Monique by Tanya Allan

Seventeen-year old Matthew Thwaites is trapped snooping in his father’s study when his father returns home unexpectedly with two strange men. He hides under the desk, and is horrified to witness his father gunned down just inches away from him. Given an opportunity to flee, he does so, but finds himself framed for his father’s murder by a corrupt policeman.   Alone and powerless, he hides out at a busy airport, but his appearance is such that he is mistaken for a girl. Given an idea, he makes the most of this, and goes whole hog into the deception, becoming Monique, his French ‘cousin’. He manages to find an ally in an officer investigating corruption amongst police officers, and together they try to piece together the puzzle.   Monique is then pitched into an international roller-coaster ride involving terrorists, corrupt police and double agents. No one is what they seem, particularly Monique. She is twice the person that Matthew ever was, and given the chance, she decides to take over, but everything seems against her.

Tanya's Book Shop where she is selling her works in book form is at http://tanyaallan.authorshaunt.com/shop.php . Please Visit!

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Originally written and posted on Sapphire's Place in 2004, Reworked & Revised in 2009.
 
The Legal Stuff:Monique  ©2004, 2009 Tanya Allan

This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited.
 
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
 
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.
 
This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don’t read it.

Author's Note
I first wrote MONIQUE many years ago, posting it on Sapphire’s Place in 2004. I have had many requests to continue Monique’s adventures, so thought I’d revisit her and see what could be done. Initially, I was appalled at the standard of writing; well it was my first attempt, almost. Then I wondered why it had been so popular, as I personally found it rather rushed and the characters somewhat shallow and two-dimensional.
 
Okay, I thought, perhaps I should continue, but not from what I had written. It needed a revamp and perhaps a tweak here and there before I even could consider any additional material.
 
So, here it is, the revamped version of Monique, with a little extra and the hope that her adventures will continue in the near future. I have started with a completely new chapter at the end, just to whet your appetites.
 
I’m not convinced that there is any mileage in continuing, so perhaps you could let me know what you think?
 
 
Chapter 1
 
 
Someone once told me that when you are terrified, your senses suddenly become heightened. Mine were, but I was shaking so much that I didn’t fully appreciate it. I hid in the knee recess of my father’s antique wooden desk, simply shaking with fear. It took all my concentration to control my bladder and sphincter muscles. Looking back at the scene now, I’m rather pleased that, in that area at any rate, I was reasonably successful.

It all started at about eight in the evening in early August, when I had been left alone in the house during the school holidays. As always when bored, I would enjoy the challenge of breaking into and going through my father’s desk, just to get some idea what he did to keep us in such style. When I was younger, that is when I was about seven or eight, I used to imagine he was a sort of James Bond-like character, as we, as a family, were fortunate enough to go all over the world and lived in such wonderful homes, so it was an easy picture to build. But now I was seventeen, I realised that perhaps he was a little shadier than the clean cut Mr Bond.

I had an elder sister, Carol, whom I hadn’t seen in a few years. She was about twenty-three and had married a rich American attorney just under a year ago. They lived in Los Angeles. Carol was expecting their first child, so as they had a great relationship with her parents-in-law, there was little chance of seeing her on this side of the birth.

Dad was not a great one for his children, as he had always appeared to be more concerned in making money. Mum had died from a brain tumour a few years ago, and I still missed her terribly. When she died, a light in my life was extinguished, so I felt I was perpetually living in a murkier world. She had been everything that Dad wasn’t. For a start she was quite a bit younger than he was, but she was vivacious, gregarious, fun, and very loving. She was prone to great peaks and troughs of moods, but was always so encouraging and loving. She was French, and it often amazed us children that she had ever married Dad. To us children, he seemed always curt, humourless, boring, and very English. Yet, repeatedly, she said only the best things about him. There was a deep mystery there, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it.

He was always different with her. He adored her and would have died for her, so in return she worshipped the ground he walked upon. When she died, I suspect a little of Dad died also. So much so that he buried himself deeper into his work and largely ignored his family, what few friends he had, and anyone else. I had been sent to the best schools, so was, at this time, on holiday from school. British public schools are indeed wonderful institutions if you are academically intelligent or sporty, or both. Unfortunately, I was neither.

Don’t misunderstand me, I wasn’t a dunce and I actually enjoyed sports. But I was not desperately interested in at least half the subjects on offer, and neither was I skilled in sports to be good enough to represent the school. I did find that there were an awful lot of boys like me, so I had several quite good friends, but that didn’t stop me from getting screwed up. Like many teenaged boys, I was suffering with growing up, so all I wanted to do was be acceptable by society, i.e., to look like Arnold Schwarzenegger, with the brains of Einstein, and have the sex appeal of Pierce Brosnan. My other problem was un-mentionable, but it was deeply hidden in my subconscious.

I often wished that my mother had not died, if only to share with her my hidden and shameful secret. But she had died, leaving me with no one else with whom I could talk things through. So I buried it, so that even I forgot it was there, almost.

I fell far short of all the teen ideals. I was five foot six and basically a proportionate lad, but I had a big bum, of which I was very conscious. But, they said that I looked younger than my seventeen years. My success with girls was a non-starter, so I was very conscious of my failings. However, it was my slim build and small frame that enabled me to squeeze into this tiny recess in Dad’s study desk, in spite of my bum.

I had been watching TV in my room, and idly playing Grand Theft Auto III on my PC when I got bored. I had ordered a Pizza delivery, as Mrs Rogers, the housekeeper, had the night off. Out of boredom, I had ventured to Dad’s study. I liked the challenge of picking the locks on his desk and going through his papers. I was still none the wiser, as it was all complete gibberish to me. I had heard the front door slam, and the sound of raised voices in the hall.

“Just be quiet will you, my son is upstairs.” Dad said.

The other man replied, but I did not hear what he said. The front door opened and closed again, and I heard another voice, it was quite a deep voice, male, but had a sort of whine to it. It had a London accent.

“All quiet. We won’t be interrupted,” this voice said.

I was already in the recess when Dad opened the study door. I had just managed to lock up the drawers and slide out of sight before they came in. My heart was thumping so hard, I felt sure they could hear it.

“I told you that I no longer have your money. And besides, as I said at the outset, the offer was only tenuous at best,” Dad said.

“No Charles, you misunderstand, the offer was taken in good faith, our money was to secure those contracts, so we either want the cash back, or the contracts, as you promised,” the first man said. Although he spoke English, he had an accent, but I could not identify it.

“I promised nothing. The money was passed on to enable me to make contacts and ease the application. Political decisions have been made out of my area of control, and the contracts have been shelved for the foreseeable future,” Dad said, clearly worried.

“This is not my problem, Charles. I need those contracts, as you assured me they were as good as ours, I am here for those contracts, or full reimbursement of my organisation’s funds. A lot of time, effort and capital have been put into this project, so we will not stand by and see it fail.” The man sounded quite insistent, with an edge to his voice I found very threatening.

My father walked to behind the desk. I saw his familiar brogues a few inches from me. I heard him reply.

“I don’t have the money. I used it to establish the contacts, and, as I said, to ease the application. I can’t get five million pounds just like that.”

“This is most unfortunate. You see, I happen to know you went to Switzerland last week, and that you deposited an undisclosed sum into a certain bank there. It seems that you are playing on both sides of a very dangerous street,” the man said.

Dad sat down. I knew that if he pulled the chair into the desk I was bound to be discovered.

“Look, you have to be reasonable and give me some time. My trip to Switzerland was unconnected, and I assure you that put none of your money in the bank. Perhaps I can get you two million in a couple of days,” Dad was frightened now, as I could hear that his voice was shaking. I had never heard him like this.

“Oh Charles, you have played with grown-ups for long enough to know we don’t play with those silly rules. Are the contracts going to be given to us?”

“I don’t honestly know. It’s out of my hands, but I doubt it.”

“Do you have our money?”

“No.”

Dad then put his hand under the desk, and I saw him press a hidden lever. A small drawer slid out a few inches, so I watched spellbound as he grasped something in his right hand and start to remove it. It was a gun. This was exciting; if I hadn’t been quite so frightened, I would have been enjoying myself.

I will never forget what happened next.

I heard the foreign voice say, “Charles don’t be juvenile, put it down.”

Then there was a shout and two very loud shots. Dad slumped forward, as a dark liquid started to drip down onto the floor in front of me. My ears were ringing but I just managed to hear the next sentence.

“You fool. Why did you shoot him?” said the foreign man.

“I couldn’t let him shoot first, could I?” said the whiney London voice.

“He wouldn’t shoot, you idiot. How the hell are we going to find the money now? We need the vault details and access card. It must be here somewhere, so we will search thoroughly, but check on the boy first, as he may have heard the shots.”

I heard the study door open and close. The foreign man was still here, as I watched his feet as he came round the desk. He pulled my father’s body off the desk, allowing it to slump onto the floor. I stared into my dad’s open, but unseeing eyes and almost lost complete bladder control. I heard the man curse in a foreign language, Arabic, I think it was, and then he forced open some of Dad’s drawers. I was frozen in fear as I watched his feet as he went over to the wall. He pulled back the picture of racehorses to reveal Dad’s safe.

I then heard the door of the room open again.

“He is not anywhere in the house. I can’t find him,” said whiney.

“Damn. This is messy. Right, we’ll go look for him, and then we sort out the safe.”

“Do you know the combination?”

“I have my methods. But the police may make things difficult.”

“Don’t worry about that, leave the police to me. I know my blokes, they’ll believe what I tell them to believe, so they won’t be a problem, trust me,” whiney man said. So, I now knew he was a policeman, and probably high up.

Then both men left the room.

I made myself move, squeezing out of the recess and clambering over the lifeless body that had been my father. I dashed to the wall safe, opened it with practiced ease and emptied the contents into Dad’s soft brown leather briefcase. There was some money and a bag of my late mother’s jewellery. There were also some papers, but I just took the lot and crept past the body to the door. I was shaking with shock, but I don’t know what I felt really, except a sort of numbness. I don’t think I felt any sadness. We had never really liked each other that much, but I was sad about that, as I was not close to him as I had been to my mother.

I put on my leather jacket and slipped out the front door, making my way around the side of the house. My moped was where I left it, by the garage, with the helmet on the back. I shoved the briefcase on the clip rack on the back and just took off.

I didn’t know where I was going, as I only had the clothes I was wearing. I drove out of Ealing, where we lived, and headed west. I found myself heading towards Oxford on the A40. I didn’t want to go to Oxford. I saw the signs for Heathrow, so just followed the signs. Somewhere my brain was telling me to find lots of people, so Heathrow was a good bet. I pulled up outside Terminal One, managing to lose the bike amongst lots of others in the bike park.

I headed to the toilets and locked myself in the gents. I sat there for ages, just shaking. I kept seeing my dad’s dead eyes, so I began to feel sick. I threw up into the bowl, and just sat there my mind like a jelly. Eventually, I recovered enough to open the briefcase.

There were six bundles of new  £50 notes. I counted them. Each bundle contained  £5,000, so I sat there, stunned. The jewellery was lovely and, I suspected, genuine. But it was all that I had left of my mother who died when I was ten.

The papers meant little, but had various dates and amounts on them, similar to bank statements. There were other papers that I had neither the time nor the inclination to look at. There was a small envelope, in which was a plastic card, like a credit card, but with no details on it, except a series of numbers, a black magnetic strip and the small chip. On the envelope were the words Banque Helvetia, Zurich.

I knew enough to know that this was a Swiss private vault card. They told me that Dad had been to Switzerland recently, and so I decided that that is where I must go.

But how?

I had money, but no passport. I didn’t know whom to trust, as the police were involved in my father’s murder, so I had no one to turn to. I decided that not all the police could be corrupt, but I was certain someone would listen to me.

I left the toilets and was walking through the terminal building. I saw an armed police officer at the end of the building, so steeled myself to approach him. I was only a few yards away, when I heard the TV news on at a small boutique.
 
 
     “...Police are searching for a young man wanted in connection with the brutal slaying of his father. Charles Thwaites, a prominent West London businessman was found a short time ago having been shot in his study. Initial police enquiries reveal that his seventeen year old son, Matthew, may have had an argument over drugs, and shot his father, whilst under the influence of cocaine. The officer in charge of the investigation had this to say,"
 
 
The scene changed to outside home, and a man in a suit was facing the camera.
 
 
     “It appears that Mr Thwaites may have disturbed his son, or somehow returned unexpectedly. There appears evidence of an argument and a struggle. The gun is an illegal one, and we suspect that Matthew has been dealing drugs for some time. This is a particular nasty and vicious crime, and we urge people to assist with his current location.”
 
 
It was whiney man. His name was splashed across the screen — Detective Superintendent John Vine.

Then they showed a photograph of me. It was about a year old, so I had short hair then. My hair was down to my shoulders now, as it was my one attempt at declaring independence against my father. But it was still identifiable as me.
 
 
Chapter 2
 
 
I immediately turned about and left the terminal. I had to hide and I had to change my appearance. I was almost crying with frustration. I couldn’t believe they would have framed me with killing my Dad. I didn’t know what to do.

I sat in the bus shelter at the bus station. It was busy and I pulled out a baseball cap out of my pocket and put it on my head. I was just another traveller waiting for a connection. Then I saw two British Transport Police officers patrolling through the bus station, so I moved off, and made for Terminal Three.

I sat in a restaurant and had something to eat, just to appear normal. I watched the TV news again, and they repeated the same footage as before, except now they added my moped number.

Time passed, so the people started thinning out. By midnight the place was almost deserted, and I watched as police officers checked there were no vagrants in the place.

I dozed off across two seats, to be shaken awake by a young female officer.

“Hello. Wake up. Why are you still here?” she asked.

I was very tired and my hair was all over my face, I brushed it away from my face with my hand.

I thought for a moment, but then had a brain wave. My mother had been French, and I spoke fluent French.

“Je suis française. Je ne parle pas l’anglais,” I said. My voice was husky due to being half asleep.

“Shit. Just my luck, some French girl, and no English,” the officer said.

What did she say? She called me a girl. My hair and appearance, bloody hell.

“What is your name?” she said slowly, as if I was deaf and stupid.

“Monique Bonnard,” I said, on the spur of the moment. Bonnard was my mother’s maiden name, “I lose suitcase and passport. I wait here, tomorrow, new passport. Merde. Air France to Paris.” I stammered in broken English, with an outrageous French accent.

“Okay, Monique. You shouldn’t really stay here, but stay near the CCTV camera. You be careful now. You understand?” she said, pointing at the CCTV camera that was staring straight at me.

“Oui, merci. Tank you,” I said.

She moved off, satisfied that I wasn’t a vagrant or an illegal immigrant.

I sat completely dazed by what had happened. She had thought I was female. Then it came to me, I could disguise myself as a girl and somehow get to Switzerland.

But how?

I had played a girl in a stage play at school, so figured that I could do make up with no problem. I smiled a sad little smile, as I was now tapping into things usually kept in my deepest recess of my mind. I always had a desire to live as a girl. But being wanted for murder had never been part of the fantasy. Now I had money to spend on clothes, but I needed some form of documentation. Still, one thing at a time, as I needed to not look like me.

I moved to a more private location, and surprised myself by sleeping for several hours. The seats were no good, so I lay on the carpeted floor, with the briefcase as a pillow. As the army of cleaners moved in, I awoke and went for some breakfast. Then as the shops opened, I made a few purchases in Boots the chemist. I bought a mascara brush and eyeliner, some lipstick, eye shadow and a hair brush. I also bought a tooth brush, tooth paste, shampoo, ladies deodorant, and some other products for hair removal. Fortunately I was not very hairy, as I had not started shaving yet.

I went into the ladies, found a large cubicle and spent ages shaving my legs, arms and armpits, and then in front of the mirror applied just a little make up. I knew enough not to over do it, otherwise I would look silly. I did not want to show out, as I just wanted to give the impression that I was a girl. I didn’t want to make everyone look at me. I brushed out my long blonde hair, and had to admit that I looked pretty convincing. I just hoped others would think the same.

I had on a baggy tee shirt and jeans, with trainers on my feet. My leather jacket successfully masked any figure or lack of it. But with the make up on my face, I looked like any teenage girl.

I left the loo and went to a small boutique, where I browsed amongst the products on sale. I was totally clueless. I didn’t know what size I was, and I was about to chicken out, when I came across a multi-national chart of sizes and measurements.

I spent nearly  £300 on girl’s clothes, including bras and underwear. I ambled along with my purchases, and saw a nice little suitcase on wheels with a little extendable handle. So, I bought that and a ladies shoulder bag and purse too. I disappeared to the loo again, and put on the bra and panties. I pulled on the tights, and then a short black skirt and a black silk blouse. I stuffed extra tights into the bra, and packed away everything into my new suitcase, including the briefcase.

I put some money into my purse and put that and the cosmetics into my bag. I then walked out into the main open area of the ladies, and looked at my reflection. I gasped. I was actually very attractive, so thanked the Lord for my bum. My legs looked good, but my bum was perfect. I then realised I was still wearing trainers, so I remedied that at the shoe shop. I bought several pairs of shoes, all with high heels, and one pair of boots.

I paid cash, and packed everything I wasn’t wearing in my case. I walked slowly along the concourse, feeling like a completely different person. I had to walk slowly, as I was unused to the high heels, so I felt rather precarious. I bought a black mock pearl necklace, some bangles and a pair of clip-on earrings. I knew that if this masquerade was going to be successful, I would have to get my ears pierced.

I bought a newspaper and sat in a coffee shop and had a cup of coffee and a croissant. The whole story was splashed across the front page, and my picture was everywhere. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the counter and smiled. There was no way I could be discovered looking like this. Two police officers sauntered past, I smiled at them, and they both smiled back. This might work after all.

I was just finishing my coffee, when a middle aged business man offered to share a taxi into London with me. I sensed he was after more, and politely told him I was waiting for my boyfriend. It made me understand that there were more dangers at being a young and attractive female than I had realised.

After the sixth proposition, I got fed up, and tried to figure out what to do. I examined some of the papers I had taken from Dad’s safe, and the cogs started to turn, a little. I had enough money to get to Switzerland, but without a passport I was helpless. I had read the paper from cover to cover, and saw one article about police corruption. I then remembered that the Metropolitan Police had a separate department that investigated corrupt officers.

I dug out my mobile and called the operator, and got put through to New Scotland Yard. I asked for the Criminal Investigation Branch, and eventually a female voice answered.

“CIB Good morning,” a pleasant female voice answered.

“Hello, I want to speak to someone about a police officer who has committed murder, and is trying to frame someone for that murder,” I said.

“That is a serious allegation. Can I have your name please?”

“I’m Matthew Thwaites. My father was shot twice by a man called John Vine, and he is now making up lies about me killing Dad,” I said.

There was a pause on the other end, and I pictured her reaction to my information.

“I will only speak to you, and not on the phone. I will call back, what is your name?” I said.

“I am DC Alison Grover. But…”

I cut her off, and moved swiftly to another location. I rang her back.

“I will meet you. Alone and unrecorded. I don’t trust anyone. I have evidence, as I was hiding in the room when he shot him,” I said.

“When and where?” she said.

“Heathrow Airport. Terminal Three arrivals. One hour, alone,” I said, and cut her off.

I waited on the balcony as men in plain clothes started moving in. They could only be police officers, I thought. I counted six, but knew there would be more. I waited as the minutes clicked by. I was just another female member of the public standing waiting for someone. I watched as a young woman in a grey trouser suit came in and looked around nervously. I smiled, she was so obviously DC Grover. She was about 5’ 7”, about twenty six or seven, and slightly on the heavy side. She had a large bust, but a proportionate bum. Her hair was quite dark, which she had cut short, not that she was mannish, as it was styled nicely. She struck me as being a girl who put her job first and private life second.

I walked straight past her, conscious of my high heels making a clickety-click noise on the hard floor. She glanced briefly at me, and then away. I went to the information desk and handed over a small piece of paper, and then retired to watch the fun.

The tannoy activated.

“Would Alison Grover please attend the Information desk.”

Alison turned and made for the desk. I then rang the information desk, and told the man that I wished to speak to Alison Glover.

“I am sorry there is no one by that name here.”

“She is dressed in grey, you have just tannoyed her,” I said.

He waved Alison forward, so she took the phone.

“Hello?”

“I said alone, I knew I could not trust you,” I said, as I left the building and got onto the bus for Terminal four.

“Where are you?”

“Safe. Leave by the exit to your left and take the bus for Terminal Four, and leave the others behind,” I said and cut her off again.

The bus was almost ready to leave, so she had to run. I was sitting at the back as she stood in the middle, looking at everyone on board. I stared out of the window, acting the bored and weary traveller. I could see her reflection in the window, so felt her eyes pass right over me.

The journey took fifteen minutes and, as soon as we arrived, she was swept off by the tide of passengers. She went with them into the Terminal, and I was at the back, pulling my little case on its wheels. She pulled out her mobile and punched in some numbers. I stood close enough to hear her side of the conversation.

“He was watching. He saw the others and we spooked him. I’m in T4 now. Get a back up car down here at once.”

I smiled, and walked up to her.

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, est-ce que vous parlez le français?” I asked.

She looked at me and frowned.

“No, that is if you are asking whether I speak French?” she said.

“Quelqu'un m’a demandée de vous donner ceci. Ah, pliz, I haf bin given zees for you.” I said, explaining in broken English that I had been asked to give her the piece of paper I was carrying.

She frowned and took the paper.

It said, FOLLOW THE GIRL.

I turned and walked off, so she had to run to keep up with me. I went straight into the ladies, and she had no choice but to follow. There were a few people about.

“Look. What is this, who are you?” she asked as I repaired some make up in the mirror.

I waited for the place to be empty.

I placed a single piece of paper on the side.

“Matthew gives me zat to give to you. He say he has more, but he eez afraid of ze corrupt policeman. Matthew say he haz more proof in Switzerland, but haz no way to get zere,” I said in broken English, with the same outrageous accent.

The paper had dates of payments made and received. There was one entry with the initials DV clearly marked thereon for the sum of  £20,000. There was another for a month later for  £10,000. There was one for  £1,000,000 paid to CT, my Dad. These accounts had not been my father’s, but some he had obtained from somewhere else.

She looked at me, frowning.

“Just who are you?”

“I am a cousin of Matthew Thwaites. I am returning to France to go back to college. Matthew, call me, and say he eez in trouble, I like heem, so I help. Ze papers lie, he haz never taken ze drugs,” I said.

“Aiding a criminal is an offence,” she said.

“You are helping zat man Vine, duz zat make you guilty?” I asked.

She smiled.

“Okay, where is he?” she asked.

“He eez safe, but he will speak to only you.”

“Okay, so what happens now?”

“I am to take you to heem, no calls.”

I turned and walked out. I went straight through the emergency exit, and a taxi pulled onto the rank as I arrived. I waved and it came up to me. I stuck my head through the window, and said, “Oxford Street.” I got in, so Alison had no choice by to follow me in. As we drove off, I noticed the plain car pull up outside the Terminal building, and four burly men got out and ran into the terminal.

I sat back and smiled. I may be seventeen, but I was growing up fast.
 
 
Chapter 3
 
 
I was conscious that my companion was staring at me, intently.

“Okay, just who the hell are you?” she asked.

I smiled, I had to trust someone.

“I’m Matthew,” I said, and smiled as her mouth opened and no sound came out. Then she nodded, slowly.

“I can see it now. No girl would sit like that with that skirt on. But I have to admit, you had me completely fooled. You’re in deep shit, Matthew,” she said, and I drew my knees together self-consciously.

“Tell me something I don’t know. That bastard has fitted me up completely,” I said, and then told her the whole story, except for the cash I had in my possession.

She nodded, frowning.

“You’ve put me in a very awkward position,” she said.

“And I’m not?”

She smiled again. “Where are we going?”

“Anywhere, nowhere, I don’t know, I’m so frustrated, because I need to get to Switzerland to see what’s in the vault. I’m positive that Dad has documented everything. He was always so careful. He was a shrewd bastard, and I’m sure if he dabbled in dodgy deals, he would always cover his back.”

Alison thought for a moment.

“All right, look, if I help you, will you help us?”

“Of course. But I’m not going to get locked up.”

“If it’s any consolation, we’ve had a suspicion about John Vine for a while, but haven’t any evidence, so far. If it helps, I actually believe you,” she said, with a smile.

“You do?”

“I do. For a start, you wouldn’t have called CIB if you were guilty, you’d have just run,”

“Oh.”

“I need to call in, okay?”

I nodded, and she took out her mobile.

“It’s me. I’m fine, but we’ve lost him.”

“No, he got some tourist to lead me a merry chase. He could be anywhere, he saw the team getting into position, and that spooked him. But I have some good evidence that Vine is dirty.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you back at the office later, as I’m going to follow up a lead.”

“No, I don’t need back up, and I’ll call you when I know more.”

She turned off her phone, opened the sliding glass partition and spoke to the driver. Then she closed it again.

“I’m taking you to my flat. You’ll be safe there, and I think we need to do something about your appearance.”

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, slightly hurt.

“It’s okay, but a bit sluttish. If you want to get picked up, that’s the right way to go about it. If you’re going for this look, then we need to make you just blend in, not stand out like a beacon.”

“Oh.” I said, and smiled, remembering the six men in the airport.

We arrived at a road in Harrow Weald, and I paid the taxi driver. She took me to a ground floor flat in a nice three storey building. She opened the door, soI gratefully took off my shoes.

“How women wear these for any length of time, I will never know,” I said.

She laughed.

“Okay, what do you want me to call you, I can’t call you Matthew looking like that?”

“Monique is fine,” I said, adopting the accent again.

“Right, what other clothes have you got?” she asked, and I opened my case. We went through my complete wardrobe, and she shook her head.

“Monique, you’re a plonker. These are all fine for going out clubbing, or on a date, but for daily wear, they’re just plain silly. We need to go shopping, and we have to do something about your boobs.”

I looked down and saw that they were flat and lopsided.

“Oh.”

She was larger that I, so her clothes were no good, but when I said I had enough cash for some more, she grinned.

“Then we’ll go shopping, but first, I need some more evidence. Do you have anything else for me?”

I shrugged, and gave her some of the papers from the briefcase.

“Go and put the kettle on, and make us a coffee while I look at these,” she said, so I wandered into the kitchen. I felt relaxed for the first time since Dad was killed, and the weird thing was I felt perfectly natural as a girl. I found myself adopting feminine gestures and postures quite subconsciously. I knew that when my mother died, it affected me very profoundly, and I would often wish that I had been a girl, but now, I felt strangely content with what I was.

I put the kettle on and made us both a coffee. I walked back into the sitting room and sat down. She stared at me, with a smile, shaking her head.

“Are you sure you are a boy?” she asked.

“To be honest, not really, as I think I’d like to be a girl really. But beggars can’t be choosers,” I heard myself say.

“I wish I had your figure. It is almost perfect,” she said.

“I’m slightly flat on top.” I said with a grin.

She smiled and shook her head, but looked back at the papers in her hand. After several minutes she looked at me.

“Do you know what these are?”

I shook my head.

“Neither do I, but I know a man who might,” she said.

She stood up and finished her coffee.

“Put your shoes on again, Monique, we’re going shopping, but first, let’s do something about your boobs,” she said. She took out the tights I had put in there. She disappeared for a couple of minutes and returned with a box.

“Okay Monique, strip.”

Once I was down to my bra and panties, she opened the box.

“And the bra.”

I took it off, very aware of my flat chest.

I felt a cold liquid on my chest, and noticed she was smearing some gel across my nipples. Then she placed two very realistic breast forms over my own non-existent breasts.

She made me hold them in place as she nudged them into the correct position. We held them for ages, and I could feel the gel harden.

“Okay, let go,” she said, and I did. The breasts stayed there, looking very realistic. She took out some foundation, and rubbed it around the joins. When she had finished, they looked absolutely real. They even had large nipples.

“Fine, now we are in business,” she said.

“Why have you got these?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you later. It is a long story, let’s say you aren’t the first bloke I’ve come across who wanted to be a girl.”

I looked at her critically, but decided that there was just no way she could ever have been a bloke. She noticed my look and smiled.

“Not me. If that’s what you were thinking?”

“I didn’t think so.”

I put my case and everything in her spare bedroom, and we left the flat. The bus stop was a short walk away, so the next thing I knew we were getting off in a shopping area. I was unfamiliar with the area, so was completely in her hands.

She took me to a tattoo parlour and sent me in to get my ears pierced, while she disappeared, telling me to wait for her outside when done.

I expected excruciating pain, but it hardly hurt at all. The funny popping noise was the worst part, when the skin was actually pierced. The girl gave me some sleepers and a simple set of studs, and told me to keep them in so the holes didn’t heal up.

I left the parlour, feeling very weird with earrings in my ears. I was admiring myself in the window, when Alison came back.

“They look fine. I still can’t believe what you look like,” she said.

She took me into a department store, where we went straight to the ladies clothes section. We selected several dresses and skirts, with some blouses and tops, and I followed her into the changing rooms. She came into the cubicle with me.

I tried on all the clothes, and had to admit they were far more suitable than what I had chosen. Although less overtly sexy, they were elegant and felt lovely. If anything, they made me look more feminine that my original selections. I just adored the breasts, they felt just how I imagined the real things would feel, as they jiggled and moved as I did. I couldn’t stop grinning.

She told me to buy a set of false nails at the nail bar, and I found myself buying what seemed to me to be a huge amount of cosmetics. I was now wearing a very pretty cotton dress, with a pair of shoes that were actually comfortable and still made my legs and feet look sexy. She took me to the hairdressers, and for two hours was tortured by a sadistic female wrestler.

But the finished product literally took my breath away.

My hair was originally blonde and unformed. Now it had a wave to it, and had been styled and cut to accentuate the shape of the head, and with very light natural highlights, it looked wonderful. Alison kept dragging me past every shop window, as I just had to stop and admire myself.

We stopped for lunch at a wine bar, and I found myself telling Alison more about the inner me, than even I knew. I poured out my soul, and began to realise that I was one screwed up kid.

As we walked back to the bus stop, we popped into Woolworths and she made me sit in a photo booth for the passport-style photos.

We took the bus back to her flat and dropped off the packages and bags. I was feeling very tired, but she took me out again, after making a couple of calls, we set off in her car.

I was completely lost when she pulled up in a very seedy area.

“Hang on to your handbag, and don’t stop,” she said, as we walked very fast down the road. We stopped at a small Greek café and went in.

There were three men playing cards at a table, and they looked up as we came in. Two were in their twenties and one in his fifties, balding with a huge moustache.

The older man smiled at Alison.

“Ah, Ladycop, how are you, darling?” he said.

“I’m fine Peter. We need to talk.” she said.

“Okay, come in,” he said, standing up and leading us to a back room. He shut the door and he looked at me questioningly.

“This is a friend, her name is Monique.”

“Hello Monique,” he said, taking my hand and kissing it.

Alison smiled, but I stayed silent.

“So, sit down ladies. What can I do for you?” Peter asked, so we sat down.

“Monique is helping us with a corruption case. But she needs to obtain travel documents without going through usual channels. Now, this is particularly difficult, as the target is highly placed, and we don’t yet know how far his tentacles have spread. I was hoping that with your contacts, you might know some way she could obtain a passport or something like that?”

Peter stared at her, and then looked at me.

“What is in it for me?” he asked Alison.

“The going rate, plus a formal acknowledgement from us on successful completion of the case,” she said, and one of his bushy eyebrows rose sharply.

“Passports are tricky, just now. What nationality?”

“Française,” I said, the first word I had uttered.

“Ah, est-ce que tu es française?” he asked in passable French.

“Certainement. Vous parlez bien le français?” I said.

He smiled, and reverted to English.

“It has been a long time. I think I can get you a French Carte d’ Identité. But I will need a photograph of you, and personal details.”

Alison smiled and handed over the recent photos we had got in Woolworths. I wrote the name Monique Bonnard, a date of birth exactly two years older that mine, making me almost twenty, and an address of some of my cousins near Lille, in France. He nodded and looked at me.

“Five hundred pounds, up front,” he said, with a slightly apologetic smile.

I counted out five hundred pounds onto the table, without changing expression. He stared at my face and smiled.

“Ha, you are a cool one. I pity your husband.”

“I’m not married,” I said, blushing slightly.

“Ha, you will be, as the good ones always are,” he said, as my money disappeared.

“Come back tomorrow. Same time,” he said.

Alison stood up, and I held out my hand.

“Merci, c’est possible que vous m’ayez sauvée la vie,” I said, thanking him for saving my life.

He went bright red and kissed my hand again.

We left, and returned gratefully to find the car still in one piece.

Alison drove back to the flat, with an odd expression on her face.

“What?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“You need no coaching to be a girl,” she said.

I smiled. “I find I like it,” I admitted.

“Then you need real help, girl. I know that with everything else going on, it may not high on the list of agendas, but you need to seriously think about whether you ever want to go back to being Matthew, or whether Monique is here for good. This is a medical problem, so you need to face it.”

“Oh,” I said, having not really thought about it. I was silent, as my brain tried to come to terms with what she said.

We arrived back at the flat, and we went in. I collapsed onto the sofa, and found myself crying. Alison just sat beside me and held me. I sobbed for ages.

I cried for my mother, my father, and for me. I cried that I was hurt, lonely, confused, afraid and angry. I cried because I now realised I wanted to be something that I could never be. I just cried.

Finally, the tears dried up. And I sat there, empty and desolate.

Alison phoned someone, saying she was coming in with some documents and asked for someone from the fraud unit to meet her.

“Monique, I have to go out. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, but you’re safe here. I’m not going to tell anyone you’re here, but I have to get someone to look at these documents. Are you going to be all right?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I’ll bring a friend with me when I come back. She’s a doctor, and so you don’t think I am betraying you. Okay?”

I nodded again, suddenly very tired.

“Good. Don’t answer the door, or the telephone, clear?”

I nodded, I slipped my shoes off, and put my legs up on the sofa, and I was almost asleep by the time she shut the front door.
 
 
Chapter 4
 
 
Someone was shaking me, so I suddenly remembered what had happened, and was instantly awake, and afraid.

It was Alison.

“Hey, sleepy head, you were deeply away,” she said, smiling. I noticed another woman standing by the door.

“Monique, this is Jenny Robbins. She’s a doctor. Jenny, this is the girl I was telling you about.”

“Hello, Monique. You seem to be having a rough time?” Jenny said, sitting down beside me.

“I’ve bought some pizzas, Jenny is staying for supper with us. I’ve some good news about your papers too. But we can talk about that later. I will put the food on.” Alison went off to the kitchen, and closed the door.

Jenny was about forty and had a nice smile. She was wearing trousers and a sweater. I saw she had a wedding ring on. I was a little wary and confused, why had Alison brought a doctor?

“You’re wondering what I’m doing here?” Jenny asked.

I nodded.

“Alison has explained a little of your circumstances, and the difficulties you find yourself in. I understand you’re helping the police with their investigation, so she told me about your confusion, and as I specialise in gender dysphoria and SRS, she immediately thought I might be able to help you, at least in the short term.”

“Gender what?” I asked.

“Monique, I’m a psychiatrist, amongst other things. And I help people who are born as one gender to become the person they feel they should always have been. In other words, I help people change gender.”

“Oh,” I said, reddening.

She smiled and touched my hand.

“I can see that you really do need my help. I’d like to start by asking you some questions, is that all right?”

I nodded, so she started to ask me about my childhood and parents. The questions went on, and I found myself telling her things that I thought I had forgotten, and other things that I swore I would never tell anyone. She made some notes, and nodded and smiled. Somehow, I felt better talking to her, as it was if huge weights were lifted off my shoulders.

In the end she asked me one question.

“If you could push a button and you could stay as Monique, as a real girl, or as Matthew, with no desire to be a girl, which would you choose?”

“Monique,” I said, without hesitation.

“Why?”

“Because I feel a complete person as Monique. It’s who I am, and who I should have been,” I said, simply.

She smiled. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen in three days,” I said, with a sad smile. Some birthday.

“Do you live life as a girl, all the time?”

“I have been recently.”

“How would you like to become Monique for real, for the rest of your life?” she asked.

“I’d love it,” I said, regardless of all the complications.

“It’s not an easy road, and the SRS is painful and lengthy.”

“I don’t care. Is it expensive?”

“It can be, but I think we can get some, if not all of it on the national health.”

I shook my head.

“No, I have enough money. It has to be private with no names and no records,” I said.

“Alison told me a little of your circumstances. Because of them, I understand, but once you make the decision, there is no turning back.”

“I understand. I need a new life as my old one was shit.”

“That is not enough. You need to be certain that this is what you really want.”

“I am.” I said, looking at her. “What do I look like to you?”

She smiled. “I believe that you firmly believe you are a girl. You certainly look like one and act like one. That’s what matters. Your answers fit absolutely into the criteria I would expect. So I propose that we start you on a course of different hormones. This will stop you developing any more as a man and start you developing female characteristics. The early bit is reversible, so all you do is stop and things will go back to normal. But once you take these for a few months, then you will never function as a male again. Are you sure you want to do this?”

I just smiled and nodded. Anything would be better than what I had been.

She got her bag, gave me three injections and a bottle of pills, with instructions.

“Hopefully, all this horrid business with be cleared up in a few weeks, and then come and see me. We will go through all the surgical options. All right?”

I nodded.

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?” I said.

“Nothing, we can sort out that later. And it’s Alison who you need to thank. It’s rare for people to be quite so understanding about such things, rarer still to find someone who know about things in such detail. You’re lucky she had a brother who is now her younger sister.”

Alison appeared with the pizzas. I suddenly understood why she had the breast forms.

“I never knew about your sister,” I said.

“Why should you have done? Let’s just say I know one when I see one,” she said with a smile.

She opened a bottle of wine and we sat and chatted. Jenny left, and I collapsed into bed wearing my first nightdress.
 

*          *          *
 
It was almost noon when Alison woke me up. I had a shower, and marvelled at the realism of my breasts. Apart from the fact they had no feeling, they actually felt right and that they belonged. They were not large, as my frame was slender, but I could not help smiling as I felt them and as I saw my reflection.

I was getting dry when Alison came into the bathroom.

“Right, it’s time to be a little drastic,” she said.

“What?”

We need to make you appear as female as we can. So, this little trick I learned when Nicola was going through her transition period.”

She showed me how to tuck my penis back between my legs and slide my testes into the body cavity. Then she pinched the skin of the scrotum together, and used a type of superglue to weld the flaps of skin together.

She held it for about a minute and then let go. I couldn’t believe it, as it looked just like female genitalia.

“You’re very small. But, anyway, it looks the part, but won’t stand up to medical examination, nor will it withstand the probing fingers of a passionate male admirer. So, be warned,” she said.

“I hardly think either will be an issue,” I said.

“You never know. The way you behave, you may have to beat the guys off with a club.”

“I don’t, do I?” I asked.

She just smiled.

“Now, the injections Jenny gave you will mean that you will not get a stiffy again, as long as you keep taking the pills, so don’t worry about that. You can still pee, but you must always sit down and wipe, as the spray will go everywhere. The glue will hold for several days, and is waterproof, so you can have a bath or shower, or even go swimming.”

“That’s amazing. How did you find out about all this?”

“My brother, Nicholas, was a transsexual. When he was about ten or eleven, I caught him dressing up in my clothes, and it became our secret. Dad was an old style copper, and would have never coped with the trauma of having a ‘queer’ son. He died about five years ago, and Nicholas became Nicola soon afterwards. But it was tough and expensive.

“Mum was fine with it, as she had guessed, so helped us keep it from Dad. Nicola lived with me all through the transition and after the operations. She’s now living in Spain, married to a Dutch widower, who already had three young kids, and is a very happy mother and wife. It’s a fairy story ending.”

“That’s wonderful. Does the Dutchman know about her past?”

“Jan? Yes, they started seeing each other before the operation. Nikki was living as a girl, and they met by accident when they were both on a train that broke down. They started chatting, and Jan asked Nikki out for a meal. She was ever so nervous, and almost didn’t go. I persuaded her to accept, so in the end, she went.

“She had a wonderful time and found a very lonely, hurting man. She fell in love on that first date. They met several times over the next few weeks. Jan was working in London, while his children were staying with their grandparents in the Netherlands. He told her that he had a dark secret, and it turned out to be his children. She was so relieved, but knew she would have to tell him her dark secret.

“So, once the date of the SRS was confirmed, she took him out for a meal, and told him. He took it badly at first, and just walked out without saying anything. Nikki was heart-broken and came home in tears. I sat with her for hours, and then the doorbell rang. I answered it and it was Jan. He came in, apologised and then told Nikki that it didn’t matter, as he loved her and would be there for her. I don’t think I ever cried so much as that night,” Alison said, showing me a photo of a very pretty young woman and a tall fair haired man, with two children, a boy and a girl, about seven and five.

“You’d never know she was ever anything different,” I said.

“If you know the signs, then you actually can. You’re even luckier, as you are a lot younger than Nikki, and you already look like a girl.”

“I am a girl; it’s just my body that’s wrong,” I said.

“That’s what Nikki used to say.”

Alison gave me the glue, which I put safely in my bag, then she showed me how to put on my false nails, so I spent some time varnishing them, and my toenails. I dressed in a smart fawn skirt with a white blouse, and wore a suede waistcoat with a floral design on the front. With tights and high heels, I felt on top of the world. I felt sort of excited, as if this was all so right somehow. We made some sandwiches, as she told me about what had happened at work.

“I went to the office, and had to go and see my boss. I explained, briefly, what you had told me, and the fact that I might be able to locate Matthew. I said you had left the papers for me at Heathrow, and I have yet to meet you in person. I told him that you did not trust anyone due to Vine being the killer of your father.

“He is determined to trap Vine, and he indicated that it would be best if you were at large for a while. Apparently, someone in the office is in with Vine, as he has been sniffing around the office, on some pretext or other. The Commander has officially taken me off the case, and put me onto another one. But unofficially, I am to try to get as much from you as I can. To be honest I don’t even trust the Commander,” she said.

“Where does that leave me?”

“As a sacrificial goat, I’m afraid. The Commander sees you as bait to lure Vine into making an error. But I intend that we turn the tables on Vine, and once we get to Switzerland, we can attack.”

“You’re coming to Switzerland with me?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course, how else do you think you’ll cope?”

“I hadn’t thought about it that much. I’m glad, as I’ve been alone for too long.”

“I’ve applied for some annual leave, so it frees me up for a couple of weeks. We need to go to the Greek again to pick up your ID papers.”

We arrived at the café and went in as before. Peter made no sign that he recognised us, so we sat at a table and one of his sons came over and gave us a menu. Inside the menu was the French ID card. I slid it carefully into my bag, as I did so, I noticed the spare photos were with it. This was curious, but Alison ordered two coffees and then whispered to me,

“Trouble, the place is being watched. Drink your coffee and we’ll go.”

I burned my mouth in my haste, so Alison put some coins on the table and we left.

“Look straight forward and walk slowly to the end of the road. Then run to the car,” she said, so we ambled along arm in arm, like two girlfriends out shopping.

Once at the corner, we ran to the car, and took off rapidly.

“What was that about?”

“Peter is one of three men in London who deals in very good quality documents. He is also a known police informant, and MI5 have used him as well. It seems that he has been made aware that someone is watching him so he was being careful.

“Does that mean Vine knows about us?”

“Not necessarily, but one of his minions was looking for someone, probably a boy looking like Matthew Thwaites. The chances are that the other dealers are also being watched.”

“But if they saw you, and you’re recognised, won’t they put two and two together?” I asked.

“Not necessarily. I’ve never been linked with you. Even the Heathrow job, no names were given, I just had local CID back up.”

“Oh.” Something wasn’t quite right about that.

“Best we go to Switzerland as soon as possible, all the same.”

We went back to the flat, and packed. I already had my case, and so I just flung in my new clothes, cosmetics and wash stuff. Every now and again, Alison looked out into the street.

“Right, come on,” she said, and we went out the back into the garden. We went down the end and squeezed through the fence onto a small alleyway. We ran down the alley, which I found hard carrying a shoulder bag and a suitcase wearing high heels.

We came out on a main road, where Alison flagged down a passing black cab, and we piled in.

We caught our breath.

“Why the sneaking about, do you think we were being watched?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but it pays to be careful.”

She kept an eye out for any following vehicle, and once she was happy, she told the driver to make for Heathrow again.

I used the journey to reflect on the past couple of days. I could not quite get my head round the whole affair. It was like a surreal dream, but parts of it I didn’t want to wake up from, yet others I hated. I loved being Monique, and I kept seeing the reflection of a stunning girl who looked at least nineteen. But the fact that people were out to kill me frightened me dreadfully.

I also began to distrust everyone, even Alison, and told myself to stop being paranoid. But I knew that I couldn’t afford to trust anyone, even Alison. But I had allowed a complete stranger to give me injections, what if they weren’t really what they said they were? My heart raced.

“Where does Jenny practice?” I asked.

“In Harrow, why?”

“I was curious. I’m worrying about side affects of the hormones.”

“Well, you’ll get odd mood swings, a little nausea and tiredness for no apparent reason. Nikki would become very emotional, and burst into tears without warning. You’ll find yourself watching a movie and start crying, even though you have seen it before and know it inside out. It’s not that different to getting a period every month.”

“Oh. Does it make you paranoid?”

She laughed.

“No, but going through what you just have, might.” she said.

The cab pulled up at Terminal Two and we got out. I let her pay this time.

“Right, we go in separately, pay separately and get the same flight, but not together. We can meet up once we get through immigration at the other end. I checked, we want the 1500 Swissair flight to Geneva, okay?” she said.

I nodded, so we went in different doors.

I approached the ticket desk.

I was French, I told myself. I knew that I spoke the language without any accent, so I should have been completely confident, but I still worried.

“Bonjour,” I said, and the dark haired girl smiled and replied in French. She was not a native speaker, so I relaxed slightly.

I asked for a first class, open ended return ticket on the 1500 flight to Geneva.

She asked for my ID, and I produced my false French Carte d’ Identité.

“Monique Bonnard?”

“Oui.”

She produced the ticket, and I paid cash. She asked a few questions and then gave me the ticket and the ID card back. I smiled and thanked her.

I walked off to the check-in, passing Alison in the queue for the tickets.

I checked in my case, having all my cash in my bag in envelopes. I produced my ticket and ID papers again, asked the usual questions about packing and dangerous articles, and then I was whisked through the security, where I made the machine bleep, so was searched by one of the female security staff. I’d left a bangle on my wrist, so I went suitably red and was cleared.

My bag passed through the x-ray, so I went to the first class lounge. I was given a free glass of champagne and some nibbles, and sat and read Harpers and Queen. To the world I looked like a sophisticated and well heeled attractive young woman, so I felt a surge of unusual feelings spread from my groin area.

I used my mobile phone and called directory enquiries. I discovered there was indeed a doctor in Harrow called Jenny Robbins. I rang her and she answered. She was surprised to hear from me, so I asked her about the side affects of the hormones, and she confirmed what Alison had said. I felt happier when I rang off.

Being first class, I did not board the plane until just before push-back, and the first class seats were all at the front. I looked back, and saw Alison’s pale and worried face searching the other passengers for any sign of me. She noticed me up the front. Her mouth dropped open, so I smiled and sat down in my huge and comfortable seat.

Seated next to me was an elderly Italian gentleman, who spoke excellent Italian, German and English, but we conversed in English. He was slightly deaf, but he was charming, and was very flattering. We were in the air before long, so I settled down and relaxed.

The cabin crew were very generous with the free drinks, so I was careful to take fruit juice. This was not lost on Ricardo, my new friend.

“You are vera wise girl. Too mucha alcohola, make you tired. I neva drink too mucha vino on the flights.”

I smiled and put on my head set to watch the in-flight entertainment.

The meal was wonderful. I had entrecote steak and some red wine, but not enough to get sozzled.

I still wasn’t sure I trusted Alison, as she was just too helpful, and everything was working just too well. I knew that the bad guys wanted to get to my Dad’s deposit box, and were prepared to kill to get it. I knew that I was only of any use until the box was open, after that I was expendable. I also knew that the bank was in Zurich, and not Geneva.
 
 
Chapter 5
 
 
We landed and I followed the crowd through the terminal to immigration. My card was looked at and I was waved through. I collected my case and walked through Customs, into the arrivals area. I had seen Alison still waiting at the carousel for her case, so I smiled slightly. I went to the bureau du change and changed  £2000 into Swiss Francs.

I had the opportunity to leave her at this point, but I decided not to. I don’t know why, perhaps I actually needed someone to trust. But I was still cautious, if her brother’s transition was expensive, who paid for it, and how?

I went and sat at a coffee shop and waited for her to clear customs. She finally appeared, slightly cross.

“How the hell did you manage to get a first class ticket?” she asked.

“Because we always travel first class,” I said, once again with my French accent.

She shook her head and laughed.

“Do you want a coffee?” I asked.

“Why not?”

I waved at the waiter and he appeared.

“Un café au lait pour mon amie, s’il vous plait,” I said.

“Oui Mam'selle.”

“You never cease to amaze me. How come you speak such good French?”

“My mother was French, so we would spend many weeks every year with her parents, and with our French cousins.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Dreadfully. More than I could ever tell you. When she died, it was the worst day of my life,” I admitted.

“What, worse than seeing your Dad being shot?”

“Much. I never liked my Dad, but I adored Mama. After she died, my father threw out all her clothes. I managed to keep a couple of scarves, and I had them under my pillow, even up to the last night I slept in the house. I never got on with him. My sister, Carol, hated him. She fucked off to America as soon as she could.”

“That’s so sad. You haven’t been very fortunate, have you?”

“Maybe not, but at least it’s made me independent and resilient,” I said.

“I don’t wonder you find it difficult to trust anyone,” she said.

“I don’t. Not even you,” I said, finishing my coffee.

“Why do you stay with me, then? You could have left while I was in the customs hall.”

I looked at her.

“I really don’t know. Part of me wants to trust you, and yet something tells me not to. No doubt, I’ll soon find out which part was right,” I said.

She smiled a sad smile, which told me nothing.

I stood up and I began to realise that here, away from London, I was taking charge. I had been here before, so knew where I was going. I spoke fluent French and reasonable German, plus I was used to high living and international ways. But now I was legally an adult, or illegally an adult, and an attractive female one at that, I felt a curious surge of confidence course through me.

“Come on then.” I said, leaving her finishing her coffee.

I walked out to the bus stop, where we caught the bus that took us straight to the city centre. Overlooking the square was the Hilton Hotel. I had stayed there with my parents on about four occasions. I walked up the steps, and smiled at the doorman as he opened the door for me. Alison was scampering to keep up with me.

I walked straight up to the desk and asked for a twin room for the night.

I completed the registration form for both of us and followed the bellhop up to our room.

I tipped the bellhop and he retired.

Alison stared at me.

“What has happened to you?” she asked.

“I know who I am now,” I answered, and stripped off. I stared at my naked body, and it did look very feminine. Even without the false boobs, it was more female than male. I smiled and went to the luxurious bathroom and had a shower.

I dressed as Alison showered. I noted she wasn’t too keen on me seeing her in the nude, I understood, sort of, as I wasn’t a real girl, even though I wasn’t a real boy either. I put on a pretty black dress with thin shoulder straps, which was very form hugging. I dried my hair, which, if anything, looked even better than when I had just had it done. I repaired one nail that had lost a little chip of varnish, and put on my make up. I smiled and felt 100% woman, okay, 99%.

Alison came out of the bathroom with a huge hotel towel wrapped round her body. I smiled, for she looked like an underdone sausage roll.

She stared at me.

“What?” I asked.

“You look different.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know. For a start you look about twenty, and you have an air of confidence about you.”

I smiled. “That’s because for the first time in my life, I look like I feel, and feel how I look, and I like how I feel and look,” I said. “As a boy I was young for my age and never fitted in, but now that has all changed because I’ve found out who I really am.”

I watched her get dressed. Although her dress was nice, she hadn’t been blessed with the best figure, but I thought she did the best she could with the raw materials provided. She was actually quite attractive when she put some effort into it, and tonight she did just that.

“You look super,” I said to her, making her blush.

“The really annoying thing is that you look absolutely stunning, and you aren’t even a woman,” she said, slightly bitterly. I wondered what resentment was festering away inside her. Perhaps there was something in her past with her brother — now sister Nikki, or maybe it was just me I didn’t like being reminded I wasn’t a real woman. Oh, I knew it, and hadn’t been like this for that long, but I so wanted to be a girl!

“I am, just my body hasn’t caught up with my spirit,” I said, slightly defensively, but pleased she thought me stunning. I grinned.

“No, really, you look absolutely gorgeous. We’re going to have a real problem keeping men away.” she said.

“Who said we wanted to?” I said.

“Don’t be silly, Monique, you can’t.”

“Why not? I’m not going to screw anyone. But we can have a little fun. I don’t see a ring on your finger,” I said.

“That’s not the point, we have to recover the documents, and see what to do next.”

“Is there anyone, Alison?”

She shook her head.

“There was, but he didn’t like me in the job. I had to choose, he lost,” she said, rather wistfully. Ahah, I thought, now we’re getting to it.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind. Things are still a bit raw.”

“Well, there’s no reason not to have fun, even if we are in the shit,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Just how are we going to pay for all this?” she asked.

“That isn’t your problem. Just keep your eyes out for the bad guys, and let’s go with the flow,” I picked up my bag. She had to run to catch up with me as we went down to dinner.

The headwaiter smiled as we approached, briefly looking for any male escorts. You have to appreciate that in Switzerland, women only got the vote quite recently. When no men appeared to be with us, he frowned slightly, but showed us to a table. The food was exquisite and the wine wonderful, but the prices were also out of this world.

We ate our hearts out, so even Alison started to relax. I questioned her about Nicola and all her operations. It sounded quite grueling, and I hoped that it wasn’t going to be as bad for me. But I kept seeing that photograph of that smiling face and her children and husband. A small band was playing discreetly on the raised platform, with a few couples dancing.

We were just enjoying a coffee and liqueur when a waiter approached.

“Excuse me, ladies, but the two American Gentlemen at that table are wondering whether you would like to join them?”

We turned and saw two men in dark suits and ties. One was about twenty-five, the other thirty. Both were very clean cut, and obviously not European. Americans wear suits in a completely different way. The Italians look stylish; the British look business-like, while the French look casual, even when in the finest suits. Americans look crisp, as if someone has just taken the cellophane off.

I looked at Alison. She shrugged.

“Don’t look at me, this is your party.”

I smiled at the men and they smiled back.

“Merci,” I said to the waiter, who bowed slightly and withdrew.

“Well?” I said, “Care to live a little?”

“You’re playing with fire, Monique. You’ll get burned.”

“If I get burned, you’ll have to stick me in a bucket of water,” I said, standing up.

I walked over to their table, and hoped that Alison was following. As I approached, the men stood and pulled the other chairs out for us. Alison had followed.

I spoke rapidly in French to them, and then, on seeing their blank expressions, tried again.

“Good evening gentlemen. Zis ees most kind, but please do not mistake us for ladies of, shall we say, easy virtue,” I repeated in English, but with my outrageous accent.

“Hi, oh no. Please accept our apologies if we gave you that impression. We noticed you were without male company, and we were without female company, and hey, I thought, what the heck, why not at least ask.”

“You are kind, monsieur. I am Monique, and zis is my English friend Alison,” I said. The men rose and shook our hands. Alison was looking daggers at me.

“Okay, I’m William Henderson, and this is my colleague Richard Cooper. They call me Bill, and Richard, Rich.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Why are you in Geneva?” I asked.

The men glanced at each other, and I sensed a lie or at least an untruth approaching.

“We work for the US Government, and we are here on a fact finding trip. It all relates to financial matters. Very dull,” Will said.

“What about you?”

“My father died suddenly, so I’m here to sort out my papa’s affairs, and Alison ees my legal advisor,” I said.

“Oh, are you Swiss?” Richard asked.

“Non. I am French. But my papa was a real European.”

“Is this your first time here, Alison?” Will asked.

“Yes, it is. Fortunately, Monique speaks all the languages and knows where we are going,” she said, seeming to relax a little.

“Oh, the languages. Why they all can’t speak English. I’ll never know?” William said.

“I know. I learned French in school, but that was too long ago,” Alison said, and Bill smiled at her.

“Your English is first class. Monique,” Rich said to me.

“Merci. Thank you, but I have lived in England too,” I said.

“When did you get here?”

“Not long, but we go to the banque tomorrow, and then, peut-áªtre , we go back to England.” I said, and Alison stared at me, frowning. I had not told her that.

“I see,” said Will.

The band was playing some relatively modern music now.

“Would you care to dance?” Rich asked me. I smiled.

“I’d love to,” I said, taking his proffered hand, while Alison’s eyes rolled heavenwards.

Needless to say, Will and Alison were seconds behind us, so soon all four of us were on the dance floor.

I enjoyed dancing as a girl. I had never been that coordinated, but somehow it didn’t matter. As a boy, I had been so self-conscious that embarrassment had taken over and I just couldn’t seem to manage it. But now, I was having a ball. I seemed to have boundless energy and just stayed dancing for as long as I could. Will and Alison retired back to the table, but Rich just grinned and lost his jacket.

The music changed to a slower mood and I found myself in Rich’s arms. The next thing I know his hands are fondling my bum, with my arms are around his neck.

He pulled me towards him, and I let him do it. I felt our pelvises rub, but then I felt his erection through his trousers. Alarm bells should have been going off, but for some silly reason I adored having this effect on a man. I smiled and licked my lips.

“You are a very naughty man,” I said.

He grinned. “Oh yeah? Honey, I haven’t even begun.”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Pauvre petit. C’est mon temps du mois,” I said, so he frowned.

“Hey, I speak a little French, does that mean what I think it means?”

“Je suis désolé. I am sorry,” I said, but he smiled.

“Hey, no problem. I’m sorry too, for what it is worth.”

The next moment he was kissing me, and I mean kissing. None of this peck on the lips, his tongue was near my lower intestines, so I had grabbed his head and was giving as good as I got.

I felt feelings that I had never felt before, so I had to break away, before I made a complete fool of myself.

“Merde, I need to go, désolé,” I said, and almost ran to the ladies.

I sat on the loo and shook, but this time with sexual frustration. I wanted him so badly, but couldn’t have him.

Alison was soon knocking on the door. I opened it.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry. I want him, Alison.” I said.

“You can’t have him. Remember who you really are?”

I started to cry, so she hugged me.

“Come on, not here, not now. Get a grip, and repair your make up.”

My mind was in a whirl, as I had difficulty finding reality. She told me to get a grip, but to grip on what? My dad was murdered, I was wanted for the murder, even though I knew the policeman had shot him and framed me. I was now in a fancy Swiss hotel, dressed as a girl and having just snogged a gorgeous bloke. What the hell did I have to grip onto?

The girl I had become stared at me from the mirror. She was almost a stranger, looking nothing like the me I knew. Something in the eyes told me to get up and keep going. Those eyes were so much older than I felt, and she seemed to be laughing at me.

“I’m okay,” I said, standing up. I stood in front of the mirror, faced the girl and replaced the mascara that had run. The girl smiled back at me. I took comfort from her. She was the only person I could trust.

“I told him I was on blob. It was all I could think of,” I told Alison.

“I know, he told Will that.”

I smiled. “What’s happened to me?”

“The hormones, they must be working.”

“I wanted him so badly. Am I gay?”

“God, you ask the daftest questions! If you want my opinion, I’d say no, you’re a girl with a minor problem.”

“Minor?”

“Okay, a significant problem.”

“I’m fine now, let’s go,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. But I’m still buzzing. That kiss. It was wonderful.”

“Come on. You are too much.” she said, laughing.

We returned to the table.

“I am so sorry, girl problems,” I said, remembering the accent just in time.

“Would you like to dance again?” Rich asked.

“I’d love to, but perhaps, gravity is not my friend tonight,” I said with a smile.

He smiled and put his jacket on. His wallet flew out and landed at my feet. I bent down and picked it up, but as I did I got a fleeting glimpse of a badge pinned to the inside of it. He was a cop, or FBI.

---

 
To Be Continued...