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“William, old man; are you coming for a drink?” Jake Hargreaves asked the solitary figure still sitting at his desk and engrossed in the rolling figures on the screen of his PC.

William did not respond, so Jake entered the open office door.

“I said; are you coming for a drink? Everyone in the office is coming,” he said.

William looked up, blinked a couple of times and looked at his watch.

“Can’t, sorry, I’m in the middle of a deal with New York,” he said.

“Well, come along when you’re done. We’ll be in the Pig and Firkin.”

William looked at his co-worker. Both men knew that he wouldn’t join them, but they pretended otherwise.

“Fine, I’ll be along as soon as I can,” William lied.

“Great, we’ll see you soon, then,” Jake lied back, leaving him alone.

“Goodnight, Mr Stevens, have a good Christmas, sir,” said Arthur, the security man on the main door.

William Stevens paused, frowned and turned towards Arthur, forcing a seasonal smile of goodwill to crack across his handsome, but otherwise melancholy face.

“Goodnight, Arthur, same to you. Have a jolly good Christmas.”

“Bound to, sir, all the family is coming down, so there’ll be twelve sitting down for lunch.”

“How wonderful for you. Mind you don’t eat too much.”

For some reason, Arthur found his extremely funny and laughed as if it was the best joke of the year.

“Ho ho, I’m afraid that’s a foregone conclusion, Mr Stevens, I always make a point of eating too much.”

Will smiled one last time and then left the building, losing the smile as if switched off as soon as the cold air hit him.

“I hate bloody Christmas!” he muttered, as he fought his way along the crowded pavement to the nearest Underground station. It started to snow.

“I hate bloody snow!” he muttered as he went down the steps of the Underground station.

Hundreds of late shoppers, all depressingly cheerful, burdened with parcels and carrier bags, turned his usually crowded train into a veritable noisy hell-hole of sweaty bodies and a plethora of useless gifts in gaudy paper. He hated them for being so bloody cheerful and for having friends to talk to.

Eventually, forcing himself onto a train and securing a tiny spot by the inter-joining door, he took out his book and began to read. He knew that his appearance would deter even the most stout-hearted American Mormon from even thinking about talking to him. At six foot five, dressed immaculately in a dark pin-striped suit under a long back coat, he was every inch a city gent, which his short hair and unfriendly disposition would emphasise to all but the inebriated, spiritually afire or just plain stupid.

At twenty-seven, he was the highest paid currency broker currently employed by the bank. As such, he was aware that perhaps he should be having the time of his life, for he was single, in a high-income bracket, with his own home and a nice car.

However, he wasn’t having the time of his life. He was bloody miserable. He was alone, with no family, friends or even any interests outside his job.

He waited for the girl with the long boots to exit the carriage, and then inched over a little to park his behind on the small ledge designed for such a purpose. He rarely sat in a seat on the tube, as he would then feel guilty if an elderly person or pregnant mother came along and looked at him with those sheep-like eyes.

He hated being such a big man, as everyone expected him to be someone he wasn’t. Yet, all his life, expectations of others made him become whatever those others demanded. In the process he had lost his true self somewhere along the line.

His train was just leaving as Will eased himself into the seat on the train, opposite two young women who had been Christmas shopping in Oxford Street.

Once more, the host of shoppers and late commuters filled a train that usually was about three quarters full. He’d had to run to catch the train, angry that everything was so much harder at this time of year.

“I hate bloody Christmas!” he muttered as he took his battered paperback out of his coat pocket.

The girl in the seat directly opposite him frowned as she overheard his remark. He ignored her, found his place and began to read.

Her companion’s mobile phone rang, suddenly filling the carriage with a truly awful sound of some ghastly Boy-band’s latest hit. Will glared at her with such ferocity that the poor girl blushed and switched her phone off instead of answering it. It had been an important call, but the terrible glance from the big man actually scared her. At the next stop, she and her friend got up and moved to a different seat.

It only took twenty-one minutes to get to Gerrards Cross, where Will disembarked and went to his car in the car park. The Porsche Cayenne had a thin coating of frost covered with a light smattering of snow across the windscreen, so Will started the engine to let the car warm up and defrost before moving off. His car was the latest, top of the range model, with a personalised number plate; — WAS 1, and as many extras as he could get. After switching on the radio, Will lasted three seconds before turning it off in disgust. Every station was playing Christmas hits from back from before he was born, and it made him feel sick.

“I hate bloody Christmas!” he said, sighing deeply.

Robert and Martha Stevens bought this house just after their marriage in 1978. A year later, in 1979, their first and only child, William Andrew Stevens was born.

Robert was a very wealthy man, having inherited his fortune from his father, which was the result of several generations of shrewd businessmen. However, no amount of material wealth could preserve both his and Martha’s life when their aeroplane crashed in the mountains of Peru.

Young William had been only twelve when this earth-shattering event occurred. He was at boarding school in Surrey at the time, and received the news from Uncle Miles, his mother’s alcoholic younger brother, with whom he then had to stay during the school holidays.

Much to Miles’ disgust, his sister and brother-in-law left their house and all their considerable wealth to their son, tied up in a trust fund until he reached twenty-one. Poor Miles was given the job of guardian to the boy, with an annual income befitting the task. However, to Mile’s annoyance, every penny had to be accounted for to the family solicitor, a teetotal Baptist called John Gower.

It was not a happy time for either William or Miles.

The school holidays became a challenge for both of them. Miles had no interest in doing anything with his nephew, of whom he was inordinately jealous. William wanted nothing to do with his uncle, whom he despised and pitied.

Miles had friends, which William did not. One of these friends was Julian Holdsworthy, a currency broker in the City of London. For fourteen year old William, he found his dream job. Money, unlike people, was something he understood. The currency markets, albeit fickle and temperamental, were a true blessing to someone who appreciated them. Julian took young William into his bank on a Work Experience Day.

From that day, William was hooked. He now had an aim and an ambition. Flattered at the fact the lad seemed interested and intelligent; Julian allowed William access to his work PC at home, under close supervision. He was amazed as the lad showed real aptitude for the task, making a tidy profit in his little dabbling.

The lad, blessed with high intellect, more than adequate physical prowess and steely determination, sailed through his schooldays, attaining straight A grades at A level and a place at university to read maths and economics.

So, on his twenty-first birthday, William became a multi-millionaire with a year left to complete at university. Six days after William’s birthday, his Uncle Miles, having driven his two wives to leave him, died alone of a massive heart attack whilst queuing up to buy a bottle of whisky in Tescos, effectively leaving William completely bereft of family. Miles was only forty-four years old.

Once he attained his degree, Will was snapped up by the same bank in which Julian was now in a managerial position. In the first year William managed to make record profits as a currency broker. His instinctive handling of the currency markets was a joy to behold, so his employers rewarded him with a salary, including bonuses of a figure in excess of half a million. Not bad for a twenty-three year old!

Financially astute, but a social misfit, William put all his efforts into his job. Such efforts were greatly appreciated by the shareholders of the bank. Over the next couple of years, all pre-existing profit margins were shattered, initiating a meteoric rise in both the bank’s fortunes and William’s. The recession was on the horizon, but for the bank, times were good.

Spending almost twelve hours each day at work, William lived for his work and work alone. As a result, he developed no personality or any social graces. For William, this was an acceptable compromise, for beneath this troubled young man’s steely exterior, was a bruised and battered soul, whose inner desires and yearnings had been shut away out of necessity and survival. Above all else, he loathed being alone at home, for it was in these moments that he became weak and was tempted to give in to his inner feelings.

Rich beyond most people’s imagination, he actually knew exactly how much he possessed and exactly where it was invested. He worked out that exactly one year ago, he could have liquidised all his assets and properties (yes, he owned more than one) he would have had a tidy fifty eight million, nine hundred and seventy five thousand, six hundred and twelve pounds and seventeen pence. Today, he had more than doubled that, and he had paid the exorbitant taxes.

He smiled grimly. He’d happily give it all up to be the person he wanted to be. The money was meaningless if one’s life was without meaning and purpose.

For all his adult life, he had managed to control these temptations, but each day they became harder to manage, so each day he immersed himself deeper into his work. Therefore, times like Christmas, when he had to remain apart from his office for four days, meant deep unhappiness and angst for poor William.

After putting the Porsche away in the garage, Will made his weary way into the house. Set in the village of Hedgerley, the eight-bedroom house in its two acres of garden contained all the most modern equipment and gadgets on which William could spend his money. So, as soon as he went into the spacious sitting room, he took off his coat and switched on the sixty-inch plasma screen TV. He idly flicked through the channels and, not finding anything to his liking, he went into the kitchen.

He was not a cook, but, courtesy of Marks & Spencers’ prepared meals, he was able to dine very nicely on those rare occasions that he remained at home.

The CSI team caught their man, or men, or women, yet again, and as always. William switched off the TV and sighed. This was the worst time of day, as he knew that the temptation would start as soon as he thought about going up to bed. He made himself busy by washing up his plate from supper. The lasagne was adequate for his needs, but, as with most things in his life, was yet another compromise. He loved well-cooked, fresh and top quality food, but wasn’t willing to go to those places where other people might be, even if it meant he could dine in style.

The loneliness was like a lead weight around his soul. He went to his study, logged onto the web and sought his only friends in the world. To the cyber world, he was everything he wasn’t in the real world. For a start, he wasn’t a he, but a she, having taken the name of Wendy. Ever since he read J M Barrie’s Peter Pan, he adored the name that the author was alleged to have invented — Wendy, so it was natural that he should adopt it in his perfect world.

In fact, William researched the name, finding that, at the time the book was written, ‘Wendy’ was already in use in both the US and the UK, but was extremely rare. The Peter Pan stories popularised the name, at first in the UK. Wendy is related to the Welsh name Gwendolyn, and was used by Barrie at a time when Welsh names were making a resurgence in England.

Secondly, Wendy was outgoing, bubbly and, as far as all her on-line friends were concerned, she was a really fun person. Having used a morph program, William created, from a series of his own photographs, a female version, with all the feminine characteristics he indeed lacked.

With a mane of wavy golden hair above a delightful face graced with full, cupid bow lips and enormous gorgeous blue eyes, Wendy’s image, now attached to a computer-enhanced and pirated model’s body, adorned several frustrated males’ desktops, in the certain knowledge that here was the perfect female.

William lost himself in the other world, a world in which he was the person he wanted to be. However, as with everything in his life, it didn't last and came to an end all too quickly, as, one by one, his on-line friends dropped out leaving 'Wendy' alone once more.

It was well past midnight when William reluctantly closed down his computer and went to bed, after fighting the inner yearning to open his locked wardrobe and dress as Wendy for a futile exercise in sexual gratification.

He read for an hour and finally extinguished his light at two in the morning. He drifted of to sleep quite rapidly, hoping against hope that his dreams would be pleasant ones.

William awoke. He hated the weekends and he felt spare with no work. Most Saturdays he would go to the office, as there was always some work for him to catch up with. However, this weekend there was no point, as it seems that the world of finance ceased at Christmas.

He rose and showered, as he did every day. Then he went down to his space-age luxury kitchen and waited for his state-of-the-art coffee maker to make his coffee just as he liked it. He switched on the 42 inch LCD TV that was attached to the wall in the kitchen as he waited.

After breakfast, resisting the temptation to log onto the computer, he spent some energy clearing the snow from in front of the front door and garage. That wasted an hour.

He went back inside and the temptation proved too irresistible. He found himself logging into his favourite chat rooms as Wendy.
He let his tempter drive for a couple of hours, in which time he enjoyed several instances of cyber-sex with known admirers.

Feeling frustrated, guilty and ashamed, he logged out and went to his fully equipped gymnasium. There he punished himself by undertaking an extreme workout that left him struggling for breath and aching all over. He made a sandwich and took it into the sauna where he sat for another hour or so.

So the day wore on. He constantly fought his demon that persistently told him to go onto the internet and to get dressed as Wendy.

By seven o’clock, he was exhausted. He sat in front of his main TV and watched the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, only breaking occasionally to make himself snacks.

At midnight he went to bed, tired and fed up with his life and who he was.

* * *

William stayed in bed until late. Then he mooched around the house, watching TV and eating snacks instead of any fixed meal. He spent some time as Wendy on line, coming off when the shame and guilt promised to cripple him.

He went to bed early, feeling miserable. It was snowing outside, when he closed his curtains.

“I hate bloody snow!” he said.

* * *

William awoke, but was uncertain as to what had woken him. He glanced at the clock and frowned, feeling annoyed. The clock read — 00:00. He rarely awoke in the middle of the night. On those rare occasions he did, he inevitably found it impossible to go back to sleep.

He lay in the dark for a moment, wondering why he had wakened, when he heard the noise. It was a sort of slithering noise. He sat up, turning on the light.

His room was empty, yet the noise continued.

He felt a chill down his spine, and that edgy feeling as his hair started to stand on end. The temperature of the room dipped several degrees.
The deep pile carpet showed advancing foot prints towards the bed, despite there being no one else in the room.

“Who’s there?” he said, feeling ridiculous.

To his amazement a figure began to materialise by the bed. It was his uncle Miles. He was carrying two enormous carrier bags containing full bottles of whisky.

“Uncle Miles?” William asked, feeling very strange indeed.

“Don’t bloody say anything!” the ghost of Uncle Miles said, as he sat on the bed.

“What are you doing?” William asked.

“I said, don’t say anything,” his ghostly uncle said crossly

“Why are you carrying those bags?”

Miles rolled his eyes.

“You never could do as you were told, could you? They’re my penance.”

“Penance?”

“Yes, my bloody penance. Look, I fucked up, all right, so I have to do this.”

“What exactly is this?”

Once more the ghoulish Miles rolled his dead eyes and moaned quite depressingly.

“I have to put right everything, otherwise I have to roam forever in between.”

“I don’t understand,” said William, quite understandably.

“Look, it’s all a matter of responsibility. I failed in mine, so now I have to put things right. If I don’t, I’m stuffed for eternity.”

“That says nothing. What responsibility?”

“Are you daft, boy? I was supposed to be your guardian, but I spent most of the money on other things and gave you no time or even thought as to how I could help you develop. As a result you’re a fucked up deviant with no hope, no friends and destined to be a basket case within three years. Now do you understand?”

William sat staring at the apparition on his bed.

“I’m dreaming,” he said. “That’s it; this is just another bloody awful dream. I think I don’t want this dream any more.”

“You’d be so lucky,” muttered the ghost, who was not able to put down the everlasting plastic carrier bags, the handles of which were permanently cutting into his fingers. “I can’t even drink the damn whisky!”

“So, why are you here?” William asked.

“I told you.”

“No you didn’t. You waffled and confused me, but you never told me why you’re here.”

“I have to put things right.”

“How?”

“Ah,” said the ghost, looking confused as well as dead.

“Well?”

“It’s all about balance.”

“Balance? You’re talking bollocks again.”

“No. You see, you’re out of balance.”

“Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”

“Don’t be an arse; I’m a spirit, so I can’t drink diddlysquat! I’d like to, God knows how much I’d like to, but I can’t!”

“So, how am I out of balance?” William asked.

“You know full well. Do you really want me to tell you?”

“You’re not going to call me a deviant again, are you?”

“Give the boy a coconut. Of course it’s that. You just don’t get it do you?”

“Put like that, no. I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re on about.”

“The whole world works best when things are in balance. I was out of balance with the booze. I neglected everything except my liver, which I over-indulged. As a result, it ceased working properly and my heart took exception to my life-style and packed up. It was bloody inconsiderate really, it could have waited until I’d bought the last damn bottle, but, oh no, it had to stop just before the checkout!"

“Uncle, you’re waffling again. How am I out of balance?”

“You? Oh, yes, you. I forgot for a moment. Right, where was I?”

The ghostly bottles clinked alarmingly as he made himself more comfortable on the bed.

“You’re out of balance because you’re a little girl in a big bloke’s body.”

William was surprised, as Miles had, for a change, said things clearly and concisely.

“It’s not something I’m proud of,” he admitted.

“So I should think. It’s almost as bad as my old uncle Roger.”

“Uncle Roger?”

“He was a parson in Norfolk. They caught him in bed with a choirboy. Terrible scandal there was, particularly as the boy went on to become an MP.”

William tried to guess which MP.

“He’s not one any more; he was ousted at the next election. He owns a gay bar in Tenerife now, I think.”

”Can you read my mind?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Oh.”

“So, let’s go, as we have a lot to do.”

“Go, where?” William asked.

“Places to go and people to see. We have to redress the balance.”

“Are you the ghost of Christmas past?”

“Am I bollocks. You’ve been reading too much Dickens. I’m the ghost of Uncle Miles, you stupid boy!”

“So where are we going?”

“Somewhere,” his ghostly uncle said vaguely.

William glanced at the clock. It still read 00:00

* * *

Despite it being in the middle of the night, in mid winter, William was perfectly warm dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He had just slipped his feet into his slippers when he found himself standing in the living room of a squalid little flat many miles from his luxury home.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“In the East End of London.”

“Why?”

“Shh.”

A large, overweight man in a pair of grubby trousers and a string vest was slouched on the sofa watching a porn movie. There was little other furniture in the room. Empty beer and spirits bottles lay on the floor and used fish and chip papers lay discarded on the small coffee table next to the TV remote.

The door opened and what William thought was a young man came in. For a start, he wore dark, Goth-style makeup, plus several piercings in places William didn’t appreciate. For hair, he had what William despised — long, spiky and dyed many colours. His black leather jacket had too many zips and chains to be useful, and the jeans looked so holed and disgusting, he wouldn’t even clean his Porsche with them. As for his foot wear, William grimaced as he saw DM boots laced almost up to the knees.

“Why are we here?” he asked his ghostly companion.

“Watch,” he said.

“Can they see us?”

“No, and you don’t need to whisper, they can’t hear us either.”

“Where you fucking been?” asked the figure on the sofa.

“Out with friends,” the boy replied.

William was surprised at the high timbre of his voice. It was almost as if his voice hadn’t broken.

“You look like shit!”

“Yeah, well, so do you.”

For a large man, he moved remarkably quickly, surprising William with both the speed and ferocity of his movement.

He struck the boy with his open palm, knocking him off his feet onto the stained excuse of a carpet.

“Don’t you fucking talk to me like that.”

“You’re not my dad, so fuck off!” said the boy, sitting on the floor holding his cheek.

“You fucking slag; have you been with those slappers from down the road?”

“Mind your own fucking business; I’ll report you for assault.”

“You fucking try. It’s difficult to phone with two broken arms. If your mum were alive, she’d back me up. You’re off the rails, you are!”

“I don’t have to take this. I’m out of here. I’m going to the council as it’s my name on the lease. You’ll see; they’ll kick you out!” the boy said, leaving and slamming the door. The man snorted with derision and returned to the sofa.

“Good fucking luck, it’s Christmas, no one will be there for a week at least,” he shouted to the closed door.

The man then looked annoyed and rewound the video, settling down to watch it again when he found the place he had last seen.

Miles took William through the wall to the boy’s bedroom. The boy was undressing and William was shocked to see that he wasn’t a boy at all.
However, the girl had bound her chest to hide her ample breasts. William was shocked.

“Why does she do that, she’s a pretty girl?”

“Why do you do what you do, Wendy?” Miles asked.

William blushed furiously and shut up.

The girl was sobbing and cursing under her breath. She had a holdall and was busy filling it with clothing and personal belongings.

“I thought she was a boy,” William whispered to Miles.

“Don’t whisper, she can’t hear.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Janna and she’s like you, in a way.”

“You mean she wants to be male?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh. Where will she go?”

“On the street.”

“But it’s Christmas Eve. Is there no where she could go?”

“Well, there’s always your place. You’ve seven bedrooms not being used last time I checked.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said William.

“I’m not. She’ll be fine, there’s a nice cardboard box waiting for her under the arches at Waterloo railway station.”

“But she’s a young girl, she’s vulnerable. Something might happen to her,” William said.

“She’s three months younger than you, so she’s not that young.”

“She doesn’t look it.”

“She’s had a crappy life. Poor diet, he dad fucked off when she was three days old, her mother died when she was nine and she was raped by a cousin when she was twelve. All things considered, it’s a miracle she’s got this far.”

“Can I talk to her?” he asked.

“No.”

“But I want to.”

“I don’t care, you can’t and that’s it.”

“That’s not fair,” William whined.

“Oh, hark at you, spoiled little rich boy. Shit, I know I was a crappy guardian, but hey, boy, welcome to real life. Life can be an utter bastard. I never asked for your parents to die early and leave you alone, but I made sure you were fed, housed and clothed. I got you to school and left you alone. You can’t lay your guilt onto me. Sometimes we have to take responsibility for our own lives, as tough as it might seem. You’re so far up your own bum you couldn’t see daylight even if you tried.”

William was silent, watching the sobbing girl as she packed her meagre belongings.

“Right, time we were not here,” said Miles.

“Why, where are you taking me now?”

“You’ll see.

* * *

They stood in the compound of collection of family huts in an African village. The stars were out, far more and far brighter than William had ever seen.

“No city lights to affect the night sky,” said Miles, reading his mind.

There were sounds of an argument and the voices were not speaking in English. William was amazed as he could understand every word. A deep male voice was shouting.

“You have disgraced me, your mother, your family and this tribe. You will leave this place tonight and if I see you again, I’ll kill you!”

William and Miles entered the nearest hut to see two men and a woman standing. The woman had placed herself between the two men and was obviously having difficulty preventing the older man from striking the younger man. The latter had blood coming from his nose and one eye was already swollen. He was probably nineteen or twenty at the most.

“But daddy, I’m your son,” the younger male replied.

“I have no son. You are an abomination. The only reason I have not killed you is that you were of my blood, but I deny you now. Go!”

The young man left the hut, dragging his feet. He was crying. His mother was wailing and pleading with her husband, but the older man was not listening.

“He is evil woman, He is an abomination. The Christian Priest says that any man that lies with another will be put to death. The Moslem’s Imam says that they shall be put to death, and our own tribal traditions say that they are evil and should be killed. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to disobey all these Gods?”

“But he is our son,” she wailed.

“Not any more he isn’t.”

“Where will he go?”

“I do not care, as long as it is a long way from here. That is it; that is the end of the matter. I will not discuss him again.”

William looked at Miles in the darkness.

“This is wrong, how can you let this happen?”

“Me?” Miles said, surprised. “This has nothing to do with me. I’m dead, remember. This is up to the living to sort out, not the dead. I could ask you the same question, how can you let this happen?”

“I can’t do anything. You told me I can’t intervene.”

“You have over a hundred million pounds, but you are so stuck into your own petty little problems that you don’t actually give a shit about anyone else anywhere.”

“That’s not true,” said William, realising that it was absolutely true.

“Yeah, right,” muttered Miles.

“So, what will this boy do?”

“He’ll leave home and have to get a job. Because he’s gay, he won’t be able to get a proper job here, so the only work he’ll be able to get will probably be in the sex industry in the nearest city. He’ll die of an AIDS related disease before he’s twenty-five.”

“But this is wrong!”

“I’m nor arguing with you.”

“It shouldn’t be allowed!” William said, feeling sorry for this one boy and the thousands like him; male and female.

“Tell someone who’s not dead!” Miles said.

“Does no one care?” William asked.

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do!”

“Then, may I suggest that you do something?”

“I’m a currency broker, what the hell can I do?”

“How long do you think your cash would take to run out if you stopped work tomorrow?”

William thought about it.

“Properly invested, it wouldn’t. It should gain, depending on the rates of interest within each portfolio.”

“You see, you’re earning a six figure sum and even if you wanted to, you would never be able to spend what you’ve already got.”

William was silent.

Miles turned away.

“Come on, boy, we’ve got one more stop before we take you home.”

William watched the pathetic scene for a moment more and then turned and followed his dead uncle. Miles smiled grimly; as William thought no one could see him cry.

***

“Why did you bring me here?” William asked, shivering despite not being cold.

“I thought you’d find it educational.”

They stood in the Hospital Mortuary of a busy central London Hospital.

It was a long rectangular room, with six examining/post mortem tables. One wall contained ten fridge doors. Behind each door were four sliding shelves, and each shelf could hold a single dead body. It was dark when they arrived, and the place held an eerie stillness.

One by one, the spirits of those who lay within, emerged through the doors and stood there, apparently waiting for something. Some were wearing just the medical shroud with which the hospital had dressed them, while others were dressed in whatever they had been wearing when they died. Each looked faintly ridiculous as each had a label tied onto their right big toe. All, that is, with the exception of one man, as he had no right leg. He stood on his good leg, without appearing to miss the one that wasn’t there. As William watched, the ghostly leg appeared, but had no label on it.

“How did that happen?” William asked.

“He lost his leg in an accident. It’s still in the vehicle.”

“Can they see us?”

“No, not unless you want them to.”

William decided he didn’t want them to.

One by one the ghosts turned and slowly filed towards the opposite wall. There was no door in the wall, but the passed through it, one at a time.

One of the dead was a tall young woman with long fair hair, dressed in a short skirt and a blouse. She had bare feet and looked perfectly fine to William. As she turned he saw that there was a gaping wound running for seven inches up her left wrist. There was no blood, just the open wound.

As she walked past William, passing within inches of him, he observed that she was not a girl, but a boy wearing girl’s clothes.
Without thinking, he held out his hand to stop the person.

The girl stopped, for in death she became the girl whom she always was.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello. I was wondering, what happened to you?”

The girl looked down at her wrist and shrugged.

“It was the only way open to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“My parents disowned me, my friends deserted me, my boss sacked me, even though they’re supposed to have a non-discriminatory charter, and then my landlord evicted me. I had no money, no family, no home, no friends and no job; what the hell was I supposed to do?”

“There are help groups and the local authorities should have emergency housing,” William said.

“Yeah, right. Look, I don’t know what planet you come from, but here on Earth, only foreign asylum seekers get emergency housing and as for help groups, how many work around Christmas? They’re all too busy buying presents for their spoiled children and food for their over-weight families.”

“Some one must have been there to help you?” William said.

“Like who; you? Where were you?”

William remained silent and the girl walked on, through the wall and into whatever afterlife existed.

Suddenly, the door opened and two hospital porters pushed in a trolley upon which a body lay under the sheet. One switched the lights on.

“Did you see that new nurse’s tits?” one asked.

“Which one; the blonde girl?”

“No, the dark girl, I think she’s from Africa or the West Indies.”

“Nah, I wasn’t looking. This one had a gorgeous friend. Legs right up to her armpits she had.”

“So, how did this one die?” the shorter man asked.

The other man picked up the clipboard and read it.

“Trauma to the head. It looks like an assault.”

“That’s murder that is.”

“Oh yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

The tall man lifted the sheet and looked underneath.

“Shit, this is a bloke in women’s clothing!”

“No?” said the other one, taking a look.

“Oh yes, so it is. Got nice legs though.
”
“I wonder if it still has a willy.”

“Take a look,” suggested his friend.

“Eurgh! Yes it has; how gross!”

“I wonder what possesses them to do that.”

“Yuck, that leaves a nasty taste in my mouth, cos she looked quite pretty.”

“It’s not a she, it’s an it.”

“Whatever.”

“Probably better off dead. Who do you think did it?”

“Probably some bloke on a promise. Got to the point of hey ho and found Mr Willy staring him in the face.”

“Justified homicide, really,” said the tall man. “Can’t blame the bloke.”

The men placed the body unceremoniously onto one of the trays in a fridge and closed the door. They then turned and walked out, discussing football. As they left they turned the lights out once more. The doors slammed shut leaving William and Miles in the dark.

“The bastards, how can they talk that way?” William said.

“Oh, they’re tame. Actually, many are far worse than them.”

“They showed no respect.”

“No? Strange that isn’t?”

“Why not?”

“That’s human nature for you. Despise those who don’t fit neatly into your nice little boxes. Anything outside the box is less than human, somehow.”

“It’s so wrong!”

“You’ve said that a lot tonight.”

William shook his head.

“I never thought…..”

“No, well you see, that’s the problem with most people, they never think. They see their immediate needs and the needs of those close to them, and shut their eyes to everything else.”

“It has to change,” William said.

Miles laughed.

“Yeah, right. Look, it’s been this way for time immemorial, so what makes you think it can change now?”

“If you showed them the truth, people might change.”

“No, boy, they won’t. You show them the truth and they’ll choose not to see it. They see what they want to see.”

“Then how?”

“Search me, I’m dead, remember?”

William quietly fumed for a moment. Then he turned to Miles.

“Okay, where next?”

“Home for you, and then, well who knows for me.”

“Is that it?” William asked.

“I suppose so. Look, I am as new to this as you are. I just did what I was told.”

“Yeah, but what for?”

Miles shrugged.

“Just had to, that’s all.”

Moments later, they were back in William’s bedroom. The clock still showed 00:00.

“Now what?” William asked his dead uncle.

Miles seemed at a bit of a loss.

William was feeling frustrated and still a little angry at what he had seen. He also felt guilt over his own attitude to life, not withstanding he had never asked to possess the transgender drives and demons that lay within him.

He was about to say something when he became aware of two more figures taking form inside the room.

To his amazement and some shock, he found himself facing his parents.

“Bugger me,” said Miles. “Hello Martha, what brings you here?”

His sister looked at him and smiled.

“You always were a bit of an idiot, weren’t you Miles?”

“You know me. Why did you leave the kid to me?”

“Because we felt it might make a man out of you.”

“Instead it made a girl out of him,” said Miles, with a sick smile.

William’s father took a step forward.

“We never stopped loving you, Will, we want you to know that,” he said.

His mother nodded.

William collapsed onto his knees, tears streaming down his face.

“Why….?”

He stammered.

“Why did we have to die? Who knows, perhaps it was just meant to be. The important thing is now you have the opportunity to make a choice,” his mother said.

“Me? What choice?”

“The future is not written for you. The past is dead, as dead as are we, so the future can be whatever you choose it to be. On this Christmas eve, what you say now can change a lot or change nothing.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“Every year, all over the world, people are spreading good wishes of Christmas. They are all empty wishes, but tonight, just this once, you get to make a wish,” his mother said.

“You’re joking.”

“No, but it’s important to make the right wish. It’s all too easy to make a wrong one.”

William looked at his parents and then at his uncle, who strained to keep his bags of bottles from hurting too much.

“There are so many questions I want to ask you. How long have I got with you?” he asked.

“You don’t need to ask questions. Just know that we love you, and always have,” Martha said, smiling.

William felt under more pressure than at any time in his life.

“Okay,” he said. I think I’m ready. Do I say it to you, or what?” he asked.

“Just think it, dear and that’ll do.”

William nodded, looking at each of the ghosts in turn.

He closed his eyes and thought his wish.

He thought he heard his Uncle say, ‘Halleluiah!’ followed by the sound of many bottles smashing.

He opened his eyes to find he was alone once more. He stood there for a long time. The clock clicked round to 00:01 and then on. When it reached 00:30, William shook his head and took off his dressing gown.

“A dream, a crazy bloody dream, that’s all that it was!” he said to himself. He turned out the light and fell asleep.

* * *

Janna was cold.

She couldn’t remember ever being this cold before, ever!

Miles hadn’t been quite right with his forecast of what was going to happen when she left her step father. She wasn’t in a cardboard box under the railway arches, although it might have been warmer.

Indeed, she had left the flat with her small case of meagre belongings, intending to make for the arches. She never got that far.

She had left the block of flats, and had made it out of the estate onto Canal Wharf Road. The street lights were dimmed by the heavy snow, and it made walking tricky.

She was wearing the completely wrong clothes, and the chest bindings were now hurting. This pain reminded her of the wrongness of her whole life; the wrong gender, the wrong place, the wrong time and the wrong bloody life.

She felt angry, hurt, frightened, frustrated, bitter, lonely and ashamed. It was impossible to put them in order of precedence, as they all fought to consume her as she trudged through the snow.

Her face still hurt from where her step-father had hit her. It didn’t bother her, as she’d been hit before and far worse. It was the loneliness that really consumed her inner being.

She’d tried to talk about her problems with friends. They’d shown her how good friends they really were when they deserted her. She’d been able to speak with a counsellor and the doctor. They’d listened and referred, as appropriate, but neither could give a shit. They just wanted her to move on down the conveyor belt of a system, tick the appropriate box at the appropriate time and move out of their field of existence as the next one came along.

The case was heavy, so she kept having to change hands to alleviate the pain in each one in turn.

She tried dragging it for a while, but it acted as a small snowplough and collected a mound of fresh snow, thereby rendering it even less likely to move easily.

It got to the point that the pile of snow was bigger than the case, so she had to stop and clear it away. As she did so, she caught her heel in an unseen uneven crack in the pavement. It sent her backwards against a large wooden gate. She cracked her head on the gate, as it splintered inwards. She tumbled backwards, landing in an unconscious heap inside the small, partially covered yard beyond the gate.

* * *

William woke late on Christmas morning, having slept better than any time than he could remember. He stretched and scratched his head.
He stopped, as if paralysed.

His hands had come into contact with far too much hair.

Sitting up in the enormous bed, the sheets fell away, revealing not the same body in which he had gone to bed on the previous evening.
The girl stared in awe at the full and pert breasts that now adorned her chest. With her heart in her mouth, she slowly pealed back the covers to reveal that she now possessed the matching set.

“Oh my God!” she said, aloud; her voice high and very feminine.

Feeling more than a little light-headed, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, and sat looking into the full length mirror that ran the length of the wardrobe.

The girl sat and stared at her reflection.

Okay, the hair colouring was gone, mysteriously washed out to show the natural auburn colour. Gone too was the spiky style, instead the hair feel in luxurious waves down to her shoulders and a good way down her back. The Goth makeup was gone too, revealing a clear and very good complexion. Even the several piercings had vanished, leaving no trace of their existence, with the single exception in the lobe of each ear.
On shaking legs, she stood, staring is terrified fascination at the girl in the mirror. It was the same girl that William had seen in that squalid little flat in London, only a few hours before.

What was her name?

Janna!

That was it, she was called Janna.

Then it hadn’t been a dream.

Shaking her head, she had to sit down again. This was just too weird for words.

If she was here, then where was her old body, William’s body?

A confusion of thoughts swirled around her battered mind, as she tried to make some sense of what she was experiencing.

She fought to remember everything from the previous night. It was all shrouded in a mist of her own making. Panic does strange things to one’s mind.

“I’m a girl!” she said, staring down at the evidence and repeating it over and over again, getting louder and louder.

All at once thoughts of a different nature entered her consciousness. Questions like; what about my job? What about my bank accounts and investments?

Silly thoughts about the name on her driving licence and….

In almost blind panic, she ran to the wardrobe and slid the enormous mirrored door. It took too much strength to slide it across, but she managed it. Scrabbling with panicky fingers, she opened the small safe that sat behind the false front of some ordinary looking drawers.
Taking out the passport, she opened it, conscious that her fingers shook terribly.

Staring back at her was the photograph of the girl she now was. Her eyes scanned to the name.

WENDY ABIGAIL STEVENS.

And the gender; FEMALE.

She shut the passport and opened it again.

The name and gender did not disappear.

She then looked at the clothes that hung silently in an orderly line within the wardrobe.

Still with a shaking hand, she reached out and touched the first item on its hanger. It was a charcoal grey suit, with a slight pinstripe. She could hear her heart beat in her ears.

The material was soft and expensive, in keeping with the impeccable taste that had been William’s.

She reached up and lifted the hanger off the rail.

The skirt slipped off the hanger, falling onto the floor. She stared at it in wonder. Then her eyes took in the rows of shoes. There were black, navy, light blue, green, red, white, silver, gold, brown, maroon, burgundy and every other colour she could imagine.

They were all women’s shoes; all expensive and looked barely worn. There were high heels, flats, mules, pumps and boots; every conceivable type of shoe for a myriad of occasions.

“This can’t be happening!” she said, listening to the unfamiliar timbre of her voice.

The clipped, educated accent was familiar, so it was just the very female pitch that wasn’t.

Carefully hanging up the skirt and jacket, she opened one of the real drawers.

Ordered sets of silky underwear sat in neat rows; brassieres here, pants here, other, more exotic items down there, and stockings and tights at the back. These were not William’s, of that she knew.

She grasped her own flesh of her upper arm between a finger and thumb of her other hand, and squeezed.

“OW!”

“Okay, this isn’t a dream. Get a grip. I’m a girl. I’m a fucking girl!” her voice went up as the rising excitement and joy bubbled up in her chest.

“HAPPY CHRISTMAS - I’M A GIRL!” she shouted, as the laughter bubbled forth like a geyser of water.

She was still laughing as she stepped into the shower. Normally, William’s shower could have been timed by a stop-watch. The girl stayed in there for ages, revelling in the whole new experience as she discovered her new body.

All the stresses and burdens that she had carried for so long washed down the plug hole with the soapy water.

With the growing realisation that this was real, her memory of the previous evening now became clear.

She wept as she recalled the suffering she had seen, both in London, and in Africa. She remembered in some shock the poor girl who had died by her own hand because she felt it was the last road open to her. Then she wept for her parents.

Once dry, Wendy took a long time to dress. In deed, it too her an hour to select her underwear, let alone what should go on top.
She sat at her dressing table in her underwear, playing with the plethora of pots and tubs that constituted her collection of makeup.

It was after midday before she regarded her new reflection in the mirror.

She had tried on nearly all her clothes, finally selecting a red cashmere dress, some thick stockings and boots with sensible soles considering there was about a foot of snow outside. With log hair shining, she left her bedroom and walked down the stairs to the kitchen.

Very little of the house had changed, and yet it seemed like a different place. In stead of order and pristine neatness that had been William’s hallmark, flowers and colour abounded. The furnishings were the same, but instead of neat sombre cushions, loudly coloured ones yelled fun at the top of their voices.

The flowers expressed a rejection of the darkness and cold that is winter, shining light and colour into the darkness. In the hall stood a Christmas tree, gaudily decorated and with fairly lights twinkling. Underneath it, still in beautiful wrapping paper sat several presents, each with labels attached.

She smiled at the scene, but otherwise ignored it, stepping into the study.

Nothing had changed here, either. The desk, chair, PC, filing cabinet, plasma TV on the wall, book cases and perfect white rug were all as they had been on the previous evening.

She sat in the chair, running her hands across the inlaid leather of the mahogany desk.
She opened the drawer on the right, taking out a single piece of paper.

Dear Ms Stevens.

Thank you for your recent instructions with reference to the acquisition of the property in Canal Wharf Road, East London. We were successful in negotiating the purchase of the freehold of this premises, and are pleased to inform you that completion of the legal process is due at midday on the 24th December.

We are also pleased to inform you that the title deeds have been recorded in the name of your charity Change with Hope, and logged with the Charity Commission and Companies House as per your instructions.

Please find enclosed the keys for the said property. We are pleased to have been of service and look forward to undertake other business for you in the future.

Yours Faithfully,
Donald Harris
Director of Acquisitions.

A small bunch of keys lay in the drawer. She looked at them and then picked them up, marvelling at the way her nails matched the colour of her dress and lipstick.

She replaced the letter in the drawer and stood up, taking the keys with her as she went to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

She helped herself to a pint of milk, which she drank, and then took a navy blue coat from the hook. A large and incredibly fluffy fur hat topped her off, and she found the keys for her car in the pocket of the coat. She glanced round the kitchen, and saw the handbag sitting by the fridge.

Safely tucking the bag under her arm, she went through the adjoining door to the garage.

Minutes later the Porsche Cayenne slowly crunched across the snow covered gravel and down to the gates of the drive. The automatic gates opened as the car neared them. The road outside was clear, as the council workers had been out doing their work as everyone else enjoyed their Christmas morning.

As the car joined the motorway, heading towards London, Wendy turned on the radio to hear Noddy Holder singing his Christmas hit from way back when.

She smiled.

“I love Christmas!” she said.

* * *

Porsches are rarely seen in Canal Wharf Road, unless you count the stolen ones that appeared briefly to be re-sprayed and given new numbers several years ago by that group of Romanians who leased the small workshop at the end. They were in prison now, so very few cars appeared here at all. There was little point, as all the premises were derelict.

No one was out in the cold to see the black Porsche Cayenne as it came to a halt outside the long low building that used to belong to a clothing manufacturer. They’d gone out of business after the imports from the Far East took all their customers. Even on the minimum wage old man Goldbourne couldn’t afford to compete with child labour at fifty pence a day.

No one saw the pretty girl in the blue coat and fur hat as she stepped out of the car, locked it and made her way to the gate.
Wendy smiled as she read the sign above the gate.

PREMISES NEWLY ACQUIRED ON BEHALF OF CHANGE WITH HOPE CHARITY.

She found the gate damaged, so was cautious as she pushed it open. She gasped in some surprise and then smiled, quickly looking up and down the street before running to the car to take a blanket from the back.

After all, it’s not every day one finds a naked man, is it?”

* * *

William Stevens shut down his computer and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at his watch.

“Shit, I’m late!” he exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, Mr Stevens, did you say something?” asked his secretary Caroline from her desk outside his open office door.

“No, thanks Caroline, I was just talking to myself again. I just realised the time. I’m going to be late and she’ll have my guts for garters!”

He stood, collected his papers from his desk and placed them neatly in the top drawer.

“Finish up, Caroline, and get yourself home. I’m sure you’d rather be with your family at this time,” he said.

Caroline smiled, knowing that William knew only too well about her family. After all, only he and his wife, Wendy, had been there to help them come to terms with her transition from Cliff to Caroline just a mere seven months ago. It had been the Foundation’s money that helped pay the way and ease the family’s problems. She only still had a family because of him, so Caroline would never forget what William and Wendy had done for her, which included giving her this job.

“Thanks, Mr Stevens, I will. Have good Christmas,” she said, as she watched him head for the lift.

“I will, count on it,” he replied, chuckling as he pushed the button for the lift.

He just reached the ground floor when he saw her coming in through the main doors when the lift opened.

She smiled as soon as she saw him. He smiled back, admiring her. Her long auburn hair glowed as if made from spun copper and gold. She was wearing that red dress again. She had promised only to wear it at Christmas. “Just to remind me,” she had said. She was stunningly beautiful, with a wonderful figure and a smile that stopped traffic.

She looked like a movie star or model, so it always shocked people when they found out what she actually did for a living.

It was that smile that said it all. William felt so humble that she was his and their love seemed so perfect. She had saved him, and that was a fact.

She came over to him, kissing him passionately, despite the lobby being crowded.

“Hello hunk,” she said.

“Good day?” he asked.

“Not bad, but I do get fed up with these damn councils and their petty bureaucracy. I spent over two hours with Tower Hamlets, just to get them to approve our new drop-in centre. It’s not like they have to pay a penny towards it.”

“Many come in?” he asked, as they left the building and ventured into the cold evening. It was snowing again.

“Twelve already.”

“Word has got about, then?”

“Yup, it certainly has. I got a call from Jean at the one in Hackney, they had seven in there already and four others have opened the doors and have started taking orders for lunch tomorrow.”

“The councils are in for a shock when they realise that they’ll stay open past New Year and on into the year,” he observed.

“Mmm,” she agreed, holding his hand.

“How did you get on at the flat?” he asked.

“Difficult. I know you told me about his temper, but I think he was at a bit of a loss as to how to deal with me. I wish you’d been there.”

“You know that I’d have hit him. Besides, he’s not part of my life anymore.”

“Thanks a bunch,” she said. “Anyway, he didn’t recognise me at first. Then he thought I was up to something, particularly as I don’t talk like you used to. I think it was the clothes that threw him. You never wore a dress or skirt, then?”

“I think I did once, up to when I was about nine.”

“In the end I persuaded him that I really was Janna and he let me in. I got to your old room. The place is a right tip. He’s done nothing since you left. I packed up everything you told me to get, even your mum’s photograph off the mantle piece. He grumbled a bit but wasn’t that bothered. He’d been drinking again.”

“That’ll be still. He goes to bed totally off his head and needs a few drinks just to get himself going. Did you go home with the stuff?”

“No, I didn’t have time, what with the meeting with the council and then the lawyer. The stuff is still in the boot of the car.”

As she said it, they arrived at the Porsche Cayenne.

“Do you want to drive?” she asked.

“No, you do it. I’m still not entirely happy driving this beast. I only passed my test a few weeks ago, remember?”

“Okay. Your old stuff in is the back,” she reminded him as they got into the car.

“Thanks, you’re a star.”

“Oh, I also told him that I’d changed my name. I said I was now Wendy Stevens. “I’m not sure he took it in.”

“Did you tell him you were married?”

“No, there wasn’t much point. Urgh, he’s a horrible man.”

“I know, but he was my step-dad for a while.”

“I just took what you wanted me to take and left. I don’t expect we’ll see him again, ever.”

“If I ever do see him, it’ll be too soon. He’s the sort of person we’re constantly fighting against.”

She drove them across London, concentrating, as the snow was starting to lie properly.

He sat beside her, watching her profile and trying to come to terms with what had happened to them both. He sighed, for she was truly beautiful and was so better suited for that body.

Eventually, they reached a side street and turned up it. Midway along was a single doorway. Above the door was a new sign. She pulled up and stopped the car.

They got out and she pressed the remote, locking the car. They stood for a moment reading the sign.

REFUGE CENTRE FOR THOSE WITHOUT HOPE.
Part of the Change with Hope Foundation.

“Is that okay?” he asked.

“Brilliant. Are you ready?”

“Always,” he replied, grinning.

“Oh, and I have your Christmas present with me,” she said.

He frowned, not being able to imagine anything better than what she had already given him.

“What?”

“You’re going to be a dad. I’m pregnant!” she said, squeezing his hand and leading him inside before he could react.

In a large, newly decorated room, twenty-five transgendered young people, who had started the day with no homes and no hope looked towards them and cheered. They were in the warmth surrounded by people who cared. There was food on the table and hope in their souls. Hope had just arrived in their lives this Christmas Eve.

This was their home now, as they had rooms and all the facilities they needed to go through the difficult time that was ahead. With committed and trained counsellors on duty during each day, and sympathetic doctors assigned to each case, these kids had a real chance at building a future.

Wendy often wondered how it had happened, but the miracle occurred one year ago, almost to the day.

On that Christmas morning when she had awakened in William’s bed, to find himself now in Janna’s body. It seemed only right to take the name Wendy.

Once she found him, she knew she’d found her soul-mate. Together they formed the Change with Hope Foundation. Her wish had been granted.
Little by little, and one at a time, they began to make a difference. It’s amazing what one can do when one cares!

Wendy knew that the trick is to care every day of the year, not for just one.

She smiled.

Happy Christmas — happy life!