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“Hey, look! It’s the freak and the fruitcake,” the teenage boy shouts, to the cheers of his two mates.

“Nice dress, Jason,” another one adds.

The three youths are shambling down the street like a group of gorillas, their knuckles almost touching the ground.

I turn to my companion, Abigail, and we share a knowing glance. Neither of us likes the descriptions thrown at us, but they crudely sum us up: a transsexual and her friend, who just happens to be a registered lunatic.

We ignore their catcalls and continue our walk. They are on the other side of the street, and the number of cars passing will likely keep them there for a while. In the meantime, we enter the department store and ride the escalator to the upper floor where the jewellery counter is located.

“Can I help you?” the woman behind the counter asks.

“Yes, I’m here to pick up an engraving, my name is Janice Loveday,” I reply. I produce a receipt from my handbag and hand it over.

She looks at us suspiciously before disappearing into a back room. She returns after a short wait with a pendant. We examine the engravings I have paid to have added, and then pay the remainder of the bill, having left a deposit last week.

The item is carefully wrapped and we make our way back to the front of the store. We stop to look at the new clothes range just in for the summer. There is a very nice summer dress, but they don’t have it in my size. I’m half-tempted to try on the slightly smaller size and see if it is too tight, but I suspect it won’t fit very well. It is designed for someone with a larger bust. I’m also uncomfortable with the shop assistant who is hovering, giving us condescending looks.

I recognise the disapproving glances. ‘Is that a boy in a dress?’ is crossing her mind. We’ve had problems in the past, so usually stick to shops where we are known, and can shop without issue. We are only in here as I’m buying a birthday present for my mother.

Abigail and I leave the shop and head for our accommodation. Southgate House is to put it bluntly, a loony bin, but it’s what we call home.

I know what you’re thinking. Surely the local authorities can’t regard being transgendered as a mental disorder in the twenty-first century? Well firstly–don’t call me Shirley, and secondly–they don’t. Clinical depression is however a reason to be admitted, especially when you have been disowned and there is nowhere else to stay.

We make it back to the institute late afternoon, and retire to our rooms until dinner. Although we are both classified as girls, this being an institute for women only, we are not allowed into each other’s bedrooms due to the current difference in our physical sexes.

After dinner, I head out of the institute and cross the road. The building is situated on the seafront a short distance from a park. I don’t go through the gardens, but instead walk down the side of it, emerging out onto the top of the cliffs. I walk down the steps towards the promenade. The cliff face isn’t vertical, instead being around forty-five degrees and covered in foliage.

At the bottom of the slope, there are a number of concrete beach huts built into the cliff. There is a path along the top and benches positioned in alcoves carved into the hillside, the undergrowth providing some shelter from the cutting sea breeze.

I take a seat on one of the benches and start to do my crossword puzzle. I spend the next half an hour solving the cryptic clues. It usually takes me several hours per crossword, and I normally have to use a crossword-solving gadget to finish them off.

Some girls might be frightened to spend the evening alone on the seafront, but it doesn’t really bother me. The staff know where I am and I have a panic button on my phone should I need assistance. My appearance is also slightly intimidating, so most people try to avoid me anyway.

George jumps over the back of the bench and sits down beside me. He doesn’t mind what I look like, and simply accepts me as I am.

“Hi, George,” I say, putting my crossword book down in my lap.

“How are you, have you had a good day?” he asks.

“Not bad, except for a couple of dickheads shouting the usual abuse at us earlier,” I reply.

“The gender issue again?” George enquires, to which I nod.

“I’m just thankful all they do is shout. I know I can protect myself and I think Abigail can handle herself well enough, but if they gang up on us, either together or individually, then we might struggle to defend ourselves,” I add.

“You could always ask Claude for protection. I’m sure he would love to beat the crap out of them,” George replies, “and you can count on me if I’m around.”

“Claude is a psycho. He wouldn’t be happy until each of them is torn into dripping shreds of meat,” I declare. “That is why he’s kept sedated and not allowed out . If he managed to overcome the chemical cosh, and escaped, then he could cause some serious damage, and not necessarily to people who deserve it.”

George’s head shoots round as he hears footsteps approaching. Someone is coming along the tarmac walkway at the bottom of the cliffs, where the sea wall is situated. The deep sandy beach is on the other side of the wall. Seeing Constable Smith walking along the esplanade below us, George gets up and disappears into the park. He isn’t a fan of the policeman.

I nod to the officer as he passes. Once he has wandered off, I decide that it’s time to head back inside. I get up and climb the steps to the top of the cliff, crossing into the park on the other side of the upper promenade. I stroll through the deserted flowerbeds taking the scenic route, weaving through the raised gardens and coming out next to the bowling greens. The groundsmen have packed away the sprinklers that were watering the grass, but the ground around them is still wet where the spray came over the path.

I emerge from the park and cross the road. The seafront used to be one of the main routes out of the town, but a new road has been built inland taking most of the traffic away, leaving the road mainly for the use of locals and tourists. There are hardly any vehicles on the road at this point in the evening.

The institute is only a short walk down the seafront and it takes me just a couple of minutes to enter the building and head up to my room. I settle down in front of my telly for the rest of the evening, before it’s time for lights out.

My alarm clock wakes me promptly at seven in the morning. I get up, head for a quick shower, then return to my room and dress. I enter the dining room just before eight. Abigail is already sitting with an orange juice. I grab a glass (unbreakable plastic for safety purposes) of apple juice.

The orderly comes round and begins the morning ritual of handing out the drugs to the inmates. Everybody has some form of medication to take in this place. Taking of pills is supervised so that patients don’t skip dosages. The tablets are the only thing keeping a lot of us from going berserk.

In many cases, the medication is what keeps us sane, but when you are feeling fine, you don’t think you need to take it. Therefore, some people simply don’t bother to keep medicating, but without the tablets, they gradually slip into insanity or instability, which usually means they are even less likely to take their medication and so end up in a vicious cycle. The fashion in recent years has been for care in the community–basically chucking loonies out into the general populace and making them fend for themselves. Unfortunately it doesn’t work. Many of the women here have repeatedly failed to live on their own and have had to be recommitted.

I have a small pink capsule while Abigail has a couple of small white tablets. After downing them, we eat our breakfast.

We both have therapy sessions this morning. Dr Green is a nice man who I see once a fortnight, but I don’t find discussing things with him very helpful. He tries his hardest to help me, but we always end up going round in circles over the same ground and never seeming to make any progress.

“Morning, Janice,” he says as I enter his office and settle down on the couch. He looks up from his notes and sighs upon seeing my appearance. “I see your dress sense hasn’t improved.”

I look down at the dress I’m wearing. It is slightly frilly, but otherwise it’s a normal piece of feminine attire. I ask, “Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“We have discussed this before,” he replies, “your style simply isn’t normal. Your choice of clothing is deliberately going against social norms and alienating you from your peers.”

“I admit my clothes are slightly old-fashioned, but I don’t see any reason why I should deny my femininity,” I state. “Some girls may like to wear jeans and leggings, but I prefer the more traditional styles of dresses. I think we can both agree that I am indeed a girl, and I don’t see anything abnormal in wanting to project that image.”

The doctor doesn’t try to argue the point; we have been over this many times before. He is trying to persuade me I would fit in better if I wore jeans and a t-shirt, rather than a dress. I know that some of my troubles are caused by my preference for long frilly dresses, but I like them and he has yet to convince me that changing my appearance would solve anything.

“Besides,” I add, “it helps to keep him away. He’s not likely to want to emerge when I’m being ultra girly.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t refer to your masculine side in the third person,” Dr Green replies, “you know we need to integrate the two aspects of your personality into one. Now, how have the pills been working? Any desires to harm?”

“These ones are much better than the last lot you prescribed,” I answer, “I can at least feel some emotion now, the previous batch were too strong and left me like a zombie. I realised they weren’t doing me any good when watching a film that usually makes me cry, and I wasn’t even feeling any emotion.”

I always get tears in my eyes watching Apollo 13. Even though I know they survive, the tension of the re-entry and the relief of making it down always brings a tear to my eye, except for the last time it was on television. I watched it, but couldn’t feel a thing. This caused me to realise that my medication was too strong.

I have changed my hair colour since our last meeting, on which Dr Green also has to comment. Again, he points out that my choice of dye is ‘not normal for my demographic’. I’m a weirdo; it is therefore my prerogative to act in an eccentric fashion. Besides which, I think outlandish hair is a feminine trait that I like to exploit. Maybe I take it further than other girls do, but this is my choice.

We spend the next couple of hours talking, evaluating my latest medication and the multiple aspects of my personality. We discuss how I can balance my masculine tendencies without dangerously suppressing that part of my psyche.

After lunch, all the inmates who are allowed out head down to the beach for sunbathing and swimming. There are a few not fit for going out in public. This is one of the advantages to living on the seafront. I dress in my blue one-piece suit that has a built in miniskirt. Abigail is a bit more adventurous than I am and is in a bikini. I’m not as comfortable in skimpy garments as she is.

As it is only a short walk away, we can dress in our swimsuits and have no need to worry about changing in and out of them. We can simply come back wrapped in towels and dry off in our rooms.

We cross the road with five other women, and walk down the cliffs to the golden sand below. The sea is cool but refreshing. The sea breeze is keeping the summer heat down. After a short swim, the water not being warm enough to stay in long, we rub suntan lotion on each other and settle down to sunbathe.

I notice that the boys from yesterday are further down the beach throwing a beach ball between them. They see us, but decide because we are in a large group, that they will keep their distance. All the locals know we are from the nuthouse, and tend to steer clear. A few of the residents can be unpredictable, although the medication is supposed to prevent that.

The typical British weather changes from bright sunshine to thundery showers as the afternoon progresses. We are forced to retreat inside as the weather closes in.

By evening, the storm has passed, and I take my usual walk to my spot on the seafront with my puzzle book. I love the smell of the sea, especially when combined with the fresh dampness after a downpour.

George is already sitting on our bench, combing his hair as he waits for me to turn up. He pauses his grooming as I approach and sit down.

“Hi, George,” I say.

“Hi, Janice, you’re looking nice and tanned. Been sunbathing again?” he asks.

I don’t get to answer. A scream attracts our attention.

“Abigail!” I shout as I recognise her voice. I look at George, who looks back, and we both get up and run in the direction of the park from where the noise emerged. I hit the panic button on my phone as I dash into the secluded area under the willow trees.

I lift my skirt slightly as I run so that I don’t trip. It isn’t easy to move fast in long skirts with several layers of petticoats. I prefer Victorian style clothing complete with petticoats and corsets. Dr Green is always on at me for my unusual dress sense, and in situations like this, it can prove a disadvantage .

“Shut up, Jason you fag!” the tallest of the boys shouts as he tries to wrestle a hessian bag over Abigail’s head . She is putting up a good fight, but it’s currently three against one and she is being overwhelmed. Her dress is ripped and one of her breast forms is lying on the ground.

“I’ll take the one on the left,” George hisses, “You take the one on the right.”

George launches himself onto the back of the smaller of the opponents, his claws digging into the boy’s flesh through his thin white short-sleeved shirt, which is now turning red. George sinks his teeth into the boys shoulder and hangs on as the youth screams in pain and tries to throw the large black and white cat off .

I land a punch on the other attacker, but he is quicker and stronger than I am and slaps me across the face. The searing pain in my jaw helps awaken the anger in me that the medication has been suppressing.

There is no way that I can win in a fight against these three, but Claude stands a better chance. I surrender myself to the spirit of the first century roman legion, Claudius Maximus Decimus. I feel myself floating as I lose control of my body to my alternative persona .

“Exciatus habeo. Claudius Maximus Decimus spiritus vitarum,” I hear him shout, though it is my voice that emerges, “Surgam et adversarii contereret sub pedibus meis.”¹

The sound of someone speaking Latin seems to catch the boys off guard. At least I always assume that is what Claude uses, as I don’t speak the language myself. Dr Green has stated that Latin is spoken in my hypnotherapy sessions, but he isn’t sure if it is grammatically correct. Claude immediately launches my body into the attack, landing a fist into the face of the closest boy.

The youth who had been struggling with Abigail releases her and attacks me instead. I don’t feel any pain as he slams his foot into my stomach. Claude had anticipated the move and braced our body so that we aren’t knocked over. If Claude is able to feel pain, it doesn’t seem to matter to him. When he is in control, I don’t have any feeling at all, as all my senses are routed to him. I’m lucky that I haven’t blacked out completely and can still see and hear what is going on.

Usually I don’t have any recollection when Claude takes over my body. I black out and when I come round later, I find out what he has been up to, which is generally random uncontrolled violence of some description. At least this time he may be of some use.

Abigail is now on the floor, trying to regain her breath as she recovers from being half-strangled. Her long-term use of hormones to feminise her male body has resulted in a loss of muscle mass. Despite being female, I reckon I have the greater physical strength out of the two of us.

The third boy has finally dislodged George, who has limped off under a bush to recover. He has bought us some time. The boy, seeing Claude landing kicks and punches on the other two boys, picks up a branch and swings it at me. The branch connects with my arm, which Claude has positioned to protect us. There is an audible crack as both the branch and arm snap. We look at the arm in puzzlement, as it is now bent in a strange angle.

This seems to make Claude even angrier, and he grabs the branch from the startled boy and smashes it over his head, causing him to collapse. I think the lad is still breathing and not dead, but I’m not entirely certain and I’m in no position to check, as I’m simply an observer and can no longer take an active part in proceedings.

The whole incident is a surreal experience. It is as if I’m watching a movie where the camera is being used to give a first person perspective. Without my other senses of touch, taste and smell, it is just like watching 3D television through a pair of virtual reality glasses.

The sound of sirens causes the other two to start to flee, but Claude lobs a rock with his good arm. It strikes the closest boy between the shoulder blades, causing him to fall forward, knocking over the other person he is running with.

A few seconds later, a group of police officers, accompanied by a couple of the orderlies from the institute, arrive on the scene.

“Those boys attacked me,” Abigail shouts and the injured males are quickly handcuffed. One of the orderlies, Neil, approaches me, but Claude is still in defensive mode and doesn’t recognise him.

“Ego deus gehennam,” Claude shouts, “factorem amet!”²

Neil jumps back as Claude lashes out at him.

“Claude!” Abigail shouts realising what is going on, “redire unde venerant, libere eam.”³

I knew that if Claude was ever released, that I wouldn’t be able to control him. Dr Green hypnotised me to bring him out in a controlled fashion, and in doing so implanted a phrase to allow me to take back control. I taught Abigail that phrase in case I wasn’t able to say it myself.

I feel the spirit of Claudius Maximus Decimus leave me. I regain control of my battered body and suddenly my pain sensors are once again working normally. I scream from the pain of the various bruises and my broken arm. The pain becomes too intense and I collapse to the ground in agony.

“What the hell is going on?” one of the police officers asks as he cautiously approaches me, pepper spray in hand, as I lie on the ground crying.

“Split personality disorder. She isn’t dangerous any more. She’s switched back to normal. Janice has this alter ego called Claudius, a roman warrior, who takes over when she is in danger,” Abigail calls out. “She heard those boys attacking me, and came to my assistance. I’m a transsexual, and they don’t like my desire to change genders.”

I see paramedics rushing in our direction. Abigail is badly shaken, but relatively uninjured. Two of the boys are being treated for concussion, and the other is limping badly.

I brush my long electric-blue hair out of my face to see Arthur, the other orderly from the institute, trying to tempt George out from under the bush so that he can be taken to the vet. I’m glad he will be okay.

Happy that George and Abigail are safe, I finally give in to the pain and I promptly black out.

1. I have woken up. The spirit of Claudius Maximus Decimus lives. I will rise and crush my opponents under my feet.
2. I am the god of hellfire, meet your maker.
3. Return to where you came, let her free.