Author's note: Apart from obvious place names such as Bournemouth and London, all people, places and events are entirely fictional. Seacombe is a fictitious seaside town on the south coast of England. The story contains adult actions, some of which are naughty, but nice, and others are plain naughty and evil. Don't read it if you're not an adult, or if you may be upset or offended by the content. Apologies to PD James, from whose book I adapted the title, and gained the idea of the plot.

Chapter 3

"H-u-u-u-u-h!" I gasped, struggling upright. It was as black as hell. Where was I? What was I?

I had been on the bed, flat on my back, hands tied behind me, with Barry giving me a superb shagging. I'd had a wonderful climax. Jason had shouted, "No!" and Ed had pushed a pillow over my head and the world had blown up.

The bastard had shot me!

It was unbelievable!

Things like that happened to other people, not me.

But I'd been instantly transported to this world of blackness. I was sitting on something soft but my hands weren't tied behind me, and I didn't have a nice cock inside me, and certainly not half a pint of squidgy semen.

My vision was adjusting - it wasn't totally black. In front of me, I could see a ghostly white shape, some distance away. Was it St Peter, I wondered, come to tell me whether I was allowed in or had to go to that other place.

I moved forward towards the blurred shape, and as I did so, the shape moved towards me. As we got closer together, I could see it definitely formed the silhouette of a figure, so I guessed it must be St Peter. How weird, since I didn't believe in heaven and hell, and all that religious stuff.

Closer and closer we got, until I could reach out a hand to shake St Peter's hand, and beg for entry.

Then my hand struck the wardrobe door, and I said, "Shit!" and the image of St Peter disappeared as the mirror swung to the side.

***

Thirty seconds later, I'd managed to locate the light switch and the bedroom was bathed in light so bright that I had to tightly close my eyes. I fumbled my way back to the bed, and sat on it until my eyes had adjusted enough for me to open them.

I remembered everything quite clearly now. After PC Sally Wright had left, I had finished off the bottle of wine and then come up to bed. Not having any pyjamas of my own, I had rummaged through Lucy's drawers to see what she had, and found this wonderful, white, full-length, sleeved nightdress, in a filmy fabric that was so beautiful, I wanted to weep. I hadn't hesitated for a moment, before slipping it on and standing in front of the mirror.

I looked ravishing! I must have spent five minutes simply staring at myself, before realising that I was not only getting cold, I was also very tired and fairly tipsy. It was time to go to bed.

I found where Lucy kept her clean bed linen, and made the bed. I removed my make-up and earrings, took out my lenses, but left on my wig because I didn't want to revert to being a man just yet, and slipped into bed. Then I quickly got out of bed and opened the wardrobe door and adjusted it so that I could look at myself in the mirror as I lay in bed. I'd turned out the light and promptly gone to sleep.

And had a continuation of my earlier dream.

***

Of course, many people would have presumed I'd had some kind of contact with the dead - or perhaps picked up vibrations left in the building of a dreadful murder. But I'm a computer engineer. Everything has a scientific explanation. Ghosts don't exist, although, of course, I am frightened of them!

But at times like this, one should behave like a scientist. First record, then investigate and analyse.

I pulled on Lucy's sweater and jeans over my nightdress and went downstairs. I located my laptop, plugged it into the mains, and booted it up. I went into my word processor and started to type in everything that I could remember since I'd arrived.

An hour later, I'd written as full an account as I could recall, and had been through it several times, until I was fairly satisfied it was reasonably complete. Only then, did I plug the laptop into a telephone line, and connect to the internet.

Entering 'Lucy Farr OR Richards Seacombe' into Google produced hundreds of hits, from sources such as TV news, the national press and The Seacombe Echo, the local newspaper. I turned first to the most authorative, unbiased source of news in the world, the BBC.

"Rape, murder and torture in seaside town.

"A young couple were shot dead in their home in Seacombe last night, after the woman was raped and the man tortured. Police were called to the scene at about midnight, when neighbours dialled 999 and reported hearing breaking glass, a man shouting for the police, and the sound of a gunshot. An armed response unit was sent from county headquarters, but unarmed officers arrived at the scene first and established the intruders had already left.

"The dead man was later identified as Mr Jason Farr, from Liverpool, who has been living in the area for some time. The dead woman is thought to be his wife, Mrs Lucy Farr, although formal identification has yet to be made. Police say they hope to make an arrest very shortly."

The national daily papers gave a lot more sensationalism to the story, and reported how Jason had been tortured before being murdered (and I'm definitely not going into that detail - read the papers if you're interested). In a fit of desperation, he appeared to have smashed his head through the glass in the bathroom window and screamed for the police. He had promptly been shot in the head, and just as promptly, the intruders had got in their car and driven off.

The papers went quite deeply into Jason's background. He'd been in trouble with the police since his early teens in Liverpool. When he'd left home - or, as some papers suggested, been thrown out by his parents - he'd moved first to London, and then gone to Bournemouth on holiday. He had found the relaxed atmosphere of a seaside town provided easy pickings for petty thieving, so he stayed on, until the police got to know him, whereupon he moved to Seacombe.

It was the local Seacombe Echo which found a number of unnamed people who said they had bought cannabis or Ecstasy from Jason, although in more recent times he seemed to have stopped dealing in small stuff. The suspicion was that he'd got onto dealing in more serious drugs, and was a casualty of the gangland warfare that regularly accompanies their distribution.

Lucy had arrived in Seacombe as the wife of Jason, although at the time of the press reports, no one seemed to know where she had come from. The police couldn't find any trace of their marriage, and their investigations were hampered because the bullet, which had entered the back of her head, had removed most of her face. There were no photographs around of either of them, so the police had to undergo a time-consuming process of circulating dentists around the country with details of the teeth in her lower jaw, the only part of her face still intact.

All newspapers described Lucy as a lovely girl-next-door, who had got dragged into the dirty world of drugs by her no-good husband. She had worked as a barmaid at the local Smugglers Inn.

***

So there it was, the life and death of Lucy Farr, nee Richards. No doubt many readers will, by this time, believe that the press reports proved that my dream WAS a direct communication with her spirit. But as I indicated earlier, I am a scientist; I believe science can always provide an answer, even if that answer has not yet been discovered.

A simple analysis of my dream from a different angle provided a much more logical solution. A double murder of a young couple would inevitably have been broadcast on national TV news and I'd seen the ample evidence of the abundant coverage in the national press on the internet.

Although not a regular reader of any newspaper (I appreciate the truth too much for that!), I do watch TV news. I would undoubtedly have seen the report, sandwiched somewhere between an account of the dozens of Iraqis killed that day in Baghdad, and the number of times that day that a ball had been kicked between two white posts into a net.

I may not have taken much note of a 'trivial' murder story, but the news would have been stored somewhere in my memory and, when Suzanne's email arrived, my sub-conscious would have associated the name. It had now taken the opportunity to point it out to me in a highly graphic manner.

The opportunity to live the life of Lucy for just an hour, following on from the excitement I'd experienced by cross-dressing, was something I'd tremendously enjoyed, even in the knowledge of hindsight of how that life had ended. Hopefully, I thought, I might have some more nice dreams about being Lucy.

I went back to bed with a warm feeling of excitement in my heart, and willing another sexy dream.

***

I awoke next morning without having experienced any more of Lucy's life. As I stared at myself in the mirror on the wardrobe door, I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that, in daylight and without makeup, I didn't look nearly as convincing as I had done last night.

So, I decided I had better get out of bed, take off the Lucy attire, put on my own clothes which hopefully had dried overnight, and return to the world of Chris Jones. I had to get my living arrangements sorted today, go to the supermarket and buy food, as well as start to clear out the cottage.

But I have to confess that my heart gave a little beat of pleasure when I went into the bathroom and discovered that, although the heated towel rail had supposedly been switched on all night, it was stone cold. My damp clothes from last night were, if anything, even worse after being in the cold, condensation-ridden atmosphere of the bathroom.

Oh dear, I thought, I'll have to put on some more of Lucy's clothes, at least until I'd gone out to the car and brought in my suitcase. Last night, I'd been terrified of anyone seeing me as I did so, but that morning, it didn't hold the same terrors. For one thing, my attire had passed the fairly stringent test of being observed by a policewoman (and a lesbian at that), and almost being asked out by her.

Secondly, people walking about are generally not so noticeable during daylight hours. Last night, in order to avoid falling over in the pitch black as I walked up the garden path, through the gate and around to the car, I'd had to have put on an outside light, which would have illuminated me like an escapee from Stalag 13.

Now it was daylight, I could check through an upstairs window there was no one in the lane outside, before going out. Then I could creep out of the front door and up the path under cover of the tall front hedge. Finally, I could keep the car between me and the cottage opposite, whilst I opened the hatch and whipped out my suitcase.

And most of that went according to plan. I selected a pretty, white dress with a scoop neckline, which I thought would really show off my boobs a treat. I found a white suspender belt and white stockings with flowery pattern, white panties and decided to go without a bra. After I'd put on my underwear, I felt I had better put on some make-up as well, just in case I did bump into anyone - better safe than sorry - so I spent another twenty minutes making myself look just as good as I had done last night. I put a couple of one-inch gold hoops through my ears, although it hurt quite a lot as I slipped them through the holes I had made the previous evening, and I vowed to keep these on for as long as I could.

I was right about the dress nicely showing off my boobs, but decided it needed something else to finish it off, and rooted around in the wardrobe until I found a nice white hat with a wide brim. I really did look, I thought, like the girl-next-door. Finally, I found some sandals with relatively low heels, which looked OK to go into the muddy lane outside.

From the bedroom window, I was able to see the lane was completely deserted. I went downstairs, quietly opened the front door and silently walked down the path towards the gate set in the high hedge.

I lifted the latch on the gate, pulled it open, and stepped out into the lane. Behind me, the gate slammed shut with a loud bang. Damn! Just the thing to attract the attention of my neighbour. I had to get on with things quickly.

I turned to my car and...

My car wasn't there!

It had gone! I'd left it there last night, as I struggled to carry the mattress up to the house. Had I locked it after that fight to get the mattress out of the car? Had I even closed the hatch? Shit!

After a brief thought, I decided that for the purpose of my insurance claim, I had definitely closed and locked the car. In actuality, I thought I had probably not. Now, I would have to ring the police and tell them it was missing and, certainly for the time being, I would have to continue wearing Lucy's clothes. I turned back towards the gate, reaching towards the latch to open it.

"Lucifer!"

The cry had come from the cottage almost opposite mine. Too late to try to open the gate and disappear; several hours too late to hide behind my car! I turned towards the sound, trying to put a nice smile on my lips, and thinking, "Lucifer. That's what Jason had called me in my dream."

She came through the front gate of her cottage, and walked towards me as though she was in a trance. On her face was a weird look, almost as if she had seen a ghost. Judging from her grey hair, I guessed she was around sixty-five or seventy, although it's difficult to tell nowadays, and she still looked attractive in her black jacket with a contrasting scarf.

When she was only ten yards away, she stopped abruptly, her face relaxed, and she said, "You're NOT Lucifer."

"No," I confessed, in my little girl voice. "I'm not Lucifer." Then I added, although I thought I already knew the answer, "Do you mean Lucy? Lucy Farr?" As I said the words, I realised how obvious the nickname was.

"Yes," she said, giving a little smile to hide her embarrassment. "I... it's just that... well, from the cottage you looked just like Lucifer - off to get milk and eggs from the farm - she did that every morning - and... Well, I've never been able to accept it was her that was killed. Lucy was such an innocent, and the face of the body they found was unrecognisable. You see, I've always hoped that someday the real Lucy will turn up alive and well."

She shrugged her shoulders and added, "I know, it's just the hopeless ramblings of an old woman, but she was such a lovely child."

She gave me a more critical appraisement and said, "It's strange. From the cottage you looked just like her, yet now I'm close up, there's little physical resemblance. But there is something about you that makes me think of Lucy."

"I'm wearing one of her dresses," I said. "Perhaps it's that."

"No," she said. "I realise the dress is the same, but it's something deeper than that. Presumably, you're a relative?"

"My name's Chris Jones. I'm from her aunt's side of the family." Why had I not confessed outright that I was not a relative?

"That must be it, then; you have some family resemblance. Incidentally, my name is Irene Collins." She scrutinised me again as we formally shook hands, and I smiled back at her. It was strange, but I ought to have been terrified she was going to realise I was really a man. Instead, I felt a tremendous exhilaration.

"You have that same excitement inside you," she said, "but tempered with experience. You know what the world is about. Lucy was such a child in a woman's body. I was always afraid for her. She used to work at the Smugglers Inn, you see, and she had to wear such a low-cut blouse, and she simply didn't realise the effect it had upon men."

"So you expected something like that to happen?"

"Oh no," she quickly said. "Nothing like a shooting. I was always worried she might be attacked and raped - well, you do, these days, don't you - but I never thought she might be murdered. The police think it was all to do with her husband. You could see he was no good, as soon as you set eyes upon him. I simply didn't know what she saw in him. Everyone said the same; she was an innocent and he was a piece of shit."

Her description strangely shocked me, as though sixty-five-year-old ladies should never swear.

"You looked upset, when I saw you from my house," she said. "Is there a problem?"

"My car," I said. "My car's been stolen. It's such a quiet lane, I wouldn't have expected any car thieves to operate down here."

"They're coming home from The Smugglers, you see."

"I didn't realise the lane went anywhere." After reaching our cottage, the tarmac surface turned into an unmade road, and sloped sharply downhill. Surely, there was no pub down there.

"It's a path down to the foot ferry across the river. The Smugglers Inn is on the other side. If you've got a car, you can go into town and over the lift-bridge and drive around, but it's about four miles that way. If you haven't got a car, this is the shortest route. The problem is that you sometimes get people coming home from the pub late at night, drunk. They walk past here looking for a way of avoiding a long walk all the way home. With a bit of luck, the police will find your car near one of the estates on the edge of town."

"Thanks. I'd better go and call them."

"Of course, if luck isn't with you, it will have been stolen by one of the early-season holidaymakers, who want to get home. In which case they'll find your car in London or Birmingham, or somewhere like that.

"And it will probably be burnt out," she optimistically added.

"Thanks," I said, and went inside.

***

I felt quite pleased that my scientific scepticism of my dream had turned out to be justified. Lucy wasn't the sex-mad vamp that my dream had attributed her to be.

"Just a child in a woman's body," Irene had said.

In fact, I reasoned, not even that, for even her body was false - or parts of it were. I'd assumed, for no apparent reason, that Lucy would be in her late twenties, but she might have been much younger, perhaps still a teen. Maybe giving herself the wig and big boobs and hips was a way of making herself look older.

It was weird though, the way that Irene had said there was something inside me that made her think of Lucy. Perhaps it was the dress I was wearing, but I, too, felt very close to Lucy, living in her cottage, wearing her clothes, and putting on her make-up.

***

The police seemed hardly interested in my car theft. They took down the details over the phone, gave me a reference number I could quote to the insurance company, and told me they'd be in touch if it turned up. They weren't even as optimistic as Irene had been.

Which left me without any food or drink, or transport to get to the shops, even supposing I plucked up the courage to go out dressed as a woman. But hunger is a tremendous motivator. Irene had said that Lucy used to go out every morning to the farm and buy milk and eggs. Therefore, the farm must be close by.

Fortunately, I had stuffed the local map, which I had printed off the net, into my laptop case. I pulled it out. On the map, I could follow the lane down to the river, which was still tidal at this point, with the ferry across to the inn the other side. But going back along the lane which I'd driven yesterday from Seacombe, I could see there was a farm marked only a short distance away - a few minutes' walk.

I got my wallet out of my still wet jacket pocket, extracted the cash and found a purse of Lucy's to put it in. Then I took three deep breaths, before opening the front door again and stepping outside. This was to be my first intentional meeting with other people since my transformation.

***

And it all went OK. The farm really was only a few minutes' walk. I opened the five-bar gate and went into the farmyard, and could hear the hum of machinery in a shed to one side. I walked over to the door and glanced into the dark interior. There was an elderly man bending over some equipment. He noticed me standing in the doorway and stood up.

He was quite short, say five feet, five, and stooped, with a well-weathered face (to give it a polite description). He must have been well into his seventies. He tilted his head to one side, and peered at me. I guessed it was difficult to make me out, silhouetted against the brightness outside, so I stepped inside and walked towards him.

"Lucifer?" he said in a hushed voice.

"No," I said, and turned slightly so he could see me more clearly in the light from the door.

"Fuck me," he said. "You gave me a fright. Only you reminded me of someone I know. I thought she'd come back from the..."

"I know," I said. "I'm Chris Jones. I'm staying in Lucy's cottage. I've come to clear it out and close it down."

He nodded. "I'm Mick Walters," he said. "Such a terrible thing to happen to her. I couldn't believe it. She was such a lovely girl, very pretty, but very young for her age. She reminded me of my daughter when she was about seventeen. Always smiling and ready to lend a hand."

He looked at me some more and asked, "Are you a relation? Because it's funny, I thought you looked just like her when I first saw you. But you're not really like her, except for the..." He trailed off, clearly not wanting to say "big tits".

I smiled at him. "I'm from her aunt's side of the family," I said. (Always be consistent in your lies.) "I was hoping to buy some milk and eggs. And do you have any other things, like butter?"

"No problem," he said. "We always keep a few things for the people on the campsite down the lane." (I'd noticed the campsite as I passed it, yesterday, further down the lane.)

His eyes narrowed as he added, "Did you, er... want to open an account?"

I shook my head. "No thanks," I said. "I'll only be here for a few days. I'll pay cash."

"Fair enough," he said. "Come through to the farm shop." He led me though an internal door into the farmhouse, where he showed me the simple range of goods they sold. There were a couple of cats running around, which I never really like when food is being served, and they would never compete with the supermarket in price, but their goods were fresh, and it was convenient. I came away with enough produce to keep me alive for the next few days.

As I was leaving the farm shop, I turned to give him a friendly wave.

***

"Hi, there," I said, as I walked into the farm shop, giving him a friendly wave. "I've just moved into the cottage along the lane." I stuck out my hand towards the wizened old man, who looked as though his dream woman had just stepped inside his store.

"I'm Lucy Farr," I said, "but everyone calls me Lucifer." I gave his hand a nice squeeze as I shook it. I noticed his eyes flicking between the wedding ring on my other hand, and the cleavage revealed by my low cut dress.

"Nice to meet you, Lucy," he said. "I'd heard a young couple had moved into the cottage, but they didn't tell me how beautiful you were. I'm Mick Walters."

"Well I think Mr Smoothy is probably a more appropriate name," I laughed. "I bet all the women have to watch out for you."

"Maybe once upon a time," he grinned back, "but not for a long time. "

"Yes, and I believe that," I said. "Oh what a lovely pussy." I deliberately bent down to stroke the cat, so he could have a direct view down the front of my dress. I'd left my bra off on purpose, and spent some time practising in front of the mirror, learning exactly how far to bend down without making it look too obvious.

I quickly glanced up and met his guilty gaze staring down the front of my dress, mouth agog.

"Told you," I said triumphantly, as I stood up again. "It'll be many years before I'm safe with you around."

His grin returned, even wider than before. "If only," he said.

"If only, what?" I asked, and I stepped up to him. He was far shorter than I was, so his nose was almost pushed into my cleavage.

He went cross-eyed staring at me, and gave a big gulp.

"Actually," I said. "I'm always looking for a bargain. I wonder whether I might set up an account with you? You provide me with our food, and I'll make certain that every week you're well recompensed."

I moved my hand move forwards until it was touching his inner thigh, then moved it up until I could feel the bulge of his left ball. I let my finger lightly rub his ball, before moving my hand upwards across the bulge of his dick straining against the zip. "What do you say?" I slowly rubbed my hand up and down the bulge of his jeans.

"My wife's round the back feeding the hens," he said.

"Then let's make this a quickie," I said. "How about a blow job? Is it a deal?"

He nodded. "Yes please."

I slid down to my knees, and slowly pulled down his zip. "Deal sealed with a loving kiss," I said.

***

"Hi Chris. You're looking a lot happier than you did earlier on," Irene said.

"What?" I realised I had jumped like a scalded cat.

"Sorry to make you jump, but I said you're looking a lot happier that you did when I saw you this morning. Have the police found your car?"

"Er, no," I said. "It's just that I was, er... thinking of something."

"Thought so," she said. "Let me guess. You were thinking about a man, weren't you?"

I nodded, guiltily. "Well, actually, yes I was."

She nodded back. "Lucy was just the same, only she was perpetually thinking of that good-for-nothing bastard of a husband. Head-over-heels in love, and completely wasted on him. Still, that's life, I suppose. So who's your man?"

I shook my head. "Oh, no one permanent. Just someone I came across." Or did I mean, someone who just came across me?

"I can take a hint," she said. "But I forgot to tell you earlier that I owed Lucy some money."

"Oh?" I said. People didn't usually volunteer that kind of information.

"Call me stupid," she said, "but I can't cheat on Lucy. It would be like cheating on my own daughter. Lucy would always lend me some money when I got a bit hard up. A few times I tried to give her an extra tenner back, but she absolutely refused to take it. It would make her 'like a money-grubbing money lender,' she said."

She reached inside her pocket and pulled out a sheaf of notes. "Two hundred pounds. You can count it if you like, but Lucy always trusted me. At least, she did once I'd accepted I couldn't pay her back any extra."

"Fair enough," I said, reaching for the money and then pausing. What was I going to do with the cash I was about to accept from this elderly woman? Give it to Suzanne, who would probably blow that much on a single meal in Brussels with her Commissioner friend? "Why don't you keep it?" I said.

"I couldn't. It's Lucy's."

"Then why don't you buy a present with it, from Lucy to you? I'm certain she would have loved to have done that as a parting gift."

"Oh what a lovely thought. I can see you are just like Lucy. Thank you so much." She leant forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek, and I could see tears welling in her eyes. Then she abruptly turned and went back inside her house, sniffling a bit as she went.

***

Once inside the house I sat down and had a good think. Not about my giving away two hundred pounds of Suzanne's money to a perfect stranger - I had no problems with that. No, my problem was that I had daydreamed in a way I had never done before.

Usually people use the term to describe thinking about things other than their immediate surroundings. They may not be particularly conscious of the surroundings, but their thoughts are entirely under their own control.

The daydream I had just experienced was just like the kind of dreams we have at night: completely immersed inside a character, with the events being totally uncontrollable.

And it hadn't been just any old character, but the same character as I had been last night - Lucy Farr, or Lucifer - a very different Lucifer to the one that people described to me.

And not just any old events, but events based around the place where I physically was; with Lucy doing things which the childlike person described by Irene and Mick Walters could never have contemplated.

Where did all this leave my scientific assertion that we could never communicate with the dead?

"Unchanged," I said the word aloud, just so there was no doubt about it. Last night, I had dressed in Lucy's clothes, and there was no doubt I had found it an erotic experience. After falling asleep, my mind had created a pleasant erotic dream around my sub-conscious memories.

This morning, I had continued to wear Lucy's clothes and continued to get a buzz from it. And I had allowed my mind to wander in an amusing continuation of that dream. That was all it was.

I packed away the goods I had bought from the farm shop, still revelling in the excitement of duping three people into believing I was a woman. The problem was, I found it addictive. It was approaching midday and I'd had nothing to eat all morning; I could prepare a simple meal of bread, and cheese, and wash it down with another of Lucy's excellent wines.

Or I could walk down to The Smugglers Inn, purchase a Ploughman's Lunch, and wash it down with a glass of beer, surrounded by probably a dozen or more customers.

I checked my make-up in the mirror, and left the house.