Wherein those concerned, or merely mildly curious, about David's fate may find some answers. That elusive 'Why?' being finally cornered. As well as revelations concerning impending global disasters. There is a walk in 'wild untrodden ways' as well as train, car and boat journeys.

No Plymouth gin although a thirst is slaked by beck-chilled ale. There is a poem by Anne but Grace de Messembry is untypically silent.

Because David's tale is slow in its serialisation, and long in the telling, it was suggested to me that the following character list might help in jogging reader's memories.
Hope it does.

Previously encountered Characters in order of appearance/mention.

David. (Victor Jackson)The hero whose adventures we follow. Generally referred to by others as Sophie. ‘Recruited’ and then subjected to months in ‘Reception’ before progressing to the ‘Holding Wing’ where much of the subsequent action, apart from his stay in the hospital facility, took place. Subsequently ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre at Helgarren Hall where his transition has been assiduously pursued by all apart from David.

Anne She was already at the Holding Wing before David’s arrival. Her background is that of a boy saved from drug abuse and social problems by one of the charitable organisations under the aegis of the VenumAnne.ar foundation. Was ‘promoted’ to the Finishing Centre with David. Owns Bramble, a small puppy.

Emma. Was also at the Holding Wing before David' arrival, but is a genetic girl. She represents the other, outwardly charitable, function of the Holding Wing, which is the education and training of girls coming from under-privileged and troubled backgrounds. Now graduated from the Holding Wing returning as a junior staff member. Together with Anne is a support to, and confidante of, David.

Grace de Messembry. Majority, perhaps sole, shareholder in the Venumar Foundation, which in itself is the controlling influence of numerous international companies. She is apparently the source and instigator of all David’s current woes.

Amanda A minor character. Apparently personal assistant to, occasional driver for, Grace de Messembry

Helen Vanbrugh. Grace de Messembry's close confidante on whom she appears to exercise a moderating influence. She was at David's first interview when he was named Sophie. It is to be assumed that she has director status in the Venumar Foundation. She facilitated David’s move to The Finishing Centre, offering to use her influence with the Principal there that he may receive a special non-hormonal dispensation. This promise was however unfulfilled.

Laura. David’s mentor in the ‘Holding Wing’. Her other charges then being Anne and Emma.

Dr. Tabatha O’Neill. Staff. Psychiatrist/Hypnotherapist

Dr. Pinecoffin. Overall Executive Head of Helgarren Hall. Together with Grace de Messembry and Helen Vanbrugh she was present at David's initial interview after his stay in Reception.

Mona. Was already at the Holding Wing when David arrived. Genetically male but such has been her progress that she outwardly is very much female. Was originally sponsored by Asian businessmen.

Simon. A member of the Rook Club/Writers' Guild whom David chose 'faute de mieux' as a possible boyfriend when pressurised to find one. David has had one fumbling encounter with him which did not however lead to a complete consummation of their putative relationship. He was injured in an abortive escape plan.

It should be remembered that the plot unfolds through the eyes of David. The descriptions of the people above conform to David’s understanding of their function, character, etc. Use of words such as ‘seemingly’, ‘perhaps’, and ‘apparent’ are because the facts, or surmises, can only be as David understands them. The reader has no other authority from whom he or she can seek verification.

Chapter 46.

Ullswater lay below him. Dark blue rippled with silver cats' paws. The steamer slowing as it approached the jetty at Glenridding. Early that morning he had been on board it as it slid in the opposite direction, brushing aside the mist tendrils still shrouding the then pewter surface, on its way to Pooley Bridge.

David leaned back against the rock, drinking in the view of the lake and the fells on the far side. Dark greens and browns and oranges, fading far off into a warm purple grey. His own 'blue remembered hills' of childhood holidays. Hellvelyn, Glencoyne and Skybarrow Crag. Holidays clear in his memory as eternal sunfilled days when he had known the unshadowed happiness that perhaps only someone of that age can know. A happy, sunfilled, time always associated in his mind with his now dead, long dead, father and mother.

Helgarren seemed a long way away.

From Pooley Bridge he had walked back along the side of the lake, its shore line to his right, to Howtown. Then climbing higher up the fell, the lake falling away beneath him, along a rougher, hardly discernible, track. No other walkers. Northing but a few herdwick sheep. He had chosen it for that. For the solitude. Although at the back of is mind the thought lurked that Anne and Bramble would so enjoy it. That the solitude was somehow incomplete without them.

He wondered what had happened to them. To Anne and Bramble, and to Emma. Did they know ....? They must by now. That he had gone. But they could not be sure .... They would not know if he was not even now in Rehabilitation or perhaps in hospital recovering from whatever the live cable did to one's sensitive parts. Unless .... Unless they had been held to account.

Aiding and abetting.

What would the Venumar Foundation do to them? Emma was an employee. Perhaps they would sack her? What else could they do? Anne .... well there were lots of things they could do to Anne but they would all be counter-productive surely? Anne had agreed to be .... what they wanted her to be. To be Anne. And punishing her would fulfil no purpose. There was Bramble of course. He they could kill. Just to make the point. But what point? Not because they had said they would, because Anne and Emma were not aware of that threat. That had been made to him alone and never actually stated. Only implied. And only to ensure he found a boyfriend. Which he had. Even if subsequently he had nearly killed the bloody man.

So if they killed Bramble it would just be an act of vindictiveness .... or of blind anger.

No. Surely not even Grace de Messembry would do that. She never did anything without a reason. Emotion did not rule in her heart, if heart she had.

Whatever had happened, there was no going back. Too late to undo what had been done. He had first to try to heal himself. Find himself again. Try to undo what could be undone.

He rose, took a couple of paces to his right, stooped and extracted from the swift running beck a bottle of Hobgoblin Ale that had been cooling there for the last twenty minutes. Sat down again and fumbled in his knapsack for an opener and his sandwiches. At least going down would be more comfortable with a lightened load on his back. He rubbed the top of his shoulders reflectively. Two sore spots where the straps of the knapsack had rubbed on the metal adjustments of his bra straps.

A bite and a swallow. Cool in his throat. Eyes closed savouring the moment.

Helgarren seemed a long way away.

Five whole days away. Five whole days since he had escaped, cramped in the back of the Volvo, hardly daring to breathe, let alone move, lest he be discovered.

Those first three minutes would, he thought, remain with him for the rest of his life. The three minutes as the car moved down towards the Gateway. Three minutes of uncertainty, of growing fear that the wren's message was but a trap, that the cable would be active. Of fear of the certain physical agony that awaited him: fear of the agony that would accompany the final destruction of his manhood..

Then less than three minutes. Much less. And escape seemed foolish. He could stop it now .... He could ....

And then there had been a slight bump as the car crossed the sleeping policeman guarding the Gateway.

Three seconds now. Hardly time. His body tensed for what was to come.

A slowing .... and then another bump as the car exited over the sleeping policeman at the other side.

The sweat cold on his body.

The car accelerated smoothly away down the rest of the drive, slowed again, stopped momentarily, re-started and David felt the stress on his body indicating a hard left turn as it joined what must be a public highway.

It took about an hour that journey. Although if you were to have asked David on its completion, but before he had had time to consult his watch, he would have sworn it had taken three. He dare not move, dare not shift his weight or rearrange his limbs to relieve the ache of immobility that seized them after the first five minutes. His hip and shoulder resting on the floor of the car seemed on fire. The luxurious carpeting, the technically advanced suspension, availed nothing. Not that he could just lie there completely inert. He had to tense his body against the corners, against the acceleration and de-acceleration, compensating for the car's movement whilst not himself moving, not making any noise, himself.

He hurt and could not even whimper in his distress.

He must surely have made some noise. Some shift of body, some re adjustment to compensate for corners. Surely it could not have been otherwise. But Amanda had turned on the radio, something Wagnerian on Radio Three. Played loudly. David had never even liked Wagner but for that hour, on that night, he was a fervent fan.

When the car did finally come to a parked rest and Amanda had retrieved the attaché case from the back seat and left, David forced himself to count slowly up to one hundred, before easing his tortured limbs into a fresh position. Then with infinite care he pushed up the foldable panel covering the luggage space and peered out. A hotel car park. The Du Maurier.

David swung over the back seat and almost tumbled out of the door, his limbs so stiff that they would not at first obey him. Grace de Messembry had said that Amanda was to wait ten minutes at the hotel reception..... but would she? Best to get out now and as far away as possible as soon as possible just in case. Don't run though. Don't act suspiciously. Don't anything out of the ordinary.

Out of the car park on to the street. Where the hell was he anyway? A cluster of fingerposts on the corner. The Market Place, The Cathedral Close .... it must be Salisbury! The Station .... ! David glanced down at his watch. Ten minutes past ten. He had fifteen minutes. He still had time. Down the road walking quickly, but not too quickly, behaving normally. Just a young girl retuning from seeing her mother, boyfriend. Just a young girl catching the last train back to London.

One hundred yards, round the corner and the station was there. It couldn't have been more convenient if he had ordered a taxi himself. A cash point. A quick prayer. Enter pin number. Enter amount.  £250. Let the credit card be genuine and not an elaborate hoax by the Foundation.

'Wait'. 'We are counting your money'. 'Take your card'. Take your Money'.

Money in his hands. An automatic ticket machine. A single to London. Just a single. Not a Return. Use the card again. He may need the cash before the night was out. What was the limit he could draw in 24 hours? He would have to stack it up. Use the maximum whilst it did not matter if he left a trail.

On the platform. Keep in the shadows. Seven minutes to wait. Check watch again. Still nearly seven minutes. Keep calm. Not many people at this end of the platform. Quite a few at the other end though. Young people mostly. God! Still six minutes to go even if it were on time. Please let it be on time.

Should he stay were he was? Would he be more noticeable by himself? Or should he go the other end. Safety in numbers. Would they see he was not a girl? What would they do, say? If he had to sit with them, would they suspect? Would they.....?

Still five minutes .... He wouldn't look again .... Not yet .... But there was no reason to worry .... Unless they had noticed he had gone. Maybe Simon had told them ....? And they had forced Anne, or Emma? It was obvious where he would be ... even if Anne and Emma said nothing. They could read train time tables as well as he..... Probably knew the time of the last train off by heart anyway. ....

The train must be late! Jesus! Another four minutes to go.

What was that announcement? First class compartments would arrive at the gold platform sector. How did one know which bloody sector was which .... how on earth .... Oh .... yes .... He might have guessed. He would need to go down towards the other end. Join the crowd.

'The train now arriving at Platform ....'

Jesus it was early! But of course it had to arrive first. People had to board first. Ten twenty five was the departure time.

And then the blessed moment when, settled deep in a corner seat, he saw the platform commence to move, commence to slide slowly to one side away from the train, until the train itself stole the initiative back and, quickly gathering momentum, left the station behind, the sign 'SALISBURY' just an illuminated flicker in the dark.

It was warm in the compartment. David took off the coat Emma had lent him and placed it with his bag on the rack. He sat back and stared out of the window as the events of the last couple of hours relived themselves disjointedly in his mind's eye. Stared out of the window at the lights of the outside world flashed by. Flashed by. Flashed by.

And through and beyond the chatter of the young voices at the table on the other side of the corridor he seemed to hear the tones of Dr. Tabatha O'Neill urging him to rest. Inviting him to sleep, to find a forgetting in slumber. To relax. To sleep.

A hand on his shoulder gently shaking him. A young girl's voice.

“We're here sweetie. Wake up or they'll take you back.”

Back! No! He came fully awake with a jolt.

A girl's laugh. “You were out to the world sweetie. A classic case of burning the candle at both ends I shouldn't wonder. Lucky you!.”

It was a girl from the group opposite.

David smiled at her, muttered his sleepy thanks.

It was worth a taxi to his flat. Time was important. And it mattered not if they traced it afterwards. They would know by then where he had gone. But he gave the cabbie an address in an adjacent road and walked the last fifty yards. On the other side of his street. Cautious, watchful. No sign of anyone. No lights showing. He had to chance it. Time was an enemy.

A basement flat with a small garden. It had been his pride and joy. He felt inside the short length of earthenware drain pipe that sheltered the roots of a clematis a yard to the left of the door. Taped to its inside were his keys. House, garage and car. Still there. A minor miracle.

Inside it was as if he had never been away. Apart from being tidier. No mail behind the door. All hoovered, dustless and clean. Aired and waiting for him. Welcoming him home.

Not that he could stay. They would be looking for him. Perhaps already on their way or telephoning ahead to .... to whomsoever had taken him in the first place.... Even being here now was a risk, but there were things he needed.

His mother's écritoire, a beautiful early Georgian piece, had a secret drawer. A not unusual feature perhaps but this one had always fascinated him even as a boy, and when he had inherited he had found in it some of the love letters written to her by his father when they had first met. They were still there together with the letters they had written to him when he was sent away to his first prep school in those far off homesick days. Also copies of his Birth Certificate tucked away in returned acceptance forms from his University and from his Passport Application.

In the right hand drawer of the écritoire was the passport itself and car registration documents. A whole bundle of semi official documents and correspondence. Careless of Venumar to leave them lying about. Although, as they couldn't have foreseen his being able to reclaim them, understandable enough.

He gathered up all into a plastic shopping bag he found hanging on the back of the kitchen door.

On the top of the écritoire was his laptop. David hesitated. It would be useful but .... he wasn't sure .... Could they trace its location? Wasn't there some sort of address you were identified by? He wished he knew more about it. And even if that had no relevance, the Venumar experts could well have bugged it, altered its wireless capabilities, got it to transmit as well as receive.... He just didn't know.

It was too risky.

He needed to travel light. Leave no trace. Take no electrical gadgets lest they had been tampered with. His eyes fell on a large silver framed photograph of his parents, taken on that the first summer holiday of his prep school days. Eight he must have been. The first of three glorious summers, the memory of which had been so instrumental in deciding to where he would flee, where he would hide.

That at least he could take.

And if not his Mini Hi-Fi then at least his CDs and DVDS. They lay in two racks next to his equipment. Too big for the plastic bag but he had an old hold-all in his wardrobe. Bung everything, plastic bag and all, in that.

No room for clothes unless he brought the car round and loaded it. Too risky, he had already stayed too long. Clothes he could get later .... when he knew .... better stay as a girl for now. Now the essential was to vanish. Not without trace though .... not immediately.

His garage was only about 150 yards away, round the back in a row of ten. Half way there the thought struck him that his battery would be as dead as a dodo. He had a simple re-charger but that would take hours. There was an all night petrol station another half mile down the road. Would they sell batteries? Or was it only petrol at this time of night? Even if they did the thought of struggling back laden with a battery was not a welcome one.

At least the car was still there. As if he had never been away. He slung everything apart from his hand bag in the boot. The garage was on a slight incline that continued down the street that it gave on to. If he could get it rolling then perhaps it would jump start? Key in .... turn .... automatically .... just in case..

There was a click, a whirr, a slight cough, and the engine thrummed. Christ! Another minor miracle. Never mind. Don't look a gift horse .... Thank you God.

The seat belt sat oddly on his breasts, made him conscious of them. He ran his hand down its length, settling back in his seat, as he adjusted the belt's path over his right shoulder and down between them.

Out of London going west along the M4. Into Bath around 4 o'clock in a cold, still dark, morning. The adrenalin that had sustained him had long gone now and he was desperately tired. He parked in a hotel car park and slept for three hours. Then in the car's vanity mirror he repaired his make up and hand brushed his clothes back to some semblance of decency before persuading the early morning receptionist to waive the hotel's 'not before 11.00 a.m. rule' for a a room.

“You poor darling,” she had sympathised, “You look absolutely bushed. You need a long hot bath .... Let me see .... 237's free.”

As she gave him the key she smiled and added.”Man trouble I suppose. They are beasts .... all of them!”

The next day, Monday, he was in Bristol where he again booked into a hotel before selling his car. Cash. No questions asked.

The following day he took an early morning train to Exeter where in the local paper he found the replacement he needed. A car like thousands of others. Nondescript. Low mileage. And not from a garage where there would be CCTV scanners. And not with a credit card.

A private sale by a retiring teacher whose brother's death had just left her the proud owner of a rather smarter, newer, one. David explained that he had only yesterday flown in from the Middle East. He wondered if it would be possible for him to use her, Mrs. Fenton's, address to give to the DVLA for the return of the registration documents and he would either pick them up later or ring her to forward them when he had managed to find a permanent address. Mrs. Fenton who had followed in the footsteps of the receptionist at Bath, in suspecting that David had suffered some disappointment at the hands of a husband or partner, was only to willing to oblige in a spirit of feminine solidarity.

David filled in his own details, with the 'J' of Jackson missing a little of its tail. More like a 'T' which indeed corresponded to the name he had given to Mrs Fenton. .... Sophie Tackson. So if anyone did search alphabetically.... And yet if ever challenged he could always claim a misprint, a typo. That is if ever anyone noticed.

That night he spent in a small B&B, again paying by cash, and then next morning he doubled back North along the M5, bypassing Bristol, north to the M6 before branching west to Kendal. Another small B&B and then, next day, a tour of the local estate agents.

In those last hectic days at Helgarren, in between all the flurry of activity preparing for the ball, all the agonising over the escape plans and possibilities, David's thought processes had perhaps not been models of lucidity. One thing he had been clear on though was were he would go if and when he did escape. Large cities were always supposed to give anonymity. People not knowing their neighbours, shifting populations, self obsessed life styles maybe. And yet David did not want to be surrounded by people. He feared daily contact with strangers when, as seemed likely, he would initially have to pass as a woman. Helgarren may have prepared him to be a woman but it had given him little experience in living as one in the outside world. A world in which he would encounter men who might be predatory, or at least ..... well more unpredictable. Less ultimately harmless than Simon. He feared that for all the cities' reputed anonymity he would feel exposed.

And yet the country? Village life where everyone knew one's business. Settled rural communities where newcomers would be subject to close scrutiny and gossip?

And then it had come to him. A tourist area. A countryside where a transient population lived with, but on a different strata than, the residents. Where tourists, the grockles, were with, but not of, a community. Too fleeting to waste the effort of getting to know, too transitory to repay curiosity. Where one could exist in a bubble, seeing and being seen but not being noticed.

And of theses places the Lake District was special to him. The place of his boyhood happiness. Moreover it had tourists all year round. Walkers and climbers whatever the season.

And so he had searched the estate agents until he had found on an off-season short winter let. A small isolated cottage in a dale near Ullswater. Normally a holiday cottage, the owner was only to pleased to rent it for the winter months. As long as he vacated before Easter.

Before Easter he would know. Before Easter, if he were not back in Helgarren, he would know.

He had taken it in the name of David Williams, explaining that such has the name of his brother who had been delayed and asked him, Sophie, to arrange things on his behalf as both would be staying there. The payment of a month's rent in advance, together with a somewhat exorbitant deposit, had stilled any questioning.

And last night he had slept there. Eaten in the little kitchen-cum-dining room. Sat before the log burner in the snug sitting room, watching the flames' reflections play on the white walls. Listened to a CD of Vivaldi's 'The Four Seasons'. Slept in one of the two small bedrooms whose eaves dropped low over floor level windows. Slept deep and well and long. And if there were dreams he could not recall them on waking. Just the feeling of being refreshed and at peace.

That next morning, today, he had set out to walk. To recapture the reality of other years. Make-up still had to be applied with care. He could not risk arousing doubt that he was other than what he had to be .... Open air girl was difficult though. More difficult than ballroom sophisticate. Understatement was the real test as Mrs. Townsend had always maintained. Then sports bra and plain cotton sloggis. Sensible sweater and jeans together with a Berghaus Ladies Mountain Fleece and a pair of fell walking boots which he had bought the day before in Kendal.

David opened his eyes. Took another bite, another swallow. Came back to the present. Came back to the fells looking down on the lake, across to Glenridding and the mountains beyond.

Helgarren seemed a long way away.

“Never set off for a long walk in new boots.” David could hear his Father's voice echo down the years. Although these were soft and light, expensively so, David's feet endorsed the wisdom of his words. No blisters, but still a certain soreness around his ankles and under his heel. Still the worse was over. Downhill all the way now and no food to carry

He would have to move soon. His car was parked at Patterdale. A good ninety minutes rough walking away and the sun was already low above the hills to his front.

Another half hour perhaps. To rest. To think. To plan for his future.

At least now he knew. About the bare branches. It was funny really. After all those months when the question had plagued him. When it had seemed that the answer would in some way solve everything. And now, when he had the book, when he had the answer, it seemed of little importance. Helen and Laura and Dr. Tabatha had all been right. Knowing didn't really make any difference. What had sustained him then, now seemed .... an intellectual curiosity belonging to .... to another time, another place. Belonging to, contained within, Helgarren.

For all its enormity, he felt strangely divorced from the truth it revealed.

He had not even opened Helen's present until last night. Had even then fallen asleep with the book on his lap, and the Four Seasons lapping round him, shortly afterwards. It was nearly eleven before he had finally started to skim through the first few chapters before bed.

It was as he had remembered from the brief glance he had had of it in Dr. Pinecoffin's office. A two tone blue cover depicting trees silhouetted stark against a wintry sky. Leafless trees. And the authors' names, Valerie Hudson and Andrea den Boer, under the title 'Bare Branches'. Its theme was skewed sex ratios, abortion, sex-selective technologies, or simple infanticide, throughout south-central and eastern Asia. There was evidence of massive numbers of missing females in Bangladesh, Nepal, Pakistan, Taiwan, Vietnam, and South Korea, although it was in China and India that the real danger lay. In those two countries reside forty percent of the world's population and it is there where infanticide is widespread.

The China the birth sex ration has reached 120 boys for every 100 girls. The number of surplus males was now more than one hundred and eleven million.

The Chinese term for men who will never have families because there are just not enough women to go around is — 'bare branches'.

One hundred and eleven million surplus males, one hundred and eleven million bare branches in China alone.

That had brought David fully awake. Violence and crime are the usual consequences of surplus males. One hundred and eleven million of them didn't bear thinking about. The authors argued that the only way for a country to absorb such an enormous surfeit of young men may be to build up vast armies. And if one has a vast army then there is always the temptation to use it. Not only are there the possible spoils of conquest but also the side benefit of resolving the imbalance in the population by providing the young men with a glorious cause for which to die.

Not that it was much better in India. Within thirty years their population is expected surpass China's at 1.46 billion. In the capital Delhi the sex ratio has fallen to just 865 girls to 1,000 boys, and it is estimated that of the countrywide 3.5 million abortions per year 90% are to eliminate girls.

The book hadn't been the only thing in Helen's parcel. There was also half a dozen sheets of A4 stapled together. Headed simply 'Climate Change', it must be the same as the file that Anne had glimpsed because underneath was printed 'RESTRICTED — SENIOR MANAGEMENT'. And the words. 'From the Office of Grace de Messembry to Helen Vanbrugh.'

David fished in the back of his rucksack and commenced to read.

It was, as they had half guessed, the other factor in the equation. But it wasn't really an equation. Not the normal 'x + y = z' sort of thing. More of an explosion. It provided the background to the fears raised in the 'Bare Branches' being realised.

Without it, without climate change, the abnormal sex-ratio was a distant worry. Something far away that belonged in Committee Rooms at the United Nations. A vague out-of-focus possibility thrust into the background by more pressing worries.

But with it? But with it it became more likely, much more likely. Perhaps even inevitable.

The last two sheets were largely taken up with references to various authorities, their studies and prognostications. The first sheets were mainly just short excerpts from these. All the same message though.

The effects of global warming would fall particularly heavily in Asia. Indeed it was already happening.

Higher temperatures mean more evaporation, more intense storms, and more rapid snow melt. China's Yangtze basin, home to 400 million people, has suffered severe flooding of late. Many deaths, much destruction. Typically each time it happens 11 million acres, 3% of national cropland, are flooded.

The Yangtze is fed by Himalayas which are melting. On the other side of the Himalayas is the Indian sub-continent. Equally vulnerable

And in Northern China, safe from flooding perhaps, but encroaching deserts there threaten the livelihoods of another 400 million people.

Not to mention the low lying coastal regions and rising sea levels.. Millions more people dispossessed. Dispossessed migrants or simply dead.

Several pages with such examples given apparently at random. What stuck in the mind were the figures involved. The number of people effected. The picture of disruption, the collapse of social cohesion, the displacement of population masses, of migrations even. The growth of rampant nationalism fuelled by governments striving to maintain some sort of control over increasingly desperate unruly populations

The sheets contained no mention of the Bare Branches. Only the words “And the 111 million bare branches?” had been written, added in an delicate clear hand, in the margin on the front page.

“And the 111 million bare branches?” Accompanied by a small smiley face.

David sat looking out over the lake to the hills beyond. A beautiful day, an idyllic view. A haven far removed from global catastrophes. So far removed that it was difficult here and now to take it all seriously, to comprehend it.

Far removed from Helgarren even. And yet that must be the link. International government funding for an experiment? A pilot scheme? It still seemed far fetched. Christ there were one hundred and eleven million of them .... and that was only in China. Although it did explain why Mona had been sponsored by the Indian businessmen .... And the Minister of State's visit come to that. But still ..... Surely he would have read about it in the newspapers? Not a day went by without something on climate change, without everyone being urged to watch one's carbon footprint, so surely it would have mentioned .....? Wouldn't it?

Unless of course they didn't know what they could do about it? Thought that there was nothing to do about it? No votes in advocating a policy of despair. Not even in one of closing ones eyes and hoping for the best. Not openly at any rate.

Still....

A very large orange bottomed bumblebee landed on his knee and he remembered another summer afternoon when he had watched Bramble stalk its twin. He hoped that they, Anne, and Emma, and indeed Bramble, had suffered no consequences because of his flight. And suddenly, gut-twistingly, he missed them. Missed them all.

Forget the bare branches. He had his own war to fight, to win. He owed it to them to become David again. The old David, not the present Sophie look-alike. Not a David who everyone thought was a girl. Not a David that chose to dress as a girl because passing as one was less likely to excite comment than appearing as a man. Not a fat-arsed man with breasts and a wiggle in his walk who every night dreamt he was a girl. Dreamt and enjoyed the dream.

He must stop taking the hormones. Since he had left Helgarren he had maintained his daily dosage. The escape period had been difficult, mentally draining and he felt that the last thing he needed was to fight on two fronts. But now he was away. Now that he had indeed escaped it was time to stop. Time to beat the addiction. Addictions could be beaten. People gave up smoking all the time. And heroin too, and cocaine. Surely if he hadn't any pills he couldn't take them? If he had to suffer, however great the suffering, if he hadn't got them....

If he threw them all away. Threw them away this evening .... then he couldn't take them .... if he had none .... he couldn't take them ....

No. He mustn't risk being disabled yet. Not until he was settled in. Suppose he was ill, really ill and someone called a neighbour? What if ....? He must first prepare for all eventualities. Perhaps try cutting down on them. Once a day for a week and then once every other day, or perhaps or twice in three days or.... He must plan. Must work out a routine. Stick to it rigidly but at the same time be flexible to accommodate any variations in his physical reactions.

He would start tomorrow. Just cutting down first. Taking it one day at a time. The same with the OGTA. That was the most humiliating. The hormones were only pills but the OGTA .... David shuddered. Dr. Walters had linked the two as multiplying his addiction. If he could wean himself away from the OGTA and the contents of its cartridges, then stopping taking the hormones might be a lot easier. So perhaps..... Yes he should start there. This evening he wouldn't ..... Or at least tomorrow. He must have a plan. A timetable.

Uncle Silas was another problem. The enhancer ring round his penis was not a threat now he was outside the Helgarren cordon. Still both it and the Uncle Silas in his scrotum needed to be removed if his sperm production and his testosterone levels were to return to normal. Well return at all. Please God they could recover, that the effective castration was in fact only temporary. But that he couldn't rectify himself. The ring was going to need some advanced micro cutting gear and, even if he could numb his scrotum, it was hardly the place for a DIY novice to start fiddling around with a scalpel.

He daren't go near a doctor or a hospital. It would require too many explanations, too many questions would be asked, too much curiosity would be aroused. To much gossip circulated. It was bound to filter back to the Venumar Foundation who would be waiting for just such a move. From school a couple of his close chums had gone to medical school. They must be qualified by now. Perhaps he could approach one of them. Privately. It would be embarrassing but ..... He could contact his old housemaster for their current addresses. It was worth a try. As soon as he was settled. In the meantime perhaps he could take artificial testosterones? Perhaps such were available on the internet?

And his breasts? They were really quite noticeable now. Difficult to disguise, even if tightly bound, if dressed as a male. Perhaps in winter in baggy sweaters, outdoor clothes, but even then .... ? One of the reasons .... No! No! The only reason surely that he still dressed as a girl. Otherwise people would notice, comment, gossip. He would need surgery. And for that he would have to wait until .... ? Well until it was safe. In six months, a year, two years' time perhaps? In the mean time perhaps they would wither, go away, when he had kicked the hormone habit, when his own bollocks were functioning properly. Unless his old school friends could advise?

Just as long as they didn't get bigger. Not before he could .....

His arse needed whittling down too. But maybe exercise would take care of that. Afterwards when normal functions had been restored. And eyebrows? How long did it take eyebrows to grow out? But if a man's artificially arched eyebrows caused other eyebrows to arch ....well it wasn't the end of the world.

He would have to be patient. He could spend some time as a man at the cottage. With a suitably bulky boob-concealing sweater and anorak. If anyone came to the cottage then he could be David the twin brother in whose name the cottage had been let. Even be one outside, boob concealing clothes permitting.

As for the rest? Well he could be whoever he wanted to be. Either Sophie Jackson aka Tackson or David. He had David's birth certificate. And could obtain one for Sophie Felicity Jackson if he applied with the Gender Recognition Certificate. And with the birth certificate he could get a passport in her name too. He had a driving licence in her name. Presumably his old one had been annulled when one was issued in Sophie's name, but there was no reason why he should not take a test and get another. There must be hundreds of David Jacksons in the country, perhaps thousands, and he had the birth certificate to back up his application.

And he had yet to encounter a Bank who refused to take money. And money he had in plenty. Even if initially he would have to make trips down to the South West to draw it out, just in case Venumar could monitor his old account. And for banks to take your money they had first to give you a Bank account. Perhaps on-line banking might be more difficult to trace ....? And as for credit cards .... It was difficult to stop them thrusting them upon you.

All he had to do was to muddy the waters to make it difficult to trace him either as Sophie or as David. If they had Government backing and an entrée into medical and banking circles he would have to take precautions and keep a low profile, but such was not impossible nor indeed difficult. By no means so, given the general level of ineptitude that his previous dealings with all three of these sectors had conclusively demonstrated.

People disappeared all the time, even when they didn't particularly mean to. And the longer he avoided detection the safer he would be.

Safe to concentrate on becoming David again.

He put the thin sheaf of papers back into the side pocket of his rucksack, his fingers encountering the envelope also nestling there. The letter Anne had given him before disappearing with the bloodied Simon. He sat there eyes closed. He had no need to open it. No need to look again at the creased sheet. He knew it off by heart. Knew the address of Anne's contact, the man who had gifted her that first ill-fated pet, Bramble's precursor.

Knew too by heart the poem that she had written on the other side. He had read it often enough. Had read it that first night in the car park outside the hotel in Bath. Read it again and again before sleep had claimed him in that morning's cold dawning. And in the days that followed. Again and again. And it had nourished and comforted him. And saddened him too with a sweet nostalgia that he could not fully understand.

Silly really. That it should effect him so. Anne's first stumbling, halting, verses. Of no merit, of no meaning but to Anne as she tried, through them, to explain to herself her own existence. And she had given it, the poem, to him because it was the one thing of value that she had to give.

He slipped the paper from its envelope and held it there, folded, in his lap; his eyes distant upon the far hills, darker now, more purple, in the fading of the day.

He owed it to her, to them. Owed it to Anne and to Emma. Otherwise it would all have been in vain. All the courage, all the friendship that had sustained him, that had given him this chance.

He replaced the still folded paper back in its envelope, the envelope in the rucksack's side pocket, as he levered himself upright. Swung the rucksack onto his back, settling its straps on his shoulders before turning to follow the path that would take him down to Patterdale and his car. To his car and the cottage that was his, David's, refuge.

No need to read it.

Anne's voice was in his head, and suddenly the lake below, the fells in front, and the sky above, were all a little less clear, blurred with the suspicion of a tear.

Anne's Song

Not you, not I
can turn back time .
and find once more
that other shore
where you and I
so long ago
bid each goodbye.
That other you,
the me I am,
the me
now.

! will be me,
no longer you.
The heart will heal
and I not feel
the hurt to be
the you I was.
But be this me,
without the pain,
the me I am.
The me
now

In future years
where kind time flies
I may then find
the peace of mind
that dries the tears
of loneliness
and stills the fears
that came between
the then me and
the me
now

I pray that we
then find again
in heart at least
all schism ceased
integrity
of our two souls
and we both be,
the me you were,
the you I was,
one me,
again.

'The En ....'