Stranger short story competition - Winner

I was a stranger in a strange land.
Go back home.
Words thrown at me like bricks.
Go back home. You don’t belong here.
But all my homes no longer exist. The busses zigzagging across the city are my transitory houses, temporary communities of the desolate and the destitute. Having to rely on public transport, not to have your own vehicle, places you at the lowest end of the social strata; and then to use these four-wheeled shelters as your only accommodation marks you out as someone to be avoided; to be shunned.
I was a stranger in a strange land.
Wintertime is the worst. The wind cuts across my face, dredging up memories of being hauled from my bed and forced to watch my parents dragged away. The cold rushed up my legs, seeking shelter underneath clothes scavenged over the years. It’s seven minutes to midnight, and I’m the only one at the stop as the bus approaches. The driver doesn’t acknowledge me as I step on; more focused on the monthly card I have for travel. He’s new to the route, scrutinising every scratch and line etched into my face.
I find my favourite spot at the back, ignoring the noise coming from upstairs, and slump into the seat. Something thumps on the floor above me, and a cocktail of laughter and obscenities drift down. The top-level is the most dangerous place on a bus, especially at night. The tattered gloves can’t keep out the cold, and I huddle as close to the back as I can, desperate to find the heat from the engine.
The bus pulls away as a heady aroma of the city seeps into the vehicle before the driver closes the door: fried chicken and onions mixed with cheap aftershave and perfume, alcohol fumes and petrol making my stomach jump as the bus hits something in the road. I glance out the window, searching for what went under the wheels; it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been on a ride, and we’d hit someone.
Smoke assaults my senses; my head snaps up, sure that someone is smoking here even though it was banned long before they bundled me into this city. We’re drifting, so it’s easy to see the fire outside; a group of people standing around a burning flame nibbling at the frost surrounding it; I’ll be one of them later, where there is nowhere left for me to huddle between stations.
The flames reignite memories of a different version of me, a younger, happier form, sitting next to an electric fire in our home. My father is cooking – now, inside my head, with the smell of fried meat and vegetables alien to the strange land where I’d end up. Uniformed men barge into our house and drag my parents away, calling them traitors and rebels. My parents don’t protest; to protest would make it worse. I never see them again except inside my head, like now, as the bus sails down the road. That was the first time I lost my home. It wouldn’t be the last.
A gaggle of drunks get on the bus at the next stop. They stink of alcohol, and I hope they go upstairs. It’s past midnight, too early yet for trouble; on the all-night buses like this one, it usually happens around three in the morning when the clubs have closed and the children of the night have nowhere left to go but home.
The gang shout at each other and stumble up to the top deck; those on the bottom breathe invisible sighs of relief. I look across to the other side, trying to distract myself from what’s happening above. A familiar face smiles at me. I don’t know her name or anything about her; all I know is that she travels on the buses like me, spending as much time as she can away from the streets, finding warmth and a small degree of safety on this transport. It’s difficult to tell her age behind the dirt and weariness engulfing her face. Her long hair is matted and clumped onto her head, thick and dark; it could be any colour underneath the dirt.
My smile cracks through my lips, my fingers going to my face and finding a harsh beard. I do my best to avoid my reflection in the window. If I don’t see how I look, sometimes I can pretend to be the person I used to be. The drunks upstairs are singing; there’s joy in their voices, no trace of anger, only an expression of happiness. I can’t remember the last time I felt like that. The smile I return to the woman is one of survival; of knowing we should be okay, at least for one more night.
It’s safer and warmer here. Even in the summer, when the tourists’ flock and their numbers increase, danger can spring from anywhere. More often than not, there’s no warning, only the sudden thrust of a fist or a boot into the face, into the body. The body is preferable because the number of clothes I wear, even in the warmer weather, can cushion the blows. The face and head have no protection. Other times, the warning comes first; only it isn’t a warning, but those familiar three words.
Go back home.
Sometimes followed by you don’t belong here.
I had a second home when I first arrived in the city. They forced me to work in a factory, putting things into boxes and bottles, and the owners provided beds for all the workers. I suppose it wasn’t home, but it was something. Then one day the factory burned to the ground, and twelve people died; the authorities never investigated, but accusing fingers pointed at the strangers, at the people like me; so I ran away. I lived on the street for a while before someone told me about the night busses; how you could get on and off all the services in the city and usually the drivers wouldn’t bother you.
You can live on the busses, travelling from station to station.
It seemed a crazy idea. And how could I do it without money, when I had nothing but the rags on my back?
Find a Good Samaritan to buy you a monthly bus pass.
They made it sound so easy.
But there were plenty of good people in this city: charities, churches, food banks, and community centres. Some offered a bed for the night, but once I started travelling, I never wanted to sleep in those dorms. And I got to see more of the city than most people did.
During the day I spend my time doing voluntary work in some of those churches and charities; other times I wander into the public libraries, which don’t throw you out or won’t let you read the books without a library card. I can’t have a library card because I don’t have a permanent address.
I’ve spent my days reading the complete works of Shakespeare, Dickens, and Thomas Hardy. Sometimes I pick up old paperbacks for free and when I can’t sleep on the night buses, use the time to flick through the pages and imagine I’m Jack Reacher or Elizabeth Salander. I tried to be Harry Potter or Lyra Belacqua, but the reality of life around me wouldn’t allow my brain to disappear into those realms of fantasy. It had been the complete opposite when I was a child; I spent so much time in Oz, and through the looking glass, I dreamt of living in another world.
And now I was.
When not on the bus and in the library, it was a case of finding somewhere to wash and get clean: a proper toilet was a bonus. Most of the public toilets in the city weren’t free.  Once darkness descends, or in the spring and summer no later than nine o’clock, I head for the station and the night buses. I soon discovered which were the best and the ones to avoid. The worst are the services along the routes which take in the most pubs and nightclubs; the drunks aren’t always violent, but they can intimidate you in other ways: verbal harassment in spades, insults hurled at you because of the clothes you wear, the sound of your voice, or the colour of your skin. And then there were the ones who loved to bait you.
Go back home.
You don’t belong here.
How many times I wanted to rise, to shout, and say I had no home to go to. And then there were other times when I wanted to scream that this was as much my home as it was theirs. But mainly I just want to sleep, and that isn’t easy on a night bus, even in the early hours of the morning. Then, when the bus pulls into the station, the driver usually turfs you off, and it’s a case of finding the next bus, the service that starts the earliest.
After sleep, when the body barely feels rested, the next search begins; for food and water. The day starts all over again. Then, at some point, the three words arrive.
Go back home.
So I do, heading for the nearest bus, travelling, always travelling.
From station to station.
A stranger in a strange land.