Crossover by Jack Heath Page B

curled into a lopsided grin. Like he'd spotted an old friend
on the opposite side of a crowded room, and was going over to say
hi. His intention was to look non-threatening, yet unapproachable
to anyone in his path.
    He walked, he
paused, he sidestepped, he kept walking. The only sound was the
wind, keening at the broken window in the attic.
    There were
rumours that this house was haunted – rumours he reinforced at
every opportunity. It would be inconvenient if someone purchased it
and moved in. So he spent many of his nights turning
battery-powered lights on and off in various rooms, throwing things
at the walls to produce sudden thumps, and playing a battered
violin in the attic. Whenever the real estate agent brought
prospective buyers around, they found fresh bloodstains on the
floorboards, made from a foul-smelling syrup of red wine and
barbecue sauce.
    He didn't like
to be disturbed. And he would disturb as many other people as it
took to avoid it.
    The walls of the
room he was in were covered in mirrors. Every step of his
complicated waltz was mimicked by the dozens of doppelgangers that
surrounded him. He stared at them, trying to see himself as others
would. They stared back, each with an equally suspicious
gaze.
    A twitch of his
fingers, and the aerosol can vanished up his sleeve. A flick of the
wrist, and it was back in his hand. He rehearsed this over and
over, watching the can disappear and reappear as he walked. It's
there. It's gone. Now you see it, now you don't.
    With his other
hand, he loosened his collar, scratched his neck, ran his fingers
through his hair. These motions would draw eyes away from the can,
allowing it to come and go unobserved.
    After a few more
circuits, he came to a sudden halt in front of one of the mirrors.
There was a picture taped to it – a teenage girl, on the footpath
outside her school, unaware that she was being
photographed.
    He stared at her
for a long time, memorising every detail of her features. Then he
closed his eyes and visualised them. Oak-brown hair, green irises,
teeth not quite crooked enough to require braces. Narrow shoulders.
Unpierced ears.
    He opened his
eyes again. Her hair was darker than he'd pictured, but otherwise,
everything was very close.
    The girl was a
chameleon, often hidden behind clever costumes and prosthetic
make-up. If his plan was to work, if he was to have his revenge, he
would need to recognise her instantly. He'd need to know her face
as well as he knew his own.
    He reached out
and touched the photo, tracing the curve of her
cheekbones.
    'Ashley,' he
whispered. Then he walked back to the other side of the room, and
starting weaving through the imaginary throng once again. Practice
makes perfect.
     
    ~
     
    The guard stared
down at the grubby pass card. 'The thing is,' he said, 'you're not
on the personnel list.'
    The girl
blinked. Wiped the grime off her palms. 'Sorry?'
    'Your pass is
valid,' the guard said, uncomfortably. 'But I've got a list of
people to let through, and you're not on it.' Plus, he thought, I'm
not sure I've ever seen you before.
    The girl offered
him a wry grin. 'Does that mean I can go home?'
    The guard
sighed. 'Well . . . '
    'I know, right?'
the girl said. 'You're not supposed to let me in – it's against
regulations. But if I leave, they're one worker short for the day
and the foreman will say it's your fault. You could call him up
here to sort it out, but then he'll blame you for wasting
everyone's time.' She scratched her hair under her cap. 'Course, if
he'd done a proper headcount in the first place, there'd be no
problem.'
    The guard
wondered how long the girl had been working down in the mines.
Couldn't have been more than a couple years – she looked younger
than his niece, although the tattoos on her neck made her at least
eighteen. He looked at the pass card again. It was definitely
legit.
    'How
about I call
him?' the girl said, fumbling through the pockets of her overalls.
'That way –'
    'No,' the