Kunoichi -the Girl with No Name

4. Disappearing

I've found a bench in a pretty little park in the centre of the city. From my seat amidst a circle of Monterey cypress trees, on top of a hill shaped like a turtle's shell, I sit and watch dusk creep over the landscape. The park is crossed with trails, thankfully devoid of any activity. Below my little highland fort, the city sprawls out like a carefully made patchwork quilt of ordered houses, trimmed in bay of velveteen, ocean blue. Over the next ten minutes the sun drips into a sea of mottled blood orange and the facades of houses below catch fire in the sky's reflective light, as if the whole city is being engulfed in a silent conflagration of burning buildings.

Suddenly my body begins shaking uncontrollably, a well of emotion and confusion explodes over me. My head spins, my stomach fills with acid and I find I'm wiping tears from my eyes. I've killed a man, almost another. Who do I go to now? The police seem to want to shoot me, someone else wants to kill me. Who do I go to for help? The government? I don't know anyone bar the President in name. My mind spills out into a confusion of irrational thoughts. Who do I know in San Francisco, anywhere come to that? Relations, friends?

I drop my head into my hands. The more I try to think, the more panicked I become, the more my little creatures run round in my head. Animated by my fear, they flip senselessly through the rolodexes they have retrieved for me, regurgitating ream after ream of random information. I can see the population of Finland; how to wire a plug; how to make a Molotov cocktail; what makes strawberry milk taste so good; how to set up, sight and fire a high powered rifle. But nothing about who I am and who I know.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I take a deep shuddering breath and think of something to do. If I stop freaking out maybe something will come to me.

I empty my pockets and do an inventory

A packet of half eaten polo's, a box of matches, a plastic comb, all taken from the pockets of the dressing gown. And the nylon string, now looking distinctly frayed.

Taking off the motorcycle jacket I shake it. It jingles but oddly when I rummage through the pockets they are empty. A needle of suspicion pierces my brain. Flipping the leather coat inside out I run my fingers over the inner lining. A few moments later I have a new hoard. Five dollars in loose change hidden in the collar, a compass sewn into the sleeve, a cloth street map of San Francisco from the lining and three hundred dollars in cash concealed in a hidden inner pocket. I guess this forms part of my attackers escape plan. It's mine now.

I sort the rolls of dollars into separate stashes, grab the jacket and walk off down the hill, ignoring the thousands of stabs of glass in my feet.

Over the horizon the sun has sunk to a dying red fervour, the fire abates and the city turns into a town lit by fairy lights, flickering in the early evening vapours rising from the hot earth. Surreally beautiful, the sight is accompanied by a sweet swell of hot tarmac, lemon and jasmine and a solitary bat that tumbles like a rag in the breeze across a leaden sky.

Within moments I'm down the hill to the line of lamp washed concrete houses below. Far off I pick up the tolling bell of a tram and follow it through the steep hillside streets into the more built up areas. Soon I'm in a long wide street, industrial warehousing gives way to sports bars, weed filled car lots and the occasional retail outlet. In my mind I tick off the street names against the map I memorised on the bench a few moments ago. Cars glide by, big American sedans who've the energy crisis seemed to have passed by. I'm conscious no one's walking along the sidewalks, I feel out of place. Suddenly, the lot I'm passing opens up and set back from the road, two signs hang over the double doors of a low, squat building, Boot Camp Army Surplus and Doglicous Doggy Daycare.

The figure that approaches me through the dark glass frontage of the Army Surplus store, could at first glance be a down and out. Wearing a leather jacket two sizes too big and a pair of green trousers that balloon like a pair of unfettered dirigibles, she shuffles along as if she is suffering from a malady of the feet. She stops, inspects herself and tries unsuccessfully to twist her long black curls into some semblance of order. Finding futility in that task she approaches closer and peering at me from a round face set with sharp black eyes her hands gently test the bruised skin on the right side of her face running from her forehead down to her lower throat. With a sudden look of reproach she spins away and heads toward the door of the outlet.