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 2

We woke to the sound of a rhythmic beeping and a raw feeling in our throat. Something had been stuck down there which, now we were conscious, set us gagging.

A nurse hurried into the room and tried to stop – me more than Max – from pulling the tube out of our mouth.

It felt wrong calling her Max, but I needed something to differentiate between the individual I was sharing this body with and the person we made together. She was who I thought of as Abrielle. I could feel Max sharing my thought process and agreeing with me. Her thoughts appeared within our shared brain indicating she didn't mind me thinking of her as Max as long as I was okay with her referring to me as Gerald, which seemed fair and was okay as long as we could think of us as Abrielle. The doctor arrived while we were sorting matters out between ourselves. I turned my attention to him and gestured pulling the tube out of my throat. He held his hands up placatingly and a few minutes of harried activity later we suffered through a few intensely uncomfortable seconds as a long length of plastic tubing was pulled out of our oesophagus.

"Don't try to talk just yet," he said as he put the paraphernalia to one side. "Your throat will be rather raw for a few days, not just because of the tube," he waved at the tray beside him," but because we had to pump out your stomach, Do you remember much of what happened?"

Max wanted to shake our head, and I saw no reason to prevent her. Now that the discomfort had eased, I became aware of how unusual our situation was. As the older and more forceful personality, I could probably have bullied my way to prominence without realising I was doing it, but this was Max's body, Max's life. Mine had ended and I had no right to this one.

'Neither do I.' The thought appeared in our shared mind. ‘I killed myself, which means I've no more right to this life than you!'

I'd not heard much from her, but she was such a mouse of a person, she probably didn't think consciously a lot of the time. I felt her smile at that. We'd have to get used to being able to hear each other's thoughts all the time, and I'd probably have to work on thinking less, for both our sakes.

'No don't. I like it.’

The doctor had said something, but we'd both been too preoccupied to pick up on it. I took control of our face long enough to put a questioning look there.

"I said, your parents are waiting outside. Would you like to see them?"

I could feel Max shrink inside me, so I gave a tentative shake of our head.

"Was it your father, perhaps, who did that?" He pointed at my face, so I held up a hand encountering tenderness wherever I touched my left cheek.

The doctor disappeared for the brief time it took him to find a small shaving mirror. He offered it to me, which was when I discovered how little I knew my great nephew, or whatever relation he might have been to me. He hid his face behind a curtain of greasy hair. I didn't much like the feel of it, so neither would anyone else, making it quite excellent camouflage. I persevered and lifted it away from the left side of our face to reveal remarkably delicate features and a livid bruise, bleeding blue into our eye socket. It was shaped roughly like a hand.

"Your parents are being quite insistent," the doctor said, "but I can stay in the room with you if you prefer."

Max retreated further leaving me to nod and mouth my thanks. Again he withdrew for a brief moment, returning with Max's mum and dad – my mum and dad now too, I realised. This whole situation was going to take a lot of getting used to.

"What the hell is he wearing?" Dad exclaimed on seeing us. It hadn't registered with me, given all the other newness I was adapting to, but I was wearing one of those ridiculous hospital gowns that doesn't quite do up at the back, only with my slight frame. this one did. It was also predominantly pink.

"Given the way your child was dressed upon arrival," the doctor said," we felt it appropriate. After a trauma like this, its best to minimise any changes."

"Well that's about to fucking well change! I do not want my son dressing up like some namby pamby poofta, do you understand?"

"I understand what you're saying Mr Baxter, but while under my care, Max is my patient before he is your son or..."

"Don't say it. Don't you dare say it. Fine, we'll discharge him. I don't trust leaving him in your care."

"You are within your rights to do so, Mr Baxter, but Max has been through quite an ordeal, and should you choose to insist on taking him away, you will do so against my express recommendation."

"I don't really care, doctor."

"Perhaps not, sir, but I think social services might, especially when I inform them of the condition in which he arrived."

"You mean that fucking bruise?" He waved a finger in my face, close enough to make Max cringe. "He fell in the bathroom and hit his head. You try to prove otherwise!"

I'd had enough. I reached out and grabbed his hand in both of mine. He wasn't sure how to respond, and looked down at me, confused, while I unfolded his fingers and placed his palm against my cheek. It seemed like an affectionate gesture at first, until it became evident how precisely his hand covered the bruise. He pulled away and glowered at me, but I returned his gaze with a steely one of my own.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave now Mr Baxter. Max needs rest and you're not helping him."

Like most bullies, he retreated when challenged. Lisa – my mother, I suppose – moved in, her face all loving concern.

"My dress?" I croaked at her, the steel in my eyes in no way diminished.

She had enough decency to took ashamed before reluctantly following her husband out of the room.

"I said not to speak," the doctor said reprovingly. I nodded and pointed at my neck, miming taking a drink. Just two whispered words, but my throat was on fire. They knew what they were doing though. A nurse – the same one who'd been present when I first woke up, I think – came into the room carrying a jug of iced water. She poured me a glass and I sipped it gently, gasping with relief as the cool liquid doused the flames.

"I still don't want you to talk," the doctor said, easing himself onto the bed beside me, “but I do need a little information from you. Your parents gave your age as twelve years old. Is that correct?"

Max remained buried deep within us, but I could feel him nodding. I made sure our head was actually moving.

"And your father hit you?" He pointed at the livid mark on our face. I could feel Max's fear and his automatic reaction to deny it. I allowed that to come out as a shrug. We'd been well on our way to unconsciousness when Dad must have lashed out, so it wasn't really a lie.

"Has he hit you before?”

Again the desperate denial from within. Again I translated it into a shrug. Yet again, not something I knew for certain, so not strictly speaking a lie.

He sighed." I can't help you much if you don't tell me," he said. "If he has been mistreating you, then we can protect you, but..."

I could see he was conflicted. On the one hand wanting what was best for us, on the other hand constrained by professional ethics. If there was any evidence that he'd influenced me into acting against my parents, it might compromise any case that arose from it. I wasn't in a position to give him what he was looking for though, at least not until I'd discussed it all with Max.

"The, er, gown." He'd evidently decided to move on. He reached out a hand to finger the soft material. “If you'd rather, I can arrange for something a little less, er, girly." Max shook our head. I wasn't about to contradict him. It wasn't my soft red nightdress, but it felt right for us. The colour was definitely pleasing, and when I'd looked in the mirror, I'd seen a pretty girl looking back rather than the depressed pre-teen.

"Do you have a different name you'd prefer us to use? Don't say anything, just..." I nodded and made writing motions. He picked up our chart from the end of the bed and handed it to me with a pen. I wrote a brief word and handed it back.

"Abrielle," he said with a smile. "Thats a very pretty name, and it suits you well. I'll let the nurses know. For now though, you need some rest. You have a lot of healing to do! I waved to get his attention and reached for the pen and clipboard. He turned the sheet over and handed it back.

I wrote 'Date?' out and showed him.

"Oh, it’s the twenty-fifth. Happy Christmas." Said without irony.

‘What happens next?' was my next question.

"You'll stay here for a few days while we make sure your body mends itself."

'And then?'

"Then you'll be discharged. You'll be referred to a psychologist as in all cases like yours..."

I wrote a question mark.

"You attempted to kill yourself, Abrielle. We need to do what we can to make sure you don't try it again. I suspect it has something to do with there being a girl under there," he touched us gently on the chest, "and possibly your parents not wishing to acknowledge this, but whatever it happens to be, we'll sort it out and you will be fine."

'My parents?'

"That all depends on what you're prepared to tell us. The more you can tell us the truth, the more we can make sure you'll be okay."

'I don't want to be a boy.'

"That's something to tell the psychologist when you see him. Or her. It'll probably mean you'll have to talk to another specialist or two, but there are a lot of things we can do these days."

I pointed to where I'd written 'my parents?' again.

"Yes. As I say, that's where you need to be truthful. I imagine they're not going to be too happy about this, but it is your life and not theirs, so you should be allowed to decide what's best for you.

"Anyway, enough! You should sleep." He held his hand out for the clipboard.

Instead of giving it to him, I wrote down the address of the mobile home where I suspected my own body remained undiscovered.

"What's this?" the doctor wanted to know.

‘My grandfather's brother,' I wrote. 'I'm worried about him.' It would probably come back and bite me in the arse, but I didn't want to lay around decomposing for too long without being found. I was beyond the embarrassment of being found sprawled across the bed in my frillies, and having one more member of the family in the unmentionable category might help Max's predicament.

What was I saying? It was Abrielle's predicament. Our predicament.

"I'll pass this onto the police, but only if you promise to try and sleep now, okay?"

I nodded and made eating motions.

"Not just yet. I think you'd find it too painful right now, but I promise there'll be something when you wake up."

I nodded and snuggled down as he took his leave. Further discussion with Max would have to wait. Our body needed sleep and it wasn't listening to either of us.

Morning light has a quality to it that sets it apart from other times of day. When we opened our eyes it was to the fresh brightness of a new day and a couple of uniformed policemen standing patiently outside the door.

'They'll have some awkward question for us when they realise we're awake,' I thought.

'Best keep our eyes shut for now then,' Max replied. There were times he didn't sound much like a twelve year old. 'That's because I'm sharing with you, I think. I can hear the way you think, sort of, and it's kind of changing the way my mind works. We're sort of... what’s the word? Sort of blending.'

'Merging?’

‘Yeah, I think so.'

'I don't feel like I'm changing much though. I'm worried I might be taking over.'

'What's my favourite subject at school?'

'What?'

'Don't think about it. Just answer the question.'

'English. I wrote an essay on the life of a princess. I mean you did. It was pretty good. How did I do that?'

'I don't know, but I can do the same with your memories. I know you like Pink Floyd and the Who, and your favourite wine is Malbec. I remember how scary it was to have a heart attack. I think we're sort of joining together. I can remember bits of your life and I think you're beginning to remember bits of mine. I think we're becoming a sort of mix of each other.'

'Are you okay with that? I mean it feels like there's a lot more of me than of you.'

'Yeah, but I'm better at being me because I'm the right age. I think it'll be alright. I feel safer with you around. How about you? Are you okay with it?'

'Well, for one thing, it feels better than being dead. For another, I feel like I wasted my life trying to be something I wasn't. I like the idea of having another go where I don't do that, or we don’t do that. Assuming you're okay with it.'

'I want to be a girl. I tried to kill myself because I didn't have the strength to stand up to my dad, and he'd never allow it. I don't know, with you here, it feels like I have a chance.'

'It'll mean making some tough choices, maybe. Your dad – our dad, I mean – is still going to fight us on this, so we may have to take the gloves off.'

'You mean fight dirty?'

'Fight harder, certainly.'

‘He's not a bad man!'

'He'll still do bad things if we let him. He believes what we want is wrong and he'll stop us if he can. And he's in a lot stronger position than us, so if we want to be as you say, and I certainly do, we're going to have to push it to the limit.

‘It’ll mean doing a few things I’m pretty sure you won’t want to, but the only way we get what we want is if he doesn’t get what he wants, and that’ll mean we may have to hit him where it hurts.’

'I don't know...'

'Max, this is at least as much your life as it is mine, possibly more so. I won't do anything without your agreement, but if we do it your way, we're far more likely to lose. You have to decide what’s more important – Either you choose to be a part of your family and forego becoming the girl you want to be, or you stand up for what you want and accept that they're not going to like it. I know how tough a decision it is because I faced the same one when I was younger. Things were different then and I had little choice but to hide myself. The thing is, I know how that ended up for me sixty plus years later, and if I can spare you the same misery, I will. Just promise me you'll think about it, okay?'

‘Okay. Why do you think the police are here?'

‘I'm guessing they found my body, and I suspect they'd like to know how a twelve year old who just attempted suicide would know where it was.'

'What should we tell them?'

'I've learnt that keeping to the truth works best.'

'They'll think we're mad!’

'Maybe, but that rather depends on how we tell the truth.'

'I don't understand!’

‘Then maybe have a little faith. And if this works out, think about maybe trusting me with our parents.'

'I suppose.'

'Good girl. Though I should say, having faith in my ideas doesn't mean they won't go pear shaped. Just that they're less likely to, and that I'm more likely to be able to dig us out of a hole when they do.’

‘A pear shaped hole?'

'What'?'

'My English teacher was trying to explain what happens when you mix your metaphors.’

'You're really not stupid, are you?'

‘Stupid enough to try and kill myself.’

'That wasn't stupid. More sort of desperate.'

'You didn't. Try to kill yourself, I mean!’

‘Different circumstances. I don't know what I might have done in your place.'

'I think they’re getting fed up of waiting.'

It was true. The policemen were talking to a nurse and looking fidgety.

‘Show time then. Let me drive, okay?'

She gave me a mental nod, which I followed by making a show of squirming about and stretching as I woke up. The nurse made a call and soon enough the doctor from the previous day appeared. I did my best to look worried as he led the two policemen into my room.

"Good morning Abrielle. How are you feeling? It's okay to speak, but don't strain yourself."

I reached with my left hand to brush my hair out of my face. Max resisted me and it occurred to me that maybe that was going too far. I reached across to clear the right side of my face and tried answering.

"Quite a lot better, thank you doctor." my voice sounded harsh and raw, but it didn't hurt. It felt like it would if I used it too much though.

"That's good. These two policemen have a few questions for you if that's alright. You remember you gave me an address for your great uncle yesterday?"

I nodded rather than use my voice. If it made my hair move about and showed off something of my bruises then...

Then maybe I was still trying to go too far. I made the movement more gentle than I'd first intended.

One of the policemen coughed. “Your mother tells me that you don't live around here," he said in a calm voice.

I shook my head gently.

"The address you gave to the doctor. Have you ever been there before?"

Again a gentle shake of my head.

“So, we're curious. How did you know to give it?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." I said in a quiet voice, the raw rasp making my words almost inaudible.

"Well, we won't know unless you do, will we?" He kept his voice calm.

"You know I... you know, tried to..."'

"We do."

"It was funny. I didn't really fall unconscious. It was like I was outside of my body. Not really anywhere, but awake even so. Then he was there."

"Who? Your great uncle?"

"I don't really know him. I know granddad” – Max's usual term for my brother sprang from out of his memory – “keeps inviting him for Christmas, but he never says yes. I've seen pictures of him so I know what he looks like, but..."

"But?"

“When I saw him, he was wearing a red nightdress. He looked sort of silly and I thought I was having a strange dream. Then he told me I was too young to go where he was going and that I should go back. He said, I should tell someone where to find him and he told me the address I gave to the doctor. Is he..?"

The two policemen exchanged a glance. So many words said without speaking a single one.

"Are you sure that’s what happened?" The older and, until now, quieter of the two asked. "You didn't, perhaps, overhear something when your uncle turned up at the door?"

"I was sitting on the stairs," I said. "I heard what granddad and grandma said to him and what he said to them. They didn't say anything about where he should stay. I think he thought he'd be staying in the house with us."

The policemen exchanged another meaningful look then glanced across to the doctor.

"I don't know what to say," the older one said. "It sounds farfetched, but it matches what everyone else has been saying. He even described what the old bloke was wearing. Are you sure he hasn't had contact with his great uncle?"

“I've no idea, officer. Abrielle's only been my patient since she was brought in last night. From her condition, I doubt she was in a state of mind to be communicating with anyone just prior to her incident, but I've no better explanation than you for what happened. Do you mean to say....?"

The older policeman nodded. "Heart attack," he confirmed, “Empty wine bottle, not much left of quite a large Chinese take away and the old man lying across the bed in... well, as young, er, Abrielle did you say?"

The doctor nodded. “It's the name she's asked us to use."

"Are you sure sh... er, she's alright? I mean..."

"Apart from the attempt she made on her own life," the doctor smiled reassuringly at us. "In fact despite that she's given the impression of being entirely 'all right'." The quotation marks hung in the air as a reproof.

"Yes but, I mean..." He didn't quite go to the extent of waving a hand at my appearance.

"She isn't responsible for what she's wearing, officer, although she has indicated that she is content with my choice. There is a possibility that her current self-identity may be related to the trauma of the last twenty-four hours. However, I am inclined to think otherwise, and as such in no way affects her competence to respond to your questions.

"Now, I'm afraid I've permitted you altogether too much time for your questions. She still needs rest, and more to the point, she doesn't need people speaking about her while she's still in the room.

"I'm sorry Abrielle. I'll ask the nurse to bring you some breakfast. It won't be particularly exciting, I'm afraid, but your oesophagus still has quite a bit of recovering to do." He led the policemen out of the room.

'They didn't believe you,' Max said in our mind.

'They didn't have to. They aren't allowed to interrogate a minor. They have a statement and an explanation, even if they don't believe it. It'll be just another one of those mysteries and I'm sure they have a lot in their files, probably most more unusual than ours. On the plus side, we told the truth.'

'Why is that on the plus side?'

'Lies weigh on your soul. Even small ones twist you out of shape. I should know, my entire life up until now has been a lie. I don't want it to be anymore!’

Breakfast consisted of lukewarm porridge with a dollop of honey in it. As the doctor had promised, not particularly interesting but filling and reviving nonetheless whilst also being soothing on my – our – pipes.

The morning passed uneventfully with us dozing in and out of consciousness. Lunch was something else that could be eaten with a spoon. A vegetable broth, I think, with a soft roll and butter. Shortly after the tray had been cleared our parents returned. It was clear from Dad's sour expression that he still didn't approve of our attire, but someone or something had persuaded him to keep his opinions to himself. Mum had been crying quite a lot if her puffy eyes were anything to go by. I waited in silence for them to speak first. They also waited until the nurses left us alone. Dad closed the door. "So, how did you know what had happened to the old queen?" he asked once we had a little privacy.

"I don’t think I really have anything to say to you," I rasped, Max having retreated as soon as they arrived.

"Don't you talk to me like that you little pissant."

"Why shouldn’t I? Give me a good reason. Yeah, go on and hit me. That’ll convince me.”

He'd advanced on me with a rage threatening to boil to the surface.

“You know, I haven't told anyone how I got this." This time Max didn't stop me uncovering the bruise on my face. “Not since showing the doctor yesterday anyway, but if you want to demonstrate your parenting skills in public, don't blame the consequences on me?”

He glanced about him. The room had glass windows and door. There were blinds for when privacy was required, but closing them now would have aroused more suspicion than Dad could afford.

"You wait till I get you home," he hissed.

"I don’t know if I'm coming home."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dad continued to glower at me, but Mum looked alarmed.

"It means that I don’t want to keep on living with a couple of people who are more concerned with themselves and their outdated prejudices than they are with the wellbeing of their child. I have no intention of living where I feel at risk and where my own feelings are disregarded just because they don't fall in line with yours."

"And just how do you intend to stop us from taking you home? We’re your parents, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. That means you’re supposed to look after me, not do stuff like this to me.” I gestured vaguely at my face. “There's a part of me that doesn't want to see you in trouble, which is why I haven't told anyone what you're like yet, but I'm not going to let things carry on as they are."

"You think you can threaten me, you pathetic little wimp!"

"Its not a threat, Dad, but I’m not going to let you intimidated me anymore either. I nearly killed myself because I couldn't think of a way of living with you. It took nearly dying for me to realise I don't have to. The question is, how much do you want to live with me?"

"I don't understand. what you're saying, dear," Mum said, speaking for the first time. "I've never heard you speak like this."

"It's still me, Mum." I backed away enough for Max to take over. He wasn't that keen, but he did. “It is Mum, it's really me, just... well..." He faded out with an apologetic mental shrug in my direction. “It's just that it took nearly dying for me to figure out what's important. I can't carry on living the way I have been, but now I realise that doesn't mean I have to give up on living.

"I'm not Max anymore, Mum. Max is who you wanted me to be, who you and Dad forced me to be. I was never really Max."

"You're talking bloody nonsense," Dad said.

"Not true, Dad, though it probably seems like nonsense to you, but that’s only because you refuse to see the whole picture. I've always been different on the inside and you've never wanted to admit that. You’ve always told me who I should be, but now I'm not going to let you push me around anymore. I'm going to be the me I've always felt I was inside. That's the only way you're going to get me back."

"Over my dead body!"

"I don't think it'll come to that, Dad, but I will do whatever's necessary to become who I really am, and if you try and stop me, you may end up wishing you were dead."

"Don't you bloody well dare talk to me like that." He moved in close so he was hissing in my face.

I reached for the button beside the bed and pressed it. A formidable looking nurse appeared in the doorway.

"I'm tired," I said to her.

It didn't take any more than that. she stood to one side and looked at my parents. Her expression was polite enough, but there was no question there was steel behind it.

"We're not done here, Max." My dad pointed a finger at me.

"I know, Dad, but it's you that gets to decide how we go from here, and not in the way you're thinking right now."

They left, Dad in particular with storm clouds overhead. I asked the nurse to hold back and requested she call for the doctor.

'What are you going to do?' Max asked.

'I don't think your dad – our dad – plans to back down,' I replied. ‘I think he's going to try and put us back under his thumb. We need to be ready for whatever he does next.'

'What does that mean?'

'I don't know exactly. I need some legal advice.'

‘I don't want to do anything to make him angrier.'

'I know, but we may have to if we want to be safe from him.’

‘How’s making him angrier going to keep us safe?’

‘You know that saying about how things have to get worse before they get better?'

'I thought they already got worse.'

'Not all the way!'

'What do you mean?'

'A friend of mine told me about a time when he was living in Africa, and he found a bee's nest in his garage. He asked his gardener what to do about it, and the man told him that they should go in together with blankets over their heads and a couple of cans of bug spray each.’.

'What does this have to do with anything?'

'Patience. What you need to know about African bees is they're really docile – You need to do a lot to make them angry, but when you do, watch out, because their sting is highly poisonous. Bad enough to kill if you get stung enough.

'My friend went with his gardener and between them they sprayed the nest until the sound of the bees started getting more threatening. My friend wanted to leave at that point but his gardener said no, they had to finish. If he'd left at that point, they'd have been chased and stung by a lot of angry bees. They had to stay and empty the cans so that all, or nearly all, the bees were dead.'

'You're saying Dad is the bees?'

'Yes, but we won't have to kill him. We will, however, have to keep fighting until he gives up.'

'I don't want anything bad to happen to him.'

'I know, and neither do I. I'm guessing he's not responsible for the way he is, but what if the only choice you have is between us or him?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s supposed to be my line.’ I have him a mental grin. ‘We want to be a girl, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘How likely do you think it is that we’ll be able to persuade Dad to let us be one?’

Note for future reference. A full-blown mental snort makes your ears itch in a way that you can’t scratch.

‘How do you think we’re going to get what we want then?’

He didn’t respond immediately.

‘I thought you were going to sort that out.’

‘I’m trying, but something drastic has to change in Dad’s outlook if we’re going to make it happen with his cooperation. While that seems unlikely, we may be stuck with having to choose between him or us.

‘The way your dad looked just now, I expect his next move will be to find lawyers and maybe doctors to declare us as incompetent. It probably won't be difficult given what happened last night. The thing is, if he gets ahead of us, it’ll put us in a much weaker position for fighting back. If we want a chance of getting what we want, we need to act first.’

The doctor finally arrived. He told us he'd been on his rounds and apologised.

"You've nothing to be sorry about doctor,” I told him. “I'm sorry to keep disturbing you. I was wondering about this." I flipped the hair away from my face.

“Wondering what?"

"Well, I don't want to get my dad in trouble..."

"It won't be you getting him in trouble. If he's done something against the law, its him who's done the getting in trouble. By telling me, or anyone else, about it, all you're doing is protecting yourself."

"That’s the thing though. I think, after what my dad and I said to each other that he's probably going to try and prove that I'm not in my right mind."

"Because of your gender issues?"

“Because I told him I want to be a girl, yeah."

"Well, he'll have a hard time trying to prove incompetence on those grounds. The medical profession is on your side, as is the legal one. He’s more likely to use your attempted suicide, and he’s on firmer ground there.”

“Except I only tried to kill myself because he refuses to acknowledge that I’m really a girl.”

“I’m not sure how much that will help. As I say, the law is currently on your side regarding your gender, but there aren’t many places capable of providing a definitive assessment on that, and since your parent’s have parental responsibility for you, they get to decide what’s right for you.”

“In the meantime, puberty hits sooner or later, and without blockers, which I can only have if Mum and/or Dad give their consent – is it both or just one of them? – I end up with an adult male body and all my dreams of becoming a woman are ruined.”

“You’re remarkably well informed for someone your age. The drugs would only need approval of one of your parents, but you’ll also need an assessment on your condition and the situation in the NHS is a bit of a mess at the moment. You’re not likely to get much help from us, I’m afraid.”

“Then why do you keep pressing me about this?” I pointed at my bruise.

“Because I’m concerned for your safety. If your father is physically abusing you, we have to ensure that doesn’t continue.”

“I tried to kill myself because of my gender issues, and you’re worried about a bruise?”

“I have to deal with the issues I can do something about, and your bruise is indicative of a high degree of violence, so yes it does concern me.

“I plan to put forward my evidence anyway, but it would be a lot more compelling if you would offer up testimony.”

“What’s likely to happen?”

“The most likely immediate benefit would be that his parental rights would be suspended, meaning your mother would be solely responsible for your welfare.”

‘That’s no good,’ Max murmured in my mind. ‘Mum’d still only do what Dad told her.’

‘And maybe us standing up to Dad would be enough to make him sit up and take notice.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We have to do something more than we’re doing at the moment.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Max...’

‘I said I’d think about it, okay?’

I sighed. “Let me sleep on it, doctor.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea, Abrielle. Only don’t take too long making up your mind, because once your parents discharge you from the hospital, I really won’t be able to help you much.”

He left the room, and I was alone. More so than I had been since I’d started this new arrangement. Max was… I think the best term I could think of was sulking. He had withdrawn very much to the interior of our shared consciousness, making himself so small, I could barely feel him.

'Why don't you show me some of your memories, Max? I promise I won't act against your dad unless you say it’s okay, but it would help me if I knew what was really happening.’

No response. He really was sulking.

How do you recall a memory? When it’s yours, there’s no real issue, you do it more or less by instinct, but when it’s in someone else’s head...

I’m not really a JK fan, and it has nothing to do with all the accusations of her being a rabidly uncompromising transphobe, which are almost certainly blown out of all proportion by extremists on the other side of the debate. What I struggle with is that Potter world is full of lazy, half thought out ideas and inconsistencies, but every now and then there’s an idea that works.

The idea of the pensive and memories as threads to be snagged. There are times when you encounter something in the present that resembles something that happened in the past, or you’re rummage about in the dusty, cobweb strewn attic of your mind and come across a hint from the past that does the same, and suddenly you hold a thread in your hands. Follow the thread, and there you are, in the middle of the memory, with details cascading into your remembrance like water from a stream making its way to the larger river.

I tried imagining Max’s dad, his face turning purple and blotchy with apoplexy.

The threads of memory tumbled over me like an avalanche.

They turned into a sequence of dreams, each one running its course before picking up the beginnings of another. They might have been nightmares, only they were foreign enough to me that, rather than overwhelm me in a wild jumble of mixed memories, I awoke within the midst of them all and became an objective, remote observer to the misery of Max’s life.

When you lucid dream, you can take over the narrative, make it go where you like. I kept myself from doing so in order to relive Max’s past traumas, and with each passing moment, I found a cold fury growing inside me; a sort of opposite to fire which I stoked into an icy rage.

Some people do not deserve the privilege of children in their lives. Kids are like orchids (awe kids? Homophone?) They need nurturing and encouragement in order to grow into their own individual, beautiful, glorious selves. They don’t belong to you – it’s more that you belong to them.

You know that old adage? Dogs have owners, cats have staff? It’s a bit like that, only not really, I suppose. Kids have parents which is somewhere in between. If parenting becomes too much like either dog or cat ownership, then you’re doing it wrong. Both count as some sort of abuse.

Then along comes the odd wanker – and maybe they should have stuck to that rather than spreading their seed somewhere it might grow into something new and precious. Some wanker who thinks he knows best, and decides to twist the fragile blossom in an attempt to turn it into something it’s not.

It’s not always a him either, although the abusive hers tend to be more subtle in their actions, choosing coercion over confrontation.

Not Max’s dad. He was fully into confrontation.

And that was my night, reliving one event after another when Max had chosen to follow his own path rather than toe the line, and had ended up bearing the brunt of his father’s displeasure.

I awoke to the sense of his sullen presence lurking in the shadows of his mind.

‘I’m sorry,’ I told him.

‘Why? What are you going to do?’

‘Whatever it takes to keep us from getting caught up again in your dad’s sh...’

Was it still inappropriate to swear in front of a child if you were a part of that child?

I felt Max smile, but then he turned grim.

‘I don’t want you to hurt him.’

‘He’s not going to change unless someone does. Right now, he has no incentive to do so.’

‘But...’

‘Max, if there were another way, I’d take it. I know what I promised, but I’m going to have to break that promise... for both our sakes.’

I reached for the call button, but it was already too late. Dad had just arrived on the ward, trailed by someone in a very expensive suit.

I’d tried that once – spending the greater part of four figures on something bespoke, but the better it fit, the worse it made me feel. It did what it was intended to, made me look like a powerful, successful businessman. The thing was, underneath it all, there was nothing I could think of that was further from the real me.

‘Please...’ Max begged.

‘Do you think the way he’s treating you is fair?’

‘No, but...’

‘He hasn’t changed in the twelve years you’ve been alive. Do you believe he’s anywhere near changing now?’

‘No, but...’

‘Max, he’s not going to change until someone shows him that he has to. By hiding from him and letting him have his way, you’re teaching him that he’s justified in what he’s doing, and that gives him no reason to change.’

‘I know, but...’

‘But what? I came to help you, Max, and you came back to this life because you believed I could help. And I can, but only if you let me.

‘You say he’s not a bad man, and maybe you’re right, but I’ve spent the night dreaming through all your memories of the things he’s done to you. I ‘ve met people like him. My father was people like him, and so was – is – my brother – your grandfather. You can trust me when I say he won’t stop unless and until someone stops him. And right now, we’re the only ones around who can stand up to him.’

‘I...’

‘What do you think will happen if he takes us home? Can you see any future when he will let Abrielle into the world?’

‘...No’

‘Then right now it’s down to a simple choice between him and us, and that choice isn’t difficult. He’s the one being unreasonable. He’s also the one who should know better. Right now, our only hope is for you to let me do what I have to.’

‘You just want to hurt him.’

‘Maybe, after last night there’s a part of me that does; I have no patience for people who are cruel to children. I promise you though, I won’t do any more than is necessary to fix this. For us and for him.’

‘I don’t like this.’

‘I know, but I’ve been around for five times as long as you. I have more experience and I’m not lying to you when I say this is necessary.’

‘Alright, but...’

‘Nothing out of hate. Nothing out of spite. Just what’s necessary, I promise.’

‘Alright.’ His voice so small I barely heard it. Dad had made his way to our room while we’d been arguing, and now he barged in, throwing a bundle of clothes on the bed.

“Get dressed,” he said gruffly.

“No.” I pushed the call button. From the activity outside I wasn’t sure it was necessary, but just in case.

“What did you say?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m afraid of you.”

His friend in the suit had reached the door. His expression turned worried. “Mike?”

“Shut it Gary. You’re here to make sure these arseholes at the hospital don’t get in my way, now put the damn clothes on you little...”

“No!” I fought to keep my voice level and quiet, but it was hard. The twelve-year-old body I was sharing had its own range of hormonal responses, and right now it was dumping a mother load of adrenaline into my system – our system. Fight or flight with the former not really being an option.

“You little f...”

“Keep away. Keep him away from me. He hit me.”

With perfect timing, the doctor chose that moment to arrive.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, pushing his way into the room.

“I’m discharging my son. I have no faith in a doctor who’d put him in a pink nightdress and pretend he was a girl.”

“I’m sorry Mr Baxter, but I can’t let you do that. I have a duty of care towards your son, and I have reason to believe that releasing him into your custody would likely be putting him back in danger “

“Gary.”

The man in the suit dropped his briefcase onto a nearby chair, snapped it open and withdrew a sheet of impressively understated letterhead paper. Quality enough to intimidate. Only the doctor wasn’t so easily pushed around. He read it through, shrugged and handed it back.

“That’d do most days,” he said, “but since I just heard my patient say your client hit him and that she’s afraid of him, that puts me in a very different position.”

“He’s fucking lying,” Dad said. “He took a fuck load of pills and hit his head on the sink or whatever when he lost consciousness.”

I pulled the hair away from my face. I could feel Max wanted to stop me, but she held back and allowed me to do what I felt I needed to.

Gary, the lawyer, gave a sharp intake of breath and turned to glare at my dad.

“You’re going to have to find yourself another lawyer, Mike.”

“Hang on. You owe me one.”

“Yeah, well call in your favour another way. I already told you I will only represent people who are completely honest with me. Convince me that wasn’t made by your hand.” He pointed at my bruise.

“Well. I may have given him a gentle slap to try and revive him.”

“From which you might expect a little reddening which should have faded by now,” the doctor said. “Third degree bruises like this require a considerable amount more force. You’re lucky you didn’t damage her eye.”

Gary had evidently heard enough and was marching away from the ward.

“Your daughter stays with us Mr Baxter, and you can expect a visit from social services in the next few days, or possibly the police.”

It was enough to send Dad scurrying after his friend.

“I’m glad you changed your mind, Abrielle. At least I assume you have.”

“Yes doctor, at least I think so. I still don’t want to make trouble for my dad.”

“Like I said, he’s made trouble for himself. I’d like to take a written statement, if I may.”

“Sure. About my eye, doctor. How do you know it isn’t damaged.”

“When I admitted you, I ordered a CT scan. It’s kind of like a three-dimensional x-ray. It would have shown up anything like a detached retina or torn ligaments. There were signs of some swelling, but nothing worrying, otherwise you’d have woken up wearing an eye patch.”

He asked me to give an account of my memories from the previous day, which Max roused long enough to answer. The feeling of hopelessness and depression, the decision to put on Mum’s dress and makeup, noticing the bottle of sleeping pills on Mum’s bedside cabinet, the sudden decision to take them all – almost two thirds of a bottle. Locking himself in the bathroom and feeling the tiredness wash over him. Lying down and then... nothing. Well, not quite nothing. The encounter with me in my red nightdress and the long-haired Arab.

“We’ll put that down as a dream, shall we?” the doctor said. “We don’t want your Dad’s lawyers to think you’re hallucinating. What about the bruise?”

“I didn’t have it before I fell asleep, but I did when I woke up.”

“Thank you, Abrielle. Breakfast soon, then rest.”

“What happens now, doctor?” I asked for us both.

“You rest as much as you can and sometime soon you’ll have more people asking more questions. Not just about yesterday, but other times your father was violent or aggressive. Please be honest. Nothing more nor less than the truth.”