This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 1

I was struggling to convince myself that this was a good idea. Last year, and all the years before that, I'd been able to persuade Collin that I couldn't get away from work, but since my retirement a couple of months ago, I'd lost that excuse. So, I had no easy way out this year. That still didn't mean I couldn't have thought of one. Invited to spend Christmas in the Caribbean with a friend maybe. Except I had never lied outright to my brother. The years I'd cried off because of work, I'd already signed up for the holiday shift before he asked me. Well, every time except one, but I'd already been planning to when Collin sprung the question early. So then the only untruth had involved when I actually put myself forward for Christmas cover. Enough to convince myself it wasn’t a lie.

I'd avoided coming to Colin's for Christmas for nigh on twenty years now, and there was a reason for it. Nothing to do with the reason I gave him year after year.

Work would have been able to find someone to cover over the holiday season if I hadn’t always offered, but it would have meant someone else would miss out over the break, and I appreciated having the excuse.

Colin would damn the place to the hottest hell – which I'll admit I found quite endearing – then he'd ask me why in the name of intercourse (not quite his choice of words) I kept working there if they never gave me a Christmas off. Here was another time I danced in the grey zone between truth and untruth. I didn’t need the cover, but it meant I could work for a week at double my usual wage, and that meant I could afford to pay for all the bloody gifts I ended up buying for all my nephews and nieces, and my great nephews and great nieces

And that’s where the problem really lay. Always has. Karen and I could never have kids – probably a blessing given the way things fell apart between us, but probably a lot of the reason why they did in the end. The flip side of that was Colin and Amy couldn't seem to stop. They had five in the end, and thirteen grand kids, and if that wasn't rubbing enough salt in the wounds, there was the way he treated some of them.

You see, one of his sons was gay. He had an effeminate air about him that he couldn't help, any more than his father could hide the distaste that he should be responsible for bringing such a thing into the world. He was brutal with his efforts to change the poor lad’s nature and, when his son finally stood up to him on his seventeenth birthday and announced he was gay, Collin disowned him and threw him out of the house.

I knew my brother could be a bastard. but I didn't know how much until young Peter turned up on my doorstep in tears. He told me everything and it was only because he pleaded for me not to, that I didn't go round and beat the excrement out of Colin then and there.

Try to at least. My brother's always been a lot stronger than me, and he'd have handed me my arse on a plate. So instead, Peter stayed with me till he found his feet. Karen had long since left by then and it did turn a few heads that I was shacking up with my homosexual nephew. But you don't turn your back on family.

I helped him find a job and a place to live. It took eight months, but he had a lot to work through. I never did confront Collin about it, but I take a lot of satisfaction in knowing that Pete's happily settled and living contentedly with his boyfriend, and Collin's spitting feathers about it.

Then there's Lily and Pam, the twins.

I should mention that Peter was Collin and Amy's third child. Their first was Raymond. Honestly, if a name could send you gay, it should have been him, then Mandy, and after Peter came Russell and Lisa.

Lily and Pam were Mandy's girls. She raised them on her own after her husband decided he couldn't handle having twins and abandoned them. I choose not to remember his name.

Whether or not it was their mother's bitterness helped turn them against men, I can't say, but they're both growing up to be fiercely independent misandrist lesbians, the both of them.

Collin hates it, but Mandy gives as good as she gets and stands up to him every time he makes a comment.

Raymond produced six of of assorted age and gender before agreeing to a vasectomy while Russell has only produced four so far, however he seems to have the self control necessary to limit his output without medical intervention.

Lastly, there's Max, Lisa's little boy. Pretty much everyone else in the next generation down has turned out alright, according to my brother in any case. Boys growing up into real men, girls into real women – except for the twins of course – and Max.

Honestly, if you wanted stronger evidence of a genetic link. Three out of thirteen of the grand kids, one out of five of the kids and, if only he knew, one more in our generation. That makes five out of twenty in our family. One in four, or thereabouts.

Of course, I've never let on about my issues. When I was growing up, it was the sort of thing you kept swept under the rug. I mean there were other people like me about lurking in the shadows, but that was the only place for them when I was a kid.

For me too.

It was against the law to be gay in the UK until nineteen sixty-seven, and the public feeling against those sort of people' – my dad's choice of phrase – was pretty negative right up until the eighties when they finally found the courage to stand up and say enough was enough.

I grew up in a household where both Mum and Dad – and eventually Collin – would voice their disapproval whenever the likes of Larry Grayson or Kenneth Williams appeared on the telly or the radio. That wasn't really me, but they were just as outspoken against the people like Stanley Baxter, Dick Emery or Dame Edna Everage.

Dads humour veered towards the likes of Benny Hill, which saddens me that he could find pleasure in the objectification of women and be utterly disgusted by anyone who was struggling to cope with being one with the wrong sort of genitalia.

Mum and Dad are gone now, and they've taken their casual racism and homophobia with them. Wherever they are, I hope they've found some understanding of how unkind their thoughtless behaviour was. I have to hope they've found some way of changing themselves and finding forgiveness, because I can't imagine what kind of hell it must be like trapped in that sort of narrowness of mind. I wonder how they might have felt if they'd ever discovered how completely trapped they made one of their sons feel.

They tend to lump us all in together these days, the T's with the L's, the G's and the B's. For the most part, I don't think the majority feel us minority members belong with them, and maybe they even resent that we're along for the ride.

I'm not so sure we are that different though. It's all turning out to have some sort of genetic cause and, even though I can't imagine myself being sexually attracted to someone of the same gender, I have always felt that I belonged on the other side of the fence.

And that, of course, means that I either want to become a lesbian, or I want to become someone who is attracted to men, which means in my current physical state, perhaps I do possess some degree of latent homosexuality – though I'm not sure how much sense that makes, if any.

Perhaps it just reflects something of the intense confusion that exists in my life, has always existed there, ever since I learned, at a very young age, that this thing in me was not for sharing. That the real me inside would have to remain hidden from the world, and that the only version of me I could share with anyone was a facade – a thin veneer of respectability to a majority for whom I felt very little respect. A porcelain mask of exquisite delicacy that might shatter in a moment’s carelessness, never to be repaired.

It wasn’t a way I wanted to live, but I didn’t have much choice. I could never share my reality with my family. My mother, father and brother made it repeatedly and abundantly clear that they could never accept the filthy creature that dwelt behind the mask – without even the least suspicion I lurked there – but perhaps the person I was destined to love might.

It was a hopeless fairy-tale, doomed to failure from the outset. By the time I met Karen, I had become so good at playing the part that it was never me she fell in love with, but the mask I wore. When, in hope and desperation, I allowed her to glimpse the real me underneath, she recoiled, and in that moment, even before we were married, the thinnest end of a wedge was inserted into an all but invisible crack in our... well, I find myself unable to call it love as I look back on it.

But what then? It felt like love, except it was built on a lie, and I have to own that the lie was me. The hard outer shell my family had manufactured for me without even realising. Not that I consider myself at fault for the lie. My nature was as much the product of my parents' influence as their environment was the product of theirs. The blame for my sad predicament spread so far and thin across both time and space it was impossible to assign it to any one source.

It was there nonetheless and, I feel, would have eroded the good will between my lovely Karen and myself either way. Had I indulged my inner demons, either openly or in secret, my wife would have undoubtedly noticed in time and would have learned to despise me for my weakness. I would have lost her in any case, along with any reputation I might have built among my peers, and would have become a far more wretched thing than ever I was. Instead I battled my nature every day, a veritable Bellerophon to the Chimera that sought to destroy all I cared for. I threw myself into my work, becoming the sort of tyrant who sets an unreasonable example and expects the same effort from those under his control. It marked me for success since, as much as I was hated and feared by my subordinates, so I was appreciated by those above me.

I gave them good value for the wage they paid me and so I was promoted again and again. This success encouraged me to spend longer hours at work, and when Karen confronted me with the manner in which I was neglecting her, it was my hard outer shell that responded rather than the softer inner part of me I had worked so hard to suppress. I sneered at her and asked if this was not the man she had fallen in love with. It did not take many encounters like that before she decided she would find a happier life elsewhere, which, of course, she did and I don't blame her for it. The manner of her departure was not gentle. It didn't cost me a great deal financially since she found her way into the arms of someone who showed her more affection before informing me of her intention to leave. I think she wanted to see some modicum of regret or remorse, but I held too tight a rein on my emotions for that. Even her final tirade before she left me for the last time could not break through my armour, though it left behind a significant chink.

After she left, I threw myself even deeper into my work. I doubt I achieved anything of lasting worth though. Some part of my inner self peaked out through the cracks Karen left in my facade, and I became less autocratic towards those who worked under me. With the reduction in my ruthlessness, my ascent of the corporate ladder slowed and stopped. I was side-lined. Still useful for the continuous effort I made, and for my willingness to take on onerous tasks like the Christmas holiday cover, but I was no longer a man of interest. It didn't concern me. My income was more than sufficient for my solitary existence, and the daily routine of work enabled me to hide the empty pointlessness of my life.

I coasted my way through a couple of decades to my retirement, a gold watch the only evidence of their appreciation of my efforts. I never wore it. It remained in its box on my bedside table as a reminder of the manner in which I'd waste my life. Two months of reflection since they shook my hand and showed me the door. Two moths of rattling around inside the cold, empty walls of my home.

No. Not a home. No memories, no emotions evoked from being there other than cold hard regret. As cold and hard as the mask I had always worn.

It occurred to me that the only truly worthwhile thing I had done with my life had been the few months I had given to my nephew, helping him to recover from his father's rejection and start to build his own life. It was the only reason I'd decided to come this Christmas. Not for me, not for my brother nor anyone else, but for Max. There was something about him that put me in mind of the quivering wreckage that lay at the core of my own being, locked up and wasting away behind the walls I'd built over so many years.

Only he had no walls. Not yet. He was like a hermit crab with no shell; vulnerable, weak, but still free. He was worth making an effort for, though exactly what that effort was going to be, I had no clue.

As for the rest of them, even Lisa who had no idea how much her child needed her, no idea how to stand up to the brutish bully of a man she had married – so much like her father. As for them, all of them, I found I didn't care one bit.

Apart from Max, my being here was not a good idea, and I wasn't at all sure if I could do anything for him. He was only twelve, on the cusp of becoming a man and with no idea what that would do to him. Or maybe he did have an idea, in which case all the worse for watching the yawning abyss opening up before him.

I’d certainly had no clue at his age, but things change. The world he was growing up in was very different from the one I remember.

"Gerald!" Collin's expression contained more surprise than welcome. Perhaps he’d expected me to make some excuse, and honestly I wouldn't blame him given my track record.

Amy's reaction behind him was more telling, and not in a great way.

"You did invite me. I didn't say no this time. If I'm not expected, I'm sure I can find somewhere to stay."

"Nonsense. It's great to see you. Come on in. We'll make it work... somehow."

"Hi Gerry," Amy said. “Glad you could make it this year." She wore a smile on her face, but it only went skin deep if that, and her eyes were looking daggers at her husband.

"I'll go," I said. “I obviously misunderstood." I turned to leave.

“Gerald, wait." Collin understood my reaction. He knew how much I hated my name, but I've seriously opposed any attempt to shorten it. Gerald at least has some dignity to it, whereas Gerry...! Amy should know as well, which meant she was being deliberately unpleasant. I turned and gave Collin a world-weary look. "Okay, fine,” he continued, “we didn't really expect you to come. We've been asking for twenty years now bro.” That wasn’t a term I've ever particularly liked either.

“And every year before now I've declined and given my excuse until this year. You didn't think my retirement might not make a difference.?"

"Only to the excuse," Amy said from relative safety behind her husband. I took a step back towards the door and she recoiled. I gave her a look. I mean did she really think I was about to become combative? I held out a festive carrier bag filled with presents, close enough for my brother to take.

"I'll not stay where I'm not welcome. Happy Christmas, to both of you and everyone else."

"At least come for Christmas lunch tomorrow," Collin said, moving to avoid the jab his wife aimed at his ribs. “Some of us would be glad to see you at least." He put his arm around Amy and held her tight enough to stop her from attacking him. I looked at her and waited for her to return my gaze, at which point I arched an eyebrow. It was her Christmas too and I don’t want to ruin it for her if that’s what I'd end up doing.

"We'll be glad to have you," she said, her expression and her voice making a lie of her words.

"In which case I'll be glad to come," I kept my own expression neutral. "What time?"

"We'll probably eat about three o'clock," Amy said, her arms crossed tightly in front of her.

“But come any time from mid-morning," Collin chipped in. "You came by car?"

I nodded.

"I won't invite you in for a drink then. It's good to see you, Gerald."

"You too Colin. And you Amy." she snorted at me. She’d been close to Karen, probably still was, so she probably knew more about my failings than I did. It had been quite a few years since Karen and I split up though, and as far as I knew, she’d found someone who treated her better than I ever did, so why Amy couldn’t let it go was beyond me.

I headed back to my car, Collin shutting the door behind me before I reached the gate. The weather was mild, possibly even double figures. Atypical for December, but not unexpected with what we were doing to the planet. I put my overnight case back in the boot and sat behind the steering wheel, ignition Key on the dashboard in front of me in case any passing policeman decided to try insisting I’d been using my phone while driving.

Christmas Eve meant all the hotels would be full, or closed, or overcharging, even in a backwoods place like this. I pulled up the Airbnb app on my phone and did a local search. The nice places would be booked, but all I wanted was somewhere warm and preferably clean to lay my head. I didn’t particularly want to face the two hour drive home. I found a mobile home on a nearby caravan park and, having been assured that it was warm, I booked it for a couple of days. The satnav told me it was just five minutes away, which meant maybe half an hour's walk. I’ve never been much for exercise, but neither did I care for the prospect of a dry Christmas, and half an hour's walk wasn’t unreasonable, especially if I had till mid-morning to get there.

The trailer park had its own wifi, which meant I could download a book or two – my Christmas present to myself. The shops were closed but I found a solitary Chinese take-away whose proprietor had chosen to remain open despite the lack of custom. I think he was at least as pleased to have me justify his decision to do so as I was to find a source of food. I may have overindulged a little in placing my order, at least in part to show my gratitude, but also in part because I've had a tendency to over indulge since my marriage fell apart.

Nor is it the only indulgence I allowed myself. I almost certainly wouldn't have been able to make use of it at Colin and Amy's but I had, as usual, packed it just in case. I knew what I looked like in it, but no-one had to look, myself included, and I could feel the ever present tension between my shoulder blades ease as I closed my eyes and drank in the music.

Yeah, I know there's nothing particularly Christmasy about Pink Floyd, but not everyone is into carols, and some of us will argue that no decent music has been written since the end of the seventies. Besides, there was something about this particular album that spoke to me on a deep level. Lyrics rarely match what’s going through your mind exactly, but these did pretty well. Even the first short intro spoke to me this time.

"If you didn't care what happened to me...”

Well nobody much had. My parents would have argued with me over that, but all they had cared about was that I should become what they wanted me to be. They'd never really been inclined to listen to what I'd wanted. Same with Karen. She'd fallen for the mask, and when that turned out to be just a rigid shell, she'd run away rather than poke around under the surface. Mind you, I hadn't made it easy for her. I'd shut everyone out and now nobody cared what happened to me. If that wasn't true, I wouldn't be lying on a bed in someone else's mobile home on Christmas Eve all by myself.

“And I didn't care for you."

That set me thinking about Max. Peter and the twins too, but Peter had pretty much dug his way out of the shit that was his past, and the twins had claws and teeth enough to hold their own. Max had none of that, and I did care. I wasn't sure about zigzagging through boredom and pain, or glancing up through the rain, but I had wondered which bugger was to blame for putting him, and even the younger me, into our respective places of misery and despair.

Dogs brought out the cold rage in me. Once upon a time I'd been on the fast track to become one of those bastards. My retaliation against the world. If I couldn't be me then why the fuck should anyone else find any pleasure in life. I'd have probably made it too, right down to the club tie and the cold handshake, if losing Karen hadn't knocked the wind out of my sails. I'd shown too much weakness then. I'd cared that I'd lost her. I'd realised that I cared about how much of a bastard I'd been to my staff. I don't know how much I'd actually trusted those just a little further up the food chain, but I had turned my back just for a moment and they'd taken the opportunity and stuck the knife in. Not once, but several times – side-lining me, blocking any further advancement, not that I particularly cared about that. Then that final ignominy of that bloody golden watch as they showed me the door. They were arseholes and I could feel my blood pressure spiking as I thought of them.

All of a sudden, it felt like the words were aimed at me again. 'Who was born in a house full of pain?' What else would you call growing up in an environment where you couldn't be yourself, when who you felt you were inside had no chance of acceptance, even by those who claimed to love you? 'Who was trained not to spit in the fan?" All those casually dropped marks of how disgusting it was for a man to pretend to be a woman. Perhaps shit in the fan might have been more appropriate, but either way, if I'd tried to express how I felt, the result would have been comparable to spraying something revolting over all the decent people in the room. 'who was told what to do by The Man?' my father, obviously, but to a lesser extent, my mother and my brother too.

The list went on. Broken by trained personnel, fitted with collar and chain, all the ways I'd been compressed into a shape that wasn't me. 'Breaking away from the pack! Not quite the meaning in the song, but after Karen left, how I'd felt unable to play the same part. "Only a stranger at home.' It was always easier to live with the denial at work where I could inhabit the persona of an angry boss and turn all the pain inside into rage. At home I had no-one else to be, and the people I loved never knew who I was inside. 'Ground down in the end.’ Overlooked by my family, rejected by my wife, let go by my superiors for not being the fucking bastard they wanted me to be. Grinding down is a slow process – a death of a thousand cuts.

‘Found dead on the phone.’

I felt a tightness across my chest. Not so unlike the feeling of wearing a bra, but one that was too tight. It hurt and spread into my back, my arms, my neck. I felt lightheaded, dizzy, nauseous.

‘Dragged down by the stone!’

I tried to get up, but barely had the strength to move my arms. Sweat beaded on my skin, then cooled.

“It’s too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around." In truth, I hadn't really started gaining weight until after Karen left, which was also around the time I stopped being a bastard at work. The weight came on even so, and I knew I was carrying a lot more than was healthy. I had a pretty good idea what was happening to me. I had my phone in my hand, but it showed my playlist and I couldn't think clearly enough to bring up the keypad. I needed to call emergency services, but my fingers were numb and clumsy. I dropped the phone, leaned over to retrieve it, half fell out of the bed.

‘So have a good drown, as you go down, all alone, dragged down by the stone!’

I sat up, my mind suddenly clear, my movements easier than they had been in years. I was still wearing the nightdress, but so was the bloated figure sprawled across the bed.

"That's not great," I said to no-one in particular. It's a habit you fall into when you live alone, talking even when there's nobody there.

“It's not, is it?" no-one in particular replied. I turned to find a man with long dark hair, a beard and a deep tan.

"I take it I'm.."

"Yes."

"So that would mean you're..."

"I imagine so." He smiled a friendly smile.

"Collin's not going to like this." I waved at my corpse. My nightdress – his nightdress that is – had ridden up to the point where he wasn't exactly decent. I tried to tug it down but my hands passed through as though it wasn't there.

“Most likely not, but that’s his problem now."

"Implying that I should focus on my own?"

"If you like."

"I wasn't ever much of a believer," I said.

“You weren’t given much of an opportunity to be. I, on the other hand have always believed in you."

I snorted. “There’s quite a lot of me. I imagine it would be hard not to believe in me."

"That's not what I meant, and I'm pretty sure you know it." There was only the faintest amount of reproof in his tone.

"I wasn't a very nice person," I said. This wouldn't be news to him, assuming he was who I thought he was.

"Agreed, but yet again, you weren't given much of a chance. And you did change."

"I drove my wife away."

"And after she left?"

"What do you mean?"

"What happened at work?"

"Well my bosses weren't that impressed with me."

"I don't have as much faith in your bosses. Then there's what you did for Peter."

"I didn't think you had a lot of time for people like Peter."

"You'd be surprised."

"So what happens now?"

"That rather depends on you."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd like to show you something." He gestured with his hand and rather abruptly, we were standing in the hallway of my brother's house.

Given what I was wearing, I felt suddenly very self-conscious, looking around, waiting for someone to point and laugh. My companion smiled.

"They can't see us you know? I thought you'd be more comfortable in that since it's what you chose to wear this evening, but if you'd prefer something else..."

Sometimes you don't know what you want until someone's about to take it away from you. I'd felt that way about Karen and now...

"No! It’s fine. I'm fine."

"Upstairs then, in the bathroom."

We climbed the stairs silently, there wasn’t even a noise from the steps I knew were creaky. The bathroom door was closed and locked but he guided me through it, as insubstantial to me as my body and my night clothes had been earlier.

"Max!" I exclaimed. He lay sprawled across the floor, wearing something I guessed belonged to his mother, makeup inexpertly applied, but not entirely clownish. Beside him was an empty pill bottle. “We have to help him!" I shouted at the man. "Her I mean."

He pointed. Nearby a figure, much like the one on the bathroom floor, was drifting away, eyes open but apparently oblivious to his or her surroundings.

"You may have heard a thing or two about suicide."

"It's one of those mortal sins, isn't it? Like I thought being gay was."

"There's a lot of misunderstanding going about."

"Then why don't you do something about it?"

"I am. Just not in the way you think I should. Take Max here. Like other suicides, he has cut himself off from anyone who might help him. Even I cannot reach him in this state."

He moved ahead of Max's ghostly form only to be ignored. Somehow Max contrived to drift past him without passing through him or seemingly changing his intended path.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"I can't help anyone who won't look to me for help."

"So what do you expect me to do about it? I mean if you can't do anything, what am I supposed to be able to do?"

"Is there anything you'd like to do?"

"Of course there is! I want to help him!"

"Even if it would cost you?"

"Yes! Even if it would cost me! I can't leave him like that!"

"Then don't."

"But what..."

"Why don't you try something?"

"Like what?"

"If you and Max were together right now, what would you want to do for him?"

"I'd. .."

"He's here, Gerald, and so are you. You could stop talking about it. If you want." He sounded like his patience was wearing a little thin. I'm not sure I can blame him. I was being more than a little obtuse.

I ran after Max's retreating form, planting myself in his path Once again, he drifted onto a different course, looking to get past without seeming to. I stepped into his way again. When he tried to avoid me yet again, I reached out and took hold of his shoulders, half expecting my hands to pass through him, but they didn't. I steered him until he was looking at me. It took several tries, but eventually his eyes met mine and I saw recognition in their depths.

"Hello Max," I said gently

"I don't like that name," he replied distractedly.

"I don't like mine either. Do you know who I am?"

He shook his head.

"I'm your grandfather's brother. My name is Gerald. What would you like me to call you?"

He shrugged. “I didn't think I had a choice."

"You do with me. How about Maxine?"

He scrunched up his nose.

"No. I suppose too much like Max. Like Gerry for me, not that that’s used as a girl's name very often. As for Geraldine... Well, I suppose I can see what you mean. Making a girl’s name just by adding I-N-E feels like cheating, doesn't it?"

The ghost of a smile played around his lips, though I'm not sure how appropriate that term was, given our current circumstances.

"I like your nightdress," he said.

"Thank you. You don't think it makes me look a bit fat?"

That earned me a giggle. I may not have been feeling my weight since I'd died, but my appearance was the same, just as what was left of Max looked like the body lying on the bathroom floor.

“I like your dress," I told him. Two sizes too big and meant for someone a couple of decades older, but I still liked it.

"It's my mum's," he murmured. “She'd kill me if she caught me wearing it."

"Except you already took care of that, didn't you, Max?"

He winced, but whether at my confronting him with the truth or making use of his name again, I couldn't be sure. I decided to go with the former.

My natural instinct was to rant at him, but I had wisdom enough not to do so. He'd already withdrawn from the world far enough that he felt this was his best option. The last thing he needed was another earful of crap.

"I can't imagine what it must be like to feel that your best option is to take your own life. Was there really no-one you could talk to?"

He shook his head and, as I reflected on the other occupants of the house, I realised he was probably right.

"You know the way I've never been around at Christmas before this?" I asked and received a tentative nod in response. "I decided to come this year. Can you guess why?"

This earned me a shake of the head.

"It's because I've been worried about you. I wanted to be here for you. It looks like I'm a little late. I'm sorry Max."

He winced again, which answered my earlier confusion. Well that was something I probably could fix, and there was no-one around to stop me.

"Did you know, your name means "greatest?" I asked.

He snorted and shrugged.

"I'm guessing you've never been made to feel that."

Again he shrugged.

"My name apparently means 'rule of spear', which describes me at my worst, so I've never liked it. I've spent quite a while looking for another and there are a few I've decided I quite like. I wonder if you might be interested in choosing one."

Third shrug in a row.

"There's Keren, which is a Hebrew girl's name meaning strength."

He paused a moment, probably over the idea of it being a girl’s name, but ultimately shook his head.

"I decided against that one too. A little bit too much like my former wife's name. Bree is another. Irish this time, with the same meaning."

Again the pause while he tried it on for size. Again the shake of the head.

"Or how about Abrielle? That one's French and it means 'God is my strength'." His eyes lit up. No delay this time. When something’s right you just know it, it seems.

"Abrielle it is then." I smiled at the newly rechristened and, in my mind at least, regendered young girl.

"I suppose all we have to do now is find one for me. That and figure out what we're going to do for the rest of eternity."

"Actually, perhaps not." The man I'd first encountered was still with us, lingering in the background, now coming to the fore, "And I heartily approve your choice of name."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You know, you say that a lot? I was wondering if you'd care to go back and have another go."

Max's – sorry, I mean Abrielle's – eyes grew wide and round. She took a step behind me, seeking protection from perhaps the last being in existence she needed it from.

"It seems you may be right, because I’m about to do it again. What do you mean? Do you mean I can go back to being me?"

"I'm afraid not. That was a fairly spectacular heart failure you experienced. There isn't really anything to go back to."

"Then what?"

"I'm not going back," Abrielle said more forcefully than at any other time I'd known her... or him.

"I'm sorry, dear heart, but you've nothing to go forward to from here. However, you could go back together:"

"What?" Abrielle and I answered together.

"One body, two minds. Gerald, you wanted to help, so lend her your strength and experience. Abrielle, go back and find your true self, then come back and find me when you've lived a full life. Both of you together. How does that sound?"

"You mean she isn't..."

"Not quite, but very nearly."

There was a loud banging on the bathroom door. "Max? Are you still in there?"

The unmistakable voice of my brother's son-in-law, Max's – or rather Abrielle's – father. I don't know what that makes her to me: I don't really understand the rules of genealogy, and, frankly, I don't much like to consider that he and I are related. As I think I 've mentioned, he was a bully, and a worse one than either Collin or my dad.

"They won't get to her in time," our companion said, “unless you go back with her. You have the will to cling on to life until you don’t have to any more, but you have to decide now."

"What will happen to us?" I asked.

"You'll save Abrielle's life, and the two of you will live together in her body. Eventually you'll merge into one person, a little like in marriage?”

I thought about my experience of marriage and that of my parents and my brother. "You mean one of us will overwhelm the other until the lesser person either fades into nothing or runs away?"

"That's not how marriage is meant to work."

"Except it's the way it does work, at least in my experience."

"Not if you care for each other. Not if you're prepared to make concessions. If you're both prepared to give up the worst of yourselves, you'll both change and move towards becoming something better."

"What if it doesn't work out? what if one of us ends up wanting a divorce?"

"Not an option in this case; till death do you part. But even arranged marriages work if you both commit to one another. My own parents didn't have a lot to say about who they married and it worked out well for them."

"What happens to me if I say no?" it felt like a coward's question, but it needed to be asked.

More banging on the door. "Max? Don't make me come in there!"

"Then you'll have to move on knowing you could have done something, but didn't."

On the surface that sounded a little unfair, but he said it purely as a matter of fact. He was right of course. I'd come with the intent of trying to help him – her – so just how much was I prepared to give in order to do that?

"Yes, but where will I end up?"

"Heaven and hell are more a state of mind than a place of harps and clouds or fire and brimstone. The worst hell is the one where you've shut everyone out and you spend eternity on your own."

Again simply a statement of fact, and one that had more dire consequences for Abrielle than me, if I chose not to help her.

I turned to the small figure beside me. "What do you say? Want to give it a go? I'm not quite ready to give up on living."

"Max!" The shout was followed by the loudest thump yet. It made us both wince, but I held out my hand.

"Promise you'll never leave me."

"I don't think I'll have the choice, but sure, I promise."

Hesitantly, she took my hand and everything went dark. The last thing I heard as consciousness fled was Max's mother screaming "My dress! I was going to wear that tomorrow!"