn out sleeping bag I'd bought at a secondhand clothing store, and a thin pillow I'd been given at the soup kitchen. The floor of the closet isn't long enough so I can never sleep all stretched out, but I'm not complaining. It's safe and dry. At least it's not wet cardboard with rain running down the back of my neck, nor am I waking up in the chilly morning with my jaws hurting from all the chattering they did through the night. Been there, done that, prefer not to do it again.

  Now, I reach for the closet door. I always keep it closed. A broken chair stands in front of the door, and when I open it, the chair moves with the door. I'd nailed it to the closet door to make it look like it's blocking the entrance. Anyone walking into the room wouldn't think to check the closet for a person, especially when a chair is sitting directly in front of it. I think that is pretty smart of me.

  I smile at the hint of arrogance, then open my door and slide inside the dusky space. I sit cross-legged, back against the wall, and finally I begin to relax. The bed seems untouched, the walls unmolested. Good. Safe again for another day. Inside the closet, I shut the door then switch on a flashlight I'd hung from the empty clothes rail.

  I open my bag to slide out the envelope. Peeling it open, I slide the contents into my hand. A US passport. I open it slowly, breathing in the smell of new paper, new ink. Two pieces of plastic slide out of the passport and fall into my lap. A social security card and a driver's license. I laugh softly. A driver's license for a person who can't drive.

  I love the irony.

  Armed with these three pieces of identification I can make the next stage of my plan happen. Alexei has done his job. But I wonder again at how wise I've been to go to him. Alexei is old, nearing his sixties. His short cropped pale hair, rounded stomach and casual nature had always appeal to me. And now I've put him in a dangerous position. Especially since he'd been good to me from the first moment we'd met.

  But his loyalty is still questionable considering her works for Nikolai Roshkov, drug dealer and human trafficker. As an employee of Nikolai I should doubt every iota of his loyalty. Why would he care to keep me safe especially when he put his own life on the line to help me? Nikolai dealt with betrayal ruthlessly.

  My wrist throbs as if in response to my memory of Nikolai's punishment. I rub the spot and readjust my leather cuff, then I sigh.

  I had to accept Alexei's help, despite the possible result of his betrayal of Nikolai. Even now Alexei could be lying dead in his room, throat slit, eyes staring up at his white ceiling, while the blood drains from his cooling body.

  And these papers would spell my destruction.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gray

  I have no real way of locking myself inside the closet But I'd remembered a few things from way back in the past when I'd had a father and when he'd had a workshop filled with tools and wood and dust.

  I'd slid two large U-Hooks under the door, and then wedged a long metal rod into my side of the hooks, the ends of which sit against the door-frame. Anyone outside who tries to open the door will find the base of it jammed shut by the length of iron. It isn't foolproof but it is enough to wake me if I'm in danger of being discovered.

  I slide down on the old sleeping bag and cushion my head on my hands. I stare at the strip of fading light shining beneath the door, I stare until it fades and darkness takes over. These days I'm a light sleeper, and anything wakes me. Rats and roaches in the walls, gunshots as they echo late through the night, the sound of a police siren as they attend whatever crime the Tenderloin offers them. I wake at least three times during the night but when I rise for the fourth time it's technically no longer night and I figure I'd better get moving. Although I'm still safe, still in one piece, that status may change at any moment.

  Time to move on from this place.

  Before I do anything, I stare through the slim spaces between the bare, warped wall panels, keeping an eye out for silent intruders. Nothing stirs so I remove the iron rod and push the door open. It moves silently and I slide through outside and shut it behind me. I make a quick round of the apartment and of the whole first floor. At the far end of our level the last two apartments are occupied by a large immigrant family. They pretend I don't exist and I return the favor.

  Happy the place is clear, I head to the upper floor, still searching, watching out of windows for silent snipers on the roofs across from our building, for strangers lurking on corners outside, for unmarked cars on the empty lifeless streets. The streets are still silent this early in the morning so I take advantage of the time.

  I return to my room and barricade myself inside my closet again. I roll up my sleeping bag, tie it neatly with the string and strap it to the bottom of my rucksack. Then I turn my attention to the rear panel of the closet. I'd chosen the apartment because it backed up against the brick wall that ran between this apartment building and the one next door. Behind the closet is a small space, probably ten inches wide. Just large enough to house my valuables.

  Photographs of my parents, sketches I'd done of Alexei and of Ilya, one of the girls I'd met in Los Angeles. Things that meant more to me than the breath in my lungs. And now, to the pile, I add a passport and two forms of identification for one Gray McAllister.

&nb
sp; Thankfully Alexei hadn't asked any questions about that particular name and had calmly written it down to use for my papers. The only thing I'd hesitated in was keeping my real name. Nikolai and his men had always referred to me by my official name, Sara. Blonde, gray-eyed Sara Harper.

  I am no longer Sara.

  Neither am I blonde.

  There is nothing I can do about the gray except to use contact lenses. But I've used them sparingly, unable to buy more until I had a legit delivery address. Right now, I'm positive I'm unrecognizable. But I can't be too complacent.

  I dig deep into my bag and retrieve an plastic packet and a bag of makeup. I unpin my wig and remove the tight netting that hid my waist length hair. I sleep with the wig only because it means if I had to run from some unexpected danger, I'd be ready.

  Now, I comb out my long black hair, feeling the familiar tug of fear in my gut. I hadn't been able to summon the courage to cut it, even when I knew that chopping it off would be safer. Instead I've used the black pixie cut wig these past few weeks.

  I stand the small mirror carefully on a panel ledge in the back wall of the closet and begin. There isn't enough light filtering through the door so I'm glad for the torch above me. First, I grab my dyed hair and pull it onto the top of my head into a tight ponytail, and brush it so it hangs down my back silky and straight. Then I use my mascara to touch up the bits of blond that are beginning to peek through as the color washes away. From a small zip lock bag I retrieve a bunch of silver ear cuffs, a few plain bands and a red-eyed dragon that hugs the curve of my ear.

  Then I insert purple lenses and darken my eyes with shadows on both upper and lower lids. Shading in and bronzing my cheekbones transforms my face to something totally unrecognizable from both Sara and the little runaway kid. I'm goth, and dark.

  With attitude.

  My final touch is the tattoo. I rip the packet open then removed the stick-on from its seal. Placing it on my skin I rub and wait, counting down the seconds as my heart thuds and my mind races across everything I need to do, everything I should do to stay safe. At last I peel it off and stare at the spider's web tattoo marking the left side of my neck from collar bone to earlobe.

  Nice.

  Fingerless black net gloves and a bunch of silver chains later I sit back, satisfied. The remains of the transformation, bags and packets all enter my backpack, followed by my hoodie. I pull on an old leather jacket to complete the look. I can't do much about the jeans or the sneakers though. At least both were black, and nondescript enough.

  Now that I am ready, I reach inside the rear panel of the closet for everything I've hidden and stuff it all carefully at the bottom of my backpack.

  When I rise I am ready and determined. The closet is empty and clean, no sign that anyone has been here except for the u-hooks and the metal rod which could be attributed to anyone really. I pause at the entrance to stare back at the apartment. Then I turn away from my door, head down the hall towards the stairwell. I walk up the concrete steps slowly, keeping an eye on both the floor above and the one below. Nothing moves and I take it as a good sign.

  I climb the ten floors until I get to the roof, hidden by the early morning darkness. When I reach the doorway to the rooftop I ease it open and wait, scanning the rooftops of the buildings around me through the crack in the door. Nothing moves. I crouch down and push the door open then duck walk until I am hidden by an old vent pipe.

  Making my way slowly across the roof top, I take extra care not to scatter gravel as I move. I scale the small wall that leads to the next building. The roof of this apartment building is bordered by a four foot wall and I use it to hide my progress as I crawl my way to the next rooftop. I'd looked for a building which was attached for this particular reason. Anyone watching me go in would never see me leave.

  Four rooftops later and I sink to the concrete and wait for my breathing to slow. I reach the stairwell entrance that sits to the left side of the rooftop, near the wall. It is short and squat and has two metal doors, closed off by a thick, rusted chain. At first glance it looks impenetrable unless you carry a bolt cutter around with you for kicks.

  But I know better. Behind the thick metal handles, the chain is held together by a long screw. Unfortunately, once I open it and enter the building I have no way of closing it behind me. But I cannot spend time thinking about that right now.

  I make swift work of the chain, lowering it to the floor as quietly as I can. Then I shove open the door, cringing as the hinges squeak and screech. I hold my breath and wait for wary residents to come running up the stairs. But everything is still and silent. Whoever remained inside the building is either too fast asleep, too drunk or too scared to come searching for the intruder.

  Good for me.

  I scurry down the stairwell, flight after flight, making as little sound as possible on the polished floor. I'm on the ground floor, and I peer through a set of double doors that open onto the deserted reception area. This building is probably another victim of the last global financial crisis. Gouged by a thousand knives, carved with hundreds of names, the wooden reception counter sits in the corner and observes sadly as I pass. I tiptoe toward the door, noting the first shimmer of dawn on the horizon. I have to move faster.

  At the entrance I pause for a moment to check the street before pushing through both inner and outer doors. I don't look back. Once outside on the top step I don't look around. I keep my eyes on the stairs and skip down them. Even though my neck muscles scream, I don't scan the street, don't inspect the shadows. Because why would I if I lived in the building and didn't fear my hood?

  I head south through the Tenderloin streets, pausing at a window here and there, checking if I'm being followed or observed or both. Some of the shops are closed, boarded up and graffitied, giving the street a seedy, dangerous air.

  But the coast looks clear and I head toward the bus stop on Ellis. And I'm just in time. A bus pulls up and I hurry up the stairs and head inside to find a seat. Safe, I watch the stops on the way to the station, the streets passing me by one at time.

  I don't know San Francisco. I haven't had the privilege of seeing its unique charm, the quaintness people say the city holds. My visit has been spent hiding and lying. I sigh. Two buses and a short walk later I'm worrying that it's getting brighter, worrying that anyone could be following me and I'd never know.

  At last I reach the station and head inside to buy my ticket, thanking the universe there is no line. I'm jittery enough as it is. Just in case, I buy two tickets. One to LA and one to Santa Barbara, then head to wait for my bus. The wait until 10.30am is interminable. My stomach tightens with hunger but I ignore it. I won't leave the station until the bus arrives, as a matter of safety. They have no way of tracking me because I use cash, but I can't be sure.

  For now, I sit quietly, steeling myself against staring at the people around me, forcing myself not to scan every face that passes, every face that turns in my direction. Instead, I bend my head and gaze at my phone as if I'm playing a game. The phone is prepaid so I use it as little as possible but for now I pretend I am messing around on some social network when none of that is true. I have no time for social networks. Those were pastimes of normal people. Not people like me who are dodging danger at every turn.

  I ache to be in Santa Barbara and can't wait to submerge myself in safety.

  Maybe then I will be able to breathe freely.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gray

  I enter the on-board toilet and lean against the closed door, slightly relieved. Alone in this tiny space I feel a little at peace. But I have work to do. No resting yet. I dig inside the bag and remove a tote filled with makeup and related products. I stare at the dark-eyed goth chick for a moment and give her a silent farewell nod. Then I proceed to remove the shadowed, thickly lined eyes, the near black lipstick and extra pale concealer. Face off, next came the contacts and the ear jewelry. By now the tattoo is already peeling away and I scrape off as much as I can and cover the
remaining bits with concealer.

  Fresh makeup, bronzer, and a pair of green contacts later I am ready for the hair. When I bought my wigs I'd chosen one in a lovely red-gold, only because I liked the color. It is long, falling almost to my waist in large waves. I untie my hair, dividing it down my middle path, and do two french braids, plaiting as tightly as I can. I wind the plaits around my head and draw on a dark stocking.

  I fasten the wig to my scalp and when I look in the mirror I don't recognize myself. Dark eyed goth-girl has vanished and now I stare back at a girl who would qualify as all-American. Cute. The bright pink, strappy sun-dress would finish the picture to perfection. It would be dark when I get to Santa Barbara but it should still be warm enough for the dress.

  Removing the black boots, jeans and jacket, I slip the dress over my head. It falls to just above my knees and is cool and summery. Inside the bag is pair of low-heeled sandals which I slip on, hurrying now because I'm worried I've taken too long in the toilet. I give myself one last inspection in the mirror. Vastly different from my appearance only moments ago.

  Good.

  I crack the door open and peer up and down the aisle. There's a guy in the back seat but he's got his nose in a men's mag. No one pays me any attention. I slide into seat a few rows behind my old one. It would be strange for me to take another girl's place now wouldn't it? I let out a long breath, one I hadn't even realized I'd been holding. Then I turn to stare out the window, closing my eyes and urging the bus to go faster, to get there quicker, to put more miles between me and . . .