The following evening I had an appointment with Dr Brentwell to report back on my trip to Thailand and the surgery, although Dr K had told me he would be sending over a report. I was in a very happy mood when I arrived at Dr Brentwell's rooms and greeted his secretary with a smile. She must have seen quite a difference from the way I looked the last time she had seen me.

I only had a few minutes to wait when Dr Brentwell ushered me into his room. I sat in the big comfortable chair while he took the other one. He had a paper in his hand and as I suspected it was a report about my surgery.

“Well young lady, you are looking very cheerful,” he said “I see the surgery went off without a hitch. How are you feeling?”

“Very well doctor. I've just about completely healed up, but of course I'm still following the post-operative regimen I was given, and it's all going very well. In addition. I've been given a promotion at work, so I'll be able to repay you sooner than I thought.”

He smiled at me at said “There's no desperate rush for that, give yourself a little time to get back into work again. Now you will need to have regular check-ups for some months, and there is no real need for you to come here for those. You are free to chose your own doctor of course, but I've had very good reports from some of my patients about a Dr Merryn Taylor who has a practise only about ten minutes walk from her. You may even feel more comfortable seeing a woman doctor now.”

I smiled “Well if she comes with good recommendations, I will certainly go to see Dr Taylor and see how we get along.”

Then I changed the subject “That new patient of yours that I saw before leaving for Thailand, Michelle Martin, did you ask her if she'd like me to assist her?”

His face clouded “Yes I did, and she would be most grateful if you would do that. However I did have some bad news this morning. She's in hospital after being attacked by some teenage girls yesterday. Sometimes I wonder what the world is coming to.”

“That's terrible. What hospital is she in? Can I see her?”

“She's in the Mater, and yes I'm sure that would be alright.”

I left his rooms and hurried to the front of the building where I knew there was a constant stream of taxis picking up and dropping off patients, and sure enough I managed to secure a taxi in a few minutes. At the Mater I inquired where Michelle was, and managed to buy a small bunch of flowers from the Auxiliary shop.

A nurse in the ward directed me to the four-bed ward where she was. Two other women had visitors and the fourth bed next to Michelle was empty. Michelle had no visitors and her face lit up when she saw me.

“Mandy! I didn't know you were back. How did it all go? It's so good of you to come. I suppose Dr Brentwell told you what happened?” she said in a breathless rush.

“Only the bare facts.” I replied, speaking quietly, although the other visitors seemed engrossed with the people they were visiting. Michelle had a bruise on her cheek, a black eye and some scratch marks on her face.

“I was so stupid,” said Michelle quietly, “I was walking down an almost empty street and these three girls were walking towards me. I should never have made eye contact with them but I did. When they passed me I heard one say 'Get a load of that guy in a dress — what a freak.' I saw red and turned around and said “What did you say?” They stopped and walked back towards me and then suddenly they attacked me! I got such a shock. They were punching and scratching me, and it was only by good luck that some people came around the corner, and chased them off. I was on the ground then and crying, so they called an ambulance, and here I am.”

I took hold of her hand. "That is so awful, and girls too, it's hard to believe what's happening nowadays.”

“I think it looks worse than it is. The doctor said I can go home tomorrow.”

“Will you be on your own then?” I asked.

“Yes, I have a tiny bed-sit, but it's big enough for me. At least I have it for now, because I just lost my job so I don't know if I can afford to keep renting it. My life's a bit of a mess isn't it?” she tried to smile but looked almost as if she would burst into tears.

“Why don't you come and stay with me for a few days?” I said impulsively, “I share with another girl, but there are two bedrooms and I'm sure we could fit you in somewhere.”

“That is so kind of you.” Michelle said, and she brightened visibly.

“What happened to make you lose your job?” I asked.

“Well in order to transition, I have to live full-time as a woman for two years, well you know that. I was working in a call centre, so no-one ever saw me, so I went to see the man in charge. He'd always struck me as a bit of a 'ladies man' and he seemed ok about it.

The next day I turned up in a skirt and top. I deliberately kept it low key, nothing flashy, and only minimal make-up. All the girls were fine about it, so I thought 'Well this is ok'. Then Mr Grey asked me to come into his office. I thought nothing of it. He asked me to shut the door, and when I turned around again he'd unzipped his pants and had his thingy out. I was shocked, even more so when he told me to get on my knees. I said to him "You must be joking" and he said "It's no joke. How do you think some of those girls keep their job?”

I saw red and said “Well this is one girl who isn't going to do that to keep a job.” and he replied “Ok then, you're fired.” and that was that. I took my coat and bag and left.

“Good for you” I said and then I had a terrible thought. Here was a girl who was too principled to hand out sexual favours and I was inviting her to stay with Chloe and me!

I gulped and said “Michelle, there's something you need to know about me, and if you decide you don't want anything more to do with me, then I'll understand.”

She looked at me solemnly “Well this sounds serious, you'd better tell me what it's about.”

“The girl I live with, Chloe, well she's one of us, except she had no intention of transitioning. She works in a massage parlour, and,” I paused and then said in a rush “and the reason I met her is because I was working there part-time too to raise the money for my surgery. Ironically it was all stolen just before I was due to go to Thailand and if it hadn't been for Dr Brentwell and a source of funding he has, I wouldn't have had my surgery. That is what happened the day that I met you.”

I tried to read in her face what she was thinking, but I couldn't as I went on, tears streaming down my cheeks “I'm so ashamed, especially when I heard how you were prepared to leave a job because you have principles. I, I guess I just blew our friendship.”

I made to get up and leave, but Michelle said urgently “Stay.” Some of the visitors looked across at us, and then turned back again to their relatives. I did as I was told.

“So, are you going back to the parlour?” she asked.

“Oh no!” I replied “I'm not for sale any more, and I intend to pay back Dr Brentwell so someone else can be assisted like I was.”

Michelle smiled “We've all done things we wish we hadn't. Mandy, I would be very happy to take up your offer and stay with you for a few days — that is if you still want me to?”

“Oh yes!” I cried as I took her hand once more. I felt like a great load had been lifted off my shoulders. It occurred to me that in coming to see her, and indeed with my offer of being a mentor, I was making myself out to be superior to her, but now with my confession and her forgiveness we were on an equal footing, and it I'm sure that boosted Michelle's confidence, so all in all it had turned out very well.

The following day was a Saturday, so I turned up at the usual discharge time of ten o'clock to collect Michelle. She was out of bed and dressed, waiting for the doctor to finally give her the 'ok' to leave, and as so often happens, he was caught up somewhere, so it was another hour before we were finally able to leave the hospital.

I drove us to her 'bed-sit' so that she could pick up some clothes, make-up and toiletries. It was indeed a very small unit of the 'no room to swing a cat' variety, but she had everything laid out very neatly, unlike me I must confess.

We drove to the apartment I shared with Chloe. Chloe had already been told about Michelle and how she would stay in my room for a few days. She raised her eyebrows slightly at that, but I thought 'Let her think what she likes.' I promised that I would be responsible for the extra costs involved. Chloe was home when we arrived and greeted us politely. I showed Michelle my room which was about as big as her tiny 'bed-sit'. I had purchased a 'camp bed' which could be folded away, and insisted that I would be the one to sleep on it. There was a minor tussle about this, but we finally agreed that we would alternate beds every day.

After a couple of weeks, with us settling in very happily together, after checking with Chloe, I suggested to Michelle that she leave her 'bedsit' and move in with us on a permanent basis, and since she was almost out of money she was happy to do this.

Michelle needed a job, now that she had left the call centre, and for a moment I considered inquiring about a possible position where I worked, but only for a moment. Michelle was not yet totally convincing, so they would have to know all about her, and then they would be wondering how I'd come to know her, and of course I had never told Miss Evans about my gender status when I first started working there. Was I being selfish and thinking only of myself? I knew Michelle would never consider working in the massage parlour so I didn't even mention it. In the end she found a position in another call centre, one where they accepted her for who she was. Personally I couldn't think of a worse job, but I suppose 'beggars can't be choosers'.

I suppose it should have occurred to me that the pay at a call centre is not great and that Michelle might have looked to some other means of boosting her income in preparation for her surgery, in much the same way as I had. Even if I had, Michelle's apparent high moral values would never have made me suspect what she was actually doing. It just goes to show that although we think we know people, sometimes we don't really know them at all. Later I even wondered if that story she told me about the teenage girls attacking her was true.

One evening I came home from work and found Michelle already at home. One look at her face and I could tell that something was badly wrong, but initially I had no idea just how bad it was. She looked about as scared as the first time I had met her in Dr Brentwell's rooms, as she sat in a chair literally trembling..

“What's wrong Michelle?” I asked.

“Oh I am in the deepest trouble.” she said, and her voice shook.

“Here, sit down and I'll make some tea and you can tell me all about it.” I said.

The story she had to tell was almost unbelievable, but one look at her face and I could tell she was deadly serious. Some weeks previously, so she told me, she had arranged to go to the cinema with a girlfriend, and when the friend didn't turn up, she had gone to a bar alone for a drink. She had got into a conversation with a man there who seemed pleasant enough. They had both got a little drunk, and the man Harry, had told her how he made easy money providing party-goers with some special pills that made their evenings even more enjoyable. He insisted they weren't drugs as such, just stimulants. He explained how he was always on the look-out for attractive girls to help him sell his merchandise and thought Michelle was ideal for the task.

As Michelle's story unfolded, certainly things started to fall into place. Some evenings, she had come home very late and even seemed a little disorientated although not apparently drunk. My suspicions weren't aroused. After all, this was a girl with high moral values and the thought of drugs never entered my head.

After I had listened to her story for while, I gently brought her back to the present.

“So what is the trouble you are in?” I asked.

It seemed that she was supplied with some of the drugs on credit, and as she became more experienced and sold more, so the amount of drugs supplied to her had grown. However two nights previously she was at a bar, doing her usual discrete trading when it seemed her drink was spiked. She woke up to find her handbag gone and all the pills and cash with it. When she tried to explain to Harry her supplier, he suddenly stopped being 'Mr Nice Guy'. He wasn't the 'Mr Big' of the operation of course, but he was accountable to him, and the net result was that Michelle needed to come up with $20,000 in two days, or 'bad things would happen' to her.

“How can I come up with that sort of money?” she wailed.

“Surely you have some savings?” I asked, but it seemed she hadn't. She'd done something even worse than selling the drugs, she'd sometimes taken them herself, so a lot of the money she'd been making from selling them had been going back to the supplier.

“Can't you ask for more time to pay?” I said.

“You don't know these people,” she replied, ”They aren't exactly patient types and when they say 'bad things will happen' they mean it. I hate to ask this Mandy, but can you lend me some money? I need to go away for a while, somewhere they can't find me.”

I wasn't that well off myself as I was doing my best to repay the money I owed to Dr Brentwell and my mysterious benefactor, but I said “I can loan you two thousand dollars but that's all I have.” This wasn't strictly true, but I had a feeling I'd never see the money again and perhaps not Michelle either, so I wasn't going to give her all that I had, but at least enough for a head start. I certainly didn't have the $20,000 she needed.

“Oh thank you Mandy, that is so sweet of you.” and she got up to give me a hug.

'Mandy the mug' I thought to myself but out loud I said “But what about your treatment?”

“It will have to go on hold for a while.” she said. “If I don't get away within the next two days I mightn't be around to have it anyway.” That sounded like a particularly chilling remark. Who were these people she had got herself involved with?

The following day I drew two thousand dollars in cash from the bank, knowing I was almost certainly kissing it goodbye, but still feeling a certain responsibility for Michelle. After all I had offered to help her, just not in the way I was called up to do now. She thanked me profusely when I handed it over.

“Is anyone likely to come here looking for you?” I asked.

“I've never told them where I live” she replied.

“Well, don't tell me where you're going.” I said “If I don't know I can say so, truthfully.”

The next day when I came home from work, she had gone. There was just a note say

“Dear Mandy,

Michelle.

So it seemed that was that. Life went on as normal, and there was no word from Michelle, and I was glad of that..

It was two weeks later that I saw a small paragraph in the newspaper headed

“Bizarre drowning in Sydney Harbour”

'A Brisbane man Michael Martin has drowned in Sydney Harbour. Local police said they thought he had been to a fancy dress party since he was dressed as a woman. The most likely scenario was that he was drunk, went for a walk beside the harbour and somehow had fallen in.'

A chill ran through my body. One thing I did know about Michelle was that she was a good swimmer. Ok, she might have been drunk, but surely she could have scrambled to shore? No, there was more to this than met the eye, I felt sure of it. Then a thought struck me — would the police be contacting me about it?

As it turned out, the police were not the first to call. Late that night the telephone rang and I answered it. It may seem strange to say that a voice can send shivers through your body but this one did.

“Miss Collins? Miss Mandy Collins?” he enquired.

“Err, yes.” I replied, wondering if I was doing the right thing.

“Miss Collins, I wonder if you've read the newspaper today? A friend of yours drowned in Sydney Harbour, most unfortunate. I understand you loaned him some money. Can you tell me why you did that?”

“She, er he said he needed to go away and didn't have any money.”

“And did he explain why he needed to go away?” I realised my answer to this question was critical.

“No he didn't, he just said he needed a holiday.” I replied.

The voice chuckled “And that is what you will tell the police if they contact you?”

“Of course.” I replied “It's the truth.”

That chuckle again “Yes indeed it is Miss Collins, and it always pays to tell the truth don't you think? By the way, how good are you at swimming?”

“Err, not very good.” I replied and this was certainly not the truth.

The chuckle had turned into a laugh now. “Very good Miss Collins. Well, if you stick to your story, there's no need to find out how well you do swim.” he said, and I suppose this was the nearest thing to a threat in the whole conversation, but it would never stand up in court if I had been stupid enough to put myself in that position. “Anyway, why don't you watch the television news tomorrow night?” On that enigmatic note he hung up, leaving me shaking.

During our conversation it did occur to me to wonder how he had found me so easily, but it was not the sort of question to ask in the circumstances. Perhaps Michelle had told him everything in the vain hope it would save her life? If his intention was to put the fear of God into me, he had succeeded. I would be telling the police exactly what I told him I would say.

'Poor Michelle' I thought, and I wondered just how much of what she had told me was the truth. Perhaps she had already been selling drugs when I first met her.

After a sleepless night, I felt so bad the following morning that I rang in sick, and that was a bad move as it turned out. I did watch the evening news as 'the voice' suggested, and one story featured a dapper smiling gentleman in a shiny suit and a loud tie, walking down the steps of the local courthouse with his lawyer to face a pack of waiting media.

The anchorman read the accompanying story of how ''colourful racing identity' Jack Fogarty walks free from court when all charges against him were dropped after the chief prosecution witness refused to give evidence.'

It was when Jack Fogarty started to answer the reporters' questions that my blood ran cold. I knew that voice only too well, the same one that had spoken to me on the telephone the previous night. I later read about Jack Fogarty's nickname “Mr Teflon” because charges against him never seemed to stick.

The next morning I went to work. If the police contacted me, I knew exactly what I was going to say and it certainly wasn't that Michelle owed money to Jack Fogarty. The other women in the office greeted me and asked me if I was better and I said I was. I'd hardly had time to sit down before my desk telephone rang, and it was Miss Evans.

“Mandy, would you mind stepping into my office please?” In the circumstances that request had an ominous ring to it, but whatever was to come, I couldn't avoid it, so I stopped what I was doing and went to her office and knocked on the door.

When I entered I was surprised to see she was not alone. There was a devastatingly handsome man, probably in his early forties who had obviously been discussing something with her. He made as if to leave, but Miss Evans said “Take a seat Mandy. Would you mind staying Mr Thompson?” Then looking at me she said “Mandy, this is Mr Thompson, one of the partners.”

“Greg Thompson” he said with a smile that made me go weak at the knees. “I've just returned from six months overseas.” So that was why I hadn't seen him before. He was not sort of man a woman would easily forget. You've heard of that term 'instant chemistry' before? It usually refers to film stars on the screen, but this was it in real life. I knew it, he knew it, and I didn't doubt that Miss Evans sensed it too. When she spoke again it was like a cold shower coming from nowhere on a sunny day.

“Mandy, the police were here yesterday. They wanted to speak to you in relation to the drowning death in Sydney of a young man called Michael Martin.”

I'm sure I turned white, I certainly started to tremble. I should have been in the office yesterday, maybe I could have kept it private, but it was too late for that now.

“Do you want to tell us what your connection is with Mr Martin? The police said something about him being a transvestite and they believed he was staying with you until recently.”

I drew a deep breath. I remembered that old Sir Walter Scott quotation

'Oh what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive.'

There was nothing for it but to make a clean breast of things, so I told them everything. I explained that Michael, or Michelle wasn't a transvestite but was transgendered as indeed I had been, and also how we had first met at the specialist's rooms. I noticed their eyebrows rise a little at that revelation. I told them how my trip to Thailand hadn't been for a holiday, but so that I could have sexual reassignment surgery.

Throughout the story I found myself unconsciously referring to Michael and then Michelle, and 'he' and 'she'. Finally I told them about Michelle and the drug money and how Jack Fogarty had rung me, so in order to keep living I fully intended to perjure myself and lie to the police about what I knew of Michelle's reason for leaving Brisbane. Finally I said to Miss Evans that I was so sorry I had deceived her about my gender status when I applied for the job, but I truly believed it did not affect my ability to do the job. I knew that thanks to the tabloid press, some people felt that transgendered people had mental issues, and I really needed a job, so I felt I couldn't take the risk.

That last sentence came out in a rush, and when I stopped talking I felt that the silence was deafening, so I filled it by saying that I realised that in the circumstances I had to tender my resignation, and I hoped that any publicity didn't reflect badly on the practice because I had really enjoyed my time working there.

It was Greg Thompson who broke the silence. “Well Miss Collins, that is an interesting story. I suggest you go and make yourself a cup of tea while Miss Evans and I discuss what is to be done.” For a moment I allowed myself to see a glimmer of hope, although in reality I didn't see how there could possibly be one, so I did as they asked and went to make myself a cup of tea. The other women in the tea room knew something had happened, but were kind enough not to press me about it.

Ten minutes later the telephone in the tea room rang. One of the other women answered it and held it out to me. It was Greg Thompson.

“Would you come back to Miss Evans' office please Miss Collins?”

I duly walked back to her office, feeling like I was walking to the gallows. I knocked on the door, entered, and took a seat as requested. It was Greg Thompson who did the talking. I supposed as a partner in the company, it was his decision anyway.

“Miss Evans and I have discussed what you have told us. First let me say that we were impressed with your honesty and explanation of all that has happened. It seems to us that Mr, err Miss Martin brought her problems down upon herself and that your only fault, if fault it is, was in trying to help her. As far as the police are concerned, if they wish to interview you, I am happy to be your legal representative and I suggest you tell them the bare minimum, namely that Mr Martin told you he was in trouble and asked for a loan so that he could leave Brisbane. If they press you for more details, as your legal counsel I will advise you to make no further comment.

“Miss Evans has spoken to me in glowing terms of your application and efficiency in your work so I hope you will reconsider your offer to resign, and continue to give us the good service you have provided in the past.”

I felt rather overwhelmed at all this, and when Miss Evans chimed in with “I agree with all that Mr Thompson has said Mandy, and I hope you will stay with us.” I felt the tears starting in my eyes and was barely able to stammer. “Thank you, oh thank you so much, both of you.”

“Perhaps you would like to take the rest of the day off? It has been rather stressful.”

“Thank you Mr Thompson, Miss Evans, but I would rather stay and get back to work, I think that would be the best medicine for me at this time.”

The police did come back the next day, and seemed a little intimidated to face me sitting next to an eminent QC. I told them the bare minimum as Greg Thompson had advised me, and they seemed satisfied with that and left.

You may wonder why I am prepared to write this down now even though it is years later. While the police never managed to convict Jack Fogarty of any crime, apparently someone else took a more direct approach because his body was found floating in the Brisbane River a few years later. It seemed he was the victim of a turf war which had turned particularly ugly. I could hardly feel any sympathy for him, and it even seemed poetic justice that he too had ended up in the water. I think Michelle would have appreciated that.

I settled back into work, but I confess I spent more time than I should have thinking about Greg Thompson. I was careful not to show interest in him, but the other women did chatter, and I discovered that he was married to the daughter of Albert Baker, one of the original partners, now long retired after a distinguished career as a judge. There was also the suggestion that he had an eye for the ladies, and one of the married woman remarked “He can park his slippers under my bed any time he likes.”

'Hmmm, mine too,' I said to myself.