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SNAFU Part 23

by Angharad

This is a work of fiction any resemblance to anyone alive or dead is unintentional.

*****

“Do you mean to tell me, that last night we were wined, dined and then almost murdered by an illusion?”

“Sort of.” Oh boy, how do I explain something I can’t understand myself?

“Sort of, what answer is that?”

“Somebody sent a thought-form after me. The whole thing had sufficient energy to make it all seem real. We were all taken in by the illusion, we drove to what we thought was a pub, talked with an illusory barman, were entertained by an illusory publisher’s agent, then pursued and finally we had the set to, here.”

“Sorry, but I don’t believe you.”

“That’s the best I can do.”

“So all this happened in my mind, or our minds. A mass hallucination.”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t believe I ate a pretend meal, and even dripped some non-existent cream on my trousers. That will settle this….” He ran off to get his trousers from last night.
Two minutes later he was back. He began to examine them. “Phew. The smell of garlic.”

“That was real enough. Remember, I did that after we got back.”

He looked at his trousers, but seemed unable to find the stain he remembered making, he even took them to the window and checked again.

“I don’t understand it. How could I eat a non-existent meal in a non-existent pub, with a non-existent person, who then wants to kill me?”

“I don’t really know, but to me it makes sense in that, everything we do or say or see or feel, happens in our minds ultimately. It’s all about reality, so if it was possible to send messages into someone else’s mind that they were seeing or feeling this, the body would react accordingly.”

“It sounds like, The Matrix, and I still don’t see how I could shake hands with a thought form.”

“It’s a bit like The Matrix, in its illusory effect, but this was done by someone’s mind not a computer. It was effectively a spell.”

“You mean the wicked witch, or warlock?”

“Probably neither, wiccans are usually helpful souls who enjoy playing about with natural energies. They are supposed to swear not to mess with other people in a negative way.”

“What about black magic?”

“All right, it could have deceived us, but I would think they would need a group of people to work it.”

“When did you realise it was a set up?” My father had stopped trying to find marks on his trousers, and was now concentrating on the conversation.

“When we entered the pub, it felt very strange. However, it was supposed to be an old place, so I could have been picking up on something else there. Oliver’s energy felt all wrong, and something was trying to get me to fancy him. I suppose if that had happened, and he had managed to get me away from you, I’d probably be dead now.

Then I didn’t notice him casting any shadows, and finally I saw no reflection in the sweet trolley. I knew then he wasn’t human.”

“What about the stuff you threw at him in the car?”

“Remember, that was all in my reality. For him to hurt me, he had to get into my reality. So I acted in this ‘dream’ like I would while awake, and as he was in my reality, he got hurt.”

“And outside?”

“Well, by then the illusion was broken, so he manifested as an energy form, which would be the same as the illusion to all intents and purposes. It would certainly make it easier for him to kill me. However, it also made it easier for me to dissipate him.”

“Is that what you did, dissipated him? It was bloody noisy.”

“Yes sorry about that. All I did was to produce more energy than he could and fire it at him. It destabilised his structure and dis………”

“Blew him to bits.”

“Exactly. Have the erm, neighbours, erm said anything?”

“Not yet. I shall tell them it was a lightning strike and it destroyed our front door too.”

He smiled at me. “I’m proud of you kiddo, it took real balls to stand up to whatever it was. You may be a girl, but you know.”

He hugged me. “No wonder you get all these awards.”

Sniffing back the tear that had formed, I croaked at him, “Don’t you dare nominate me for anything else. The thought of receiving a medal or a certificate in front of all those people terrifies me.”

“You what?” he said, and began laughing, “Have we found something Wonder woman is frightened of?”

“Oh I’m frightened of plenty, and if we had eaten a meal yesterday, I think there would be stains in my knickers this morning.”

“I’ll believe you,” he said, “thousands wouldn’t.”

We hugged some more and I could smell his manliness - soap and his aftershave, plus that musky smell of man. It reminded me of John. “Oh hell,” I said, “John will be here this afternoon. What time is it now?”

For the next hour, I rushed about like a ricocheting bullet. He always caught me half dressed or in the bath or something, so I was determined to be ready when he got here.

I had a text from him to say he was stuck on the motorway, there were road-works plus an accident, so he expected to be about two or even three hours late. Mum had said she wanted to go shopping, so we left dad in charge and went off in her car to the town centre.

I already have more clothes than I shall ever need, but then so do most women, and it doesn’t stop me buying more. Shoes and boots are not quite as bad, but Imelda Marcos might feel nearly at home in my wardrobe, so I’m not lacking there either.
We were supposedly shopping for bedding, so why did I buy a pair of shoes I didn’t need? ‘Cos I liked ‘em I suppose, they were a brown, round toe shoe with a three inch heel, and a small decorative strap across the instep. A sort of Mary-Jane with a stiletto heel. They were quite comfy, although I accepted they might not be after wearing all day, or round the shops. But they were nice and took my fancy, and I thought they would go with an outfit I have in various shades of rusts and browns.

Mum bought some new underwear and I added a new ‘Sloggi’ bra to my collection. It was a tee shirt type, with no seams and I could hardly feel it in the changing room cubicle. I think I could recommend it.

The problem with girls and shops is, time flies at faster than normal rate. Neither of us had noticed what the actual time was, until my mother suggested we stop for a coffee. I had just finished when I looked at the clock stuck outside Samuels’ shop.
“Oh hell, look at the time.” I squeaked pointing at the clock. My mother who was completely in shopping mode, seemed to be oblivious to my alarm. “John will be there.” I squeaked even louder.

This seemed to break the spell of consumerism, under which Mum was bound, and we rushed back to the car, sans bedding, but with the car absolutely full of stuff.
I suppose I should admit my part in the stripping of shops, as we progressed like a small swarm of locusts up and down the high street. I had my new shoes and bra, oh and a skirt and top, which I forgot to mention. Some new gold hoop earrings, and a small brass lioness I saw in a junk shop, and which almost called to me.

I’d also bought John a shirt, having sneaked a look at the shirt he’d left me and which I’d nearly sniffed to death. Mum, a veteran acquirer of unnecessary items in the name of customer choice, had bought a pair of shoes, a suit and top to go under it, a pair of trousers and some new jeans for my dad.

Apparently, she buys nearly all his clothes, which probably explains why he often looks so tidy and coordinated. I think he does just about manage to dress himself. Honestly.

“Why do women need men?” asked my friend one day, “dunno,” I replied. “’Cos a vibrator can’t buy a round of drinks.” If you can imagine my friend Sharon telling that joke in her Essex accent, and then laughing herself silly after the punch line, even though she knew it already, then you can imagine how a dozen other women nearly wet themselves laughing as much at the narrator, as the joke. Were we being cruel? No because she quite enjoys being the clown at times.

Why that had come into my mind as we drove home, I couldn’t say. Probably it was to do with the archetype of men as being large children unable to fend for themselves in a civilised society. It dovetails nicely with the corresponding opinion of men about women, being unable to park a car in a space smaller than runway two at Heathrow.

I must confess that parking is not my strong point, but when I thought about how I had handled the car last night, in the dark and in woodland. I began to sweat a bit. Had it not been for the adrenaline, I doubt I’d have managed it. I didn’t think, I just acted.

Then part of me thought, “Yeah, because part of you is still boy, and always will be. When will you tell John?”

Oh hell, that has risen like a phoenix from the ashes again. Will I? Won’t I? When will I? Should I? Then my conscious mind kicks in and says, “Why tell him until it’s necessary or appropriate?” I think that was a straight clone from my father’s opinion.

As we drove back I was deep in thought about all of this, if we stayed together I’d have to tell him one day, would prolonging it, putting off the inevitable, make it better or worse. I recalled the day when he’d told me he’d, “have found it easier if I’d told him I’d been born a boy.” This was a reference to my disclosure of ‘seeing dead people,’ and all that went with it. At the time I thought I was going to join the ranks of the dead, as I nearly choked myself when he said it.

Of course, he didn’t assign any great significance to the connection between his throwaway and my response. At least, if he did, I’ve not seen anything which gives any hint of it. Then, it’s not something that enters a conversation easily, is it. “Oh by the way, when you nearly choked that day, it wasn’t because you had actually been born a boy, was it?”

This dilemma was not going to go away until I took the risk and told him. I hoped he’d cope. Yes, surely someone as sophisticated and urbane as John would cope, or would he? I’d hate to lose him, I love him to bits. If he did reject me? Oh God no, surely he couldn’t, he must know I love him and doesn’t he love me too. He’s told me so, and his eyes and mouth were in congruence, I’m sure they were. Oh Jesus, what do I do?

As we turned into the close, I saw his 4x4 in the drive, Oh hell he’s here, already I was on the back foot. As soon as the car stopped, I was out and rushing into the house.

“….from up under the bed, we saw this flash and an almighty bang, just like a firework.” Said my dad.

“Or a thunderflash.” Added my love.

“Oh hello darling, “ said my dad, and I dashed in, pecked him on the cheek and then launched myself at the object of my affections. He caught me, thank goodness.

“I’m sorry we’re late, we didn’t notice the time.” I apologised in between kissing him twenty times a second.

“That’s fine, your dad has been entertaining me with your latest exploit. For a girl, you’re a regular hero.”

“No, I’m not.” I denied shaking my head.

“Come off it love, an award from the police for sorting out a gunman, a Distinguished Conduct Medal for courage under fire, and now sorting out Satan’s little buddy. If I had half your guts, I’d be rather pleased with myself. As it is, I’m rather pleased with you.” And he kissed me again. “Just don’t pull any caped crusader stunts while I’m here, will you?”

I nodded my response and gazed into those hypnotic eyes. Deep pools of grey, and I wanted to go swimming.

I eventually broke the spell of staring into his eyes, Mum meanwhile had dragged Dad off to help bring in the shopping. In reward for this, he was presented with his new jeans, he was well pleased.

I dived into the bags of shopping, and finding the correct bag, presented it to John. ”What’s this?” he said, “that’s great,” he said, “just what I needed.” He held up the denim shirt, and then kissed me. “Thank you.”

“Hmm,” I pouted, “I thought it was worth two kisses.”

“Well, if I give you three, then I’ll be in credit.” He proceeded to do as he said.

My mother watching this display, said to my father, “I take it your jeans are okay.”
“Yes love, fine thanks.” He either failed to notice her presenting at least a cheek for kissing, or was acting dumb. With dad, you never knew if he was actually as dumb as he acted.

Finally, frustration took over. “Don’t I get a kiss, too.”

John winked at me and pecked her on the cheek. My father looked up over the top of his newspaper and asked, “What for?”

Her hands flew up in the air, then went back down to her waist, and she talked angrily to herself as she bustled off to the kitchen, where she banged pots about.
Dad meanwhile, sat sniggering behind his paper. John was bemused by the double act, and I felt embarrassed, adding, “They’re like bloody children,” walking off to help my mum get some lunch.

We came back with lunch, soup and a roll, plus some sandwiches and fruit. I laid the table quickly as Mum brought in the tureen of soup, a vegetable concoction she makes fairly regularly. It’s delicious, but then I would say that, having been brought up on it.

I think my dad likes it too, he has had twenty-odd years to get used to it, the question was, would John. Judging by the way he came back for another full bowl of it, I think the answer is, yes. The sandwiches were my contribution, I did tuna and salad, and egg and salad. The plate got cleared from those without much delay too.

I made some tea and coffee while the others ate some fruit. When I came back, my mother asked, “If I pretend I just ate a virtual meal, will it mean I don’t put on any weight?”

We all laughed, and several answers were offered none of which knew the answer completely.

A little while later John and I went for a walk. It was lovely just being with him, we walked arm in arm, stopping when we felt unobserved, to have a hug and a kiss. “I have missed you,” he told me, several times. He also asked me several times, “Have you missed me?”

Each time I told him, “No of course not,” or, “why should I?”

“I’m heartbroken.” He said pretending to sob, “and unloved.”

“I’ve got some superglue at home somewhere,” I said keeping a straight face with enormous strain on my self-control.

“You’re a hard woman, Jamie Curtis.” Alleged my whining partner.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I chirped back.

By this time we had reached a clump of trees, and John gently pushed me against one and began to kiss me so sensually, that I felt my knickers growing damp. I rubbed my tummy against his, as his tongue played a symphony in my mouth, flicking in and out and then tracing around my lips before penetrating my mouth as I sucked on it.

I rubbed his leg with my foot, as he continued to turn me on like I was a machine of some sort, the current rising in me all the while. I could feel his reaction, hard against my groin, pressing against the fly of his jeans. I wanted him, then and there like nothing I have ever wanted before. Up against the tree or on the grass, anywhere, anything to meet this longing. His hands were touching my breasts, and my bottom.

“Oh God, this is too much,” I said as I felt my body shudder under his touch, my orgasm was earth moving.

“Oh,” I sighed, “that was wonderful.” We kissed some more. “What can I do for you?” I asked.

“You just have.” He replied.

“But you didn’t…..”

“If I had, it would have made my trousers a bit messy.”

At this, bathing in my afterglow, I began to giggle. “I’m sure there are ways to prevent that.” I giggled.

“Not here,” he said, “it’s too public.”

We walked on a bit further, but it began to rain, so we came home. We stayed in the lounge listening to music, me sitting on the sofa, John laying with his head in my lap. I played with his hair and kissed him from time to time. It was lovely, just being with him. My parents gave us some space, and we enjoyed it.

Mum called us in for dinner, as we went John noticed my small brass lioness. “You’re collecting lions?”

“Given my apparent association with them, I could think of worse things,” I replied. I didn’t notice that he had picked it up and put it in his pocket as we went to the dining room.

I helped Mum dish up, melon to start, then roast Welsh lamb, my favourite, with all the trimmings, and a trifle to finish. After eating all that I was absolutely stuffed!

“Thanks, Mum, that was delicious” I remarked.

Murmurs of approval were added, while Dad poured another glass of wine to anyone with less than half a glass. He raised his glass, “To my wife, the best cook in this house. Long may she continue.” His toast was half jest, whole earnest. Mum was a fair cook, and we had just blown out on an example of it.

“I see, Jamie, ‘The Lion Woman of Barbury’, is collecting a pride.” Said John, placing my brass lioness on the table. “So I suppose she’d better have this one, as well.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small plastic box. He handed it to me. In total surprise, I accepted the gift, fumbling the catch with nervous fingers. Finally, I managed to open it, inside laid on red velvet, was a miniature, golden statuette of Sekhmet, on a fine gold chain.

I was so pleased. “Oh John it’s beautiful,” I said, my eyes beginning to well up with warm salty water. I rushed up and kissed him, saying, “Thank you,” as I went.
I then showed it to my parents, who gave unanimous approval. “Well, aren’t you going to put it on, then?” Said the donor.

“Will you put it on me please?” I said, passing him the box and turning away from him, holding my hair up from the back of my neck.

He opened the catch, draped it over my head and I felt the coldness of the metal as it touched my neck and breast. He fiddled with the catch for a moment or two, then finally, he shut it and I felt the coldness at the back of my neck. He kissed me on the back of the neck and I turned around quickly and kissed him back, on his lips.

“How did you manage to find one of her?” asked my dad, “she’s not the most popular of the Egyptian pantheon.”

“In Egypt, all things are possible.” Said John quietly.

“You mean this came from Egypt?” I uttered in astonishment, holding it up to look at it better.

“Yes, a friend was going there a while ago, and knowing your fixation with the lioness headed one, I asked him to get it for me.”

“You clever man, I love you.” I pounced on him once more, covering him with kisses.

“Steady on now,” cautioned my father, “let his dinner go down before you devour him.”

“Oh Daddy, you are a spoilsport,” I gave him one of my special pouts and he pretended to look stern in response.

I sat on John’s lap as we drank our coffee and finished up the wine. I felt so happy, his gift was so special. Tonight, I would dedicate it to the goddess, it would help to protect me in the future. Against who? I had no idea.

The rain which we had encountered during our walk had continued all afternoon and into the evening. We ended up playing a foursome of whist. John was a fair player, but I let him down somewhat, and my card sharper parents beat us on all the rubbers.

To be honest, I was thinking more about my lovely pendant, touching it constantly, smiling like something possessed, and feeling so pleased with myself.
The Sekhmet figurine was about an inch and a bit long and perhaps half an inch wide. She was standing on a small plinth that bore her cartouche. She had the sun disk above her head. It was so perfect, and to have come from Egypt, what could be better. I was just so pleased with myself, I was fit to burst with pleasure.

How could I repay this generosity? I did have one idea, although I knew my parents would not approve, well my mother wouldn’t. Tough, she‘d have to lump it.

I sat opposite John, sending him loving glances and stares all evening and he grumbled because I wasn’t concentrating on the cards. How was I supposed to concentrate when the object of my affections is sitting opposite me making my tummy flip like a jumping bean, keeping me so on edge sexually. If he touched me again, I’d come again in my knickers. Oooooh, so how am I supposed to concentrate?

Bedtime eventually came around, and my parents turned in, leaving us downstairs watching some naff late film. I was actually becoming sleepy, although the frisson of anticipation running through me in waves, was keeping me alert longer than usual.

“Thank you for my pendant,” I said, stroking John’s leg, “I really am pleased with it.”

“I think that’s about the hundredth time you’ve said that, so I guess it’s probably true.” He replied.

“As the olds have temporarily disappeared, I thought I could show my gratitude more demonstrably.”

“And how would this demonstration manifest itself?”

“I’m not sure,” I said in a coy, almost little girl voice, “perhaps you could help me.”

“I should love to,” he said, “but not here.”

“Where then?”

“It isn’t a question of where, it’s as much a question of when.”

“I don’t understand. Don’t you like me?”

“Oh God Jamie, I love you to bits. I fancy you like mad, I could..”

“You could, what?”

“I could shag the arse off you all night. To put it bluntly.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Not here and not now.” He looked away from me refusing to meet my gaze. “I’m sorry, Jamie.”

“You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?” he glanced at me with an expression of genuine confusion.

“That I’m a virgin,” I chickened, it wasn’t what I was going to say, but it looked like he didn’t know, yet at least.

“You told me, some time ago.” He stared into the fireplace, “Look when we actually do it for the first time I want it to be special. I want us to be relaxed and to be able to take our time. Here none of those will be possible, and I don’t want to upset your parents. To me it would seem, ill-mannered.”

“But I wanted to thank you properly.” I sniffed back the salty water which was trickling down my nose.

“You have done.” He took my hand and kissed it, then kissed up my arm, then my shoulder and finally my lips. “It’s going to be worth waiting for, I promise you.”

I nodded my understanding, although I was shaking with emotion. I had worked myself up to this, and it wasn’t going to happen. I felt confused, I felt disappointed, and part of me felt enormously proud of him. His self-control was greater than mine, much greater. It was just so unusual. This man was full of surprises, all of them lovely.

We went to our separate beds soon after and I tossed and turned in sexual frustration, so goodness knows how he felt. In the end, my fingers felt a small hooded part of me, which enabled me to get to sleep. I had discovered a form of masturbation, which at least stopped me going crazy though only partly satisfied me.
My dreams were strange that night, obviously full of sexual symbolism which I don’t need to share with you. I woke up twice, sweaty and at times frightened of something. Its identity eluded me. The moon shone on my face and I awoke again. It was time.

I showered quickly and quietly, dressing in a clean nightdress. I lit some incense, and before the picture of Sekhmet, I began a chant of Egyptian prayers I had found in one of my books. They had felt genuine, compared to the rather more speculative stuff that one often finds there.

I seemed to go into a trance, kneeling before the picture chanting quietly while the smell of frankincense filled the air. I received a signal, that it was time, and after passing the blade through a candle flame, I made a small nick in a vein with my penknife and covered the golden figurine with my blood. I promised devotion in return for protection for myself and others of my family friends and colleagues, as it was needed. I also asked for wisdom, patience and grace.

I stopped the bleeding with candle wax and digital pressure. I then burned off the blood on the figurine, it got hot, yet didn’t burn me. I then scrubbed off the residue with a tissue. It was done, and I replaced the necklet around my throat. I cleared up, opened a window, and went back to bed. I slept like a log until awoken by my mother the next morning, it was Sunday.

In my house, we have The Observer, the Sunday equivalent of The Guardian. It’s essentially for left-wing intellectual types, or for those who fancy themselves as such. We also have a tabloid, to ‘show what real people are up to’ as my father puts it. Usually, this is the one he reads first, often accompanied by laughing out loud. Some of the stuff in there honestly. Do people really get up to these things? I’m sure our vicar doesn’t.

I went downstairs, John was reading the tabloid while Daddy had the grown-up paper. I kissed them both and wished them good morning. I pushed myself on to John’s lap, as I ate some toast. He was reading about someone who’d had a sex change. I tried not to make any sign of any sort.

He put his arm around me. “What you reading?” I asked quietly.

“About some nutter.”

“What have they done?” I asked innocently.

“Gone and had a sex change and then complained because they got the sack. I mean look at them.”

My eyes lingered on the picture of a thirty-something person, with photos of before and after. The ‘before’ was a balding man in a shirt and tie, the ‘after’ was a sad-looking individual bewigged and wearing makeup and a dress. They weren’t very convincing to my eye, but that might have been just the photo or me.
“

What’s wrong with her?” I asked, remaining as aloof as I could.

“Her? Her, come on, it looks like a bloke in drag. It’s a him whether he’s got a meat and two veg or not.”

“I find that sad.” I said.

“Come on love, you can’t change sex, it isn’t possible. I mean could you imagine trying to be a boy?”

“I suppose not,” I lied, I was reeling from shock.

“You can’t turn a man into a woman or vice versa. They are deluding themselves.”

“I think I would disagree with you.” My father who had obviously been listening entered the fray. “I’ve had two students, one going from male to female and the other going the other way. Both made excellent transitions, and as far as I know have had surgery, and live happy and productive lives.”

“A minority, who changed over early. This character is middle-aged and has no chance of making a convincing woman.”

“I’m surprised you’re so judgemental.” Commented my father, “if they think they feel better to change their lives and their identity, shouldn’t they be allowed to do so?”

“Should the NHS pay for these oddballs, to do it? This one had it courtesy of the tax-payers.”

“Why not, if it’s recognised as a medical condition, then shouldn’t it be? We fund all sorts of treatments which some would find questionable. I don’t have a problem with it.”

“So resources get diverted to pay for some pervert to have his willie removed instead of some old lady having a hip replacement, or some cancer sufferer having the right drug.”

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” asked my dad.

“With this lot in power, I’d believe anything.” John was revealing a side I had no idea existed. It wasn’t nice and I was glad I hadn’t told him. What happened to the philosopher? This was a reactionary bigot.

“I agree with daddy, I think we should help people who are in distress with their gender.”

“Most of them don’t know what distress is. How can you compare it to the suffering of someone in real pain, not some nancy-boy imaginings. Ooh, I’m a girl in a man’s body.” He said in a camp voice while hold his wrist bent.

“Have you met any, transgendered people?” asked my father.

“Only in the back streets of the red-light districts of many cities, luring stupid squaddies to part with their cash, in return for some dreadful disease.”

“Presumably, some of these were quite convincing?”

“The Thais were, the Europeans, less so.”

“But you don’t approve?”

“No. I’m not into same-sex stuff, no matter what a surgeon has or hasn’t done. Once a boy always a boy.”

“The government doesn’t agree. But only in recent years, when was it, about two thousand and five, the Gender Recognition Project, I think they called it. I got involved because of my students.”

“More taxpayers money wasted, giving legal status to these nutters.”

“I actually supported it, and still do.” Said my father, laying down clear boundaries.

John who felt himself outnumbered, and on someone else’s territory made a tactical withdrawal. “Well whatever, it’s hardly important, is it. Did you see the test scores, England look in a strong position to keep the Ashes (a cricket trophy played for between England and Australia).

I had finished my toast and excusing myself on the pretext of a shower, went upstairs and burst into tears. My perfect man had a flaw, and it was a very unexpected one. However, it would destroy us as a couple. We had no chance with his attitude, and attitudes are so difficult to change. The immediate question, is what do I do next?

I stood in the shower, trying to wash away the reality I had just encountered. I started my wound bleeding again, though didn’t notice until there were drips of red stuff all over the shower. Part of me wished it was terminal, life was so cruel.

I had asked the goddess to help me, was she doing that or was she just playing with me? It was good, that I had heard this stuff today, it was bad, in its content. I felt so disappointed, I wanted to just die and have the ground swallow up my remains.

Yesterday, my spirits were soaring with the birds, today they were down in my boots. Not even my necklet could cheer me up. I had just realised my relationship with this, previously wonderful man, had no future. I had no future, life was effectively over.

I saw the blood in the shower, it showed me what I needed to do. I went to get my penknife.