Any way out will do.
By Beverly Taff. ©
Chapter 1.

As he sat in the bath with the flannel covering his nudity, his mother stood over him.

“Why do you do it?” She demanded.

He mumbled nervously. “Don’t know?”

“But you must have some reason for doing it, d’ you want to be a girl?”

He repeated again. “Don’t know,” but it was a lie. Sometimes he did ‘want-to-be-a-girl’, especially when he felt like a girl, leastways in his head, or more correctly when the female thoughts invaded his- (her?) head. He / She was confused. During these situations he / she desperately wanted to be a girl. However, as he sat there with the bath-water beginning to get uncomfortably cool and fear sending chills through his exposed body, he never felt less like a girl.

“Do you like doing it?” His mother pressed.

He hesitated for he was too afraid and confused to confirm or deny liking it. His pause served him no use. She took his hesitation as a ‘yes’ and pursed her lips angrily before shaking the offending knickers in his face.

“There must be something wrong with you! These – these are your sister’s! You evil little pervert!? I’m warning you right now it’s got to stop! From now on, I will check you every night and if I find you wearing them again, you’ll be for it. You do realise if your father finds out there’s no knowing what he will do to you; thrashing to an inch of your life I shouldn’t wonder. I’m sending you straight to bed!”

With those final words she stalked out of the bathroom and he sat silent in the bath simply wishing that the water would somehow swallow him up. He was four years old and already it had been made abundantly obvious to him that wearing girl’s clothes was a heinous offence. Soon his mother returned to help him finish washing then she left him to dry himself and put himself to bed without any supper.

That was a given if he was being punished... straight to bed with no supper.

That night he tried sleeping naked for he simply loathed the feel of coarse cotton boy’s pyjamas. Even then his sleep was disturbed later as his mother checked him out and demanded he put something on to ‘make himself respectable’. Reluctantly he slid on the ‘boy underpants’ but the feeling was still loathsome.

All he wanted was to sleep in girl’s night-clothes; that was all, nothing else – well not completely everything; sometimes he’d have liked to live as a girl, not all the time, just sometimes.

‘Why didn’t his mother understand this?’ He asked himself. ‘Why couldn’t he have silky knickers and blouses when he felt like a girl – in his head that was?’

Having now learned the rules the hard way, he resolved never to get caught again and for the next two years he became doubly careful. When the feminine feelings overtook him he learned to sneak a pair of knickers under his boy pants after his mother had checked him out. This was often as late as eleven o’clock but it was still worth the loss of sleep just to savour the comfort and peace of those precious dark hours of feminine secrecy under his blankets. He still slept better that way despite the known risk of discovery and punishment.

It was not a permanent condition though. Sometimes he would go for weeks without ‘changing’ as he secretly described it to himself. It seemed that sometimes he felt like a boy and other times he felt like a girl. He did not understand why, he never would, but it was this dichotomy that was to be the source of much of his later childhood hardships.

However during those next two years he succeeded in secretly dressing without detection. Though there were several narrow escapes.

Unfortunately, when he was six, things took a turn for the worse. He found a pair of nylon stockings still in their cellophane and simply could not resist trying them on. He sneaked them up to his bedroom and tried sliding his feet into them without realising he had to ‘ball them up’ and slowly work them up his legs. Consequently he laddered them and realised immediately he could not put them back as they were.

Subsequently he hid them away and hoped nobody would miss them. He had no idea whether they had been his mother’s or his older sisters’ stockings.

His ‘crime’ was discovered that very same night. His oldest sister had bought the stockings the previous day in preparation to go out that night. When she could not find them she quickly deduced what had happened.

She had occasionally missed things before when knickers had turned up two weeks late from the laundry. She had her suspicions but she never commented upon them. It was easier to simply assume her mother had missed them in the wash. Invariably they appeared two weeks later properly washed.

His older sister had plenty of pairs of knickers and he had simply ‘borrowed’ a pair from the dirty washing hamper for a couple of nights then returned them to the dirty clothes hamper.

The stockings however were a very different matter. His oldest sister had bought them for a specific occasion that Friday night and their disappearance was a cause for concern that quickly descended into anger. Eventually a combined inquisition by both his mother and older sister extracted a confession out of him and he reluctantly recovered the damaged articles. A huge row ensued because his sister now had no stockings and it was too late to go out and buy a replacement pair.

Even though he offered to pay for a new pair with his savings, all the shops were shut. His oldest sister had to cancel her night out which she had been looking forward to.

With her patience exhausted and her night ruined, she fulminated with anger until later that night she slipped angrily up to his bedroom to seek vengeance. As he tried to curl up in anticipation of some sort of beating she used a different tactic by reaching under his bedclothes and seizing him by his testicles.

“If you want to be a girl, I’ll make you into one you little pervert!” She hissed.

He whimpered as she dug her nails into the sensitive skin then squeezed hard. His screams brought his mother and father rushing up the stairs and another huge family row ensued. His older sister was sent to her room which was exceptional for an eighteen-year-old girl but it indicated the severity of the situation. His parents inspected his body and decided the injuries were not too serious. There were some small cuts where his sister’s nails had dug hard but there was little bleeding.

His mother put a large bath towel under him then a rubber sheet to protect the mattress and he was left to get on with things.

That night, as he lay trying to cry himself to sleep, he did not hear his parents discussing the situation downstairs. The following Saturday morning his scrotum was badly bruised and slightly swollen though the pain was bearable. After visiting their GP that same morning he was kept off school for the following Monday and Tuesday then he was taken to a clinic in the big city on the Wednesday.

His parents had set things in motion regarding the boy’s treatment with a view to finding a cure for his perversion.

In later life, he supposed his parents had not taken him to a local hospital because that would have required explanations and that would have exposed the ‘family scandal’ of their son’s perversion in the local area. Then the family secret would have quickly spread throughout the small community because several people from the village worked in the local cottage hospital. Later on in life he had wrongly concluded that his parent’s bigotry had driven them to choose the anonymity of the large hospital in Liverpool. The real truth was that smaller local hospitals did not have a psychiatric unit that specialised in child psychiatry.

At the clinic during the consultation he was forced to wear nothing more than a skimpy pair of blue linen ‘pants’ that more resembled a side-tied bikini than anything else. He felt vulnerable being almost naked in front of so many adults and actually commented upon their skimpiness but no notice was taken of his objections as he was put through a series of inspections and tests. He was made to sit then stand then walk and finally run before he was told to lie down on a high bench as several people, who he presumed to be doctors, examined him. They took blood samples and examined his genitalia closely before starting to ask him questions.

“Why do you do it?” Asked a youngish doctor.

It was a stupid and destructive question to ask a six-year-old because, as a child, he did not and never would understand why he did it. Answers to those questions would not begin to come to him for another forty or fifty years and even then, they would be found amongst his own privately formulated ideas.

Amongst the doctors he never found anything concrete, nothing definitive; and certainly no hard facts that could definitely be described as medical evidence. Nothing that would ever explain away the constant uncertainty that plagued his whole existence.

In the end it came down to little more than something he needed to be – that was all it meant, simply to exist in his/her own little world and be safe there. Finally in his/her later years it was a need to simply not appear as threat to those people he found most accepting and considerate of his condition. The best way to appear harmless was to resemble them and in the final analysis, this meant surgery to remove those parts that conveyed threat.

These solutions however were a very long time in the future and wholly inaccessible to a six-year-old boy. Being still between the ages of six to twelve and being unable to answer or explain the causes of his condition served only to intimidate the boy and reinforce a feeling of inadequacy and low esteem that would torment him for years.

“Don’t know.” He answered nervously to the question, 'why'.

“Do you like it?” The doctor pressed.

“Sometimes.” He tried to reply truthfully after considerable hesitation.

“Do you want to be a girl?” The doctor challenged.

“Y – y- yes – sometimes.”

“Sometimes! Only sometimes?”

“Yes.” He almost whispered in fear.

“So why do you want to be a girl, even if it’s only – sometimes?” The doctor pressed.

Once again the boy could not explain why he wanted to be a girl; he just did and had already said so.

“So you think you’re a girl, but only sometimes.”

The repeated question served only to reinforce the child's guilt. But the only answer he could offer was still the truth as he saw it.

“Yes.”

With that inexplicable circumstance now becoming an unacceptable fact, the young doctor was beginning to lose his way. Uncertainly he pressed on with the questions while the older staff just listened with similar discomfort fomented by their own uncertainties coupled with their cultural and religious prejudices.

“Are you a girl now – in your head I mean?” The young doctor pressed on.

“Yes.”

At that juncture, the child’s ‘mind-set’ was actually female so he was not lying in the strict chronological sense; indeed, he was actually telling the absolute truth. As a six-year-old though, he had little idea of ‘now’ and ‘later’ with regard to his thoughts and feelings. The young doctor changed tack and tapped his pencil irritably on the desk. At that time psychiatry had no precedent to deal with such a fluctuating gender dichotomy and the young psychiatrist was only in the first training stages of his chosen speciality. As he groped for conventional solutions to the unconventional problem he was presented with, he changed tack.

“Do you get excited when you wear knickers?”

The child didn’t even know what they were driving at when they said ‘excited’! He innocently presumed that they meant ‘happy’ and ‘pleased’ or ‘comfortable’ so he nodded ‘yes’.

Already the assessment was going ‘off track’ simply because he did not understand their more adult, sexual interpretation of the word ‘excited’. He thought they meant thrilled and euphoric – not sexually excited with an attendant penile erection.

Had the doctors simply been more prosaic and used the term ‘erection’ the boy would have probably asked what ‘erection’ meant and perhaps avoided any confusion. Sadly, the young doctor’s own uncertainty coupled with his cultural probity dictated his own oblique vernacular and he had inadvertently started to embed misunderstanding and confusion in the child’s head. The rest of the questions fell into a similar vein with words having covertly sexual interpretations sending confused signals to the boy.

If he understood the words at all, he simply took the words literally and thus replied with similarly misleading ignorance.

The psychiatrists search for culturally acceptable and legally defensible solutions ensured that their vocabulary was too sophisticated while the child’s vocabulary was too immature to give informative or meaningful answers.

The questions seemed to go on forever and were ones for which the child had no simple or certain answers. How could he have answers? He was six and he had neither the vocabulary nor the insight to give plausible answers. Consequently his stuttering and uncertain responses were often contradictory causing the child appeared to be evasive or worse - deceitful.

Besides the ambiguous questioning sessions, there was also the child’s background of gender uncertainty. For the last two years from aged four to six, the constant ‘switching’ of genders in his head had already confused the child throughout his short life. Now in the hospital during his first ever assessment, it would serve only to confuse the doctors and would continue to do so during the long years and endless consultations yet to come!

During that first examination the child was also cold because he was still wearing the skimpy blue surgical shorts from their physical examinations. He had been given no additional cover for the rest of the examination and towards the end of the long afternoon the effects of the cold became more pronounced. He had started to shiver and such a condition does not help anybody to focus their thoughts, and yet, unbelievably, the doctors either did not notice his shivering or they didn’t seem to care.

Eventually the boy was told to get dressed and even then, they watched him like some clinical specimen to see if he could tie his own shoelaces and button up his shirt as though dexterity might have some gender related element. Finally after that first terrifying consultation, his mother came to collect him and she just glared at her child before dragging him to the bus. She did not speak to him all the way home but at least he was given some supper before going to bed. It was his first meal since the early morning.

Having returned home, the boy thought the ordeal was over but a few days later a large maroon and black car appeared at the garden gate. His mother handed him to a man whom he recognised as one of the doctors who had questioned him at the clinic. The doctor sat in the back seat with the boy while the driver collected a small suitcase from his mother before they drove away. The boy squirmed around and kneeled to look out of the small, oval, rear window where he saw his mother watching the car as it started up the street. He waved but she did not wave back and then she turned around and started walking down the garden path without a second look or any other sign of acknowledgement. He watched her disappear then he slid dejectedly down onto the seat and stared uncertainly at the floor as the car turned to join the main road out of his small village.

The child NEVER saw his parents again.

He eventually gave up staring at the floor of the car and turned to watch the countryside flying by. After a further long silence, he turned to the doctor.

“Where are we going?” He asked.

“To the clinic to get you better young man,” was the doctor’s reply.

This answer puzzled the child because he didn’t feel sick or unwell and he was in no pain. He wondered what was wrong with him. It never occurred to the child that the doctor was talking about psychiatric and gender issues.

Like any other six-year-old child, he saw doctors as people who made sick people better and he naturally presumed any sickness would be a sickness of the body accompanied by pain or discomfort. The child debated asking the doctor what was wrong but he was too afraid.

He wondered if he was going to die like his great aunt Freda because she had been quite healthy until one day when she became ‘poorly’ and they rushed her into hospital. Five days later she was dead. When he had asked his parents, they said she had had a heart attack.

He wondered if that might happen to him because some adults in his family had said that if they had checked up on Auntie Freda, the attack could have been averted and she might have been saved.

‘Were they checking up on me?’ He wondered fearfully.

Finally the car arrived at the same large hospital in Liverpool and the child was delivered into the care of a large matronly woman who showed him to a room with a single bed. After an hour of staring out of the window whilst wondering what was going to happen, a meal was brought on a tray. Naturally, the hungry boy ate it whilst sitting on the bed with the plate on a high adjustable ‘bed table’. Once fed he was left alone to simply lie back on the pillow and wonder if he was going to have a heart attack.

A few hours later he heard the door latch unlocking and he turned expectantly. A woman entered with a small plate of sandwiches and a cup of cocoa. She placed them on the table that the boy had lowered out of boredom for there was little else to do in the room. He had searched through the doors and drawers of the desk and examined the wardrobe to find nothing. Fearful of being accused of ‘rooting’ or being untidy, he had left the drawers exactly as he had found them and the lid of the desk was back in the upright position. The boy was nothing if not tidy.

“It’ll be lights out shortly; did you pack your pyjamas?” The nurse asked.

He nodded and was about to ask some questions but decided against it for he had already sensed that, the nurse was busy and would have little time for him.

‘Nobody ever seemed to have time for him.’ He thought.

After eating he changed and climbed into bed. Presently the door opened and the same nurse entered to collect his cup and plate.

“You’d best follow me to the lavatory now because once it’s lights out, you must stay in your room.”

He complied and followed her down the corridor to find the bathroom empty. He had not realised it but all the other rooms were empty though this had little significance just then. Later on, as the years dragged by, the loneliness would become an onerous burden.

Once he had finished his ablutions, she led him back to his room and watched him as he climbed into bed.

“It’s lights out now, you can have a bath or shower in the morning.”

He nodded and curled up under the blankets because there was little else he could do. The room was bare. When the door closed he found himself in a dark silence almost akin to sensory deprivation but during that first night, he thought little of it.
He was too afraid of having ‘an attack’ like his deceased Aunty Freda. The silence became oppressive for at home he slept with his older brother and they shared conversations every night. In those early days and weeks the silence became almost unbearable until he eventually found a solution. Each evening as the weeks became months and the months became years, he slowly learned to sink into a mindset of silent introspection that was almost tantamount to a trance until he fell asleep. For that first night however, he simply waited and wondered what was going to happen.

Chapter 2.

The next morning, the metallic click of the lock alerted him as he lay dozing and wondering. He sat bolt upright with fearful anticipation until the visitor entered. It was a different woman from the one that had put him to bed and he just stared at her uncertainly. She smiled and he smiled tentatively back.

“Good morning. Are you ready for a bath?”

The question mildly puzzled him; at home bath time had always been just prior to going to bed.

“What, now?” He asked.

“Well yes. Everybody is bathed in the morning. Come along, the bathroom is just down the hall.”

He slid out of the high hospital bed and stepped into a pair of well used slippers that had accompanied him from home. The nurse watched and smiled.

“Have you got a toilet bag?”

He wondered what she meant by ‘toilet-bag’ and he wagged his head uncertainly. The nurse frowned and brusquely pushed his hand from his little suitcase. Eventually she held up a small waterproof bag as she explained.

“This! This is a toilet bag.”

“Now he understood as he recognised the little bag that his mother had put in his suitcase. He cautiously took hold of it as she held it by the finger loop then they trooped down the corridor. The nurse paused for a moment by several doors on opposite sides of the corridor, then she asked him.

“Would you prefer a bath or a shower?”

Once again, misunderstanding caused confusion. He had never experienced a shower and was not even sure what the word ‘shower’ meant in a hospital context. He thought showers were short cloudbursts of rain. Given the range of uncertain experiences and novelties that bore in on him that morning, he chose the familiar ‘bath’. The nurse accompanied him but simply sat and watched him as he self-consciously washed.

Eventually he wanted to rinse his hair and he glanced around uncertainly before asking nervously.

“Have you got a jug please, so that I can rinse my hair?”

The nurse looked slightly surprised at first then asked.

“Aren’t you afraid you might scald yourself?”

He paused, wondering if it was a ‘trick question’. He had done it all the time at home.

“I just mix the hot with the cold in the jug and pour it over my hair. Mummy says I’m old enough now and she’s let me do it myself since I was five.”

The nurse handed him a big plastic jug and watched as he first took cold water then hot water from the taps. Next he cautiously dipped his finger in then jerked his finger out. It was too hot but he was sure he had mixed the proportions correctly. While adding more cold water, he touched the hot tap out of curiosity and started with surprise.

“Ow! It’s hot, much hotter than at home.”

“Well yes. The water comes from a big boiler that heats this whole block so it has to be very hot to travel the long way from the boiler. I was surprised you mixed it yourself, I thought you’d ask me.”

The boy tested the jug again and satisfied himself it was not too hot.

“I’ll just be more careful. I didn’t know it was that hot.”

“You’d better try the showers tomorrow. They are regulated and safer.”

The boy didn’t answer for he knew nothing about showers. With hair washed he took the towel proffered by the nurse and dried himself before stepping into clean underwear.

After eating his breakfast he returned to his single bedroom and lay on the bed staring at the ceiling and walls until they came for him again. He followed the nurse and soon found himself entering a room with several doctors sitting behind a big table. They studied him as he studied them until the questioning began.

The first inquisitor was the same doctor who had collected him from home. He looked up from the notes he had been reading and peered at the boy over his spectacles.

“Now it says in these notes that your name is Bernard but sometimes you like to be a girl?”

“Yes,” he nodded slightly and whispered nervously, almost afraid to confess to his sins.

“Do you have a girl’s name?”

The boy froze internally. He did have a secret girl’s name but he had never, never
disclosed it to anybody. It was his innermost secret.

‘How did they know that’, he wondered. ‘How did they know to ask?’

His long hesitation affirmed the doctor’s expectations that there was a girl’s name but the child held it secretly deep within his psyche.

Some of the doctors believed that revealing and then suppressing that secret name would be an important step to removing the ‘female identity’. The same doctor pressed again.

“If you do have a secret girl’s name you must tell us the truth otherwise we can’t help you get better. There’s no need to lie either, it’s important that you never lie to us. We just want a simple answer, your girl’s name.”

Again the boy hesitated with fear. It was now apparent to him now that the doctors already knew he had a secret name but they did not know what it was. Revealing his secret name seemed like telling a wicked witch or wizard one’s name then forever putting oneself in thrall to their evil magic. For the very first time he lied.

“I don't have one.”

They knew he was lying because his reticence had given him away. They naively
concluded it would be a simple exercise to extract it but it was to become a test of wills.

Their psychiatric heavy-handedness seemed to him like the fairy-tale endeavours of the evil sorcerers to capture his secret name and enslave him. The boy remained determinedly dumb and it became something of a battle. Eventually the doctors realised the boy was not prepared to co-operate so they changed tack. Changing the topic suddenly would distract and disorient the child.

“When did you last wear your sister’s knickers?”

This sudden change of topic and the threat he associated with it served only to alarm the child. He now felt forced to co-operate if only to retreat from 'the edge'. He had sensed the mood of censure that had spread through the panel and it made him fearful of some sort of punishment. Consequently, he tried to pick an inoffensive path while remaining uninformative and defensive.

“Don’t know.” He mumbled.

“Surely you must remember that.”

He wagged his head. All he could remember was that it was some days before they had come for him.

Unable to recollect the precise day, he felt too afraid to give a vague estimate because they might accuse him of lying again, and they had already warned him that lying could affect the treatment and cure. Consequently he remained silent. The doctors presumed his silence to be an attempt to deceive the questioners or resist their inquiries. The inquisitors pressed him for an answer and he finally capitulated by declaring an estimated ‘mid-week’ date. It was a guesstimate but the child had no way of knowing if the inquisitors knew and he was desperately afraid of being accused of a lying. The questioning now passed to a more mature lady doctor.

“You see, you can remember if you try,” the lady inquisitor charged him before she proceeded to press him further. “Just be honest with us. If you don’t tell us the truth, we can’t help you. So why did you wear your sister’s knickers?”

Once again that same old unanswerable question reared its head. He paused nervously while he concluded he had no option but to be totally open then he replied with a disarming truthful logic that immediately sounded sarcastic..

“Because I didn’t have any of my own.”

From an adult such an answer might have been deemed a deliberately provocative or trite but the sheer transparency of the child’s reply took the doctors by surprise. His answer actually exposed their own heterosexist presumptions but at first, the doctors failed to recognise this. The silence hung thick as each of the doctors digested the child’s reply.

Then, quickly, too quickly, the female doctor attempted to respond by challenging the child’s innocent presumption that he was somehow entitled to dress en-femme. This assumption flew in the very face of their cultural norms.

“Well of course you wouldn’t have any girl clothes of your own, you silly child! You’re a boy.”

The boy fell silent. His answer had been a perfectly honest and true answer, indeed, from his transgendered perspective it was the most honest answer he could give. The lady doctor’s remark about ‘being a silly child’ had not advanced the discussion one iota except to put the boy further on the defensive.

After that he felt any further honest answers would just invite further censure or ridicule. The complexities of gender awareness and gender feelings were far beyond his juvenile understanding and vocabulary. He had no way of understanding or expressing his internalised reasons for choosing to do what he did and at such a young age he would not have had the confidence to defend his ‘truth’. At that stage, the boy just about gave up.

One of the male doctors tried another tack.

“Do you seriously think you have the right to steal your sister’s clothes?”

The use of the word ‘steal’ now compounded the boy’s sense of guilt. He fully understood that stealing was a sin so he naturally confirmed he had no right to steal. Though he still felt, as a girl, he/she had the right to own and wear her own female clothes. The heterosexist doctors failed utterly to separate the two issues of theft and the right to ownership. The younger doctor leaned forward again and reinforced the previous panellist’s observation.

“So why did you steal them, why do you think you have that right?”

“I don’t. I don’t have the right to steal them; I never thought I did. I only borrowed them because I” -he was about to finish - “don’t have any girl clothes of my own,” but he paused uncertainly as he searched for yet another trap. Consequently his reply was never finished as yet another panellist felt it incumbent to fill the silent void.

“So you do know it’s wrong.” The doctor interrupted.

Twice now their cultural straightjackets had prevented the doctors from spotting that their patient at that precise juncture, genuinely felt like a girl and mentally actually was a girl. Twice they had missed the clues.
This was a question the child might have readily answer but this time she saw the trap and hesitated. After an excruciating pause, she felt forced to fill the verbal void as the doctor cocked an eyebrow expectantly. There was only one safe answer and she capitulated to their prejudices while her resentment simmered silently.

“Yes”. She mumbled softly.

The panellist leaned back with apparent satisfaction as the same doctor reinforced his view.

“So you do know the difference between right and wrong.”

“Yes,” the child croaked as fear combined with anger to crack her/his voice.

“Well if you know the difference between right and wrong, you’ll know it’s wrong to wear girl’s clothes; so again we are asking why you do it if you know it’s wrong.”

The child was exhausted as the same question kept getting repeated or presented a dozen different ways. She simply repeated her earlier answer for she had no idea or understanding of the causes of her compulsion. She just did it because she was a girl – at least she was just then.

“I don’t have my own girl clothes. Mummy wouldn’t buy me any.”

“You’re not entitled to any, you’re a boy.”

For a brief instant, the child’s anger almost drove her to argue her corner again but her courage departed her. She had now become totally disheartened and resigned to whatever fate befell her. After just half an hour into the very first collective consultation, the child was beginning to view ‘assessment and treatment’ as nothing more than censure or worse, punishment. In historic times it would have been described as a inquisition.

Already she was overwhelmed by the intense degree of repeated censure and she barely managed to make her reply. In any event it escaped as an almost inaudible croak.

“Not always.”

“What laddie? Can you speak up?”

The Scottish doctor spoke for the first time. His strange accent and abrupt manner further intimidated the child and she fell totally silent. It was becoming increasingly apparent that none of her answers would serve and she now saw the panellists not as doctors or friends but as tormentors – the enemy. Tears started to flow and the meeting would serve no more useful purpose. Resentment, confusion and fear had made her mute.

The doctors shuffled uncomfortably in their seats as her tears finally drove home the message that their interrogations were destructive not constructive. They had gone too far. Unfortunately, they failed to realise that the child’s distress was not a temporary condition, not some brief phase before they could take her treatment to a higher level. The child’s distress was the ‘clunk’ of the first permanent brick in the wall.

She was taken for a glass of milk and an apple then returned to her room. Except for mealtimes she remained there alone for the remainder of the day. Tears flowed for several hours before they dried to leave the child’s mind blank with exhaustion whilst the mortar of despair set hard around that first single brick.

Meanwhile, in their comfortable conference room, the doctors ate their lunches and discussed what little they had learned.

‘Well at least he’s showing some sort of remorse and he acknowledges his wrong-doing,’ observed the Scottish leader of the team.

‘So the trick will be to get him to recognise the cross-dressing as wrong-doing and take his treatment forward,’ the younger doctor added.

“I wonder why the child seemed to think he had a prior right to own girl’s clothes.” The lady doctor offered, “I mean where would he get the idea?”

She of course had failed to recognise her own nascent feminist perspective by somehow feeling that the child had insulted her femininity and this was the source of her being offended by the child's answers. Nor did the other doctors recognise that the woman's feeling of insult had clouded her professionalism. For want of more insightful conversation, one of the male doctors adopted a typically male gambit and suggested a practical solution.

“Well I think our main endeavour is to normalise his behaviour by removing his perverted compulsions. This should be a good opportunity to try and discover what triggers transvestism in a child; while he’s young and naive and not yet independent enough to resist or contradict our treatments.’

It should be a fairly easy task, though I must confess, his answers reveal a disarming degree of dysfunctionality. He seems to think that he’s sometimes really a girl surely he’s too young to be sexually aware.”

“So what is the treatment to be?” The lady doctor asked.

~O~

After some more thought and discussion it was decided that ‘Electro Convulsive Therapy’ might produce the preferred result. After another two days of what was virtually ‘solitary confinement’, the child was taken to a treatment room where he (for he had now flipped back to male gender identity,) was strapped into a heavily built wooden chair with leather padding and buckles. The younger doctor explained brusquely.
“We are going to treat you for your compulsion. The idea is to modify your behaviour using electric currents to hopefully adjust your brain patterns. We’ll administer a sedative to make you sleepy and stop you thrashing around. That way you should not hurt yourself now, just get undressed.”

“What; all the way?”

“Yes. We need to see all your reactions.”

Obediently the boy stripped totally naked then sat in the indicated chair.

‘Will it hurt?’ Asked the child fearfully as the buckles were fastened and electrodes attached to his skull.

Nervously he sat still except to flinch when the needle was introduced into the back of his secured hand. He felt the cool liquid entering his hand then began to feel slightly dizzy. He tried to speak but his tongue seemed puffy and his mouth felt as though it was full of cotton wool. Then the doctor’s voice seemed to come from far away.
As he seemed to float in some faraway dream-world, he felt what seemed like a mild thump to his back and a flash through his brain.

“Did you feel that?”

“Mmngh.” He tried to nod

“Just blink to say yes.”

He concentrated hard and finally managed to blink for he seemed to have trouble making his body do as he wanted.

Another harder and much more painful ‘thump’ followed and he jerked hard involuntarily as he felt rather that saw stars in his brain. He let out a grunt of surprise and the doctor nodded.

“You felt that then.”

He tried to nod but bodily control was too difficult and eventually he resorted to slow blinking. The doctor studied his face then nodded.

“That’s good, just blink to say yes.”

He blinked slowly again and tried to tense his body in anticipation of another jolt. The jolt didn’t come but he found he couldn’t tighten his muscles or move his limbs. Unbeknownst to the boy, the drug was a powerful muscle relaxant – he was helpless. As he lay still the doctor explained.

“I’m going to show you a series of pictures and I want you to blink if you recognise any of them. Oh and the same rules apply as yesterday, you must tell the truth as best you can or otherwise we don’t be able to help you. Blink if you understand.”

The boy blinked and the doctor took out a sheaf of pictures which he placed on the table beside the chair where the boy was secured.
After checking the order of the pictures, the doctor started to hold each image up whilst holding his foot poised over a switch. The first pictures were mostly innocuous images of animals and every-day pictures of furniture, the boy slowly blinked as each image passed his view. The process was continued for some five minutes as the boy began to wonder what was going on. He had recognised almost all the pictures easily. Then the doctor changed tack.

“I want you now to blink ‘yes’ if you like the next pictures and do nothing if you dislike them. Blink ‘yes’ if you understand.”

The child blinked acknowledgement and watched as the doctor chose some more pictures from the second pile. He liked most of the pictures and demonstrated his pleasure by blinking ‘like’ appropriately. Then the doctor showed pictures of young animals being slaughtered notably a lamb, a calf and a piglet. Resolutely he squeezed his eyes shut to demonstrate his dislike. At no time during those first and second sessions did he receive a jolt and he was beginning to wonder what was going on. The ‘tests’ seemed too easy.

Then the doctor took a third sheaf of pictures and asked him to blink each time he recognised the object depicted.

At first the pictures were of people; men and women and children and this time he was instructed to blink if he liked them or close his eyes and keep them shut if he disliked them.

Naturally, he tried to be obliging and he blinked at every image in the first group then the doctor took a fourth sheaf of pictures. At first the pictures in this group were of people on the beach, usually in bathing costumes, again the boy blinked obligingly. Then some pictures appeared of women wearing skimpier clothes until finally there was an unexpected picture of a woman in her underwear. The child hesitated uncertainly as he sensed a trap. His hesitation immediately alerted the doctor to the child’s concerns.

“Well; d’ you like this picture or not?”

He wanted to lie and blink ‘no’ but that option was denied him; to blink meant ‘yes’. No was indicated by remaining inert and inactive while the eyes remained shut. His fear made him uncertain of just what to do to please the doctor so he just stared ahead trying to demonstrate indifference whilst wondering what the doctor’s objective was.
The child’s main issue was that he actually liked the picture. The woman in lingerie was very pretty; her appearance was exactly as the child imagined himself/herself to be when she/he was in ‘girl mode’. Naturally fear forced him to remain noncommittal and he stared resolutely ahead as the doctor waited. After what seemed like an interminable impasse, the doctor pressed for an answer.

“I’m still waiting for an answer. Blink if you like it, close your eyes if you don’t.”

Still trying to abide by the edict to ‘Tell the truth’ the boy blinked ‘yes’ and promptly received a shock – considerably worse than previous shocks.

“Umph!” He grunted as his mouth failed to form the word ‘ouch’

“Unngh!” He tried to talk but the muscle relaxant drug had disabled his voice.

The doctor nodded with satisfaction as he produced another, more provocative picture and explained.

“The idea is that the electric shocks will alter your thoughts and brain patterns so you will begin to reject the idea of wanting to wear women’s clothes.”
He held up another provocative picture.

“D’ you like this picture?”

The boy’s eyes widened not with appreciation because he was too young to find sexual arousal, but with surprise coupled with pleasure. Inevitably he blinked yes and received a stronger shock that caused his jaw to clamp.

“Uuunnngh!” He cried loudly for this time the electric shock had sent a painful punch through his head.

The doctor nodded and nodded thoughtfully.

“So you like pictures of ladies in their underwear?”

The boy was unable to explain the dichotomy in his head. He liked the pretty women and their pleasing smiles but he neither saw nor felt anything amounting to sexual attraction. He liked their pretty underwear but there was nothing akin to sexual arousal or attraction amongst his feelings. When he tried to be honest by blinking, he once again received a painful shock that caused his jaw to clench and remain clenched as the current pummelled his brain. Worse still his eyes felt as if they wanted to pop out of their sockets. This last shock served only to confuse him and frighten him as he failed to make sense of his treatment. The ‘treatment’ continued for a further period until the boy was shedding copious tears of fear and frustration whilst yet failing to comprehend what was being attempted.

He was failing to comprehend the doctor’s objectives because the doctors were confusing sexuality with gender identity. They presumed that his liking of the lingerie pictures was an expression of sexual excitement. All the child wanted was to be able to wear the clothes to express his femininity, he did not want to ejaculate into them.
Furthermore, electro-convulsive aversion therapy was not a precision tool. Eventually his distress was recognised by the uncontrollable tears and the guttural sounds that would ordinarily have been recognised as crying had his body been able to express his feelings.

An antidote to the drug was administered and very slowly the boy recovered his self-control. Despite his recovery, he sat for long minutes in the chair while physical and mental exhaustion played havoc with his head. He was dizzy, bemused, and confused while his jaw and neck ached cruelly. His eyes were also stinging and he wanted to screw them up tight. Then he felt a salty taste in his mouth and he reached up to wipe away the tears. To his shock he found a pinkish stain on his fingers and when he looked down he found the same pinkish stains on his chest. His tears were stained with blood!

Terror overtook him at first then, as he sat tense and afraid, he began to seethe with fear and despair as he slowly recovered his composure.

“You can get up when you’re ready.” The doctor told him. “Just be careful you don’t fall; the drugs might still be affecting your balance.”

After several more minutes the boy carefully grasped the arms of the chair and cautiously stood. He was wobbly but not disablingly so.

“My neck and jaw hurt,” he croaked – too angry to even mention the bloodstained tears.

“Yes, those will be from the muscular spasms.” The doctor replied. “You’d better go and wash in the showers. The pain will go pretty quickly. Does your headache?”

The boy nodded because it hurt his vocal chords to talk. However his nod – an instinctive alternative response to talking - caused sharp pains in his neck and he winced as he swayed and grabbed for the door. His hand failed to grasp the handle and he staggered against a cabinet where he finally recovered his balance. The jerk had caused further pain at the base of his skull and the hinge of his jaw. He fell silent as he struggled simply to lean upright.

“You’d better sit down again.” The doctor advised but didn’t offer to assist the boy across the floor.

The child nervously measured the distance to the chair and decided to wait a few more moments before risking another step. He glanced expectantly at the doctor anticipating help but it still did not come. The doctor’s inaction further reinforced the boy’s resentment towards those who purported to cure him. Eventually he made it to the chair and sat for long minutes before finally recovering enough balance and composure to walk. He tottered uncertainly into the shower where he removed all evidence of the pink bloodstains on his cheeks and chest. When he looked in the mirror he was frightened and angry to see how blood-shot his eyes were. Resentfully he dressed then sat recovering physically while yet deteriorating mentally, - one more brick in the wall!

It seemed like only minutes that he has been sitting slumped in the chair before some more doctors arrived and more questioning began. As with the previous session, he couldn’t answer many of the questions and by the end of the session he was mentally drained and physically exhausted. The session ended when he failed to answer a series of questions and the doctors realised they would get little more that morning.
He stumbled several times as he was returned to his bed then he collapsed gratefully and slept despite the persistent headache.

The same procedure, but with differing states of awareness for the boy, was repeated daily for several weeks using various alternative arrangements of the electrode locations. However the child proved to be inexplicably resistant until he eventually learned to lie about his feelings. The only way to avoid the increasingly painful and disabling shocks was to lie. The only concrete result of the so-called ‘electro-convulsive therapy’ was to turn the child into a consummate liar – a skill he also learned to conceal well under a mantle of supposed uncertainty and ignorance.
This disturbing consequence would ordinarily have proved a damming indictment of the theories surrounding the effectiveness of Electro-convulsive-therapy but academic conceit and pet theories coupled with professional jealousies served mainly to blind the psychiatrists to their errors.

Inevitably the boy slowly realised that the clinicians could not actually discern if he was lying or not. He felt a secret rush of euphoria when he realised for certain that the doctors were not infallible telepaths and his own innate intelligence served to guide him through the tormented maze of psycho-analysis without revealing any further content of his mind. The only constructive result of their electro-convulsive abuses was to teach the boy how to better hide and suppress his thoughts.

Many of the questions or ideas they put to him were met with a beguiling uncertainty or ignorance that served to mask the boy’s growing sagacity and perspicacity.
When chemical aversion therapy was tried the clinicians were dismayed to realise that the boy had been concealing feelings and thoughts. After the Electro-Convulsive-Therapy (ECT) had been rejected the introduction of ‘truth serums’ and other psychosomatic drugs exposed previously concealed feelings and thoughts that the boy had consciously suppressed. When exposed to drug induced relaxants some of those secrets escaped to first surprise and then disappoint the doctors when they were finally forced to accept just how unsuccessful and indeed detrimental the ECT had been.

Even then, the doctors continued to adopt flawed strategies and treatments based upon their own underlying cultural censure of all things deemed sexually perverse. Their attitudes had already become apparent to the boy during the ECT treatment so when he was shown audio visual evidence of his ‘unconscious revelations’ he simply became more distrustful and secretive – so much so that he tried to physically resist the administration of the drugs. And yet again, - more bricks in the ‘wall’.

Little by little the boy was becoming a recalcitrant, uncooperative, deceitful misfit until he finally arrived at a level of dysfunctionality that beggared all conventional physical treatments.

Having mostly suffered pain for telling the truth, and then escaping censure or pain if he lied, the consequences of their therapies became inevitable. He became a liar, a cheat and a thief who totally denied all accusations even when confronted with irrefutable evidence of his misdemeanours.

Had the boy been an adult he would have become physically unmanageable. Even so, despite his youth and small size, clinicians were becoming reluctant to confront him with his deviancy because his intractability was proving unresponsive to theory after theory.
Psychotherapy, hypnotherapy, cognitive therapy, hydrotherapy, and many other treatments all proved ineffective and after several years of exhaustive and sometimes experimental treatments, the doctors were forced to concede that the boy seemed ‘incurable’. He was left to rot until a suitable secure location could be found.

During his final two years at the psychiatric unit it was finally realised that nearly four years of virtual solitary confinement with little intellectual stimulus and constant daily treatments had left the child utterly ill equipped to face a normal existence. Attempts were made to bring some sort of stimuli and normality back to the child’s existence but the boy/girl’s induced cynicism coupled with an abiding resentment had now left him/her almost totally unresponsive. Efforts were made to find foster parents but the child’s mental condition prevented any hope of success.

Prospective adopters arrived, met the child and quickly concluded they were ill equipped to deal with his/her inexplicable and resentful bi-genderism.
In the late fifties transgenderism was seen as little more than devil worship or a dark art by ordinary lay-people. Indeed, psychiatrists were little further removed from that same cultural myopia. Nobody was prepared to adopt a ‘pervert’ into their home, especially if there were already children present. No ‘normal’ foster parents could be expected to keep a child that determinedly alternated –(or tried to alternate) - between male and female apparel. Consequently the child never shared or experienced anything remotely resembling a ‘normal’ family environment.

He/she was to remain incarcerated for a further two years whilst the only concession to ‘normality was an arrangement for the child to be allowed access to the public areas for a couple of hours each morning where supervision and control were easy. By then the child had degenerated into an introverted, uncommunicative and unresponsive recluse, often refusing to emerge from his/her room even when the door was left open in the mornings.

During one of the rare occasions he did emerge, the child saw a pretty teenager walking across the hall whilst talking to another of the doctors. He deemed the teenager to be a girl until the Scottish psychiatrist caught him following her with envious eyes. He informed the child that the individual was actually a boy who dressed as a girl.

“Just like you laddie; but too far gone to be cured.”

The child feigned disinterest and shrugged deceptively but in truth he/she was hugely curious. The escorting nurse followed the child’s riveted gaze.

“Would you seriously like to be like that?” The nurse asked.

The boy watched the attractive individual but kept a sullen, jealous silence and just shrugged non-committedly. The nurse went on to explain disgustedly.

“Well that’s another boy pretending to be a girl! Do you really want to end up like that thing?”

The boy watched the ‘thing’ and bit his lip thoughtfully. To his envious eyes the ‘thing’ was all girl.

‘Maybe he might be allowed to be like ‘the thing’ sometimes when he was older.’
His silence caused the nurse to sniff disgustedly as he remarked.

“I really believe you actually want to be like that creature. Well if you do, there isn’t much future for you kid. You’s’ll end up in the gutter and in all probability die young.”
With that the older trans-sexual and the other doctor disappeared into another room.
That was the first and only time the child ever saw April Ashley. Having been denied a priceless opportunity to meet with and possibly talk to somebody who was obviously ‘like himself’ he/she turned resentfully and stumbled back to his/her room. Once safe behind a closed door she wept copious tears and curled up under the blanket to resume the eternal ennui that was her young life.

Six years after crossing the threshold of Walton Psychiatric hospital the boy/girl finally emerged, damaged, un-cured, repressed and totally ill-equipped for any sort of normal life. Cynicism and nihilism were his only companions.
Apart from family details and date of birth, all else they had about the child was simply, conjecture, hypothesis and assumption. The only real secret they had managed to pry from his innermost being was his female name... Beverly.

Chapter 3.

In February nineteen fifty eight, Beverly was arraigned before a psychiatric panel for the last time. That panel was charged with his future care plan. By this time, the child was nearly twelve and viewed the medical staff as little more than jailers and tormentors. The ‘therapies’ and treatments he/she had been forced to endure had proved utterly unsuccessful and had thus, long since been stopped. On the Tuesday morning of the week before his twelfth birthday he had his final interview and assessment. It went as badly as the many others that had gone before. He took his place in the familiar chair to face the doctors and fully expected yet another unproductive inquisition.

“So Beverly, it’s your twelfth birthday this week.” The dour Scottish doctor observed.

“Is it?” She responded disinterestedly.

This single answer alone exposed many of the shortcomings surrounding his six failed years of ‘therapy’.

“Oh don’t try and play games with us, you knew perfectly well.”

Beverly shrugged; she had no certain idea how long she had been there but there was no point in going down yet another vexatious blind alley. Almost every day had been virtually the same for six long years. She simply waited silently for their next comment. It wasn’t long coming. People full of their own self-importance rarely let a silence endure.

“So Beverly, do you intend continuing to masquerade as a girl?”

Again she shrugged. She had no idea where the interview was going so the least said, soonest mended. She had absolutely no control of her destiny and knew she was simply an object to be used and traded as they wished. Beverly’s silence continued but the doctors were inured to her dysfunctionality by then. After a dutiful silent pause, another panellist felt forced to speak.

“You realise you can’t stay here forever.”

She shrugged again, feigning disinterest.. This was the first intimation that she was going to be moved but she knew she had no control over her life anyway. Realising they were talking of moving her, she had a thousand questions to ask but it would all be wasted breath. Countless times she had expressed some simple wish only to have it ignored or denied. Time after time she had wanted desperately to go shopping for clothes only to be dragged off again and again to Anfield or Goodison football grounds or occasionally Chester Zoo. Never once had she been allowed anywhere near the shops and department stores in the city centre. In all truth, if she had been allowed near them, she would probably have tried to steal some lingerie.

Long ago in her tenth year, she had ceased to ask or hope for anything. Her expectations now amounted to zero and a supercilious curl of resentment twisted her lips into an ironic smile. The questioner pressed for an answer.

“Did you hear what we said? You can’t stay here forever. You haven’t been at all co-operative or responsive to treatment so what are we to do with you.”

Beverly snorted.

“Huh! You’re the bosses; you’re supposed to know all the answers. You’ll decide anyway.”

“There’s no need to take that attitude.”

She had little to add to the conversation so she cocked her head impudently and gave the slightest of one-shouldered shrugs that amplified her disinterest and distrust. By its very paucity of expression, her action seemed to capture all the hatred and distrust she had acquired during the long years of ‘legalised, medical abuse.’

Still she remained silent and the panel became slightly restless. Once again they filled the void with another question.

“Well what would you like? You can’t stay here forever.”
“I dunno’. I’d like to be free, I’d like to be a girl’ I’d like to be ... well what wouldn’t I like? - To be out of this place and that’s for sure!”

The panel had already addressed this question of moving her but they had not revealed how or where or when. Naturally, she immediately became suspicious. The panellists had replied as though they were granting the earth. She had responded as though she wasn’t expecting a single grain of sand.

“Well that’s being arranged. You haven’t responded to treatment and it’s been an expensive failure trying to cure you. We are making arrangements to have you transferred.”

Beverly met the Scottish doctor’s crocodilian smile with suspicious squint.

“What sort of arrangements?”

“We are arranging to have you moved to a different unit; an approved school”

She shrugged again; their information told her nothing.

“Aren’t you glad of that?” The Scottish doctor asked.

“I don’t know what it is. It could be worse than this place but God Knows! I doubt it.”

“Well, you’ll be meeting other boys more your own age. You could at least be grateful for that.”

As a twelve-year-old ‘girl’, the last thing Beverly wanted was to meet boys. She shrugged again and remained silent.

“You could at least show some gratitude!” The nurse snapped.

Beverly bit her lip and held her breath for long seconds before slowly exhaling. Gratitude was the last thing she was thinking of. On that inconclusive note the meeting ended; her time in psychiatric hospital had ended with a whimper. By that evening she had been moved to a Secure unit somewhere in Lancashire..

As she sat sullenly in the rear of the minibus, Beverly looked out occasionally at the increasingly rural scenery. It meant little to her because she had already been informed that the place she was going was a ‘secure, residential unit’. A normal child would have been all eyes and ears wondering about their new location but to a dysfunctional victim of six years solitary and abusive psychiatric incarceration, the words ‘secure’ and ‘residential’ were well known to her by now. What hadn’t been explained was that the new unit was virtually a boy’s prison and run on very similar line to an adult prison. On entering through the gates she saw a big sign’ but it meant nothing to her for she could not read. However, she would soon learn what an approved school was!

The ‘mini-bus’ scrunched to a halt on the gravel of an inner courtyard and two staff members emerged to meet it. The first man spoke to the nurse as the second one stared disbelievingly at the ‘boy in a frock’ before turning to his colleague.

“Is this it? Are you serious? You’re trying to tell us this is a boy?”

The nurse nodded and shrugged before replying.

“He or should I say she, seems to think she’s a girl, but only sometimes. It’s all in the file. The boss received it last Monday. Good luck with curing him or should I say her.” The driver smirked.

The second staff member's lip curled with distaste as he opened the door.

“Come on you; out!”

Beverly uncurled out of her seat and looked the man in the eye. Even this seemingly brazen act was deemed disrespectful and the man seized her by the arm. He yanked her hard from her seat and she squealed with surprised pain. Despite all the ‘therapeutic abuse’ she had suffered in the psychiatric unit, they had rarely man-handled her so hard as to hurt her.

“Ow! Leggo', you’re hurting!”

Her objection only earned her a violent back-hander across her lips that left her shocked before she tasted the salty blood. She stared beseechingly at the nurse hoping to find some sort of objection on her behalf but none came. Despite witnessing the violence, the nurse just wagged her head and signed the release forms from the hospital.

“She’s all yours now.”

“Oh don’t worry darling. We’ll soon sort her out. Girl indeed! And does she have a fanny?”

“Best let your doctor decide that.” The nurse replied before slamming the minibus door and scrunching noisily away.

The first warden glanced at the large bundle of envelopes and smirked before knocking on the huge wooden doors. As they waited for the locks to be released by their colleagues inside they both exchanged knowing looks.

“It says boy on the envelope.”

“So why the frock? They must all be mad in that hospital.”

“Well it is a loony bin; I wouldn’t have expected anything else.”

The second warden suddenly span Beverly around and almost dislocated her shoulder as he spoke.

“So what is it you’re supposed to have?”

“Gender dysphoria.” Beverly replied.

“Don’t try and use those posh words around here kid it’ll bring you a lot of grief. Go on. Inside!”

The doors clunked shut with a dull ominous echo and she was led away up a wide stone staircase to a door labelled ‘Chief Warden.’ Once inside the wardens handed the heavy bundle to the chief and stood back. The man looked up and raised a questioning eyebrow at Beverly. She misinterpreted it to mean ‘sit down’ and promptly did so.

“Who said you could sit!?”

“I thought – “

“Well don’t think. Prisoners don’t think in here! They do as they’re told!”

Beverly’s eyes widened with incomprehension as she wondered aloud,

“Prisoner?”

“Look around you weirdo. Do you not see bars on the windows?”

A brief glance confirmed it and she tried gathering her thoughts. As she drew breath to ask another question the experienced senior staff member interrupted her before she could form a word.

“You’re a prisoner when you come in here no matter what the reason. We don’t make exceptions even for perverts like you!”

Beverly fell silent as the chief warden lit a cigarette before briefly studying the first sheaf of notes entitled ‘Case Summary’

The silence would have been unbearable to a newcomer but Beverly was now long inured to silent waits, she had endured plenty. Eventually the chief staff member closed the file and drew a long wheezing breath.

“So you sometimes like to think you’re a girl do you?”

By now she was already anticipating more abuse so she answered as non-confrontationally as she knew how.

“Sometimes,” she replied quietly.

The chief principal leaned across the table and nodded as his contemptuous sneer betrayed his disgust.

“Well we’ll soon see how long that lasts in here.” He observed before ordering the accompanying staff. “Take her to the holding cell until she gets placed.” The boss is not back until tonight. He’s down in London on yet another interminable conference.”

Once again Beverly’s arm was seized hard and she was yanked away. Before they left the office the chief staff officer called.

“And get the little pervert some kit. He’ll cause a riot if he’s seen like that.”

“Come on you!” The man growled as his fingers dug hard into the child’s arm.

Beverly almost ran to keep up but even when she was drawn level, his fingers still bit hard into the tender medial triceps of her upper arm. She could feel the malice in his grip and a deep sense of foreboding overtook her. She wanted to squeal but already she had learned enough to keep silent. She was led into a storeroom and given a navy serge uniform, three blue-grey shirts and some cotton underwear. Lastly she was issued with the smallest shoes they had - still a size to large -, and some woollen socks.

“Well are you going to stand there all bloody day or are you going to get dressed?”
Realising that there was to be no such thing as privacy she quickly stripped naked and dressed equally quickly. The man's lip curled again with disgust as he viewed her naked form and female clothes.

“I’ll take those, you must be sick in the head.”

Beverly handed them to him and he knocked them out of her hands before taking a cardboard box down off another shelf and handing it to her.

“I’m not touching those they’re probably disease-ridden you little bloody pervert. Fold them up yourself and put them in here. You’ll not be needing them again but we have to keep everything you bring with you.”

She picked everything up off the floor and quickly folded them whilst making sure she didn’t make any feminine gesture like patting them neatly. Then he handed her a pencil.

“Write your name, your date of birth and today’s date on the box.”

She froze with fear as she stood holding the pencil uselessly. The man snapped at her.

“What are you standing there for? Get on with it!”

Her whole body trembled with fear as she finally managed to confess.

“I, I can’t sir! I can’t write.”

The man stared at her with utter contempt. Then he took a deep breath and cursed her.

“Here. I’ll write your name on a piece of bloody paper then you can copy it onto the box. I’m not bloody touching it.”

He printed out her name, birth date and the current date and she started to painfully copy it out. He watched with a sneer then shook his head as he concluded the child must be a half-wit as well as a pervert.

As her trembling hands struggled to copy out the letters and numbers, he opened the desk and took a register. In it he added her name to the list and noted the number which he snapped at her. Then he took two sticky labels and wrote the number on each.

“Here you little pervert. Stick one of these labels to your box and keep the other one. Most boys stick it somewhere safe.”

Finally, she placed the box in numerical order on the shelves after the man had cross referenced the box and noted its location in another register.

“Remember this number; it’s your prison number and your box number. If you ever get out of here you’ll get your stuff back, though you’ll probably have grown out of them in a year or so. Tomorrow morning the regular clerk will give you a plastic holder for your label. Now move!”

He shoved her roughly through the door then pointed down a dark corridor to a thick door with a small, barred window.

“You’ll stay here for the time being until the governor allocates your cell. Get in!”

She hesitated and he shoved her violently into the gloom.

“There’s no light!” She protested.

“It’s after lights-out you stupid bitch; what d’ you think this place is a holiday camp?”

The door slammed shut with a heavy ‘thunk’ and she was left alone to consider her fate. After groping cautiously around the room, she concluded she was alone and there was some sort of bed attached to the wall. She cautiously climbed onto it then finally stripped and crawled between the sheets. Later that night she began to feel cold and was forced to dress again for warmth. Despite the additional layers it was March and she didn’t sleep much. Eventually the weak winter dawn began to seep slowly through the window and she sat hunched at the end of the bed with the blanket wrapped tightly around her until she heard voices outside. The door opened and another figure stood framed in the light.

“Get up.”

She stepped nervously forward anticipating another shove or blow but they never came. The silhouetted figure stepped out into the corridor and ushered her out. In the corridor she waited uncertainly as he inspected her like some sort of beast going to market.

“That way,” he ordered.

He pointed the direction and she clumped awkwardly with the ill-fitting shoes flopping on her feet.

“Wait here.”

She stopped outside a large wooden door as the warden knocked. A voice inside responded.

“Come.”

The warden opened the door and motioned his head to the girl. She stepped to go inside but the loose shoes caught against a carpet rod and she stumbled forward to end up on her knees before a large wooden desk.

“Get up you clumsy fool!” The guard ordered.

She stood and only then saw the grey suited man sat behind the desk.

“Name and number!” The escort barked as the grey suite leaned forward curiously.

“Bernard Hughes, I – “, she wagged her head for she had not remembered her number. “I can’t remember my number.”

The suit nodded and pursed his lips.

“Hmm, too much to expect I suppose for an illiterate. Can you read that?”

He tapped the top of a wooden name-board on his desk. She stared at it blankly, incapable of interpreting the letters. She suspected the man was the governor that the previous night-warden had spoken of but she felt that uttering the word might somehow make her appear a liar after telling the night-warden that she couldn’t read. Despite being certain the suit was the governor; she chose not to guess for fear of being called a liar. After desperately searching for a solution to her impasse she tried an explanation.

“I can’t read it but I think you are the governor.”

“Sir!” The escort snapped behind her. “You address the governor as sir at all times!”

Beverly glanced uncertainly then added “Sir.”

The governor nodded.”

“Don’t ever forget that boy. Now, your file from the hospital states that you like to think of yourself as a girl. Is that true?”

“Sometimes sir – when I- “

“Just answer yes or no!” The escort interrupted.

Beverly resigned herself to the order but hesitated as though hoping that the governor might prove more understanding and listen to her explanation. Her hope proved groundless and the governor simply tapped his pen on the form in front of him.

“Well – do you?”

She lowered her eyes with resignation and replied, “yes – sir.”

He nodded slowly.

“Well, we’ll soon knock that little misapprehension out of you,” he turned to the escort, “put him on A block. He’s too young to mixing with the older boys.”

Beverly watched the governor write ‘A’ in a box on the form then he looked up again.

“Are you a queer?”

She looked blankly at him then realised he was probably asking if she was a homosexual. In the psychiatric hospital the doctors had concluded she was not and told her so but they had never used the word ‘queer’ and she wasn’t completely certain if the two words homosexual and queer meant the same. Once again as so many times before, her uncertainty and lack of vocabulary led her into conflict.

“D’ you mean homosexual sir?”

“Answer yes of no! Don’t you understand English?”

Beverly snapped with frustration.

“I can’t answer yes or no if I don’t understand the question!”

The escort stared at her in shocked surprise that a dirty little pervert should have the sheer temerity to answer back in front of the governor.

“You’ll regret that boy. You’ll soon learn what ‘queer’ means in here.”

Beverly remained silent until the governor rephrased his question.

“Are you a homosexual then?”

She stared resentfully through eyes on the verge of tears.

“No sir.”

“Do you like girls?”

“No sir.”

“So you must like boys.”

“No sir.”

“Well you must like one or the other!”

“No sir.”

Again the warden interrupted.

“You must like one or the other, which is it?”

“No sir!”

Beverly felt a secret visceral thrill of tiny victory. Her simple ‘no’ had created conflict or confusion by raising more questions than it answered. If either of her interrogators wanted to know more they would have to renounce their stupid ‘yes or no’ strategy of humiliation. She had not reckoned with their other option, violence. Although she was half expecting it, she never anticipated the force of the blow. The escort was an ex-military man and his punch to her mouth floored her.

As she went down her head struck the governor’s desk and cut her temple. Blood began to drip from her upper lip while the cut on her temple trickled down her cheek, both wounds marked the carpet. Now she realised why the carpet was coloured a deep red; no visible stains would show. The governor craned his neck over the front of his desk as the escort barked again.

“Get up.”

Still too dazed and confused to stand she simply sat there unresponsively. The escort repeated his words in a sharper tone.

“I said get up!”

“Still unable to regain her balance she simply sat there slowly wagging her head.”

The governor squinted angrily then motioned to the warden.

“Pick him up.”

Beverly felt powerful fingers digging painfully into her armpits as she was yanked violently to her feet. Immediately after they were removed she swayed again then fell to her feet striking her head again on the edge of the governor’s desk. Her world went dark as more blood flowed from another head wound.

“Damn it!” The governor cursed. “He even takes a punch like a girl! Take him to his cell or this place will resemble a charnel house.”

She woke up in a strange cell remembering little. Her pillow was stained with blood and her head ached. As on countless previous occasions at the previous institution, she was left alone to simply ‘get on with her recovery’. Eventually, as the March night began to fall her door was opened and she was ordered out to the canteen. Almost as soon as she entered the hall, all eyes turned to study the unbandaged, blood-stained head. The escort pointed to the food counter and she went where she was directed.

After her food had been served, she turned to look for an empty table, there was none so she looked for the largest gap on the occupied tables then chose the one occupied by what appeared to be the youngest boys. Fear gripped her innards as she glanced uncertainly towards a ‘piggy-eyed’ warden who was following her as closely as any of the inmates. He wore an expression that told her she would get no protection there. Cautiously she approached her chosen space and carefully gauged the centre spot where she sat down whilst avoiding all stares.

Less than a day in the building and she was already learning the defensive postures and devices to avoid conflict. Despite her caution she had not bargained for the sheer effrontery of her fellow inmates. As she poised to pick a chip of her plate another fork reached across from the opposite side and pierced the very chip she was aiming for.

“Hey!” She protested as she looked for the piggy-eyed supervisor to intervene on her behalf.

To her chagrin he was deliberately looking away, almost encouraging the thief to continue stealing from her plate. Unsure of what to do she curled her other arm protectively around her plate like some member of a wolf-pack only to feel the thief’s fork jabbing into her arm. She jerked it away and he seized the opportunity to steal a choice piece of meat.

She searched again for the supervisor's intervention but it was obvious from his deliberate avoidance of her silent beseechments that she was on her own. Realising this she curled her arm around her plate again and waited. The provocative fork appeared again stabbing towards her arm so she struck as fast and hard as she could. Her fork pierced the back of the thief’s hand and he snatched both hand and fork away with a bellow.

“Ow you cunt!” He screeched as he stood up and lurched across the table. His other hand seized her round the back of the neck and he drove both his fist with her fork still embedded in the back of his hand into her face. Unable to move sideways Beverly lowered her head to take the blow on her forehead. His fist struck with such impact it stunned her but he broke his knuckle. As she fell backwards from the bench seat he was clambering to get over the table but the commotion could no longer be ignored by the other staff. They arrived mob-handed as other inmates scattered from the table to avoid the certain violence that was to follow. For the second time in less than two full days, she awoke to find herself in her cell with yet more blood on her pillow.

The front of her forehead sported a vicious purple bruise but the fork had not touched her. The impact of the thief’s fist had loosened it from the back of his hand and it had flown free to land on the next table. As nightfall returned she lay silently wondering what else was going to fuck up her life.

Dawn arrived and the mirror revealed the state of her face. The painful bruising had spread down to her cheeks and it was all she could do to gently dab at her lower cheeks. Her thigh also sported a painful bruise that made her limp. She presumed one of the staff must have kicked her while she was unconscious. From that morning forward she realised the staff were not there to keep order. Somehow or another she would have to fend for herself and that worried her grievously.

When she arrived at the showers a supervisor stood there purportedly, she thought, to make sure she met no more trouble. Glad to see him there she limped painfully to the shower room and removed her underpants to wash. She hardly got the soap in her hands when she felt unwelcome arms reaching around her waist.

Chapter 4

A voice whispered menacingly in her ear.

“So you’re the new kid that thinks she’s a girl.”

She tried to turn to read the face but the arms held her too tightly, then she contemplated shouting for help but almost instantly ruled that idea out. One thing she had learned during her cloistered existence was that nobody liked a snitch. She would almost certainly be singled out if she screamed for help and ‘anyway’, she realised, ‘there was almost certainly no hope of a response from the staff.’ That was one of the very first lessons she had learned. The staff were nobody’s friends.

She stood terrified as she felt her attacker pressing himself against her naked buttocks. Then she felt him getting hard.

“Stuff some of that soap up your arse bitch, if you know what’s good for you.”

She suspected she knew what was coming and desperately searched her mind for an escape. Finding a way free from his powerful grip was obviously the first tactic but how was the question. Her mind seemed to be frozen with fear and she searched frantically through her head for some sort of plan that might distract her attacker long enough to get free. Terror and panic made her desperate and she reached for the bar of soap in the holder by the shower control. It was too far and she fumbled. The soap fell to the floor out of her reach.

“I’ve dropped the soap, let me get it.” She pleaded.

He cursed and slackened his bear-hug around her waist, thus enabling her to bend down and reach the soap. Her action however, only served to make her rectum even more available and she felt him becoming harder. His breathing became heavier as he urged her to hurry.

“Put some in your arse then do my dick with some if you don’t want to get hurt” he gasped urgently, “and be quick.”

As she remained bent over she saw her opportunity as she glanced backwards between her legs. Her attacker’s genitals were totally exposed. Under the pretence of soaping his penis, she first lubricated her anus then purposely dropped the bar of soap again between her feet.

“Damn, I’ve dropped it again, it’s slippy; let me get it, “She pleaded as she reached for the soap.

He slackened his grip some more until she was able to reach the soap then she resumed soaping down his now rigid organ. Finally she forced the soap up her own anus then under the pretence of more lubrication around his genitals she wiped her hands as best she could on his pubic hair.

He grunted impatiently and insinuated his penis between her buttocks and she squeaked in fright.

“Go easy!” She cried. “I’ve never done this!”

Her attacker snorted with amused contempt and she seized her chance. She reached back again between her own legs and grabbed his testicles in a desperate lunge. Having gained a firm grip, she then hung on tight as she dropped to her knees and slid backwards on the soapy floor. For a brief second all her weight was hanging on the attacker’s testicles and he emitted a howl of pained anger as Beverly balled herself uptight and performed a soapy somersault between his feet to end up behind him with his testicles still held in her grip as tightly as she was able.

Her attacked was now screaming in pain because she had necessarily been forced to twist her grip as she ‘tumble-tossed’ between his legs. For a brief moment she held the testicles as tightly as she could then her screaming assailant appeared to pass out as he sank to his knees. He was too heavy for her to hold and she either had to sink with him or release her hold and spring back. She chose the latter and flung herself backwards towards the shower room door ready for his next attack. It never came, he had feinted. However a staff member now appeared and demanded to know what had happened.

Beverly swallowed fearfully because she had no idea whose side the supervisor was on.

“He attacked me.” She cried.

“It looks like you attacked him!” The man shouted.

“No! He tried to rape me as I was showering.”

“Then why didn’t you call for help?”

Beverly had a hundred answers but all of them would have imperilled her one way or another. Instead she fell silent.

‘When in doubt or danger – shut up!’ was a lesson she had already learned well in only a couple of days.

‘Don’t snitch to the wardens, was a universal rule. If she had called for help it would have been tantamount to ‘snitching or grassing the bully up’.

She remained silent because she did not know who to trust and so far every man had proved to be more of an enemy than a friend. The attacker's words now told her why. Her ‘perversion’ had become common knowledge amongst the boys.

Her silence could have been enough to incriminate her but her attacker’s groans distracted the warden and he was forced to attend to the moaning rapist.

“Can I get on with my shower now sir?”

“Give me a hand lifting this boy up. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

Reluctantly she edged forward fully expecting the bully to hit her but to her surprise and secret satisfaction he was still incapacitated. The warden lifted the bully’s shoulders while Beverly struggled with his legs. They moved him to a locker-room bench then the warden finally released her.

“Go and get washed. You’d better not let any of the others catch you in there.”

She needed no further urging and immediately entered the showers. Ten minutes saw her washed dried and dressed just before group of mud-spattered assorted boys returned from an early-morning cross country ‘punishment’ run. Once dressed, she reported to the canteen for breakfast and was made to wait until the other inmates arrived. Fortunately, queue discipline was necessarily tight and closely supervised. Mealtime was often the only opportunity for scores to be settled, consequently the canteen supervisors kept a tight hold on discipline and maintained order with brutal force.

Despite the seemingly tight supervision, Beverly had already learned that the escort's presences were mostly cosmetic. The right to gratuitously assault or beat an inmate was deemed to be theirs alone and it was a right they guarded jealously. However the staff were quite prepared to let a larger or older boy bully another if it suited their ends. Bullying was consequently rampant, albeit only with the warden’s implied consent.

Beverly had quickly realised this and already her behaviour reflected her learning. At breakfast that second morning, she chose a seemingly safe, unfavoured place in the centre of the canteen and close to a guard - but not too close.

The previous evening she had already ascertained that it was not a favoured place and the other boys seemed to avoid it precisely because it was too close to a supervisor. Conversely, she did not want to appear to be currying favour or brown-nosing the staff so she did not sit right next to the warden. Finding and keeping a seemingly invisible position in the hierarchy would become her primary balancing act until she realised she was at the very bottom of the pecking order and no amount of ‘anonymity’ would avoid the forthcoming abuse.

Once seated that morning she commenced eating as quickly as she could before any of the other boys could either steal her food or adulterate it. She curled her arm around her plate to guard her food then brought her head down to her plate and ‘shovelled’ the food into her mouth as quickly as possible whilst yet watching any possible approach. She had already acquired a ‘wolf-pack’ mentality concerning her food. It was the only effective tactic when eating.

Her tactic was initially successful; the earlier inmates were more concerned with claiming their ‘regular’ places and at first none of them appeared interested in her. As the hall filled up however the later boys began sitting at her table, then the same boy whom she had stabbed with the fork appeared in front of her. His smirk told Beverly that he had an axe to grind and she quickly wolfed down the last of her food in anticipation of another assault. Instead he simply sat down facing her and spoke quietly as he waved his injured knuckle in her face.

“I’ll see you outside.”

Beverly said nothing. She had no idea of the routines at this new place and she did not want to antagonise him. He leaned closer and searched her now empty plate, obviously annoyed tat there was no food to be snatched.

“I’m talking to you. When we get outside, I’ll sort you out.”

Her belly sagged with fear and she gathered her plate and cutlery as she stood up and carried them to the dirty dishes station. Next, as she approached the exit door she was stopped by another guard.

“Where d’ you think you’re going?”

“To my cell sir.”

“Like hell you are, the governor will see you later. Go and stand there.”

The warden’s instruction came as a relief for it meant she had delayed any confrontation ‘outside’ with the food snatcher. As she stood waiting to be escorted away the food snatcher approached again.

“Don’t think you’ve got off. There’s all day yet, and tomorrow, and the day after.”

Beverly turned her eyes away as she wracked her brains to find a way out of the impasse. Everywhere she turned somebody was out to get her. Before she had a chance to contemplate further, the escort approached.

“You, - governor’s office, now!”

They strode briskly down the corridors until they arrived at the governor’s door and the escort knocked firmly.

“Come!”

She entered first and the governor frowned as he looked up. He nodded to indicate where she must stand.

“Sir?” She offered as softly and inquisitively as she could as she stood to attention.

“What happened in the shower?” The governor demanded.

For a long agonising moment she wondered what to say. If it had been her and the governor alone she would have come straight out and told him, little knowing that the governor was as bad as the rest of the staff. However, with the guard standing behind her she was in a quandary,

‘What if the guard told the boys she was a sneak or a snitch?’

Instead she tried to tell a lie but that only got her in deeper.

“It was an accident sir. I slipped in the shower.”

“Don’t lie you little pervert. You nearly tore his balls off! Why?”

Again she hesitated before concluding there was nothing for it but to tell the truth. Casting caution to the wind she blurted out the truth.

“He tried to rape me sir!”

“I still don’t believe you, are you telling me he tried to screw you in front of everybody?”

“I was alone sir. He came up behind me with his stiffy. I felt it as he tried to force it up me.”

“Huh! At least that sounds plausible. So what did you do?”

“He made me bend over and when I was bent over I saw his b-balls – so I grabbed them hard and squeezed.”

She thought she saw the faintest hint of a smile flicker across the governor’s face but it served her no use as he instructed the escort.

“Put her in solitary for a week! She can reflect on what she did and learn her place.”

“Diet sir?” The warden inquired.

“Normal solitary punishment rations, the other boy’s as much to blame.”

Beverly was ‘hard-put’ to find where she had been to blame but hers was not to reason why. She followed the warden down several corridors until she found herself outside a heavily constructed door.

“In there.” The guard ordered.

She stepped inside and the door slammed shut leaving her in total darkness. Then the slot opened in the door and the warden spoke.

“You get ten hours of light and the rest in darkness. See you in a week.”

With that a light flickered on and she was able to examine her cell. There wasn’t much, just a fixed wooden bench with mattress, and a stainless steel basin with two recessed taps embedded in the wall so that they couldn’t be torn out or snapped off. Under the basin was a bucket. On the mattress was some lavatory paper and that was it. No sheets, no towels, nothing. Not even a pillow. There was no window. Inevitably she flopped down on the mattress and wondered what was coming next.

Nothing much came for several hours then the door flap opened and several slices of bread accompanied by a polythene jug of water and a polythene beaker were pushed through.

“You’ve got ten minutes to lights out.” The disembodied voice informed her.

“Can I have a blanket please sir?” She hazarded.

“No talking!”

She fell silent then after eating, the tears began to flow. All she had to wipe them was her blue cotton shirt. When the lights went out she was plunged again into stygian darkness. There was little she could do except try and sleep.
Pangs of hunger woke her long before dawn but when she sat up her aching joints complained. Her whole body felt stiff and the bruised lumps to her head ached cruelly. Her only relief was to curl up on the corner of her mattress and try to ease the strain on her back. When dawn finally arrived the loud clunk of the feeding flap told her food had arrived; bread again but with margarine and a large beaker of water. A disembodied voice informed her.

“Your plate will be collected in an hour. Keep the beaker and use the tap for water. When the door opens stand silently outside in the corridor with your slop bucket then you’ll be marched to the showers. Be ready!”

Silently she chewed away and tried to savour each mouthful in some sort of digestive ritual. The clunk of the door unlocking came earlier than expected but she was ready with bucket and plate. Outside she stood to attention and noticed that there seemed to be nobody else in ‘solitary’.

“Right; slop room first then the showers and be quick about it!”

There were already several other boys in the showers and she was wondering what to expect. The dread certainty of some sort of an assault left a sickening weight in her belly but she persevered. Once stripped, she realised the only shower nozzle remaining occupied the centre of the shower-room. There was nowhere to hide.
Resigned to some sort of attack she stepped into the middle and fully anticipated some sort of trouble. It came quickly and soon she was pinned to the floor while soap was being forced up her rectum. The penetration followed immediately and she screamed as the pain ripped up her rectum. There was no escape this time for her arms were pinned and she had not yet learned to relax. Her sphincter ‘clenched’ desperately to try and deny the invasion. It was hopeless. The invasion felt like a red-hot-poker as it ripped into her.

Time and again she felt the violent jerking as an unknown penis was driven hard into her bowel. Despite the soap, the pain did not abate because damage had already been done. Her sphincter was torn by the initial penetration.

At first she thought her screams would attract a warden but this illusion was quickly dispelled and eventually she became hoarse from the effort. She fell silent but the attack continued as she felt another invader replace the first.

Again the initial pain ripped into her body as she tried to tense her sphincter and repel it. She still had not realised that when the penetration was inevitable, as these multiple attacks were going to be, the best tactic was to try and relax her sphincter and accept that the inevitable would come. In her struggles to resist, she suffered further hurt as she broke her toe on the hard tiled floor of the shower but despite her screams nobody responded. After the fifth or sixth assault (she wasn’t counting,) she lost consciousness and eventually recovered consciousness propped up in the corner of the showers with the cold water splashing down onto her face.

The showers were empty but she lay in shock staring uncomprehendingly at the blood running from between her legs. Nothing was registering and she closed her eyes as if trying to block out what had just happened. Sadly, the burning pain in her rectum was all too brutal a confirmation, she had been multiply raped. Eventually the cold shower started to chill her and she tried rising to her feet. The effort sent sharp lances of pain as the muscles in her groin pulled on the torn sphincter. The effort defeated her and she crawled very slowly on her hands and knees away from the cold torment of the shower. Near the doorway she encountered a guard.

“Get up!”

Fear gave her impetus and she finally managed to get to her feet but the effort had stretched the rip to her rectum and blood started to dribble from her groin to the floor. The guard cursed impatiently as the drops increased and became a diluted pink stain where the cold shower was still running into the drain.

“Ooh! Bloody hell! What the fuck is that?”

Too fearful to tell the truth, she stated the obvious in an effort to avoid any contention that might lead to further confrontation or censure.

“I’m bleeding sir. It won’t stop.”

“Oh fuck! You'd better go and see the bloody medic. Put some bloody toilet paper in your arse and press it hard, I don’t want you staining the bloody corridors!”

She waddled painfully to the stall and hurriedly bundled up as much tissue as she could to make a ball and stem the bleeding. The guard stood sucking his lip and wagging his head as he formulated the necessary lies in his head. Before they left the shower block he collared a passing boy.

“Here, you! Get a bucket and mop and clean this bloody mess up. And you, try and walk properly, you look like a bloody ruptured duck!”

Still naked, she carefully straightened her legs, winced with pain and slowly padded barefoot after the guard. Many curious eyes watched as she slowly worked her way along the corridors with her hands pressing the bloodstained wad of tissues into her rectum. Few if any of those eyes showed compassion, most showed lust.

Eventually they reached the first-aid room and the warden knocked loudly on the door. It opened quickly and the ‘medic’ demanded to know what all the fuss was about. The warden hadn’t time for explanations but his lies fell easily from his lips.

“You’d better check this little bugger; she’s been up to something in the showers. Overdone it obviously.”

The medic examined the child who was now universally described as ‘The pervert’ then he cursed.

“Bloody hell. Get up on the bench and let’s see what you’ve done.”

The ‘girl’ struggled to climb up onto the medical bench and the blood started to escape again. The medic cursed softly as he yanked her up. Then he reached for the paper towel roll and gave her an even larger bunch of tissues.

“Hold that to your arse while I get the rubber mat, you’re getting blood everywhere.”

She carefully raised her knees to reach around and continue pressing her anus until the medic returned with a large rubber sheet and slid it under her as she manoeuvred her body to make space. Finally he pulled the tissue bundle away and cursed as he inspected the damage.

“Bloody hell! What in God’s name did you think you were doing?”

“Probably trying to make itself a cunt!” The guard retorted.

The medic got irritable as he reached for a large sterile dressing.

“This isn’t funny matey. It’s going to need surgery – now! Tell the governor we’ve got one for casualty.”

“You’re not serious.” The warden challenged.

“Have you ever seen that much blood before? What the hell was the little bugger doing?”

“Probably trying to fuck herself, she likes to call herself a girl anyway – dirty little pervert!”

Throughout the investigation, the child was not directly asked once what had happened in the showers and it was obvious from the complicit exchanges between the guard and the medic, that she wasn’t going to be asked. Once the dressing was secure the medic phoned the governor’s office and explained the situation. His final words frightened the child.
“Yes sir, it’ll definitely need surgery and sooner rather than later, I don’t know what she’s been doing but there’s a probable risk of peritonitis if the injuries are deeper and the bowel damaged.”

Although she understood little or nothing of what was being said, she sensed the urgency in the medic’s voice. Her blood ran cold. An hour later she was in the casualty department of a large hospital, the prison van had been used as an ambulance. She remembered a brief inspection of her body by a white coat then everything went black. When she came to she found herself in a hospital bed with one of the guards sitting by her bed.

“Where am I?”

“In a bloody hospital, where d’ you think!”

The ‘girl’ asked no more. She had realised that questions always invited trouble so she fell silent. To avoid any further possible confrontation she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. Later she heard the distinct clink of cutlery and cautiously opened her eyes to see a nurse arranging food on the ‘bed-table’ then she spoke.

“Wake up darling, it’s dinner time.”

Beverly heard the guard's voice answer for her.

“That’s no darling; it’s a male, and a perverted one at that.”

“Oh! Gosh he looks rather pale. I thought he was a girl.”

“He likes to think he’s a girl too. The little bugger’s messed up in the head.”

The nurse leaned forward and pressed into the child’s shoulder whilst raising her voice a little more firmly.

“Come on wake up, get your dinner or you’ll lose it.”

The child carefully manoeuvred herself to a sitting position whilst wincing with every twist and turn. The nurse watched with curiosity while she checked the bed records then she asked.

“How did he do it, rupture his sphincter that is?”

“Trying to be like a girl, stuck something up her arse we think. He’s a right little queer.”

Beverly glanced momentarily at the nurse but quickly realised there was no sympathy to be found in that quarter. The nurse’s expression was all contempt for a pervert. She lowered her eyes and just chewed mechanically on the food while the nurse watched with disgust writ large all over her face and the warden continued reading his paperback. Between bites she took her medication as it was handed to her and soon her plate was clear. Finally a thermometer was pushed between her lips while the nurse felt her pulse. On completion of her task she spoke to the guard.

“Pulse is a bit fast and weak while her temperature is a bit high, if it goes no higher, she’ll be okay. Ring if there’re any developments.”

“What sort of developments?”

“Oh nothing too much, shivering, delirium, agitation or shouting.”

The guard looked at the child then sneered contemptuously.

“Be better if the thing died, then everybody would be free of it.”

The nurse laughed ironically.

“Not in here it wouldn’t. It’s a hospital; our job is to save lives.”

“What! Even that?”

The nurse shrugged, “Yes, even that.”

Beverly lay there silently certain there was nothing to say that would not invite some sort of retribution. Six years in the Psychiatric hospital unit had long ago laid down the pernicious acceptance that hospitals and the staff that ran them were dangerous places of retribution for those who seemed ungrateful or contentious. All she did to demonstrate her anger or despair (she knew not which,) was turn over with a slight groan and curl up under the blanket. The nurse realised that the pervert was still awake after eating and had probably heard every word but she cared little for its feelings. She turned and left while the guard continued reading his paperback novel.

Eventually, Beverly slipped into a fractious sleep.

Chapter 5

Dawn brought little relief. The rattle of a trolley woke her as the nurse arrived with food and medications. Carefully, she slitted her eyes and squinted firstly at the new guard sitting by her bed, then towards the nurse who was measuring out the medication and food.

“Wakey, wakey! You can’t sleep all day and the doctor’s doing his rounds.”

Beverly showed no signs of resentment as she stirred and gently eased herself upright. To appear ungrateful would invite certain retribution later. She also kept silent until the nurse invaded her consciousness.

“How are you feeling today?”

For a brief moment she debated what to say and finally chose a word she hoped would not invite censure.

“Sore.”

“Your bottom still hurting?”

Beverly wanted to snarl that ‘of course here arse was hurting!’ but she knew what to expect if she did. Instead, she struggled to display no anger or emotion and simply nodded slightly.

“Well the doctor will be around to see you soon. They’ll probably discharge you tomorrow if you’re satisfactory.”

Beverly glanced nervously towards the guard and inadvertently caught his glare. The message was clear. ‘Keep your mouth firmly shut!’

She didn’t need telling twice. The bruises and bleeding had already reinforced the message. After finishing her food she struggled to get out of bed to go for a pee but then realised one ankle was shackled to the bed. Nervously she declared her need.

“I need to pee.”

“I’ll get a bed bottle,” the nurse declared.

Beverly sat silent, trying not to disturb the dressing to her rectum. Eventually the nurse returned accompanied by the doctor. They handed her the urine bottle then watched as she relieved herself.

‘Do they have to look?’ She reflected.

After finishing, she held the bottle up unsure what to do with it. The doctor took it, poured some into a sample bottle and inspected it to the light before remarking to the nurse.

“Good, no blood so little chance of kidney damage. Right young man, so how did you injure yourself?”

Beverly tensed uncertainly, fear of the doctor’s response and the warden’s earlier threat if she told the truth played havoc with her head. For long frightened moments she tried to think up some plausible cause to her injuries but she couldn’t find one. Defeated by her failure to dream up some lie she sighed almost inaudibly and mumbled.

“Something went in there but it was too big.”

The doctor believed the child was trying to cover something up for some self-inflicted penetrative perversion and therefore concluded he was not going to get to the truth. He warned the child.

“I don’t suppose I’m going to get to the truth but I’m warning you now. If you do something stupid like that again, you could kill yourself. You were lucky this time!”

Beverly said nothing but her mind raced angrily – ‘It was nothing to do with luck!’

The doctor left with the nurse and the warden leaned over.

“Make sure you stick to that story you little queer!”

Beverly was already turned over and feigning sleep. It was the only way she could think of to avoid confrontation.

At noon, the ward sister arrived to change the child’s dressings and she frowned when she saw the damage. Beverly simply buried her face in the pillow in an attempt to avoid all conversation. She was however surprised to hear the sister ask the guard.

“How do you think this happened?”

“The little pervert probably tried to have one of the older boys to penetrate him. Things got out of hand with the older boy and he was probably too rough.”

“Are you looking to punish the older boy, there’s a lot of damage here, he can’t be put back in your ‘bull-pen’. If it happens again, it could kill him.”

“You’d best speak to the governor about that.”

“I certainly will and so will the doctor. This boy’s too young to be doing stuff like this.”

A feint wave of hope entered Beverly’s mind only to die on the hard stones of prison reality. There was no way she would be able to avoid the attacks.

To her surprise, the doctors kept her in the hospital for nearly a week but while this certainly ensured a better degree of recovery and improved her physical health it did nothing for her mental health. Each day she was kept in, the attending guard would insinuate sinister threats to perpetuate the terror that kept her from alerting the doctors. The guards had quickly realised that the child already held doctors in fearful revulsion and this played perfectly into their hands.

Finally the discharge day arrived and the secure unit van arrived. The child was returned to the prison and immediately met by the governor. In his office he was given two options, return to the general mayhem of the main prison or be placed in solitary confinement for his own protection.

Naively, she chose solitary confinement based upon her previous years of experience in the psychiatric unit where she had spent almost her whole time secured in her ‘single-bed ward’ with a lock on the outside.

‘Surely solitary in prison could be no worse’, she thought.

Her choice was soon proven to be a huge mistake. Each day her rectum was checked by the medic until one day the man declared her fit and well.

The child was too naive to wonder ‘fit and well for what?’ but it soon became apparent.
Solitary confinement was to offer no protection. Less than a week after being ‘signed off as fit’ she was surprised to receive an evening visit from a large overweight guard she had not met before. He sat on her bed and it quickly dawned on the child why he was there. She felt a sickening wave of fear surge up from her belly as the man made it abundantly obvious as to what he wanted.

With few words, he started removing his clothes and the child screamed for help. None came for the fat guard was in charge of the solitary wing. That night she learned several painful things, all of them wrong yet all of them important if she was to stay alive.
Firstly, she learned to stay silent or only speak when spoken to.
Secondly, she learned about the importance of lubrication. The guard had brought his own jar of Vaseline.
Thirdly, and all importantly she learned to relax her sphincter when penetration was imminent. The beast at least gave her time to learn to relax and he even let her use some of his Vaseline to prepare her own arse and for that she was pathetically grateful.
Fourthly, she learned about involuntary orgasms. That came more as a shock than a surprise.
Fifthly, she learned later that night to control her ‘gagging reflex’ and never to ‘bite’ if she wanted to stay alive.
Sixthly she learned that one rape at night by a single visitor was infinitely safer than uncontrolled multiple gang-rapes in the showers.
Finally she learned to make pretence of enjoying anal penetration.
That first night the fat guard stayed with her until dawn. When he stirred she tensed but he bluntly explained.

“Go and get a shower, the washroom is at the end of the wing. There’s nobody else in solitary at the moment so yourself as safe.”

She wondered what his definition of ‘safe’ meant but by then the man was making his way to the same showers. She watched his hairy arse trudge down the corridor and she shuddered with revulsion.

‘Was this to be the set-up for the rest of her life?’ she wondered.

Suicide seemed to be the increasingly favoured option.

When she got to the showers she heard him splashing in the cubicle so she waited fearfully, dreading the order to join him. To her eternal relief, it didn’t come. The man emerged then nodded to her.

“Go on, you’ve got five minutes.”

Relieved at the seeming respite she ducked past him and immediately soaped down. As she washed herself she kept peeping around the tiled wall to see that he was doing. He was towelling down and she sighed with further relief when he left. Once alone, she immediately started feeling gently up her sphincter. To her surprise, it was not too sore, even when she clenched it. However the warden’s cum started to escape and she tried to expel it. She had no control over the fluid and she realised she would have to defaceate soon if she wanted to clean her bowels. That morning though, the five minutes she had been given, didn’t allow. She would have to shit later.

After showering she returned to her cell for it was not locked. The whole wing was open to her but the bars at the end of the corridor were locked. As she walked back she saw the fat guard on the other side of the bars, handing over the shift to the morning watch-keeper. Fearful of further assault, she scurried back as quickly as she could and closed the cell door. It was a pointless exercise for the warden held the keys; however it gave her some small comfort to demonstrate that she may be available but she was not agreeing to it. That single thread of attempted independence was the only connection she had left with any sense of dignity and it was a tenuous one at that.

By the time she was dressed her food arrived and she was relieved to find that it seemed ‘un-tampered with’. No broken glass, no faeces, no excess of salt. Cautiously she tested it. The porridge was unsweetened but she was fearful of asking for sugar; after testing it carefully for broken glass she eventually threw caution to the wind and swallowed a whole spoon-full. It was warm and sticky and eventually it filled a corner. The toast was cold by then but she dunked it into the unsweetened lukewarm tea and it filled another corner. She had not realised how hungry she had been until those first mouthfuls. Then she remembered; she had not received any food since being discharged from the hospital the previous evening.
Once fed, she walked cautiously bare-footed to the end of the wing and slipped into the washroom to rinse off her porridge bowl. After ensuring there were no lumps of porridge stuck down the plug-hole she stood nervously by the bars with the plate, mug, bowl and spoon. She was unsure whether to reach through the bars and place them neatly on the floor or call for the guard's attention. After long uncertain minutes she eventually spoke. Unsure how loudly to pitch her voice she spoke softly at first for she could not see him. However his ‘office’ door appeared open just beyond the bars.

“I’ve finished my food sir.”

The Warden apparently did not hear her so she repeated it louder.

Again there was no response from the guard so she fell silent wondering if he was playing some sort of cat and mouse game. It seemed every new circumstance was charged with danger so she stood in silence. Eventually her fingers began to ache from holding the plates between the bars so she gave up and carefully placed the utensils on the floor outside the bars. As she padded silently back to her cell she anticipated an angry yell with every step she took but nothing came. Finally she made it without incident to her cell door and its seeming sanctuary. She felt the hairs on her neck physically ‘flatten’ with relief. It now remained simply to wait and see what befell her.

When next she was called, it was a boy’s voice telling her that dinner was ready. Boredom lifted her off her bed if only to look at the owner of the voice, a new face, a fellow inmate, somebody who might even share an iota of empathy. As she emerged she saw him standing impatiently by the bars and he snapped angrily.

“Come on you lazy cunt, I’m not standing here all bloody day!”

She started running but the boy obviously had his own agenda. Before she was halfway down the corridor he deliberately dropped them through the service opening between the bars. The metal plate and bowl clattered on the floor and the older boy smirked as he stalked away.

As she knelt down to recover what she could off the floor, she squealed, “Cunt!” at the retreating boy. But it was to no avail, except to antagonise the guard.

“You should have been ready and waiting you stupid bitch!” He charged.

“How do I know the time?” She retorted whilst forgetting to add ‘Sir’.

“With no more ado he rammed his key into the door and swung it back violently to slam the heavy, steel-barred door hard against her head.”

“It’s sir to you! You little bitch! What is it?”

She was too stunned to respond quickly but he held off from striking her again for the blood was already streaming down her face as she swayed and wobbled with concussion. The sharp edge of the barred door had sliced open her scalp. The warden cursed violently.

“You stupid bitch, don’t you know when to move? Go and wash that bloody mess.”

She was still too concussed to respond properly and the blood continued dripping. This only exasperated the man and he yanked her underweight frame to its feet before roughly shoving her towards the shower. When she reached the deep utility sink he jammed her head under the service tap and made her hold it there before storming angrily to the first-aid box in his office. He returned to find the sink and the open drain running deep pink as she continued losing blood. Quickly he fashioned a pressure pad then made her hold it against the wound.

“Just lean over the sink until it stops. You’re nothing but bloody trouble!”

Beverly was still too dopey to respond coherently and she had to lean against the edge of the sink to stay upright as she clutched the tap to support herself. Eventually she regained full consciousness and her balance but that only exacerbated the pain as she became aware of yet another growing lump on her head. Only when the blood had at least stopped leaking through the pressure pad did she feel confident enough to weave unsteadily back to her cell. There she slumped on the bed oblivious to the occasional droplet of blood that stained her pillow. The mess was of little consequence for she knew she would be the one washing the already permanently pink pillow. Had it not been for the trip-hammer inside her skull she would have fallen asleep immediately but that luxury was denied to her for most of that day. Eventually however, she slipped away into somnolence. It was early evening when she came to again and through the small high window she realised night was rapidly approaching.
Under the harsh cell light she noticed that her pillow was now streaked with blood.

‘It might deter a visitor tonight,’ she concluded hopefully then added; ‘that and this bloody matted hair;’ after she saw herself in the mirror.

Her hopes were realised at ‘lights-out’ when nobody had arrived to abuse her. However the luxury of sleeping alone was not improved by her throbbing head.
The following morning she was awake and forcing herself along the corridor to the bathroom at the end when the guard unlocked the corridor and shouted down the echoing stonework.
“You’d better get a move on or you’ll miss breakfast! The governor will see you after breakfast.”
All she could do was nod acknowledgement and hope the guard didn’t enforce the ‘Yes-sir,’ rule. He didn’t and she was left thankfully alone to tidy herself up. It was a slow process but she couldn’t face breakfast anyway. Her nausea from the blow to her head and the prospect of more abuse in the dining hall was too much to handle, instead she returned to her room and awaited the demand to see the governor. It came with the inevitably abusive accompaniment.

“Get your little arse out of there! The governor’s waiting, why weren’t you in the dining hall? You’re late! Move!”

She arrived outside the now all-too-familiar door and wondered if she should knock or if the escort would knock. Cautiously she raised an inquiring knuckle and looked up questioningly at the escort as her hand poised ready to knock.

“Go on, hurry up. I’m not you’re bloody servant!”

Resignedly she let out a silent sigh and knocked uncertainly. To her relief the governor’s voice came from within. ‘Her knock had not been too soft (timid) or too loud (aggressive).’

“Come!”

Again she paused and glanced questioningly to determine if she was to open the door or the escort was going to. Using the same uncertain gesture she reached for the doorknob and poised with her hand open. The escort nodded impatiently but remained silent and she stepped inside taking care not to trip in her loose boots. She stepped forward to the prescribed spot and repeated her name and number. The governor put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

Chapter 6

“So you’ve been involved in more trouble.”

Beverly’s aching head raced to find a suitable, non-incriminating answer for the question was inescapably accurate – she had been in trouble but not of her making. She tried explaining but already knew what they’d say.

“It wasn’t my fault sir.”

The inevitable warning - “Just answer yes or no!” came, from the escort behind her.

Beverly’s situation was impossible. Both ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would incriminate her. Her only option was to remain silent so she tried that.
The governor frowned as he realised the prisoner was trying to avoid incrimination by remaining silent.

‘So the child had some innate intelligence despite being illiterate,’

He tried a different approach.

“How did you come by that second cut on your head?”

Beverly hesitated as her nervous glance shifted from governor to warden and back, then decided to remain uninformative.

“Dunno’ sir.”

The governor sighed impatiently.

“What d’ you mean, you don’t know.”

She nodded her head but that only seemed to antagonise the governor even more. He shook his head slowly as he wondered how to get a coherent reply.

“You must know what happened! Nobody can receive an injury like that and not know how they came by it.”

Again she remained silent, determined not to be accused of somehow either lying or klecking or just inviting more trouble for herself. By now, resignation had dulled her wits; there seemed no way out of whatever treatment she deemed inevitable. Telling the truth was quite obviously the very worst option. Thus convinced she resolved to remain resolutely dumb or stupid. She mumbled “I dunno sir,” repeatedly to some more questions but neither warden nor governor extracted anything informative.

From that day forward, just a week or so after her twelfth birthday the mind-lock set in to create a resolute determination to ‘shut up’, ‘put up’ and ‘close up’ for as long as she was able.
After leaving the governor’s office she was made to strip her mattress and take the blood-stained linen down to the laundry.
There a couple of trusties looked askance at the extensive bloodstains and whispered to each other as they watched the freak mistakenly use hot water to try and get the sheets clean. When they emerged still stained pink; the trusties sniggered to each other as the laundry supervisor balled the freak out.

“You stupid little bastard! Don’t you know you should soak sheets in cold water to remove the blood stains first? Hot water fixes the stains!”

The freak mumbled what had now become her inevitable response.

“Didn’t know sir.”

The supervisor cursed her and smacked her across the head before determining her punishment.

“From now on you can wash your own bloody sheets. I don’t see why others should have to clean up your dirty mess. At least everybody will know which sheets yours are!”

Often after that, ‘the freak’ was to be seen washing her own stained linen separately after a night of abuse. The blood never properly came out and in the laundry the other prisoners viewed them as a badge of shame. Deep inside the freak’s head however, where the last flicker of self-preservation spluttered in the wind of abuse, the freak saw the pink sheets as a badge of survival. .'Not courage’ she told herself; it was impossible to call oneself brave when you simply accepted whatever abuse befell you'.

'If the sheets remained pink, they were evidence that she was still alive and still standing. Dead people don't bleed.'

However the sheets, despite their delicate pink shading, were just about the only objects she could truly claim as her own, Possession gave her proprietary rights to the shameful feminine objects only because nobody else wanted them but that unofficial possession gave her a secret visceral sense of worth. They were the only things she could secretly consider her own even if they were technically the property of the crown.

Within the following weeks a slow pattern began to evolve as wardens discovered a way of evidencing their power over the boys without having to resort to force.

It started when one of the older boys earned himself a reward and one of the more imaginative (probably homosexual) guards decided to give the boy a sense of worth by asking him what sort of reward he would like. At that moment, the older boy noticed ‘the freak’ carrying her pink sheets back to her cell and he smirked knowingly.

Denied any sort of sexual satisfaction from association with a real girl, the frustrated older boy grinned wolfishly.

“A night fucking her would be nice.”

The guard followed the prisoner’s gaze and realised that the older boy had a point - ‘the freak’ could actually be mistaken for a girl in poor light.

‘Put the little bastard in a dress and wig and it would actually pass!’

The bargain wasn’t struck immediately but the thought refused to leave the guard's perverted mind.

A few days later when the same boy ingratiated himself into the same guard's ‘good-books’ for a second time, the guard struck a deal.

“Thanks for doing that. What would you want as a reward?”

The boys’ eyes turned to fall on the freak as she was mopping the corridor of her wing where she still lived alone, separated from the other boys by the single barred door. The guard noticed the boys gaze and smirked knowingly.

“Would you really like a piece of her tail?”

“Who sir; the freaks?”

“Who else?”

“How sir?”

“I’ll be on wing duty next week for a month of nights. We’ll have a chat then.”
The boys’ eyes brightened with anticipation.

“Thank-you sir.”

Then he turned away with his bucket and mop and a spring in his step. The guard watched him and smirked to himself.

‘It was just so easy!’ He told himself.

As he turned away he paused to study 'the freak' and smiled to himself. ‘Yes. This could be a useful control lever.’ He told himself. ‘Plenty of the horny little bastards would give their eye-teeth to fuck that.’

A week later as ‘the freak’ lay abed, there was an unexpected click as the key turned in her door. She tensed nervously.

“Who-is-it?”

“Who is it sir!” You little bitch!

She recognised the voice.

“Sorry sir! Who is it sir?”

“You’ve got company bitch!”

Beverly fell silent then a torch shone in her face as she tried to turn towards the voice. The voice spoke to another prisoner whom she could not recognise because the torch was dazzling her. The warden spoke again to the other prisoner.

“There it is; fill yer boots boy, enjoy.”

“Thanks sir.”

Beverly did not recognise the voice but immediately felt greedy hands tugging at her blanket.

“Move over freak!”

“Who is it?” She asked in the total darkness.

“Never you fucking mind.” He replied as she realised it was obviously a much larger, older and stronger boy.

She did not even try protesting; it would obviously be a totally useless endeavour. Her only source of supposed help was the very cause of what was about to happen. Fearfully she turned to face the wall as eager fingers tore at her pants. She tried one last idea.

“Wait! Have you got any cream or ointment?”

“Why the fuck would I have that?”

“It’ll hurt.”

“You - yes; but not me you stupid freak!”

Beverly tried pushing him away and demanded that he find lubrication.

“There’s soap in the shower, I’m the only one on the wing, I'll go and get it.”

“Fuck the soap. If you need it, remember to bring it yourself next time. Now lie still!”

She fell silent as he grabbed hard around her belly and pressed his organ hard into her cleft. As it tried to invade her she deliberately clenched her sphincter to reinforce the message about lubrication.

“Jesus! You’re fucking tight.” He cursed.

Beverly heaved a sigh of relief; her abuser was obviously a novice so she tried again.

“You’ll need to lubricate. It always needs lubrication.”

“Fuck you!” He cursed as he pushed violently in a crude attempt to dominate the freak.

There was no way he was going to fail to have sex or he would never face the rest of the inmates in the morning. He reached down and forced his finger into the freak’s anus and twisted it cruelly.

“Oowow!” Beverly screamed in pain.

“Then fucking relax your arse you bitch. The guard warned me you might try this.”

“You get some soap first!”

“Not fucking likely. If you bleed, it’s proof I’ve fucked you now relax!”

With these words he sat up and launched a fist into the side of her face.

“Now fucking co-operate!”

She felt the blood inside her cheek and curled up tighter to try and protect herself. He thumped her again, hard in the kidneys and the shock caused her to arch her back in pain. It also caused her to slacken her sphincter and he seized his chance. She screamed again as she felt the invader tearing at her tissue. He pressed his shit stained fingers against her nose and warned her to shut up.
Fearfully she finally gave up struggling; all it achieved was more injury for her and she certainly had no strength to resist his muscle. She was still twelve years old; he could be seventeen or even eighteen.

Knowing there was certainly no hope of rescue, she finally gave up all resistance and relaxed her sphincter. Her abuser sensed it and immediately started a frenzy of thrusting and jerking that initially caused her excruciating agony. She lost track of the time but eventually the pain stared to ease. Sensing the lack of friction she confirmed her suspicions and probed carefully in her groin to feel his slippery penis still pounding urgently into her body. When she tasted her fingers she recognised the familiar taste of her blood, her own body’s inevitable final lubricant of last resort. Tear began to flow in earnest.

‘Would it ever end?’ She wondered.

ooo000ooo

As weeks turned to months, her wondering eventually withered on the vine. Any expectations of relief soon reached a nadir and consequently she responded to almost nothing. She had quickly learned that responses invited attention and attention from anybody, - especially those in authority,- invariably meant some form of abuse; often varied, sometimes imaginative but always painful. Her only defence was to somehow shrink from sight but circumstances usually made that impossible. Opportunities for invisibility were invariably few and isolation simply invited unwitnessed abuse – often rape attacks. Rapacity was one of the very fundamental elements that drove every inmate and not a few of the wardens.
Each instance of abuse chipped away at any sense of self-worth until finally all emotional capacity had shut down and a veritable human shell ghosted silently between whatever locations she discerned the least risk to lie. Mostly these locations were to be found on the farm that the secure unit operated. The inevitable filth that accompanied farm animal care was one of the few elements that dissuaded sexual attraction and uninvited attention during the working day. If she stank of animal faeces and assorted sewage, few were prepared to be intimate with her stinking body. Sadly however, at the end of each day, she was compelled to wash and with cleanliness invariably came periodic nocturnal abuse.

Her occasional daytime searches for safe havens inadvertently taught her the geography of the secure unit but it still carried risks. Whenever she was clean and met with others in quiet but unexpected corners, those finders invariably saw opportunity and accordingly acted abominably. Despite these assaults, she still explored every corner she could for the geographical knowledge she garnered might one day come to be useful.

For two years this existence endured with little change. Rapes were frequent often as much a three or four times weekly. Sometimes if she resisted because she was still carrying previous injuries or even still bleeding, she received severe injuries usually to her arms and shoulders as she tried to protect her skull from punishment meted out with anything her attacker found to hand. On several occasions she found herself being taken to Chester Royal infirmary to be treated for fractured ulnas, radii, humerii or clavicles. Sometimes owed to the excesses of some brutish guard who had vented his homophobic spleen or alternatively an older boy demanding access to her body.
Yet never once was any serious question put to her carers either in the casualty unit or back at the secure unit.

Nobody was prepared to believe a ‘lying, pervert’ for it was sufficient that the wardens claimed that the 'little-piece-of-shit' had invited her own nemesis. Consequently, doctors, guided by their own middle-class cultural prejudices, were content to accept the wardens’ lies while the traumatic evidence went unaddressed and unreported because the child had long ago learned that doctors were no friends of hers. Silence was by far the safest strategy for survival, - if survival was ever to be hers.

That essential and desperate question of survival finally became brutally clear to her shortly after her fourteenth birthday.

On the Saturday after her fourteenth birthday she unexpectedly learned that there was to a party for her to celebrate the occasion.

After two years of unrelenting abuse, she was too traumatised to even wonder at the circumstance or reason for such an unexpected occasion. Since the age of six she had never celebrated a single birthday with any notable event.
Had her mind been more inquisitive she might have asked why, of all years, was she to celebrate her fourteenth. Her mind however had been dulled into a resigned, unresponsive disinterest. She had no idea what a fourteenth birthday entailed nor had she any interest in finding out.

On the Saturday afternoon, she was ordered to get in the van and she saw little of the journey from its windowless rear except to recognise by the frequent flashing of the closely positioned street lights that she had passed through the Mersey Tunnel.

Many years later she would realise that the flat featureless farm where she had been taken, had probably been on the Cheshire plain but beyond that she was never to know precisely. Suffice to remember that on that particular evening she had been raped anally several times by unrecognised men with posh accents and once by a woman with some sort of artificial ‘strap-on’ device. The final utter humiliation had been anal penetration by a trained dog.

This last occasion had been one of excruciating paid because the adults present had forced her to remain still while the dog's 'penile knot' had expanded and caused her to be tied like a bitch and dog for some thirty excruciating minutes. When the dog finally separated, her anus was bleeding profusely and continued to do so all the way back to Liverpool. So much so that she was rushed to Alder Hay Children’s hospital by a frightened trio of wardens with some obscene tale about the child having voluntarily indulged in some sexual perversions back at the secure unit. The injuries required another stay in hospital to ensure that peritonitis had not occurred.

Once again no proper inquiries were made by the hospital authorities and when she finally returned to the secure unit after surgery, she realised with a brutal clarity, that she was not long for this world unless she somehow escaped. Her only respite was the two weeks of rest and recuperation from penetration while her sphincter tried to repair itself. In mid - March, three weeks after her birthday, while the snow still lay a foot deep, desperation and fear drove her to try an escape.
It was a pathetic attempt born of urgency, ignorance and inexperience.
She had barely travelled five miles that evening before the bitter cold overtook her and a truck driver saw her crouched down by a 'round-about' on the A580 main Liverpool to Manchester road.
She was hugging an illuminated traffic bollard in some misguided attempt to get warm. She thought the diffused light from the embedded fluorescent bulb would lend heat but it had not even melted the snowy cap on the bollard's flat top. The lorry driver had picked up her undernourished, semi-conscious body and delivered it to a local police station who immediately recognised the dark serge 'battle-dress' jacket and trousers of the local secure unit.

Without any questions as to how or why she had tried such a futile, ill-prepared escape, she was returned without delay. A severe beating and solitary confinement followed, plus confiscation of footwear privileges. For the remainder of her stay in the unit, she went shoeless to mark her as an escape risk. This even in early April, while the snow still hung around in patches before eventually a late Spring arrived.
When she eventually recovered from her ordeal, she knew that the 'escape -or-die' situation still prevailed. With this sickening certainty now gnawing at her vitals she started a second escape plan. This second attempt was to be better planned and with far better preparation.

The attempt would be in June, when it was warmer and with longer hours of daylight to travel further and faster. Preparation took longer than anticipated however and it was late June before she finally succeeded.

Chapter 7

In the interim months between March and June, the child kept as low a profile as she could. Rapes and beatings were endured with stoic silence as she cautiously assembled a pitifully small collection of stolen clothes from local washing lines during the daily cross-country runs that took her around the perimeter fence. There she had carefully cut a small hole behind a small clump of brambles and a hawthorn bush. The hole was invisible to all unless a careful examination was made of the perimeter fence. She had cut the hole with a pair of rusty pliars she had found on a windowsill in a neglected corner of the farm where she dumped the farmyard dirt and manure.

During May and June, she had carefully assembled a collection of stolen girls clothes and hidden them under the hawthorn bush in a green polythene bag to keep them clean and dry.

Her brief excursions during the cross country runs had not been noticed because she invariably ran behind the others, usually pretending to have a limp from some unreported beating. None of the other inmates wanted anything to do with her anyway so running alone was her default situation. Invariably she arrived last from the run and often with her feet bleeding. There were benefits to this however, for late arrivals meant she showered alone and sometimes avoided unwanted attentions from older boys. It also ensured that the bramble scratches from crawling through the fence went unnoticed but it also meant she had to clean the showers alone. This sometimes invited the attention of Fatty Gardiner, the games supervisor who, being a paedophile, occasionally indulged his perversion. Fortunately, it gave her a written excuse when she arrived too late for the evening meal.

'Extra cleaning duties', the note invariably declared. The note however had one huge benefit for it meant she got her late food from a separate source that supplied the wardens. It was unadulterated and she ate it alone in her cell. In her distorted list of life values, this privilege alone was worth the rapes by Fatty Gardiner and his cronies.

One cruel consequence of being declared a 'runner' and having all footwear confiscated, was marching barefooted on the gravel in the parade ground. Even when working on the farm she was bare-foot while mucking out the animals but the warmth of the steaming manure was more of a luxury than a curse for it kept her feet warm all through that late spring of April and May before the summer arrived.
It eventually toughened up her feet to a point where she barely felt any discomfort even when tramping out her parade ground steps on the sharp gravel. This served her well when she finally succeeded in her escape in that June of 1960.

By that June, summer had arrived with sufficient warmth to convince her that it was 'now-or-never' if she was to escape and stay 'escaped' By dint of her secret sojourns during the cross country runs she had accumulated a suitable collection of 'girl's' clothing by stealing from washing lines and storing her ill-gotten gains in a green plastic shopping bag. The bag was well hidden amongst the brambles and long grass behind the hawthorn bush where she had sallied forth to steal from clothes lines from the gardens backing onto the perimeter fence..

One morning in mid-June she carried out her plan. She had been told that there was another 'party' arranged for her and consequently there were to be no visits (rapes) by any boys so that she was fit to play her part. On the Thursday afternoon after she had finished her farm work she was preparing for the 'cross-country' run when the opportunity presented itself. Several coincidences combined to present her with an excellent opportunity

Firstly, one of the older boys tried to abuse her as she was stripped down to vest and shorts and she deliberately overreacted by attacking him with what little strength she had. She got her retaliation in first and nearly dug the boy's eye out before he had time to react. The boys scream immediately attracted Fatty Gardiner who was supervising the cross-country run.

Fatty Gardiner was a lazy overweight bully who simply sat smoking and reading his paper while the boys completed their running circuits. He never checked the boys nor did he accompany them on the run. This was something the other training instructors did simply to check that the boys/inmates behaved themselves when out of sight and to make sure the boys stayed together so that they could be properly supervised.

Beverly (as she secretly called herself when feeling feminine,) knew Fatty Gardiners habits well and this was why she had caused the commotion. Her plan worked exactly as she had hoped. The bully was despatched to the dispensary to have his eye seen to while Beverly was punished by Gardiner.

The punishment was exactly what she had expected and hoped for. Firstly she received a beating to her body where the bruising would not show then she was ordered to complete double the number of laps as punishment.
This distance amounted to over five miles and it would invariably make her late for dinner but Gardiner was so enraged that he overlooked this fact. Being lazy and careless, he ignored her failure to arrive with the other boys because one of the boys must have told him that the 'pervert' was limping and had fallen behind. Naturally, none of the other boys had stayed behind to help because any association with 'the pervert' might precipitate abuse on their own heads.

Being too lazy and fat to go and check on 'the pervert' Gardiner had decided he would send the other boys in to dinner and collect the laggard after dinner. Missing dinner would add to 'the pervert's' punishment, or so he thought.

Once Beverly had fallen behind the group after declaring she was too sore to keep up, she put her plan into action. Out of site of the rest of the runners, she collected her stash of cloths that also included a pair of summer sandals she had found in a rubbish bin, and she crawled through her secret escape hole in the fence. Running being second nature meant she was several miles from the secure unit before the alarm was raised. Fatty Gardiner had emerged after dinner expecting to find a frightened, exhausted kid showering and changing, only to find no sign of the pervert. A frantic search produced nothing and it was seven o'clock' before the alarm was raised. This meant that 'the pervert' had had four hours start and she had chosen her route carefully.

The Leeds and Liverpool Canal tow-path was a popular route with ordinary runners and to see a fourteen-year-old ‘child’ trotting along was not wholly unusual. The polythene bag was tied to her back like a 'Pac-mac' and she was soon miles from the secure unit. Later she had found a bicycle and decided to change her disguise into one of a girl cycling home. All it entailed was taking her vest and shorts off then putting the stolen dress on. By seven o'clock she found herself at the south shore of the River Ribble where she dumped the bicycle and stripped down to her girl's knickers. Cautiously, she waded out across the treacherous mud until it was too deep to walk then she lay back and kicked out like a frog. Everything she owned was wrapped tightly in the polythene bag and she held it in her teeth while pushing 'backstroke' with the bag on her chest to keep the clothes dry.

Fortunately, and unbeknownst to her, the tide was flooding in and as she 'frog-kicked' her way to the north shore, the tide swept her up stream towards the town of Preston.
Had the tide been ebbing, this story would never have been written. Her drowned body might have fetched up on any one of several beaches from Southport to Morecambe bay - or even the Isle of Man..

Instead she came ashore just below the entrance to a dock where she crawled through some tallish reeds until she reached a rough track and some bushes to dry out.
After getting dressed again she set off inland only to find her way blocked by another canal. By now, it was dark enough to walk along the towpath un-noticed, so she set off towards the town with the big spire. Eventually, she found a seemingly disused warehouse so she broke into it and slept on some sacks.

Just as dawn was breaking, the cold and the painful bruises on her legs woke her. She struggled stiffly to stand and peer out of a broken window at the canal. The dawn had now broken but the city had not yet come to life so she gathered what few things she had and nervously set off towards the sounds of engines shunting noisily at a large railway yard. She made a note of the tall church spire and finally made her way into town centre before the town had come to life.

Food was now the all-pervasive thought as hunger pangs gnawed at her core; so much so that her concerns about being noticed for her filthy appearance or short hair were overruled by her hunger.

Eventually she noticed a grocery shop rattling its shutters open and the grocer starting to set out his wares. She saw her chance and snatched an apple off the display while he had stepped back inside to collect another box. Fortunately, the street was still fairly quiet and nobody saw her as she struggled to look nonchalant while walking away and eating the apple. It did little to assuage the hunger but her fear abated at discovering how easy it was to steal. Later she heard the clatter of a milk float and stole a pint of milk with equal success.

Having gone some way to quell the hunger pangs she realised that her appearance was now inviting stares from people going to work. Her dress was filthy, her hair was short and her arms were black and blue with the bruises from the beating Fatty Gardiner had meted out. Fearful of drawing further attention, she drifted away from the bustling city centre and back to the only safe place she could think of; the derelict warehouse. There she stayed and slept fitfully until the afternoon when hunger once more, drove her to seek food.
Eventually, she found some in a bin behind a café and carefully picked out a few titbits.

This was to become the most common option open to her that offered little risk.
Later she learned to wait until food was about to be dumped and she intercepted the cook or café-owner to beg for the scraps. Where she had success she became bolder and repeated her begging but always aware that the proprietor might one day report her to the police. Because of this possibility, she avoided regular visits.

After two weeks of stealing and scrounging she was eventually caught stealing a cake off a market stall. She had snatched it off the corner of the display and was about to saunter away thinking she hadn’t been seen. The heavy hand on her shoulder told her otherwise and as the grip tightened she cursed fearfully. A large, burly, florid man dragged her into the market office and ordered her to wait while he fetched the police.

“I’ve been watching you for a day or two now you little thief! What’s yer’ name?”

She decided to give her female name to test if the man had determined her real gender.

“Beverly,” she replied sullenly while checking to see if there was any chance of escape.

He simply nodded slowly before stepping into a little side alcove to phone the police. The ‘girl’ paused until she heard him confirm ‘Police’ on the phone then she made a dash for the door and opened it before the market manager had realised she was bolting.

“Damn you; you little bitch! Come back!”

Having burst out of the nearest door, she discovered that it was a rear entrance to the market delivery yard. For a brief moment she panicked on finding herself in a totally alien space but desperation gave her quick-wittedness. The yard was full of lorries so she dashed in amongst them until she was invisible from the door. There she hid as the manger emerged and cast about angrily. He plodded towards the entrance gate, looked up and down the street, then cursed and shrugged his shoulders before returning to his office.

Once convinced he had given up looking for her, she located an empty lorry and crawled into the back. Preston was no longer safe because the police probably had her description. It was an easy one to recognise; - filthy, teen-aged girl with short boyish hair and stained summer frock! She had to ditch the frock but first she had to get out of Preston.
The lorry she had climbed into was a good accidental choice. She had no Idea where it was bound but it had obviously just delivered supplies to the market and it would soon be going somewhere else. That somewhere else proved to be a Manchester wholesale depot near the Salford docks.

When she emerged the lorry was parked in a queue on a busy road lined with various warehouses. Her sharp eyes immediately spotted excellent opportunities to find food. The lorries were being loaded with a vast assortment of commodities and occasionally some small item got dropped from a poorly stacked load as it was hoisted from street level up to the delivery lorry’s tail-gate. The whole road, to her eyes, was a cornucopia of plenty - mostly fruit and canned goods. It was an easy task to recover dropped fruit or the occasional dented tin.

After briefly assuaging her hunger she set off to search for a safe sleeping place ready for the night. Having found one that seemed to fit the bill, her next task was to find some warmer clothes. She had no luck and that night she shivered uncontrollably as she curled up in as tight a ball as she could manage. Survival lessons were learned painfully and slowly as the logistics became brutally apparent. Eventually though she happened upon a Salvation Army outlet that seemingly dealt in clothing. However she had no idea as to how or what the set-up was.

‘Did she have to pay for the clothes or could she just go and ask for a coat’.

After hesitating for long minutes, she decided to try asking. Her reasoning being that if she asked first, she might get lucky, but if they refused, then she might try snatching one off the long racks of coats.

‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained’. She reasoned.

Besides, if she got one honestly by simply asking, she could always go back and try again.

Nervously she entered and savoured the musty, sour aroma of old clothes and tentatively approached a lady folding clothes on a table.

“Excuse me please miss.”

The woman turned to study the filthy child and frowned with distaste.

“What d’ you want?”

“Please could I have a coat miss?”

“Take one off the rack and pay for it over there.”

“I haven’t got any money miss.”

“Well why on earth do think you can come shopping in here without money?”

The ‘girl’s’ hope faded quickly as her shoulders drooped and she trudged dispiritedly towards the door.

The woman stared at the filthy spectacle then called out.

“What would your mother think if she caught you begging?” The woman scolded her.

The ‘girl’ paused in the doorway then swore angrily.

“I do’n ‘ave no fucking mother!”

Then she turned and started down the street only to hear footsteps pursuing her. She turned nervously to see a younger woman trying to catch up with her. She recognised her as another woman from the shop. The woman called after her.

“Wait girl!”

The ‘girl’ hesitated uncertainly before replying.

“I didn’t take anything, I’ve done nothin’!

“No, not that, come here a moment.”

The girl kept her distance as the woman approached.

“Where d’ you live?”

This was the final lethal question for a homeless girl already living on the edge.

“Wha’ss it to you?” She snapped back before concluding she was safer running and did so.

The younger woman cursed as she stopped at the corner and watched the kid bolting down an alley. She stalked angrily back to the shop and accosted the older assistant.

“Why did you send her away?”

“She shouldn’t come in here begging!”

“Bloody hell, Margaret, did you see the state of the kid? She was filthy and shoeless; and did I hear her say she didn’t have a mother or something?”

“Yes, she swore at me as she said it.”

The younger woman was the shop manageress and she shook her head in exasperation.

“For god’s sake Marge! The kid says she hasn’t got a mother and she’s obviously living rough! Isn’t that what the Salvation Army’s all about?”

She was probably a thieving gypsy brat.

"Even gypsy kids have parents Marge. In fact they're tight nit families."

The older woman fell silent. She had no answer.

The mood in the shop turned sombre but by then, the ‘girl’ was long gone. Another night of shivering awaited her. That evening she saw a tramp gathering some cardboard boxes outside a furniture shop and she wondered why. After cautiously following him, the reason was soon obvious, he used them as a bed. Seeing this, she returned to the furniture shop to collect what cardboard remained and took them back to her secret hidey-hole. The night was marginally more comfortable.

Inevitably she rose early, stole some milk from a step then returned to the wholesale area to find what pickings she could. Later she went into Manchester city centre just to see what pickings there were. There she noticed a hardware shop where she stole a tin-opener and a pocketknife. Once again, it proved easy.

For the rest of the day she wandered aimlessly but not fruitlessly. She came across a church hall where a ‘jumble-sale was coming to the close of day. She decided to wait and was rewarded by the sight of unsold clothes being stuffed into boxes on the pavement by the holy man who presumably ran the church. As the man deposited the boxes to await removal, the girl waited until he had returned into the hall then she pounced on a box that she had already determined to be holding coats. A desperate rummage produced a beautiful smallish emerald green coat and she quickly hid it behind the wall before stuffing the other coats back.

While doing this, the holy man emerged and shouted at her.

“What ‘choo doing girl?”

The girl had pre-prepared her answer if caught.

“Sorry Mister, I tripped over the box and knocked some coats out. I was putting them back.”

“Oh. Thank you young lady, but I think we had better fold them back neatly. I will be trying to sell them on another day. Give me a hand please.”

Reluctantly the girl helped him empty the box as the minister frowned.

“There was a pretty green coat in here, it seems to have gone.”

The girl played dumb but he sensed her reticence as he noticed she was filthy and shivering.

“Did you take it young lady? Are you cold?”

The girl nodded and started to stand as she prepared to run. The minister took hold of her hand in a vice-like grip that belied his soft words.

“If you need a coat love, you only have to ask.”

The girl remained silent and still as the man realised the truth.

“Where have you put it?”

“Lemm’e go.”

“You can have the coat, was it the green one?”

She nodded but still refused to verbally admit to the crime. The minister repeated his offer while relaxing his tight grip to a simple holding of her fingers. She cautiously slipped her hand free and stared disbelievingly at his kindly face. He repeated.

“Just say if you took it and I’ll let you have it.”

Now free of his capture she felt safer and she nodded almost imperceptibly before finally confessing.

“It’s there, behind the wall.”

He leant over the wall and spotted it behind a small bush then turned to her.

“Well go and get it girl. I said you can have it.”

She cautiously entered the churchyard and snatched the coat eagerly as the minister stood in the gateway apparently blocking her escape. He studied the filthy, emaciated form and frowned before adding.

“Well go on girl, try it on.”

She did as he ordered and it fitted fairly well. The minister allowed a smile to escape

“You look very smart in that. Go on, off you go.”

The girl hesitated before chancing her arm.

“Can I ‘ave a dress please as well, this one’s broken at the seam.”

The minister studied the stained, torn lightweight summer frock and realised it was totally unsuitable for the day’s weather. The kid looked frozen to the bone.

“I’ll see what there is. Come inside the hall.”

She followed him to the door then hesitated before looking around for any trap. The minister turned and realised the kid was afraid to enter. He sighed impatiently then took the box to her. She struggled with it to the churchyard gate as though intending to carry it to the car but then started to rummage while the minister looked askance.

He approached her as she pulled out a dress of a heavier knit than her filthy, flimsy cotton dress and held it against her body. It was a dress more suited to a middle aged lady but she demonstrated a keen interest in it.

“Why that one?” He asked.

“It’ll be warm.” She replied.

He was obviously thinking about something and the girl sensed he was about to probe deeper into her life.

Before he could ask anymore, she said “Thanks,” then sprinted around the corner in a flash.

Eventually, she reached her hidey hole and was pleased to see that nobody had disturbed her stock of flattened cardboard boxes. That night she slept a bit better with the overcoat acting as a warm blanket.

Thus she survived by her wits in Manchester for a couple of weeks before she was again caught pinching food off a Market stall. Just as she had previously, she escaped by brazenly escaping from her captor and dashing away to safety.
Inevitably she decided it was obviously no longer safe in Manchester and she went looking for a lorry. Her endeavours took her back to the wholesale distribution areas down at the Salford docks and she eventually chose a lorry that had just finished loading. While the driver was obviously finishing with the paperwork, she slipped between the as yet unsecured side tarpaulin and tucked herself between some pallets of tinned fruit.

“Thank fuck I’ve still got my tin-opener”, she congratulated herself.

It was dark when she felt the lorry finally slow down and stop as the driver spoke to somebody who then opened a gate to let the truck enter. She listened keenly as they exchanged words; information was the life-blood of survival.

“You’ll be second in the unloading queue in the morning. Are you staying at the hostel?”

“Yeah. But I’ll be goin’ out for a pint this evening.” The driver replied.

“Well the foot-gate’s open till midnight if you’re any later you’ll ‘ave to wake me with door-bell to let you in. I’m on duty ‘til six.”

She heard the driver getting down from his cab and then footsteps fading away towards the gate. A faint exchange of words informed her that the lorry was parked some ways from the gate. Her problem now was getting out without being noticed.

After cautiously checking each side and the tailgate, she chose a place where she was out of sight getting down. Fortunately, the canvas side-covers were laced fairly loosely and her pocketknife proved useful in cutting the tie-lines. In the dark, she crept between the trucks until she was near the gate then she ducked down and tested the pedestrian gate. To her relief it moved freely and she carefully tested it again. Once certain that there was nothing to block it, she gave the gate a shove and scuttled out keeping her head low. To her relief and amazement, the gate-man didn’t even notice the gate and she presumed he must have been engrossed in a book or radio show or something.

Whatever distraction it was, it helped Beverly’s escape. Within minutes she was trudging through a factory area with dark brick warehouses on all sides.
Then she came to a bridge over a canal and quick search revealed a dry place behind what she presumed to be some sort of machinery to move the bridge. In the darkness she had little idea of the state of the ground but it was dry and her coat would help keep her dry. Despite the gnawing hunger, she eventually fell asleep.

She was woken in the early dawn as the tooting of a ship’s whistle almost deafened her. Jerking with surprise, she almost launched herself off the ground and clambered out of the cavity in a panic. Once above the stone parapet, she noticed a man starting to operate some levers beside the bridge and only then noticed that the bridge was making swooshing noises as it seemed to rise up. More swishing noises confirmed that the bridge was about to swing as various parts moved about. Finally the bridge lowered onto its rollers with a dull clunk then it started to rumble as it swung slowly around to open the passage for the tug.

Then, and only then did she realise that if she had stayed hidden in the dry recess, she would have been stuck under the bridge or worse, crushed by it. A cold horror took hold of her viscera as she clambered over the parapet and dashed away. Once free and clear of danger she stopped to watch the tug towing its barges through the cut and eventually, the bridge closed again. It was another lesson learned; ‘stay away from large machinery that you didn’t understand!’

Fortunately, her coat had kept most of the dirt off her dress and she decided to see what pickings there were. In the market, she managed to steal a small loaf and a small sampler jar of jam then, in the market yard, she located a tap. More importantly, she found an empty milk bottle and a quick wash under the tap soon enabled her to drink some water and eat her fill. Then she bent down and washed her hands, face and bare legs without removing her coat. From her previous early life in Walton Psychiatric hospital, Beverly had a slight knowledge of Liverpool’s geography so, with hunger assuaged, she made her way towards the shops and simply wandered around looking for food opportunities and any possible likely spot to doss down later with the coming night.

In the late morning, as she was walking along Lime Street she paused by the ‘Punch and Judy’ café to see where the café put out its rubbish at night. Having checked over any potential opportunities, she turned to go and look for any potential dry spots to sleep later. As she rounded the corner of the café, she crashed into a woman scurrying out of Lime Street station. Beverly staggered backwards because she was small and light. The hurrying woman stopped to apologise as Beverly picked herself up off the pavement.
She reached down to help Beverly up then gasped as she stared open-mouthed as she recognised the ‘girl’

“Berna – sorry, you always called yourself Beverly! Is that really you?”

Beverly was so surprised that she inadvertently let out a curse.

“Oh fuck! Dammit!”. Then she turned an bolted away.

The nurse called after her to stop but so conditioned was Beverly to flight that she was across the road and dashing towards the Owen-Owen’s department store before checking behind her. Minutes later she had disappeared into the streets of Liverpool’s main shopping area. Finally she stopped to recover her breath and then reflect on the dangers that had now become obvious. Liverpool was the most dangerous place she could have come. Dozens of people associated with Walton Hospital and the Secure unit, lived in the city. In her panic she concluded that the nurse was already talking to the police and her description was too easy to describe. A dirty young ‘girl’ wearing an oil stained emerald green coat with a brown woollen frock and worn out shoes. She couldn’t risk another such encounter, especially with the police.
She had to get out of the city as fast as possible.

Chapter 8

The need for haste forced her to return to Lime Street station but, being illiterate, she could not make much sense of the departure board; especially as it kept flipping up the lists as trains left the station every few minutes.
She had concluded that her best chance lay in another big city and as she gazed uncomprehendingly up at the board the station loud-speakers announced that ‘The London train was departing from platform one.’

Even she knew what the number ‘one’ looked like so she decided to try her luck. On reaching the platform she was surprised and puzzled to find that the train was on an ‘open platform’ without a ticket barrier so she decided to try her luck. She boarded the train and waited about mid length while leaning out of a window so that nobody could see her face. She had never ever travelled on a train since she was six years old and she knew nothing of the conventions associated with train-travel. Eventually she heard a voice coming up the corridor asking for tickets and for several seconds she was paralysed with uncertainty and fear. Then she hid in the lavatory and prayed.
The voice stopped by the lavatory door and tested it. It opened and the inspector looked inside to unexpectedly find an smallish dirty kid sitting down.

“Oop’s sorry love,” he apologised as he closed the door while advising her to lock the door in future. “just push your ticket under the door.”

Beverly panicked again and lied by saying that her mam had the tickets but it was to no avail. The inspector knew that the next stop was Birmingham for the train was not even stopping at Crewe. He only had to wait for the kid to reveal herself and check her out before Birmingham. He told her that he’d check back later. Realising that she was on the verge of being caught she slumped back onto the lavatory seat then decided to use the little basin to clean herself up. She took her coat and dress off and gave herself as thorough a wipe down as she could with water and paper towels then she got dressed again and cautiously peeped out of the door.

The area seemed to be clear so she slipped out and walked to the rear of the train where she found the guard’s van full of luggage and assorted parcels. Unfortunately, the guard was there and she concluded she couldn’t hide in there. As she walked back up the train she saw the ticket inspector who simultaneously saw her. There was no hiding place and he accosted her.

“Now young lady, take me to your mother.”

Caught ‘bang to rights’ Beverly confessed that she had no ticket so the inspector took her to the guard’s van and ordered her to wait there. The guard eyed her partly with curiosity and partly sympathetically but despite his seeming compassion, he made sure she could not leave while the inspector completed his ticket inspection. Beverly contemplated making a break for it but short of jumping off an express train there was no escape for that way meant certain death.

Eventually the train slowed and pulled into Birmingham New Street station where the inspector took her off the train and handed over to the railway police who led her away to a small office at the end of the platform. Once inside she was made to sit at a table to be interviewed. The policewoman sat opposite her while the sergeant sat next to her. The simple act of juxta-positioning two people around her immediately set Beverly defences on alert. However after long years of facing multiple panels during her years in Walton and two more years in secure unit facing aggressive or antagonistic interviewers, Beverly was becoming inured to any sort of circumstance she deemed to be combative or inquisitorial.

She adopted a cautiously tense posture that exuded fear and uncertainty whilst she assessed the situation. The interview office comprised a room with a lot of chairs, four doors, a desk, and a window facing over the end of the platform where she could see the trains emerging from and entering some tunnels. The station was obviously located underground or at least the trains came and went that way.

While they were starting to question her, several more people passed through the room and, by this oversight, Beverly ascertained which doors led onto the platform and which ones led into other offices. Already, an escape plan was forming.

“Right miss,” the policewoman started asking; “what’s your name and where have you come from?”

To mislead the police, she answered “Beverly, Liverpool.”

“Your full name!”

She lied. “Beverly Davies.”

“And where is your home address?”

She lied again, giving a false address of a street name and number she had seen near the docks. The policewoman wrote it down then continued with further questions that Beverly replied to by saying she didn’t know or giving a false answer. As they interviewed her, another policewoman brought in some tea and biscuits for the police officers but Beverly appeared to be getting nothing. The policewoman noticed her eying the biscuits then declared.

“If you’re telling the truth, you’ll get some tea and biscuits.”

The bribe didn’t work. Until the police could check her story and that would require referring back to the police in Liverpool, she would probably get no food. This simple act and statement told Beverly all she needed to know. In their eyes, she was a piece of shit; vermin off the streets.

After they had got a set of false facts they started to try and find out where she was going and why.

“Where d’ you think I was going? London wan ’nit.” She explained.

“Without paying the fare!”

Beverly shrugged.

“Don’ ave no money.”

“And no handbag either. How far did you think you’d get?”

“Far enough.”

“Far enough for what?”

“Dunno’!”

They questioned her for another hour but got no more out of her then the questioning was interrupted by a commotion outside as two more ‘fare-dodgers’ were brought in. Three officers accompanied a well-dressed man and a woman and Beverly was told to take a seat by the wall. She chose a chair at the end of the row and near the door that led directly onto the platform. The other fare-dodgers were protesting some issue about pick-pocketing or theft that did not interest Beverly but the distraction did. The couple were handcuffed and led into another room thus leaving Beverly momentarily unattended. Night had fallen and it was all she needed to slip out through the door and dash along to the end of the platform. Looking around, she could not see any pursuit so she ran diagonally across the multiple tracks then plunged into the tunnel. Once in the total darkness, she felt her way along the brickwork that lined the tunnel

For several moments she was virtually blind before she recovered her ‘night-sight’ and was then able to discern the green and red reflections of the electric signal-lights on shining rails. Realising the dangers, she kept close to the tunnel sides and ducked down into a tight ball as she sensed a locomotive rumbling towards her. It passed her with a couple of feet to spare but the sight and proximity of the huge steel wheels and clanking hissing pistons made her blood run cold. Even the carriage wheels gave her serious pause for thought.

Feeling her way along the brickwork was the only safe way but it was desperately slow. She expected to hear shouts of pursuit but to her confusion, they never came. However, when she emerged from the tunnel she saw two trains stopped at red lights and little realised that they had been stopped by her actions.
Ignoring the trains, she dashed along the brick lined cutting until she reached the grassy cutting and clamboured up the banks. There she found a brick wall that proved to be no obstacle and within moments she was crossing the street towards a maze of narrow industrial streets into a city she knew nothing about and had only heard of in her carer’s occasional conversations. She had no idea where Birmingham was or how big it was.

However, it was obviously a big city and therefore offered opportunity. In the pitch black of the night, she located a dry place and prepared to make a bed by locating some cardboard in the waste bin outside a large warehouse. That night she went hungry. When she awoke before dawn, her most important need was food and she set immediately to searching. Experience now served her well. She located the wholesale market and soon emerged with some damaged fruit and a dented tin of corned beef. This was a very satisfying find because the police had taken her pocketknife and tin-opener off her in New Street Station. The tin of corned beef had a key that opened the can and she was able to dig the meat out with her fingers.

With a fuller belly she found a drinking fountain outside a very large ostentatious building and drank her fill. After her immediate needs were satisfied, she fell into her proven, tried and tested routine of looking for food, locating safe sleeping places and securing a supply of cardboard. She spent the first week in Birmingham getting to know the city and ascertaining the risky places. It was during these activities that the next phase of her smashed childhood unfolded.

Sometimes, if she was sure she had not been spotted making her bed, she slept in the same place for more than one night. This was a risky practice for any girl living on the streets and she always exercised extreme caution when making her bed. However the incident that started the next phase was not some predator noticing her and following her to her bed.

It was mid-afternoon and she was idling some time by standing on a corner studying the sunlight reflecting off a church spire and it’s clock. As she stood casually with one leg planted firmly and the other leg bent toe-to-heel a car pulled up alongside her. At first, she paid it no heed until the passenger window was wound down and a man leaned across.

“How much love?”

Even then, at first, Beverly paid no heed until the man requested again.

“Hey! How much d’ you charge love?”

Realising the man was calling to her, she turned and stared uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then the shocked realisation penetrated her. ‘The guy was propositioning her!’

For a brief moment she froze then the tightness in her chest slackened as she realised it was broad daylight and the street was busy. -There was no danger-!

Having lived for two years virtually without ethics or morals the only thing to enter Beverly’s mind was an opportunity to make some money. Having now been free of the secure unit for over a month, her arsehole was in a decent state of repair. Defecating was easier and there was no blood in her faeces but she was still nervous about anal penetration. She tried an alternative tactic. The unit had trained her well in many aspects of sexual gratification.

“I’ll do a blow job mate.”

“How much darling.”

Beverly had absolutely no idea of ‘the-going-rates’ so she plucked a figure from the air and trusted to luck. Furthermore, she didn’t have any protection.

In the secure unit, the priests and adults had always brought their own contraceptives because they were alert to the dangers of STD’s but the boys were not equipped when they used her. Beverly had never even considered her present situation.

“Is five bob okay mister?”

“Okay love, d’ you want to do it in the car?”

Again, hard experience concerning car rides to strange places made her cautious. She turned to look at the church then nodded.

“Okay, go behind the church and I’ll meet you.”

It was only a couple of hundred yards away but out of sight of the main road. She arrived before the car as he drove around the block to avoid traffic then she met him at the kerb by the ‘Litche-gate’ of the church. A quick look around revealed no obvious watchers and she quickly stepped into the car before it had even stopped.

“Give ‘us the money and open you trousers please,” she asked.

He rummaged in his pocket for the two ‘half-crowns’ then placed them on the dashboard whilst adding.

“You get them when you’ve done it.”

Knowing it was not worth arguing she reached for the zip of his fly and carefully took it down before grasping his already hard penis. His eyes widened with pleasured surprise as she lowered her head.

“Are you not usin’ a Jonny pet?”

“I don’ ‘ave one she replied before closing her mouth over his penis. It didn’t smell and when she ‘rimmed’ his foreskin she was pleased to find no smeg encrusted underneath.

‘At least ‘e washes it,’ she told herself as she set to with tongue and lips. She soon found his most sensitive spot behind his glans then, as he gasped and twitched, she set to with her tongue whilst sucking gently.

She used the same tricks she had been forced to learn and use in the secure unit and it wasn’t long before she was swallowing his semen. When he sagged back into the driver’s seat and wiped his forehead on his sleeve, she finally lifted her head up and asked.

“Are yer’ done now?”

He gasped a yes then added.

“Bloody ‘ell petal, you’re good. ‘Ow old are yer?”

“What does it matter to you?” She replied.

“Will you be ‘ere tomorrow?”

“Dunno’,” she replied, “depends on ‘ow it is. Will it just’ be a blow?”

“If I bring a Jonny can you let me ‘ave you?”

“It’ll ‘ave to be up my arse, and you’ll ‘ave to be gentle.”

“Why’s that? - Takin’ it up the arse I mean?”

When she was out of the car with the two half-crowns clutched tightly in her grip and her shoes still in her other hand, she turned back and motioned to him to lower the window. He leaned across, lowered the window and looked out as she leaned towards the window before quietly declaring.

“I’m a tranny. I don’ ‘ave a cunt. So if you still wann’it, you’ll ‘ave to use my arse.”

His eyes widened with what she presumed to be anger but she learned later it was surprise. Happy with her earnings and pleased that she had performed satisfactorily, she skipped over the low churchyard wall to disappear amongst the gravestones. When she emerged out of the other side she realised she was on a ‘working street’ -for under every lamp-post, there were working girls putting out.

Hurriedly she fastened her shoes and walked purposefully but slowly away trying not to resemble them. What she was doing was listening for any ‘business’ being conducted and she quickly learned that the going rate was roughly a quid for a fuck, depending how pretty the girl was.

Once clear of the area and back on the main street, she made her way into town loaded with wealth. It was time for a fish supper.
After eating and drinking she looked at the change to conclude she was still ‘wealthy’ and concluded there was money to be made. Realising this, she stuffed the coins into the grease-proof chip-paper and carefully stuffed the package in the only place that might be safe if she was robbed. Pockets could be torn off and hand-bags could be snatched but a rectum served reasonably well.

Once happy that the package would not slip out (her sphincter was still a bit unreliable,) she set off for her hidey-hole and settled down after carefully checking the area.
The next morning, she bought a second-hand handbag in a charity shop and a small, tight panty-girdle that served to hold any money up her arse. Then she went looking for some public washrooms. - (Such places were still to be found in the larger cities and Birmingham had several.)

Eventually she located the baths and tried her luck. The attendant frowned with distaste but took her money and directed her to a cubicle with a bath, a towel and some soap. Beverly could not believe her luck. She emerged with clean body, wet hair, and a clean panty girdle but dirty clothes. She still had two shillings in her handbag and feeling wealthy, she checked at the bus station to look for a bus that would take her back to the same street where she had struck gold the previous evening.

After asking at the bus depot information office she lingered over another cup of hot tea then finally decided to later go back and see if the man would return. She now had a few hours to kill, so she explored Birmingham city centre and made mental notes of useful places before going back to check out if her customer was true to his word.

A tuppeny bus-fare brought her to the same corner that she recognised easily. It had started to ‘drizzle’ so she decided to sit with a cup of coffee in a café and watch the corner. Several times the café-owner asked if she wanted another cup so to avoid confrontation she bought them. The café was moderately busy and she could not just occupy a table and deny the owner his custom. Additionally, the café had a lavatory.

To her delight she spotted him cruising up the side street towards the church so she slipped out un-noticed and crossed the road. She did not loiter on the corner but walked up the street to find him looking around nervously.

“Ah! There you are; I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“So was I about you.” Beverly replied. “Have you got the Jonnies?”

He pulled a pack out of his pocket and grinned before asking.

“So you’re definitely a tranny; a boy?”

“So what?” Beverly challenged him. “My arse is tighter than a cunt; especially a whore’s cunt. If yer’ don’ want me I’ll go.””

“You don’t have to use language like that love. Let’s make this a nice thing.”

Beverly did a silent double take as she wondered how any guy who fucked street girls could expect gentility or courtesy from them. ‘Still,’ she concluded. ‘Who was she to judge’.

Deciding to try and share whatever fantasy the guy had going on in his head, Beverly slid seductively into the passenger street then asked. Where shall we do it. D’ you want to go somewhere less public.

“Where d’ you wanna’ go?”

“There’s a quiet place down there, by the canal, but first we sort out the money.

“How much d’ you charge.” He asked.

Beverly had listened to working girls arguing the previous evening so she reckoned she wasn’t worth as much as the girls. On this basis, she suggested, “ten bob. It’s worth more than a blow-job.”

“Done!” He concluded eagerly.

“Almost too eagerly,” Beverly wondered as he started the car.

She directed him to a blind railway arch that faced diagonally onto the canal and away from any public thoroughfares. He grinned agreeably as he turned to her.

“This is good, nobody can see.”

Beverly ignored his observation then asked him how he wanted to do it.

“Doggie or girlie?”

His grin faded as he wondered uncertainly.

“How do you usually do it – doggie?”

“It’s easier, especially if my dick upsets you.”

She could see his brain ticking then he agreed.

“Yeah. Okay, doggie it is.”

Having agreed the technique she looked behind her.

“The back seat’s better, it’s a bench seat.”

He agreed and they moved into the back seat. Because she was quite small, the arrangement worked fairly well and when he had finished he slumped back with satiation. Once he had recovered, he looked at her curiously.

“Pity you don’t have tits’ you’d look good in nice clothes.”

Beverly frowned partly with distaste and partly with anger.

“Yeah, well that ain’t gonna’ ‘appen; is it?”

“You smell quite nice as well.”

“I ‘ad a bath this mornin’. What d’ yer expect.”

“Can we make this a regular thing?”

“Not around ‘ere. The Pimps would soon cotton on.”

“Ah.” He exclaimed. “Well I can’t do it at mine. What about yours?”

“Tha’rrle never ‘appen!”

“So where d’ you live?”

Beverly wagged her head in disbelief.

“Oh come on! Yer don’ ask a girl that! Especially a working girl”.

His lips sagged with disappointment before saying.

“So it’s here or nowhere.”

“Here is safe for me cos’ I know the area and if I avoid the night trade I won’t upset the other girls. Now can I ‘ave my ten bob?”

For a moment, his smile faded and Beverly thought he wasn’t going to pay but in later years as she got to know men for what they were, she realised why the man had stopped smiling. He was disappointed that Beverly had pointedly demonstrated that it was purely a commercial transaction. By asking if he could ‘make it a regular thing’, he was implying that he wanted something deeper, perhaps something emotional; Beverly had totally destroyed that hope. That afternoon, owing to her naivety, she had inadvertently destroyed any emotional or romantic connotations surrounding the deed. Nor did she notice his irritated disappointment as he took out his wallet and pulled out a ten shilling note. As she stuffed it into her bag he asked further.

“How can we arrange to do it again?”

“I’ll be here most afternoons. If you want me, just look. If I’m here and you see me then we can do a deal. I’m not here every day though.”

“So where else d’ you go?”
“Ha! That’d be telling. If I’m here. I’m here.”

“So it’s just business then.”

“Yep, business is business. See ya.”

She left while fingering the ten-shilling note in her bag and determined that she’d never get involved with men on an emotional level. ‘Men are bastards!’ she told herself.

Now being richer than she had ever been, she found a charity shop and bought a new dress. Then she bought a bra and better shoes. Finally, she bought her own supply of contraceptives and still had change for a couple of meals.

‘Birmingham seemed like an excellent place to settle,’ she thought.

It was not to be, however. During the following fortnight, she met with her ‘john’ several times but her activities got noticed by another working girl who had decided to work the same hours. She had seen Beverly ‘working and concluded there might be a niche afternoon trade that she could also exploit. One evening she followed Beverly into the café and invited herself to Beverly, table.

Beverly was nursing her regular cup of coffee and eating a sandwich when the girl sat down uninvited.

“Have you got a bit of gear love?”

Without even looking up Beverly wagged her head slowly.

“No. I don’ use it.”

“Damn, tha’ s a pity. I need some.”

“S’ not my problem is it love.” Beverly riposted as she got up to go.

The girl called after her but Beverly slipped away without turning to look back. Street-wise and doubly cautious, she was beginning to recognise trouble whenever it appeared. As she stood on the pavement outside the café, she noticed the girl looking at her. This doubled her caution so instead of taking the bus back into Birmingham, she crossed the road and boarded one going out of town. After a few stops, she alighted then crossed the road to get one back into town.

From the top deck of the bus, she spotted the same girl arguing with a man she presumed to be her pimp so she slid towards the centre aisle and made herself inconspicuous.
In town, with money in her pocket, she bought herself some new knickers and a second-hand dress then stopped to buy some food. It was really liberating to not have to worry where the next meal was coming from. After lingering over her meal, she smiled her thanks to the café owner then stepped into the gathering dusk and cautiously returned to her hidey-hole.

The following morning she paid for a bath then set off walking to the Soho Road; partly to save the bus fare and partly to explore the larger neighbourhood. It was early afternoon when she arrived at Soho Road. She wasn’t looking for him and she avoided the café after her last experience. It didn’t do to get too well known or too often noticed, instead she walked a couple of blocks further and ducked into a small market hall to buy a really cheap cup of tea. Despite having earned ten bob the previous day, she still had to count her pennies.

In the gathering twilight, she was walking back into town when she needed a wee so she turned up the road to the church and relieved herself behind the gravestones. As she left the churchyard she saw the girl who had invaded her table and promptly turned around to walk away. The girl realised Beverly was avoiding her so she called out.

“There’s no need to run!”

Once again, fear and caution lent speed to Beverly’s heels and she broke into a fast trot until she arrived again in Soho Road. Safe amongst the crowds, she found a seat and recovered her breath only to see the girl approaching her again. At least here, amongst the crowds, she felt safer.

“Why d’ run away from me love?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m not going to ‘arm yer.”

“Bloody right yer’ not!”

“I’m not stealin yer pitch love, nobody else works up that street. This is the main parade ground, right ‘ere.”

“So who says I’m on parade. Fuck off and leave me be!”

Before the girl could respond, Beverly was on her feet and trotting away again into the gathering shadows.

Now twice shy, Beverly decided to avoid the area for a few days, the trouble was she liked the freedom that the money gave her. Two days later and short of funds, she was relieved to see the familiar car parked behind the church but to her chagrin, she spotted the other girl doing a trick with her customer. Seeing red, she hammered on the locked door and screamed at the couple.

The girl gave Beverly ‘two fingers’ then shouted.

“Fuck off you little tranny. Let a real girl earn some honest money.”

Tears of angry frustration came to Beverly’s eyes and she stumbled away feeling angry and betrayed. Her customer must have told the bitch that Beverly was a ‘tranny’. When she stumbled back onto Soho Road, she slumped onto the familiar seat and stared dejectedly at the night-time traffic. It wasn’t long before she was approached by one of the regular night girls.

“Bugger off kid. This is our patch.”

With tears still blurring her sight, Beverly looked up then cursed.

“Fuck off!”

The volume and anger betrayed the masculinity in her voice and the girl fell silent for a moment before bending down to stare into Beverly’s face.

“Are you a bloke?”

“Fuck of!!”

Her curse only reinforced the other girl’s convictions as she continued staring into Beverly’s tear-stained face.

“You fucking are! Aren’t you?

“Oh fuck off!” Beverly repeated before erupting from the seat and stamping across the road to the café.

She used some of the last of her cash to buy a mug of tea then chose a seat close to the till to avoid harassment. The tactic failed. Looking through the open door she spotted the girl from the street talking to the girl who’d stolen her customer while the customer was nodding. Then all three turned to look straight at the café.
Beverly’s cover was blown but she’d be damned if she was going to run and forego her mug of hot tea. She sat tight as the trio approached; sure that they wouldn’t cause her any trouble.

Her confrontational glare caused them to pause at the door then the thief approached her while trying exuded sympathy.

“Can I talk?”

“Fuck off.” Beverly replied as softly as she could whilst still trying to demonstrate confrontation and independence.

“No seriously kid. We need to talk!”

“Fuck off!” Beverly repeated slightly louder whilst trying to avoid being noticed.

The thief turned to the café proprietor who had noticed the situation.

“D’ you mind if I talk to her a moment?”

“She’s a paying customer, you’re not. Is she bothering you darling?”

Beverly looked up, glad for the proprietor’s support.

“I just want to drink my tea and mind my own business. Then I’m going.”

The proprietor nodded and ordered the thief to leave.

“If you want to talk to the kid. Do it in the street. I don’t want any prozzie trouble in here! So get out unless you’re going to buy something.”

The thief re-joined the others outside and Beverly realised she would not be able to avoid them. She turned one last time to the proprietor.

“Is there another way out – a back-door?”

“Sorry love, the yard is used as a garage and the mechanic locks it at night. I’d have to phone him for the key. My key’s at home.”

She cursed under her breath and tipped back the last of the tea. She had no option but to cut and run. Ever aware of living on the street, first she went to have a wee before finally facing her problem. When she stepped outside she was disturbed to see two men as well as the girls.

‘Fuck!’ She thought, ‘is that the pimp?’ she asked herself as the thief returned with the other girl.

“There’s no need to run away kid. We just wanna’ talk.”

“Look! Just fuck off will yer! Leave me alone. I was not stealin your business but you fucking stole mine!”

“It’s not about that kid! We wanna’ talk about you!”

“Oh yeah? Wharr’a about those two?”

“The other guy wants to go with you! We’ve gorra’ talk kid!”

Beverly paused uncertainly. She was always doubtful of men who wanted to fuck her when they knew she was a tranny. She’d had more than enough in the secure unit!
But then the other guy had been okay. He was careful and he paid up. Confusion was beginning to unsettle her. ‘She needed the money but what were the risks?’

Caught between a rock and a hard place but still clearly visible to the café proprietor she decided to risk asking.

“What does he want.? The other one that is.”

“Let’s talk first. There’s stuff you should know.”

” Like what?”

“Well for starters. He said you’re only chargin’ ten bob!” (She pointed to Beverly’s first customer.)

“Whass’ it to you?”

“Fuck me kid. Don’ you understand?”

“What?”

The other girl almost screeched in frustration at Beverly’s naivety.

“Bloody hell don’t you gerr’it?”

“Get what!?”

“Ten bob’s bloody chicken-feed. You should be charging ten times that!”

“Fuck off, the goin’ rate for you girls is only a quid! And that’s if yer’ pretty!”

“You still don’ gerr’it do yer?”

Uncertainty now wrinkled Beverly’s brow as the thief pressed on with her observations.

“That’s what e’s doin’ here!” (She indicated the second man.) “He’s prepared to pay a fiver for your arse you silly bugger!”

Beverly’s jaw sagged slightly with disbelief as she found her voice.

“Fuck off! Who’d pay a fiver for me?”

“Every queer in Birmingham you stupid little bastard! Every Nancy boy who ever had a fiver, would pay for your tasty little arse.”

Beverly’s jaw worked soundlessly as she tried to countenance such an unbelievable fact. The thief continued as she saw the confusion and uncertainty in Beverly’s tears.

“Yes! You stupid little bitch! Your arse is worth a fucking fortune Go on! Go and ask the queer! Go and ask him for five quid!”

Despite being surrounded by passer’s by, Beverly’s stomach was churning with fear and disbelief as she approached the second man who was talking to her original customer.

“She says you’ll pay me five quid to let you fuck me. Is that true?”

“Are you really a tranny?” The second guy asked.

“Oh she’s a little tranny alright!” The first man confirmed. “I can vouch for that, I fucked her on Saturday night. I tell you she’s a right goer!”

“Has she got a place, a room or something?”

“Use my car. The back seat’s roomy enough. Look at her, she’s tiny, you’ll ‘ave plenty of room to fuck her. We’ll stand guard. Then everybody’s safe, including her.”

“Where d’ you park?” The second man asked.

“Same as last time, by the canal,” Beverly explained, “but first let me see your money!”

To her astonishment he pulled out a wallet and took out the promised fiver. She pinched it tentatively between her thumb and forefinger and he released it without any protest.

“Is this for real mister? A fiver? Honestly?”

The man rolled his eyes and wagged his head in anticipation.

“Sweet Jesus kid! How old are you?”

“Old enough, old enough to never trust anybody.”

She handed the fiver to the first man and explained.

“You look after it and let’s go down to the canal.”

“I’m not your pimp girl! Stuff it in your bra or something.”

Beverly of course, didn’t wear a bra so she put it in her handbag and trusted to luck.
To her surprise the two girls wanted to come and Beverly concluded there might be greater safety in numbers.
Thus having taken as many precautions as she could they drove to the same arches by the canal where the two girls and the first man watched while the queer anally penetrated Beverly.

Once the deed was done the first man took out another fiver and proffered it to Beverly for a joke. As she reached out to take it, he flipped it away from her but Beverly was not to be denied. She grabbed his arm then bit his wrist and he was so surprised he released the note. Before he had time to react Beverly was already out of the door and snarling.

“Don’ ever fuck with me about money again! I’m norr’a thief. Here!”

She flung the second fiver back towards him as she stalked angrily off. He picked up the crumpled note, straightened it out and put it back in his wallet before shouting.

“I was joking you silly little bitch!” He called after her but she was already half-way across the open space.

Once clear of any pursuit, she realised that the first fiver she still had would attract too much attention if she waved it about on the bus for a fare. Being forced to break it down into ‘smaller change’ she reluctantly returned to the café and bought a steak and kidney supper. After finishing her meal, she proffered the note and the proprietor smiled indulgently.

“Haven’t you got something smaller?”

“Sorry mister I’ve only got this and a couple of coppers.”

“I see you’ve had a good night then; did you have the guy in the camel-hair coat?”

She nodded and he grinned.

“He’s worth a few bob. Good luck to yer kid. D’ you want another mug of tea?”
She nodded and he drained off the hot water.

“I’ll be closing up shortly. You make sure you don’t flash that money around.”

That night, she slept in a proper bed and breakfast.

Chapter 9

She awoke to the sound of soft tapping on her bedroom door.

“Who is it?”

“The landlady. You have to be out by ten o’clock unless you’re staying another night.”

Beverly wasn’t about to spend money unnecessarily so she quickly washed then dashed down to breakfast. There was one other guest but he gave her a funny look as she entered the room. Having sensed his antipathy they only exchanged a polite ‘good morning’ and she chose the only other table across the room.

Once back in the city centre she was at a loose end so she wandered into the city museum for want of something to occupy her time. In one of the art galleries she found a seat and thought about her life. Her life gave every sensation of being nothing but a trap, with nothing for her apart from being a prostitute. It left her feeling depressed for there seemed to be no way out.

This depression only got worse when she re-emerged onto the city’s streets as the rain arrived. To get away from the rain, she took a bus to Soho Road and bought a cup of coffee from her favourite café. The proprietor gave her a smile and suggested she wouldn’t do well with the pouring rain. She nodded philosophically and took her coffee to the window seat.

The rain wasn’t letting up, so after a couple more coffees she debated whether to return to her hidey-hole or buy an umbrella and try her luck on the street. Her thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of the thief who had stolen her first client. Cursing her luck she got up to leave but the girl was accompanied by an older man and they made a bee-line for her table.

“Hi Beverly, I was hoping you’d be here. This is my boyfriend Billy.”

‘Yeah’ - Beverly thought as she recognised a pimp if ever she saw one; ‘and I’m the queen of Sheba!’

The very word ‘boy-friend’ told her everything but she decided to hear what the girl had to say while the man went to get coffees. The girl laid out her idea.

“You know when you thought you were going to get robbed yesterday?”

Beverly decided to play along but she was already considering her escape plan. The boy-friend ‘Billy’ was a heavily built guy so Beverly reckoned she could outpace him if she had to run. When he arrived with the coffees, Beverly moved out so that he sat by the wall. She had no intentions of being hemmed in. Once seated, the thief made her pitch.

“My boyfriend Billy can make sure you don’t have any problems with any tricks or other low-life refusing to pay.”

Beverly nodded as she pushed her offer.

“He can get you a room around here so you don’t have to come in by bus and stuff.”

“Go on.” Beverly replied; waiting for the catch.

“And he can sort out any problems for yer.”

“Like what?”

Billy leaned back confidently.

“If anybody doesn’t pay, or gives you trouble I can sort it, I can get you gear when you want it and anything else.”

Beverly smiled inwardly and ironically then politely refused his offer.

“No thanks. I’ll sort my own stuff out thanks. I don’t need a pimp living in my purse.”

His demeanour changed immediately as his gloves came off.

“Listen kid. You won’t work at all around here unless you work for me or one of the other guys.”

She stood up and stepped away from the table before declaring loudly for the whole café to hear.

“You can fuck off! I can work anywhere and she’ll tell you why, or has she already told you? I’m not lettin’ any bloody pimp live off my back. I ‘ad enough of that in Secure unit! Fuckin’ wardens pimpin’ me out and everything else. You can fuck off!”

Her foul-mouthed outburst caused a deathly hush throughout the café but she had already dashed though the door and made her escape. By the time Billy had made it to the door, Beverly was half a block away

It was obvious that Soho Road was no longer an option.

She stayed in the city a few more days then decided to leave after discovering there was no other viable red-light district. Time to move on.

Using the tried and tested technique of hiding in the back of an empty truck, she found herself in Nottingham two mornings later. By the evening she had located the red-light area but it was two days before she scored. To her fury the guy, on learning she was not what he expected, first refused to pay her then beat her up. It was three days before she was fit to try again and several days after that before she scored again. She had lost count of the days before she finally scored and kept her money. She had done it ‘doggy fashion’ and remained convinced that the guy had not realised what she was and therefore not beaten her.

The next morning it was raining so she found a charity shop and bought a coat, a cheap umbrella and a better pair of shoes. She hid the old clothes in her newly located ‘hidey-hole- then returned to the street. Nottingham had proved to have fewer places where she could pass the time of day except for a museum and a library. Libraries were useless because she could not read so it had to be the museum. She hoped that the changed coat and better shoes would reduce the amount of attention she attracted. Even so she felt forced to eventually leave the building by mid-afternoon as museum staff were beginning to wonder about her. The rain had eased off so she walked towards the river Trent and spent an hour or so envying the ducks and swans.

Eventually, the rain returned and she walked again to the street where she had been successful the previous evening. By now it was getting dark as she arrived at the spot so she loitered near a bus shelter to avoid the rain. She had already surmised that trade would be poor because of the rain but she had decided to give it a couple of hours.

The bus stop had proven to be a good location because she could hide from any police patrol cars happening by while being free to avoid any foot patrols by pretending to be waiting for a bus. After an hour, she was debating going home and she had to force herself to stay longer.

The cold was beginning to get to her when she was surprised to see him again across the street. Unfortunately, he had another guy with him and that immediately set her alarm bells ringing. A nervous scan of the street confirmed two possible escape routes but she kept her nerve and altered her pace so that she arrived under a lamp post by a bus stop.
She was trying to appear as though she had not noticed him while somehow trying to make herself conspicuous enough for him to notice her. If he noticed her and came over then it was possible he had not realised what she was but if he avoided her then so be it. She could try again elsewhere another time. At least she still had some money from her previous night’s fuck.
She continued standing under the lamp-post while making a show of looking up the road for a bus then she tensed as she noticed him and his companion start to cross the road.

‘Had he noticed her or was he just casually crossing the street?’ She wondered.
Her stomach sagged nervously as everything became uncertainty and she slipped cautiously backwards into the shadow of the bus stop. Then she heard him talking to his companion.

“There was one here last night, so maybe we should wait a bit. This rain isn’t helping. I suppose they’ll be staying in.”

Beverly stayed silent and tense debating whether to approach them but her nerve failed her. After the incident with the pimp in Birmingham, she was becoming more streetwise and cautious. Eventually the two men decided to go to a pub and any hope of renewing the original liaison was lost to her unless she hung around until ten-thirty when the pubs closed. Too tired and cold to make that effort, she made her way back to her hidey-hole and curled up with her old coat while keeping her new coat clean.

Nottingham was proving a difficult place to make money.

The following dawn was an unwelcomed reptilian arrival, cold, grey and wet. Beverly uncurled slowly and eventually turned to kneel and listen cautiously while her eyes adjusted to the light filtering through the crawl hole in the brickwork. Reluctantly, she forced herself to worm her way out then removed the heavy brown coat to replace it with the cleaner one she had worn the previous day. She reached back into her hidey-hole and recovered the newer shoes then finally wiped herself down and counted the remains of her money. Two pound, twelve shillings and six pence. More than enough to get a bath and some breakfast.

Thus prepared, she stopped by an early morning workmen’s café and bought a substantial English breakfast with all the trimmings.

‘Eat what you can, when you can’ she told herself as she finished off with a large mug of hot tea.

The husband and wife proprietor team eyed her up suspiciously but the frown turned to a pursed-lip smile of reluctant gratitude as she paid in full.
‘You may not like me but you like my money,’ Beverly concluded as she returned their look of distaste with a bold stare before adding.

“I’ll be back for breakfast tomorrow as well.”

The wife nodded and looked as though she was about to break into a smile but Beverly’s glare had dissolved into a sneer of resentment as she spun on her heel and trudged out into the rain.

Her endeavours to get clean however met with no success. It seemed there were no public wash-rooms in Nottingham and eventually she had to go shopping again for a swimming costume and a towel from yet another charity shop. Next she went searching for a municipal swimming baths and nervously prepared to use the women’s changing facilities. Fortunately, her hair had grown out enough to help her pretend to be a girl so, with her heart pounding, she paused for a fraction before dashing through the foot-bath then jumping immediately into the pool. This was an effort to hide any give-away lumps in her crotch and once she was in the water, she swam herself clean. Fortunately, her androgynous hair soon dried even on the rain swept streets.

By early evening, she smelt sweeter as she made her way once again to the only location she knew that offered prospects of money. With money she had quickly learned that food and warmth were to be had and this was a lesson that was reinforced with every adversity. These obvious lessons might have been readily apparent to a child brought up with pocket money and spending opportunities but to a child reared entirely in secure institutions; a child such as Beverly, these lessons had to be learned quickly under severe duress and without ever having previously had access to money.

Without ever having encountered the normal checks and balances of ordinary family life she lacked virtually all tools of morality, self-defence, probity or insightfulness except the singularly crude mechanism of total mistrust for all things adult or sexual.

For Beverly, the primordial rule to survive any encounter with anybody was to keep it short, profitable and impersonal. Cruel reality however, dictated that to survive she had to repeatedly engage in dangerously intimate encounters. Being ‘on-the-run’ served to compound such dangers while being ‘a tranny’ completed the disaster.

All these elements that now formed her nature were unrecognised by Beverly, for at fourteen, she had neither the wit nor the learning to recognise or understand such complexities. Almost devoid of feelings, she was just the bowl that contained the mix; never the sexual ingredients that made the meal nor the emotional recipe that gave it taste.

When she arrived at the now familiar location she was mildly surprised to see several girls already ‘working’. She concluded it was because it was a Friday and the rain had ceased. She decided to check out the ‘lines’ and eventually decided on a spot that appeared to be outside the working area but still fairly busy with ordinary street traffic. It wasn’t long before one of the regular girls walked a couple of city blocks to check her out.

“Are you workin?” She asked Beverly.

“Warr’if I am. I’m norr’on your patch.

“Yeah! Okay, don’ be so tetchy. There’s work for all on a Friday. D’ you do specials?”

Beverly’s ears pricked up at this. Being a tranny, she needed to somehow use what she was to extra advantage. If the other girls knew of it, they might put work her way. The catch was that the pimps would soon get to hear of it and then she’d have to run. For now however, she needed money, if not that night then pretty soon. She decided to risk telling the girl and see what came of it. She couldn’t see any obvious pimps on the street at that moment so she decided to open up to the girl. She could always run if she had to.

“I might do, if the price is right.”

“What sor’of stuff?” The girl responded.

“I’m a tranny.”

“Fuck me! You’re good kid, can you do threesomes?”

“Depends on the money.”

“Yer donn’ ‘ave to worry about that my boyfriend will sort all that out.”

“Sorry love,” Beverly asserted, “I don’ do boyfriends.”

“Ow’ d’ you manage that? Who makes sure yer get her money?”

“I do. They’re usually queers anyway and they don’ like trouble.” Beverly lied.

She had no accurate idea about queers or what they preferred but she decided to brazen it out in front of the other girl. The girl squinted at her, trying to decipher Beverly’s attitude.

“How old are you?” She asked.

“Whass’it to you?”

“I still think we can do stuff.”

“I told you, I don’ do pimps. They’re poison. If anyone wants a special and you’re norr’appy, send ‘em to me and maybe I’ll drop you a tip.”

“You’re a hard-nosed bitch arne’ yer!”

Beverly shrugged and made as if to strut her stuff. The girl however was not to be deterred and hesitantly made an offer.

“I can do threesomes if yer interested, but I’ve never don’ it with a tranny though.”

Beverly paused thoughtfully. She needed money because her funds were running low, but she wasn’t going to take any unnecessary risks.

“Well, I’m ‘ere if yer up for it but we split the money equally, then I leave before your pimp tries to steal my share.”

“Fuck me! You don’ trust anybody do yer’?”

Beverly wagged her head slowly to demonstrate she’d brook no argument on her conditions. Then she asked.

“Do you have a place to do it or d’ you live with your bloke?”

She used the word ‘bloke’ instead of ‘pimp’ to avoid any rancour and they separated to work their own beats. Once again, the rain ruined her prospects that night and she went to bed hungry. For a few nights Beverly was forced back onto the reliable ‘back-stop’ of raiding skips behind cafes to fill her belly. She could not afford food and the cost of a visit to the municipal swimming pool to clean herself.

Then she struck lucky on the following Saturday night. The girl came up to offer a deal. She knew several punters who were known for kinky stuff and she had entreated one to try a threesome with a tranny.

Beverly decided to check the guy out and after a brief chat with the other girl present, they agreed a deal. The girl wanted to go back to her place but Beverly was too cautious for that. She persuaded the guy to go to a dingy hotel and the threesome completed the act in relative safety, well away from the other girl’s pimp. With her share of the money Beverly returned to her favourite charity shop and kitted herself out in a distinctive, vivid yellow outfit. The following night she had much better luck and continued to do so as word on the street spread about ‘the tranny in the yellow dress’.
Soon, the ‘ordinary girls’ began to notice her success and inevitably, jealousy emerged.

This revealed itself in the form of another girl accompanied by her pimp. Beverly noticed them approaching and immediately sensed the danger so she quickly moved to stand on the busiest corner with lots of people passing by. If there was going to be trouble, she wanted as many people as possible to be close by. Her tactic did not go un-noticed by the pair and they invited her to go for a chat in a nearby pub. She refused saying she was too young whereupon the pimp resorted to the age-old tried and tested threats. The encounter was brief as Beverly cried havoc but it was obvious that Nottingham was no longer okay. Inevitably, some pimp would eventually try his hand at forcing her into his stable. Time again to move on.

The next city was Sheffield and events pretty much followed the same pattern. First locate the ‘street’ then find a safe, dry hidey-hole, then start in the early evenings before the heavy trade started. During the day she checked out the charity shops and cheap, work-men’s cafes.

Sheffield appeared to be a rough industrial city and she started to carry a knife in her hand-bag. It was a sharp, pointed, kitchen ‘devil’ and if the police stopped her, she would claim it was to prepare food because she was homeless. She ‘worked’ Sheffield for several successful weeks and fortunately she was never stopped by the police but it was an incident with the knife that forced her to move on again. A client had refused to pay her so she stabbed his knee and ran.

Her travelling techniques of hiding in a lorry found her back in Manchester in late September. The autumnal weather was getting colder while the nights were getting longer and she was beginning to fear the onset of winter. Keeping warm was going to become an issue. The previous March she had nearly died of exposure clinging to a traffic bollard on the East-Lanc’s Road so she fully understood the dangers of exposure.

With these fears preoccupying her every waking moment she wondered how she was going to stay warm and yet look attractive enough to earn money.

The first area she settled into was the Trafford Road that ran past Salford docks. In the evenings, the street was bustling with seamen and working girls at it appeared to Beverly that here, surely, there was business enough for all. For the first few days, she made enough money to get by but eventually the age-old equation of Pimps trying to bully her into working for them caused her to grow weary and fearful. Some days later, after a couple of successful tricks she was travelling upstairs on the bus from Salford Docks into Manchester. It was raining and, because she was in funds, she had decided to indulge in the luxury of a bus. She was the only passenger travelling upstairs and simply gazing absently at the wet Manchester streets as the bus wound its way through the traffic. As was her usual tactic, she was sitting in the back seat to reduce the chances of being abused or assaulted from behind.

As the bus approached the city centre, two very effeminate queers boarded and even before they had climbed the stairs, Beverly had identified their lisping, sing-song accents. Careful not to attract attention she concentrated on the view from the window and then cursed silently as the pair chose to sit on the back seat as well. They were obviously planning their night out on the town and try as she might, she could not avoid overhearing their conversation.-

“Yes dear, and after that we’ll go to the New Union in Princess Street. We can meet the other two.”

The shorter ‘girl’ let a squeak of excitement escape her lips as she struggled to suppress her voice.

“Oh goody! It’s always a good night down there, especially on tranny nights.”

The unexpected mention of the word Tranny elicited a fricassee of curiosity from Beverly and she could not help but react by turning her head in slight surprise that they had so boldly talked about it in front of a stranger. The queers sensed Beverly’s reaction but they smirked then ignored her and carried on chattering. After all they were the only three people on the top deck of the bus and Beverly was obviously no threat.

“What’ choo wearing darling?” The second girl spoke quite openly in a deliberate attempt to shock the smallish girl even more.

“Ooh, I’ll likely be wearing my blue dress, can I borrow your bolero jacket?”

The second queer giggled softly and slapped his friend lightly on the arm.

“Oh, okay then. But look after it. No being sick this time. What time are Gloria and Elaine going?”

“They don’t get home until half six and Elaine has to wash the grime from under her nails.”

“Well if we get there by seven, we can grab the seat in the corner and hold it for them as well. The perverts can’t look up our skirts in the corner.”

“Yeah. I hope that dirty Walter isn’t there tonight.”

“Well if he is, there’ll be four of us and probably a couple more. Come on this is our stop.”

They disembarked and Beverly’s eyes followed them wistfully along the pavement until the bus was too far down the street. Silently she kept repeating the name ‘New Union’ and ‘Princess Street’ to herself until she had it firmly fixed in her memory.

A pub were transvestites seemingly went openly dressed, was something she desperately wanted to check out. After disembarking in the main bus station, she stopped to study an information map. It was a struggle to read and understand but eventually she managed to make some sense of the names. Princess Street was not very far so she memorised the route and set off to do a recce’ of the area.

When she found it she was disappointed. The pub stood on the corner of Princess Street and a dirty cobbled side-street called ‘Canal – something’. The second half of the street name had been broken off. The pub was closed and the exterior was a particularly depressing, shabby façade of decay, unpainted woodwork and pidgeon shit. Indeed it was so neglected that for a moment Beverly thought the building was abandoned until she noticed some flowers in one of the upper windows. It was hard to tell if the flowers were real or artificial because the windows were so grimy. The red curtains did not help either for it was hard to tell if they were clean or dirty; - cared for or neglected. There was nothing for it but to return in the evening and see if it was open.

After studying the building, her gaze turned upon the canal. It was obviously derelict and the lock gates had obviously not been operated for years. The facing boards were rotten or missing and the water trickled like a gutter from the upper level through the mud and detritus of the lock, into the lower section and under the bridge. All in all, it was pretty depressing site then to cap it all, it started to rain again.

Firstly, she tried finding shelter under the bridge that took Princess Street over the canal but it proved to be a wet, muddy, smelly location and she picked her way back up the slippery stone steps to street level. Remembering that Princess Street had been fairly devoid of shelter she trudged off up the street that ran parallel to the canal until she found a broken warehouse door that offered some hope of shelter. Cautiously, she stepped through the broken woodwork only to find a disgusting space with dead pigeons, accumulated filth and debris that most probably harboured rats.

Despite the filth, she concluded that ‘beggars couldn’t be choosers’ so she stood in a dry spot to await the rain’s passing. The derelict warehouse was far too filthy to sit anywhere.

Eventually her legs started to ache with standing but the rain had eased off so she returned to the pub. It was open and music was seeping out from somewhere within. Attracted by the mournful tune she had never heard it before and she listened to the song as the words ripped into her soul.

‘So darling – save the last dance for me.’

She stepped closer to the door and peered down the hall to catch a glimpse of two obvious transvestites clinched together as they rocked and swayed slowly to the rhythm of the song. Curiosity overcame her fear and she slid inside then ducked inconspicuously past the little serving hatch to reach the door of the back room where the ‘girls’ were dancing. There were three couples holding each other in their arms as the song pulsed out the slow emotional rhythm. Beverly envied them so much that her eyes started to tear up as the words tore at her heart once again.

‘So darling, save the last dance for me.’

‘Would anybody ever take her home after a last dance?’ She wondered; then concluded; ‘Only to fuck her, pay her and leave her.’

Then her thoughts were blown away as a hand gripped her shoulder.

“How old are you love?”

“Eighteen!” Beverly snapped back but her voice held no conviction as the barman asked again.

“When were you born?”

Being virtually illiterate and innumerate, Beverly could not do the maths quickly enough to lie convincingly and her stumbling hesitation was enough to convince the barman that she was under-aged.

“Sorry kid. I don’t believe you. Come on, out you go.”

“Ahh mister, please. Jus’ let me listen to the music.”

“You can do that from the street. Ye’r too young kid, come on, out you go.”

So saying, he took her arm and forcefully guided her out onto the street. Beverly was left in the rain wondering what to do next. Ignoring the rain, she stumbled tearfully across the cobbled street and leaned over the stone wall to stare at the derelict canal lock.

She was still weeping an hour later when a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Haven’t you got a coat love? You’ll die of pneumonia if you stay like that.”

She was about to tell the ‘voice’ to fuck off, when to her surprise the stranger took his coat off and placed it over her shoulders.

“Christ kid, you’re showing everything you’ve got. That dress is transparent in this rain.”

Beverly simply did not know how to respond to an unexpected act of kindness. She just turned and stared uncomprehendingly at the newcomer.

“Wha’ss-it to you?”

“What’s a kid like you doing out this late on a night like this?”

“Whadd’ya think?” She snapped back resentfully.

He peered intently into her tear-stained face.

“Are you on the game love?”

“Yeah! An’ it’ll cost you a fiver.”

He studied her and pursed his lips.

“What makes you so expensive.”

Beverly nodded towards the pub.

“I’m the same as those in there.”

“What! A tranny?”

“Yeah! - - - And?” She challenged forcefully despite the tense knot of fear in her guts.

“Good god love, why are you standing out here getting soaked?”

“They won’t let me in there, I’m too young.” She thumbed towards the New Union pub.

“Bloody hell. How old are you?”

“What’s it to you? I’m old enough to fuck.”

“And you think that makes you worth more than other girls?”

“The other girls told me so, and the other men pay it.”

“So you’ll do it for me.”

“Yeah, but you’ll have to pay for a room. I don’t have a place yet.”

“Neither do I. We could do it under there.” He pointed under the bridge.

Beverly wrinkled her nose as she contemplated the idea.

“It’s muddy down there. We’d have to do it doggy style with me leaning over the rail.”

“And how much is that?”

“It’s still five quid.”

“How much for a blow job? I don’t have a fiver on me.”

“How much ‘ave yer got?”

“I’m not giving you all I’ve got. I’ll pay you a quid.”

Beverly wasn’t actually short of money that night but a quid for a blow job was easy money. She decided not to haggle any further. A quick blow job and then that would be her sorted for the night. She was cold and wet so she wanted to get it over with. Carefully, she led him down the slippery steps then under the bridge. He half sat and half leaned against a protruding coping stone then undid his jeans. She was pleased to note that he was clean and already hard, so she took a Johnny from her bag and slipped it over his erection. The act was over in less than five minutes and he produced the pound note without any argument. As she stuffed it into her bag, he zipped up his jeans and grinned.

“That wasn’t bad love. Do you come here every night?”

“If you want me tomorrow night you’d better be prepared to pay me a fiver and have money for a room. I know of rooms down the old Trafford Road by the docks, if you’re not too proud we can meet down there.”

He stood thoughtfully.

“I’d prefer to do it around here, if you know of anywhere around here that lets out rooms by the hour or so.”

“I’ll check it out tomorrow but if there’s nothing around here, I know they let rooms in a place next to the Clowes pub on Trafford road. It’s a dockside pub.”

“I know where the Clowes is love, I know Trafford Road too bloody well. I wouldn’t feel very safe down there; it’s a rough area.”

“Of course it is, it’s the docks. Do I look like I could mug you?”

“No, but your pimp might.”

“Bloody ‘ell! I’ve just told you I’m a tranny ‘aven’t I? Trannies don’ usually have pimps, leastwise I don’. That’s why I can fix up a room for myself, but you’re gonna’ have to pay for it.”

He paused for a moment then nodded his head.

“Okay, I’ll be here tomorrow about eightish, then we can sort stuff out. I’m going into the Union now, what are you gonna’ do?”

“Go home.” She lied.

He wagged his head then asked.

“Does your mother know you’re on the game?”

“Ha! Mother? Fuck off, I don’ ave a mother!”

He stared at her uncertainly and meant to ask some more questions but she had already stalked away towards Sackville Gardens. From there she picked her way down some narrow alleys until she arrived behind Piccadilly station to sneak into her hidey-hole. Once hidden from view and settled onto the blankets she set to thinking.
She wasn’t sure if she could trust the guy but it would be worth checking the Union Pub out again. The morrow would require caution and preparation. At least she had money enough to have a wash at the local public baths followed by a breakfast.

She woke the next day feeling safe in her ‘hidey-hole’ and stayed curled up in the blankets for another hour or so before venturing out into the city. After the rain of the previous night, the city smelt fresher and she stopped at a workman’s café to fill up on a ‘full workman’s breakfast’.

‘What is was to have money!’ She gloated as she finished her meal with a large mug of sweet milky tea. Next she visited the public wash house and scrubbed up before emerging at eleven o’clock ready to prepare for her trick.

Chapter 10

It remained then to occupy her day until her eight ‘pm’ appointment with her trick. After checking her remaining money she shopped through the local market hall and bought the prettiest set of bra and knickers she could afford. Finally she bought a black cocktail dress for two shillings at a charity shop.

If she was going to spend time with him in a proper bed, it would only be fair to offer him a body that was least clean even if she couldn’t offer him a girl’s cunt. At least she knew he was already aware of her ‘boy-bits’ so she hoped he would have no issues in that direction. The proof of that would be if he turned up for the rendezvous at eight.

With her ‘shopping’ completed, she spent the remainder of the day just wandering around the city centre staying warm and dry in the large department stores and, invariably again, the large city museum.

Eventually after the public institutions closed, she made her way to Princes Street. With more time on her hands, she wandered around the neglected and abandoned warehouses that bordered the disused canal. Despite the rain holding off, her mood did not improve as she dwelt on how much the filth and decay seemed to reflect her life. Then, as night closed in, the unlit streets alongside the canal darkened and she drifted towards the brighter pavements of Princes Street.

After loitering as invisibly as she could, her mood brightened when she spotted him approaching down Princes street and she had to struggle to avoid rushing up to him while showing too much anticipation. Eventually, when he was close enough to notice the faintest expressions on her face, she cautiously exposed a hand and gave a hopeful little finger wave. His smile gave her hope as he spoke.

“Ah, good. You came then.”

“And you,” she replied. “Have you got the money?”

His smile faded slightly and she cursed her hasty stupidity after realising she had already reduced the second encounter to nothing more than a seedy, commercial transaction.

To try and remedy the damage, she extended nervous, hopeful arms in an endeavour to invite a hug but it was too long coming and already, the moment was lost. Instead he asked simply.

“Have you found a place?”

“Yes, I’m sorry it’s on Trafford Road, but that’s the only place I know for certain.”

“I suppose it’ll have to do then. Have you got your bus fare?”

She nodded dispiritedly before replying despondently, “yes.”

“Come on then. Let’s go.”

At the bus stop she shivered slightly and eventually, he put his arms around her. Grateful for the slightest hint of concern, she fiddled with his coat buttons then burrowed inside to savour the heat of his body through her flimsy 'LBD'. He did not reject her intimacy but instead remarked.

“Bloody hell, you are cold, aren’t you? Why didn’t you wear a coat?”

“I left it at my place.”

“Well shall we go back and get it?”

“The thought of him learning that she lived in a hole behind some bricks under a railway arch frightened her and she changed the subject.”

“Nah, let’s get to Trafford Road. I can get it when I come back. D’ you wanna’ sleep with me all night?”
“I cant. I’m on duty at midnight so we’ve only got a couple of hours.”

Her mood sagged slightly for if he left the place, she’d have to leave as well; and then she was back on the street. She wasn’t sure if the buses ran after midnight. When they boarded the bus, she was relieved to learn that the buses stopped at one a.m.

When they got to the ‘hotel’ she was relieved that no questions were asked and they quickly got down to business.

“This is nicer than the canal tow-path,” he allowed as they stripped.”

She disguised her feelings with a wan smile that she hoped reflected the image of a youthful young virgin. She was nothing of the sort of course, but at least her slender, youthful body lent itself partly to the idea. As she stepped out of her panties she sensed him studying her.

“How old are you?”

“Whass’it matter?”

“You’ve got almost no pubic hair and you’re skinny; like a kid.”

“Look, d’ yer wanna fuck me or not?”

He frowned then wagged his head before adding.

“Don’t you have any feelings. Most girls I’ve slept with at least make the effort.”

She whipped her bra off then stood stark naked to face him as she snarled angrily.

“Do I look like a fuckin’ girl? I thought you liked trannies!”

“Alright! Alright kid. No need to get so up-tight. I do like trannies! Believe me, I do. For guys like me, you’re a dream come true. I really fancy you.

“Yeah, well then let’s do it an’ gerr’it over with. Then you can go back to your precious shift work.”

“Honestly, kid. I’d love to stay the night but I wasn’t expecting your offer. I’ll try and sort something out tomorrow or the next night.”

“R’ you serious?” She hesitated, fearful of revealing her hopes. The very idea of sharing a bed for a whole night left her confused yet curious. “Do yer really wann’a sleep with me all night?”

He smiled then sat on the bed and patted the sheets to invite her. She plonked down beside him and leant down towards his erection. He restrained her briefly and grinned.

“Take your time love, I can’t spend all night cos my watch starts at midnight, but we’ve still got two hours, not two minutes.”

“Sorry love.” Beverly sat back and glanced up.” I thought you wanted it now. He obviously does!”

Then the realisation struck her and she stared at him.

“Did you just say tomorrow?”

His brows knitted with uncertainty.

“You are available tomorrow aren’t you?”

She stared at him for disbelievingly.

“I’m not a bloody doctor or something, you don’t need a fucking appointment! Of course we can do it tomorrow! Now which way d’ you want me tonight?”

“Shut up and bend over.” He grinned.

She produced a tube of cream from her bag and warned him. After preparing her own rectum she handed the tube to him.

“Use this then just be gentle and I’ll not squeal!”

Her endeavour to appear ‘seductive’ included an inviting smile that belied her real fear of being hurt; that fear made her repeat her plea.

“Remember what I said! Please be gentle.”

“Okay kid.” He reassured her.

Then she suddenly remembered.

“Ahh! Hold on a minute. Wasn’t there a lav’ at the top of the stairs.”

“Yeah. So what?”

“Can you go and see if there’s any toilet tissues to clean up after?”

He grinned, refastened his trousers and nipped down the corridor to the lavatory. Moments later he returned with a roughly re-wound roll of tissues.

“This’ll be plenty.”

By the time he returned she was naked under the sheet and he grinned appreciatively.

“Which side d’ you lie on?”

She wondered what he meant for a moment then realised he intended to spoon her. She had not been spooned since escaping secure unit and she was nervous for a moment.

“If you want to do it that way, you’ve gorra’ promise to be gentle.”

“I’ve already said I will haven’t I? D’ you wanna’ lube my cock so that you know it’s been done?”

She smiled nervously before producing a ‘Johnny’ and sliding it over his cock. Next she squeezed more gel from the tube to make sure he was slippery then accepted his promise as she turned on her side with her face to the wall.

“Okay then, take it slow though, you said we’ve got a couple of hours.”

She felt the bed sag as he slid behind her then his hand snaked around her waist.

Nervously she reached up and gripped the iron bed post in preparation for the penetration. His cock probed eagerly and she twitched when it reached her arse. This caused him to pause.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just take it slowly.”

True to his word, he was gentle and she sighed with relief as she felt the slow invasion of her body.

“Thanks for that.” She gasped.

“You’ll be okay kid; I said I’ll be gentle.”

As promised, he probed gently and she carefully worked her relaxed rectum onto his slippery glans. To her surprise and relief, there was little pain as he slowly slid into her innermost part until she felt his cock pressed against her prostate gland. She released a quiet whimper of pleasure and rotated her arse to increase the sensations of his hardness thrusting against her growing arousal.

Her actions must have served to increase his arousal and his thrusting gave her no small degree of pleasure as she felt her prostate being repeatedly pressed then released. To her surprise she felt something disturbingly nice as she found herself responding in kind but then his excitement increased and she felt her rectum beginning to hurt.

“Ow! Go easy, it’s beginning to hurt.”

He eased off momentarily but then his orgasm erupted and she briefly felt some pain that spoiled the whole experience for her. After he slipped out of her she just lay there disappointed because she had not achieved her hoped for climax. Less than an hour later he stated he had to return to work to commence his watch. After agreeing to meet the following evening, she took a bus and returned to her hidey-hole behind Piccadilly Station.

The only satisfaction she got was the payment.

Over the following few days they saw each other every evening then on the Friday evening he dropped his bombshell.

Chapter 11.

“I won’t be here tomorrow night love.”

Beverly just stared uncomprehendingly until he elaborated further.

“My ship is probably sailing tomorrow night.”

Beverly was confused.

“I thought you said you were an engineer or summat.”

“I am. I’m a marine engineer.”

“What’s that.”

“You know. An engineer. I operate and maintain the ship’s engines.”

Now it began to dawn on her what he meant. He had not lied; it was simply that she had never heard of a marine engineer. It all began to make sense as he explained further and she finally understood.”

“So your ship is sailing.”

"Yes."

“Where to?”

“America. The eastern seaboard and the great lakes.”

She had no idea what – ‘the eastern seaboard’ meant and her vacant look told him everything.

“You know, the ports on the east coast of the USA, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, Boston then up to Canada and into the great lakes.”

“New York?” She asked, bedazzled by the name and the idea of going to such a famous place.

“Yes, we do the same trip every voyage but we don’t always go the same ports, sometimes we might miss a port and sometimes we go somewhere different. But mostly, we go to the same ports every voyage.”

She fell into a contemplative silence as she wondered if he might return.

“Will you be coming back then?”

“Yes, that’s what we do; the same ports every trip. It takes about three months or so in the summer and four months in the winter because of storms and ice on the lakes.”

“So I might see you again in January or February.”

“Depending on the weather, yes; possibly February or more probably March.”

A tear tried to glisten in her eye but she quickly steeled her mood. Emotion was an alien element that she had long ago learned to supress. Regret was something she had long ago learned to handle and push aside; but resentment was an abiding river of acid that had become the be all and end all of whatever life force flowed through her being. Her despair quickly turned to a suppressed anger as she dealt with her disappointment.

“I suppose you’d better go then. I’ll see you when I see you – if I’m still around.”

He failed apparently to sense her mood and simply arose from the bed, got dressed, then with a simple ‘goodbye’ walked away into the night. He hadn’t even kissed her goodnight.
Of one thing she was certain however, she still had a hotel room with a warm bed for the night and she was not going to waste that.

The following morning she returned to her hidey-hole under Piccadilly Station and tried to take stock of her situation. She decided to stay in Manchester for want of a better location.
Big cities had their risks but the pickings were better and food was easier to find. The wet evening found her once more outside the New Union pub at the bridge of Princes street and Canal street.

The light outside the pub illuminated the area well and she could see far enough to avoid any approaching police. She was sheltering in the doorway of the derelict warehouse next to the pub when she was surprised to spot him emerge from canal towpath under the bridge. He hesitated then started looking around.

At first she was suspicious and stayed immersed in the deep shadow but when he eventually stopped searching she began to wonder why he was back. When he turned to enter the pub she realised she might lose him so she nervously stepped from the shadow and placed herself in a position to run if anything risky or dangerous arose.

“I thought you were going to America!” She accused.

He turned with surprise then smiled hopefully.

“Something came up. The ship has been chartered to carry some special heavy lifts to Philadelphia and we have to prepare the holds in Manchester before going to Liverpool to use their heavy floating crane. We’re going to be a couple of days preparing the holds to receive the lifts by lining the hold with heavy timber and welding lugs to secure the transformers.”

This was gobbledygook to her and what she didn’t understand, she didn’t trust.

“So, you’re going to be here for a couple of more nights?” She observed hopefully.

“At least two. It’s the weekend so I don’t know how the riggers work over the weekend.”

“Are you going into the pub now then? I can come back at closing time if you want.”

“Is that an offer?”

“Of course i’r-is. It’s war’ I do inn ‘it.”

“Let’s do it at the hotel again. Better you than a bottle of booze.”

His back-handed compliment left her somewhat angry as he rated her little higher than a cheap beer but hurt-pride was the last thing on her long list of daily wounds.

They made their way to the same hotel and events pretty much followed the same course except he had arranged with his shipmates to get the whole night in the hotel. Beverly was pleased and relieved to find herself sharing their bed until six o’clock when he promptly left for his ship. She lay abed until nine when she had to evacuate the room.

The following night, by arrangement she met him again outside the Union pub. This time she approached him immediately on seeing him appear.

“Hiya, are you okay for tonight?”

“Hiya Bev, listen would you be interested in a job?”

“A job?”

“Yeah; a job. You know, where you work and they pay you money.”

“I know wharra’ job is! I’m not thick.”

“Well d’ you wann’it?”

“What do I ‘ave to do?”

“The galley boy on my ship has had to pay off. Somebody in his family died and he wants to go to the funeral. The ship’s sailing tomorrow and they need a new galley-boy urgently.”

Beverly had spent enough time with him to have learned a bit about seamen and ships. She knew that a seaman had to have papers because she had seen him produce his red I.D., book when they booked into the hotel. She had nothing and he inquired.

I thought you’d jump at the chance.”

I don’ ave no papers.

“We can sort that out in Liverpool.”

The deal sounded fishy but she was already living an illegal life on the run so, ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ she concluded.

“How do I get to Liverpool?”

“My ship is returning back down the Ship Canal to Liverpool. I’ll sneak you aboard tomorrow night and you can hide in my cabin until we get to Liverpool. The ship’s going to be there for a few days and I can sort your papers while we’re there.”

“You’re sure now. Will the papers be okay?”

“Yes. They’ll be issued from the federation itself. The shipping-master will be organising it for me. He owes me some favours.”

“Like what?”

“He likes young boys like you.”

“Huh! I knew it. I have to put out for him.”

“Only a couple of nights in Liverpool until the ship sails. Then you’ll be on your own.”

She reflected that she had been ‘On her own’ since being removed from Walton and even before that. As far as she was concerned, nobody at the hospital or the secure unit had ever looked after her like a mum or dad might have. She had nothing to lose. 'On her own', had been the watchword for her whole short life!

Four days later, on a typically wet autumn evening in Manchester he led her casually through the dock gates after simply declaring the name of the ship to the dock police guard. Ten minutes later she was ensconced in his cabin and a few hours later, she felt the engines rumble into life. The following morning they docked in Liverpool and she was taken to the shipping federation offices by his new found friend plus the chief steward and the cook.

By the early afternoon she was a fully accredited galley boy, qualified to scrub pans, clean galleys and peel potatoes.

The following morning she was signed on in the ships saloon as the official galley-boy. For the first time since escaping borstal she felt safe, or at least, safer. She had little time to reflect on her situation however for immediately after signing the ships articles of engagement, she was working in the galley.

The ship was to be three days loading the heavy lifts because each large electrical component had to be delivered by road to the heavy-lift floating crane. The floating crane then carried the machinery across the dock and lifted it into the ship. Beverly had a brief break during the second afternoon to watch the process before returning to preparations for the evening meal.

After her day was finished at six o’clock, her time was supposed to be her own but she had favours to repay the shipping master. She was taken ashore by several of the crew who had taken her to be registered then once ashore; she found herself in a terraced house in Wavertree along with several other shipmates who were introduced to her. Here she learned about the paedophile ring on the ship and her new part in it.

To those who would judge her in later days she could only tell them this.

It was much better living aboard ship as the ‘plaything’ to a group of caring paedophiles than to be locked up in a secure government unit as a brutalised sex slave with no rights at all. At least her new-found shipmates did not condemn her for her transvestite ways nor did they force their attentions upon her.

There was a loose roster amongst the circle but all importantly, she could say no if she was not ready to be penetrated because of injury, tiredness or even just her mood.

For Beverly, entry into that circle of friends was the best thing to have happened to her in her fourteen short years of life. By her immeasurably low standards, she felt appreciated, loved and valued.

In late October, on a cold wet night, she bid farewell to Liverpool as her ship dropped off the pilot at the Mersey River Bar and set course for the United States.
To her immense delight, she discovered that she did not get seasick when the first of several North Atlantic storms met the ship. Each day after her morning shift was finished, she could stand in the outside working alleyway and watch the white streaked mountainous seas sweep by the ship as she reared and plunged amongst the waves. Her whole world had changed and she struggled to encompass its dimension.

Several times a more senior crewmember ‘usually an officer’. would approach her as she stared, fascinated by the huge rolling waves and watching the storm petrels.

“Not getting the call of the deep are you lad?”

“What’s that sir?” She would reply.

“Staring into the sea and then becoming mezmerised. Some have been known to jump overboard.”

“Not me sir, I just wonder about the waves sir; how they get so big.”

“It’s called the ‘fetch’ lad. The further and harder a wave is pushed along by the wind, the bigger and bigger it can get.”

“Can they really grow to a hundred feet sir?”

“I’ve never seen one lad, but one was officially recorded by the Queen Elizabeth off Iceland during the war. It smashed her bridge windows in and they were ninety feet above the waterline. You make sure you don’t get chilled lad; singlets are okay for the galley but out here it’s warm coats that’re needed.”

“Yes sir.”

It was at sea that she first met with genuinely fatherly concern, kindness even. She had little to do with the ‘deck’ department for they seemed a close-knit bunch as they occasionally faced the elements to secure some item or solve a problem like tightening lashings or securing hatch lids. The only time she normally interreacted with them was when she served up the food to the deck boy (peggy) at the galley door.
Once when the weather was particularly stormy and the crew had rigged safety lines, she volunteered to help the peggy carry the food along the after-deck to speed up the job and keep the food warm. Just before she reached the shelter of the after-castle, a heavy, freezing cats-paw reared up and saturated her as she struggled along the pitching rolling deck. The older seamen laughed uproariously as she arrived resembling a drowned, shivering rat but still clutching the precious hot food.

“Well done kid!” They unanimously applauded her as her shocked almost tearful expression turned to a grateful smile.

“Here lad, have a hot mug of tea before you start back and here lad, you can borrow this oil-skin.”

When she returned to the galley both second cook and Chief cook also applauded her.

“Well done kiddo. The peggy’ ll be grateful for that. Now go and eat your own while it’s hot then back here to clean up.”

Thus the voyage passed, her learning much about the sea and seafaring by day and frequently sharing a bed by night as the paedophiles waited their turns and behaved gently towards her. It was a far, far cry from the brutality of the secure unit or the fleeting urgency of the streets.

After serving whosoever’s bed she was sharing, she could spoon into that crewman and watch through the port-hole as the dark waves swept by until she was roused to go on duty at five the next morning.

Three weeks later the ship arrived at the Delaware river and she innocently asked the second cook;

“Where’s the statue of liberty boss?”

Both the chief cook and second cook let out affectionate chuckles before explaining.

“That’s in New York boy not bloody Philadelphia. We’re going there next. Don’t worry you’ll see it when we pass it. If you want to see something special here, go and look at the Liberty Bell. The ships’ not working cargo on Sunday, take a bus to the city centre.”

“What’s the liberty bell?”

“Geeze son, you’re full of questions. Go and visit it tomorrow to find out. Oh; and a word of advice, don’t make fun of it. The Yanks take their history seriously.”

And she did. The first ever run ashore in the USA and the first of many that were to follow.

After four days, the ship had completed discharging the large generators and transformers that were destined for some dam up-country; then, on a chilly afternoon, they departed the Delaware river bound for New York.

She was sleeping soundly in the arms of the chief steward when a knock at three a.m., caused her to stir with fear until the knocker identified himself as the engineer in the paedophile-ring.

“Who is it?” The chief steward whispered hoarsely.

“Didn’t Bev say she wanted to see the statue of liberty?”

“Ooh yes, are we there?” She yawned as she slid out of the stewards arms.

“Look outside the porthole, we’re passing it.”

Beverly sat up and kneeled to peer through the port hole. It was a disappointing sight for the floodlights had been extinguished and all she could make out was the outline of the statue. Nevertheless, she had seen the statue of liberty and a visceral thrill pulsed through her core. Unable to contain her excitement she slumped over the slightly irritated chief steward and gave him a hug before spooning back into his embrace. The chief steward squeezed her back and chuckled.

“You’re easily pleased aren’t you lad?”

“It’s my first time.” She replied.

The steward sighed and chuckled again.

“Ah-ye, I suppose it’s all new to you.”

Beverly didn’t reply but squeezed tighter to the steward to catch maybe another hour’s sleep before she had to leave the steward’s bed and slip back undetected to her own.

All that day, she had to work hard as the ship loaded stores, mostly meat, that was cheaper in America than England. At the end of the day, she was too tired to go ashore and simply slumped onto her bunk and slept the night through.

It was the following night that she finally got a chance to go ashore but the ship was moored a long way from Manhattan and she was disappointed to end up in a rough neighbourhood comprising warehouses and railway yards quite close to Newark New Jersey. She only found this out after being told that the airport close to the ships berth was not New York airport but Newark airport.

The only thing she learned on that first voyage was that New York was a huge place and from her ship she could barely make out the Manhattan skyline. It was a disappointed kid who finally left New York for Boston.

In Boston she realised that it was getting seriously cold and she was forced to buy a warm set of winter clothing and boots. This decision was to prove well justified when the ship arrived in Halifax Nova Scotia and the Canadian fall was showing the chilly promise of Canada’s winter. After discharging cargo in Halifax, the word came down the line that the voyage up the lakes was to be a shortened one. The chief cook explained to Beverly as she ruefully inspected a bucket of peeled potatoes that had frozen overnight.

“That’s why they’re missing out Chicago lad. The lakes will be closed due to ice before the end of December. We’ve only got a couple of weeks to get in and get out.”

The cook’s words were confirmed the next morning as the ship passed Anticosti. They were only to visit Montreal, Detroit and Toronto. Chicago was out, not enough time before the Ice deadline.

For Beverly this meant little. Apart from the occasional shore visits, her life had settled down to the routine of the galley by day and the rostered visits to the paedophiles by night. Missing out Chicago however, meant that the scheduled cargo from Chicago was being re-routed to Baltimore by rail.

November and December on the lakes lived up to their reputations and Beverly was glad to be departing Lake Erie and Lake Ontario as the ice literally pursued the ship back down the St Lawrence.

The trip up the great lakes had been the most intense geography lesson Beverly had ever had and in Toronto, she had actually bought a map. She taped it to the bulkhead beside her bunk and after studying it whenever she got the chance, she slowly managed to discern each destination. Beverly was functionally illiterate and only by dint of carefully disassembling the letters did she manage to eventually identify each place she had arrived at.

During the following Sunday morning cabin inspection, the captain eyed the map and turned to her as she stood in the corridor.

“Well at least it’s a change from the usual playboy centrefolds boy.”

It was the first time she could remember the captain ever speaking to her and she just nodded then mumbled a barely coherent ‘yes-sir’ as the inspection team moved on to the next cabin.

The remainder of the voyage involved loading cargo to take back to Britain with return visits to Halifax, St John’s Newfoundland, Boston, New York and finally Baltimore where they loaded a consignment of bulk peas in the ship’s deep tanks. This was the cargo they should have loaded in Chicago.
With the last consignment secured the ship set sail from Baltimore on a bitterly cold night in Late February. Beverly’s last view of America for that voyage was watching the pilot disembark and disappearing into the darkness. By prearrangement she sneaked to the third engineer’s cabin and tapped gently on the door. He was showering so she sat on his settee and then noticed the number on the Calendar. It was her birthday; she was legally fifteen.

Naturally, she said nothing and sat waiting until he emerged from his shower.

“I’m on watch again at midnight so you can’t stay all night.” He explained.

Beverly fully understood the watch system by then and shrugged agreeably.
“No matter. Just a quickie then.”

A brief cuddle followed by anal penetration was finished off with a can of beer before she dressed again and left for her own cabin. Once in her own bunk she soon settled down for the return voyage home to Liverpool; some fifteen to twenty days or perhaps even more, depending on the atrocious North Atlantic storms.

Chapter 12

Two days out of Baltimore the ship received a serious storm warning. This in itself was quite normal for winter on the North Atlantic but the captain arranged for the Chief mate and Second mate to double check the ship at the change of watches at four am. After having checked around with the Bosun and the Carpenter the four men were de-briefing in the main cross-alleyway just as Beverly came creeping out of the chief steward’s cabin. She walked straight into them and stopped suddenly with surprise..

The chief mate stared at him and frowned.

“What’re you doing here boy? You should be in bed at this time.”

Completely at a loss for an explanation, Beverly mumbled nervously.

“Yes-sir. I’m going now.”

“Have you just come from the chief steward’s cabin boy?”

There could be no denying it. It was a blind alley and only the chief steward’s cabin lay off it.

Beverly nodded dumbly as the mate pointedly looked at his watch.

“It’s four o’ bloody clock boy! Has he been fucking you!”

Again, she stood silent as the mate wagged his head.

“I haven’t got time to sort this out now you filthy little sod! Go to your cabin and we’ll sort this out with the old man in the morning. Ten o’clock, outside the captain’s office.”

Puzzled and frightened, Beverly returned to her cabin and slumped on the bed. In truth she had little idea that letting herself be fucked by older men was actually a criminal offence. After all, ever since she had been transferred from Walton Psychiatric Hospital, her life in the secure unit, on the streets and on the ship had been one constant saga of sex with men whether forced or voluntary. In truth, the ‘boy’ / ‘girl’ had little or no idea of right or wrong when it came to sleeping with anybody.

She knew stealing was wrong because she had been beaten unmercifully in the secure unit; and she knew lying was wrong because she had been punished for that as well, but this was the first time that somebody had censured her for having sex. In the secure unit it was the authorities who had made her perform sexually. Then, on the streets, plenty of punters had used her without ever having censured her. Now; suddenly, she was made to feel she was public enemy number one. Confusion; allied with fear kept her awake.

In the morning, the ship was on slow speed as the storm intensified and the following seas caused her to pitch and yaw uncomfortably. Working in the galley proved difficult and dangerous as hot water continually slopped out of the pans onto the deck. The chief cook had to stop her from stepping too close to the stove without anticipating the ship’s roll.

“Keep your wits about you lad or you’ll get scalded. Pay attention.”

At ten o’clock, she reported as ordered, to the captain’s office and waited nervously until the captain’s steward appeared.

“What are you standing there for?

“The chief mate told me to report.”

“Well report then. Knock on the door.”

The captain’s steward walked away shaking his head as Beverly knocked timidly on the door.

“Come in!” Answered the captain and Beverly stepped inside.

The captain turned in his chair and stared hard at her.

“So boy! What’s been going on, come on – chapter and verse from when you joined the ship.”

For long terrified moments Beverly stood silent as she gathered her thoughts but her nerves failed her and a tear escaped her eye. She made an effort to try and wipe it by pretending she had something in her eye but it was a total failure.

“Well boy. You’d better tell me.”

She knew she had been caught ‘bang-to-rights’ and reluctantly she started to talk. The captain just stared hard at her as she stumbled and hesitated but eventually she described what had been happening. When she thought she had told everything the captain turned to her and looked her up and down before demanding.

“I want their names! All of them!”

She swallowed fearfully before eventually admitting all the names of her friends. Then, finally, she almost slumped against the long table and the captain must have decided he would get little more from the boy. He stood up and stared out of his cabin window before finally turning to her.

“This is bloody serious boy! I’m going to have to separate you from those bloody queers. Go back to work, while I talk to the chief mate.”

Beverly returned to the galley to resume work and later that afternoon she was told her fate.

“I’m going to make you sleep in the ships hospital for the remainder of the voyage and I am moving you across from the catering department to the deck department. The deck boy will have to swap positions with you until we get back to Liverpool. That way you will be safe from the catering staff and third engineer and we can keep an eye on you in the hospital. Now go and move your stuff to the hospital.

That night Beverly slept in the hospital and the following morning she turned up outside the Bosun’s cabin to report for duty on deck. For the remainder of the voyage she jumped to attention every time the bosun spoke to her before she hurried to carry out the job. After a week one of the senior able-seamen was jokingly describing Beverly’s behaviour to the bosun.

“He’s like a bloody Australian jumping spider, Bos’. When you tell him to do something he almost jumps to attention. The poor little bastard must be terrified.”

“He’s got every reason to be afraid,” the Bosun replied. “But you’re right about one thing, he does as he’s told, and quickly; no questions asked.”

“He catches on quickly too.” The lamp-trimmer added.

The next morning as she was clearing the crew’s breakfasts away and cleaning the mess tables, the Bosun called him into the duty roster group.

“Right Spider, when you’ve cleared away in the mess, come and meet me in the forecastle and we’ll get you doing some sudjieing.”

Beverly frowned uncertainly.

“What’s sudjieing Bos’”

This raised some laughter amongst the deck crew but the Bosun ignored that laughter as he explained simply.

“Washing down the paintwork lad. You’ll be doing it a couple of times before we arrive back in Liverpool.

“Yes Bosun. Okay.”

After cleaning the crews mess and accommodation, she presented herself on deck and promptly joined the rest of the deck-hands washing salt and funnel smuts off the white upper-works. Several times she noticed the captain glancing at her and she nervously doubled her efforts.
This routine of cleaning the after crew accommodation, occasional painting when weather permitted, washing paintwork, scrubbing the upper teak passenger deck and sometimes polishing the bridge brass continued until the ship arrived in Liverpool in mid-March. As the morning of docking drew near, she became more and more fearful.

In the early morning, as the ship entered the River Mersey she actually contemplated jumping over the side and swimming for the New-Brighton shore. As she stared thoughtfully at the shore, the Bosun must have read her mind for he cautioned her.

“Don’t try it Spider, the tides will get you before you’ve gone twenty yards.”

“What’re they goin’ to do to me Bos’.”

“I dunno’ Spider. They can’t shoot you though can they?”

Secretly, Beverly thought she ‘d be better off if they did. As she saw it, the authorities would send her back to the secure unit and she’d probably end up dead. She actually seriously contemplated killing herself if they did send her back. It was the not knowing that wore her down.

Chapter 13

For two hours, the ship manoeuvred through several docks before berthing at Hornby Dock and at ten a.m., the ship was finally secure. Next came the signing off and as she stood nervously in the pay-off queue the second mate approached her.

“You’ve got to see the captain before you collect your wages.”

“What for second?”

“What d’ you think? The rest of the crew will be a couple of hours signing off so you might as well re-join the Bosun and open the hatches. Didn’t you say you wanted to work on up to Manchester?”

“Yes.” She confirmed hesitantly.

“You’ll be lucky. They’ll most likely sack you.”

“Oh shit!” She mumbled softly to herself.

It was nothing less than what she had expected but hearing the second-mate re-iterating it made it worse. Things were going from bad to worse. Once again, she thought about deserting the ship there and then but she had too much pay owing to her. Survival was all about money – and food.

After changing back into her working clothes, she re-joined the Bosun who promptly assigned her to opening the hatch-lids and assist with topping some after derricks. She completed this task quickly so he set her to recoiling the derrick wires and this got her covered in grease. The crew had only just oiled and greased them the previous day ready for cargo working on arrival. She was busy with the wires when the chief officer called from the end of the boat deck.

“Send the boy up Bosun! They’re ready for him now.”

The Bosun turned to Beverly and shrugged.

“Off you go Spider and good luck. Wash your hands first but don’t keep the old man waiting.”

With a heavy heart, she quickly washed her hands as best she could then climbed up to the captain’s cabin. At the captain’s door she was met by the captain’s steward.

“He’s not here, he’s still down in the main saloon.”

Already late she hurried down to the main saloon and tapped the door.

“Come in!”

She entered then stopped short with fear. Arranged along the far side of the saloon table sat a row of seven men and a woman all facing her. Her heart missed a beat and her stomach knotted with fear as she recognised her nemesis from the approved school, namely Fatty Gardiner and Governor Davies. It was just like the court-martials she had seen on films.

Before she even had a chance to compose herself the captain spoke firmly.

“Right boy. From the beginning when you first joined the ship! Everything.”

It took her long seconds before she finally found her voice and the nerve to mumble hesitantly.

The man in the suite sitting next to the captain interrupted her.

“Speak clearly and slowly boy.”

Beverly nodded once then took a deep breath and started again.

“I, - I joined the ship in October Sir and-.”

“He’s lying captain!”

Beverly’s heart missed another beat and she almost sagged to her knees with fright. Already, she was being accused of lying and she'd hardly opened her mouth!

The Captain raised a hand however then turned to Fatty Gardiner.

“Did you say lying Mr Gardiner? How so?”

“He absconded from the school in June Captain, so he must have joined your ship then.”

The captain frowned thoughtfully then turned to Beverly.

“Well boy. Did you join the ship in June?”

As always, when forced to answer a question that might incriminate her, Beverly mumbled –

“Dunno sir.”

“What d’ you mean you don’t know?”

Caught seemingly between a rock and a hard place she became paralysed with fear. It was lethal to contradict a staff member from the approved school and she was convinced that was where she was returning to. When she got there, she was pretty much certain she’d never get out again – alive. The captain became a little impatient.

“Well boy, speak up! When did you join the ship?”

Convinced she was heading back to Birkdale, there was nothing to it but to tell the truth as she remembered it. She glanced with Terror at Fatty Gardiner as she prepared to contradict him.

“October sir, late October.”

Fatty Gardiner drew breath and glared as he prepared to repeat his charge that the boy was lying. However the Captain duly interrupted him before he could speak.

“Mr Gardiner, and Governor Davies; let me make it clear that; if this boy joined my ship in June of Last year, then he must have swum across the Atlantic, or flown over it.

From July to September of Last year, this ship was in New-York, Boston, Halifax, St Johns Newfoundland, Montreal, Toronto and Chicago. So let me make it quite clear that the boy has not lied- at least, not yet. Furthermore, I can tell you that I signed this boy on as the galley boy here at this very table, into this book,
(-he opened the articles of engagement – and turned to the commensurate page) on October the twentieth of last year.

Here is the boy’s signature, though I must confess it looks a bit spidery and I can again assure you that I witnessed it.

Now Mr Gardiner, let me affirm here and now, that the boy is not lying. He did sign on in October, so might I respectfully ask you not to interrupt the boy’s narrative any further.”

As Fatty Gardiner turned red with embarrassment or rage (Beverly knew not which,) the captain turned to Beverly.
“There’s no need to be frightened boy, just tell the truth. – Now again, from the beginning, when you joined this ship in October.”

Once again for long moments, Beverly stood dumbly as she tried to make sense of things.

“Had the captain just stood up for her? Had somebody actually believed her? Or was there a bigger trap being set; a deeper pit for her to stumble into.”

With her mind in turmoil she struggled to contain her tears until the lady at the end of the table interrupted.

“I think gentlemen, the boy needs a break to compose himself. He looks very distressed.”

The man in the suite, next to the captain nodded agreement and called a halt.

“I think the doctor is right Captain. A few minutes break perhaps. Doctor, would you?”

He motioned for the doctor to escort Beverly out of the room and she duly did so.
Outside, she asked several questions but the only information Beverly volunteered was that she was waiting for the anticipated pit or trap to swallow her up.

After a tearful interlude with the doctor, Beverly returned marginally more composed but still with slightly red-rimmed eyes. The majority of the panel were studying her with slightly concerned puzzlement except for Fatty Gardiner who seemed to be staring at her with pure poison in his eyes.

From that moment, she avoided even looking at the warden and pointedly swept her gaze past the bully every time she had to answer a question from the doctor.
That was the sum of her endeavours to ‘fight back’ and defend herself as she saw it.
The captain resumed the inquiry with a simple sentence.

“Right boy, from the beginning when you joined the ship in October, everything mind!”

Haltingly she described everything she could remember and answered their questions as truthfully as she could. How she acquired her seaman’s books whilst under-age, how she travelled on the ship from Manchester down the ship-canal, she didn’t know much about the illegal devices to obtain her books, she simply did as she was told and the books were eventually presented to her. She reluctantly described what she had been doing in the men’s cabins and became very distressed when she was told to reveal their names.

Eventually, as lunchtime approached, she was released for her food and told to go to the petty officer’s mess to eat. The crew had all paid off so she had no functions in that quarter. She grabbed the opportunity to take a shower and change her clothes before eating and eventually she took a seat opposite the bosun and the carpenter. The bosun could see how nervous she was and spoke to try and reassure her.

“How did it go Spider?”

“Dunno Bos’, they didn’t say much.

“What did that Gardiner guy say?”

“They sort of told him not to interrupt after he called me a liar and I wasn’t.”

“How was that sorted?”

“The captain got the big book out from when I signed on.”

“Oh the articles of engagement. Go on, what else?”

Beverly described what she could and the bosun nodded as he chewed his food. Then as she was finishing her pudding, the messroom phone rang. The carpenter picked it up then spoke to Beverly.

“They want you back in the saloon at two.”

Beverly sagged with despair as she wondered what more they wanted to know. She had already betrayed the other crewmen by revealing their names.

“What more could they possibly want?” She asked herself.

At two o’clock she presented herself before the panel again and prepared for the axe to fall. Instead, there were more questions.

“Right boy, the inquiry wants to know what you were doing and where you were between June and October last year.” The man in the suit asked.

“I was on the streets sir.” She replied with an innocence born of ignorance.

“How did you survive boy, where did you eat, where did you sleep?” The Police superintendent pressed.

“Begging sir, begging, and sleeping in dry places.”

“And?”

“I don’ understand sir.”

“So how did you meet the engineer and why did he get you a job on the ship.”

“The truth now boy,” the captain cautioned him; “it’ll go better for you if you tell the truth.”

Beverly reluctantly elaborated for by now she was learning that what she had been doing was illegal. Incredibly, because of her brutal experiences at the hands of the wardens in Borstal, she had no idea that engaging in sex of any kind under sixteen was illegal. And homosexual sex was an even more heinous crime.

As the truth slowly emerged she could sense a change of mood but she could not decide where it was going. Eventually she revealed everything, the stealing, the prostitution, the lies and the wandering from city to city. Finally she sagged wearily and took hold of the chair-back to steady herself.

As it became obvious she had finished, the captain wagged his head and stared at her.

“You’d better wait outside boy; we need to discuss this more.”

Yet again she found herself standing nervously outside the main saloon door trying to make out the discussions within. As she was trying to listen at the door, the bosun appeared and caught her bang to rights. She turned with alarm as he appeared in the corridor and saw her.

“Oy! Spider. Eavesdroppers rarely hear good of themselves. Stand aside, they’ve asked me about you.”

She stepped back and said nothing for she knew her goose was well cooked.
Resigned to whatever fate awaited her, she stood well away from the saloon door and tried to imagine life back on the streets. There was no way she was going back to the unit or anywhere else. She’d definitely kill herself first.

To her alarm, even though she was now well back from the door she could hear the meeting getting noisier. The inaudible murmuring had now developed into a furious argument between the Bosun and Fatty Gardiner. Eventually she heard the captain call for order and after peace had returned, the bosun emerged looking angry. He spoke to Beverly.

“I’m going to get Mr Roberts Spider. We’ll sort this out here and bloody now.”

Once more Beverly was left on tenterhooks as her fears mounted. It was not for long however as the bosun reappeared with the chief mate who turned to speak to her.

“Good god lad, you’ve kicked up a hell of a storm. They want to speak to me now.”

Before Beverly could ask ‘what about’, the chief mate entered with the bosun and once again she was left alone to stew in her own cauldron mounting fear.

As with the bosun, the inaudible murmuring escalated to another exchange between the chief mate and Fatty Gardiner before the captain quickly brought calm again. There followed a longish bout of murmuring and eventually the chief mate emerged.

“You’re to go in Spider, I – good god lad! You’ve wet yourself!”

The chief mate turned to explain to the panel that the boy had wet himself with fear then he spoke to the bosun.

“Take him down to change Bos’ the little sod is terrified!”

The bosun escorted Beverly to her cabin and eventually after showering her lower regions, Beverly emerged with a clean shirt, clean but un-pressed jeans and her best ‘going-ashore’ shoes.

“That’s better Spider. Pity they weren’t pressed but at least they’re clean.”

“Did they say what they’re going to do to me Bos’?” Beverly risked asking.

“I don’t know for certain spider, just wait and see lad. Try not to worry.”

It was a forlorn suggestion. All Beverly could do, was worry!

They returned to the saloon to the sound of seemingly normal conversation and the chink of china cups. The door was open so the bosun knocked and put his head around to be ushered in with the boy. Beverly followed the bosun in to then stand hesitantly on the same spot as the bosun closed the door behind her. This time the man in the suite spoke first.

“Right young man, may I call you Spider? Everybody else in the crew seems to call you that.”

Beverly’s brow furrowed with uncertainty as she tried to work out the suit’s ploy. She could not recognise any trap so she nodded hesitantly then mumbled, “Yes-sir.”

“Very well then Spider. I want to know before you went to Borstal, where you went to court.”

The question flummoxed her. Any question she did not understand or had no ready answer for, immediately set her on edge. After a painfully long pause she confessed.

“Dunno’ what you mean sir.”

The judge readily recognised the boy’s confusion and fearful uncertainty so he tried another tack.

“I wouldn’t have been a jury with a judge in a wig and gown. It would have more probably have been just one or two, or possibly three people in suits asking you questions. Some of them might have been doctors.”

“There were lots of doctors and lots of panels. They all wore suits or white coats. Maybe some were judges sir, I dunno.”

“This would not have been in the hospital Spider; you would have met the judge in the court or some such similar place.”

“Don’t remember any court sir. Just the hospital, it was always in the hospital, and then Birkdale. I don’t remember anywhere else.”

“I see. Governor Davies tells us you were put there because your kept wearing girls cloths.”

Sometimes, in the hospital sir; if they allowed me. In the borstal they always made me wear regulation boys clothes – unless – unless.” She fell silent.

“Unless what spider?”

The silence became painful. When she had been younger, she openly demanded to occasionally wear girl’s clothes but the experiences in Birkdale and the ghastly events surrounding her fourteenth birthday had long ago put paid to that.

“Nothing sir. I don’ wear stuff anymore.”

“Nothing at all?” The judge pressed.

Bearing in mind that she had stopped wearing stuff on the ship and she had purged all her female clothes before joining the ship, she felt safe in telling the only lie during the whole hearing.

“Nothing sir, not anymore.”

With that, the judge turned to Governor Davies.

“So Governor. Are there any court reports or orders in the boy’s files.”

“Nothing from the courts your honour. Just the medical reports deeming it to be unsafe to let him mix and influence other boys.”

“So the crux of this case is the boy was sent to a boy’s prison whilst never having actually broken the law.”

Beverly’s jaw sagged slightly as she ‘coat-hangered’ her mouth with incomprehension while Governor Davies elaborated.

“Well he was deemed a dangerous influence; by the medical authorities.

I must add.” The governor defended himself. “We only confined him because he was deemed a dangerous influence.”

“At the age of twelve to fourteen in a prison full of mostly sixteen to eighteen-year-old youths.” The judge spoke softly but with iron in his voice,

“What else could we do? Nobody else would take him, it’s in the reports.”

The judge took a deep breath before turning to Beverly.

“You ‘d best wait outside Spider.”

“Go down and get some tea in the Pantry Spider.” The captain ordered. “We’ll call you when we want you.”

For the fourth time, Beverly found herself waiting for something definite but she at least had the chance to make some tea and empty her bladder again. She was also puzzled as to the captain also calling her Spider. It was her new nickname endowed by the crew and she had actually become proud of the endowment, ‘but what was the captain using it for?’ she asked herself.

She was sharing a large mug of tea and some biscuits with the chippy (carpenter) and the pantry steward when the doctor came down to the pantry door. She saw Beverly leaning against the refrigerator door whilst the chippy was sat at the small work top and the pantry steward was buttering a couple of scones.

“Hello Spider, can I call you spider?” The doctor asked.

“Seems as though everybody does now doctor. Have you got any news?”

“I’ve just come down to see that you’re okay.”

A wave of nausea engulfed Beverly as she wondered how bad the news was that they had sent the doctor to break it. She let out a long audible sigh of despair and turned to stare out of the porthole. The doctor immediately sensed her despondency and moved quickly to alleviate it.

“Stop worrying Spider. You heard the captain call you Spider, doesn’t that tell you anything?”

“Should it? Everybody calls me Spider now.”

“Why don’t you like the nick-name?”

“It was okay while the deck crew used it. There was a reason and it was a good one. Now that everybody uses it, it makes me seem like a creepy-crawly, sort of sinister or poisonous.”

“Would you prefer me to use your proper name.”

“Ashore yes; on the ship it’s not important.”

“Would you like to explain why?”

Beverly fell silent but the carpenter interrupted.

“It’s cos’ he jumps to the job; any job - like a jumping spider. One of the crew who’s been on the Blue Funnel ships to Aussie mentioned it to the Bosun and likened him to an Australian jumping spider. The name stuck.”

“So it’s a sort of compliment then.” The doctor observed.

“On the ship, yes; ashore, no.” The carpenter reinforced Beverly's concept

“I understand now. Anyway, they sent me to tell you they’ve finished for the day. The bosun will be able to tell you their decisions soon.”

Beverly became firstly suspicious, then angry and eventually resigned to whatever awaited her. The day had left her exhausted and bereft. Once again a tear forced its way to her eye.

“Why the bosun?’ She asked. ‘Why should the only man who likes me be made the executioner. Can’t they do their own dirty work?”

“I can’t say anymore,” the doctor explained,” because they’re still finalising things.”

As the doctor left the carpenter protested softly.

“All the deck crew like you kid, not just the bosun.”

“Yeah but the Bos’ has been made into the hatchet man. I thought the old man was rooting for me this morning. But that doctor was obviously sent down to check on me. If they try to send me back to Borstal, I’ll kill myself first.”

“Don’t say that Spider. Suicide is never a solution.”

“It is Chippy. From where I’m standing it definitely is!”

It was the first time Beverly had ever openly confessed her fears to any of the crew.

At that moment, the dinner gong sounded and the pantry steward shooed the pair away as he started to prepare the hotplates. With their mugs of tea in hand, Beverly and the chippy moved to the afterdeck to continue chatting.

“Are you eating with us again tonight?” The carpenter asked.

“I suppose so Chippy. It’s that or I eat alone down aft.”

“Eat with us Spider, you shouldn’t be eating alone in your state.”

Before Beverly could say ‘thankyou’, the Bosun appeared at the top of the boat-deck ladder.

“Are you going ashore tonight Spider?”

“I dunno Bos’ I’ve no idea what’s happening.”

“Well at the moment, it’s looking good for you. Would you like to stay as Deck boy?”

Beverly was speechless with disbelief.

“What! You mean stay on – as deck-boy?”

“That’s what they’re considering. D’ you want to stay on?”

Her relief overwhelmed her and she sagged backwards to settle on a mooring bollard as tears flooded copiously. The Bosun stepped towards her and repeated.

“I need an answer Spider. D’ you want to stay?”

She looked up for reassurance.

“Is this for real Bos’?”

“Yes. The old man accepted Mr Robert’s and my recommendation. Keep your nose clean, stay away from the queers and just work like you’ve been doing since the Grand Banks. You told the old man that you’re not a queer, is that true?”

She nodded vigorously and stood up to lean on the rail while looking across the dock to hide her tears. Both older men retreated discreetly to eat their dinners while Beverly wept. Eventually she slinked back to the P.O’s mess while collecting a meal from the galley door. As she took her seat the Bosun reminded her.

“The captain want’s you in his office at six, and while you’re up there, you’d better get a sub on your wages if you’re going ashore tonight. See the second mate before six as he closes the book at six.”

“What! I can go ashore then?”

“Of course you can, it’s not a bloody prison ship.”

Beverly almost choked on her food as she digested what the bosun had just told her but eventually she swallowed enough to assuage her hunger and she sat silently hugging her mug of tea as the bosun stood up to leave. He gave her one last piece of advice.

“Don’t forget to take your red seaman’s identity book with you or they might not let you back through the dock gates.”
“The captain’s got that. They were talking about it this morning.”

“Well when you see him, ask him about it. They don’t usually ask for it at the dock gate but you still look awfully young. It’s also useful when you’re ashore if you get into any bother with the cops.”

Beverly well knew how to avoid attracting police attention and she had absolutely no intentions of ‘getting into trouble’. The bosun wished her luck as he went to his own cabin and Beverly went aft to her own lonely but private and safe cabin located over the propeller. After scrubbing up and sorting out her –‘bezzie-go-shore-gear’- she went up to see the second mate.

The second mate was just concluding the daily ship accounts as she knocked on his cabin door. The twenty something young officer looked up and grinned.

“Has the old man sanctioned it Spider?”

“I think so sir. The bosun said all I had to do was confirm it, but he seemed to think I was okay to go.”

“Well go and see him first then come back here.”

“Yes-sir.”

She then climbed one flight of stairs to the Captain’s suite and tapped timidly on his door.

“Who is it?”

“Me sir, the deck-boy.”

“Come in Spider.”

His use of Beverly’s nickname reassured her and she stepped respectfully over the threshold to find the captain shaving. He had stepped out of his bathroom with foam all over his face.

“What d’ you want lad?”

“The bosun suggested I check with you if I’m okay to go ashore sir, and the second mate also said I couldn’t sub my wages unless you sanctioned it.”

“Oh, I thought I’d made it clear. Yes lad, you’re free to go ashore. Don’t get into any trouble, we had the devil’s own job sorting you out with the federation and I don’t want any more; right laddie? I see you’re dressed for it so off you go.”

“Thank you sir. Thanks for everything.”

Elated with joy Beverly turned to go then remembered.

“Oh! Excuse me sir. The Bosun said I would need my Seaman’s red identity book.”

“Oh yes! Of course.”

“He unlocked the desk and removed it from the bundle of remaining blue discharge books.”

Beverly’s blue discharge book and red ID book were banded together so the captain separated them and handed her the red one whilst explaining.

“Technically, these are illegal and you’ll probably be getting a new one. But it will do for tonight, the dock police won’t bother you provided you’ve got some sort of ID.”

On hearing the word ‘probably’ Beverly asked hesitantly.

“Will I be sailing next trip sir?”

“That’s up to the Judge and the Police superintendent. If you’re not wanted for any crimes when you were on the streets, then it’s likely we can sort your books out; and because the mate and the bosun were happy with your work and attitude, I’m prepared to give you a second chance. Don’t let me down and avoid trouble tonight.”

“Yes-sir! Thank you sir!” She replied as a relieved smile spread across her face.

With her ID book and money in her pocket, she stepped ashore and almost skipped for joy as she picked her way under the idle dockside cranes. Even the intermittent rain could not dampen her mood.

Chapter 14.

After exiting the dock gate, Beverly boarded the number one bus and disembarked at the famous Liver Building on the Pierhead. She knew the town from her days in the Secure unit and time on the streets so it was just a brief walk to the main shopping centre around Lord Street, Church Street and Chapel Street; - the ‘Holy Crossroads’ as Liverpudlians humorously referred to it. The fourth street at the junction was ‘Hope Street’.

Unlike the majority of seamen going ashore, Beverly was too young to go into the usual dockside pubs so she made a bee-line for the shops. After eight p.m., the shops were of course closed. Despite this however, she spent a couple of wistful hours staring at the illuminated window displays, especially the ladies wear and lingerie. Later, she became hungry so she went searching for a chippy and eventually found one at the top of Bold Street by the famous bombed-out-church.

A light fine drizzle had started but she wasn’t bothered; the fact that she was free to savour her hot meal in a cafe window without fear of the police or the authorities, gave her an intense feeling of satisfaction. She was sat on park seat outside the church enjoying her fish and chips when two police officers spotted her and sauntered across the junction.

“It’s a bit late for you to be out isn’t it lad?”

Beverly had no watch so she asked what time it was.

“It’s after eleven lad. Where d’ you live? What’s your address?”

She felt a secret thrill as she toyed with them just for the hell of it.

“I don’t have an address.”

The police stared at her as she popped the last tasty piece of fish into her mouth and scrunched up the newspaper wrapping.

“Don’t try being clever laddie. You’re too young to be out this late. Where’s your home?”

“Bootle; for now, for a week or so anyway.”

“Are you a gypsy or a traveller or something.”

“I’m a traveller of sorts.” She smirked.

“So how long have you been in Liverpool?”

“Since this morning.”

“So where have you just come from.”

“Halifax”

“You don’t sound Yorkshire.”

“Not that Halifax; Halifax Nova-Scotia.”

Being Liverpool police and living in what was at that time, Britain’s biggest port, the police quickly understood. Even so they were dubious.

“You look too young to be at sea.”

She almost gloated as she reached into her pocket and pulled out her precious, red seaman’s identity card. The sheer delight of being single, legal and official sent a ripple pleasure through her core. The officers studied her card and remarked.

“This doesn’t show your address just your name and age.”

“And my identity marks.” She showed them the scar on her hand that corresponded to her identity card then added. “My address changes with every ship, as I said, I’m a traveller and I don’t have a fixed place.”

“What about your parent’s home?”

“Don’ ave any parents,” she replied sullenly, then added with perverse pride, “I’m a scally arne’ I.”

“So where’s your ship now?”

“Hornby Dock.”

“You should be getting back, it’s late. What time’s the last bus.”

“I’m norr’on duty till six. My time’s my own. And anyway, the number one bus runs all night.”

The police remembered this to be true. The bus ran along the dock road serving every dock and there were nine miles of docks. Ships arrived and sailed at all hours and seamen were constantly going ashore or returning to their ships at all times. The police had no reason to question the boy further.

“Well take care then Laddie. The docks can be a dangerous place at night.”

With that they left Beverly to her own devices but she deliberately waited until they were out of sight before she did what she had already planned to do, namely return to her ship. Soon after midnight she entered the gates to Hornby dock, flashed her seaman’s card and re-joined her ship.

“Her ship”! She reminded herself with satisfaction as she paused at the top of the gangway.

She had just spent a whole night in Liverpool without once having to look over her shoulder or hide from the police. Indeed she had secretly relished her confrontation with them.

“What it was to be free and legal - and to have her own bed for the night!”

By prearrangement with the ‘four to eight’ duty fireman, a knock on the door dragged her from her sleep at five thirty, ready for breakfast at six, then on deck at six forty-five ready to open hatches with the bosun. Again she dined with the bosun and carpenter because there were no other deck crew. They would not return until the ship left Liverpool to transit the canal up to Manchester – or so she thought.

In the petty-officer’s mess she learned they were not going to Manchester that trip. Instead, all the cargo was discharged in Liverpool to expedite the loading of the second consignment of heavy lifts bound for Philadelphia.

For five days until the Friday, the ship was busy with cargo-work and Beverly learned a lot as she was set to do work not normally given to fifteen-year-old deck-boys. It gave her a sense of worth every time the bosun or carpenter congratulated her or approved of her efforts.

“Aye lad, we’ll make a seaman of you yet. Come on it’s time for coffee.” became a familiar remark that she grew to savour several times a day as they took their mid-morning and mid-afternoon breaks plus their meal breaks.

The ensuing chats in the messroom were intervals she grew to enjoy, listening to the carpenter, bosun and engine room storekeeper swapping yarns about the many ships and voyages they had made to all parts of the world. They also offered good advice to her about preparing for the future and for the first time in her life she actually began to think about a future without foreboding or a sense of hopelessness.

“Aye Spider." The bosun intoned sagaciously. "It might sound exotic when we talk of Africa and China but just you remember. This ship trades up the great lakes and that means lots of ovvies (overtime) transiting all those canals and the Seaway.”

“Plus the Manchester Ship canal with its five locks’” The carpenter added with a chuckle. “Stay on this ship lad, and you’ll be a millionaire.

“Hope I can.” Beverly replied.

“Keep your nose clean from now on and I think you will. The mate is pleased with you and you’re doing stuff normally reserved for older men. Not many deck-boys have topped derricks, it’s normally a job for the A.B.,s.

“They should pay me A.B.’s wages then.” Beverly mumbled, which only caused the older men to laugh.

“Don’t be greedy Spider, you’re still learning to walk let alone run.”

And so the banter went as Beverly savoured that precious first week just being the bosun’s ‘go-for’ and handyman. On the Friday, the bosun informed her

“She’s not working cargo tomorrow, it’s Saturday. You’ve got the day off. Got any plans?”

Beverly’s heart soared. It meant she could go into Liverpool when the shops were open. Her obvious pleasure brought a smile to the bosun’s face.

“I suppose you’ll be going to the football. Everton are playing Arsenal at Goodison.”

“If I can get a ticket,” Beverly lied.

“You’ll have to get there early. Most of the tickets will have been snapped up by now.”

“I’ll try,” she lied again for in truth she had totally different plans. Failing to get a ticket would be a perfect lie to cover her real intentions.

Saturday arrived and Beverly left after a late breakfast but still in time to buy a ticket if she wanted one. Instead, the early-morning start found her in the shops just as they opened at nine and before the weekend shopping rush had started. However it was nearly eleven before she plucked up the courage to buy what she really and desperately wanted. The pretty panties she had seen in the window of Littlewoods.

Firstly however, she had purchased some extra shirts and essentials because she was very poorly equipped for going ashore. Buying male type essential clothes rather irked her but she was forced to maintain her male subterfuge if she was to stay on the ship. Work Jeans could be bought at ‘Harry-the-Greek’s’ emporium in Boston which was generally agreed to be the best place on Earth to buy jeans and denim jackets.

When it came to paying for her purchases in Liverpool, Beverly was surprised that the woman made no fuss about it. She just smiled and gave Beverly a knowing look as she took the panties and folded them into the bag. What surprised Beverly was that she did not feel at all embarrassed. She simply smiled back and watched as the sales-lady continued packing the bag.

“Let her think what she liked,” Beverly mused. “I’m not breaking any laws, that’s what the judge had said.”

After completing her shopping, she found herself at something of a loose end and decided to visit the museum before going to a cinema. Foot-sore but happy, she returned to the ship by eleven o’clock and indulged herself in private with her pretty new panties. That night she slept well. And because the next day was Sunday she didn’t have to get up early.

Nevertheless, her hunger dragged her out of bed by nine and she was grateful to find some left overs steaming on a hot-plate in the service pantry.

“Help yourself Spider, it’ll only go to waste.” The second steward advised.

After eating, she returned to her cabin at a bit of a loss for something to do so she did some dhobying (laundry) then debated going ashore again. As she stood debating putting her new panties on to go ashore, there was a knock on the door.

“Who’s there?” She responded.

“Charlie the carpenter. I need a hand with some timberwork for one of the heavy loads. There’s overtime in it for you.”

“Okay chippy.”

She hurriedly stored her precious underwear and slipped on her working clothes. Ten minutes later she was on deck doing some ‘holder-uppering’ for the carpenter as he fixed a large strong frame.

“I thought the riggers would have done this.” Beverly observed.

“They would – normally,” the chippy explained, “but apparently something happened to the wooden cradle on route from Birmingham and the load got dislodged. This is just the basic frame to receive the generator so they can lower it into the hold. Once the thing is located, they’ll fashion the cradle to secure the thing and then it can sit nice and tight in this frame.”

“We can’t move those big timbers,” Beverly objected. “They’re far too big!”

“Of course not,” The chippy replied. “The bosun and the third mate will be here after lunch to assist by operating the derricks. The mate will be in charge when we lower the frame into the hold.”

Beverly shrugged and secured the baulk of timber with the derrick before tying off the other loose end with a Spanish windlass. Once the baulk was securely located, the chippy augered the bolt holes and Beverly followed through with the bolts and a sledge hammer. By lunch time, the bare bones of the cradle were assembled. After lunch, the cradle was lowered into the hold and four chain hoists were prepositioned to adjust the frame when the heavy lift was lowered from the giant floating crane.

By six o’clock the job was completed and the old man agreed to splice the main-brace. Even Beverly was given a taster but she was more appreciative of the six hours overtime pay at double time on a Sunday.

Early the next Monday morning she was deep down in the hold, threading the securing lashings through the lugs and tightening bottle screws when a call came from above.

“Spider!”

“Yes Bos’.”

“The mate wants you in his office.”

At that moment, Beverly was twisted under the frame, threading a greasy wire loop back towards the chippy because she was the only one small enough to get underneath and do it.

“It’ll take me a few minutes to wriggle out of here. Can I finish the wire first.”

“Okay, I suppose so.” The bosun agreed.

The task took longer than expected, causing the mate to come and investigate.

“What’s he doing Bos’?”

“He’s deep under that lot chief; trying to secure a bottle screw. He’s the only one small enough to get under the foot-bracket.”

“Oh. Okay.”

With that, Beverly emerged squirming from under the generator. She was black with grease. The mate frowned.

“He can’t come into my office like that. Tell him to go and get cleaned up.

Beverly duly scrubbed up and presented herself at the door to the chief-mate’s office.
On entering he saw two women dressed in black, two-piece, tailored suits and white blouses. To her they looked like magpies but blacker. The mate caught Beverly’s fearful glance and moved quickly to assuage her fears.

“It’s alright Spider; these to ladies are notary publics and they’re only here to witness your statement.”

On saying this, Mr Roberts showed Beverly the paper and pen of his desk and invited Beverly to make her statement.

“Now Spider, all we want you to do is write down everything you told the captain at the inquiry, and if you can remember anything else. Write that down too. If you can remember any dates or locations, that would be especially helpful.”

On hearing this Beverly stared at the note-pad for long moments then she let out a groan and slumped out of the chair only to crawl into a corner and start crying. The two ‘magpies’ stared aghast as Mr Roberts knelt down.

“You’re alright boy. They’re not here to take you away. You’re not in any trouble any more. All you have to do is write it all down. It’s a statement for the courts. That’s all. You won’t even be going to court, you’re not the criminal.”

Beverly continued sobbing for several minutes as Mr Roberts became more concerned, but eventually she recovered her nerves and admitted the problem.

“I can’t read or write sir!”

Chapter 15.

It was the turn of Mr Roberts and the two notaries to stare stupidly at the boy still sat on the deck. Beverly looked up as the mate gradually found his voice.

“What! You can’t write at all?”

“No. Well yes- I can write my name but not all that stuff from the inquiry when we docked.

“Can you read?”

“No sir. Not properly”

“So how did you find your way around Liverpool?”

“I know Liverpool sir. I was here for years in Walton and then the secure unit. The nurses in Walton would sometimes take me to the football or the zoo at Chester.”

“I see. Of course. Well, I suppose I’ll have to write it down as you tell it.”

“No Mr Roberts,” one of the ‘magpies’ observed, “you are a party to events, a witness. It will have to be somebody unconnected. We can’t even write it down, we’re officers of the court.”

The mate gave an exasperated sigh and left to speak to the captain. He returned half an hour later with a solution.

“The port health doctor is coming down to the ship to take the boy to the seaman’s clinic. She has agreed to come down early and act as a clerk. As a doctor she is deemed to have suitably impeccable credentials.”

The notaries nodded acceptance and they waited for the doctor. When she arrived, she firstly met with the captain then joined the four in the mate’s office. Within three hours she and Beverly had completed the report and the notaries promptly signed it. Mr Roberts also countersigned it, presumably as a material witness. The process had not gone entirely without incident though.

After half an hour of Beverly’s narrative, she noticed the ‘magpies’ becoming restless as they started ‘spelling’ each other by disappearing for a few minutes at a time. Unsure of what they were up to, Beverly became hesitant and tense. She stumbled with her words and sometimes fell silent as her eyes nervously followed the notaries back and forth. After a couple of corrections to the report the doctor sensed Beverly’s fear so she stopped writing and asked her what was wrong.

Beverly fell silent but her preoccupation with the notary’s behaviour quickly gave the doctor some insight. She spoke to the notaries outside the office and determined that the two ladies were somewhat upset by the narrative with its reports of rapes and beatings. They were taking alternate breaks to recover their composure. The doctor, by now inured to the horrors, after the first hearing, explained to Beverly and repeated the first mate’s reassurances that Beverly was in no danger and to continue describing everything, warts and all. The notaries continued taking breaks.

Eventually they got through the story but they had to delay lunch which was a very subdued affair as the notaries picked at their food.

Immediately after the late lunch, the doctor took Beverly up to the ‘Gordon-Smith’ seaman’s health centre were Beverly’s most intimate parts were examined and her blood was tested. The X-rays of her arms, ribs and shoulders, showed the nine old fractures she had mentioned at the inquiry. Mostly green-stick fractures. Then they released her and she made her own way back to the ship.

By the time she returned, the mate told her not to bother resuming work and naturally, Beverly went grey with fear.

“What’s wrong now Spider?” The mate demanded as he noted her sudden pallor. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. You’d better go and lie down, it’s long day tomorrow, so you’ll be needed early; same time tomorrow morning Spider. Boots and saddles at six o’clock.”

She let out a gasp of relief as the colour returned to her cheeks. The mate frowned.

“What was that about Spider.”

“For a moment, I thought you’d sacked me sir.”

“Get this once and for all Spider. You’re staying on the ship – if you want to. Now go and get your dinner.”

She slept well that night.

For the remainder of the week Beverly was busy securing the heavy lifts and attending to many other tasks as the ship loaded for the United States. There was one incident however that caused her alarm.

As the last large generating consignment was being secured, Beverly was, as usual, covered in black grease as she squirmed through limber-holes feeding wires and tightening bottle screws. The mate appeared by the carpenters side and called to Beverly.

“Are you under there Spider.”

Her grease smeared grin appeared looking up through one of the limber-holes as she replied,

“Yes-sir.”

The mate grinned back.

“I think you’re enjoying that aren’t you.”

“It’s a job sir.”

“Aye; well I’ve got another little job for you.”

“Yes-sir.”

“We’ve got an important visitor coming so you’d better go and tidy up the gangway. Make sure the safety nets are secure and the life belt is properly displayed. Then make sure the gangway doesn’t surge over the railway tracks or hit a crane.”

Beverly frowned with puzzlement but she did as ordered. Normally, if there were important people visiting, one of the officer cadets was posted at the gangway dressed in his smart uniform. She was in no fit state to welcome visitors covered as she was with smears of grease in her oldest jeans and torn shirt. Her kit was destined for the rag-bag once all the cargo lashing was completed. She was filthy.

Still she had been ordered, so – hers not to question why.

After tidying everything up she took station at the top of the gangway and kept looking down the dock for anything that looked like a fancy car or something. The hanging around irked her somewhat, she far preferred to be securing the lashings because it had an obvious purpose.

Then to her shock and despair, she saw two police vans picking their way under the dockside cranes only to stop at the bottom of the gangway.

“The bastards!” She cursed to herself. “The lying fucking bastards! Despite what they’d told her, they were taking her away again. The police had come to arrest her.”

She tensed to make a dash across the ship then jump into the dock and make a run for it but suddenly a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. She cursed and struggled to escape the bosun’s powerful grip but he was too strong. She cursed him as tears of frustration overcame her resolve. The bosun however spoke softly as he tried to reassured her.

“Calm down Spider; relax boy!”

“You bloody lied!” She cursed. “I’m not going back, I’ll fucking die first!”

“Nobody ever said you were going back. Calm down lad. Just watch!”

His grip remained fast on Beverly’s shoulder as she watched a crowd of coppers emerge from the vans and start tramping up the gangway. The gangway started to oscillate and she watched with fascination as her efforts to secure it seemed to be coming undone. The policemen also seemed to sense the bouncing and quickly stopped trotting up the long aluminium steps. As the gangway stopped flexing the Bosun spoke.

“D’ you think they’d send this many coppers to arrest a little runt like you? No lad, they’ve bigger fish to fry!”

Beverly watched the procession of uniforms file past her and enter the amidships accommodation as the bosun relaxed his grip.

“It’s not you they’re after lad, it’s the bastards who were fucking you.”

So distorted was Beverly’s understanding of relationships and friendships, that she let out a squeal of despair. “They were arresting her friends! Friends whom she had betrayed.”

“No Bos! They were my friends.”

“No Spider. Never that. They were never your friends.”

They continued waiting at the top of the gangway with Beverly’s mind in turmoil. She still had trouble making sense of things. From where she stood, the guys on the ship had been the only people who had ever been kind to her. They had always asked and never forced themselves nor did they hurt her. The real bastards had been at the secure units; Fatty Gardiner and his cronies, the older boys who just fucked her, tore her arse and left her bleeding. The guys on the ship had been gentle.

Then to her shock and dismay, the accommodation door opened and a procession emerged with each man escorted by two coppers. Beverly couldn’t face them for she felt she had utterly betrayed them. As tears started to flow again, she squirmed past the bosun and stumbled aft to her cabin to hide her tears. An hour later, the chief officer found her still sitting on the floor in her filthy jeans and torn shirt. He tried to explain that they were the criminals because Beverly was under-age. The law was treating her as a victim. His explanations did little to settle her and he left her to recover in private. Periodically, the bosun or the chippy checked to see she was okay.

Late that night, she finally scrubbed up and slumped into her bunk.

The next day, the ship became alive with bustle as the crew returned to sign on for the next voyage. The previous articles were closed and Beverly had to sign on for the new voyage. When she finally came to sign the new articles, the federation officer produced her old discharge book with a simple endorsement and federation stamp attached to the page for her previous trip.

VOYAGE MADE IN ERROR. SEA-TIME TO COUNT.

He explained the procedure and the reasons.

“That stamp clears up any possible future misunderstandings that may arise on other ships and the sea-time is to count toward your qualifying time for any further qualifications or tickets if you intend climbing higher. Your red identity book needs no endorsement except to correct your date of birth. Here’s your new identity card. Pass me your old ID please.”

Beverly pulled the old ID out of her pocket and the man clipped the corner with a pair of strong shears. Having invalidated the old book, he handed it back.

“You can keep it as a memento but it’s invalid now.”

Beverly was undecided about the old book but stuffed it into her jeans anyway.

She returned to her cabin to savour her new, fully legal identity but her happiness was short lived. The second mate knocked on her cabin door.

Are you there Spider? The doctor has come from the clinic, she’s with the captain now and they want to see you.”

Beverly frowned irritably.

“What the hell can this be?” She wondered

In moments she was off her settee and following the second mate up to the captain’s cabin. The second mate knocked and they were both invited in. The captain motioned to the doctor as he spoke.

“There’s some bad news Spider, the doctor will explain.”

She turned to face the doctor who seemed more concerned than angry as she explained.

“I’m afraid you’ve got syphilis and gonorrhoea Spider.”

Beverly then exhibited the extent of her ignorance.

“What’s that?”

“The pox Beverly. You’ve got a dose, a double dose in fact.” The captain explained as he frowned.

She paled slightly and turned hopefully to the doctor.

“Can it be cured?”

“Fortunately yes, but it’s going to be a long process. Do you have any discharges from your penis?”

“Last summer yes, but it dried up in the November after I signed on.”

“Good, we know what we’re dealing with then.” The doctor surmised. “If you go to hospital, you’ll miss sailing with the ship. If you are happy for the second mate to give you penicillin injections, and the captains happy to keep you, you can be treated on board, but you’ll have to sleep in the hospital. Despite the rubbish spread around about venereal diseases, there are many people who refuse to share the lavatories with infected people. To stop any objections from the crew, you’ll have to be isolated for three months.”

“But what about my job? I serve the food to the crew and wash all the dishes and things. What if they object?”

“The truth is Spider; venereal diseases are only transmitted by the exchange of bodily fluids. Despite all the rubbish you hear, you cannot catch it from a lavatory seat, or from a plate for that matter. If you wash your hands frequently and let yourself be seen washing your hands, especially around food. There shouldn’t be any cause for concern. The truth is, the biggest issue is people objecting to you handling their food.”

“I can’t avoid that.” She slumped despondently. “I’m gonna lose my job aren’t I?”

“There are ways around it. If I bring the medications and injections down to the ship, I can also bring six month’s supply of surgical gloves. If the crew see you always using the gloves and disinfecting your hands regularly then that should calm any fears.. Your part will involve letting the crew see you always using the gloves and disinfectant when you’re around the food.”

The doctor then turned to the captain and asked a very unusual question.

“Are there any bullies in your crew Captain?”

“Not that I know of, we’re a happy ship, short voyages of three to four months, good ports to run ashore and all importantly, lots of overtime. The men tend to stick like glue to this ship. The last crew change was when Spider replaced the last Galley boy who only paid off because of a death in his family.”

“Is Spider popular?”

“Well the bosun, carpenter and chief mate speak highly of him.”

“So do I.” Added the second mate as he grinned at Beverly.

“So there’s plenty of people to keep an eye out if he gets bullied.”

“I should think so.” The captain concluded as he turned to the second mate. “Are you prepared to inject him as the medical orderly?”

How often?” The second mate asked.

“Twice a day for the first month then once a day for three months, plus some pills twice a day.” The doctor explained then offered.

“I can show you how and where to put the injections if you wish. I’ve brought samplers of all the drugs in anticipation. I’ll bring the full dosage down to the ship tomorrow.”

Beverly and the second mate exchanged uncertain smiles then nodded cautiously.

“I’m prepared to inject him if Spider’s happy, what d ’you say Spider?”

“Can I stay on the ship and sail with her then?”

“I don’t see why not,” the doctor turned to the captain expectantly. I’ll get the drugs down before you sail at noon tomorrow.”

“Well once we’re at sea, nobody can object, it’s a fait-accompli. He won’t be allowed to go ashore in America though. They’ll want six months quarantine. I’ve had similar cases before with other crew-members. The Yanks are sticklers for this sort of stuff.”

The captain turned to Beverly with a questioning glance.

“Well Spider? Are you prepared to remain aboard until we get back to Liverpool? It’ll be three months with no shore leave. Leastways, not in the US. Canada might be more relaxed.”

“I’ll ‘ave to if I wanna keep my job sir.”

“And you sleep in the hospital. It’s got its own shower and lavatory.”

“Yeah okay sir.”

“Right, you’d better go with the doctor and the second mate so he can practice injections. Good luck.”

In the hospital she had to lie on the bed with all muscles relaxed as the doctor indicated the four salient points to inject the penicillin. Out of interest, Beverly also noted where the doctor indicated the exact locations. The second mate then grinned as he gave her four small injections of sterile water in thighs and buttocks. Beverly confirmed that they had not been too painful and the second mate stood back with a satisfied expression.

“I feel quite proud of that.” He declared, “I’ve never done any before.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, now as to the oral medications. There are no liquid medicines, just tablets with antibacterial and antiviral properties.”

She reached down to produce several boxes and explained. As she wrote out the dosages.

“Take one of these big ‘horse pills’ twice a day for the full nine months after breakfast and dinner. It’s just in case your ship gets diverted but I don’t expect it will. I expect to see you back at the seaman’s institute when you return. Also take one of these capsules three times a day morning, noon and night; that is eight a.m., four p.m., and midnight or when you go to bed. Do you understand all that. I’ve written it down.”

“I think it best that we keep the pills on the bridge doctor,” the second mate intoned, “then we can monitor the times by the change of watches”

“That might be best Mr Hans, especially as the boy can’t read.” The doctor agreed before explaining further. “I’ll bring all the drugs to the ship before you sail at noon tomorrow. There’ll be several bulky boxes.”

She bid them farewell and Beverly returned to her cabin, relieved that she had at least kept her job.

As arranged, the doctor returned with the boxes containing her medications and Beverly helped store them in the medicine cabinet under the doctor and second mate’s direction. There was a list of do’s and don’ts but most importantly, the injections had to be kept chilled. Fortunately, the hospital had its own small refrigerator. As a further trial run, the doctor watched the second mate administer the first jab and it proved satisfactory. Beverly left to resume her duties as the ship prepared to sail.

Finally some passengers came aboard and Beverly watched from afar as the junior officers took it upon themselves to explain to one young female passenger the routines of the ship while the crew stored the luggage. Passengers were far, far above and outside Beverly’s lowly remit.

Next the tugs arrived with the cold April rain, and the ship cast off. Beverly was posted aft with the second mate and the lamp-trimmer’s team of able-seamen. Once again, the ship threaded its way through the network of docks and entered the Mersey as darkness fell. After the tugs were released, she worked with the older men sending the ropes down below and finally the ship was secured for sea. Her last job was to collect the heaving lines and hang them up in the oilskin locker. She just tidying them away when the second mate approached her and spoke softly so the rest of the crew did not hear.

“Time for your jab Spider, I’ll just scrub up.”

Beverly nodded and followed him to the hospital. The injection was quickly administered along with the pills and Beverly returned to the crew’s mess. There to her surprise she found the sideboard groaning with a veritable feast of delicacies. She had expected to be confronted with a load of dirty dishes, but the crew were still eating.
As she stood looking at the spread she was reminded of her own hunger. Because of the departure she had not eaten since twelve noon. The lamp trimmer caught her eyeing the food and asked her.

“Are yer not ‘ungry Spider?”

She nodded hopefully and replied.

“Can I ‘ave some of that?”

“You’d better ask the bosun.”

She turned hopefully towards the bosun as he helped himself to the feast. All eyes turned towards her as she approached the man.

“Can I ave some of that Bos.”

“What?”

“Can I ‘ave some of that food.”

The crew started chuckling as the bosun hesitated before laughing out aloud.

“Of course yer can lad! Fill yer boots Spider, it’s part of yer wages!”

Eagerly she started choosing some interesting pieces then she asked what the strange looking white meat was.

“What’s this Bos?”

The crew fell silent as they realised Beverly’s ignorance.

“It’s lobster Spider. Have you never tasted Lobster before?”

“No.” She answered monosyllabically; embarrassed by her ignorance.

“Well get it down yer lad. You won’t see the likes until we sail again next voyage.”

“Why’s that?”

“The passengers have a sailing party on the first night. We get the same food but none of the fancy trimmings. It’s good scoff lad so dive in before these greedy buggers take it all.”

She needed no more encouragement and quickly loaded her plate.

Despite the feast, she was still left with the washing up and clearing away but eventually she slumped on her bed in the hospital and reflected on her lot. She had a proper job, her own bed, plenty of food and a proper wage, plus unlimited travel on whatever ship she signed up for.

“Not bad,” she thought, “for a fifteen-year-old tranny kid who was out of the streets, riddled with pox and couldn’t read or write
; - not to mention being a one-time child-prostitute.
From where she lay, staring thoughtfully up at the hospital deck-head It looked as though she was finally climbing out of the cesspit that had been her childhood.

'Well. Any way out will do.' She reflected.

THE END.