The Sight
By
Nick B

 © Nick B 2008

Bestist thanks to Gabi for her editing skills at short notice.
No horrific bits in this one either, TK

“His hormone levels would be right were he a female of that age, but not for a male.”

“What does that mean, doctor?”

Chapter 12

As Sandy Townsend had left the police briefing a couple of weeks previously, an idea started to brew. Despite what the police had said, that Darren kid, or whatever his name was, had definitely hit the bull’s eye with Suzie Croft’s name. Somehow, he had managed to convince Annabel that he was psychic and this was the point where her idea came into play.

At first she, too, was taken in. The kid looked genuinely upset, genuinely concerned, but he refused to answer more questions, to give her more details, which meant he was holding back. She was, after all, on the side of those women, so if he knew something and she was trying to help, didn’t that mean that he was covering something up by not telling her all the facts?

He had been absolutely spot-on with the name, not just a vague “it’s something like” and from all the dealings with psychics she had had–which granted weren’t that many–they were always a little left of centre. This led Sandy to two possibilities: Either this Darren was for real–and how, or he was involved. One thing was for certain: he definitely knew more than he was letting on and that made her angry.

She sat at her desk at her home, scribbling down the pros and cons or in this case, “real” or “involved” and each time she added something to the “real” list, it was countered by an equally if not more compelling reason for him to be involved.

After about an hour of deliberation and having run through the two lists again–applying logic to each entry–she had two much shorter lists, although one was longer than the other.

It seemed that her initial suspicions had not been far off the mark and she began on fresh paper–another session of frantic scribbling–referring often to the two lists she had just compiled and edited.

Afterwards, she paused for a glass of wine and reread the notes, which had become more of an “article” already. Downing the last mouthful of her chilled white wine, she picked two sheets of paper and one of carbon paper from the drawer of her desk, wound them into the typewriter and started to tap away.

The words flowed quickly and the extended notes from her handwritten text, expanded like the flow of water across and down the page. Before long, she was inserting another sheet as the excitement inside her rose.

Soon, she hit the full-stop, pulled out the second page and began rereading her now finished article, her heart beating quickly as she felt the break she needed coming–all thanks to this.

Who knows, girl. You might even get a prize for this one.

The idea spread through her thoughts like wildfire as she took a sip from her second glass of wine, building to something akin to the Oscars ceremony as she took the stage to accept her prize for the best article of 1978.

The next morning at the office, Sandy could hardly contain herself, knowing that Joe Bates, the newspaper’s editor had her article. She sat at her desk, unable to work as she waited for his opinion and in due course, she saw him through the office window and heard him calling, “Sandy?” and beckoning.

Butterflies the size of pterodactyls flapped in her stomach as she entered his office.

“Take a seat,” he said, looking at her over his wire-rimmed half-moon spectacles. She sat down, the excitement in her building almost to the point where she thought she was going to explode.

“I’ve read your article,” he informed her, laying it on the desk before him then steepling his fingers.

“And?” she asked expectantly.

“It’s very good–if you like character assassinations.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her excitement dissipating and quickly being replaced by a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“What have you got against this kid? I mean, that’s all he is, isn’t he–a kid?” asked Joe.

“He’s a charlatan; a con artist and he’s stringing people along with this idea that he’s psychic,” she argued, defensively.

“Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t, but this newspaper isn’t one of those Sunday tabloids, notorious for burying those who don’t always deserve it.”

“I’m not trying to bury him,” she countered, trying hard to retain her decorum, while Joe just sat there, fingers still steepled, looking at her intently.

It was so infuriating.

There was a very real problem out there. Women had been abducted and one of those had even wound up being discovered dead–murdered. She had the inside track on someone who she felt should be being investigated more thoroughly and what were the police doing?

Sweet F.A. that’s what and now Joe was taking the same route.

“That’s not how it looks, Sandy.”

“It’s a straightforward question, Joe and I think I presented the facts in an even manner.” Her look at Joe was pugnacious and her demeanour started that slide into something bordering on belligerence. She was well pleased with her piece and if it meant that people saw the little shyster for what he was, then so much the better.

There was a pause.

“I don’t think it is,” he said finally.

“That much is obvious,” she spat, with something of a sneer.

“I can’t print it.”

“You can’t?!” she spluttered. “What do you mean? You can’t or you won’t?”

“Either is fine,” Joe stated evenly, shrugging his shoulders. “We’re a small newspaper and this is sailing far too close to the wind for my liking. You’re not asking a question. You’re guiding the reader to a point of view and it’s one I don’t happen to share.”

“But don’t you think it’s a bit much that he knows all this stuff and isn’t involved?”

“You can’t prove that. In fact, everything you have said here could be looked upon as hearsay. Turn it round and make it a little less confrontational and I’ll think about printing it, but not as it is.”

She snatched the papers off his desk looking daggers at the man behind it.

“Change this?” she said, waving the typed sheets in Joe’s face, a look of incredulity on hers. “Change this–the best thing I’ve written in ages?”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t be improved,” he said coolly, pushing her hand and the waved papers aside.

“Call yourself an editor? Your problem is you can’t see a good story when it comes up and bites you on the arse!”

“You’re out of line, Sandy,” he warned.

“Out of line? I’m just trying to inform the public that there’s someone out there that could be dangerous and the police and now you are doing nothing about it.”

“That’s enough, Sandy!” he said with uncharacteristic force. “That’s not going in this paper and that’s final. I’ve given you my opinion and if you don’t like it, you know what you can do.”

“Oh, I know alright,” she answered in nothing more than a whisper. “There are plenty of newspapers that would give their eye-teeth for an inside view of this case and you’re turning it away? Are you mad?”

“No Sandra,” he said sitting down and leaning back in his chair, watching as she fumed. “I’m not turning away a piece of insightful news reporting, but a piece of trash that is solely designed to destroy a poor kid whose only crime I can see, is to have been near you at the wrong time.”

Ten minutes later, Sandy still had her article, but no job.

An hour after that, she was talking to the editor of a popular Sunday newspaper and smiling broadly.

“Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Bates,” she said after she put the phone down

---

The doctor was talking animatedly with Gemma while Darryl sat in bed, obviously wondering what was going on.

His breast development was causing some concern–with everyone else, that was. A blood test had shown that his hormone levels were all back to front.

“His hormone levels would be right were he a female of that age, but not for a male.”

“What does that mean, doctor?”

“Well, it’s probably just gynaecomastia; nothing at all to worry about,” the doctor told her.

“Gyne-come-what? What’s that?”

“It’s gynaecomastia–the growth of breasts in adolescent males. Not as rare as you may think. It normally rights itself in time. I’m sure he’s perfectly alright, but he may get a bit stressed about it. The results of the accident he had may even have had something to do with it, especially that bump he took to the noggin. Whatever it is, it’s most likely temporary, so no need to worry.”

“What if it’s not?”

“Then we can help him along with hormones, but we’d rather not try that until we’ve had a chance to chart its progress.”

“So you’re going to do nothing? That’s ridiculous,” Gemma responded hotly, wringing her hands.

“Mrs. Groves, please, calm down. We can’t just go steaming in there filling him full of drugs and hormones. It might cause more damage than it fixes. Just be patient, I assure you we’ are doing the best we can for your son.”

Gemma glanced at Darryl. He didn’t seem at all stressed, contrary to what the doctor had suggested. Curiously, he seemed bored–not in the least bit stressed. She on the other hand was sweating and trembling.

“How are you doing,” she asked, having regained some of her composure.

“I’ll feel a lot better when I can get out of here,” he said smiling ruefully. “I don’t think I have ever felt so bored.”

Gemma just looked at him and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He had always been a pretty baby with long golden ringlets that when pulled out straight, were almost long enough for him to sit on. Now his hair had settled into a mousey brown sort of colour that lightened to blonde in the summer. It was wavy and long–not as long as it had been, but she had been forced to have it cut and now it had grown again, was just past his shoulders.

He wasn’t the baby he was, but he was still pretty.

She admonished herself for even thinking that. He was a boy and boys aren’t pretty, but as she looked at him, she realised that actually, he was pretty and not just good-looking in that boyish way either, but really pretty in a peculiarly girly way. He seemed more so now as the hospital gown rested on and accentuated the growing mounds on his chest.

Don’t be absurd, she thought. He’s your son . . .

---

Darryl had tried to keep himself amused as the days dragged by and more out of necessity than from desire, he wound up reading some of Anne’s magazines.

These consisted of Woman’s Realm and Woman’s Own, with one or two copies of Elle thrown in for good measure. They were entertaining and the fashion and makeup tips were quite a revelation–matching colours with skin tones or eye colour and so forth. He never knew there was so much to it. It never took his mum that long to slap on her ‘war-paint’ as she put it, but it appeared that there was quite an art to it.

By Saturday, Anne was being discharged and ready to leave.

“Here, you have these,” she said, handing over a fairish pile of magazines.

“Are you sure?” Darryl asked, taking the magazines from his friend and hefting them a couple of times. There were definitely quite a lot of them.

She shrugged. “I can get more. Who knows how long you’ll be here.”

“Oh don’t say that. I may never get out,” he replied laughing.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, bending down and kissing him firmly on the cheek. “Look after yourself.”

With that, Anne was gone and Darryl was once again left to himself.

“See, Anne didn’t have a problem accepting you as you are,” said Mariella.

“No, I guess she didn’t. Others seem to be having a hard time of it though,” he answered, the depression showing in his tone.

“Yes,” she said, once again placing her hands on his shoulders and squeezing reassuringly. “But then some people have problems accepting things, even if you’re normal.”

“Aren’t I normal then?” he asked, a little surprised.

“Not really. You’re special. Not everyone gets the ability you have.”

“No and not everyone has to change sex to get it either.”

“Touché!” his grandmother said, grinning.

“I’ll be alright, but at the moment, I’m still not sure whether I want this girl thing. I mean sometimes I don’t even think about it and I’m just me, but then I find out that people are squabbling over me and what I should or shouldn’t be and it makes me question it too.”

“What sort of squabbling?” Mariella asked, concerned.

“Oh, it’s just Mum. The doctor told her I had gynae-something-or-other–it’s to do with these anyway,” he said cupping a hand under each of his small, but perfectly-formed breasts. “She can’t see why I can’t be given something to make me her son again, but the doctors don’t want to–um, let me get this right–go steaming in there filling me up with drugs and hormones.”

“At least someone round here has some sense then.”

The two sat in companionable silence for a while before Darryl asked a question.

“Where’s granddad?”

“Oh, he’s around,” said his grandmother, smiling. “He sends his love too. It’s just too difficult for me to bring him with me. Perhaps if I were younger . . .” she added wistfully.

“I still don’t know whether I can do this, Gran. I’ve been thinking about it and while some things appeal, it’s a heck of a change for me and Mum–not to mention the others. I know Anne accepted me, but can I?”

“I can’t force you one way or the other. It’s a decision you have to make for yourself.”

“That’s a bit of a change in what you’ve been saying, Gran,” he said suspiciously.

“I know, but I was blinded by what I wanted; what I would like to see, not what was right for you and looking at the trouble it is already causing, I realised that you were the only one that can make the decision.”

Suddenly, Gran was gone and he was rudely woken with several staff and the rear view of someone he thought he recognised as he was being rushed down bright corridors.

“What’s happening?” he asked, bleary-eyed from just having woken up.

“It’s alright Darryl,” said the familiar voice of Sergeant Cummings. “We’re just getting you safe . . .”

---

To be continued . . .