You meant it for evil - 06 by Maeryn Lamonte As we stepped through the door one of a group of people handed me a sheet of and offered me a cheerful, welcoming smile. This was all so odd I was beginning to feel intimidated again. Then I looked down at the sheet. “You have got to be kidding me.”

-oOo-
“What is it?”

Sharon looked over my shoulder with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

“The information sheet thingy… The sermon for today or whatever. Look at it.”

“Yeah, what? I don’t see it.”

“The verse, the Bible verse. That’s the same one the guy in the park mentioned, I’m sure of it. Did you say something to the vicar here?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I'm sorry, it's just that it seemed a bit too much of a coincidence.”

She gave me an inscrutable look.

“Maybe it's not a coincidence. Look, we should probably go and find some seats before the place gets too crowded.”

Crowded? A church?

I followed Sharon and Phil into the main hall where the number of people was rapidly approaching the number of chairs. We found three seats together a couple of rows back from the front and sidled past those sitting on the aisle to reach them.

I nervously scooped my skirt under me as I sat and squeezed my legs together, all the time looking around apprehensively as though someone in this crowd might suddenly point me out as a man come to church dressed as a woman. But I wasn't. I felt the reassuring absence of anything between my legs, the weights on my chest and the hair down my back and allowed myself a self-indulgent smile. I was a woman now and properly attired. This was going to take some getting used to.

The milling about on and near the stage had ceased and the band started playing. They were actually quite good; not charts material but definitely good enough to do the pub circuit if they wanted. I didn’t recognise the tune, but it was modern and upbeat and already so much more appreciated than the expected hymns.

The band leader invited us all to stand and sing as words appeared on a large projection screen at the back of the stage. I joined the rest of the masses in rising to my feet, but didn’t feel comfortable singing with them. I mean the tune was simple enough and it was easy to see where the words fitted, but it just felt so alien still.

Fortunately the musical part didn’t last too long and I gratefully sat down with everyone else in the hall. Gratitude perhaps a little premature as an elderly gentleman stood up in front of a microphone and started reeling of information about events and matters that didn’t mean a great deal to me in a long droning monotone. He was followed by another guy who invited us to bow our heads in prayer and launched into something that sounded so unlike a prayer it was unreal. I mean whatever happened to Our Father? The way this guy talked to God seemed very familiar, almost like a conversation except it was something of a monologue. To someone who's only experience of church was the odd Christmas and Easter service in the sleepy and somewhat traditional local Anglican church near my parent's house, it all came across as a bit odd.

I tried to keep still and wait out the weirdness and was rewarded a short while later, after a couple more short songs, by the pastor — not vicar — standing up to give his address.

“You meant it for evil, but God intended it for good.”

It seemed an odd way to start a sermon, but then why change the theme for the morning. I sat waiting for him to take it further. He did.

I don’t want to bore you with the details so long story short. The passage was about Joseph; you know as in Joseph and his technicolour dream coat? The pastor summarised the story, focusing on all the betrayals and setbacks Joseph faced, and in particular how he responded to them. How he focused on God, focused on the good and made the best of each situation and how when all was said and done, when he had both opportunity and good reason to get his revenge, he was forgiving.

It was his closing remarks that stuck with me though. I don't remember them exactly, but a half decent paraphrase would go something like this:

“Selfishness lies at the root of all evil. The Anglican prayer of penitence before taking communion goes, 'Almighty God, our heavenly Father, we have sinned against you and against our neighbour in thought and word and deed, through negligence, through weakness, through our own deliberate fault.'

“Sins of negligence like those of Pharaoh's cup bearer who was content to go back to his old life and forget about his friend suffering in prison. Sins of weakness like Potiphar's wife who wanted a bit of action with the young and handsome Joseph and who was then afraid of being found out so falsely accused him of having seduced her. Deliberate sins, like those of the brothers who just wanted to get rid of Joseph and managed to make a bit of cash on the side.

“Deliberate sins like seeking revenge. Can you imagine how Joseph must have felt after he was made the second most powerful man in Egypt? He had the power to bring misery to pretty much everyone who had done the same to him. But Joseph didn't. He is the first person mentioned in the Bible who really got what God was about. He tested his brothers, sure, to make sure that they had learnt a lesson or two in caring for others rather than themselves, but then he forgave them, just as he forgave every other person who harmed him. His words to his brothers, 'You meant it for evil, but God intended it for good.'

“You know we get the message through the media every single day, 'because you're worth it', 'go on treat yourself', ' you matter', 'you're important'. It makes us feel good about ourselves so we buy more stuff, but the downside is that it teaches us to be selfish.

“The heroes of our world are the ones who overlook the harm done to them, who look to the needs of others, who care more about the suffering other people are going through than their own hardships. These are the kind of people that God uses; they are God's opportunities to show Himself and turn selfish actions into something glorious. These are the kind of people that we should aspire to be.”

The sermon came to its climactic ending and as the band returned to their instrument, we stood to sing.

“That's you that is.”

I jumped at the voice, then realised that it was only Sharon leaning over to whisper in my ear.

“What do you mean?”

“These past few days, the way you dealt with Mary, Phil and me, it's just like he was saying.”

The music had started and there was no chance to respond, just to think on Sharon's words and those of the pastor.

The last song went on for some time with quite a bit of, to my mind, unnecessary repetition, then the congregation began to break up into small groups. Chairs were pushed to the side and it seemed that everyone was rushing to talk to someone. Even Sharon made her excuses and dashed off into the throng, leaving me somewhat adrift in a a sea of strange faces.

I turned my attention to a small group of youngsters, not too different from my apparent age, who were keeping their own company and looking a little different from the rest of the milling crowd. They closed ranks as I approached, but I wasn't going to let that stop me.

“Hi.”

One of them, a lad probably a couple of years older than I appeared and seemingly the leader of the group, turned to me, the others forming up loosely behind his shoulder.

“Hi yourself.”

“Look, I'm... This is my first time here, I was just looking for someone to talk to.”

“And you chose us?”

“Yeah? I mean ok you're not exactly poshed up like most of the people here, but so what?”

“So what is we don't exactly belong here. We're not part of this God-Squad, just trying to get in out of the cold for a while. The people here don't seem to mind too much, even share their tea and biscuits.”

“So, what? You live on the streets?”

He bridled a bit at that.

“We do all-right. Don't pass judgement on what you don't understand.”

With that he and his entourage turned their backs on me and headed for the table serving teas and coffees. I guess I deserved his rebuff; I hadn't been exactly diplomatic.

A presence at my shoulder made me jump; even after more than a week I was still getting used to being several inches shorter, and this guy had some altitude on him.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh it’s ok, I guess I’m a bit nervous is all. Your Pastor James aren’t you?”

“And you must be Sharon’s friend. It is so good to meet you.”

He held out a hand like a bunch of bananas; it completely enveloped my own with a firm grip.

“That was an interesting sermon you preached this morning. I’m intrigued as to where you get you ideas from.”

“Oh, usually I spend a while apart thinking and praying; most of the time something comes to me. This morning's came very easily, almost as if God had something to say to someone.”

I could feel his scrutiny, but somehow he seemed to sense my own disquiet. He smiled.

“You'll have to tell me about it sometime. When you're ready.

“I see you've found our regular visiting non-members.”

He indicated the group of street kids I'd been speaking to.

“There has to be something that can be done for them.”

“Oh sure there is. Someone just has to care enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we do what we can, we offer them shelter here during the times when we have the hall available, there are a number of families within the congregation with older kids who offer individuals a hot meal and a bath at their homes, that sort of thing. Only that's just treating the symptoms and while we can help to make things a little easier for them, it's not solving the problem itself.”

“So what can change it? Can't you write to local government or something?”

“Change like this can't be made from the top down. We can send letters and petitions until someone takes notice, but then there'll just be a government initiative that's poorly managed and underfunded to provide us with more soup kitchens and drop in centres; just more band-aids to treat the broken leg.

“The problem isn't about resources, no matter how much they would help. It's about finding someone who will treat these youngsters like people, who'll listen to them, who'll help them work through the issues that got them on the street in the first place.

“You interested?”

It took me a second to realise what he had actually asked. I spluttered a reply.

“Who me? That's scary big.”

“How do you think Joseph felt? One day prisoner, next day second in command over all of Egypt, responsible for building storage facilities and rationing food even when there was quite literally twice as much as people needed. Some of God's best work starts of with people who feel they are too little.”

He stood quietly by while I mulled over his words. The whole idea was too massive to contemplate and I was well on my way to being scared by it when I was interrupted by an arm on my elbow.

“There you are, I've been looking everywhere. Oh hi Pastor James, do you mind if I barge in here, only there are few people we need to talk to.”

“No, go ahead. I think we've said as much as needs saying here.”

He gave me a wink — friendly not creepy — as I allowed Sharon to whisk me away.

She steered me towards an elderly gent with thinning hair, but looking smart and dignified in full suit and tie. She touched him lightly on the shoulder and he turned, smiling at Sharon who spoke to me.

“I'd like you to meet Clive Anderton-Buckley, he's a partner at the law firm where I work. I've spoken to him about your problem and he seems to think maybe he can help. Clive this is my friend, you know the one I told you about?”

“Ah yes, the mystery girl.”

He reached out a hand which I took — yet again firm but not painfully so — a gentleman's handshake.

“I'm pleased to meet you.”

I said the words and I supposed I ought to be, but I had no idea what this was about. I looked at Sharon for something of a clue.

“Clive deals with some interesting aspects of the law, one of them being working with the Home Office to arrange new identities for people who need them. You remember the Bulger case where the two lads involved where given new identities after they left prison?”

“Except I wasn't involved in that particular case, and as I said to Sharon, it would take exceptional circumstances indeed for me to consider your own. Now I'm assured that your circumstances are indeed exceptional, so I'm prepare to listen to what you have to say. I'm not promising anything, mind, other than half an hour of my time at, shall we say nine-thirty on Tuesday morning?”

He had his diary out and was poised with a pencil to write something. I glanced briefly at Sharon who smiled encouragingly.

“That's very kind of you sir, nine-thirty will be fine.”

He scribbled for a second then slipped the diary and pencil back into his pocket.

“Then I look forward to hearing your exceptional circumstances then.”

He nodded at Sharon and me then turned slightly away. It seemed we were dismissed and Sharon pulled me off in a different direction. I dug my heels in and hissed at her.

“What are you getting me into? Just exactly what am I expected to say to your boss on Tuesday? DO you expect him to believe the truth, or do you have some plausible lie in mind that will work?”

She gave me an infuriatingly trusting smile.

“Look sweetie, in my experience Clive has an uncanny ability to sniff out the truth, and you have an equally uncanny ability to persuade people that the impossible can happen. I mean in the last few days you've managed to convince both Phil and me of what happened.”

“Yes and if you remember you weren't too keen on believing me from the outset. What makes you think that our boss is going to be any more understanding?”

“It'll work out, you'll see. Now shut up and let me introduce you to another of my friends.”

We were approaching a rather formidable looking middle-aged woman dressed in loose fitting but expensive clothing. Sharon leaned past her and into her field of view.

“Sharon, how lovely to see you. How are you keeping, and that nice young man of yours, Philip wasn't it?”

“Karen, I'm fine thank-you, and yes so is Philip. He's here with us today, over there chatting to Mike and the rest of the band.”

“Hoo hoo hoo, it must be serious if he's allowed you to drag him along here. Any sign of wedding bells?”

Sharon managed a weak smile.

“I think we may still be waiting a while there, but you never know.

“Listen, you know you said I should come talk to you if I ever met someone I thought might interest you in your line of work? I'd like to introduce you to one of my friends.”

She pulled me into the circle and left me standing, demure and awkward under the scrutiny of the older woman.

“Well you certainly have the look, can you give me a slow twirl?”

I obliged as best I could.

“Hmm.”

“Have a look at these.”

Sharon pulled out her phone and passed it across. Karen flipped through the dozen or so photos that had been lined up.

“Small screen, but I think I see what you mean. Are these...”

“...Adele’s, yes. We were shopping in the area last week and I figured if she could look good in one of Adele's creations...”

“...she could look good in pretty much anything, and she really does.”

She turned to me.

“All-right, I'll give you a shot. We're setting up a photo-shoot for a fashion catalogue next Thursday. If you can get this address by ten I'll give you an audition.”

She handed me a card and a second later I recovered enough from the shock to thank her. She continued to chat with Sharon for a few minutes more then headed off in a flurry of air kisses.

Sharon turned to me.

“All-right then, who's for some lunch?”

I looked over my shoulder at the group of street kids hoarding biscuits and felt a twinge of guilt.

Phil cooked for us — very palatable; definite signs of Sharon's influence and a promising apprentice chef in the making — then after we'd eaten, he and Sharon sat down to the first of what I imagined was going to be many serious discussions. I excused myself, saying I still needed to get my sleep pattern settled.

In the bedroom, I slipped off my blue dress and hung it up. So odd that as Ken I would most likely have nose-dived straight onto the bed, but here I was taking care of my clothes. Maybe it was the cost; so much more than I had ever spent on clothing as a man. Maybe it was that Sharon had bought pretty much all I owned and I owed it to her to at least look after it all. I don't know. The tights would probably be too hot under the high tog duvet as well, so I eased them off my legs and balled them up carefully.

I slipped under the covers and settled down, soothed by the gentle murmur of voices from the room next door.

-oOo-
“I'm sorry but that is the most ludicrous story anyone has ever told me. I thought Sharon was being serious when she introduced you to me, but there really is nothing I can do for you, except ask you to leave before I lose my temper...”

“I'm sorry but without a National Insurance number I cannot employ you, whether you're any good or not...”

“I'm sorry, but we can't afford to keep you around if you don't have source of income for yourself. We've packed up the things we think you'll need, now if you'll kindly leave...”

I was back on the streets, one bag of clothes; all thin layers and slinky clothing; no idea where to go, no idea what to do. Eventually I turned into a dark, dirty alley. I was half way down it when an unsavoury figure appeared at the far end.

“What you say sweetheart? Twenty quid for a quick one up against the wall here?”

I panicked, looking behind me for an escape route. He saw my intent and made a sudden dash, lifting me off the ground with one hand and jamming the other over my mouth. I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong. Before I knew it he had me pinned against the wall with his body, reaching under my skirt, tearing my knickers away with one easy movement, then loosening his own belt. I tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by his hand. I tried to bite him but he pushed his hand further into my mouth until I couldn't move my jaw.

“I love it when they fight back, go on deary, make my day.”

His trousers were down around his knees, he pushed my legs apart and thrust hard.

I screamed with all my strength as I felt a ripping inside me; again it was muffled to almost nothing against his hand. My eyes wide in terror, my insides feeling like they had been torn apart, I struggled for a while then went limp as the pain grew and grew, chasing me deeper and deeper into myself. I blotted the world out in an effort to escape the horror being done to me.

Eventually it was over and I lay staring blankly at the dim figure redressing himself. He threw a twenty pound note on the ground beside me.

“Wasn't really worth the money, but a deal is a deal.”

He turned and walked away, discarding me like a broken toy.

I was bleeding, but managed to staunch the flow with the remains of my underwear. I don't know how long I lay there in the filth, but eventually I hauled myself to my feet and staggered along until I found a quiet place to strip off my ruined clothes, clean myself up as best as I could and put on something clean, although the feeling went no deeper than my skin.

I'd held onto his money. I despised myself for doing do so, almost as though I were condoning his actions by accepting his payment, but I knew I'd need the money to survive. It went on burgers and hot dogs and bacon butties, anything with protein in to help replace to lost blood and mend the damage.

Days ran into weeks and the pain subsided a little. Weeks turned into months and the weather turned from cold to bitter then back to cold again. I subsisted on hand-outs from the soup kitchens and change begged from passers-by. I could feel life growing inside me and alternately loved it and hated it.

Then one day there was a pain, a sudden agony coursing through my abdomen. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. I staggered into a nearby alley and collapsed onto the rubbish strewn streets. This was too soon, but the pain returned again and again dragging screams of bitterness and agony from me, until finally, in an outpouring of blood, it came out of me and lay there between my legs amongst the detritus that no-one cared enough even to throw away properly.

Too small to live, just large enough to look human, I picked up the blood smeared remains and wept. I was bleeding again, but I didn't care. I curled around the small defenceless thing and waited for the end.

-oOo-
“Sweetie? Sweetie? Wake up.”

There were gentle hands holding my shoulders shaking me awake. I reached out and clung to Sharon with all my strength. Her arms wrapped around me and started to rock me back and forth. Someone was saying no, no, no over and over again and I only dimly realised that it was me.

“You were screaming sweetie, was it a bad dream?”

Oh if only you knew. I felt a dampness under the duvet and pulled it back and screamed.

Phil was in the doorway in an instant looking worried and clueless. Sharon took control.

“It's ok sweetheart everything's going to be fine.

“Phil, could you fetch me a couple of towels from the bathroom please.

”You know when you turn into a girl you do it big time.”

Phil was back with the towels, one of which Sharon gave to me to put over the source of the mess I was making. The other went under the sheet to try and stop it spreading into the mattress.

“Give us some privacy would you love?”

Phil obediently ducked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen while Sharon lead me gently through to the bathroom, helped me to undress and stood me under the shower.

Somewhere en-route I found my sanity again.

“I thought this was supposed to start gently.”

“Under normal circumstances yes, your first period should be quite light, but you are a few years past that first experience even if you never had it. The sudden onset's a little unusual, but the amount of blood looks more than it actually is.”

She went on to suggest possible symptoms I might have experienced earlier in the day and I admitted to a number of them.

“So there you are then. Welcome to the truly disgusting part of being a woman. If you can handle this bit then the rest should be pretty straightforward. Look have a good long shower, it'll probably help with the cramps a little anyway. I'm going to change the bed and get you some fresh clothes, then we'll talk about feminine hygiene in greater detail. I also need to find something for Phil to do to stop him freaking out. I'll be back in about five minutes.”

She was true to her word and, after some detailed instructions in the use of something which is in fact pretty simple, I emerged from the bathroom wearing a pair of baggy trousers and a sweatshirt, feeling as lumpy and shapeless as I was sure I looked.

Phil's make-work had apparently been the preparation of some hot chocolate.

“One of the few good things about this time of the month. You need to put the iron back into your system, and chocolate's the preferred method of women almost everywhere.”

I smiled as I breathed in the aroma, but kept to myself through the remainder of the afternoon. Sharon got me to change my newest little friend after a couple of hours and seemed satisfied that I wasn't haemorrhaging away all my lifeblood any faster than normal. It seemed that my little misadventure had put something of a damper on the afternoon's mood, and Phil was surprisingly quick at taking the hint that maybe Sharon and I needed a little bit of girl time. He made his excuses and promised to call Sharon to arrange lunch during the week.

When we were alone Sharon left me sitting in silence for a couple of minutes before cracking first.

“Ok I'll admit, it is pretty freaky the first time, and for you probably more so, but I think there's something you're not telling me.”

So I told her about the dream in all its lurid detail. By the time I'd finished it was hard to tell which of us was crying harder.

For once Sharon surprised me by not saying anything for a very long time. The hug was what I needed and it was there until I drew away. I wiped a tear out of each eye and looked at my friend.

“So is something like this going to happen every time?”

“No sweetie, I'm pretty sure the dream has nothing to do with what you're going through. I mean ok, you're a mess of hormones right now and dealing with something intense for the first time, so maybe a little, but I think the dream has more to do with something else that's going on in your head.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean... well I think you're going to have to work that out for yourself. In the meantime how do you feel about another hot chocolate and an early night?”

I felt good about both, then lay still in bed for hours, my thoughts whizzing through everything that had happened that day. Sleep didn't come easily, but eventually with nothing resolved, I finally nodded off.

-oOo-
Monday was a miserable day, filled with cramps, a bloated uncomfortable feeling which I hid under baggy, shapeless clothes, and the stark memory of the dream, which brought on panic attacks simply when I remembered the worst parts of it. The regular visits to the bathroom to shore up the defences against my new found tendency to leak didn't add much to the joy of the day either. I spent most of it pottering about, feeling sorry for myself and worrying away at what I would tell Sharon's boss when I met with him the next day.

He seemed too intelligent an individual to be taken in by even the most elaborate lie I might concoct, and too pragmatic to so much as consider the truth for more than a moment. If he was my only hope to get a new identity then I was out of luck, unless I could come up with something totally out of the box which he could and would be prepared to accept.

Sharon found me sitting on the sofa with my legs drawn up tight and a cushion held in a tight death-grip in front of me. She took one look and headed straight for the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with a couple of chilled glasses of sauvignon blanc. I took one without comment and sipped at it as she eased my feet out of the way and sat at the opposite end of the couch.

“So... cramps?”

“A few, nothing momentous.”

She threw a strip of tablets on the coffee table.

“I left those for you to take if you wanted.”

“I don't like taking pills if I don't need to.”

“Suit yourself, but this is going to happen every month now and you're going to have to choose between cramps and pills The pills aren't that bad.”

I shrugged. We sat in silence for a while then she tried again.

“How'd you get on with the um... you know the thingies.”

Her hands were fortunately more descriptive than her voice. I shrugged again.

“Three maybe four, none of them too far gone. I think maybe the flow has eased a bit.”

“Don't get your hopes up. It usually peaks on the second day, but you shouldn't feel so bad tomorrow. You kind of get used to it.”

The wine occupied our attention for a short while, then she looked directly at me. No more pussyfooting then.

“So if it isn't the cramps and it isn't the other, what is it?”

I really didn't want to talk about the dream, so I picked the other the other object of my brooding.

“It's tomorrow's meeting with your boss. What am I going to tell him? I mean he looks like he'd see through pretty much any lie straight off, and I can't see him accepting the truth in my case do you?

“You know I'm grateful for your arranging this, but I don't see how this can possibly work out. Plus I'm more than a little worried about what he'll think of you when he's done with me.”

She reached out a hand to touch my leg and I shied away from it; really not feeling the least bit tactile. She let it hover for a moment then withdrew it.

“Look sweetie, I've known Clive for a long time and if I know anything about him it's his ability to see the truth, no matter how bizarre. Don't worry about me; we've known each other long enough to trust each other. Just say what you think is best and let him sort out the details.

“So are you hungry?”

To be honest I wasn't, but this was Sharon's cooking. Besides which if she was in the kitchen maybe she'd leave me alone. I nodded my head.

Sharon jumped to her feet and patted me on the ankle. She took my empty glass from my hand and headed for the kitchen, returning a minute later with a glass of water, which she put on the coffee table next to the strip of tablets she'd shown me earlier.

“Do us both a favour and take one of those will you? If it doesn't work this time, or if you feel worse then I won't suggest them again.”

She was being reasonable, which didn't help my mood. Somewhat reluctantly I popped one of the tablets out of the wrapping and swallowed it with a sip of cool water.

Dinner didn't take long; a simple carbonara with Parma ham and a mix of cheeses and herbs in the sauce that I couldn't quite identify along with steamed broccoli and green beans. I wished my appetite could have done it justice, but it was delicious nonetheless. Somewhere between the easing of the cramps, which I'll admit were a little worse than I'd said earlier, and the good food, my mood lifted and we enjoyed a more civilised a chat over the rest of the wine.

“So what are you going to wear tomorrow?”

Questions that had never bothered me up until the last week or two, but I had been thinking about it. I'd always wanted a life where my appearance made a difference, and now that I had one I was gradually getting used to the idea.

“I thought the navy blue pencil suit and that magenta silk blouse along with my black patent leather heels and clutch bag.”

“Sounds just right.”

She burrowed into my side of the wardrobe and pulled out the suggested items to give them a once over. Having passed muster, she left them hanging on the door. She smiled at my curious look.

“Never does any harm to check ahead of time, especially before an important meeting. They might have been scrunched up and in need of an iron or, you never know, maybe a button coming loose or a hem unravelling. Easier to put right now when we've time than tomorrow morning when we're panicking to get ready.”

“I wouldn't have thought of that.”

“No reason why you should, but you'll learn. So what say we head in together tomorrow? I mean you'll be a little early but not that much.”

“That sound's nice, thanks.”

It was still early and Sharon suggested I might like a long soak in the bath while she did a bit of ironing. The division of labour didn't seem fair, but she offered me the chance to pay her back next time it was her on the rag and I was feeling as good as she was so I agreed.

Whoever is responsible for the invention of bath salts and oils, I found myself profoundly grateful to him or her that evening. With my hair wrapped up in a towel to keep it dry, I allowed myself to drift away on the luxuriant scents and sensations of so much decadence in a bath of water. Sharon had to knock on the door twice, the second time warning me that I didn't want to turn into a prune, before I emerged.

A fresh nightgown, Victorian style — all ribbons and lace over crisp white cotton, and the best of friends, prepared to stand behind me and brush the knots out of my hair and in so doing ease so much of the stress that had built in my shoulders and neck, left me feeling more soothed and relaxed than I'd been all day. A shared hot chocolate to end the day and we were tucked up together in bed, each of us drowsing towards unconsciousness accompanied by our own thoughts.

-oOo-
Morning came too soon, even after an early night. Sharon was up and in the shower, having pushed me in the direction of the coffee maker. She was out before the machine had finished its cycle, so she left me to wash while she clattered about in the kitchen. I wasn't long in the bathroom, but still long enough for Sharon to whip up a couple of eggs Benedict on toasted white muffins with the remains of yesterday's Parma ham, and turn my half-baked efforts with the coffee maker into some of the most wonderful smelling and tasting coffee ever.

We ate in our nightclothes, which turned out to be just as well as I managed to spill egg yoke and Hollandaise sauce down my front. Sharon pulled the nightdress off me and headed for the bathroom to do whatever saves white cotton from egg stains, and I swallowed down my last delicious mouthful of breakfast in my undies before heading for the bedroom to get changed.

Despite the misadventure, we were both ready with time to spare. Sharon waved the ever-present pack of pills at me and, while I hated to admit she was right, since they had helped the previous day, I popped one in my mouth and washed it down with the last of my coffee.

We walked out the front door, two professional women off to meet the challenges of the day. If I let myself think about it, the bloated discomfort was still there, but having such a positive start to the day had pushed the feeling right to the far corner of my mind, and I found myself smiling as much as she was as we strode down to the bus-stop.

Of course the feeling didn't last much past our arrival at Sharon's place of work. We walked into the building just before half past eight and Sharon left me in a large waiting room with a cup of adequate but less appetising coffee to brood over for an hour.

Clive Anderton-Buckley was an early bird. Either that or he had a second entrance into his office because no-one entered or left the large room behind the receptionist's desk in all the time I waited, yet on the stroke of half past nine I was startled out of my nervous brooding by the rude buzz of an intercom. The receptionist looked up at me and offered me a reassuring smile then stood to guide me to the double door entrance to his office.

Clive came round from his enormous desk as soon as I stepped into the office. Arms held wide in expansive welcome, he covered the distance between us in a few easy strides. His smile was disarming as he took my hand in his and used his other arm to guide me towards some comfortable seats to one side.

“Welcome, I understand you've been waiting a while.”

“I came in with Sharon this morning, so yes a little while.”

“Would you like a drink? Coffee or tea?”

“Mr Anderton-Buckley, please. I'm sorry to do this but I really think this is a mistake; my coming here I mean.”

He gave me a bemused look.

“I am dreadfully sorry but I've been trying to think what I might say to you for the past couple of days. What happened to me is too incredible for me to expect you to believe, and I won't consider coming up with even a half truth to make it seem more reasonable. I can't imagine that there's anything I could say here that you would consider to be other than a waste of your time, and I really don't want Sharon to get in trouble for asking you to see me when I have nothing worth saying. Now I really do appreciate your willingness to see me, but I think it would be best if I just go.”

I tried to turn towards the door but his gently guiding hands had turned firm enough to hold me where I was. His expression turned stern.

“Young lady, I have put aside thirty minutes from an otherwise very busy schedule to talk to you this morning. The very least you can do is spend that time talking to me as originally agreed. You have your doubts about whether I will believe what you have to say. Be that as it may, I would appreciate the opportunity to decide that for myself. I already have a great deal of respect for your friend Sharon and believe me when I say that weighs very heavily in favour of whatever you have to tell me. Now I will ask this one more time, tea or coffee?”

I demurred and gratefully accepted the offer of tea, my nerves in very serious need of calming. I seated myself on the sofa while he placed the order with his assistant. We chatted over inconsequentialities until the tea came — how did I know Sharon, how long had we been friends, how had we met — and I answered as honestly as I could without going into any details of my life as Ken. Once we were settled with our drinks he turned to me.

“Ok then. From the beginning if you please.”

He had done a good job of settling my nerves, and with nothing in mind to tell him but the fantastic truth, started.

“Friday before last I was a twenty-seven year old man named Ken Stanton...”

I covered everything in detail from the way Phil and I met and made friends to his introducing me to Sharon and the resultant awkward threesome. From there I went on to describe the evening I went to the Meet Market on my own and my encounter with Mary and my ending on the streets dressed like a prostitute. I'd covered the incident with the police and Sharon generously picking me up and offering me somewhere to stay when he excused himself long enough to use the intercom on his desk to cancel his ten o'clock meeting and to request some more tea.

I picked up the pace a bit covering my abortive attempts to find a job and subsequent realisation that without identification I wasn't going to get anywhere, my confession to Sharon about who I was, her disbelief and chucking me out, then our reconciliation after my night on the streets, and finally my confrontation with Mary in the nightclub.

The tea arrived with a few papers to be signed. I waited patiently for the details of the day to be sorted out and for his assistant to leave then shrugged my shoulders.

“So there you have it. An impossible, incredible story. I can give you all of Ken's details, his National Insurance Number, his address in Docklands, the name of the accountancy firm where he works as a fairly minor clerk; it's not three streets from here; his parent's names and address, but all that will do is prove that I can memorise a lot of information. I could take you to the apartment where Mary lived, but I doubt there will be anything left to suggest she was ever there. The only evidence I can give you is circumstantial at best and won't help prove anything I've said.

“You've been very kind to give me so much of your time, but as you can see, my story is unbelievable and really didn't want to bother you with it.”

He sat back and steepled his fingers while I sipped gently at my second cup of tea. The silence went on for long enough to convince me that I had been right and to regret all over having agreed to meet with him, but in the end he let out a deep sigh. He reached for the intercom on his desk again.

“Can you ask Sharon to come to my office immediately please.”

There didn't seem anything more I could say, so I kept quiet and as still as I could while he strode back and forth across his office. There was a knock on the door and Sharon's worried face appeared.

“Come in and close the door. Are you aware of what your friend has just told me?”

“I suggested she tell you the truth and I hope she has.”

I nodded at her enquiring look.

“Do you believe it?”

“I've known Ken for a couple of years and my boyfriend has known him for a bit longer. I know the story's pretty amazing, but neither Phil nor I have any doubts that this person was once Ken Stanton.”

“So now the two of you are expecting me to believe that a man can be transformed into a young girl?”

I wasn't going to let that go.

“Sir if you recall I didn't want to go through with this meeting, and largely for the reason that it is so hard to believe.”

“You could have told me a lie. Something like orphaned in a fire, all documents burned.”

“Except that I would at least know my own name, which would lead to a paper trail and records, which would either reveal the lie or force me to take on someone else's identity, which in turn might lead to complications and unnecessary grief caused to relatives.”

“You could say you'd lost your memory.”

“And end up on the news with a 'Does anybody know this girl?' type appeal. That and go through extensive tests with doctors and psychiatrists who might well end up doubting my story.”

He rubbed his eyes and let out another long sigh.

“Alright Sharon thank-you, you'd better get back to work.”

She left and Clive turned to me once more.

“Are you prepared to go out searching for evidence to support your story?”

“Whatever it takes sir, though I can't think of what you have in mind.”

“I'm afraid that's going to have to wait a while. I have some things I have to attend to now, but if you're up for it I'm prepared to give you some time over lunch to do some investigating, say one-thirty?”

I couldn't read his features, but it didn't take much brain power to see that he was having a hard time believing. I suspected that he might lose some, if not all, of his respect for Sharon if I backed out now. Oh well, in for a penny.

“One-thirty will be fine as long as you don't feel I'm wasting too much of your time.”

“No I think that having started this little trip down the rabbit hole we should see it through to its end. I'll have a car ready to pick us both up at the main entrance at one-thirty then. Until then, there's a deli at the end of the road wouldn't mind getting us both a sandwich. Something with a bit of meat in for me if you don't mind.”

He showed me to the door and I stepped out into the waiting area with an overwhelming sense of foreboding over how this was all going to turn out.