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SNAFU Part 35

by Angharad

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

*****

If Sekhmet could help, she didn’t as far as I knew. I spent a troubled night tossing and turning, worrying about this assignment and how it was all going to end in disaster unless I could do something.

At one point I went to the loo, and decided to have a cuppa while I was up. For some unknown reason, I checked my mobile. I had a message from Chloe. Curiouser and curiouser. How had she got my number? What was all this about?

At three in the morning, I could hardly call her back, so I sent her a text. “Can we meet? Tell me where ’n’ when. Jamie.” After this I went back to bed, but took my mobile with me. Just as well, it rang as I was starting to doze.

“Hello.” I said.

“Hi Jamie, I got your text message. I would like to help with your problem,” said Chloe.

I wasn’t quite sure how she could anymore than she was, but things happen for a reason and I needed to see what that reason was. We chatted on, and agreed to meet later that day, for lunch. I then decided it was too late to sleep and did some more meditation.

For the uninitiated, meditation can supply the same sort of ease as sleep. If you’re good at it or lucky, it can help your brain relax and produce Theta waves. I was at it for three hours, after which, while no further forward, I did feel relaxed and slightly rested. I then went for a ride on my bike.

At six or seven in the morning, with a slight crispness in the air, I enjoyed the simple challenge of pushing the bike up hill and down dale. I was concentrating on the effort, but my unconscious mind was playing with answers to my current dilemmas.
By seven thirty, I was back and in the shower. I ate a simple breakfast with my parents, who both rushed off to work at eight. While the eco-friendly part of me preferred the bicycle as a means of transport, I needed a car. I mentioned this to dad, who told me one of the neighbours was selling a reasonable runabout and to contact them. He’d underwrite the cost, but as a loan. It seemed I was growing up.

I spoke to the neighbour, agreed a price for the car and then spent two hours trying to insure it. It cost almost as much as the car. The trials of youth and no no-claim bonus. Eventually, it was organised and I took possession of my very own car, a seven year old Mini cooper, with 65,000 miles on the clock. The car was dark green, and called British Racing Green, from the colours used in the early Twentieth Century, Britain was green, Italy red, France blue and so on.

I took it for a short test drive and it had quite a nippy acceleration and had been looked after, it was immaculate. I was very happy with my new toy.

I had spoken to Don who was still pursuing some leads and chasing up the report’s author. I continued trying to rack my brain into providing some useful answers, but could think of nothing either for my own difficulty, or the more immediate one of prevention of an assassination of a US president.

I decided to bless my car, and having purified some water with an ancient Egyptian ritual, performed one that I might have been involved in many lifetimes before. I almost had flashbacks to being a priestess blessing the war chariot of the pharaoh, but it could have simply been my imagination. This was now my war chariot.

I drove my new acquisition to the quiet pub Chloe had suggested. When I was a kid, I had imagined having my own car and driving out to little country pubs with a girlfriend. Here I was, doing exactly that; except the script had gone wrong somewhere. This wasn’t a date in the normal sense, and despite Chloe being reasonably attractive, it seemed I wasn’t interested in her in a sexual sense.

However, some more friends of my own age group would be good, especially ones with arcane interests. So this might prove a useful liaison in several respects.

As I had dressed for this meeting, I’d felt slightly embarrassed, suddenly aware of my recent conversion to the female sex, compared to Chloe having presumably been born one.

My embarrassment had surprised me. As I stood before the mirror clad only in my undies, I recognised that I was actually quite pretty and with a reasonably voluptuous body. Most men would probably find me sexier than Chloe, yet she would have had a lifetime of being herself, while I had not long passed out of the novice class. John had taught me a lot about interacting with men, although I’d never managed the final test, yet.

So this strange feeling made me want to girlify myself more than I usually did, compensating in some way perhaps? I wasn’t sure.

I dressed in very well coordinated separates, a matching skirt and top. The skirt was long and gathered, edged with lace and the top was scoop necked with short sleeves. The neck and sleeves were edged in matching lace.

The pattern of the outfit was a mixture of greens and reds and pinks in the shape of roses. I wore brown boots with a two inch heel, and a string of beads around my neck. My makeup was subdued, lip gloss, mascara and blusher. My hair, I wore down and straight, the ends curling under at the shoulders. A squirt of a light perfume, and I left.

Chloe was waiting for me in her car in the pub car park. She had a three year old Corsa, in blue. So far so good. The energies were okay, so I got out of the car. We waved to each other and she got out of her Vauxhall.

We hugged like long lost friends, which surprised me slightly, then went into the pub. She ordered a soft drink for each of us and we found a quiet table in the corner where we could talk.

She was as tall as I was, and was wearing a cord suit in russet colour. We explored the menu and ordered a bar meal. There were perhaps half a dozen people in the bar, and as I perceived no threat from any of them I paid them no further attention.
We chatted quietly about trifling things waiting for our food, then after this began to move things along a bit. “How do you know Andy?” I asked her.

“I was student of his a couple of years ago. I was interested in the Israelite exodus from Egypt and did my dissertation on it. Good old Rameses.” She smiled as she said this and blushed.

I pretended to ignore it, and carried on eating. “I read palms.” She suddenly said, “Would you like me to read yours?”

“I don’t know.” I said, being taken aback somewhat by this sudden revelation. I put down my knife and turned over my hand, displaying the palmar surface for her examination. “What do you think?” I asked with an element of apprehension.

“It’s a very interesting hand,” she said. “You are very psychic, you have a long hand. Your life line is extraordinarily long, although it seems to have a break quite early on as if your life changed suddenly, maybe about your teens or early adulthood. How’m I doing?”

I felt a discomfort, how much could she actually tell from contact with me, and boy was she having contact, stroking my hand. “Your Venus and Mars areas are very interesting, you are very sensual and have, how shall I put it, an experimental approach to sex.”

I wanted to draw my hand away, this was all too true. I was also aware that we were becoming the object of attention of the whole bar. I felt like I was being chatted up. Shit! I was being chatted up, by a girl. She was several years too late, and possibly a whole life time. The current dilemma, to avoid her advances without all the pub becoming involved.

“Sorry,” I said, “but you’re way off. I’m very conventional in my attitude to sex ask my boyfriend, he’ll tell you.” I withdrew my hand from hers, leaving her feeling a little rejected.

“Are you sure?” she asked, “Because that wasn’t what I saw in your hand.”

“Yes, I am certain.”

“My guides told me that you were someone whom I should get to know.”

“Into spiritualism are you?” I asked pursuing the non-contact element.

“I am mediumistic. I sat with Mrs Carver for three or four years.”

“Sorry, I don’t know Mrs Carver.” I offered in genuine ignorance.

“She is the most respected medium in this whole county, perhaps the whole of southern England.”

“I didn’t know. What guides did she give you?”

“A red Indian medicine man called, Soaring Bird, and an African witchdoctor called, Matubetu. Why?”

“I can’t see anyone like that with you, but you have a woman wearing what looks like sixteenth century peasant clothes, her name’s Jenny something. Hang on, she said Jenny Wren, like Sir Christopher who was a distant relation. She apparently helps you with your clairsentience, and behind you is a man in a white coat, Dr Whittington I think he said. Yes, he did. He helps you with your healing activities. He said,” You need to practice more often.” I can also see an Indian, as in Sikh, he is your doorkeeper and protects you. His name is Dal Singh.”

I could see a group of folk around her, growing by the minute. “Hang on your grandmother is here. She sends love from your mother, who is busy at the moment.”

“You can see all this can’t you?” she said, once her open mouth had closed, and begun functioning again.

“Yes. I’m sorry you lost your mother.”

“I haven’t.” she retorted.

“Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry, I must have got it wrong.” As I said this, a younger looking woman appeared in front of her grandmother. She announced her name was Sylvia Blackstone, and was Chloe’s mum. She had died ten years ago from a kidney infection.

I related this to Chloe who was denying it, the denial growing louder each time she said, ”No, my mother isn’t dead.” Tears ran down her face, and then she rose up and ran out of the bar.

I followed at a discreet distance, paid the account for the meal and even turned around to deal with a lose comment I heard from one of the men as I went through the door. The voice said, “Lover’s tiff,” to which some one replied,” looks like it.”

I turned around facing the bar, with its assembled bunch of know-it-alls and quietly said, “Wrong boys, I’m her therapist. It’s the first time she’s been out for ages.” Then as the astonished looks spread over their stupid faces, I turned smartly and left.

As I got to the cars, she was speeding out of the car park and into the country lane. I reflected on our conversation, it was no help at all. In fact my insistence on being honest probably proved destructive. I had no problems with Chloe being gay, after all, I could hardly throw stones myself. I just didn’t want a girl on girl relationship.

I got into my new chariot and drove back to home. There was a message on the ansafone. “Message for Jamie Curtis, could she please call Dr Wilson…..”. I immediately called back.

A female voice said, “Hello, School of Ancient and Oriental Studies.”

“Hello,” I said hesitantly, recognising the voice and recalling the sparring I’d had with this woman. “It’s Jamie Curtis, Dr Wilson asked me to call.”

“Ah, yes he did. I’m sorry he’s busy for the moment, can I ask him to phone back?”

“Yes, that’s fine. Look, I’m sorry about the other day, I was rather off with you. I do apologise.”

“Yes you were rather. Still it’s not every day that I get threatened by the security services.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that too.”

“So you should be.” I felt firmly put in my place. “However, you are Tom’s girl, and a very pretty one at that, so I’ll accept your apology this time. Don’t however, try it on again.”

“Of course not. I had been up all night chasing terrorists, so I wasn’t at my best.”

“What!..... Here in Oxford? ……Surely not?” Suddenly her confidence seemed vulnerable.

“Fraid so.” I answered almost casually, “They get everywhere these days, and universities are prime recruiting grounds.”

“Oh my goodness. I suppose they could be.” She sounded flustered. This surprised me, after all, it was a well known fact that most hotheads are young men, and universities are full of them. They are often idealists and see life in black and white. They are easy prey for the manipulative, terrorist recruiters. There was obviously something she wasn’t telling me.

“Do you have suspicions about someone?” I asked gently.

“No. No, of course not.” She snapped back at me rather too quickly.

“We can be very discreet, no one would know they were under observation or investigation, and they certainly wouldn’t know who told us.” I felt like someone from the Stasi encouraging people to rat on their families. “Have a think about it, remember terrorists are not nice and the mayhem they cause is random and non-specific. It could be one of your family or friends who just happen to be walking past the bus or train when it blows up...”

“Alright.” She said stopping me in mid-flow. “I’ll think about it.”

“It sounds as if you have someone in mind. They tend to change in some way after they’ve been recruited, often it’s quite subtle, but someone like you would notice.” I was buttering her up.

“I don’t know, he’s…” she paused.

“Would you like me to get someone to pop over and see you?”

“No, I’d rather speak to you, I think.” So despite my unimpressive entrance previously, she had obviously forgiven me.

“Would you like me to come over?” I asked.

“Yes, you can speak with Dr Wilson and see me afterwards, we can pretend I’m catching up with your dad’s news.”

“Fine.” I said, “I’ll be about twenty or thirty minutes.”

I left after making a quick call to Don, he was pursuing the author of the report we’d seen. So far it seems to have been written by that great poet, ‘Anonymous’. Such is the Civil Service, now if the military functioned like that…Oh well.

The traffic was beginning to build up as I headed into town. I’d have been quicker on my bike. Then, the joys of parking. As I have previously admitted, it is not my forte, but with a space on the end of a parking zone, even I could do it. Alright, it took me three goes, but hey with a huge car like mine, well…

I managed to extricate myself from the car without showing too much underwear, and went into the reception area of the School of A&O studies. Monica seemed happy to see me, smiling as she said, “Dr Wilson is waiting for you.”

“Thank you.” I replied smiling back in as friendly a manner as I could, without over egging the pud. I knew where to go, and knocked on the door bearing his name. I was obviously a natural detective.

I entered as he called out. “Ah Jamie, do come in.” He seemed friendlier than when I’d last met him as he kicked me out of his group.

“Thank you.” I replied, taking the seat he offered. As far as I was concerned, he or his group had been nominated to help me by my Lady. She didn’t make mistakes, so maybe things were moving forward. I could only wait and see.

“Thanks for coming.” He said. “I’ve had a call from Chloe.”

My heart sank. If she really wanted to she could stir things up to mean I’d never get any help from him. “Oh yes.” I replied trying very hard to remain neutral.

“She seems to like you very much. I hear you had lunch together.”

“Yes we did.” I said.

“You’re very gifted, and I’d like to invite you to join our group.”

I was completely wrong-footed by his statement. It must have showed because he said, “I take it you would like to join?”

“Yes very much, although my job means I probably wouldn’t be able to come as often as I liked.”

“I think we all understand that element of everyday life.” He said smiling.

I paused before saying anything about my lunch with Chloe. “Is Chloe married?”

He chuckled as he replied, “Unlikely, she’s gay and very happy for you to know, she’s quite open about it. I’m surprised she didn’t try to chat you up over lunch. She can be a tad predatory at times, especially with someone as pretty as yourself.”

“Actually, she did.” I said blushing profusely, finding the room temperature had doubled suddenly.

“I take it you weren’t interested?”

“Not in that respect, although I’d be happy to be just a friend.” I was blushing like an infra red lamp, giving off enough heat to run a power station.

“Don’t worry, she won’t try it again. She is a lovely girl, so don’t be too put off. She is still recovering from learning that she wasted lots of time sitting in a development circle with some local psychic. When she learned all these guys are stuck in the bottom triangle, mainly Yesod, she was rather upset.

(He was referring to spheres on the Tree of Life or Qabalah, where the spheres of Yesod, Netzach and Hod, make up the bottom triangle. Yesod, is the sphere of illusion, dreams and psychic stuff, like the Astral Realms. Those aspiring to higher spiritual insights usually aim above this area. Having said that, all the spheres are sacred, and offer an aspect of the Godhead).

“On another matter, and do tell me to mind my own business.” I felt myself blushing again. “I’m still astonished that I thought Tom had a son, looking at you it’s quite obvious that he didn’t. I just had this memory of him handing out cigars at the rugger club.”

“Can I tell you something in complete confidence.”

“Of course.”

“Please, I have to have your absolute word.”

“You have it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your memory. Dad thought he had a little boy, but I was wrongly identified as a boy, which was put right soon after.”

“Well one reads of these things, and over the years I’ve had all sorts in my classes, so it doesn’t worry me a jot. A few years back we had a transsexual girl who went from Jacqueline to Jack during the second year. I was delighted the way most of the students supported him. He’s out in Africa somewhere supervising a dig, if I remember completely.”

“Thank you.” I responded.

“Don’t worry, I’ve forgotten it already.” He smiled, then said, “Can you have babies and things?”

“Only after sex.” I chose to answer obliquely to avoid telling a lie, as it was none of his business it seemed a reasonable decision. He roared at this, and we shook hands.

I went out to see Monica, she was smiling but was very nervous. So was I, it was my first time for questioning someone about a possible terror suspect. “I’ll make some coffee.” She said and disappeared through a door.

We sat at her desk and sipped the piping hot drink. “I’m probably making a huge mistake,” she said.

“No you’re not.” I replied trying to be supportive of her, encouraging her to report this student, whoever he or she was. What had I become? “We’ll be very discreet and no one will get hurt. They won’t even know they’re under investigation, unless we find something. So they’ll be okay if you’re wrong, and if you’re right, hopefully it will save many lives.”

“You’ve killed people haven’t you?” she said sidetracking me.

I felt like saying, “what relevance is that?” but I didn’t, instead I said,” Yes I have, and it’s not something which I intended nor enjoyed doing. It happened in a defensive action, which I hope saved the lives of colleagues.”

“They gave you a medal, I saw the picture in the paper.”

“They gave me two.”

“Gosh,” she said, “I thought they gave those to some nurse up country.”

“That was me.”

“How come a nurse had to kill people, don’t you take some sort of oath…”

“As a serving soldier at the time, the only oath I had taken was to serve my country and my king or queen. We were attacked by insurgents in Iraq, I fought back. Sadly, some of them were killed.”

“They gave you two medals?”

“Yeah, the other was for something that happened in this country.”

“Not the attack on the motorway?”

“No, not that one.”

“That was you too?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“There must be a third, then.” She said in increasing surprise.

“There was a gangster attack on a club I was at with a group of friends. I helped the police, they overreacted and pinned some stupid medal on me. Like the other one, it was totally undeserved.”

“What medal did they give you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does.”

“Why? It’s not important to me.” This wasn’t false modesty, I had always protested that I was undeserving of the awards.

“Please tell me.” She had switched the interrogation, becoming the questioner. It was not comfortable.

“They gave me the George medal.” I looked at the floor as I said it.

“Why are you frightened to accept your courage, and the respect of others for it?”

“I’m not.” I protested, but I knew she was right.

“So look me in the eye and tell me what the other medal was.”

It took me several seconds to do so, but I did.

“I am honoured to be sitting in the company of one so young yet so brave, and so beautiful. Your parents must be proud of you.”

“We don’t talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.” Pausing to try and regain the initiative, “Can we get back to the reason why we are here, your suspect student.”

“Oh, it isn’t a student.”

I was wrong-footed again, it was becoming a habit. “It isn’t?”

“Oh no, it’s Dr Wilson.”

“Are you winding me up? To get your own back for the other day?” Once more I found the room getting hotter as I blushed.

“Certainly not young lady. I am serious.”