CHAPTER 1

Winter mornings could be fun, and pretty, but the A2 was often a nightmare. The Kwak was buzzing away as I finally got past the Whitfield roundabout and I could let it have its head. It’s a long, long straight past Lydden, and just as I was topping the ton I picked up the change in the lights at Husk. Bugger.

I sat there for a little while, the traffic ahead of me lit up brightly by the low sun, for once the side winds that make that straight so hairy in abeyance, and I could just enjoy the ride. My only worry was that while I could see everything ahead of me, and anything behind would see me, the traffic I was catching would have the sun in their mirrors, and that meant I needed to be switched on. I checked carefully for police, nothing in the lay by, nothing behind, and giggled to myself as some boy in a barried-up Corsa pulled up and made it clear he intended to race me from the lights.

Amber, and he was off, fat exhaust pipe waving around in the breeze. Green, and it was as if he was stationary. Second…third…fourth, already at 90, up into fifth and down on the tank as the rev-limiter kicked in and I shot through 130 mph, no junctions to worry about, into sixth and relax, letting it wind down to a nice steady 90 as I took the sweeper to the Bridge exit, on the brakes and flicking the throttle to match the revs as I came off the main road, letting the bike caress me around the bend onto New Dover Road. Brake hard for the roundabout by the Gate Inn, and drop the bike hard left, hard right and left again and up, right foot angled out just slightly on the peg.

Yes! Just a little, but a kiss of tarmac as I grounded the outside of my right boot. Now, though, I was coming into traffic, and it was time to wind my neck in from race mode and get back into staying alive. Past the cinema, I found my way round to the bike parking on Watling Street and started the process. Onto centre stand, and out with the huge plastic coated chain, which I put through the back wheel and frame, over the saddle. Shackle lock through front wheel and forks, and disc lock on the front brake with the little yellow cable to the bars. Switch on the immobiliser and alarm, and remove both panniers. Finally… I took my shades off, pulled off the Shoei helmet, and dragged my hair out from inside my jacket. As I bent down to pick up the panniers, I got the first of the day.

“Nice arse, darlin’! Fancy a ride?”

Women, leathers and motorcycles. What is it with men? I put my shades back on and started the walk round to work. Canterbury, or at least its centre, is a lovely city, but that does mean it gets more than a little overrun with tourists. I kept meaning to get a T-shirt printed: “I am not a tourist, I bloody live here!”

Into Addison’s, my workplace, the biggest chain of chemists in the country, and my life-savers. Quickly to the ladies’ where I stripped off my black two-piece and back protector and wriggled into the skirt and blouse of my uniform. I already had my tights on under the leathers so I just had to haul off my socks and stuff them into my boots before slipping on flats. I do love my heels, and think they flatter my legs, but had learnt years ago that the pain of an eight hour shift on my feet outweighed my vanity. Check the face, touch up the lippy, wipe off the dead fly that was caught on my cheek, and I was ready.

“Morning Alan!” I called out to my boss as I slipped behind the counter

“Morning Sarah. You do know what day it is, don’t you?”

Arse. Today was the day that the new stock came in, and that meant a whole morning, and half of the afternoon, stock checking, delivery note filing…arse indeed. Because it is a pharmacy, by the nature of things the stock delivered is largely drugs, a huge proportion of which are prescription drugs, and a smaller one controlled drugs. For the benefit of those who don’t quite follow, there are over the counter ‘remedies’, medicines prescribed by doctors, some of which are worth a bomb on the black market, and Drugs, with a capital D, such as the heroin substitute methadone. All of the latter two types need accurate and very detailed record keeping, plus secure storage, plus, plus, plus, and it is the most boring day of the week.

I mean, on other days you make up the prescription, looking at the patient. Where exactly do they have the fungal infection that you are treating them for? Where, precisely, has that wart erupted? Is the obese man getting the Viagra through hope or certainty? It gets you through the day.

I buckled down, as the van arrived, and thankfully it was a quiet morning inside so Anne and Suzy were able to give me a hand, and surprisingly we had it all wrapped up by lunchtime. I looked back into the pharmacy to see Andy there, having a cuppa and chatting with Alan.

“Nice of him to give us a hand, girls”

“Nah, he might strain something” said Suzy, “and the only thing he ever works at is shagging”

Anne chortled. “So you wouldn’t, then?”

Suzy looked thoughtful. "I suppose I probably would….if I didn’t have to talk to him afterwards. Or before. Or at all, really. I mean, what’s he got that Ann Summers hasn’t? And you can turn them off!

“What about you, Sar? Would you?”

“Nah, I’m not his type”

How very true that was. I had met his type before, at home, not long after I started living as myself. The chat, the smoothness, the sheer practised ease of the seduction. Then….the shouting, the abuse, the blows, the lies to the police. And after all that, the gossip, the knowing looks, the smirking.

Worse than all of that, almost, had been the curiosity. After Joe, the other smoothy back home, had outed me, I had the slimy stuff, the series of odd men who wanted to know what it was like. What exactly would a shemale be like in bed, wouldn’t it be exciting to fuck a tranny, I’m not gay but the idea of a cock as well is somehow exciting. And the worst, the ones who professed to understand, to sympathise, would you like a coffee, oh I know what you mean, and here’s my bedroom.

Ten years had been unable to take it any further, but for those ten I had at least managed to live as myself, even if it meant crossing two countries for my privacy, even when it meant that I would live and die alone. From Abergwaun to Dover, the UK did not allow a much wider traverse. I hoped it would be enough to leave me some peace, but I also knew that my peace had to mean loneliness.