This chapter describes how Bennie, (Beverly's Transgendered son,) Meets Khatia the runaway Muslim girl who become's Bennie's bride.

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NEW SPACETRAN 14.

Spacetran 14.

Bennie’s Story.

List of our children and their friends.

Girls,

Wendy, William’s twin.

Jessica and Charlotte, Ben’s (AKA Bennie’s,) twin sisters.

Dave and Eddie , Sherriff Jack Johnson’s boys.

Linda and Sandra, Sherriff Jack Johnson’s daughters.

Ray, Wendy’s husband, (Our son in Law.).

Khatia. Bennie’s secret Muslim wife.

Bennie poured a third coffee and settled comfortably into the settee to describe the events of the past few years. That was since she had concluded she wanted little to do with the sibling rivalry surrounding the family firm ‘Taff Spaceships’ and the running of it. Bennie had secretly settled in Manchester and grown her new anonymous persona.

Beverly listened to her ‘daughter’ as firstly Bennie described how and where she had met Khatia. The girl was living rough on the streets of Manchester after falling foul of her parent’s strict Islamic customs and running away from Bradford. It was a sad and familiar story. Khatia was an intelligent westernised girl whose parents tried to enforce older Asiatic Islamic standards. They had tried to arrange a marriage to her first cousin back in Pakistan but Fatima, (as she was known back then,) had run away and brought shame upon the family. Fatima was already aware of the congenital problems with her cousins caused by the family’s insistence of interfamily marriage to preserve the family’s modest wealth.

Somehow after running away, she had managed to escape the usual prostitution and drugs traps and Bennie had met her as she was begging off tables in a ‘greasy spoon’ cafe where Bennie was enjoying a quiet coffee alone. At that time Bennie was enjoying her anonymous persona and she was looking for new friends to build a completely alternative life. Khatia, as she had renamed herself, had just been caught by the cafe proprietor stealing left-over’s off the tables and she’d been thrown out into the cold wet Manchester evening. Bennie thought little of it as she finished up her coffee, packed away her laptop in it's reinforced metal case and set off into the drizzle. Then she had seen the same kid bent over a rubbish bin in the alley behind the cafe. She was scavenging food.

Bennie had genuinely thought that begging and other such privations had more or less died a death since her father had moved so much so far to create wealth world-wide and distribute it fairly. But no, it seemed that there were still kids out there with life stories that led to them scrounging food out of garbage bins. Bennie paused on the main pavement and continued staring down the alley as the kid recovered some edible morsels and quickly stuffed them into her shoulder bag. Then somebody appeared from a doorway in the alley and tried to grab the kid. The girl was just too slow escaping from the garbage bin and as she wriggled backwards over the rim of the garbage bin, the attacker caught her. She screamed and struggled but it was obvious what the attacker’s intent was. Bennie was shocked that nobody seemed to be responding to the girl’s screams. She looked up and down the pavement but there was nobody in sight. It was as though the whole city had suddenly become a ghost town for those vital seconds and Bennie realised she was the only witness to the attack.

She gave a loud yell and started sprinting down the alley to try and save the kid. All the Taff children had been taught Martial arts as a matter of course, just in case a scenario as the one unfolding before Bennie happened to them; a kidnap or an attack. Beverly and Ruth had insisted all the kids learn to defend themselves and Bennie, despite her gentle feminine nature had not been excluded.

Her shout had been ignored as the attacker continued assaulting the Asian girl and he did not pay heed to the slightly built girl trotting down the alley as fast as her stylish heels would allow. Bennie decided that it would do no good to shout again. If the thug ignored her first shout he was probably confident he was safe from any attack from that quarter. His confidence was misplaced. Bennie took her lap-top and rammed the sharp, hard corner as hard as she could into the back of the attacker’s skull. He grunted, staggered and twisted unsteadily to confront the new arrival. It was too late; as he paused unsteadily for a moment; Bennie’s heel lashed out and she drove it into that most vulnerable of places. The man went down and Bennie dragged the Asian kid to her feet whilst ordering her to be quick before the thug recovered!

The street-wise girl needed no second bidding and she dashed off up the alley towards the main street and the lights. Her trainers afforded the kid a turn of speed that Bennie could not match in her heels. Bennie followed her as fast as her heels would allow and she finally caught up with her a couple of blocks into the busier part of town as the last of the rush-hour commuters were heading home. The kid was recovering her breath on the busy railway station concourse amidst the safety of the crowds. She saw Bennie approaching and she tensed as if ready for further flight. Bennie hesitated, uncertain of how to reassure the girl from a distance and unable to make herself heard above the clamour of the crowded station. She wondered how to reassure the kid then tried miming a cup of tea or coffee. The girl paused and her expression changed from fear to uncertainty. Bennie pointed to the station cafe and made a ‘drinking sign’ with her hand and then pointed to the kid. The kid stood upright and searched around as though trying to assess if there was a trap so Bennie made a clear and obvious entry into the cafe. There she purchased a couple of coffees and some cakes while the girl watched uncertainly through the window. Bennie emerged and sat at one of the benches while placing the tray some way beside her on the long seat.

The girl paused briefly but the tantalising sight of coffee and cakes was too much. She approached hesitantly as Bennie took a notebook and pencil from her laptop case. She wrote a message and placed it on the tray before finishing her own coffee. Fortunately caffeine didn’t much affect Bennie she could drink cups of coffee or tea all night. After swilling back her own polystyrene cup she stood up, motioned her head to the tray of scones, coffee and the message tucked under the paper plate. Then she moved away and the girl dashed forward. She was starving. Finally the girl read the note.

‘I commute this way each weekday eight a.m. and six p.m., except Fridays. If you ever want me just hang around as you did tonight. Bennie.’ P.S. I like scones with butter and jam.

The girl looked up, smiled wanly and Bennie simply nodded as she turned to leave. Before she had even reached the ticket barrier the girl appeared beside her calling.

“No! Wait!”

Bennie paused and turned to face her as the girl stared with gaunt, hungry eyes.

“Are you real?” The girl asked.

Bennie shrugged.

“Do I look real? Here feel my arm.”

For a moment the girl made to reach out then she let out a squeak as she realised how stupid she looked. She cast about nervously still expecting some sort of trap but her streetwise eyes could see nothing. She motioned to another seat at the side of the main concourse.

“Can you talk? Have you got time?”

“All the time in the world,” Bennie declared, “I see you have as well.”

“Yeah, I’ve got years ahead of me.”

“Well you’d best start by finishing those cakes. You look half starved kid!”

They settled on the seat but the girl still kept her distance as she devoured the cakes. Bennie watched in fascinated silence. It was best not to ask questions. Besides if she asked questions then the girl had the right to ask her own and Bennie was not prepared to divulge anything more than her first name. The last thing she wanted as she grew her new, anonymous persona was to have her full identity revealed.

The last cake disappeared and the girl carefully picked the crumbs off the paper plate before glancing down to make sure nothing had fallen on the seat. Still Bennie kept her counsel for as a slightly built transgendered transvestite it wouldn’t have done to invite animosity. Animosity could lead to violence and violence could lead to Bennie being ‘outed’ if only for identity purposes by the police.

She stood to leave and was about to repeat the message she had written earlier but the girl looked up.

“Where are you going?”

“Home love. I’ve got a cat to feed and cherish.”

“So the cat’s more important than me then is it?”

“No-oo,” Bennie replied carefully. “I’ve just fed you and I’ve also told you were I can be reached; on this station concourse eight in the morning and six at night, usually. Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays I won’t be here. I have another life besides this bloody awful nine-to-five.”

Just by saying ‘nine to five’, Bennie could have kicked herself. She was still learning this dual life thing and slipping in conceited little remarks like that to pretend there was mystery in her life was a stupid thing. Having scolded herself for being too revealing, Bennie looked back once, gave a soft tight smile and stepped through the ticket barrier. The girl was looking at her through frightened eyes and Bennie sighed to herself.

‘Dammit! Why am I such a soft touch? Wendy and William are right, there’s no way I could ever become a big boss in the family firm.’

Reluctantly she hesitated then found more resolve and turned on her heel to finally get on the maglev train. In older cities were the density of housing and population curtailed the free run of puls, licensing laws and ‘congestion charges’ had made their operation expensively prohibitive. The density of privately owned puls would have blocked out the sun so during ‘working hours’ they were heavily taxed. Any puls in the skies over such restricted areas obviously had a good reason for being there and paid a huge charge. Commercial operators with delivery vehicles had to buy a permit to operate toll-free. The costs of operating her own private pul would have been ‘chicken-feed’ to Bennie with her vast fortune but to fly around in her own pul would have risked unwanted recognition. Thus she joined the sweating ranks of the commuting masses just to reinforce her disguise. She stepped aboard the maglev train and glanced for the last time down the platform. The girl had gone.

The next morning she wasn’t there and Bennie made her way to the LGBT charity shop where she put in a few morning hours from Monday to Thursday. She was secretly a little disappointed that the girl hadn’t availed herself of her offer and she busied herself sorting out clothes to be laundered before sale. Despite notices in the shop doorway, there were often a couple of bags of old clothes left by morning commuters. At eleven o’clock she was helping the volunteer delivery boys load the van to send on clothes for preparation and receive new saleable stock from the central warehouse. Having finally done the sorting, she made herself and the boys a cup of coffee then relieved Pauline behind the counter.

Bennie was just checking the volunteer rota when she saw the familiar face step cautiously through the door. She smiled but made no other sign of recognition like standing up or introducing herself. Nor did she leave the counter. Despite it being a charity shop, it had been raided twice in the past five years. All the staff were alert to snatch thieves.

The girl smiled back then hesitantly started looking through the sale-rail. Finally at one o’clock, Bennie was relieved by Pauline and Jackie. The Asian girl was still checking through the sale-rail, she had been there nearly two hours and Bennie realised the girl was trying to keep warm.

With the lunchtime relief Bennie’s turn was done and the rest of the day was hers. She joined the Asian girl at the sale-rail.

“Can I help you miss?”

The girl started nervously then turned to Bennie.

“I need a coat. It’s getting cold out.”

Bennie nodded, the girl obviously had no money. If she had no money and she didn’t have the look of drugs about her, she was most probably running from something. Bennie took a red coat with fitted bodice and flared hem from the ordinary rack and made the girl try it on. It suited her and the girl could not resist studying herself in the mirror before wistfully confessing she had no money.

“This is a designer label, there’s no way I could afford this, even at charity prices.” A tear glistened in her eye.
“Let me buy it for you. It’s only a few credits. It really suits you. Oh; and by the way, how did you know how to find me in the LGBT Shop?”

“I spied on you from the station, just to make sure you were genuine.”

“Yeah, I thought it was that. Well you know now. What did you really come into the shop for?”

“I was only hoping you’d buy me another coffee. Like you said you would.”

“You should have approached me in the station this morning. But I’ll buy you coffee right now. Come on; leave the coat on your back.

The girl stood listening carefully as Bennie shared a laugh and chatted briefly with Pauline about the rota before completing the purchase. Then Bennie went to pee and Pauline turned to the Asian girl and declared with a chuckle.

“Bennie’s a crazy girl. We’re convinced she’s got a rich uncle or something, but she’s nice with her money and that coat really does suite you. Take her offer kid, she won’t harm you.”

The Asian girl had already concluded this.

‘If this stranger worked in a charity shop, indeed was the manager of the charity shop where all the other workers seemed to know her well, then it was an ‘odds on’ shot that the stranger wasn’t working for any pimps or anything.’
Pauline’s words had reinforced the Asian girl’s conclusions. She kept the coat ‘on her back’ and smiled at Pauline.
As she returned from the lavatory, Bennie huffed impatiently and scolded Pauline with a grin.

“Get your hands off her, she’s mine!”

With that she grabbed the Asian girl’s hand and virtually dragged her out of the shop. Outside she released her handhold and turned to the girl.

“D’you want a proper breakfast. There’s a greasy spoon around the corner. It’s the one your were chucked out of just before you were attacked.”

The girl nodded silently; obviously still slightly suspicious. Bennie ignored the girl’s circumspection and within minutes they were sat in the cafe were the ‘big breakfast’ was cheap, plentiful and served all day.

“What d’you want?” Bennie asked as the mandatory large mugs of tea appeared. The owner knew Bennie well and also the other girls from the charity shop for they bought most of their food there.

The Asian girl studied the menu and asked for the full breakfast. Bennie nodded and ordered some scrambled egg on toast for herself. As they waited, the girl kept glancing out of the window. Bennie watched her but said nothing. She was obviously some sort of runaway and a frightened one at that. Eventually the food arrived and the girl hurled herself at it. Bennie noted that the bacon and pork sausages went down with the same relish as the rest of the food so there were no dietary constraints.
‘But then,’ thought Bennie, ‘if the girl was starving, she would eat everything anyway. She tried a discreet probe.

“So, - you’re not a Muslim then. That was three rashers of bacon and two large pork sausages.”

The girl looked up as she munched on a second plate of toast and scraped the remains of Bennie’s scrambled egg onto her plate.

“I am actually, but I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, that’s no secret. Is your name a secret?”

“I’d rather not tell.”

Bennie shrugged, it was no skin off her nose. Bennie remembered the stories her dad had told her of the bad times when she was on the run all those long years ago. A crucial survival skill was anonymity when others were looking for you.

“D’you want some more? Another mug of tea perhaps.”

The girl nodded and finished the last round of toast. As they waited for their second teas the girl looked straight into Bennie’s watery blue-grey eyes.

“Why are you doing this?”

“You looked as though you needed it. You don’t see many kids today scrounging for food in garbage bins.”

“Thanks for last night. That guy is a pimp and he’s been trying to trap me for days.”

“And he will if you hang around in the same neighbourhood for too long. He’ll have cronies looking out for him.”

“So what am I to do?”

“I dunno’,” Bennie admitted. ‘Go to the police, report the crime, I dunno’.”

“Yeah! As if.”

“So what is it you’re running from, or can I not ask?”

“No.”

Bennie shrugged again. “So be it. It’s two o’clock now, I’ve got to go.”

“Where? That girl said you’d finished for the day.”

“So I have and you’ve no right to ask where I go either.”

“Okay. Touché, I suppose I asked for that.”

“Yes you did so cheerio. See you around. The offer’s always open; eight o’clock and six o’clock; Monday to Thursdays.”

With that Bennie stood up and paid at the till while exchanging banter with Eddie the proprietor. She next went to the loo again after two huge mugs of tea and was not surprised to find the Asian girl in the next stall. Having agreed not to ask any more questions, Bennie stayed silent, washed up and left. As she started to cross the street the girl appeared at her arm.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“I’ve no secrets. I told you six o’clock, station concourse as per usual. I’ll be there. I don’t lie.”

“I spoke to the guy in the restaurant; he said you go there most days.”

Bennie shrugged again.

“He’s not lying either; I do, well Mondays to Thursdays anyway. As I said, I’ve no secrets. Not like you; now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to be somewhere, see you later.”

Bennie speeded up her step and made her excuses. There was a new exhibition at the metropolitan museum and she was keen to see the work of a famous local artist named Jack Seymour from the gay village. Jack had started his career in Manchester and he was an old friend of Bennie’s. She liked his work but didn’t want to be seen buying from his studio. Nine-to-five working girls in Manchester could not afford Jack’s latter-day work and she had to maintain her subterfuge. Bennie had a number of Jack’s very earliest bits before he became famous and they were tucked away in her secret flat. Now, as Jack achieved fame, his later work ran to the tens of thousands of credits. He was now famous and his exhibition in the museum reflected that fame. A fame that Mancunians could reflect in. He was one of their gay sons.

The museum and the exhibition were free but the catalogue cost twenty credits so Bennie bought one and looked forward to an afternoon of peace and contemplation. She had changed her wig and clothes again at her secret ‘down-town, gay-village’ flat and donned her tinted glasses. That was one of the useful things about having access to huge loads of wonga. Bennie could buy and sell apartments at the snap of her fingers. Thus disguised she joined the other exhibition visitors who were arguing the merits and debating purchases, mostly as institutional investments. Bennie simply strolled around the exhibition savouring the art and smiling as she remembered her friend Jack when he was struggling to make it. At the end of a long exhibition hall she saw Jack signing some limited edition prints and she debated going over to chat to him then concluded reluctantly that it would do little good to expose her real identity, (which Jack knew from way back when Bennie had helped him out by knowingly buying some of his early pictures for slightly over the going rate.) She shrugged as she strolled slowly along the hall savouring Jack’s much pricier later works displayed on the screens.

‘There was plenty of art,’ she concluded ‘Jack obviously didn’t need her support anymore, though she might call in and purchase one incognito somehow, from his studio. She still liked his work and the more she saw of the exhibition, the more she liked.’

Having made the decision she turned to walk past Jack to study the rest of the exhibition in the next hall. As she turned she crashed into the Asian girl who was rushing somewhere. The collision knocked the slightly built Bennie for six, she crashed to the ground and her wig went flying, along with her tinted glasses and handbag. The girl cursed at first then recognised who she collided with.

“Oh shit! I’m sorry; I was bursting for a piss! Are you okay?”

The dazed Bennie sat up and started to replace her wig, - but not before Jack, her artist friend, had recognised her.

“Bennie! Bennie Ta--, - then Jack remembered, Bennie didn’t like her identity bandied about even though Jack actually knew her as ‘The Bennie Taff’ the transgendered member of the Taff children; - the one who wasn’t seen much or known about. The one who disappeared out of the limelight since some horrendous experiences during her early years at college. Fortunately nobody recognised Bennie as she had turned towards a fold in one of the exhibition screens to replace her wig. Only Jack, sitting facing the queue, had actually seen her face. The Asian girl had carried on for several feet before she recovered her balance and turned to apologise. She had not seen Bennie’s face either but she had heard the artist reveal her name. Even then she had made no connection between the ‘Bennie’ still seated on the floor recovering her composure in front of her and the Bennie Taff of the Taff clan. She apologised again and asked if Bennie was okay.

“Yes. I’m fine thank you, just a bit winded and startled. I’ll get up in a mo.”

“I’m just so sorry, fancy meeting you here.”

“And why would you be surprised to see my friend here?” Jack demanded of the unknown Asian girl as he excused himself from the signings and knelt down to check on Bennie.

“You okay love? I can get you a cup of tea.”

“Thanks Jack. That would be nice. I feel a bit dizzy.”

“Anything for you girl. It’s lovely to see you again and visiting my exhibition no less. You still like my work then?”

Bennie nodded and smiled but remained sat on the floor recovering her senses and the tea duly arrived. As she sipped it, Jack made a final check to see that she was okay then offered to meet her after the signings.

“See you at five o’clock Bennie, usual place and we’ll share one of those big fat beautiful scones we so used to enjoy, - and I’ll pay this time, I owe you.”

Bennie ginned as the old memories returned then she nodded, finished her tea and struggled carefully to her feet. With her balance restored she wagged her head slowly then looked around to resume studying the exhibition. Jack watched her briefly, confirmed she was okay then resumed the signings while explaining to the waiting culture vultures that ‘the girl’ had been an old friend from way back who’d helped him out a bit. Meanwhile the Asian girl had slipped out of the exhibition hall and gone for her urgent pee. She joined up with Bennie again as she studied Jack’s art.

“I thought you said you were going back to work.”

Bennie turned from the picture she was admiring and frowned.

“No. I said I had somewhere else to be. This is it; Jack’s exhibition.”

“Oh. Don’t you have a job then?”

“Yes. You saw me in the LGBT charity shop in the village.”

“But that’s charity work, I mean a proper job.”

“My job is my own private business, so what’s it to you?”

“But you’ve got money, you must have cos’ you bought me that food. Are you going to buy one of his pictures, they’re good?”

“Jee’ze! Where the hell d’you think I’d find fifty grand? You’re some nosey cow aren’t you?” Bennie snapped irritably. “I haven’t asked half as much about you and it’s obvious you’re on the lam or something. I don’t even know your name and here you are wondering if I’ve got money or summat. I don’t, as it happens,” Bennie lied, “well, not much anyway. Though I’m not broke or anything.”

“No, I can tell that by your clothes.” The Asian girl observed.

“Huh! Fine feathers," - Bennie sniffed as she bent down and squinted at a picture with a skewed perspective.

She turned to the Asian girl who had joined her in studying the distorted view.

“D’you think he’s done it deliberately, twisting the perspective like that to force you to look from the lower angle.” Bennie asked her, “it’s clever isn’t it?”

“Maybe he wants it to be hung high up to get the compensation right, like Leonardo did with the last supper and the table.”

“There’s a thought,” Bennie agreed as she silently considered buying the picture.

The view was truly a clever trick with perspective and a brilliant tromp l'oeile. Bennie decided to see Jack after the exhibition for there was not yet a sold sticker on it. In truth she wanted to buy it there and then but the damned Asian girl seemed to have attached herself to Bennie like some sort of hopeful parasite. Bennie would have been furious if the picture got sold before she could sort it without the damned girl constantly hanging by her side. In the end, her patience failed and she bluntly told the girl she had to go. Without brooking any protest, she walked out of the museum fuming to herself as she went and sat in the little park that bordered the Canal in the gay village. Then she slipped to her secret ‘hidey-hole’ apartment and changed her persona again. Thus differently disguised with new wig and tinted glasses, she sneaked back to the museum and checked that the picture was still for sale. She checked that the Asian girl wasn’t still around then she rudely used her friendship with Jack to queue jump and buy the picture there and then. Jack looked up a little embarrassed by his friend’s intrusion but he still had a huge soft spot for Bennie, ‘after all it was Bennie’s generosity in his early years that had kept him solvent and fed!’
As Bennie offered to pay for the picture Jack was rather embarrassed to have to tell her to see his agent by the exhibition entrance. Bennie snorted contemptuously.

“Bloody hell Jack. I never used to have to go through an ‘agent’ when you were starving!”

“It’s not that Bennie, it’s just she has to keep track of stuff that’s sold and what-have-you. It’s for commissions and the bloody tax man, you know what I mean.”

Bennie ginned her realisation, nodded and stalked off to see the agent. After buying the picture, she was further peeved to learn that even after she paid for it, it had to remain in the exhibition until the show closed on the Friday. Reluctantly she watched the agent mark the picture as sold in the inventory then followed her onto the exhibition floor to make sure the ‘sold’ sticker was firmly stuck onto the picture. As the agent stood back to study the picture she turned to Bennie.

“You see the trick he’s done don’t you?

“Yes,” Bennie replied, “that’s why I want it, it’s clever.”

“So obviously you like his work, I’ve never seen you before at the studio. How come he knows you?”

“Oh we’re old, old friends, I’ve been away.”

“Oh so you knew him before the good times then.”

“Long before the good times. I was his first customer.”

“What!!” The agent gasped.

“Me. Yes, I bought his first painting; it shows Canal Street in the spring just after the trees had budded. I’ve got about twenty of his very earliest paintings including that one, his first ever sale. ‘Spring on the canal’, it’s called and he painted it with me sitting outside on the pavement reading a magazine while my friend was doing her makeup. He said he’d chosen us because I had my favourite royal blue frock on and Denise had a cream blouse and red skirt. He wanted to capture the gay mood of the village and we were the two brilliant splashes of colour amongst the greens and the city street colours. Denise and I didn’t know he was
doing it until I got up to get two more coffees from the upstairs bar. I spotted him sitting inside the Rembrandt upstairs doing the picture as he looked down the street through one of the fancy upstairs gallery windows. He’d more or less finished it and I recognised myself so I told him I liked it.

He was a bit rude to me saying, 'If I liked it that much, why didn’t I fucking buy it?' So just to spite him, I did.
He wanted twenty quid, so I gave him twenty five and told him to,’ bring the ‘fucking coffees’ to me at the table and keep the fucking change.’ To my surprise he did. I thought he would have done a runner with the money. He stopped to chat to us and after that our friendship grew from strength to strength. We still laugh about it.”

“Oh my God!” The agent squealed again. “So you’re that Bennie!”

“Yes and don’t spread it around. You could ruin a beautiful friendship not to mention losing an excellent artist from your stable. Jack knows I don’t like to be bothered when I slip into Manchester incognito. I’m not here officially, okay!”

“Okay, mum’s the word. Did you say you had twenty of his earliest works?”

“Yes. Something like that, I’ve never counted them. I’ve got his very first sale, certainly; maybe his second and third as well. I bought them from him directly up in the Rembrandt bar that overlooks the street. I even sat with him sometimes, plying him with strong coffee to sober him up until he was fit to paint. Happy days those. I’ve certainly got his first sale and also his first ever effort to capture Manchester pride on canvas. That one’s a riot of colour, - always makes me cheerful.”
The agent looked stunned.

“My God d’you know what you’ve got there?”

“Yes. Jack’s first successful paintings. His first sales.”

“Jesus Christ Bennie! They’re not even catalogued! Did he sign them? Please tell me he signed them!”

Of course he bloody signed them. I made him. Some of the signatures are a bit shitty, when he got drunk and stuff but I still made him sign them, and date them. I wrote the titles on the back because I watched him paint most of them. Sometimes he was so pissed he could hardly remember. Often as not he sofa-surfed in my old flat and he signed them the next morning after he’d sobered up. Happy days those.”

The agent’s jaw just sagged further.

“Do you know the whole bloody art world is going cuckoo trying to find the original Manchester pictures? People knew they existed because lots of people saw him in the Rembrandt with a girl friend. Was that you?”

“Yes. And?”

“Well don’t you see!? They’re not just Jack’s earliest but they’re historical documents, the gay village through the eyes of Jack Seymour way back when!”

“Ha!! Well he was a very drunk Jack Seymour.”

“That’s immaterial, it all adds to the provenance. This is fantastic news!! Plee-eease can I see them?”

“Not now. I’ll bring them from my apartment to your studio. I don’t like people knowing where I live. It’s my secret hidey hole.”

“Does Jack know where it is?”

“No I sold the old place, the place where he used to flake out. Does he still get pissed?”

“No. He’s a changed man since his liver problems and his liver transplant.”

“I’m surprised he lived this long, God he could drink, - and fuck!” I smiled enigmatically.

The agent gave me a knowing look and I made my excuses before she could ask anymore. I went straight round to my downtown apartment in the village and changed into another ‘anonymous mode’ in case the Asian girl turned up to early. If we were to meet that evening, I would have the advantage.

At five, Jack turned up in our favourite cafe; the old ‘greasy spoon’ and we chewed the fat whilst enjoying one of Eddie’s famous plate-sized giant scones. Eddie recognised Jack but did not remember me for I was wearing a different outfit and wig from the morning. Besides, Eddie was too busy with the ‘going home’ crowd. As we chatted I spotted the Asian girl walking across the road towards the greasy spoon.

“Hey-up Jack. It’s the Asian kid again. My name’s still Bennie but I’m not you-know-who, okay.”

Jack nodded his understanding as she spotted him and walked into the cafe. Eddie gave her a cursory glance then ignored her as he saw her join Jack and me at our table.

“Are you that artist friend of Bennie’s?”

“Yes.” Jack replied. She looked hungrily at the giant scone and then at me then gasped with surprise.

“Oh shit! It’s you!”

“Yes it’s me. What d’you want?”

She eyed our giant scone and made a sideways motion with her head. It was a silent beseechment for a similar giant scone.
I nodded and caught Eddie’s eye as she returned eagerly to the counter to collect another scone along with butter, cream and a large dollop of raspberry jam. The inevitable huge mug of tea accompanied the order. The giant mugs of tea were a given in Eddie’s cafe.

As she munched her way through the scone, Jack and I talked art and about his agent’s wish to see my early purchases.

“She told me about you’re not wanting her to come and see them. Still cagey eh girl.” Jack grinned.

“Gorra’ be have’n I? You know the score.”

“Well I’ll be in her studio tomorrow, bring them over and I can authenticate them for her. She’ll want to catalogue them and that will bring her studio a bit of notoriety. The Museum staff are running the exhibition for the rest of the week. I’ve got to go, another bloody reception tonight, another bloody night of refusing the drinks. This bloody liver, - you know.”

“Thanks Jack, see you tomorrow afternoon. Byee-ee.”

As Jack left, the Asian girl eyed the remains of our shared scone. I took a little bit then pushed the plate towards her. As
she smeared butter, cream and jam over it she spoke.

“What was all that about. He’s that famous artist. How come you know him?”

“There you go again. Questions and more questions. Why should I tell you when I still don’t know your name?”
She paused thoughtfully.

“Well you can’t be some sort of agent sent to find me, everybody seems to know you around here including that Jack bloke and he’s famous. I know cos of the exhibition at the museum. My name’s Khatia and I am a Muslim.

“Yeah that explains a lot. What you running away from, an arranged marriage?”

“Yes. Exactly that. They want me to go to Pakistan and marry my first cousin. He’s horrible.”

“Well you don’t have to. You’re a UK citizen.”

“Yeah, tell that to my grandfather.”

“So that’s why you’re always on the look-out.”

“Yeah. They think I’m in London but this place is the best hide-out. They’re so bigoted and narrow-minded they wouldn’t even be seen dead around here. They probably think they’ll get infected with the ‘Gay Bug’ or something.”

“Are you gay?” I asked quite openly, to emphasise my total impartiality.

“I’m bi.”

“Well here’s lookin’ at you kid so am I. I’ve got to go now, my cat‘ll be wondering where I am.”

As I said this I realised I had inadvertently declared my status, - single! She must have picked up on this because her next words said it all.

“And I’m lonely,” she added, leaving the heavy hint hanging in the air.

I didn’t bite despite her stunning good looks. For all I knew she could still be a working girl or the bait in a honey trap so I stood up and made it obvious I was ‘not interested’ as I replied.

“Well, cities are lonely places. I won’t suggest you find a sheltered hostel or something because your family will possibly have feelers out in every big city. Bye for now. If you want a breakfast tomorrow, be here eight sharp. I’m opening up the shop at nine tomorrow, there’s a big event on.”

She looked at me with the disappointment writ large. Her effort to latch on to me had failed. For a moment I almost failed but
I stiffened my resolve and decided to wait this one out. Street-wise and hard bitten, that was me. I’d left her an ‘in’ with a further offer of breakfast. If she took it, things might progress, after all she was a stunning looker and I had heterosexual tendencies despite my partial transgenderism and transvestism.

On the maglev train to my out-of-town suburban apartment I reflected on our having met. I concluded she was looking more for a safe place to sleep than any form of relationship. Once home I fed my best friend MacDoolittle and set about my laundry. Wednesday was laundry night. I had to keep a fairly rigid schedule otherwise I would soon descend into a life of chaos. After loading the washing machine I gave the out-of-town apartment a quick clean and finally settled on the settee. As I stretched out and ate my bunch of grapes (Bacchanalian Style,) with my snuggle wrapped around me, MacDoolittle arrived, sniffed me out then curled up between my legs. It was a nightly routine we had grown to enjoy. Even immensely rich transgendered people couldn’t go out clubbing every night.

I switched on to the documentary channel and would you believe, there was a programme about homeless young people in the north of England with Manchester featuring heavily. It unsettled me and I couldn’t sleep properly that night wondering if Khatia was okay. I even forgot to empty the washing machine and only just remembered as I was freeing the cat-flap for MacDoolittle to ‘in and out’ during the day.

MacDoolittle had the run of the roof and he had worked out how to wait for the lifts and also use the back fire escape. The other residents knew him well; MacDoolittle was a far better socialiser than I was. A loud plaintive meow would usually bring somebody to open the lift and everybody knew he lived in the Penthouse. Only the best would do for MacDoolittle and he had made a particular friend of the concierge. ‘As far as MacDoolittle saw it, ‘he owned the concierge’ and brought him at least one mouse a week. The concierge didn’t mind, thanks to MacDoolittle’s efforts the whole block was mouse free in a suburban neighbourhood plagued by the field variety.

On the Thursday I was surprised to find myself relieved and pleased to see Khatia loitering on the station concourse. She spotted my short green winter coat, golden scarf and red bobble hat and smiled.

“Did you dress in those colours deliberately? I couldn’t miss you; you look like a traffic light.”

“Well you look like you slept the night in a shop doorway.”

Khatia’s face clouded and I realised I had said totally the wrong thing. She probably had, or at least something like.

“Sorry love, that was stupid and insensitive of me. Come on, let’s go and get that breakfast I promised you.”

Her mood didn’t perk up but she walked with me and we ate heartily. I had deliberately foregone breakfast in anticipation of stoking up at Eddie’s Greasy Spoon. He grinned at me as we entered then his knowing eye fell upon Khatia. He raised one eyebrow to me to check she was with me and I nodded discreetly. His response was to come from behind his ‘Jewish Piano’ and place two of the obligatory ‘industrial sized’ mugs of tea before us.

I caught Khatia’s eye and ordered two full breakfasts with extra toast. She smiled for the first time that morning and her winsome modesty simply tore down my resolve to remain dispassionate. Her breakfast disappeared at an alarming rate then I let her finish mine.

“You’d better go and wash up,” I suggested, “before the crowd starts.”

“Will he mind?”

“Who Eddie? No, not if you’re with me. Just speak to him and he’ll lend you the key to ‘The executive bathroom’.”

“What’s that?” Khatia frowned uncertainly.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, just ask him and say I sent you.”

She eased herself stiffly from the booth and glided over to Eddie. A few whispered words, a glance in my direction and a smile from Eddie garnished her access to Eddie’s personal washroom. Eddie was gay and fastidiously clean. He lived in a beautiful apartment ‘over the shop’ and had an additional lavatory and shower room down stairs just off from his stock room. I knew because I had helped Eddie buy the place and the rest of the block. I owned eighty per-percent of the building and Eddie had the remaining twenty. The rest of the block was successfully rented out. As with Jack the artist, I had known Eddie for years. He also owed me favours. I had just called one in.

I left before Khatia emerged from the bathroom but she met me again in the LGBT Charity shop.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” She asked as I dealt with a customer.

“Going to see Jack and his agent at the studio. What are you doing?”

She gave me a fatuous look and wagged her head.

“Same as every day, just hanging loose.”

I concluded she might be some use helping me carry the pictures so I invited her to help me. She jumped at the chance; it was something to fill the mindless, soul destroying ordeals of her days on the streets.

“Be back here at one. I’ll have to get a taxi.”

Khatia grinned hugely. She was waiting for me at twelve forty five precisely. I was getting to like Khatia and I decided she had as much to lose as me if her whereabouts became generally known. If I let her know I sometimes lived in an inner city apartment on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, it would do no harm. If she told other people, I warned her that I would bloody soon let her relatives know where she was. Her face went grey.

“You wouldn’t! Would you?”

“Yes.” I replied bluntly. “My secret life is as important to me as yours is to you, so I don’t live here okay.”

“She looked up at the converted warehouse and her eyes widened.”

“Is this where you live!?”

“Yes. And mum’s the word! Or I’ll tell your family where you are.”

“Good God! You must be loaded; this is one of the most expensive apartment blocks in Manchester!”

“Now! Shut it! I warned you; mum’s the word!”

She looked at me still with disbelief until I swiped the electronic key and the door swung back then she followed close on my heels. I gathered the twenty paintings and placed them into protective canvas bags before we hailed a cab and made our way to Jack’s agent’s studio. Jasmine his agent squealed with disbelief when she recognised me and realised I hadn’t been bull-shitting. Eagerly she peered into the bags then gasped with ever increasing excitement as she took each picture out.

“Oh my God. These are fantastic. Jack only ever spoke of these occasionally. Just wait until he gets here I’ll give him first ever sales. You do realise what these are worth don’t you?”

“Not really,” I confessed as Khatia stood behind me slowly grasping the truth while the agent carefully removed each painting from its canvas protector.

“There must be upwards of a million credits worth here. Ahh! Here we are; this must be Mardi Gras!”

I peered at the colourful painting and frowned.

“So what’s so important about Mardi Gras?”

“Don’t you know? Jack has painted a version of the parade every year since he started painting. The whereabouts of every other one is known except this one, the very first one. This is bloody history Bennie! Look at the detail Bennie; those two buildings have gone. There’s a high rise there now. This bloody painting is almost priceless!!”

As the agent’s voice rose an octave, Jack eventually appeared in the doorway.

“What ho Bennie. Are these all of them?”

I nodded as Jack studied them then turned to me.

“Can I ask you a big favour?”

“Anything for you big-boy, I grinned coyly.”

Jack blushed and the agent gave him a sharp stare as she caught my drift.

“So you were having a relationship!” She charged.

“Something like that.” Jack replied as she held the very first painting in his hand, me in my blue dress and Denise in her cream and red.

“D’you know Bennie, this is still my favourite. D’you remember me swearing at you?”

“Yes and me at you. I never got my bloody change back.”

“You told me to keep it!”

I grinned hugely. Jack had remembered every detail and that pleased me. I continued.

“So what’s the big favour?”

“Can I put these in the exhibition? Now, this afternoon.”

“Will the museum let you do that? Don’t they usually have some arty-farty twat poncing about and rabbiting on about the layout?”

“It’s my exhibition. Besides, it’ll be the first time ‘Mardi Gras One’ has ever been exhibited in public. It’ll be a huge feather in their caps. Most of that series is in the National; - on loan from various owners.”

“What about insurance?”

“That’s no problem,” squealed the agent, “oh this is just so fabulous!”

I shrugged and agreed to it. Jack smiled and promptly endorsed the back of each of my paintings. He grinned at some of my ‘captions’ and suggested I change the titles.

“I wouldn’t have called it that.”

“Bugger off,” I snapped, “you couldn’t have called it anything; - you were too pissed to call a fucking taxi. After you’d finished the painting, you spent all night in my bed; - snored your bloody head off after fucking me stupid!”

“Yeah but it was nice wasn’t it?”

I grinned from the memories and agreed with him.

“Yeah. The whole bloody year was nice wasn’t it?”

jasmine the agent blushed slightly as also did Khatia.

“Right gentlemen, now that the seedy reminiscing is over shall we sort these pictures out and catalogue them.”

"Hey. less of the seedy! It was a wonderful time for us, Jack was probably at his most creative! Now; here are my stipulations. The titles remain as I described them. I paid for them, I even bloody commissioned some of them and I still own them. My pictures; - my titles! Anyway he was too pissed to give them titles!”

Jack nodded and smiled.

“Okay, have it your way. I was only winding you up Bennie. Besides, the Titles are already on the back. Did you do that?”

“Yes and if you can’t remember, it shows just how pissed you’d got after finishing them.”

Jack shrugged and had the decency to be embarrassed then we catalogued the paintings, photographed them and enlightened the museum. The head curator and his art associate were around in less than fifteen minutes. They were every bit as excited as Jack’s agent. We packed all the paintings then with my permission and company we took them to the museum. With this job finished I returned to my village apartment and decided to invite Khatia in. I thought she would be hesitant but she almost tore my arm off.

In the apartment I could tell she wanted to pump me about a thousand questions but I gave out clear vibes that I was not in a divulgent mood. Instead, I made coffee and settled into my favourite settee. Khatia settled on the opposite settee and within moments she was fast asleep. I carefully untied her shoes and grimaced at her filthy feet; the poor kid probably hadn’t bathed properly for ages. I lifted her in my arms, ‘God she was light, - probably malnourished!’ then I carried her into the spare bedroom and laid her on top of the bed. Finally, I took a blanket from the linen cupboard and let her lie; it was probably the first soft bed she’d slept on in months. There were some good programmes on the telly that night and that, coupled with a few hours surfing the net, finally sent me to sleep. In the morning, the sound of the shower in the second bedroom gradually dragged me from my slumber. I showered quickly, slipped into my bathrobe then made some breakfast before she finally emerged. She had obviously indulged herself in the hot water and abundant shampoo. I turned from the stove as she appeared with a bath towel tucked over her breasts and another towel turbaned around her hair in true girly style. I smiled.

“Sleep well?”

“Yes. Thanks for everything.”

“You’re welcome, d’you need clean underwear?”

She blushed and nodded.

“My bedroom, dressing table, right hand first drawer. We’re about the same size. The cotton ones in cellophane are obviously unused. Don’t know about the bras though.”

I finished looking pointedly at her impressive boobs then glancing at my own modest efforts.
She grinned then asked.

“Can I borrow a skirt and top? We’re about the same size.”

“Okay; if you must but you’d better eat this first. My blouses will be a little tight on you. You’d better choose something stretchy.”

I set out the scrambled egg, fried tomatoes and toast and she smiled wryly.

“No bacon or sausages I see.”

“You can’t be that hungry any more or are you unconcerned?”

“I eat it. The dietary rules shouldn’t apply to me anymore. It was all to do with genuinely unclean meat. Modern hygiene means pork is safe.”

“That’s very advanced thinking for a Muslim.”

“Hey! We’re not all blind adherents to outdated medieval mores. That’s why I ran away. My grandfather’s blind adherence to almost every single thing just wound me up. Bacon may have been Harram years ago but for God’s sake. Besides, it tastes good, especially sausages.”

I shrugged and drunk my coffee. Almost as soon as I realised that the religions still tended to condemn me for being transgendered I’d never ever bothered with religion. Oh the churches paid lip service to transgenderism but there was an underlying antagonism. For transgendered people the whole religion kick was devastating.

After finishing her breakfast, Khatia looked around my flat and frowned.

“I think you’ve been lying to me.”

“How?” I demanded.

“You must be loaded to own this place. You said you didn’t have much money.”

“’Much’ is a relative word.”

“Okay then what about those paintings. That agent said they were worth maybe a million.”

“They weren’t when I bought them. Jack Seymour was a down at heel bum when I bought them off him. It’s just that I spotted something in his work and then everybody did. I bought those paintings for twenty credits apiece and even then I paid him over the odds. Plus he got to shag me. We were lovers then. He’s moved on, so have I.”

“So what d’you do now that you can afford this place? D’you do drugs or something?”

“No.”

“So how can you live here? These places cost an arm and a leg.”

“I get by. I’ve got a job, anyway! It’s no concern of yours. You’re nothing to do with me. You’re just a kid off the streets. I don’t have to explain myself to you!”

Khatia finished the last of her coffee and shrugged.

“Be like that then. I’ll hold you to the clothes thing and go.”

I shrugged again and switched on my lap-top while I waited for Khatia to finish dressing. Then she dressed herself. When I emerged from my bedroom, Khatia was gone but a quick check confirmed nothing appeared to be missing. I locked up and went to work. I didn’t expect to see Khatia again and this saddened me. I had secretly hoped the girl might come to the shop.

‘The girl seemed to be getting under my skin.’