This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 1

I was struggling to convince myself that this was a good idea. Last year, and all the years before that, I'd been able to persuade Collin that I couldn't get away from work, but since my retirement a couple of months ago, I'd lost that excuse. So, I had no easy way out this year. That still didn't mean I couldn't have thought of one. Invited to spend Christmas in the Caribbean with a friend maybe. Except I had never lied outright to my brother. The years I'd cried off because of work, I'd already signed up for the holiday shift before he asked me. Well, every time except one, but I'd already been planning to when Collin sprung the question early. So then the only untruth had involved when I actually put myself forward for Christmas cover. Enough to convince myself it wasn’t a lie.

I'd avoided coming to Colin's for Christmas for nigh on twenty years now, and there was a reason for it. Nothing to do with the reason I gave him year after year.

Work would have been able to find someone to cover over the holiday season if I hadn’t always offered, but it would have meant someone else would miss out over the break, and I appreciated having the excuse.

Colin would damn the place to the hottest hell – which I'll admit I found quite endearing – then he'd ask me why in the name of intercourse (not quite his choice of words) I kept working there if they never gave me a Christmas off. Here was another time I danced in the grey zone between truth and untruth. I didn’t need the cover, but it meant I could work for a week at double my usual wage, and that meant I could afford to pay for all the bloody gifts I ended up buying for all my nephews and nieces, and my great nephews and great nieces

And that’s where the problem really lay. Always has. Karen and I could never have kids – probably a blessing given the way things fell apart between us, but probably a lot of the reason why they did in the end. The flip side of that was Colin and Amy couldn't seem to stop. They had five in the end, and thirteen grand kids, and if that wasn't rubbing enough salt in the wounds, there was the way he treated some of them.

You see, one of his sons was gay. He had an effeminate air about him that he couldn't help, any more than his father could hide the distaste that he should be responsible for bringing such a thing into the world. He was brutal with his efforts to change the poor lad’s nature and, when his son finally stood up to him on his seventeenth birthday and announced he was gay, Collin disowned him and threw him out of the house.

I knew my brother could be a bastard. but I didn't know how much until young Peter turned up on my doorstep in tears. He told me everything and it was only because he pleaded for me not to, that I didn't go round and beat the excrement out of Colin then and there.

Try to at least. My brother's always been a lot stronger than me, and he'd have handed me my arse on a plate. So instead, Peter stayed with me till he found his feet. Karen had long since left by then and it did turn a few heads that I was shacking up with my homosexual nephew. But you don't turn your back on family.

I helped him find a job and a place to live. It took eight months, but he had a lot to work through. I never did confront Collin about it, but I take a lot of satisfaction in knowing that Pete's happily settled and living contentedly with his boyfriend, and Collin's spitting feathers about it.

Then there's Lily and Pam, the twins.

I should mention that Peter was Collin and Amy's third child. Their first was Raymond. Honestly, if a name could send you gay, it should have been him, then Mandy, and after Peter came Russell and Lisa.

Lily and Pam were Mandy's girls. She raised them on her own after her husband decided he couldn't handle having twins and abandoned them. I choose not to remember his name.

Whether or not it was their mother's bitterness helped turn them against men, I can't say, but they're both growing up to be fiercely independent misandrist lesbians, the both of them.

Collin hates it, but Mandy gives as good as she gets and stands up to him every time he makes a comment.

Raymond produced six of of assorted age and gender before agreeing to a vasectomy while Russell has only produced four so far, however he seems to have the self control necessary to limit his output without medical intervention.

Lastly, there's Max, Lisa's little boy. Pretty much everyone else in the next generation down has turned out alright, according to my brother in any case. Boys growing up into real men, girls into real women – except for the twins of course – and Max.

Honestly, if you wanted stronger evidence of a genetic link. Three out of thirteen of the grand kids, one out of five of the kids and, if only he knew, one more in our generation. That makes five out of twenty in our family. One in four, or thereabouts.

Of course, I've never let on about my issues. When I was growing up, it was the sort of thing you kept swept under the rug. I mean there were other people like me about lurking in the shadows, but that was the only place for them when I was a kid.

For me too.

It was against the law to be gay in the UK until nineteen sixty-seven, and the public feeling against those sort of people' – my dad's choice of phrase – was pretty negative right up until the eighties when they finally found the courage to stand up and say enough was enough.

I grew up in a household where both Mum and Dad – and eventually Collin – would voice their disapproval whenever the likes of Larry Grayson or Kenneth Williams appeared on the telly or the radio. That wasn't really me, but they were just as outspoken against the people like Stanley Baxter, Dick Emery or Dame Edna Everage.

Dads humour veered towards the likes of Benny Hill, which saddens me that he could find pleasure in the objectification of women and be utterly disgusted by anyone who was struggling to cope with being one with the wrong sort of genitalia.

Mum and Dad are gone now, and they've taken their casual racism and homophobia with them. Wherever they are, I hope they've found some understanding of how unkind their thoughtless behaviour was. I have to hope they've found some way of changing themselves and finding forgiveness, because I can't imagine what kind of hell it must be like trapped in that sort of narrowness of mind. I wonder how they might have felt if they'd ever discovered how completely trapped they made one of their sons feel.

They tend to lump us all in together these days, the T's with the L's, the G's and the B's. For the most part, I don't think the majority feel us minority members belong with them, and maybe they even resent that we're along for the ride.

I'm not so sure we are that different though. It's all turning out to have some sort of genetic cause and, even though I can't imagine myself being sexually attracted to someone of the same gender, I have always felt that I belonged on the other side of the fence.

And that, of course, means that I either want to become a lesbian, or I want to become someone who is attracted to men, which means in my current physical state, perhaps I do possess some degree of latent homosexuality – though I'm not sure how much sense that makes, if any.

Perhaps it just reflects something of the intense confusion that exists in my life, has always existed there, ever since I learned, at a very young age, that this thing in me was not for sharing. That the real me inside would have to remain hidden from the world, and that the only version of me I could share with anyone was a facade – a thin veneer of respectability to a majority for whom I felt very little respect. A porcelain mask of exquisite delicacy that might shatter in a moment’s carelessness, never to be repaired.

It wasn’t a way I wanted to live, but I didn’t have much choice. I could never share my reality with my family. My mother, father and brother made it repeatedly and abundantly clear that they could never accept the filthy creature that dwelt behind the mask – without even the least suspicion I lurked there – but perhaps the person I was destined to love might.

It was a hopeless fairy-tale, doomed to failure from the outset. By the time I met Karen, I had become so good at playing the part that it was never me she fell in love with, but the mask I wore. When, in hope and desperation, I allowed her to glimpse the real me underneath, she recoiled, and in that moment, even before we were married, the thinnest end of a wedge was inserted into an all but invisible crack in our... well, I find myself unable to call it love as I look back on it.

But what then? It felt like love, except it was built on a lie, and I have to own that the lie was me. The hard outer shell my family had manufactured for me without even realising. Not that I consider myself at fault for the lie. My nature was as much the product of my parents' influence as their environment was the product of theirs. The blame for my sad predicament spread so far and thin across both time and space it was impossible to assign it to any one source.

It was there nonetheless and, I feel, would have eroded the good will between my lovely Karen and myself either way. Had I indulged my inner demons, either openly or in secret, my wife would have undoubtedly noticed in time and would have learned to despise me for my weakness. I would have lost her in any case, along with any reputation I might have built among my peers, and would have become a far more wretched thing than ever I was. Instead I battled my nature every day, a veritable Bellerophon to the Chimera that sought to destroy all I cared for. I threw myself into my work, becoming the sort of tyrant who sets an unreasonable example and expects the same effort from those under his control. It marked me for success since, as much as I was hated and feared by my subordinates, so I was appreciated by those above me.

I gave them good value for the wage they paid me and so I was promoted again and again. This success encouraged me to spend longer hours at work, and when Karen confronted me with the manner in which I was neglecting her, it was my hard outer shell that responded rather than the softer inner part of me I had worked so hard to suppress. I sneered at her and asked if this was not the man she had fallen in love with. It did not take many encounters like that before she decided she would find a happier life elsewhere, which, of course, she did and I don't blame her for it. The manner of her departure was not gentle. It didn't cost me a great deal financially since she found her way into the arms of someone who showed her more affection before informing me of her intention to leave. I think she wanted to see some modicum of regret or remorse, but I held too tight a rein on my emotions for that. Even her final tirade before she left me for the last time could not break through my armour, though it left behind a significant chink.

After she left, I threw myself even deeper into my work. I doubt I achieved anything of lasting worth though. Some part of my inner self peaked out through the cracks Karen left in my facade, and I became less autocratic towards those who worked under me. With the reduction in my ruthlessness, my ascent of the corporate ladder slowed and stopped. I was side-lined. Still useful for the continuous effort I made, and for my willingness to take on onerous tasks like the Christmas holiday cover, but I was no longer a man of interest. It didn't concern me. My income was more than sufficient for my solitary existence, and the daily routine of work enabled me to hide the empty pointlessness of my life.

I coasted my way through a couple of decades to my retirement, a gold watch the only evidence of their appreciation of my efforts. I never wore it. It remained in its box on my bedside table as a reminder of the manner in which I'd waste my life. Two months of reflection since they shook my hand and showed me the door. Two moths of rattling around inside the cold, empty walls of my home.

No. Not a home. No memories, no emotions evoked from being there other than cold hard regret. As cold and hard as the mask I had always worn.

It occurred to me that the only truly worthwhile thing I had done with my life had been the few months I had given to my nephew, helping him to recover from his father's rejection and start to build his own life. It was the only reason I'd decided to come this Christmas. Not for me, not for my brother nor anyone else, but for Max. There was something about him that put me in mind of the quivering wreckage that lay at the core of my own being, locked up and wasting away behind the walls I'd built over so many years.

Only he had no walls. Not yet. He was like a hermit crab with no shell; vulnerable, weak, but still free. He was worth making an effort for, though exactly what that effort was going to be, I had no clue.

As for the rest of them, even Lisa who had no idea how much her child needed her, no idea how to stand up to the brutish bully of a man she had married – so much like her father. As for them, all of them, I found I didn't care one bit.

Apart from Max, my being here was not a good idea, and I wasn't at all sure if I could do anything for him. He was only twelve, on the cusp of becoming a man and with no idea what that would do to him. Or maybe he did have an idea, in which case all the worse for watching the yawning abyss opening up before him.

I’d certainly had no clue at his age, but things change. The world he was growing up in was very different from the one I remember.

"Gerald!" Collin's expression contained more surprise than welcome. Perhaps he’d expected me to make some excuse, and honestly I wouldn't blame him given my track record.

Amy's reaction behind him was more telling, and not in a great way.

"You did invite me. I didn't say no this time. If I'm not expected, I'm sure I can find somewhere to stay."

"Nonsense. It's great to see you. Come on in. We'll make it work... somehow."

"Hi Gerry," Amy said. “Glad you could make it this year." She wore a smile on her face, but it only went skin deep if that, and her eyes were looking daggers at her husband.

"I'll go," I said. “I obviously misunderstood." I turned to leave.

“Gerald, wait." Collin understood my reaction. He knew how much I hated my name, but I've seriously opposed any attempt to shorten it. Gerald at least has some dignity to it, whereas Gerry...! Amy should know as well, which meant she was being deliberately unpleasant. I turned and gave Collin a world-weary look. "Okay, fine,” he continued, “we didn't really expect you to come. We've been asking for twenty years now bro.” That wasn’t a term I've ever particularly liked either.

“And every year before now I've declined and given my excuse until this year. You didn't think my retirement might not make a difference.?"

"Only to the excuse," Amy said from relative safety behind her husband. I took a step back towards the door and she recoiled. I gave her a look. I mean did she really think I was about to become combative? I held out a festive carrier bag filled with presents, close enough for my brother to take.

"I'll not stay where I'm not welcome. Happy Christmas, to both of you and everyone else."

"At least come for Christmas lunch tomorrow," Collin said, moving to avoid the jab his wife aimed at his ribs. “Some of us would be glad to see you at least." He put his arm around Amy and held her tight enough to stop her from attacking him. I looked at her and waited for her to return my gaze, at which point I arched an eyebrow. It was her Christmas too and I don’t want to ruin it for her if that’s what I'd end up doing.

"We'll be glad to have you," she said, her expression and her voice making a lie of her words.

"In which case I'll be glad to come," I kept my own expression neutral. "What time?"

"We'll probably eat about three o'clock," Amy said, her arms crossed tightly in front of her.

“But come any time from mid-morning," Collin chipped in. "You came by car?"

I nodded.

"I won't invite you in for a drink then. It's good to see you, Gerald."

"You too Colin. And you Amy." she snorted at me. She’d been close to Karen, probably still was, so she probably knew more about my failings than I did. It had been quite a few years since Karen and I split up though, and as far as I knew, she’d found someone who treated her better than I ever did, so why Amy couldn’t let it go was beyond me.

I headed back to my car, Collin shutting the door behind me before I reached the gate. The weather was mild, possibly even double figures. Atypical for December, but not unexpected with what we were doing to the planet. I put my overnight case back in the boot and sat behind the steering wheel, ignition Key on the dashboard in front of me in case any passing policeman decided to try insisting I’d been using my phone while driving.

Christmas Eve meant all the hotels would be full, or closed, or overcharging, even in a backwoods place like this. I pulled up the Airbnb app on my phone and did a local search. The nice places would be booked, but all I wanted was somewhere warm and preferably clean to lay my head. I didn’t particularly want to face the two hour drive home. I found a mobile home on a nearby caravan park and, having been assured that it was warm, I booked it for a couple of days. The satnav told me it was just five minutes away, which meant maybe half an hour's walk. I’ve never been much for exercise, but neither did I care for the prospect of a dry Christmas, and half an hour's walk wasn’t unreasonable, especially if I had till mid-morning to get there.

The trailer park had its own wifi, which meant I could download a book or two – my Christmas present to myself. The shops were closed but I found a solitary Chinese take-away whose proprietor had chosen to remain open despite the lack of custom. I think he was at least as pleased to have me justify his decision to do so as I was to find a source of food. I may have overindulged a little in placing my order, at least in part to show my gratitude, but also in part because I've had a tendency to over indulge since my marriage fell apart.

Nor is it the only indulgence I allowed myself. I almost certainly wouldn't have been able to make use of it at Colin and Amy's but I had, as usual, packed it just in case. I knew what I looked like in it, but no-one had to look, myself included, and I could feel the ever present tension between my shoulder blades ease as I closed my eyes and drank in the music.

Yeah, I know there's nothing particularly Christmasy about Pink Floyd, but not everyone is into carols, and some of us will argue that no decent music has been written since the end of the seventies. Besides, there was something about this particular album that spoke to me on a deep level. Lyrics rarely match what’s going through your mind exactly, but these did pretty well. Even the first short intro spoke to me this time.

"If you didn't care what happened to me...”

Well nobody much had. My parents would have argued with me over that, but all they had cared about was that I should become what they wanted me to be. They'd never really been inclined to listen to what I'd wanted. Same with Karen. She'd fallen for the mask, and when that turned out to be just a rigid shell, she'd run away rather than poke around under the surface. Mind you, I hadn't made it easy for her. I'd shut everyone out and now nobody cared what happened to me. If that wasn't true, I wouldn't be lying on a bed in someone else's mobile home on Christmas Eve all by myself.

“And I didn't care for you."

That set me thinking about Max. Peter and the twins too, but Peter had pretty much dug his way out of the shit that was his past, and the twins had claws and teeth enough to hold their own. Max had none of that, and I did care. I wasn't sure about zigzagging through boredom and pain, or glancing up through the rain, but I had wondered which bugger was to blame for putting him, and even the younger me, into our respective places of misery and despair.

Dogs brought out the cold rage in me. Once upon a time I'd been on the fast track to become one of those bastards. My retaliation against the world. If I couldn't be me then why the fuck should anyone else find any pleasure in life. I'd have probably made it too, right down to the club tie and the cold handshake, if losing Karen hadn't knocked the wind out of my sails. I'd shown too much weakness then. I'd cared that I'd lost her. I'd realised that I cared about how much of a bastard I'd been to my staff. I don't know how much I'd actually trusted those just a little further up the food chain, but I had turned my back just for a moment and they'd taken the opportunity and stuck the knife in. Not once, but several times – side-lining me, blocking any further advancement, not that I particularly cared about that. Then that final ignominy of that bloody golden watch as they showed me the door. They were arseholes and I could feel my blood pressure spiking as I thought of them.

All of a sudden, it felt like the words were aimed at me again. 'Who was born in a house full of pain?' What else would you call growing up in an environment where you couldn't be yourself, when who you felt you were inside had no chance of acceptance, even by those who claimed to love you? 'Who was trained not to spit in the fan?" All those casually dropped marks of how disgusting it was for a man to pretend to be a woman. Perhaps shit in the fan might have been more appropriate, but either way, if I'd tried to express how I felt, the result would have been comparable to spraying something revolting over all the decent people in the room. 'who was told what to do by The Man?' my father, obviously, but to a lesser extent, my mother and my brother too.

The list went on. Broken by trained personnel, fitted with collar and chain, all the ways I'd been compressed into a shape that wasn't me. 'Breaking away from the pack! Not quite the meaning in the song, but after Karen left, how I'd felt unable to play the same part. "Only a stranger at home.' It was always easier to live with the denial at work where I could inhabit the persona of an angry boss and turn all the pain inside into rage. At home I had no-one else to be, and the people I loved never knew who I was inside. 'Ground down in the end.’ Overlooked by my family, rejected by my wife, let go by my superiors for not being the fucking bastard they wanted me to be. Grinding down is a slow process – a death of a thousand cuts.

‘Found dead on the phone.’

I felt a tightness across my chest. Not so unlike the feeling of wearing a bra, but one that was too tight. It hurt and spread into my back, my arms, my neck. I felt lightheaded, dizzy, nauseous.

‘Dragged down by the stone!’

I tried to get up, but barely had the strength to move my arms. Sweat beaded on my skin, then cooled.

“It’s too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around." In truth, I hadn't really started gaining weight until after Karen left, which was also around the time I stopped being a bastard at work. The weight came on even so, and I knew I was carrying a lot more than was healthy. I had a pretty good idea what was happening to me. I had my phone in my hand, but it showed my playlist and I couldn't think clearly enough to bring up the keypad. I needed to call emergency services, but my fingers were numb and clumsy. I dropped the phone, leaned over to retrieve it, half fell out of the bed.

‘So have a good drown, as you go down, all alone, dragged down by the stone!’

I sat up, my mind suddenly clear, my movements easier than they had been in years. I was still wearing the nightdress, but so was the bloated figure sprawled across the bed.

"That's not great," I said to no-one in particular. It's a habit you fall into when you live alone, talking even when there's nobody there.

“It's not, is it?" no-one in particular replied. I turned to find a man with long dark hair, a beard and a deep tan.

"I take it I'm.."

"Yes."

"So that would mean you're..."

"I imagine so." He smiled a friendly smile.

"Collin's not going to like this." I waved at my corpse. My nightdress – his nightdress that is – had ridden up to the point where he wasn't exactly decent. I tried to tug it down but my hands passed through as though it wasn't there.

“Most likely not, but that’s his problem now."

"Implying that I should focus on my own?"

"If you like."

"I wasn't ever much of a believer," I said.

“You weren’t given much of an opportunity to be. I, on the other hand have always believed in you."

I snorted. “There’s quite a lot of me. I imagine it would be hard not to believe in me."

"That's not what I meant, and I'm pretty sure you know it." There was only the faintest amount of reproof in his tone.

"I wasn't a very nice person," I said. This wouldn't be news to him, assuming he was who I thought he was.

"Agreed, but yet again, you weren't given much of a chance. And you did change."

"I drove my wife away."

"And after she left?"

"What do you mean?"

"What happened at work?"

"Well my bosses weren't that impressed with me."

"I don't have as much faith in your bosses. Then there's what you did for Peter."

"I didn't think you had a lot of time for people like Peter."

"You'd be surprised."

"So what happens now?"

"That rather depends on you."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd like to show you something." He gestured with his hand and rather abruptly, we were standing in the hallway of my brother's house.

Given what I was wearing, I felt suddenly very self-conscious, looking around, waiting for someone to point and laugh. My companion smiled.

"They can't see us you know? I thought you'd be more comfortable in that since it's what you chose to wear this evening, but if you'd prefer something else..."

Sometimes you don't know what you want until someone's about to take it away from you. I'd felt that way about Karen and now...

"No! It’s fine. I'm fine."

"Upstairs then, in the bathroom."

We climbed the stairs silently, there wasn’t even a noise from the steps I knew were creaky. The bathroom door was closed and locked but he guided me through it, as insubstantial to me as my body and my night clothes had been earlier.

"Max!" I exclaimed. He lay sprawled across the floor, wearing something I guessed belonged to his mother, makeup inexpertly applied, but not entirely clownish. Beside him was an empty pill bottle. “We have to help him!" I shouted at the man. "Her I mean."

He pointed. Nearby a figure, much like the one on the bathroom floor, was drifting away, eyes open but apparently oblivious to his or her surroundings.

"You may have heard a thing or two about suicide."

"It's one of those mortal sins, isn't it? Like I thought being gay was."

"There's a lot of misunderstanding going about."

"Then why don't you do something about it?"

"I am. Just not in the way you think I should. Take Max here. Like other suicides, he has cut himself off from anyone who might help him. Even I cannot reach him in this state."

He moved ahead of Max's ghostly form only to be ignored. Somehow Max contrived to drift past him without passing through him or seemingly changing his intended path.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"I can't help anyone who won't look to me for help."

"So what do you expect me to do about it? I mean if you can't do anything, what am I supposed to be able to do?"

"Is there anything you'd like to do?"

"Of course there is! I want to help him!"

"Even if it would cost you?"

"Yes! Even if it would cost me! I can't leave him like that!"

"Then don't."

"But what..."

"Why don't you try something?"

"Like what?"

"If you and Max were together right now, what would you want to do for him?"

"I'd. .."

"He's here, Gerald, and so are you. You could stop talking about it. If you want." He sounded like his patience was wearing a little thin. I'm not sure I can blame him. I was being more than a little obtuse.

I ran after Max's retreating form, planting myself in his path Once again, he drifted onto a different course, looking to get past without seeming to. I stepped into his way again. When he tried to avoid me yet again, I reached out and took hold of his shoulders, half expecting my hands to pass through him, but they didn't. I steered him until he was looking at me. It took several tries, but eventually his eyes met mine and I saw recognition in their depths.

"Hello Max," I said gently

"I don't like that name," he replied distractedly.

"I don't like mine either. Do you know who I am?"

He shook his head.

"I'm your grandfather's brother. My name is Gerald. What would you like me to call you?"

He shrugged. “I didn't think I had a choice."

"You do with me. How about Maxine?"

He scrunched up his nose.

"No. I suppose too much like Max. Like Gerry for me, not that that’s used as a girl's name very often. As for Geraldine... Well, I suppose I can see what you mean. Making a girl’s name just by adding I-N-E feels like cheating, doesn't it?"

The ghost of a smile played around his lips, though I'm not sure how appropriate that term was, given our current circumstances.

"I like your nightdress," he said.

"Thank you. You don't think it makes me look a bit fat?"

That earned me a giggle. I may not have been feeling my weight since I'd died, but my appearance was the same, just as what was left of Max looked like the body lying on the bathroom floor.

“I like your dress," I told him. Two sizes too big and meant for someone a couple of decades older, but I still liked it.

"It's my mum's," he murmured. “She'd kill me if she caught me wearing it."

"Except you already took care of that, didn't you, Max?"

He winced, but whether at my confronting him with the truth or making use of his name again, I couldn't be sure. I decided to go with the former.

My natural instinct was to rant at him, but I had wisdom enough not to do so. He'd already withdrawn from the world far enough that he felt this was his best option. The last thing he needed was another earful of crap.

"I can't imagine what it must be like to feel that your best option is to take your own life. Was there really no-one you could talk to?"

He shook his head and, as I reflected on the other occupants of the house, I realised he was probably right.

"You know the way I've never been around at Christmas before this?" I asked and received a tentative nod in response. "I decided to come this year. Can you guess why?"

This earned me a shake of the head.

"It's because I've been worried about you. I wanted to be here for you. It looks like I'm a little late. I'm sorry Max."

He winced again, which answered my earlier confusion. Well that was something I probably could fix, and there was no-one around to stop me.

"Did you know, your name means "greatest?" I asked.

He snorted and shrugged.

"I'm guessing you've never been made to feel that."

Again he shrugged.

"My name apparently means 'rule of spear', which describes me at my worst, so I've never liked it. I've spent quite a while looking for another and there are a few I've decided I quite like. I wonder if you might be interested in choosing one."

Third shrug in a row.

"There's Keren, which is a Hebrew girl's name meaning strength."

He paused a moment, probably over the idea of it being a girl’s name, but ultimately shook his head.

"I decided against that one too. A little bit too much like my former wife's name. Bree is another. Irish this time, with the same meaning."

Again the pause while he tried it on for size. Again the shake of the head.

"Or how about Abrielle? That one's French and it means 'God is my strength'." His eyes lit up. No delay this time. When something’s right you just know it, it seems.

"Abrielle it is then." I smiled at the newly rechristened and, in my mind at least, regendered young girl.

"I suppose all we have to do now is find one for me. That and figure out what we're going to do for the rest of eternity."

"Actually, perhaps not." The man I'd first encountered was still with us, lingering in the background, now coming to the fore, "And I heartily approve your choice of name."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You know, you say that a lot? I was wondering if you'd care to go back and have another go."

Max's – sorry, I mean Abrielle's – eyes grew wide and round. She took a step behind me, seeking protection from perhaps the last being in existence she needed it from.

"It seems you may be right, because I’m about to do it again. What do you mean? Do you mean I can go back to being me?"

"I'm afraid not. That was a fairly spectacular heart failure you experienced. There isn't really anything to go back to."

"Then what?"

"I'm not going back," Abrielle said more forcefully than at any other time I'd known her... or him.

"I'm sorry, dear heart, but you've nothing to go forward to from here. However, you could go back together:"

"What?" Abrielle and I answered together.

"One body, two minds. Gerald, you wanted to help, so lend her your strength and experience. Abrielle, go back and find your true self, then come back and find me when you've lived a full life. Both of you together. How does that sound?"

"You mean she isn't..."

"Not quite, but very nearly."

There was a loud banging on the bathroom door. "Max? Are you still in there?"

The unmistakable voice of my brother's son-in-law, Max's – or rather Abrielle's – father. I don't know what that makes her to me: I don't really understand the rules of genealogy, and, frankly, I don't much like to consider that he and I are related. As I think I 've mentioned, he was a bully, and a worse one than either Collin or my dad.

"They won't get to her in time," our companion said, “unless you go back with her. You have the will to cling on to life until you don’t have to any more, but you have to decide now."

"What will happen to us?" I asked.

"You'll save Abrielle's life, and the two of you will live together in her body. Eventually you'll merge into one person, a little like in marriage?”

I thought about my experience of marriage and that of my parents and my brother. "You mean one of us will overwhelm the other until the lesser person either fades into nothing or runs away?"

"That's not how marriage is meant to work."

"Except it's the way it does work, at least in my experience."

"Not if you care for each other. Not if you're prepared to make concessions. If you're both prepared to give up the worst of yourselves, you'll both change and move towards becoming something better."

"What if it doesn't work out? what if one of us ends up wanting a divorce?"

"Not an option in this case; till death do you part. But even arranged marriages work if you both commit to one another. My own parents didn't have a lot to say about who they married and it worked out well for them."

"What happens to me if I say no?" it felt like a coward's question, but it needed to be asked.

More banging on the door. "Max? Don't make me come in there!"

"Then you'll have to move on knowing you could have done something, but didn't."

On the surface that sounded a little unfair, but he said it purely as a matter of fact. He was right of course. I'd come with the intent of trying to help him – her – so just how much was I prepared to give in order to do that?

"Yes, but where will I end up?"

"Heaven and hell are more a state of mind than a place of harps and clouds or fire and brimstone. The worst hell is the one where you've shut everyone out and you spend eternity on your own."

Again simply a statement of fact, and one that had more dire consequences for Abrielle than me, if I chose not to help her.

I turned to the small figure beside me. "What do you say? Want to give it a go? I'm not quite ready to give up on living."

"Max!" The shout was followed by the loudest thump yet. It made us both wince, but I held out my hand.

"Promise you'll never leave me."

"I don't think I'll have the choice, but sure, I promise."

Hesitantly, she took my hand and everything went dark. The last thing I heard as consciousness fled was Max's mother screaming "My dress! I was going to wear that tomorrow!"

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'No don't. I like it.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't really care, doctor."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Has he hit you before?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wrote 'Date?' out and showed him.

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

‘What happens next?' was my next question.

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

'And then?'

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

I wrote a question mark.

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

'My parents?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded and made eating motions.

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

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

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

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

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

'Merging?’

‘Yeah, I think so.'

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

'What's my favourite subject at school?'

'What?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You mean fight dirty?'

'Fight harder, certainly.'

‘He's not a bad man!'

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

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

'I don't know...'

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

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

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

'What should we tell them?'

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

'They'll think we're mad!’

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

'I don't understand!’

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

'I suppose.'

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

‘A pear shaped hole?'

'What'?'

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

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

‘Stupid enough to try and kill myself.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Show time then. Let me drive, okay?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shook my head gently.

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

Again a gentle shake of my head.

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

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

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

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

"We do."

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

"Who? Your great uncle?"

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

"But?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Why is that on the plus side?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don’t know if I'm coming home."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Over my dead body!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What does that mean?'

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

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

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

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

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

'I thought they already got worse.'

'Not all the way!'

'What do you mean?'

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

'What does this have to do with anything?'

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

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

'You're saying Dad is the bees?'

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

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

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

‘What do you mean?’

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

‘Yes.’

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

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

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

He didn’t respond immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

“Wondering what?"

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

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

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

"Because of your gender issues?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s likely to happen?”

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

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

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

‘I don’t know.’

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

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Max...’

‘I said I’d think about it, okay?’

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

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

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

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

No response. He really was sulking.

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

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

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

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

The threads of memory tumbled over me like an avalanche.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’m sorry,’ I told him.

‘Why? What are you going to do?’

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

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

I felt Max smile, but then he turned grim.

‘I don’t want you to hurt him.’

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

‘But...’

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

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

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

‘Please...’ Max begged.

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

‘No, but...’

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

‘No, but...’

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

‘I know, but...’

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

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

‘I...’

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

‘...No’

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

‘You just want to hurt him.’

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

‘I don’t like this.’

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

‘Alright, but...’

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

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

“Get dressed,” he said gruffly.

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

“What did you say?”

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

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

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

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

“You little f...”

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

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

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

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

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

“Gary.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hang on. You owe me one.”

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

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

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

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

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

It was enough to send Dad scurrying after his friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 3

When we weren’t actually sleeping I used a lot of the time to quiz Max on my dreams. This involved a lot of cringing from him – mental cringing, of course – before admitting that each dream has been a genuine memory.

I made a rough count of them and put together a list of the choicest for when the authorities came to call.

That took two days, by which time my bruising had passed through some psychedelic horror show spectrum of colours and had started to clear up. The nurses had put together an album of photographs detailing my injuries at their worst and at various points during my recovery.

They were two days in which I received no visitors. My dad’s absence was easiest to explain since my doctor had succeeded in putting a temporary injunction on him, and he wasn’t allowed within a hundred yards of me.

It still felt a little odd to think of him as my dad, but I was slowly accepting that I was now a part of Abrielle, and Mike was her father. Gerald was, to all intents and purposes, dead. Intestate – or so my brother would think. He’d have a nasty surprise waiting for him when my solicitors read my obituary. Mind you, I had to wonder what he’d have done with my wardrobe full of frillies.

The rest of the family’s absence was less easy to justify, though I suppose making funeral arrangements for my former self could be keeping them busy. More likely, Dad had ranted at Mum and the rest and, either out of solidarity or fear, they’d chosen to stay away.

I moved onto solid food. Well more solid at least. Spaghetti didn’t take much chewing, which was as well since my teeth and jaw ached.

I was pronounced well enough to get out of bed, which meant I could take a bath, wash my hair – Max didn’t have much of a clue, nor was she particularly interested, but sixty years of short back and sides had me luxuriating in the length and weight of our hair, and desperate to improve it.

It took three soap and rinses before I get up much of a lather, then the fourth left it feeling clean at last. After that, I asked one of the nurses if she could arrange for a hairdresser to visit me. I figured a hospital this size with long term patients ought to have access to one somewhere.

She came and did for me exactly as I asked, leaving me with shoulder length wavy hair and a fringe. Bangs, I think the Americans call it though I’ve no idea why.

The new look caused my doctor’s eyebrows to shoot up, but he followed his surprise with a very genuine smile.

“You look very pretty, Abrielle. I can ask the nurses if one of them can provide some makeup to cover your, er...” he pointed at our bruise, now very much out in the open for everyone to see.

“Thank you doctor,” I said while Max was busy blushing for us both. I have to admit, being called pretty was new for me and quite a bit more special than I could have anticipated.

“The main reason for my visit is to inform you that your mother is on her way to collect you since there’s this little legal matter that needs sorting.”

“Oh. Then perhaps it would be better if I didn’t hide the bruise.”

“Possibly, though I will be present too, and I’ll be bringing this.” He picked up the album showing off my bruises in their various stages of progression. “You may find it a little more dramatic if you keep the real thing hidden and only show it if asked. It’ll say to the judge that your appearance matters to you.”

Which it did, of course, so I allowed myself to be led by him.

I also enjoyed my first experience of makeup – except that it brought up memories of Max’s experiments with the stuff – courtesy of a pretty nurse who was young enough to be my daughter and old enough to be Max’s mother. Our prepubescent body had no hormonal confusion to add to the mix, for which I was grateful because it was already confusing enough.

We’d about finished when Mum appeared in the doorway.

“Oh!” she said.

I looked up at my brother’s youngest daughter, a young woman I’d known since she was a baby, and said with a shy smile, “Hello Mum.”

I didn’t belong in that moment, so withdrew to the back of our shared mind, letting Max take the lead.

“You... You look so different,” Lisa said.

A variety of snide responses rose to mind – my mind that is. I fought to keep them to myself.

“I’m still me, Mum. Only kind of more so.”

“Whatever do you mean, Max?”

“Erm... I er, I... Could we... Could you call me Abrielle? Max never really... I never really liked... er...”

“Abrielle? Do you mean Gabriel?”

“No, at least I don’t think...”

Max was getting flustered, and I was there to give her my strength. I eased forward and took gentle control.

“Gabriel’s a boy’s name, Mum, like Max. Gabrielle would be closer, but it’s still a bit like taking a boy’s name and kind of making it sound girly. Like Maxine. Abrielle is... Well it feels more me.”

“But you are a boy, Max.”

“Only on the outside, Mummy. It’s something I’ve been trying to tell you for a long time, only Dad doesn’t want to listen, and I guess he’s so loud about it, it makes it impossible for anyone else to hear. Where is Dad, by the way?”

“He went home, sweetheart. He thought it would be better if he went back to work.”

Rather than face his issues with his own son. Sounded about right.

‘He’s not a bad man,’ Max murmured in my part of our brain.

‘I saw all the ways he’s abused you last night in my dreams, so I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree, Max.’

‘He doesn’t know how to cope with me being like this.’

‘So he’s convinced you you’re the one who’s wrong.’

‘No. I mean you’ve convinced me there’s nothing wrong with me being like this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re not the only one who had dreams last night. I dreamed of all the things you went through in your life, and I know I definitely don’t want that.

‘But I don’t want to lose my dad either, so now we have to convince him that this is okay. You have to help me Uncle Gerald. If you don’t believe we can help him, I’m scared we’re going to lose him.’

I could feel my natural dislike of Mike and of everyone like him. Like my brother, my parents, even misandrists like Mandy and her girls who’d written off half the human race and most likely saw people like Max and me as worse than the men they hated, choosing to believe we didn’t even have the self-respect to be what we obviously – to them – were.

I could feel his gentler side too though. His youthful optimism that things could be made right, and maybe he was right. I was in danger of becoming like the people I despised, polarised in my thinking to the extent I wasn’t ready to accept that their side of the divide had its relevant arguments, its valid reasons for anger.

I made an effort to open myself to Max and felt his hopeful, wholesome, heartfelt feelings for his father fill me. I felt all the calcification in my own attitudes dissolve away.

The weight of the stone Floyd had called it. It fell away, leaving me feeling lighter and more hopeful.

‘See, it’s better, isn’t it?’

It felt like Max speaking, but me also. It felt like we were closer, more in synch.

‘Do you think this was what he meant about how marriage should be? Two becoming one?’

‘It feels like it. When you give up things you don’t agree on and hold onto the things you do.’

‘You gave up on the idea of not facing up to your dad, I gave up on hating him and people like him. We have a mix of our two opposing feelings and that seems better.

‘I remember reading something somewhere that love isn’t so much two people looking at each other but looking together in the same direction.’

‘Whatever are you saying, Uncle Gerald?’ There was a hint of a titter behind the thought.

‘There are many different types of love, Max, and please can you drop the Uncle? It makes me feel like the old man I used to be.’

Mum had just said something I’d missed and was running her fingers through my hair.

“What?” I asked.

“Pardon is more polite dear. I was saying we’re going to have to do something about your hair.”

“Why? This is how I want to look.”

“You look like a girl.”

“That’s kind of what I was going for.”

“But... I don’t understand.”

I sighed and looked at the doctor, asking for help with my eyes.

“Mrs Baxter, I think it highly likely that your son – or I should prefer to say daughter – has a condition known as gender dysphoria.”

“Oh, you mean this nonsense where he dresses up in women’s clothes? His father and I are dealing with that.”

“Actually, you’re not. It’s not nonsense. Current understanding suggests it has a genuine genetic cause, which means that regardless of what you see on the surface, Max’s brain has very likely developed with mainly female physical characteristics. You’ve heard the phrase, ‘a woman trapped in a man’s body?’ This is likely very much Max’s experience.”

“You’re speaking nonsense.”

“I assure you, Mrs Baxter, I’m not. I can show you a number of medical papers that support this conclusion, and I’d be happy to introduce you to any number of my colleagues who’ll tell you exactly the same thing.”

“And how many of your colleagues might I find who’d tell me something different if I went looking for them by myself?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There you are, Max. That’s being polite. I was saying, doctor, that if I went looking for my own second opinion, what would be my chances of my finding someone who disagreed with you? I mean, isn’t there a big argument over the issue at present?”

“Yes, well I suppose you have me there, except the disagreement isn’t about the nature of gender dysphoria and what causes it. Very few doctors I know would attempt to refute the existing data.”

“Then what...?”

“There has been a large increase in the number of young children presenting as gender dysphoric recently, leading, many of us think, to a large number being misdiagnosed and prescribed drugs they don’t need.”

“What sort of drugs?”

“Nothing serious at this stage. Puberty blockers are most common. They prevent the onset of puberty until the children are considered mature enough to make informed decisions about their futures.

“The issue isn’t so much whether or not this condition exists – it does – but whether or not an individual has it. It’s difficult to diagnose, and with the number of referrals coming through, the existing system has become overwhelmed.”

“Well, I hope you’re not going to make an issue of it today, sweetheart,” Mum said to me – us.

“I can’t promise anything, Mum. I mean the whole reason we’re going to court today is because Dad hit me.”

“Allegedly.”

“No Mum. He hit me, and this would be about the fiftieth time he’s done it...”

“Oh, come on.”

“I could give you dates, although if we’re limiting it to times when he hit me as hard as he did a few days ago – hard enough to bruise like this.” Pointing at my face wasn’t that effective with the damage hidden under a layer of concealer. “I could easily describe about twenty incidents like that, and they were all about him objecting to my wanting to be a girl.”

“Well, if you think I’m going to buy you a dress for this little charade of yours, you’ve another think coming. I brought you some smart things to wear, and you’ll wear them. Let that be an end to it.”

Trousers and a white button down shirt with a v neck pullover. More or less my school uniform without the blazer. Nowhere near my first choice or Max’s for that matter, but between the way they hung off my almost anorexic frame and the hairstyle, I still looked more like a girl than a boy.

Between Max and myself we managed to add some pretty girly mannerisms too. Mum wasn’t impressed, but Max and I felt good about it all.

Why is it that hospitals insist on delivering discharged patients to the door via wheelchair? I mean, we’d proven that we could walk about unaided.

We reached the main entrance without difficulty and climbed into a waiting car. The hair and the smell of makeup helped immensely and I had no difficulty embracing the girl made to dress up as a boy persona. It was more truth than fiction in any case.

We made our way into the courtroom which was large and imposing, from my perspective at least. The judge came in, complete with red robe and white wig, and we all had to stand up until he’d settled. There were a number of formalities which Max didn’t follow, many of which I missed because I was explaining other bits to him. Eventually I was asked to stand up.

“You’re Max Baxter?” the judge asked.

“Yes sir,” my twelve year old voice could as easily be mistaken for a girl’s as a boy’s.

“Max?”

“Yes sir, though I prefer Abrielle.”

“Abrielle. That’s a...”

“Girl’s name. Yes sir. I am a girl. At least on the inside.”

“I thought this was about physical abuse to a minor.” I’m not sure who the judge was addressing, only that it wasn’t me. I answered him anyway.

“My father doesn’t like when I try to tell him I’m a girl. He hit’s me. Sometimes really hard.”

The doctor stood with the photographic evidence.

“When was this?” The judge was interested again.

“Just before Christmas. I put on one of Mummy’s dresses and some of her makeup, and I took most of a bottle of sleeping pills. I locked myself in the bathroom and went to sleep. I didn’t really expect to wake up, only when I did, I looked like that.”

“You’re saying your father hit you while you were unconscious?”

“He didn’t do it while I was awake, so I suppose so.”

“My husband thinks he may have fallen and hit his face on something,” Mum said.

“Do you have anything in your bathroom that looks this much like a hand?” The judge offered up a photograph.

“My father’s bathroom.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My father’s bathroom, your honour. We were staying with my parents at Christmas, but no. He doesn’t have anything that shaped, at least that I can think of. Perhaps Mike was trying to revive him “

The judge looked at her incredulously and held up the photograph. Mum didn’t respond.

“Has your father hit you before?” the judge asked me.

I began to recite off the worst of the instances from the most recent backwards, giving dates and reasons for the incident. The judge let me get through about a dozen, covering most of the previous year before he held up a hand.

“Are there many more of these?” he asked.

“About the same amount again over the two or three years before the last thing I said. More if you include gentler times.”

“Evidence?”

“No sir. I was scared of my dad and didn’t want to make trouble.”

“What changed this time?”

“I nearly died. Afterwards I figured there had to be a better way, even if it meant saying all this.

“Daddy’s not a bad man sir, but he can’t cope with this about me.” I gestured at my face and hair with a very girly wave.

“I’m surprised you’re not wearing a dress.”

“Mummy wouldn’t allow it either. I think she’s on Daddy’s side.”

“And the reason you chose to try and end your life?”

“I decided if I couldn’t be this me, then I didn’t want to be any other version. If I couldn’t be the person I feel inside, I thought being dead would be better than being who they said I should be.”

“You could have waited a few years.”

“And gone through puberty and become physically like my dad or my granddad. How could I be girl then?”

“This really means that much to you?”

“I think about it all the time.”

“Oh come on!” Mum exclaimed.

“All the time, Mum. When I think of how it might be after I’ve changed...”

“Your honour,” my doctor picked up where I was trailing off. “I would like to recommend that the court seeks specific advice from a gender specialist in this matter. Despite it not being my field of expertise, I feel quite strongly that it may be crucial in Abrielle’s wellbeing.”

“Max,” the judge said. “The boy’s name is Max, and we’re here to ensure his safety, specifically from his father’s violent tendencies.”

“Yes your honour, but surely we’ve shown evidence that both the father’s violent tendencies and the child’s suicide attempt are linked to this matter of gender dysphoria.”

“Doctor, I don’t much like being ambushed in my own courtroom.”

“Not my intent, your honour. My only concern is Abrielle’s wellbeing. If we can address the issue of gender, I’m certain it will lead to our resolving the other matters too.’

“Doctor, is... Abrielle a suicide risk?”

“Not at present, I believe.”

“If I can’t live as a girl, I can’t guarantee that, sir,” I said, possibly a little rashly.

“That’s a matter for your parents...”

“Neither of whom are supportive on the matter, sir. I’ve already told you my father has struck me repeatedly over this issue.”

“So how do you suggest we stop him from doing so?”

“I don’t really know, sir. What I do know is that if I can’t be a girl, I don’t see much point in living.”

“You’re telling me that you might still consider suicide?”

“I’d rather not, sir, but I am a girl. In my heart and in my mind I am a girl. I have the soul of a girl. I hate even the idea of living my life as anything other than a girl.

“I imagine you feel just as strongly about being a man, so my question to you is how would you feel if you were told that starting tomorrow, you had to live the rest of your life as a woman with all that implied?”

“Yes, but the difference is I am a man.”

“I realise that sir. Most people are born with a man’s mind in a man’s body or a woman’s mind in a woman’s body. I wasn’t so lucky and living with the difference is... Well perhaps it isn’t impossible, my uncle Gerald showed me that, but it’s harder than I think I can bear. He tried changing who he was inside and it ruined his life. I’d rather change what I am on the outside, which will become next to impossible after my body starts to grow up “

“When did you ever talk to your uncle Gerald?” Mum asked.

I shook my head – our head, except Max was deep inside us.

“Sir, all I’m asking is a chance to see if this will work for me before it’s too late. I know there are drugs that will stop my body from changing for a while. I know with all that’s in me I’d be happier as a girl. I just need a chance to show everyone, except I can’t do it while my parents won’t let me. They won’t agree to the drugs and they won’t agree to me living as a girl...”

“That’s because your not a girl,” Mum said.

“I’m sure as shit not a boy!” I spat at her

“I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in my courtroom.”

“Sorry sir, but can you not see how that makes my point for me?”

“I’m sure your parents have your best interests at heart.”

“Are you?” I could feel tears flooding my eyes. They were Max’s more than mine. I was angry, but I could feel the despair welling up inside my young companion. As the first tear escaped, I wiped it down the side of my face, removing as much of the concealer as I could. “Are you really?”

It undid him completely. He stared at me with a complex mix of emotions fighting for dominance on his face. It took him a few minutes, but he regained his composure.

“What would you like me to do, Max?” he asked with just the slightest hint of a catch in his voice.

“If it’s not too much to ask, sir, I’d like you to call me Abrielle.”

He nodded. “Abrielle. I’m sorry.”

“I’d like for it to be possible for me to take these pills that will stop my body from maturing, or at least talk to an doctor who knows about my condition so he can tell me if I should be taking them.”

“You’re not sure about this?”

“Oh, I’m absolutely sure. I just need some way of showing everyone else that it’s true. I also want my mum and dad to stop fighting me on this.”

“They are your parents M...Abrielle. They get to decide what’s best for you.”

“And if what they decide is best for them? What then? They hate the idea of having a, what was it Dad called me a few days ago Mum? A namby-pamby poofta in the family. They think I embarrass them through doing this. They’re not thinking about what’s best for me, so how can they decide what’s best for me?

“I want my dad to stop doing things like this to me.” I pointed at the bruises now peaking out from beneath my streaked makeup. “I want both my mum and dad to learn about what my condition really involves, and if they can’t accept me and support me in being who I am...” this was the big bit, what Max wanted to avoid and what I’d promised him I’d try to avoid. “If they can’t do that, I want to live with people who can.”

I could feel the shock effect of my words inside and out. Max awoke within us, radiating horror at my betrayal, his feelings mirrored in the expression both Mum and the judge turned my way. Even the doctor looked stunned.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I continued. “I love my parents and I’d prefer to stay with them if I can, but they have to appreciate how important this is to me. They have to understand it’s not the nonsense they’d prefer to believe. Their son is really their daughter, and if they can’t see that then they’re only going to cause me more harm.”

“Max?” Mum said.

“Abrielle, Mum.”

“I can’t believe you’d really ask for something like this.”

“Why not, Mum. I was prepared to take my own life to get away from you a week ago. Do you really think this is much different? Do you think I’m suddenly ready to go back to the way things were?

“I need my life to be different starting now, which means either you and Dad have to accept you have a daughter, or you go back to not having a child at all. I mean, from your point of view, it wouldn’t be a lot different if I’d actually succeeded in killing myself, would it?”

“I can’t believe you’d be so cruel.”

“Who’s being cruel here, Mum? Dad wants to keep on hitting me until I stop ‘this nonsense’, which really means he’ll keep on hitting me until I give in to him, and you’re going to stand by and let him. Do you even care how I feel, or are you just as embarrassed by me?”

“Of course I’m not embarrassed, darling. But this notion of yours, it’s just nonsense.”

“Doctor? Sorry your honour, I mean if it’s alright with you.”

“Doctor, you said you’re not a specialist in this area.”

“No, your honour, but I know as much as any doctor about the condition, which is to say I’m familiar with the current research that shows it to be a genetic issue. If a person has it, then it is a real issue and not a nonsensical notion.

“I also know it’s difficult to diagnose, especially at a young age, although there are some individuals who are more obviously affected than others. I’m also aware that if the condition is identified prior to puberty, treatment is quite considerably more effective.”

“Mum, I need your support now. And Dad’s if he can be persuaded. I don’t know if you saw Uncle Gerald, but you know what the police said and you can imagine what he looked like. I don’t want to end up looking like a man, like he did, because then it’ll be so much harder to be the real me.”

“Oh, that’s right. The police came to see you didn’t they. They’d have told you... Is this what this is all about?”

“No Mum!” I couldn’t keep the frustration out of my voice. “This is about how I’ve felt for as long as I can remember. This is about why I put on your dress on Christmas Eve. This is about the desperate way I’ve been feeling because of the way you and Dad – Dad especially – have been reacting to me whenever I’ve tried to talk to you about the way I feel. This is about the girl inside me who wants to become a girl on the outside too. This is because the way I feel inside feels horribly wrong. All the time.”

“And as a non specialist, your honour,” the doctor picked up from where I ran out of breath, “I believe that Abrielle fits into the relatively small group of individuals who would be fairly easy to diagnose, and who would be most adversely affected if they weren’t to receive treatment.”

“Mrs Baxter,” the judge said gently. “I believe the doctor may have a point.”

“His dad will never agree to it,” Mum said distractedly.

It’s her, Mum, but maybe work on that later.

“Then you have a choice to make, Mrs Baxter. Will you go against your husband’s wishes, or your son’s. Quite possibly your daughter’s.”

Mum looked at me, a hint of a smile poking through the doubt and confusion. “I do like the idea of a daughter. But... Is this real? I mean really real?”

I desperately wanted to tell her, but I knew nothing I could say would help change her mind. I looked at the doctor, imploring him.

“Only a specialist will be able to tell you for certain, Mrs Baxter,” he said, “but I suspect so. Normally it would be your GP who would decide whether to refer you, but as Abrielle’s current doctor, I can do so as well. We have a gender dysphoria clinic in the hospital and I’m sure I could arrange for... your child to be seen in the next day or two, but the request has to come from you.”

I turned my face to Mum. If an expression could ever say please.

The thing is, Mum’s always been a bit of a pushover. Part of the dynamic of Mum and Dad’s marriage. He’s opinionated and forceful and she’s always been inclined to go with everything he says. With the weight of opinion in the room swinging my way, I could see her teetering on the brink, ready to follow the majority opinion. It meant I’d get my appointment with the dysphoria clinic and most likely a prescription of testosterone blockers, or at least their recommendation of one, but the real challenge still lay ahead when Dad stuck his nose in.

“All right, I suppose. If you all think it’s for the best.” She smiled magnanimously, as if granting me a special boon.

I smiled too, though a little weakly.

“Well, it seems we’re all done here,” the judge said, rearranging his robes.

“Er, there is one more thing, sir,” I said. “My father.”

“Yes,” the doctor said. “I was awarded a temporary injunction against him since I was concerned for Abri’s safety.” – Abri. I liked that. – “I suspect he’ll object to anything that’s decided in his absence.”

“Well, that’s his hard luck then. If he wanted a say he should have been here today. Where is he, by the way?”

“Working, your honour,” Mum said. “We don’t live around here. We spent Christmas with my parents then stayed on after Max – er, Abri – was admitted to hospital. We live about seventy miles away?” it came out as a question because she wasn’t sure. Not the sort of detail that bothered Mum much. “He went home after the injunction was put on him. No sense in hanging about if he wasn’t even going to be allowed to see his own son, I think he said.”

“Yes, well. Ma... Abrielle, what would you like me to do about him?”

“I don’t know sir. I mean, he is my dad and I do want him in my life, but... Is there some way you can make sure he doesn’t hit me like he did, and make it so he can’t stop me from, you know, changing? He’s made no secret that he’s totally against me being... this.” I pointed at my hair more than anything.

“I’m not sure what I can do, er, Abrielle. I intend to instruct both your parents to attend sessions to educate them about your condition, but that has the potential to be no more effective than speed awareness courses are in changing the approach to driving of habitual speeders.”

“Maybe you could fit my dad with a black box,” I shrugged and smiled to indicate I wasn’t being serious.

He smiled back. “We could probably solve a good number of society’s ills if we were able to do that, but not without bringing into question the rights of us all.

“The best I can do is make it very clear to him that his responsibility where you’re concerned is your wellbeing, and that both the law and the medical profession consider this to include your mental health regarding transgender issues. I will make it clear to him that he is not to strike you again for any reason, neither is he to interfere with your exploration of your girly self, shall we say. If he does either of these things, he will risk further legal action in which his fitness to act as your parent will be brought into question. Will that satisfy you?”

“Thank you sir. It’s more than I hoped for.”

“Mrs Baxter, can I trust you to listen to your child’s needs now, and accept the judgement of professionals in matters concerning his, or perhaps her, condition?”

Mum nodded though not with any degree of enthusiasm.

“Even if that judgement clashes with your beliefs or those of your husband?”

She nodded again, still without conviction.

“Abrielle, I’m going to give you a phone number.” He scrawled on the back of a business card. “This is for you alone, not your parents nor anyone else. It’s to be used if you feel you have no other choice, because I want you to feel you always have a choice, alright?”

“Does that mean that if I use it I won’t much like what happens?”

He smiled. “You know, you have surprised me from the moment you set foot in my courtroom. You have a lot of maturity for your years.

“In a way you’re right. If you call this number, what follows won’t be very pleasant. If you use it only as I have directed though, the outcome will be preferable to what would happen if you didn’t use it.”

“Thank you sir.” The card was passed to a bailiff and from his hands to mine. I read the number and committed it to memory, suggesting that Max do the same, then slipped it into my trousers pocket.

We were done. No banging of gavels, but a declaration from the judge that proceedings were done and we should go. I still hadn’t been discharged from the hospital, so where we were to go was pretty much decided for us. The doctor stayed with us to make sure Mum took us where we were supposed to go.

Back in my room I retrieved the card and checked it to make sure I had remembered the number properly then dropped it on the counter before stripping off my clothes and letting the nurse help me back into one of the pink gowns.

“Next time I come, I’ll bring you a pretty dress, shall I?” Mum asked, retrieving my clothes from the pile I’d left on the chair. I’d thought about dumping them on the ground, but we hadn’t quite reached that age yet.

I gave her a bright smile. “That would be really nice, thank you, Mum.”

Evidently not the reaction she’d expected. I could feel Max’s nervousness inside me, but it was just the normal paranoia any newly emergent trans girl might feel at the prospect of going out in public in a dress.

To be fair, I’d never dared do the same in all my sixty something years, but for most of that time I’d not had Max’s slender body or the pretty haircut we now shared. I imagined myself in a dress and couldn’t think of any reason not to smile.

“I’ll book her in for an appointment with the dysphoria clinic then,” the doctor said. “As I mentioned, it may take a day or two.”

“You do what you like doctor. I’ll be discharging my son tomorrow. And if you don’t do something about that hair, I’ll be bringing a pair of scissors with me.”

She picked up the card I’d left on the bedside cabinet and tore it in two, giving me a smug self-satisfied grin as she did so.

I read her the digits from memory and the grin faded.

“You wouldn’t dare. The judge said only as a last resort, so what’s he going to say when you call him so soon after?”

“The judge said only use it if you feel you have no choice. What would you call it when your mother decides to do the opposite of what she promised the judge she’d do.”

“There was no promise.”

“Oh what? Did you have your fingers crossed behind your back? Honestly, I have to wonder which of us is the child here. ‘Mrs Baxter, can I trust you?’ Do you honestly think he intended for you to lie to his face?”

“He should have thought of that, shouldn’t he? Made me swear an oath or something.”

“He did though, didn’t he? I mean, not the oath, but definitely the or something.” I recited the phone number again, as much to fix it in my memory as to make the point.

‘She really had no intention of doing what she said, did she?’ Max asked as we watched her walk stiffly towards the lifts.

‘I really thought she was on our side for a minute there, Max. I’m sorry.’

‘No, she wasn’t. Not the way she answered the judge. She does it with Dad too. Agrees with him to his face then does the exact opposite when he’s gone. What are we going to do?’

I read the numbers to him, but in our mind, I ended with a rising inflection, asking his permission.

‘We really don’t have a choice, do we?

“Might I have a phone, doctor?” I asked. Max’s question didn’t need me to answer it.

“Abrielle.” It had taken several minutes to transfer me through to the judge. To be honest, I hadn’t expected to hear his voice. “Is this really your only choice?”

“Can I let the doctor answer that?” I handed the phone across.

“Yes sir. I suggested trying to get Abri an appointment with the gender specialist and the mother told me not to bother, that she would be coming back for her son tomorrow and if we didn’t do something about her hair... No, Abrielle’s hair... No that’s fine. Anyway, she said she’d bring a pair of scissors with her. Yes sir, I’ll hand you back.”

“I’m sorry, Abri, I really hoped for better from her. You were right to call. The question is, what are we going to do? What would you like to do?”

“Er,” I hadn’t discussed this with Max yet, but... “I have an uncle. Uncle Peter. Could you arrange for me to stay with him, and his, er, boyfriend?”

“It’s certainly worth asking if he’d be prepared to look after you for a while.” I could hear the smile in the judge’s voice. “I don’t suppose you have a way to contact him, do you?”

I could have run off his phone number as easily as the one the judge had given me, but explaining how I knew it several years after my granddad had kicked him out of the house, that might have been difficult.

“Er, his full name Peter Lassiter and I think I heard my parents say he lived near my uncle Gerald.”

“Another uncle. How many do you have?”

“Uncle Gerald’s really my great uncle – my granddad’s brother. He died on Christmas Eve.”

“Ah yes, I recall you mentioned him earlier. The man in the, er...”

“Nightdress, yes.”

“It rather seems to run in your family, doesn’t it?”

“Didn’t the doctor say it had a genetic cause?”

“Hah! My word, you’re right. Well, I can find your uncle’s name and...”

“It’s Lassiter.”

“What? Oh yes, I suppose it would be the same, wouldn’t it? Well, I’ll be able to find your uncle’s address from the police report, and if your uncle Peter lives anywhere nearby, we should be able to find him.”

“What if my mum comes back?”

“Don’t worry. As of this moment, the hospital and your Doctor Paresh have temporary custody of you. Your own parents’ guardianship has been suspended pending an investigation.”

Not what Max or I had wanted, but no less than they deserved, along with any consequences from the investigation.

It took half an hour to locate Uncle Peter. The judge called me back.

“Your uncle will be with you as soon as he can, Abri. He can’t come immediately because of work commitments, then there’s also the issue of finding somewhere to stay around here since, as you mentioned, his father disowned him. Certainly he’ll be with you no later than tomorrow morning.

“I’ve also pulled a few strings of my own and arranged an appointment for you with the gender specialist later today. I hope it brings you all you hope for the future.

“The last thing to mention is that I’ve contacted both your parents to let them know they are to keep away from you. If either of them turns up today or tomorrow, the hospital knows to call the police. I realise this isn’t an ideal outcome for you, but it is the best we could have hoped for under the circumstances. Are you alright?”

“I expect I will be sir. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“No less than is your due, Abri. I hope your future unfolds without further need of my assistance.”

He hung up before I had a chance to say anything else. I put the phone on the cabinet and settled into the bed. I wasn’t tired, but there was nothing else to do. Nothing to read, nothing to play, no-one to talk to...

Well, that was hardly true, was it. I reached for the other consciousness inside me.

‘Max?’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry Max.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Can you think of any other way that could have gone?’

‘No, but...’

‘But what?’

‘But we’ll never know now, will we?’

‘On the other hand, we’ll get to see how this goes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you know what happened to your uncle Peter?’

‘What do you mean? He’s coming to help us, isn’t he?’

I could feel the curiosity rousing in him. It reminded me of when Colin and Amy’s kids were a lot younger, on one of the rare days when I hadn’t been so far gone myself. The easiest way to stop a kid from being upset was to distract him or her. Eventually they’d reach an age when they realised they were being handled, but for a few innocent years...

‘Are you handling me?’

Quickest way to the death of innocence. Share a mind with a young child.

‘I’m not a child.’

‘No, I suppose you aren’t. What you’ve been through in the past few days is enough to make anybody grow up. As to the rest, no I’m not handling you.’

‘But...’

‘You only reminded me of the way things were when your mum was your age. I may have tried to handle her sometimes, but all I’m trying to be with you is honest and open. We don’t have a choice to be anything else. I mean I can’t sense what you’re thinking right now, but I suspect that’s because you’re not thinking anything. What you’re feeling though... I was trying to help you stop feeling so upset, but I wasn’t trying to distract you. It just worked out that way.

‘But Peter, unless you’re not interested anymore.’

‘No, I... Dad said he did a horrible thing.’

‘Sure. About as horrible as what you did. Well, maybe not quite as bad.’

‘You think I did a bad thing?’

‘Can you image ne how everyone would have felt if you’d succeeded in killing yourself?’

‘Nobody would have cared.’

‘Well, if that’s true, why are you so upset about what we’ve just done to your mum and dad? What I’ve done to them.’

‘I don’t know. It’s... They’re my mum and dad. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘I may surprise you there. Family’s family, even when they’re being dicks. I never stopped loving my parents or my brother, even when they kept saying how wrong it was for me to be different. You know, in the same way you’re different.

‘As for Peter, well...’

I let him into the my memory of the day Peter had turned up on my doorstep.

‘That’s horrible ‘

‘Yeah. Didn’t stop Peter loving his dad though. Didn’t stop me from wanting to punch your grandfather’s lights out either.’

‘You? Take on granddad?’ Complete with incredulous laugh.

‘What? You don’t think I could have taken him?’

‘I think you’d have a better chance as you are now.’

‘You’re probably right. Not that it matters. Peter persuaded me not to do anything rash, and we both ended up getting our revenge by sorting out Peter’s life the way he wanted it, and not the way your granddad would have liked.

‘Not that it was about revenge. It’s just that sometimes the worst thing you can do to the people who hate the way you are is get on and live your best life.

‘The best is pretty much the same, only once you’ve done it, you go back to those people and try to show them how little there is to hate.’

‘Is that what we’re doing then?’

‘I’d like to think so. Family is family after all, and it’s up to us to make the effort when people like your mum and dad can’t.’

‘But...’

‘Right now there’s no way we can become our best self with them in our life. We need to get away from them, sort ourselves out, then when they can’t hurt us anymore, when we’re all the way transformed into the person they can’t see yet, that’s when we go back to them and show them.’

‘And what if they still don’t accept us?’

‘Then we very sadly go and make ourselves a family elsewhere. We’d have to do that if they were dead, wouldn’t we? It’s what they’d have had to do about you if you’d succeeded on Christmas Eve.’

‘I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad I met you, Uncle Gerald.’

‘So am I, Max.’

Do you know what a hug is like when there’s no body to get in the way? Skin limits how close you can get to one another. This felt like merging with one another, overlaying one another. There was more of me – not because I had been taller and fatter, but because I’d lived five times as long – and he had a greater intensity. There were bits where we were different – the way we felt about his, or perhaps more correctly our, parents – and there were others where we slotted together like pieces of a puzzle – like our feelings on being a girl.

The areas where we differed, I tried to embrace his point of view. He picked up on what I was doing and did his best to reciprocate. We made progress, reaching something close to a compromise. It was tiring though and before long we were asleep, sharing each other’s dreams.

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 4

A gentle nudge brought us back to the world.

“Sorry, Abri,” the doctor said. “It’s time for your appointment.”

“My what?”

“With the gender clinic. We need to get you there.”

“Okay.” I reached out for Max and found her snuggling inside me. Between us we had that certainty of being a girl, which was different for me and one of the differences between us we’d worked on resolving.

Yeah, I know what I said, but it’s complicated. Max and I both had that sense of always having been a girl. It has something to do with brain structure, I think, and my old brain had pretty much the same structure as Max’s, at least in this regard, so we’d always had that sense in our lives. The difference was I had over fifty years of convincing myself to ignore it, so our merging had brought me back to the point where it was present in my life and this time something to be embraced. In doing so, I had become more... Max. In other ways he had become more me. The difference between us remained, but the lines were blurring.

A nurse helped me into a plush dressing gown and a porter held a wheelchair ready for me. I didn’t mind. It was like being a princess having servants to do everything for me. I could only wish for a dress to complete the picture.

The gender clinic was restful in an unusual way. Pale yellow walls, a soft carpet on the floor and cartoon pictures about the place of elephants and hippos wearing tutus along with far cuter animals wearing jackets and waistcoats. It felt like an odd statement to be making at this stage, but I supposed this was a place for more than just pre-teens like us. We didn’t have long to wait before we were called through.

I let Max take the lead with the interview. After all, it felt like I’d been doing so a lot recently, and this was supposed to be a partnership. Besides which, if we ended up speaking to a child psychologist with the precociousness of a sixty something year old, there was no telling how he might react.

Yes, of course I know how old I am – was. Of course I do. I’m... I was... I mean I had to be more than sixty-five, didn’t it? Otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to retire me, would they? Unless I’d taken early retirement. But I wouldn’t have done that, because then I’d have lost my excuse to avoid Christmas, so of course I knew how old I was.

I was twelve.

All those years of living. Except what memories did I have for all that time? Memories are of, you know, memorable things. What did I have in my past to remember? The day Karen and I met. I could still feel the breathlessness when I first laid eyes on her. I’d been unable to speak. She’d thought it was sweet how she’d had to ask me out. I could still feel the way that had felt. Like the ground falling away beneath me. She’d made me feel so helpless.

She’d grown tired of that before I did.

So many of my memories were of Karen, at least in the early part of our relationship. Those feelings of being swept away, of being gloriously out of control. Those feelings of near despair when she’d wanted something from me I didn’t know how to give. That near disaster when I’d tried to show her the me behind the mask, then the long, long run of faking it till I could make it. Only I never could. The curdling of all that was good between us, turned sour through being buried away from the light of day. The strain of maintaining the facade wearing thin and threadbare. All the promise of love and joy turned to bitterness and ashes.

For all the misery, my years with Karen had still contained the most happiness I’d known. Looking further back, my childhood had been similarly marred, from that short lived moment of hope when I’d set eyes on Mum in one of her prettier dresses and felt the thrill at the prospect of one day looking as wonderful. Of the harsh reality delivered to me when I’d been caught trying that same dress on. Of the years of struggle hiding that inner part of me from my parents, like smothering an excitable puppy who doesn’t know why it cannot be free to explore.

When I’d left home there had been times when hope had flared briefly. Arriving at university, settling in my first home, meeting Karen. All held the promise that I would, at last, be able to let the puppy in me loose, but always there had been no sense that my deeper self would find the acceptance it craved. No-one in my generation or my parents’ before that had either inclination or capacity to understand or accept what I held inside me. All I could do was hold onto the beautiful creature within and smother it until it was still.

It felt like there were no others like me in the world, that I was utterly alone. What was more likely was that the others like myself had become as accomplished as I was at hiding. I mean sure there were the Stanley Baxters and Dame Ednas in the world, but they’d just found their own way of hiding. I was no extrovert, and neither, I suspected were many like me.

It had worried me that I seemed to be losing touch with the details of my life, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised I had very few memories I really wanted to hold onto. It felt I had lived most of my life under a dark cloud.

“It’s like I’ve been living my life under a dark cloud,” Max said. “I have this part of me inside that wants to escape and bounce about like a little puppy, and my mum and dad won’t let it. So it feels like the best part of me is being suffocated.”

I drew back from my musings.

‘You know, the point of letting you have a say is that you use your words,’ I said to my inner partner.

‘I can’t help it if you say things so much better than me,’ he replied with a mental grin, ‘or that you think them so loud.’

It seemed I did have a knack for saying things. The therapist was sold on Max’s tale. The hair probably helped; it was seriously cute.

He asked a few more questions and I couldn’t help but think my way through the responses I’d have given. Which meant Max couldn’t help listening in and passing them on.

It took us just half an hour to convince him. I had my repeat prescription for blockers and a letter of recommendation for me to attend regular sessions with a gender dysphoria support group for youngsters my age.

‘Do we have to go to the support group?’ Max whined. I kid you not, a mental whine is so much worse than the physical thing.

‘For one thing, it sounds like a good place to make friends,’ I said. ‘For another, we’re likely to meet people who are further along than us and could pick up a few useful tips...’

‘Like what?’

‘Do you know how to be a girl? I mean, I get that we’ve both wanted this all out lives, but it’s not as if either of us have had any practice. Do you know how to sit properly in a skirt? I know for a fact you could do with a few tips on how to do your makeup.’

‘I’m probably a bit young for makeup.’

‘That’s true. Besides, I’m pretty sure Uncle Peter will be able to teach us most of what we need to know?’

‘Really?’

‘Really. He’s a dancer. Another reason to go will be because there may be someone we can help. That’s the whole point of support groups. Sometimes you get the help, sometimes you do the helping.’

‘I suppose they won’t be that bothered if we turn up in a dress, will they?’

‘Honestly, I don’t think many people are going to bothered, unless we outright tell them about us.’

‘Won’t we have to?’

‘I don’t see why we should. I mean, I don’t know any other young girls with embarrassing physical defects going around announcing them to all and sundry.’

‘An embarrassing physical defect. Is that what we’re calling it now?’

‘We’ve just had a doctor who specialises in our condition more or less confirm that we are actually a girl. Do girl’s generally have what we have between our legs?’

‘Well, no, but...’

‘But nothing. If we’re a girl and we have something down there that shouldn’t be, then it has to be a deformity, doesn’t it? Not something we can do much about right now or for some years to come, so get used to it being there and don’t let it bother us or anyone else.’

‘I suppose.’

“There you go miss.” The porter who’d wheeled us to and from the meeting stopped the wheelchair and applied the brake.

“Thank you,” I said, offering him my brightest smile. It was amazing to see how his mood lifted as a result.

‘So what happens now?’ Max asked as we climbed back into bed.

‘I’m not entirely sure. I imagine when the doctor comes by later, we’ll see how soon we can start taking the pills. I’m not sure how urgent it is, because different people start puberty at different times...’

‘No, that’s not what I mean.’

That made me sit up and pay attention. I’d become accustomed to hearing his thoughts and feeling his feelings, it bothered me that I had so evidently missed something.

I could feel him in me as a small knot of pain and settled around him as gently as I could.

‘I’m sorry, Max. Today feels so much like a victory to me I’d forgotten there are casualties in any war. You’re thinking about your mum and dad, aren’t you?’ I didn’t really need to ask. Now that I was focussing on him, I could feel it.

‘Mum used to do this, you know?’ Again he didn’t need to fill in any of the subtext. He needed the hug.

‘It’s not the same with me, I imagine.’

‘No, it’s... nice. Only...’

‘She’s your mum.’

The silence stretched out.

‘She hasn’t done this for a while. Dad, I suppose. ‘He’s growing into a man. He needs to learn to stand on his own two feet.’ That rubbish, you know? I really thought after what she said in the courtroom that she might have changed.’

‘If she saw us as a girl, maybe she’d be more inclined to put her arms around us?’ The knot wasn’t so tight now, except that meant I could feel the effects of it too. Still, I’d rather be sharing his pain than just looking on helplessly.

I felt him smile at that. ‘You’d make a great mum, you know that?’

‘Yeah, well maybe give it a few years first. I mean, I am only twelve.’

That turned the smile into a giggle and the knot into a loose tangle of muddle thoughts.

‘I don’t know what’s going to happen for sure, Max. Dad will probably tell himself good riddance to bad rubbish because his pride and arrogance won’t let him consider he’s wrong.’

‘Yeah, well, good riddance to bad rubbish. I don’t think I’m going to miss him that much.’

That made me smile. I could feel him tapping into my strength, and he was welcome to it.

‘Mum will most likely miss us and eventually she’ll be ready to meet us on our terms. In the meantime, we have to accept the help Uncle Peter’s ready to give, and I’m ready to bet that’ll be a lot, and get on with making the best of our life.

‘When we see Mum next, we’ll be her daughter. Hopefully she’ll see that as a good thing and we can mend a few fences, yeah?” I tightened my mental squeeze and felt him settle deeper into me.

Yeah, pronouns. They didn’t really matter so much to my generation. Max was a him because that’s the way he’d always been, but that didn’t stop him being a girl too. Get hung up on pronouns and you end up fighting the wrong battle.

We were tired. A lot had happened and stress was as exhausting as exercise. Probably more so. I closed our eyes and we were asleep.

We roused to the sound and smell of dinner arriving. Sausage and mash with peas and gravy. Max wasn’t so keen on the peas, but reluctantly agreed to my hiding them in the mash and gravy when I said that girls tended to be more about the veg than the meat. The mash was out of a packet which I’ve never much liked. It has a sort of artificial flavour that doesn’t agree with my taste buds, so I was glad of the peas and gravy to mask the unpleasantness.

The sausages were welcome. Something to get my teeth into at long last. Something with a little flavour.

I found a small paper cup with a tablet in it on the tray too.

“Is this...?” I asked the nurse who’d been helping me sit up.

“Your new prescription, yes. Take it once you’ve finished eating.”

Which was after I’d emptied half my plate. Maybe my stomach had shrunk in the time I’d been in hospital. Maybe this was normal for Max, after all he was rather scrawny. There was something of the Gerald in me wanted to put away that third sausage, but I resolved to let Max lead the way when it came to quantities of food. I’d still try to influence him when it came to vegetable content and maybe between us we’d end up with the figure and complexion we wanted.

The pill went down easily, eagerly even, just as the doctor came into the room.

“I’m relying on you to tell me if anything doesn’t feel right. Upset stomach, dizziness, anything at all. There are other tablets we can try, and we need to make sure you get the right one for you. You’re likely to be taking them for a long time, you know?”

“Yes doctor. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us – me, I mean.”

“You did most of it Abri. It takes a lot of courage to stand up to your parents. Now, you should get some rest. As I understand things, your uncle will be here in the morning.”

“Doctor, I’ve been resting for days now. Is there something else I can be doing?”

He glanced at the clock which read half past nine.

“Well, we’re past the watershed, so I can’t let you watch TV I’m afraid.”

“Could I maybe have a book or magazine?”

“I’ll see what I can do, but I want your lights out by ten.”

“But that’s only half an hour. I’ve been asleep for the last three.”

“Alright,” he laughed. “Half ten. No later. It’s good to hear you arguing back, Abri. It’s a sign things are getting better.”

He disappeared for a couple of minutes, returning with a handful of magazines that were largely pink in appearance. One, with the title ‘Cute’, grabbed Max’s attention. It was no real intellectual challenge, but I could feel his pleasure in it. Guilty pleasure once upon a time, now a very real permitted pleasure, which made it all the more enjoyable. I rode along on his wave of enjoyment, content enough with the second-hand experience. I’d have preferred something a little more substantial, but it had been a long day and I was happy enough just to drift.

Ten thirty came and went. Eventually one of the nurses popped her head in, eased the magazine out of our unresisting grasp and switched out the lights. Max was dozing inside us and I was only barely aware of what was going on about us. Needless to say, sleep followed swiftly enough.

Peter didn’t arrive until late morning, which shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise, given that he had a two hour drive to get to us, and possibly a half hour hunting around for somewhere to park when he arrived, then who knew how long finding his way to our ward.

We’d already eaten a reasonable breakfast and more or less finished the magazine when I caught a movement out of the corner of our eye and there he was, hurrying towards us, a concerned look on his face.

I climbed out of bed and stuck my head through the door. He’d most likely seen me through the glass wall of my room, but I was eager to greet him.

“Hello Uncle Peter, it’s great seeing you again.”

“Max, what...? You look... What’s going on here? I had this confusing message about you needing someone to look after you. Max, why do you look like a...?”

“Girl? Kind of that’s who I am now, Uncle Peter. Mum and Dad aren’t to happy about it.”

“I can imagine they’re not. I’m surprised they’re... They’re not, are they? That’s what this is all about.”

“Kind of, yeah.” Have you ever noticed when you get nervous, you start adding in the same redundant phrase, like unnecessary punctuation? “Come in and sit down. This is kind of a long story.” There, I did it again. Did you notice?

Peter followed me into the room. He looked good. Smartly dressed, no weight on his shoulders. The one good thing I’d done with my life.

‘And now there’s me,’ Max whispered into my mind.

The one good thing I’d done with my death.

I let Max tell the first part. I could see the details in our shared mind, but he’d lived it. He talked about how it had weighed on him. Common experience that, except I’d buried my feelings. He’d tried to bring them to the surface. The rare times he’d spoken to Dad about it had ended with a smacking. The less rare times he’d spoken to Mum had ended with her in tears – and later a smacking which he eventually connected. The more frequent times when he’d taken matters into his own hands and borrowed a few of Mum’s things. Sometimes he’d got away with it. Others had been followed by a screaming row and a brutal smacking. Bruises, usually where no-one could see. Aching arms that hinted at the possibility of fractures. Green stick fractures they called them, in young bones. The brittle outer part would crack, but the soft marrow would be strong enough to hold things together. Never a doctor to confirm the injury, because then there would be awkward questions. Just several weeks of tenderness and discomfort that eventually eased.

Then Christmas Eve. That awful burgundy velvet suit and bow tie. He’d have looked better in one of Mum’s frocks, and he’d set out to prove it. Okay, he hadn’t done so great with the makeup. It hadn’t been dreadful – yes it had – but he’d looked at himself in the dressing table mirror and he’d seen the way his dad would have reacted as well as his mum and everyone else.

His cousin’s would have laughed. He could have coped with that. Stupid people laughed at what they didn’t understand, what was different, what didn’t make sense in their narrow minded world. It stung but you didn’t blame a wasp for reacting in accordance with its nature.

What would have been harder was the response of those who thought they knew better, who didn’t know anything at all. Especially when they were the ones closest to you.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Peter said. I could see the shadows of storm filled memories building at the back of his eyes.

“So, I saw this bottle of pills on Mum’s side of the bed,” Max continued. “Sleeping pills. Two thirds of a bottle. I figured that would do it. Maybe a bit horrible to swallow them all, but then I’d fall asleep and never wake up. No more pain, no more angry Dad, no more tearful Mum, no more pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I could even go out as I wanted to, as I’d always felt I was. I took the bottle into the bathroom, locked the door, put the lid down on the toilet and sat. You know, it’s stupid just how much a simple thing like that feels so much more right when you’re wearing a dress? Even when it’s loads too big for you and all the wrong style.

“Granddad and grandmum keep a plastic cup on the sink with their toothbrushes and toothpaste in it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I emptied it out and filled it with water, then I started swallowing pills. Three or four from the bottle then enough water to wash them down. Rinse and repeat. I don’t even know if I emptied the bottle. When I woke up, I was here with a plastic tube down my throat.”

“Oh Max!”

“Would you mind? I kind of like Abrielle. Abri for short.”

“That’s a lovely name. Is it French? Where did you come by it?’

“Uncle Gerald told me.”

“Unc... When did you see him? You know he’s...”

“Dead? Yes. Do you believe in miracles, Uncle Peter?”

“I should think so. Uncle Gerald was a miracle for me a while ago.”

“Yeah, me too. Only much more recently. You may think I’m making this up, but Uncle Gerald had his heart attack about the same time I took all those pills. I really died, and I was drifting away into a future of loneliness and misery, only he was there. He was wearing a sort of red nightdress. It kind of looked a bit silly on him, but that was sort of the reason I was upset enough to do what I did. I could see myself in the future still feeling like a girl on the inside, but with this big, ugly man-body. No hope of ever being pretty or of looking good in a pretty dress, you know?”

“Don’t tell him I’m here,’ I whispered to Max. I don’t know why, except maybe I didn’t want what they were going through to be any more complicated than it was already. Max acknowledged my words and carried on.

“Anyway, Uncle Gerald persuaded me that taking my own life wouldn’t solve my problems. He said I still had a lot to live for and that I should fight for the life I wanted. The life that would make me feel less messed up and more at peace. He eased me back into my body and I woke up.”

“With the bruise on your face?”

“Dad trying to wake me up, or so he said. The doctor seemed to think it was a little hard for trying to revive me.”

“I should say. I always thought your dad had a mean streak in him.”

“Yeah, so anyway...”

He batted his way through the events that led to us going to court, the decisions that were made and the way Mum had broken her promises almost immediately. The phone call, and the way things had followed on from there.

“So neither your mum nor your dad currently have parental responsibility for you.”

“The judge felt that since they wouldn’t even allow me to test to see if I was trans, that they were nore likely to be harmful than supportive of me. I’m aware you had a similar falling out with your dad, and wondered if you’d be prepared to think about taking on the responsibility. Kind of.” Nerves taking over again.

“Well of course I’ll do everything I can. You’re family and family looks after family. Not just that but you’re family who’s had to deal with one of the less pleasant sides of our family which means we have that little bit more in common. I just don’t know what’s going to be involved in making it work.”

“I think my doctor might be able to help there. He was present when we were in court and I think he kept the bit of paper the judge issued. I’m not sure if it’s him or the hospital who are officially looking after me now that Mum and Dad are out of the picture, but he should know what to do.”

“I expect he’s a little busy right now, eh?”

“I should think so.”

“Well, what are we going to do while we wait for him?”

“I don’t know.” Delivered in the dismissive way only a preteen can manage.

‘Ask him about himself,’ I suggested. ‘Where does he live, what does he do, does he live with anyone?’

“I suppose, if I’m going to stay with you, maybe I should know a bit more about you.”

He smiled. “My favourite topic,” he said. “Well, you know I’m a couple of years older than your mum?”

“Yeah. She likes to brag about how she got married before you.”

“Yeah, but look what she married. It struck me as worth waiting a little longer if it meant finding the right person. I think you’re going to love him. He’s the sweetest guy you’ll ever meet, apart from me of course...”

“What’s his name?”

“Paul. Just a minute.” He fiddled with his phone for a second then passed it across. The man in the photograph was wearing a chef’s hat and apron. He had dark hair, kind eyes and an embarrassed smile. I liked him immediately. “This was a couple’s cooking evening we did together. Paul’s a whizz in the kitchen, which is just as well because I burn cornflakes.”

Max snorted. “You’re not supposed to cook them, silly.”

“Is that right? I knew I was doing something wrong.”

It felt so good to hear Max laughing. Perhaps a little odd since I was connected to the throat that was laughing. It felt like this was going to work and maybe I was surplus to requirements. I wasn’t consciously aware of holding to anything, but I felt myself easing my hold.

I don’t know what I expected to happen, maybe drift off into oblivion or something, but I just stayed. I mean when it comes down to it, maybe that’s what I should have expected to happen. You know, when you let go of your hold on things usually, you just stay connected to your body.

Only this wasn’t. My body that is. It had started out as Max’s and I suppose a part of me felt I was just along for the ride, that maybe I could just let go.

‘Yeah, it doesn’t work like that,’ Max murmured in my ear. Peter was in the middle of an anecdote I’d heard months ago, so I didn’t have to listen in. Neither did Max since he had access to my memories.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I felt the same way a couple of times. You know, like I gave up my rights to this life when I killed myself, so when you were doing such a good job of challenging my parents, I figured you’d do a lot better with my life than I ever would, so I figured I’d let go and leave you to it. We’re kind of stuck with things the way they are I think.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘No. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be stuck with. As long as you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all. Come here.’

He settled into that mental hug we did where we blended into each other.

“Am I boring you?” Peter asked.

We reviewed what he’d just said and picked up together on what came next. If we’d had a mouth each we’d have done an impressive job of speaking in unison. It came across well enough even so with us both getting to the punchline without realising Max wouldn’t have known it.

“How do you know the end of that story?”

Max dived deep, avoiding the question by avoiding having to answer at all. There was only one answer that had half a chance of working.

“You know I told you about Uncle Gerald coming to me after I died?”

His eyes grew wide. “No way. You actually believe that was true?”

“He told me where to find his body. The police still don’t know how I know, and, you know, he actually died while I was in hospital, while everyone was waiting for me to wake up. I mean, I get why you don’t want to believe, why you’d prefer for my subconscious to have made it up, but... Well let’s just say that the deeper you look, the harder it will be to explain unless you actually believe that Uncle Gerald came to me after we’d both died.”

“He’s not still with you, is he?”

“If he were, he’d probably tell you to get it in touch with Wilford and Peters, solicitors, and make sure they were aware that Gerald was dead.”

“Do you have a number?”

“No, but Google does.”

He tapped away at his phone then placed a call. The number would have been local to where he lived, as had I before Christmas.

“Yes, good morning. I wonder if you can help me. Do you have any dealings with a Mr Gerald Lassiter?”

‘Will,’ I mouthed at him.

“Er, like do you hold a will in his name? You do. Are you aware that Mr Lassiter passed away on Christmas Eve? No he was visiting his brother in...” he gave the name of the town where we were currently. The conversation continued from the other end for a few minutes, ending with Peter saying, “Not at all. I’ll wait to hear from you then, shall I?”

“Gerald?” He knew better than to call me Gerry. Anyone who cares about me knew that much.

“I can’t begin to tell you how complicated it is, Peter. I wouldn’t have complicated your life with it if I hadn’t overstepped just now.”

“But Max...”

“He’s here too. I never told you about myself did I? Too used to keeping it hidden, I suppose. I’m not sure how much of it was divine providence, but I had a massive heart attack about the same time Max decided he couldn’t go on. We’ve been given a second chance. Max, or Abri rather, with his youthfulness and the promises the modern age offers, and me with the strength of purpose to make sure he gets it.

“We’ve kind of ended up sharing. I’m not sure how it’s supposed to work, but it feels like the more we try, the more we become each other.

“I don’t really know what to say. I’m in here, I can’t deny it and I’m pretty sure you’d have spotted me sooner or later. The thing is the more I’m in here, the more we – Max and I – become one person, and while it seems unlikely, the more that happens, the more we kind of turn into a twelve year old kid who just wants to be a girl.

“I was thinking about my life earlier today, and most of my memories are depressing. They’re things I’d like to forget, and they’re things I find I am forgetting. I couldn’t remember how old I was earlier – I mean the Gerald me – but the more I thought about it, the less I cared. I’m twelve, Uncle Peter, and almost all the memories I have of being that older person are fading, because they’re not memories I particularly want to hold onto.

“If I were you, I’d forget I was ever here, because a lot of who I was is fading, and the best of who I am is gradually becoming the kid you see in front of you right now. I mean, potentially I’ll have more of a propensity for reading and I might be a little more in your face when fighting for Abri’s rights, but I’m already a lot like Max, and it would please me if I could become more like him as we become more of a her.

“I don’t know if that makes much sense.”

“More than you know. I’m glad you’re alright though. I’d hate to think of you being dead.”

“You’ll be glad of that in a while. I never bothered with a will for most of my life because I never cared who got what I left behind, but a few years ago, I met someone who changed my mind on that.”

“Oh no, you didn’t.”

“Sorry Peter. I know it will most likely piss Collin off, but that wasn’t the reason I did it. If I hadn’t bothered with a will, he’d have inherited everything I own. As it is, he’s going to have to come to terms with why I’d give most of it to the one person in his family he chooses to ignore.”

“Most of it?”

“I left him something, just so he has to sit in the same room as you while the will is read, at least as long as he’s prepared to acknowledge you.”

“This gets worse and worse.”

“I’m sorry Peter, but the only way things will get better between you is if you talk to each other. He may not, but at least he’ll have some food for thought. Maybe it’ll be the start of something. I know it’ll be hard for you, but please trust my motivation.”

“Can’t I just give him everything?”

“I’m sure there’s a way you could, but if you’re going to look after Abri, having a house with a fully paid up mortgage and a little nest egg in the bank will probably come in handy.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Language, Peter, please. I have a twelve-year-old in here with me.”

‘Who has access to every rude word you ever said in here.’

“Oh fuck!”

“Whatever happened to mind the language?”

“Max just reminded me she has access to the depths of filth I’ve accumulated in my long life.”

“Can she quote literature like you?”

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments; love is not love that alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove.

“The problem is, how will you know whether it’s me you’re listening to or Max.”

“Yeah, you really are a bastard.”

“One who has his parents’ marriage certificate stored away with his birth certificate, so good luck proving any of that.”

“Well, we can’t sit around here all day. Where is this doctor of yours? Hang on while I ask one of the nurses.”

He left the room.

‘He’s not mad with us, is he?’

‘No. Well, maybe me a little bit, but no, not really. Peter has too gentle a heart to be angry with anyone.’

‘Not even his dad?’

‘No, not even his dad, which makes him perfect for us. If anyone understands the way you feel about your father, it’ll be Peter, and he’ll make sure you don’t turn bitter, not that I think you’re in any danger of that.’

“Well, that sorts one thing out,” Peter said, sticking his head back in our room. “Dr Rasheed is going to be busy with his rounds for at least another hour, so why don’t we go see what we can find you in the hospital shop?”

The shop in question turned out to be more of an arcade, offering something of anything someone in hospital might want. The range of choices on any one thing was fairly limited, but we did find a powder blue knitted dress and some white woollen tights in my size, along with a duffle coat that I decided I didn’t dislike and a pair of blue t-bar shoes. Underwear as well, since Max and I were determined to leave behind as much as we could of our old life.

I tried not to look at the prices as they were rung up on the checkout, but I couldn’t help myself. Not unreasonable, I thought, although there would be a lot of the same to come. I didn’t feel too badly about it, since my bequest to Peter would end up covering several times over the cost of looking after us.

I wore the clothes out of the shop, carrying the hospital gown and dressing gown in the provided carrier bag. Apart from my excursion into nightwear, this was my first time in a dress, and very much my first time out in public. Max’s too, and I could feel his nervousness as much as I could my own. While Peter was emptying his bank account on our behalf, I turned us to face a large window where our reflection looked back at us in enough detail.

‘I only see a girl,’ I said.

‘Yeah, but we’re not one, are we? I mean you can feel what’s filling out our pants.’

‘I feel it, but it’s small enough, and the drugs will help to keep it that way. We’re going to have to get used to it, because the law won’t let us do anything about it for six years, so what say we fake it till we make it? I mean the hairstyle helps a bunch, and your tendency to under-eat goes quite a long way too. Unless someone decides to look up our skirt, no-one should suspect a thing.’

“Come on princess,” Peter said, coming up behind us. “Save the admiring yourself in front of a mirror for when we have more time. You look very pretty, so why don’t we go show all the doctors and nurses?”

He said it so matter of factly I couldn’t help but feel at ease. I took hold of his hand and let him lead me back to the ward.

Where the nurses couldn’t help but make a fuss of Max and me, and I couldn’t help but love it. The doctor was present and asked Peter to wait until he he’d finished his rounds, which meant I had another fifteen minutes of being told how cute I looked.

When the doctor and Peter finally came out of their huddle, I was so enjoying the attention I didn’t want to leave.

“Ready to go?” Uncle Peter asked.

To which my response, looking around at all the smiling nurses, was, “Do we have to?”

The doctor smiled. “There’s very little more I can do for you Abri. The judge gave me guardianship over you, which was unusual enough and only intended to last until I found someone in your family who could take over. I’m satisfied that your uncle fits this role, so I’ve passed on guardianship to him. If it doesn’t work out for any reason, you have the judge’s number as well as mine,” he handed me a business card with it on. “If you feel the need, just pick up a phone, but I have a good feeling here. It would be good to hear from you once things are settled, but I don’t expect there to be any problems going forward.

“Your bruises are well on the way to mending, you have your prescription, or at least your uncle does, so I expect your life will unfold from here in the way you want rather than your parents. I wish you well, but your family,” he waved at Uncle Peter, “should be able to determine what that means from here.”

I threw my arms around him. I didn’t quite come up to his chest, but however awkward he felt about it, I still owed him my thanks.

Peter led me out to where his car had accumulated quite a parking fee.

“You’d better have left me more than a piggy bank full of loose change old man,” he said as he held open the front passenger door for me to clamber in.

I had my seatbelt done up by the time he slid in beside me. “Well, now that you’ve informed my solicitor of my demise, I expect you’ll find out quite soon. He’ll contact your dad to declare the date on my will and give him a chance to come up with anything newer, then he’ll arrange for a reading. What day is it today?”

“Thursday.”

“Probably Monday or Tuesday next week then. I suggest you make sure you can take time off on either one for the reading of the will.”

“Can’t you just tell me what you’ve left me?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Besides, I’m not here, remember? Just Max, now Abrielle.”

“We have a private girls’ school near us. I don’t rate the local comprehensive, so will I be able to afford to send you to the better one? Can you at least tell me that?”

“Worth making enquiries, if you think it’s worth the money.”

I wouldn’t be drawn on the subject so we spent most of the next two hours driving in silence. He kept looking at me with his frustrated face and I just smiled back. Eventually he caved in and smiled at me.

“I don’t suppose it really matters. If you go to the comprehensive then it’ll be you that has to cope. Either way, I think Paul and I will enjoy having a youngster about the place. We hadn’t quite got there, but we were heading towards that conversation about adopting. Having a family member just makes it better. No paperwork for one thing.”

“Tell me about Paul,” I said, and that was all it took. The rest of the journey was about how they’d met and how wonderful Paul was. I was really looking forward to meeting him when we pulled into a roadside parking space outside an old Victorian terraced house.

“Let me do the talking to start with,” Peter said, so I held back while he unlocked the front door.

Paul greeted him before he had the door fully open. Arms around his neck, fully lip-locked. Either the neighbours were okay with alternative lifestyles or my uncle and... uncle didn’t care.

“Where have you been?” Paul asked. “I was so worried.”

“Well, you know that conversation we haven’t quite had about adopting? I’d like to introduce you to my niece, Abrielle. She’s having issues with her parents – my brother-in-law is a lot of an arsehole. It may end up being longish term.”

I’ll give Paul his due. Whatever greeting he still had in mind for his significant other, he forgot it and walked past to where I was standing shyly on the path. He crouched down and gave me his full attention.

“Hi,” he said. “Welcome.” He waved at the open door behind him. “It isn’t much, but we call it home. If you like, you can too.”

I threw my arms around his neck. Actually, it was probably more Max than me, but he’d been worrying about the welcome we were going to receive. Waterworks flowed and we clung on tight until Paul said, very carefully. “Er, ow.”

“I thought she could have the guest room,” Peter said, watching on with a smile as I disengaged from my quarry. “She doesn’t have anything more than she’s standing up in, so I thought I could take her to Tesco’s and see if we could get her some nightwear. I just wanted to introduce you first and make sure it was okay.”

“Are you kidding? Of course it’s okay. I’ll sort out the room and put on some extra pasta. Dinner in an hour okay?”

The growl in my stomach suggested sooner would be better, but I nodded.

Tesco’s didn’t have much more of a kiddie’s selection than the hospital shop had, but they did have a tee-shirt nighty with a cute kitten on the front. Peter bought one a size larger than I needed on the expectation that I’d grow into it soon enough. He also bought me a fluffy white dressing gown with bunnies on the front, also a size too large, and a pair of slippers.

He added a few things to the basket, like a bottle of wine and a few family sized packets of chocolates. Bounties for one, since he remembered I had a thing for them, then a mix of other stuff since he couldn’t be sure if Max shared my taste.

I mean he could have asked, but I wasn’t about to point him in any one direction because I could hear Max inside me saying, ‘Ooh, I like those. Oh, and those. Those are good too.’ The future boded well in terms of chocolate-fest, although I wasn’t sure how Paul would react. I’d just have to show I could be mature about how much chocolate I could eat.

Yeah, right!

Food was on it’s way to the table when we returned. I suspect a little stealth texting between my new guardians, but I didn’t care. I was famished and ready to eat whatever appeared in front of me.

Which, since it was spaghetti, was perfectly fine. I mean maybe there were more peas than Max would have preferred, but they mixed in well enough with the mince and went down without messing with the flavour. Much.

The chocolates didn’t appear for pudding – No surprise from my perspective, but some disappointment from Max’s. Instead we had apple and blackberry pie with custard, which definitely appealed to me. Less so Max, but then we ran out of room before we finished, which was okay by him.

Once we’d all finished eating, Paul disappeared upstairs. Shortly afterwards the sound of bathwater running reached us.

“Don’t you think you should share the whole truth about me before he finds out for himself?” I asked.

“Maybe you’re right. Should we do that now?” He pulled out a small plastic container of pills and handed me one. “One a day with your evening meal, I think.”

“Yeah. Yes, I mean.” I washed the pill down with what was left of my glass of water. “What do you mean should we do it now?” Emphasis on the we.

“Don’t you dare leave me on my own with something like that.”

I smiled and slipped out of my chair, carrying my plate across to the kitchen sink.

“You know, I remember you being a lot less of an arsehole,” Peter said, adding his plate to mine.

“Why don’t we go put him out of our misery then?” I said, taking his hand. “Better from you or me?”

He sighed. At the bathroom door he reclaimed his limb and used it to lift his partner away from where he’d been checking the temperature of the water.

“There is one thing we didn’t tell you yet,” Peter said.

Paul’s eyes drifted over towards me, the unasked question hovering in their depths.

Self conscious nerves paralyzed my vocal cords so I resorted to the only option remaining. I raised the hem of my dress and lowered my pants and tights until my uncomfortable truth lay exposed, shrivelled and near invisible though it was.

“Oh,” he said.

“Please don’t be angry,” I said. “I wanted to see if you’d notice first.”

“Well,” Paul said after a long pause, “I suppose it goes some way towards explaining how anyone could be so much of an arsehole he’d kick his daughter out of his house.”

“Not actually the kind of arsehole he was being,” I said. “He wanted to keep on pretending he had a son.”

“Oh.” Again. Same flat inflection.

I didn’t know how to take his reaction until I saw his tears. He dropped to his knees and held out his arms, inviting me in for a welcome hug while Peter rescued the bath.

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 5

“You’re not mad, are you?” I asked some time later, all sweet smelling and wrapped up in Tesco’s kitteny finest, teeth tasting of minty freshness.

“With you? No. Maybe a little with Peter, but I’ll forgive him before we go to sleep.” He tucked my bedding in leaving me feeling snug and safe.

“He’s lucky to have you,” I said with a sleepy smile.

“I’m lucky to have him,” he replied automatically. “And we’re both lucky to have you.”

“What happens now?”

He kissed me on the forehead. “Only good things, little one. Only good things. Now, sweet dreams.”

He turned out the light and I drifted into soft, sweet-smelling oblivion.

In which I was floating on a cloud. Large, white, fluffy with the texture of cotton wool. The Earth drifted by so far below I couldn’t make out any details, but that didn’t matter. What did was up here.

I stood up on the springy surface of the cloud and looked around me. There were a few other clouds about, but nothing close, and with no one on them. In fact there was no-one up here apart from me and...

I turned to look at where I’d been laying and there I was still, sleeping peacefully. There were two of us. Twins, at least to look at, except...

Max lay sleeping peacefully, wearing his mother’s dress while I had on my red nightdress. This didn’t feel right.

A flash lit the sky behind me. I turned to find the few other clouds merging, darkening. There was a figure standing in their midst. Tall. So tall. Dark and threatening. He was coming closer.

Another flash of lightning and this time a low grumbling to accompany it. The dark cloud was drawing nearer, the figure on top of it taking on a progressively more demonic appearance.

“You said you’d never leave me,” Max said accusingly from behind me.

“I wouldn’t. I won’t,” I replied, except we were somehow drifting apart.

“Come here you little pissant,” a deep voice sounded from the immense creature, “you’re mine.”

I turned to find a dark demon figure towering over me, wearing Max’s father’s face.”

“You can’t have him,” I yelled, stepping between him and Max, or at least trying to.

“He’s a suicide,” the monster growled. “He’s mine forever. Whereas you. You’re just dead. You can go to hell.”

He waved a hand and the cloud vanished underneath me. I fell, screaming, with the sound of Max’s scream receding above me.

Light surrounded me and I was fighting with bedclothes. Strong arms engulfed me and a soothing voice – Peter’s, “It’s alright, I have you. It was just a dream. You’re alright.”

‘Max? Max, where are you?’

‘Uncle Gerald? I thought you...’

‘Thank God. I thought so too. Hang on.’

I squirmed in Peter’s grasp. “I’m okay,” I said, my words muffled against his chest. “It was... horrible, but I’m okay.”

“Is that Max speaking or Gerald?”

“It’s Abri, Uncle Peter. It’s both of us.”

“You want to talk about it? Sometimes it helps.”

I was ready to say no, but I could feel Max nodding inside me.

I described what I’d experienced, sensing Max’s own dream as I did so. Same dream, but his perspective. Ending with his demon dad snatching him up in its taloned grasp. I could feel it crushing him. I added his account to my own. The terror of falling alongside the horror of that suffocating squeeze.

“Sounds ghastly,” Paul said from the doorway. “I’ll make some hot chocolate.”

“It was only a dream, Abri. I know it felt real, but it wasn’t.”

I knew. In my head I knew, but my heart was hammering away like a steam train and my veins were filled with adrenaline even so. I put my arms around Peter and squeezed with all my diminutive strength.

He lifted me out of bed and carried me downstairs, snagging my dressing gown on the way.

“So would anyone like to tell me who Max is?” Paul asked, placing a mug in front of me. “Or Gerald?”

I’d been afraid he might have heard that. Oh well, story time. “Max is who I was,” I said. “It’s the name my parents gave me. I never liked it. Gerald is sort of like a make believe friend. It was him who came up with my new name.” If you’re going to lie, commit to it and keep it as close to the truth as you can. “Gerald’s sort of a ghost who came to me when I needed him.”

“Gerald? Isn’t that the name of your uncle?” Paul asked Peter. “The one who helped you out?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Granddad’s brother,” I said. “The one who never came for Christmas. I guess I always thought of him as a bit of a ghost.

“Anyway, my Gerald’s a bit like me. You know, sort of a girl with all the wrong bits, so we’re both happier like this.”

Paul didn’t look convinced, but he let it slide. It was likely one of us would slip up again and give him another chance at the truth, but not tonight. For now, we sipped at our drinks. I waited for my heart rate to subside, which it did slowly, helped by the calming influence of the hot chocolate.

“You know, bad dreams are often our subconscious telling us what we’re afraid of,” Paul said. “Like I used to have nightmares about finding myself standing in front of the class at school with everyone laughing at me because I was wearing short shorts and a pink sequined top.”

“You never told me that,” Peter said.

“It was a long time ago, before I came out and learned to be comfortable with who I am.”

“So you’re saying I’m worried about my dad coming after me?” I said. I could have let Max do it, but he was still struggling with his memories of the dream.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t really know. I mean what if he does come after us like he did in the hospital. What if he finds a different lawyer friend who doesn’t care so much about what’s right or wrong, or maybe someone who’s more inclined to believe Dad?”

“Then I suppose we need to line up our own army of legal warriors. We’re relatively safe for now because nobody in the family other than Uncle Gerald ever bothered to find out where we live.”

“So how did the judge find you?” Paul asked.

“Er, I told him,” I said. “I told him your name and that you lived near to Uncle Gerald. He was able get the general location from the police report and then narrow it down from there.”

“Well, hopefully none of Mike’s friends are that resourceful. I’ll get in touch with Gerald’s solicitor tomorrow and see if he can recommend anyone who might be able to help us out.

“When it comes down to it, the law is on our side, Abri. If they come with police, I have documents to prove Paul and I have guardianship. If they don’t then they have no legal authority to take you from us. Either way, you are safe here, okay?”

“Okay, I suppose.”

“Great,” Paul said, standing up and collecting all the mugs. “Let’s see what we can do with the rest of the night, shall we?”

“Could we leave a light on?” I asked on Max’s behalf.

So they left the hall light on and Max and I kept the door slightly ajar.

‘I got you,’ I murmured to Max, holding him in my best mental hug. I could still feel him quivering, but he settled eventually. I stayed awake for as long as I could, keeping an eye on his dreams. After an hour with nothing to worry me, I let sleep take over.

“Where the fuck is he?”

Not the most pleasant way to wake up, especially when it brought about a panicked reaction from the person i was sharing a body with.

“You’re not welcome here, Mike.”

“I don’t give a shit. Get out of my way. I’m fetching my son.”

“You take one step inside this house and I’ll treat you like any other trespasser.”

“And what? Call the police? They’d be interested to know why the fuck my twelve year old son is staying with a couple of nonces like you, especially when they find what the fuck you have him wearing.”

“I’d be happy enough to call the police if you really want me to, but I wasn’t thinking we needed to go that far.”

“Get out of my way. What the fuck!”

“Sorry, don’t I quite meet your expectations for a weak, effeminate poofta? You’re not welcome, Mike. Come around again and I will get the police involved.”

“Next time I come back, I’ll bring fucking backup.”

The door slammed shut.

“It’s okay, Abri. He’s gone.” I don’t know how he knew I was there, standing at the top of the stairs. “Fancy some breakfast?”

“He said he’d be back.”

“He did, which is why I need to make a few phone calls. Toast alright? We have jam, marmalade and lemon curd.”

“Do you have any chocolate spread?” This from Max.

“Not for breakfast, love,” Peter laughed. “Strawberry or blackcurrant jam though.”

“Strawberry please. How did you, you know, stop him from coming in? He’s pretty strong, my dad.” Again Max talking. I was happy to let him do so. Better than have him hide inside our head.”

“Do you know what I do for a living?”

“You dance, don’t you?” Okay, I might have given him a bit of a nudge there.

“Do you know how fit you have to be to make a living from contemporary dance?”

He did look well muscled. Certainly more than when he’d left my home to make his way in the world.

Two slices of buttered toast appeared in front of me alongside a jar of strawberry jam.

“I won’t eat both of these,” I said, spreading a thin layer of sticky yum on one of them.

He grabbed the other and took a mammoth bite out of it. He had his phone in his hand, searching his call history. He read a number out to me. I roused long enough to confirm it as my solicitor’s, then settled back to enjoy Max enjoying his breakfast.

“Hello, this is Peter Lassiter. We spoke yesterday. Yes, well alright, but I had a question of my own... No tomorrow at nine should be fine. My father?” He ran off a string of numbers that I recognised as my brother’s – or grandfather’s, or whatever. “Yes, I need some legal advice and was hoping you could either give it to me or suggest someone else who could.

“Yes, I’m currently looking after my niece because her father, my brother-in-law, has been hitting her and the courts gave custody over to me... His mother? Full disclosure, my niece is transgendered. I have a letter to show the doctor’s diagnosis. Neither of my niece’s parents are prepared to support her, despite the mother assuring the judge she would. Yes, well, I just had the father on my doorstep trying to barge into my house to fetch ‘his son’ as he put it. I kept him out... No, no violence, but he threatened to return with reinforcements... No I’m not entirely sure what he meant, but I’d suspect either police or a lawyer... Yes. Yes. I see. Yes, er, how much would that cost? Really, that’s very kind. Yes, of course. Mike and Lisa Baxter. Er,” he looked at me and mouthed ‘address’, which Max gave him. “Yes, legal name is Max Baxter. Is that it? Er, I could photograph them and send them through to you. Just a minute.” He grabbed a pen and pad of paper and scribbled something down. “No, you’ve been immensely helpful. Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hung up. “Well, that was easier than I expected. I just need to...” he went to his jacket hanging by the door and dug out the papers the doctor had given him. Photographed them with his phone and added them to an email he sent to the scrawled address on the pad.

“However did we get by without these things?” he muttered to himself, keying in the last few digits “Well, that appears to be the important things out of the way. Let’s sort out the inconsequential ones, like where are we going to send you to school?”

“Not the comprehensive,” Paul said, entering the kitchen in full flamboyant splendour, complete with floral robe and hot pink silk pyjamas. “That place is a zoo.”

“That leaves us with the girls’ school then,” Peter said, “as long as you’re sure we can afford it.”

“We’ll figure it out. Cut a few corners, eat out less.”

There wouldn’t be an issue once the will was sorted, but let that come as a surprise.

“Would they really let me go to the girls’ school?” I asked.

“You’re a girl aren’t you?” Paul sniffed. “Besides isn’t your friend always saying they want to show more diversity?”

“She is.” Paul had the phone to his ear. “Maddy, good morning. Happy New Year to you too, when it comes. Listen, do you have room for one more in year twelve...? Starting this term, yes. My niece, Abrielle. Probably permanent. Yeah, should have mentioned, this’ll be a tick in your diversity box. She’s trans. No she was born a boy. No, still physically a boy, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. I’m pretty sure she’ll do whatever you ask. I can bring her in today if you want... No, tomorrow will be fine, only not in the morning. No, one o’clock will be fine. See you then.”

“Look, it’s not even half past eight and we’re pretty much done.”

“Pretty much done my delicate pink tush. Give me that.”

Paul grabbed the phone and spent several minutes calling doctors, dentists and a few other places I wouldn’t have thought of. Nine thirty came and went before he handed the phone back.

“Now we’re done, apart from a bunch of shopping.”

“We do need to get her some clothes,” Peter said.

“Not just that. School things too.”

“We’ll sort the uniform once Madeline confirms her place.”

“In the meantime, she’d going to need pens, pencils, ruler, calculator, pencil case, bag to put it all in. Not just that, but a girl doesn’t get by on clothes alone, and you missed Christmas didn’t you Abri?”

“Well...”

“You want to bankrupt us even before we’ve signed her up for a private school?”

“If I know you and Maddy, she’ll offer you some sort of scholarship deal to make it affordable. And even if she doesn’t, that’s no reason to skimp on hospitality is it? I mean whether Abrielle’s going to be a short term guest or long term part of our family, we do want her to feel at home.”

“I suppose we’re going to buy her a phone and a computer next.”

“Why ever not? Most kid’s have them for school these days.”

“I don’t know what planet you live on.”

“Twenty-first century Earth. You should try it sometime.”

“Mum and Dad wouldn’t let me have a phone,” Max said.

“There you are then,” Paul said triumphantly. “If ever you needed a better reason to agree with me.”

“Fine. Why don’t we go and get dressed, then we can head into town and empty our savings account.”

It didn’t take long to get dressed. Fresh knickers and tights and the same woollen dress over the top. Peter was also quicker than his companion.

“Do you have my prescription?” I asked Peter when we were alone again.

“Yes, the doctor gave it to me before we left. That is a point though. We need to drop it in to the local chemists.”

“They’re not likely to have something like that on the shelves though, are they?”

“No, but we have enough tablets to last a week, which should be enough time for them to put in an order.”

“You don’t need to spend so much on me, you know? I don’t need a computer or a phone.”

“Tell that to my significant other. He’s the one who’ll use any excuse to spend. We’ll get by. We were saving for a holiday in Italy, so we have money to spare.”

“Well, don’t give up on the holiday.”

“What are you saying?”

“Find out tomorrow.”

“Don’t tell me. You left me that bloody retirement watch they gave you, and it’s worth more than it looks?”

“No, It’s a cheap, nasty thing that’s worth a lot less than it looks, and that’s what I left to your dad.”

“Hang on, you’re not saying...?”

“I’m not saying anything. Wait till tomorrow.”

“What about tomorrow?” Paul moved with the silence of a panther and had a bat’s ears.

“I was saying I don’t want to rush over things that are going to cost a lot,” I said. “We can look at what’s there maybe, but I’d rather wait a day or so before buying.”

“You could learn from her, you know,” Peter said.

Paul pouted, but it was all part of the game. Kind of like surfing, taking things to the edge but never going too far.

“So, why aren’t we ready?” Paul asked.

“I’m just waiting for an email,” Peter said.

“Well, best you check to make sure you haven’t missed it then.”

Paul fished out his phone with a wry smile, just as it beeped. “There it is,” he smiled. “We can go now.”

Paul helped me into my coat while Peter dug out his keys.

“There’s the little fucker, and look what he’s fucking well wearing.” Apparently Dad hadn’t gone far. Either that or he’d found his reinforcements and come back.

Peter’s car chirped at the side of the road. “Get in, Abri,” he said grimly. “Paul, you too.”

We didn’t argue. Dad’s reinforcements were heavily built and grim looking.

Peter joined us in the car, pressing the thingumy that locked all the doors.

Dad and his friends surrounded the car making it impossible for us to drive away. Dad tapped on the window.

Peter dialled his phone and held it up to his ear. “Police please. Yes hello. I’m in my car with my partner and twelve year old niece. We’ve been surrounded by half a dozen men who are acting aggressively towards us. They have us surrounded so we can’t drive off and one of them’s knocking on my window trying to get me to respond. No, I have no intention of doing so.” He gave them the address then turned to Dad, showing him the phone. “The police are on their way,” he said.

They were too. I could already hear the sirens. First one patrol car then three appeared, approaching from opposite directions, leaving Dad and his mates nowhere to go. Another couple of cars arrived and they were now outnumbered.

With Dad and his gang led off to one side and raising their voices in protest at the way they were being treated, a couple of police officers, one man and one woman, approached us and invited us to step out of the car.

Peter explained all that had happened to the policeman while the WPC took me to one side.

I could feel Max trembling inside me. In fact he was trembling outside as well. The policewoman rubbed my shoulder gently trying to calm me.

“He’s my dad,” I explained. “He’s been hitting me because he doesn’t like that I want to be a girl. A judge gave Uncle Peter custody of me, but Dad turned up today to try and take me back. He’ll probably be telling your friends that it’s wrong for me to be dressing like this or for my uncles to be looking after me because they’re... Well they’re together.”

“Well, he can tell them what he likes. There’s nothing wrong with two men being together and you look very pretty.”

“Yes, well that’s the thing. I’m...”

“Also doing nothing wrong. If you feel this strongly that you should be a girl, then that’s what you should be. Listen, we’ll get everything sorted in a few minutes. I’ve been listening to my colleague talking to your uncle, and you’re not in any trouble.”

“What about my dad?”

“Well, if he’s in trouble, then it’s his fault.”

“But...”

“Do you think what he did just now was right?”

“Well, no but...”

“Did he make you feel scared?”

“Yes, but...”

“Do you think he should be allowed to act like this?”

“No, but he’s my dad.”

“Well, best he learn to act like it. Listen, stick with your uncle and everything will be alright.”

“Really?”

“Really. Looks like we’re about done. You really do look very pretty, you know?”

The Max in me blushed. I managed a shy smile. Paul had been hovering nearby. He moved in to put his arm around me at the WPC’s invitation. Peter joined us shortly afterwards.

“Right, sorry about that. Are we ready to go?”

“What’s going to happen to them?”

“Well it didn’t get to the point where a crime was committed, so I’d imagine they’ll spend a short while down at the local station – how short will depend on how cooperative they are – then they’ll be let go. I imagine they’ll want to keep your dad for a while longer just to make certain he understands the implications should he come anywhere near any of us or our house again, but he’ll be home in time for tea.”

He pulled out into relatively heavy traffic and we eased our way slowly into the town centre.

Paul had some very clear ideas on how he wanted his new daughter to dress, one of the most emphatic being that I should never again have to wear the same outfit two days in a row. He had an excellent eye for colour and style and, in spite of the constant free for all of shopping in the midst of sale-mania, Max and I found our wardrobe growing alarmingly. Skirts, tops and dresses for the most part, which thrilled us both, but a also a fair selection of tee-shirts with shorts, jeans and something called leggings which delighted Max and confused me. I’d long since avoided any but the most superficial interest in women’s clothing for my own peace of mind, so a considerable number of the new things in turn surprised, intrigued and alarmed me.

The early New Year’s sale took much of the sting out of the cost of our shopping spree, but Peter’s credit card was showing signs of wear and his face had developed a slight tick by the time Paul decided we’d invested enough in my wardrobe. We then found a toy store and Paul gave us a generous budget to spend. I let Max have most of it since I felt I’d outgrown toys, but I did ask for a small amount to be held in reserve for a supply of books.

Max spent all of the budget, picking out a wide selection of girl’s things he’d been denied for so long. I didn’t begrudge him the spend. Books were what libraries were for and I’d get by.

Then there was the computer. Lots of choice there, most of which I didn’t understand. Homework and internet was mostly what I would be using it for, with the internet heavily limited for someone my age. I certainly didn’t need anything special for that, which then meant what I was looking at fell into the realm of multi-deals, including one which offered a Kindle with a three month trial subscription to Kindle Unlimited.

And with the money we save there, the next shop we visited was a phone shop. I was never going to be trusted with one of the showcase newest models, but the amount Paul had in mind to spend afforded me a very serviceable smart phone, complete with sparkly pink and purple case.

My contract included unlimited texts, the young person’s go-to method of communication, and a reasonable allowance for voice and data. The school they wanted to send me to had a strict no phones policy, so I wasn’t going to get to use it much away from home anyway.

Peter looked shell shocked by the time we arrived back home, and I have to admit I felt it a bit too.

“Think of it is an advance on all the good karma we’re owed from taking this little sweetheart in,” Paul told him as he helped me carry all my new things up to my room.

The place was cramped, even when half my new clothes were consigned to storage in the box room. Max preferred to think of it as cosy, but I was holding out on the following day’s surprises for an improvement in our situation.

Much of the afternoon was taken up setting up my new electronics, which largely involved me waiting about while Peter did all the button pushing. I persuaded him to set up the Kindle first so I could at least read something while I was waiting, which didn’t impress Max much, but he agreed to the time share, which I would honour once he had something he could play with. Fortunately for me, Peter took a long time with the computer and phone, ensuring they were child friendly, before handing them over. By the time he did, Max had settled into a contented state, listening as I read him something I thought we’d both enjoy – inside our head, you understand.

We did unpack and explore the delights of girly toys, and we changed into something special for dinner at Paul’s suggestion.

Bath and early bed. Half an hour to read, only I was tired out and couldn’t keep my eyes open, so put the reader aside after only ten minutes.

Which of course meant I woke early. After Max as it turned out, so I roused to find us dressing a couple of dolls we’d put in nightclothes before taking them to bed.

‘I thought we could call this one Cosette,’ he said showing me his favourite.

‘Then this one will be Eponine,’

‘I don’t know why you like her. She’s mean to Cosette.’

‘She doesn’t know any better. I mean, consider her parents. Later in the book she makes a sacrifice for the man she loves without him ever knowing.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘True love isn’t conditional on getting something back.’

‘Like with you and me?’

‘I’m not sure it’s quite the same. I get something quite significant out of this relationship.’

‘But you would have made the sacrifice even if you hadn’t, wouldn’t you?’

‘No comment.’

‘That means yes.’ Said with a degree of mental smugness.

“Would you like some breakfast?”

We looked up to find Peter standing in the doorway. We were hungry, so nodded enthusiastically.

“The dolls can come too if you like.”

More toast, this time tried with blackcurrant jam. Not to Max’s taste, and I’ll admit, not as good as I remember. Different taste buds, more inclined to sweetness. Peter noticed the lack of enthusiasm and took the toast from our fingers, placing a freshly buttered slice on our plate and the jar of strawberry jam beside it. I chose not to notice the smile he fought to hide.

“You alright to stay here with Paul this morning?” he asked.

“I don’t see why not,” I answered, “as long as Paul’s okay with it.”

“He’ll love it. I’ll pick you up to go to the school around twelve-thirty. It would be best if you wore something smart but not showy, yes?”

“No party dresses,” I said, “I get it.”

“I still find it hard to believe that you’re Gerald.”

“Only part of me, and that a part that’s fading. And should we really be talking about this with Mr Mega-Ears in the house?”

“The way he was snoring when I got up, I think we should be safe.”

“I do not snore,” Paul said around a colossal yawn. “Safe from what?”

I let Peter dig us out. He’d dug the hole we were in, so I was happy for him to fix things.

“You are impossible when it comes to planning a surprise, you know that?”

“I already told you, I hate surprises. They cause wrinkles.”

“Is that why you sneak about listening in on other people’s probably private conversations then? In case they’re planning a surprise?”

“I most certainly do not sneak about listening to other people’s conversations. If you can’t hear when someone’s up and moving about, that’s hardly my problem. Where’s the coffee?”

Peter poured him a mug, added milk and handed it across. I missed coffee, but twelve was a little young to start. I sipped on my orange juice and contented myself with the thought that I’d be reunited with my favourite vice soon enough.

Paul sat and inhaled the steam from his mug. “Alright, sweetheart, what would you like to do this morning while our man is out there doing whatever he has planned?”

I knew the young person’s response to this and shrugged.

“Well, I was planning on doing some baking. I’d be glad of some help if you’re up for it.”

Another shrug. “Okay.”

“That’s what I love about young people these days: the enthusiasm. ‘Thank you Auntie Paul, I’d love to!’”

“Thank you Auntie Paul, I’d love to!” I parroted, copying her inflections and everything.

Peter grinned and finished his drink. “I’d better get going and leave you girls to your fun.”

“Comfy clothes you won’t mind getting dirty, and these girls,” she picked up Cosette, “might want to steer clear of the kitchen while we’re working.”

I gathered the dolls. I’d eaten and drunk my fill, so next bit was getting dressed. Baths and showers were a last thing before bed thing, so I didn’t have to bother with anything of that sort. I settled for the jeggings and a fairly non-descript tee-shirt.

Paul found me five minutes later sitting on my bed and crying. He was perceptive though and spotted what was wrong right away.

“There are ways to tuck it out of the way so it doesn’t show, but maybe not something you want to do every day. Maybe not right now, eh? If you want to wear the jeggings, maybe try this.” He held out a tee-shirt that was a couple of sizes too big. “Trust me, the off the shoulder look is well in right now.”

I took off the tee-shirt I was wearing and replaced it with the larger one. The neck was big enough that it naturally slipped off one of my shoulders and, more importantly, it fell to the top of my thighs, hiding the small bulge in my crotch that had upset us, Max in particular.

Paul moved us in front of the mirror and smiled at our reflection. “Better?”

We nodded. Certainly Max was feeling better. I was kicking myself for not thinking of it – either the problem or the solution.

“We are going to have to grow you a thicker skin if you’re going to survive in that world out there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I suppose crying is a child’s response to something going wrong, because children get used to having grown ups solve their problems for them...”

“I am not a child,” Max said with enough indignation for both of us.

“No, you’re not, which means when something happens that upsets you, rather than sitting down and crying about it, it would be better if you tried to figure out a solution.

“Blokes have this thing where they’re expected to solve their own problems, or at least they like to make it seem that way. Us girls learned a long time ago that it works better if we’re more open about helping each other, so don’t ever feel like you’re on your own. Sometimes the most grown up thing you can do is admit you need help.”

“Is that how you see yourself then? As a girl?”

“Well no. Except maybe a bit. I’m certainly not a typical man, and I learned a long while ago that I’d never make it through life being me and doing it on my own. So I suppose I am a bit of a girl, not that I show it the way you do. I mean, I have been known to rock a frock from time to time, but on the whole I’m happy being a guy. On my terms though. If I need to be a girl to take advantage of the whole girl support network thing, then I’ll be a girl too.

“The thing is, Abri, you know it’s going to take a few years before we can deal with that little chappy of yours?”

“Yeah. Six years. Half a lifetime.”

“True, but your lifetime hasn’t been such a long one so far, has it? The important thing – one important thing – is to make sure you don’t wish the next six years away just waiting for the time when you can get rid of it. You are what you are right now, and you need to grasp hold of life the way you are and live it right now.

“That means people will see through to what makes you different from time to time, and some of them won’t be very nice about it. You have to decide now what you’re going to do about it when they do.

“You see that?” He pointed at the mirror, at my reflection. “You like what you see?” I hesitated a moment, but nodded. “And what do you see?” I didn’t know how to answer that. “Do you see a pretty young girl with an embarrassing growth, or do you see a boy in a dress?”

“I’m a girl,” I said putting all the conviction I could find into the statement.

“So when you undress to take a bath and catch sight of that thing you hate so much, or when you put on a piece of clothing you were looking forward to wearing and it shows through, what are you going to tell yourself?”

“I’m a girl.”

“And if you can’t think of a way to hide the bit that suggests otherwise?”

“Ask Aunty Paul for help?”

He smiled. “Or anyone else in your group of friends. What about if someone tells you you’re a boy and you shouldn’t be dressing like that? That only a freak would do something like that? What will you tell yourself then?”

“That I’m a girl.”

“And what will you say to the arsehole who’s trying to tell you otherwise?”

“I’ll probably just smile and walk away,” I said.

“And if you need any more proof that what you’re telling yourself is true, take it from that, because that has to be the most mature girly response going. Me, I’d probably break his nose, or have a go at least, because sometimes I listen to my testosterone.”

“Is that why you and Peter keep on the way you do?”

“What do you mean? How do Peter and I keep on?”

“The constant little grumbles. The mini fights you always seem to be having.”

“Oh that. That’s nothing. Just a bit of fun. A pissing contest sort of, I suppose.”

“Challenging each other to see who’s top dog?”

“Yes, but I’ll always let Peter win. He’s happier in the dominant role, and I’m happier with him there.”

“Then why...?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to prove to myself that I could win if I tried. Maybe to keep him on his toes. Maybe to win a few rounds. Does it bother you?”

“No. It never feels like it’s going to get out of hand, and I can see how much you love each other in the way you handle the things you say to each other.”

“Yes, well...” He looked embarrassed for a moment. “We’d better get baking, otherwise Peter will be back and we won’t have anything to show, and that would never do.”

We headed down to the kitchen where he put an apron on me. None of the full sized ones covered me well enough to help, so he ended up giving a smaller one in pink gingham with frills and hearts all over it. I didn’t really need anything to make me feel more girly, but I loved it anyway.

“So, tell me about Gerald,” he said as he lifted packets of ingredients down from various cupboards.

“G-Gerald?”

“Your imaginary ghost I think you said, only I was a little curious about what Peter said earlier.”

“Er...”

“What did he mean when he said he found it hard to believe that you were Gerald?”

“Fuck, I hate keeping secrets!”

“Abrielle!” Every syllable enunciated separately. Max was pretty shocked too.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never been good with secrets and I’ve spent way to much of my life learning that every time I try to keep something hidden, it goes horribly wrong.”

“What are you going on about?”

“I honestly thought it would be easier if we tried not to tell anyone about it, because it’s so bloody unbelievable.”

“Abri, would you please curb your language.”

“It’s not Abri, at least not for the moment. You wanted to know about Gerald, well here I am. What would you like to know?”

“I’d like to know what on Earth is going on.”

“Fine. Only let’s get your baking started while we’re at it. I never was very good at it, so let’s see if I can learn something.”

He gave me instructions for how much flour to weigh out and to sieve it into a bowl. I followed them while he measured out the butter and put aside a few eggs.

“Tell me what you know about what happened in Peter’s family this Christmas,” I said as I spooned out the flour.

Paul gave me a brief account covering Max’s suicide attempt, my slightly more successful heart attack and the brouhaha that arose from my fighting to be seen as a trans-girl.

“Did you hear any details of how I – Gerald – was found?”

“No.” He took me through the process of mixing the ingredients, which I managed with considerably more delicacy and patience than usual. “Well, Peter did say there was some matter of shame involved, but spared me the details. I mean, Gerald meant a lot to Peter. I suspect he wanted us to keep the memory alive.”

“Gerald was transgendered too. He came from a generation that kept things like that hidden, so he lived all his life frustrated and twisted out of shape.”

“How would you know?”

“Because about the time when I – Max – was putting on my mother’s Christmas dress and swallowing down all her sleeping pills, the other me – Gerald – had just finished a rather large Chinese meal for two by myself and most of a bottle of Malbec. I’d changed into a red, cotton nightdress and had paused in my reading of a new novel on my Kindle, to listen with some focus to Pink Floyd’s Animals. Supreme irony that my heart attack took me just as I was listening to dogs around the time my heart decided to give out on me – you know, ‘Do have a good drown, as you go down all alone, dragged down by the stone.’”

“That doesn’t sound like the sort of music you’d be interested in.”

“Max, maybe not, but Gerald...”

“I don’t understand.”

“There was a bloke waiting when my, for want of a better term, ghost stepped out of my body. He said I had an opportunity to help Max who’d just stepped out of his. The deal was we go back together or not at all. The alternative would not have been great for Max.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who put you up to this, but I’m not prepared to listen to any more.”

“Fine by me. You brought it up, remember. Last word on the matter. Peter’s gone to the reading of Gerald’s will. Would you like me to tell you how it’s going to turn out?”

“No. I don’t want anything more to do with this.”

“Scared you’ll have to face up to the possibility that the impossible things I’ve been saying might have some grounding in the truth?”

“Scared to hear what lengths you’d go to to perpetrate a... whatever this is.”

“You think this is some sort of scam involving Peter’s suicidal nephew and reclusive uncle? How’s that going to work?”

I let him stew while we finished mixing the cake. I worked on the butter icing while he put the tins in the oven.

“Alright, let’s say you are Gerald. Peter told me what you said to him when your neighbours started spreading rumours about you and your gay nephew.”

“I told him you don’t turn your back on family. I may have said a few other things too, but that was the gist of it.”

“Alright, what’s in the will? I’ll admit that there’s no way Max would know.”

“Collin gets my retirement watch as a reminder of the excuse I used to avoid him at Christmas for so many years. Peter gets everything else. That’s my house, the balance of the mortgage paid by the buildings and properties insurance upon notification of my death, all the contents, which includes quite a selection of women’s clothes, and all my savings, currently around a hundred and nineteen thousand pounds. There’ll be inheritance tax, of course, so the final sum will be quite a lot smaller. The house is worth about three hundred thousand, so I think you’ll end up paying tax on forty-four grand. At forty percent, that’s just over seventeen and a half grand. That’ll give you about a hundred thousand cash on top of the house and contents.”

Paul sat down very abruptly on the floor.

“So, as I was telling Peter yesterday after you were so insistent on sending me to the girls’ school, I think you should still be able to afford the holiday in Italy you were planning. I wouldn’t mind coming too if you can sort out my passport in time. I rather liked the holiday Karen and I spent in Florence, despite the company.

“Actually, that’s unfair. Karen was great. I was the arsehole.”

“You really are...”

“Why don’t you wait until Peter gets back to confirm what I said?”

“I’m not sure I need to. I mean, what twelve year old talks like that or knows anything at all about inheritance tax?”

I shrugged. “It starts seeming important as you approach the end of your life.”

We made a couple of batches of cookies while the cake baked, then cleaned down the kitchen while the cookies did there thing.

“Peter said I should wear something smart but not flashy for the school visit this afternoon.”

“Why don’t you go and sort something out then? I’ll get some drinks together and we can try out the cookies.”

“I want to try the cake.”

“And suddenly you sound like a twelve year old.”

“Well, Max is in here too. We’re sort of growing into each other and it would seem a little weird if we ended up with a mental age closer to Gerald’s.”

“This is very confusing.”

“Not that confusing. I’d just like to have a slice of cake instead of a cookie. It’s simple really.”

“Except we haven’t iced the cake yet, and I was hoping we could share it later when we’re all together. Either a congratulations for getting into the school or a commiseration for not.”

“I suppose that’s fair. Alright, a cookie would be great thanks.”

“And to drink?”

“Milk please. Nothing else really goes with cookies.”

I found a short, black and grey tartan skirt and a white woollen top along with some white woollen tights. Not job interview smart, but smart enough for the occasion, I thought. With a black pair of T-bars to match the black in the tartan, it looked pretty good.

It earned me a nod of approval from Paul, and we sat daintily eating and drinking until Peter came home.

He sat out in the car until Paul noticed and took a cup of tea out to him. I trailed along.

“He left us everything,” he said to Paul.

“I know, he told me.”

“What?”

“I heard you two talking this morning. You’re not very good at keeping secrets. How did your dad react?”

“As you’d expect. Bloody livid would be a fair description. He chased off ranting about how it wasn’t right and that he’d be contesting the will.”

“Can he do that?”

“Sure. The silly old fart can waste his money any way he wants. The document was properly signed and witnessed, so the only way it can be overthrown is if a different one with a more recent date can be found.”

“He won’t find one,” I said, “so let’s hope he isn’t stupid enough to try and forge one.”

“That was pretty rough of you, cutting him out completely.”

“Not completely. I left him the watch.”

“Yeah. What was it you said?”

I shrugged. “I think I said something about how let down I’d felt when that was all they’d given me after decades of hard work and loyal service, and maybe whenever he looked at it he’d have an inkling of how let down you must have felt when he kicked you out. I think I may have ended by saying that at least one of us has to show you that you are worthy of love.

“Hey, you wouldn’t let me go round and tell him face to face what I thought of him. I was so angry I had to do something.”

“I doubt he’s ever going to forgive you for this, you know. Or me.”

“So share it with him. It’s only money after all. I’d rather see the two of you reconciled. Just not yet though. Wait till he’s found out that he can’t take it from you first.”

“You scare the shit out of me sometimes, you know that?”

“Watch your language in front of the kid,” I said with a smile, knowing full well how delighted Max felt. “When do we need to be at the school?”

Peter checked his watch. “Half an hour. If you’re ready, you should jump in.”

“Let me grab my phone.”

“What do you need that for?”

‘Something to do while you’re talking about all the boring bits.”

I dashed back into the house while Paul shared an intimate moment with his husband. They were kissing when I came back.

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 6

The interview at the school went well. In the past, Max had been too distracted by his problems to make much of an effort with his SATs, but now his natural interests came to the surface. It turned out he had a good logical mind, which meant he possessed a natural gift for mathematics, IT and at least some of the sciences. I’d done well enough with this, but through hard work rather than natural talent. My own areas of expertise had involved subjects that required more memory than processing power (Max’s term) so between us we did exceptionally well with the school’s entry tests.

As Paul had anticipated, Peter’s friend and my new head mistress, Mrs Wedgewood, not only offered me a place, but a scholarship as well. Peter mentioned my bequest to him and that we were unlikely to have any difficulty paying the fees, but Maddy insisted that I’d earned it. She shook my hand and said she looked forward to welcoming me formally into the school in a week.

“How would you feel about us all moving into your old house?” Peter asked as we drove away. “It’s bigger, it’s in a better neighbourhood and it’s closer to both the school and my work.”

I shrugged. “Karen and I bought the place with a mind to starting a family. It’d be good to see what it’s like with one in it.”

“You didn’t leave her anything. Karen.”

“She doesn’t need anything from me. She’s happily married now, so even a reminder of our time together would only serve to sour what she has.”

“Are you so sure?”

“I don’t really know. Maybe my own memories of what we had are a little tainted.”

“Can’t you think of anything that might make her respond kindly towards you?”

I let my brain – our brain – ponder for a short while. “Could you stop by the house?”

“Your house? I don’t have the keys yet?”

“Actually, your house. You don’t have the piece of paper to say so yet, but if anyone objects, all it’ll take is a phone call to the solicitors.”

“I still don’t have the key.”

“No but you do have the code to the key safe. I had it installed the year after you moved on. I figured if someone needed a place to crash in the future, like Max or one of Mandy’s girls for instance, it would give them a way in without needing me to be there.”

“So why are we dropping by?”

“My neighbours will remember you stayed with me, so this could be just you trying to connect after hearing about my death, and the inheritance.”

“Yes, but why are we really going?”

“To give me access to my computer. You’ll be given the login details along with my bank information and other stuff by the solicitor when he hands over the key. I’ve had an idea for something I probably ought to have left for you to find on there. You have no objections if I do so retrospectively?”

“If you’re thinking of writing a note, won’t it have a file creation date on it or something?”

“There’s a trick to that. Something I learned a while ago for when I didn’t quite make a deadline at work.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes. Manually set your system date to what you want – best to disconnect from the internet first so it has no way of correcting while you’re messing about – then copy and paste your work into a new document and save that. If you want to be super clever, change the system date again and make a few minor changes to the document. Reset everything afterwards. You now have a document with a creation date and last modified date to suit your story.”

“I think I said this before. You scared the shit out of me sometimes.”

“And I also said, not in front of the kid.”

“So, are you going to tell me anything more about what you plan to do when we get there?”

“Actually, I thought it would work better if there were witnesses when you found it.”

Stopping at the house didn’t add much of a diversion. As Peter had said, the place was closer to the school and the centre of town than their house. What took time was thinking about what I had in mind to say. I drafted it out in my head while we were still driving, but it wasn’t just Collin and Karen I needed to think about if I was going to do this right. It took about three quarters of an hour to write and another ten minutes to set up the time stamp so it looked like I’d written it before I’d died. I gave it the title, ‘Peter, read this’ and left it in the middle of the desktop.

Peter had used the time to call home and explain that we were going to be delayed slightly, so Paul wasn’t upset when we were an hour later than expected, just curious.

I made a meowing sound and throat cutting actions, which prompted a snort from him.

Dinner was steak and chips – since we could afford it now, and we had something to celebrate. They shared a decent bottle of Cab Sav between them, leaving me a little envious. Paul did offer me a small taste of his own, which left my young pallet recoiling in disgust. I suspect it was his small retaliation for me and my curiosity and the cat thing. I did have a coke with mine which was heavenly enough. Fully sugar loaded in a way I’d not been able to enjoy since my doctor had persuaded me to curb my sugar intake.

The cake was a triumph of Paul’s decorating skill and looked almost too good to destroy. It tasted better though, so no one cried over its demise.

The next day was New Year’s Eve which seemed impossible. Had all these changes really happened in just one week? It was bright and cold and my new dad’s – that’s how Max wanted to think of them – insisted we go for a walk. Max and I couldn’t get enough of being out in public in a dress, so there were no arguments from me. Peter had a call to say Collin’s challenge of the will had been presented and summarily dismissed. The solicitor had applied for probate on Peter’s behalf and, because I’d taken his advice at the time I set up the will and put all relevant documentation in an easy to find place – including a reasonably recent valuation on the house – it had been awarded without any delay. Inheritance tax had been calculated and paid, so Peter could pick up the keys and papers any time he liked, which turned into a short family outing to the solicitors before they closed early for the holidays, followed by a shopping trip to find me a proper party dress. My treat since my dads had arranged for some friends to come over in the evening and they – Paul especially – wanted to show me off.

It was a fun do. I kept to the background and let Max be the centre of attention, which he absolutely loved when he realised all anyone saw was a pretty, young girl.

Of course, it helped that half the attendees came in drag, including Paul who looked resplendent in his party frock.

We stayed up for Big Ben’s bongs and the fireworks, toasting in the New Year with orange juice and lemonade then bidding everyone goodnight, let Paul take us up to bed.

‘That was magical,’ Max said to me after Paul had tucked us in and left.

‘The sort of magic every kid our age should get to enjoy.’

‘Do you think any of them made us?’

‘Does it matter if they did? I doubt any of them would have been bothered.’

‘No, of course not. I loved the idea though. The New Normal. If normal means a couple has to be a man and a woman, then this was a fun way to make it happen.’

‘The kind of party I’d have enjoyed as Gerald.’

‘You’d have had to come with another guy.’ Said with a playful grin.

‘He’d never have agreed to that, but I might. My old life was all about denying the girl in me. Now anything that validates her is okay in my book.’

‘What does that mean? Validate?’

Sometimes I forgot how young he was. Sometimes he forgot he could just look in my memories.

‘In this instance, supporting the truth of something.’

‘I like that.’

‘Mmm. Maybe we should try and get some sleep.’

‘Okay. Happy New Year.’

‘And to you.’

The next morning started late and reluctantly on all our parts. Paul was the last to rouse and the loudest to moan, but then he had less body mass than Peter and he’d probably drunk more.

Peter made pancakes which pleased me though not Paul, at least not until he’d eaten something to settle his stomach and taken a couple of paracetamol to counter his throbbing head. He returned to something close to normal around lunchtime, which was when Peter said he felt safe to drive and did we fancy visiting my old house in the afternoon. I could see he was all eaten up with curiosity about what I might have left him on the computer.

We had a light lunch to balance the heavy breakfast, drank more water and headed out. The streets were empty, apart from the odd police car. Peter was driving carefully though, so none of them saw any reason to pull him over.

At the house, Paul set about doing an inventory of the place. I showed him my wardrobe full of frillies. They’d be a bit big on him, but altering them wouldn’t be beyond his skills with a sewing machine.

“Not this one though,” I said pulling out a silken evening dress.

“Why not?” he asked, obviously taken by it.

“Peter will tell you. You don’t have to keep any of it if you don’t want to, just... I mean you looked pretty good last night.”

“Are you thinking it might be nice to have a mummy and a daddy sometimes, like at parents’ evenings?”

“I think the school already knows what to expect from my dads. It’s more about what you want than me. Just because you’re a gay man doesn’t mean you might not have a little bit of girl inside who might want to come out on occasions.”

“I’ll give it some thought. Now, shall we go find Peter? See what he’s found?”

He had the computer on and my letter to him open. It wasn’t short, so we gave him time to finish reading. He eventually looked up and smiled through the tears we hadn’t seen. Paul put a hand on his shoulder, which he took hold of.

“Do you mind?” Paul asked pointing at the screen.

“I’ll read it out,” Peter said, scrolling back to the top. “My Dearest Peter,” he began.

“I may have acted a little rashly,” he read on, “but you prevented me from confronting your father and that just left me feeling so angry I had to do something.

“You’ll have discovered by now that I changed my will. Or rather I wrote one. Without it, all my things would have gone to Collin as my closest relative, and after what he did to you I felt he deserved nothing from me.

“Since it’s possible he’s cut you out of his own will, it seemed the fairest thing to do was redress the balance by leaving you as my sole beneficiary. Apart from the bloody watch of course, but then I had to do something to make a point.

“Anyway, it’s done, and now I’ve started thinking of a long list of additional things I’d like to put in there. Once I’ve completed the list, I may well get in touch with my solicitor and change it, but in the meantime, you as the person who gets all this can still act as my executor, should you wish to do so.

“This is entirely up to you. You can delete the letter and pretend you never found it, in which case you get it all. Or you can read through the wishes I have outlined below and pass on my thoughts and requests. If you choose the latter course, I’d prefer it if you passed on the paragraphs I’ve written below exactly as written, but as mentioned before, the choice lies with you.

“To my brother Colin. You’d have ended up with all of this if you hadn’t been so bloody narrow minded and stubborn. The way you treated Peter makes my blood boil even now as I’m writing this.

“If my estate had come to you, you’d have eventually discovered the contents of one my wardrobes and realised that I haven’t been batting for the same team all my life. Who knows? Maybe I died in my sleep and my little predilection has been made public knowledge. In any case, your response to your son gave me a clear indication of how Mum and Dad, and possibly you, would have reacted if I had lived the life I wanted. I hate that you find this sort of thing intolerable, that you find it necessary to respond in this manner, even to your own flesh and blood, especially since it’s possibly your own flesh and blood that’s made Peter what he is.

“My research shows that the whole LGBTQ spectrum has genetic roots, and between myself, Peter, Lily and Pam and now Max, we have twenty percent of our family affected in some way or another. You are now the head of this family, for better or for worse. Please don’t continue to drive it onto the same rocks Dad chose. It’s not all that pleasant from this side of the minority, you have my personal assurance of that.

“There’s nothing I should like more than to see you and Peter reconciled, but that’s only going to happen if you change. Peter cannot and after the life I have lived, I would not recommend to anyone that they suppress their feelings in matters such as these. I’ve chosen to leave the vast majority of my belongings to your son because I suspect you plan to leave him nothing. I doubt you’ll need anything from me in any case. Let the watch act as an indicator of how it feels when someone you believe owes you some indication of appreciation for being in your life gives you nothing. Let it give you some small indication of how it feels to know that your own father is so blinded by mindless prejudice that he chooses to turn his back on his own son. Let that teach you the shame you should be feeling in this moment.

“I love you, brother, but I hate the way you have acted towards Peter and that more than anything has led me to this decision. Forget the inheritance. Make up with your son while you still have time.

“There’s a page break then:

“To my longsuffering Karen. There is nothing I can say or do that will make up for the hardship I put you through. If you only knew it, you did the same to me, ably aided and abetted by my own distorted state of mind. I regret that we caused one another such pain and offer you this bequest not so much as a gift but as a symbol of what stood between us.

“I am glad beyond measure that you found love and acceptance in the arms of your new husband. Your reaction to the dress will tell you all you need to know about what we might have had. If you like the dress and agree with me that it will go well with your eyes, then please have it altered to fit you and remember me with a little kindness each time you wear it. If, on the other hand, you find it repellent that I should have worn the dress in the past, then dispose of it however you see fit and live the rest of your life with the reassurance that our marriage would never have survived.

“New page again.

“Dear Mandy, I applaud your efforts in raising your girls, but I would ask you to remember that not all men are as much of a waste of space as that arsehole you married, and your daughter’s should learn this. If you need proof, look to your father. He may be a dickhead with regard to gay people, but he’s stood by your mum and made his best effort at raising his five kids. Pam and Lily may end up feeling they’ll be better off married to other women, but I hope they make room in their lives for male friends. To this end, I’m authorising Peter to put a couple of hundred quid into the wedding fund for each and every man attending either wedding he believes to be a genuine friend to one of your girls.

“Seriously? A couple of hundred quid per bloke?”

“Up to you to decide whether they’re there as genuine friends or part of a rent-a-crowd. You don’t even have to justify your decision. If you even suspect they’re trying to fiddle the system, just say no. It’ll reinforce their hatred of men, but if they’re trying to con you out of the money, there’s not a lot you can do for them anyway.”

He shrugged and went back to reading.

“Lisa, Mike is a bastard. I don’t know what persuaded you to marry him in the first place, unless it was him pressuring you to do so. I don’t see him changing, which means I don’t see anything but misery in your future. If you continue to take his side, you’re likely to lose Max forever. He’s a sensitive child and he’s suffering, because that arsefuck of a husband of yours won’t let him be himself, or as I suspect herself.

“I recognise something of myself in Max, but without the long years of fighting it. Max doesn’t have the strength to fight like I did, so either you let him discover who he – or she – truly is or you will crush him utterly. If you do that, then I hope you find as much misery in every day you spend with that piece of shit you call a husband as you caused to your child.

“I thought about leaving Mike an empty box to tell him exactly what I think of him, but for one thing, you can’t put less than nothing in a box. For another the box has some value, which is more than can be said for him. I suppose I could piss on it, but then someone would have the unpleasant task of storing it until I die.

“For you, I have a necklace with a pendant in the form of a chrysalis. It looks ugly and misshapen, but it’s meant to because that’s what chrysalids are like. You need to remember that inside they hold the promise of a butterfly.

“This is how you and Mike presently see Max. If you insist on keeping him like this, he will remain ugly and stunted and he won’t survive long. If you allow him the freedom to develop as he wishes, you will be rewarded with something new and beautiful.”

Peter looked at me with a question in his eyes.

“You have to remember, Max hadn’t attempted to kill himself when this was written.”

He allowed for the small lie we were all choosing to believe.

“Raymond and Russell, you have kept your heads down while all this has been going on. Probably a sensible policy. I imagine one day you will be called upon to take a side and the temptation will be to take the path of least resistance and side with the bullies. I’m giving each of you the same thing as a reminder to act on your own consciences, and hopefully choose to respond justly rather than in accordance with whatever prejudice your dad tried to teach you.

“What is it I’m supposed to give them?”

“There’s an Australian brand of cleaner called Gumption. Comes in little tubs or bottles. I was hoping you could get hold of some and replace the contents with a couple of hundred quid each.”

“That’s not a lot.”

“It’s probably more than they’re worth. Fine, whatever you think. Maybe keep the product in there and stick a diamond or something similarly valuable for them to find. The point is if they don’t bother to check then they don’t get the goodies.”

“You don’t think much of my family, do you?”

“They’re my family too, and honestly, apart from those who’ve strayed from the median a little, the answer is not really.”

“And by strayed from the median you mean...”

“You, Max and me. Maybe Pam and Lily, although I’m not sure if they’re genuinely gay or just suffering from an acute case of misandrism courtesy of their mother, but let’s give them the benefit of the doubt for now.

“I’d have been inclined to let them all go hang, only you’re apparently better than me. And you’re right. If we can mend a few bridges through this and maybe educate a few people, we’ll all be better off.”

“Do you have a printer?”

“In there.” I pointed at a cupboard built into the lower part of the desk.

Peter printed off a copy of the document, a page for each person, then turned to his husband.

“So, what do you think of the place?”

“What do you think I think? I love it. There’s so much more space.”

“More to clean.”

“Buy me a bigger duster, or better still, lend a hand.”

“I won’t mind helping,” Max said with no prompting from me.

“There,” Paul said. “Your niece has offered to help. If you don’t do your part, that’ll be child slavery! We could have you arrested!”

“Oh the melodrama!! Here I am working my knuckles to the bone to provide you two with a better home and what thanks do I get?”

“I think you’ll find I did most of the working my knuckles to the bone to provide this place,” I said. “Admittedly I didn’t expect to be taking advantage of it like this, but either way, neither of you get to complain about it.”

“Oh, but that’s the best part!!” they both said in unison, which had us all laughing.

“The gardens a mess,” I admitted when we’d all calmed down and Paul had set about making us all a cup of tea. He’d had the foresight to bring everything needed, including cookies. “That was Karen’s domain. I left it to do it’s own thing after she left, though I’m not sure whether out of spite or self pity.”

“I think we can rescue it,” Paul said, looking out the kitchen window. “Peter can build you a Wendy House over there and that tree looks like it could hold enough weight to put up a swing.”

“And what will you be doing while I’m adding blisters to my blisters?”

“Digging up weeds and planting flowers, trimming back hedges and mowing the lawn. You know how it is, you do the heavy lifting and I make things look pretty.

“Of course Abri will have to help me. I mean it would be going against all that’s good to damage such beautiful, soft skin, don’t you think?”

“You’re happy for me to tear mine apart.”

“Ah but rough hands on you is so manly. It suits you.”

Max and I left them to their sniping and wandered out into the garden where Mrs Bickerage stuck her head over the fence.

“who are you?” she asked sharply.

Yes, it’s actually Mrs Kerridge, but she’s been the same since the first time I met her, so the name kind of stuck. I’d even used it to her face before now, which hadn’t helped our relationship much.

“Oh, hello,” I said brightly. “My name’s Abrielle, or Abri for short. My Great Uncle Gerald used to live here, but he died before Christmas.”

“Hmph. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“That’s not very kind.”

“Neither was he. He was always so bad tempered.”

“A bit like you right now?” I couldn’t help asking.

“How dare you! I shall be talking to your father about this.”

“No need,” Peter said from behind me. “Good morning Mrs er...”

“Miss. Kerridge. Are you the child’s father?”

“Uncle, but I am Abrielle’s legal guardian. I heard enough of your conversation and, I agree that her remarks weren’t particularly polite. I shall have appropriate words in a short while. Go on inside, Abri.”

“Well, I’m glad to see someone around here has manners.”

“Well, since we’re about to be neighbours, it feels right to make the effort. My name’s Peter. Lassiter. My uncle left the house to me and it’s much nicer than the place we currently live, so we shall be moving in next week or thereabouts.”

“You’re married?”

“Yes. You’ll meet my husband, Paul, soon enough.”

That set her to coughing and spluttering, and Peter to smiling in a grimly satisfied way. He followed me inside.

“Appropriate words?” I asked.

“Yes. Nicely said.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The appropriate words. I couldn’t say them in front of her. Sort of an adult thing. I had to give her a chance to be friendly. Doesn’t look like it worked though.”

“Don’t you remember her from when you stayed here? She’s the one who started the rumours about you and me.”

“You have to give people room to change.”

“Some of them you have to give a solid boot up the backside if you want them to.”

“Well, consider the boot applied. At least there’ll be substance to her nasty little rumours this time.”

“Yes, but when the rest of the neighbourhood react as they did last time, what then?”

“As I recall there were a number of positive responses. Do you remember what you told me back then?”

“Something trite and unhelpful that indicated how little I understood what you were going through I expect.”

“You said there would always be arseholes and that I should take what I could get of the good when I found it.”

“Yeah, like I said then.”

“It’s actually pretty sound advice. Paul and I have found a lot of haters in all the neighbourhoods we’ve tried to settle, but there are a few good eggs where we are right now, which makes it possible to tolerate the arseholes. With at least as many friendlies around here, we’ll do alright. Maybe in time we can teach some of the others that their fear and hatred is unfounded. That’s when people like Miss Kerridge will end up isolating themselves.

“As for you, I doubt anyone will mind if you decide to put on a dress.”

“Unless they find out who I am underneath all this.”

“That’s your fear talking. When you listen to your courage you’ll discover that who you are underneath it all is Abrielle Lassiter.”

“When did you get to be so wise?”

“Oh, about the time I ended up spending a lot of time with my uncle. I kind of think it’s a thing in some families, that there’s a wise uncle hidden in the mix.”

“You nominating yourself?”

“I’ll let you decide. Come on, if we stay around here, Paul will start taking down the curtains and washing things.”

We had a few days before school started which gave us time to sort out my uniform and move all our stuff across to the new address. It was mainly Peter and Paul’s stuff, but I did have my new things.

Peter found a letting agent for their old place and stipulated that priority was to be offered to LGBTQ couples, in part to spite the shits in the neighbourhood, but in part because there were supportive families. He said the market wasn’t good for selling, so we should see if we could get enough from the rent to cover the mortgage on the place. The Max in me thought it seemed like a lot of unnecessary work, but I showed him how the letting agent should take the brunt of that and, even if we didn’t make much profit from the arrangement, we’d have a property that was gaining value over time.

Paul did his blitz thing, drafting me into the effort, and soon enough my old home was shining in a way I’d never been able to manage. Perhaps Karen had at one time, but I’d not been in a state of mind to appreciate it.

I did now since part of the effort had been mine. I didn’t even mind doing the work as Paul was a powerhouse when it came to cleaning, and good fun to work alongside. We even managed to make a start on the garden despite it being the middle of winter. In some ways that was easier since the trees and bushes were largely bare sticks.

Peter went back to work early in the New Year, preparing for a new show. He invited me along to one of the rehearsals shortly before I was due to start at the school, and was surprised to find him in one of the solo roles. Doubly surprised when I saw how good he was.

As Gerald I’d never had much appreciation for modern arts, especially contemporary dance, but it seemed that Max was fascinated enough for both of us, and when I saw Uncle Peter through her eyes, he was utterly breath-taking.

School started off as something of a mixed bag. Between Peter’s advice and both Mrs Wedgewood’s preference and mine, Max and I had decided to come clean about who we were. Not so much the semi-schizoid amalgamation of a young boy and his great uncle, but the idea that we were a girl only under the skin. The main thinking was that being honest from the outset would save us from any histrionics. It didn’t quite work that way – the ones who were going to react badly did so, but at least they had no excuse for full blown hysteria, and it did mean I was able to identify the few individuals who were likely to become genuine friends.

Out of deference to the less than silent minority, the school arranged for me to have access to some of the staff toilets so I didn’t freak anyone out by going into the pupil’s. I was also excused games, which pleased both Max and me no end since neither of us were athletically minded in the least and Max’s body had no strength or stamina to it whatsoever.

We were encouraged to use the time to get ahead on homework, which was a nonsense since it was so easy.

For one thing, Max had as much access to my memories as I did and most of what we were studying was stuff I already knew backwards. After Karen had left me, I’d spent much of my free time reading and had soaked up a very broad range of information, all of which went so far beyond the pathetically limited range of the GCSE syllabi.

There were some subjects I’d not spent too much effort studying when I was younger – lack of interest in some cases, lack of opportunity in others – buy it turned out they were the one’s Max was keen on. Up until recently his mind had been distracted by the difficulties in his life, but now there was nothing to stand between him and his passion for things scientific and technical

I was no slouch at maths, but Max made it looks so easy. The same with science and information technology. So much so in fact that I started paying attention and began to derive as much pleasure as him with the challenges involved. With two minds working on a problem and with my wealth of experience on top we were able to leap forward in our understanding there as well.

I mean let’s face it, the scope of the GCSEs were no major challenge in the first place.

We started answering so far beyond the scope of the of the questions the school set us it wasn’t long before we were called into the head’s office along with our dad’s.

“Peter, Paul, Abri,” Mrs Wedgewood began. “Your daughter already gave us an indication of her precociousness when she completed her entrance assessment. We already started by putting her in top set in all her classes, but...”

She turned the stack of papers she’d been perusing and pushed them across the desk.

Peter took a few pages and passed some of them to Paul. They scanned the answers – I’d persuaded Max to work on his presentation so they were clearly legible – and looked back.

“I don’t understand,” Peter said, ever the spokesman.

“Take the maths for instance.” Mrs W pulled the sheet out from the stack on the desk. “In year seven algebra we teach them simple rearrangement and substitution. Abri completed the homework exercise flawlessly, and I suspect in less than five minutes...”

‘Two,’ I mouthed holding up a couple of fingers.

“She then turned the page over and made her own questions, starting with expanding and factorising single brackets then progressing to quadratic equations which she then solved with a number of different techniques including completing the square and using the quadratic formula.”

“Okay.”

“These last two questions would be level nine on a GCSE paper if not first year A level.

“The same applies to some degree in all Abri’s subjects. Her French suggests she can already speak the language reasonably well,” I could, though writing was an issue, “Her depth of knowledge in literature and the humanities is encyclopaedic, her grammar is better than that of most of our English teachers.”

“So what are you saying?”

“She’s going to be bored if we leave her where she is. I’d like to bump her up a class or two.”

“What’s a class or two,” Paul asked glancing at me.

“Year eleven in maths and English, history and geography and English literature. Year ten in IT and science.”

The dad’s sat stunned for a few seconds. “Which...” Peter coughed to clear his throat. “Which sets.”

“Oh top sets of course.”

“Then what happens next year?” Paul asked.

“We see how well she does in the GCSEs, resist them if needed though I suspect she won’t, then take the rest of them next year along with one or two A levels. There are several I’m confident she could complete in just one year.”

“That gets us to the end of year eight,” Peter said.

“At which point, assuming she continues to do as well as I anticipate, we have a choice. Four or five more A levels over the three years it take her to reach the end of secondary school, or just three over two years followed by a year of pre degree study depending on what she chooses as her degree subject. There are a lot of options, but the first step begins here.”

“How do you feel about this Abri?” Paul asked.

“I’d like more of a challenge than I have at the moment. I’d like to try it.”

So, by the end of January, I was an honorary member of years ten and eleven, and setting the standard expected by each class. They could have resented me, and maybe one or two of them did, but for the most part they adopted me as a sort of mascot to inspire them and even provide a little help.

It also helped with the mandatory suicide survivor and LGBTQ support groups I’d been told to attend. With my exceptional attitude towards education it didn’t take much to convince the authorities that I was no longer a suicide risk. I did stick with the other group though, as much for the contributions I could make and the friendships I formed.

The material for the year eleven topics was still pretty straightforward for me, but we’d been put in for year eleven maths and I could feel Max reaching the limit of his capacity with it, even with my admittedly limited support. It was unusual. I sort of remembered the techniques I’d learned years before, but with Max’s brain they made a lot more sense, especially with Max following alongside. We still had to work at it though.

Between the two of us we made it work and the summer after the end of my year seven year I received a brown envelope that informed me I had straight A stars in history, geography, French, English language, English literature and even maths.

Relationships with the family didn’t fare so well. Peter tried to talk to them all using the suggestions in my letter, putting together the suggested bequests and delivering them with my words. None of it went down particularly well and they used the little collection of olive branches he offered to build a fence between us and themselves.

Raymond and Russell both threw back the pots of Gumption without even opening them, so Peter reclaimed them and had the two diamonds he’d hidden in them made into a pair of earrings he gave to me as a reward for doing so well in the exams. My ears weren’t pierced yet – too young according to Paul – but I could keep them for the future. Mandy had been upset that she hadn’t been left anything and took umbrage, while the calculating look Peter described in the twins’ eyes didn’t bode well for what they planned to do at their weddings. There would be men there, he was certain, but none in a capacity likely to convince us they were genuine friends.

Max’s mum had cried over her letter. For that as much as anything, Peter allowed her regular visits with me, on the understanding that Mike wasn’t present. She wore the pendant each time, but she stiffened every time I turned up wearing a dress and became less and less agreeable the more I looked like a girl.

Over time, Mum’s attitude towards me became more uncompromising and eventually it was her who decided to stop meeting with me. That was a sad day for both Max and me, though significantly more for Max.

In the same way that Collin’s reaction had been a sad one for Peter. He’d read the letter Peter gave him, which included my words to my nephew, and decided that I was just as bad as his son and that we’d conspired to cheat him from the inheritance. It was painful enough for me to see how ready he was to make up his own interpretation of my words, so how it must have seemed to Peter, I can’t begin to imagine.

The following year didn’t feel much different. A little lonely with no contact with anyone in the wider family, but school was the same challenge it had been the previous year. Harder work but with a more able mind. We covered the year eleven material in IT and the sciences, which held Max’s attention, and we started maths A level because we didn’t want to lose the skills we’d built up. On top of that we had a go at squeezing sociology and politics A levels into the schedule. They were very different from anything we’d studied at GCSE though so, whereas the school suggested I might try to do them in one year, I rapidly found that was likely to overextend me, so we changed it to two. It meant my year eight year ended with me finishing off my remaining GCSE subjects. With the reduced workload I was able to gain top marks throughout once again.

Year nine saw me to the end of the maths, sociology and politics A levels. Second year A level maths was a significant step up from the first and I was glad of the extra time to spread between it and the other two subjects.

Which led to years ten and eleven. Fourteen felt a little young to be considering university and there was more breadth I wanted to investigate in my studies. The Max in me wanted to extend his knowledge of computers while the Gerald had a growing fascination for biology. As a third subject, we both felt psychology to be worth investigating if only to give us some insight into how our mind worked. Again not so much in regard to the two people one brain thing, but more what the field might have to offer regarding the transgendered condition.

It kept us busy and proved a fascinating diversion from the previous two years study.

We turned sixteen shortly before taking our second set of A levels, which meant legally I was allowed to start hormones. Peter suggested I wait until after the exams and reminded me how much emotional trauma some of my friends had gone through at puberty. It was good advise. I held off for the last few months and kept a clear head all through my preparations and final assessments.

The day after my last exam there were no excuses and no reason to wait any longer. The dads knew it and Peter took time out from his busy rehearsals to drive all of us to the doctor’s surgery where I was treated to an arse full of oestrogen through a needle as thick as my finger, or so it felt.

As rites of passage go it was a little anticlimactic and left me limping to the bus stop. Paul accompanied me on the bus carrying the bag full of hormone patches I’d opted for over the alternatives.

I cried all the way home, not because of the pain in my gluteus maximus (Biology term for you there) but because of the sudden flood of unfamiliar hormones.

“Welcome to womanhood,” Paul murmured in my ear prompting a renewal of the waterworks.

Back home, he made me a cup of tea and left me to saturate my pillow with all the salty goodness my eyes now seemed capable of producing.

It wasn’t that I was upset about anything in particular, though Max reminded us of the bulge between our legs and that set us off again.

I let my tea go cold before I tasted it. “Fuck, that’s disgusting,” I yelled with considerably too much vehemence.

“Abri,” Paul growled at me from the bedroom next-door.

“Shut up!” I screamed then broke out into fresh sobbing. “No, sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry.” I was horrible. I was such a horrible person. I hated myself.

Paul appeared in my doorway. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re having second thoughts, girl. Would you like a fresh cup of tea perhaps, and maybe a slice of cake?” There always seemed to be cake with Paul.

“I’m already too fat,” I said.

“Well that didn’t take long,” Paul replied in mock surprise. “Tea it is then. And cake. You are not about to become anorexic on my watch.”

“What?”

“Girl, I could just about reach around your waist with my two hands. If there’s one thing you are not, it’s fat. You are as beautiful now as you were the day I first met you, which, before you deliberately misinterpret my words, is to say indescribably, overwhelmingly beautiful, and don’t argue.”

He headed downstairs with me following in his wake.

“I’m going to allow you a little leeway,” he continued, “because I can only vaguely begin to imagine what it must be like having such a massive dose of girl juice after sixteen years of none at all, but you’re better than this sweetheart. I’m not going to say fight it, because this is something you’ve been waiting for a long time, but embrace it and look for the wonderful in it. It’s maybe a little overwhelming, but think of it as catching up with all those feelings you should have been enjoying since puberty.

“Personally I’m loving having three years of stroppy hormonal teenager thrown at me all in the space of one morning.”

Have I ever mentioned how much a master of the sarcastic Paul is?

“I’m being a real cow, aren’t I?”

“You’re being overwhelmed is what you are, and if I’m prepared to grant you a little space to have a wobble, so the bloody fuckshit can you.”

“Aunty Paul!”

“Appropriate use of profanity if it yanks you out of that morass of self-pity you’ve let yourself slip into. Now here’s your cake. Eat the whole bloody lot and say thank you while I wait for this geriatric kettle to boil.”

It was a large piece of cake. Probably his petty revenge for my unreasonable behaviour. I forked a small piece into my mouth.

“It is a lovely cake,” I said.

“Nice try, but flattery will get you nowhere today. You will sit there until your plate is empty young lady, which means you will sit there until the cows come home if you keep taking pathetic little bites like that.”

Hot water in the teapot, swish, empty. Tea leaves in the pot and wait for the kettle to finish boiling.

“I thought you wanted me to be all delicate and ladylike.”

“Exceptions to the rule sweetheart. Pick that cake up and bury your face in it till it’s gone.”

Properly boiling water in the pot, apply tea cosy, count slowly up to three hundred. He turned his severest expression in my direction, so I fell face first into the slice of cake.

“Now that’s just disgusting,” he said with a laugh. “Alright, maybe a modicum of genteel, ladylike decorum.”

I sat up and used my pinky to wipe the excess yummy goodness from my face into my mouth.

“You know, you’re exactly what I need right now.”

“And how could I dare to call myself your mother if I didn’t know exactly what you needed?”

An image of my actual mum came to mind. The last time she’d seen me, her face rigid with disapproval, her uncompromising declaration that perhaps it was best if we didn’t see each other again.

Paul noticed my change in expression, of course, and interpreted correctly. “Oh Abrielle!” He abandoned the teapot and gathered my sticky sweet face into a hug. “I can be such a klutz at times. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re right. You’re more of a mother to me than she ever was, and I’m grateful to have you.”

“She’s a stupid cow who doesn’t realise what she has in you, sweetie.”

“Go rescue the tea before it stews,” I said pushing him away.

“Fine. Finish your cake then, and use your fork this time.”

I set about forking the debris on my plate into my mouth while he poured out a couple of steaming mugs, one of which he placed in front of me. It had a healthy brick colour to it and it smelt of heaven.

“Thanks Mum,” I said. “I love you.”

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 7

I kept off school till the effects of the injection settled, which took us to the weekend. Following the doctor’s advice, I didn’t apply my first oestrogen patch till the Saturday. I’d chosen patches over pills and creams because they were more controlled release and because I could stick one in place and forget about it for a whole week.

The biggest change I noticed from the outset was the sad attacks. That’s what Paul called them whenever he noticed me having one. I’d become downcast and tearful and, if he happened to be around, he’d pull me into his arms for a short hug-fest. Another Paulism (although Paulism is mine). The hugs helped. That physical contact reinforced my sense of being loved and cared for, which quickly dispelled the mood.

School was different. I had to cope with the mood swings on my own a lot of the time, though I had friends ready to give me a hug when I needed one.

The A levels had lasted an extra week past the GCSEs, so I ended up being late joining my class for the post exam thumb twiddling. Usually this would be when we’d make a start on next year’s classwork, but with all my friends unsure which A levels they’d be taking without their GCSE results and me with nothing to move onto, we were stuck with the prospect of several weeks of hangman and other pointless activities until the end of term.

Actually, I should have anticipated better from Mrs W because she’d been running a successful private school for a lot of years.

We had the school leavers’ prom to look forward to and with nothing else useful to occupy our time, we were given the task of planning the event. Music, decorations, theme, even who to invite. Our school had an arrangement with a nearby boys school whereby we’d combine forces and alternate sites for hosting, but in preparation for the actual party, we combined forces with one group of us visiting the other group’s school with a view to collaborating on the venture.

It also gave us a chance to get to know the opposition so we could pair up for the dance. It was a far more enjoyable experience than anticipated with a lot of shared effort going into the different aspects, and it was also educational with no small amount of project management and technical input required. Most of us would be able to add it to our university applications with details of what we had done. Not an issue for me since I already had my university application sorted.

My brain didn’t feel like it was working at university capacity yet, and I was aware that I needed to adjust to my new hormone levels before settling on any thoughts for the future. I was already a couple of years ahead of the game with twice as many A levels as most people, so a year out didn’t seem like a bad idea.

The dads were happy with that decision because it meant I’d be at home for another year at least. The girl patches would also have just about done as much physical maturing as they were going to which meant I’d look more the right age when I went. I already had offers from every university I’d applied to with qualifications in the bag for most courses I’d been considering, so deferring the start was all it took.

I was leaning towards psychology and politics for my higher studies because the more I thought about my future, the more I felt I wanted to work specifically in the area of LGBTQ rights. That would need me to understand how politics worked as well as have a clearer idea of what tied an individual to one of those letters. I knew that Max’s distress had come more from having no-one to talk to, from having parents who refused to listen to him, so I saw myself lobbying for broader education on LGBTQ issues and raising awareness among those who didn’t understand what their kids were experiencing. Also for promoting LGBTQ support on Childline and other young person support networks. My own experience – the Gerald in me – had suffered badly from not having a sympathetic ear to talk to. I’m not sure if having a friend upon whose shoulders I could unburdened myself would have made my situation much better, but I couldn’t imagine things being worse than what Max had faced.

But we were talking about the prom, weren’t we? I’d been worrying about it on several levels, not least of which was being a week late joining the organised chaos of two single sex institutions coming together to plan a party. I worried that all the decent guys might have chosen their dates before I had a chance to pitch my own hat into the ring, but the pairing off hadn’t properly begun when I turned up, and I was cute enough to draw quite a few eyes, so in the end I had a wide variety of hunks of meat to choose from.

The other worry was my own hunk of meet, but Paul had his answer to that and taught me how to tuck my bits away so I looked like every other girl, ‘only cuter,’ he insisted. I could have gone in skin tight jeans if I’d wanted, but every party was an excuse for a pretty dress in my mind. It did mean that I could get up close and personal without worrying that something would get between us.

The prom was everything it promised to be – not surprising given the effort we put into it. There was the crowning of prom king and queen, which went to someone else thankfully. I didn’t need the attention, and I certainly didn’t need a plastic tiara. There were a few special awards though and I didn’t escape a little honourable mention in them. I was awarded baby genius of the year and accepted my mortar board hat, scroll of achievement and packet of disposable nappies with good natured embarrassment.

I experienced my first kiss as a girl – Max’s first kiss ever – that night too. With all the awards out of the way, there wasn’t much left to do but party, which meant eat, drink and dance. The dancing inevitably turned slow and romantic towards the end of the evening, and right at the end of the last song, he cupped my cheek in his hand and drew me towards him.

It was every bit as wonderful as I’d hoped, and I didn’t even have to break up with the guy at the end of the evening. He’d just completed his GCSEs and I think he found my A levels the second time round just a little too intimidating, so he made his excuses and left me standing in the middle of the dance floor.

Boys could be so insecure sometimes. It was disappointing, but at the same time. Something of a relief.

With school out of the way once and for all we were free to take our family summer holiday, this year in Gran Canaria. We were booked for just after schools broke up this year since Pam and Lily had announced their joint lesbian wedding without confirming the dates just yet. The Canary Islands was a gay safe destination so Peter and Paul could enjoy a little open affection. As for me, tankini and tuck kept me safe enough and I enjoyed a fair amount of attention from presumably heterosexual men, and even a few homosexual women. The flirting was fun, but I didn’t let it go too far. It was early days yet, but I was convinced I could see a few changes in my body, which was probably why I ended up on so many guys’ radars, but I was all too aware of how badly things could go if even one of them chose to push his luck even a little.

As a family, we’d been keeping an eye out for the other things we’d been told to expect with the hormone tratment. I think the one that worried me most was the prospect of weight gain, but I suspected that might have been a male body’s reaction to lowering testosterone rather than increasing oestrogen, and since I’d never really had any to start with, it didn’t affect me. Either that or it meant weight gain in the right places as I left my preteen androgyny behind.

Max and I noticed the encroaching brain fog on occasions, but the unusual way our combined mind worked gave us a way to counter it. I’m not really sure how to describe it other than one of us would notice when the other was struggling with memory or cognition and would give a sort of mental nudge that shook off whatever was causing it. There were rare occasions when it caught both of us at the same time, at which point Paul would declare with some delight that we were having an attack of blondeitis. It never lasted for more than a day, and often served to reset my brain so I was more awake and alert when I recovered, so I almost looked forward to them. Sometimes Max and I would notice it starting with the other and, if we had nothing important to do with the day, we’d let it wash over us both.

Physically there wasn’t a lot to show at first. Max’s body – our body – had never had much in the way of either muscle or body hair so there wasn’t much to lose. Again something that I suspected was caused more by loss of testosterone than anything else. After a couple of weeks I began to spot a few subtler changes. My chest was definitely itchier and maybe a little squishier and my bum looked like it was changing shape a bit. My hair thickened noticeably and my facial features somehow seemed to look more childlike. Maybe it was in contrast to the full head of hair framing it, maybe it was a subtle change in texture – I was sure my lips at least had plumped and reddened – but I definitely looked prettier, or so I persuaded myself.

Max’s idea of relaxation these days involved coding. Yeah I know, go figure. Anyway, I’d leave him to it while I soaked up the sun or let one of the cute locals chat me up. By the end of our holiday, he had an app put together that ran in the background on our phone. It responded to a triple or quadruple press of the power button. In either case it would open up location sharing on Google Maps, link to a pre-set list of contacts and put a conference call through to those same people. If I did the quadruple press, it would, in addition, force the phone volume to maximum and give out an alarm sound.

Peter and Paul were impressed when I showed it to them and insisted that I set it up for both their phones and demonstrate it. I did so, wandering off to a secluded part of the hotel grounds before triple pressing the button. My phone vibrated at me once to tell me it was working and I started to speak.

“So, this should be like a regular call for you, only if you open Google Maps, you should see my location. Click directions and start and it’ll bring you directly to me. Four presses,” I did so, “and you’ll probably hear me.” The alarm was pretty loud. “Three presses turns that back off again. The call and location sharing will continue until I tell the app on my phone to stop.”

“This is amazing,” Peter said from behind me. “You could sell this for a mint.”

“Or I could give it away to all vulnerable people who could benefit from it.”

The fortnight ended and we took our tanned bodies and souvenirs back home. A fresh RSVP from the twins gave us a couple of weeks to prepare for the wedding. Something of a snub in that they’d not invited me to be a bridesmaid, but I’d long since developed a thick skin over such matters. Paul was a little more upset and retaliated by finding me a dress he was sure would outshine everyone at the event, possibly including the brides. I had several fittings to make sure it was perfect, including a couple of pieces of silicone gel to better endow my upper body assets, but other than that, my time was my own. I launched the app as a free no ads gift to the mobile community then passed on details of it to a number of support organisations who might know people who would benefit. I also wrote to a number of lobbyists for LGBTQ rights expressing my interest in being a part of their plans after the summer was over. They tended to work all year round, but they did their interesting stuff when parliament was in session, which wasn’t likely to be until September.

The date for the twins’ wedding approached. Apart from Peter and Paul, the only contact we’d had from anyone in the family had been the wedding invite, which was family business very much as usual. Over the years we’d escaped from Max’s previous life, he and I had grown accustomed to the idea that family was where you found love and acceptance, and just because Mum and Dad provided the genetic material for the body I inhabited, that didn’t make them my real family. Real family was my two dads who provided me with as much love and acceptance as any child could want.

With letters in the post and nothing much to do but wait, I turned my attention to neighbourhood relations.

I’d already had a fair amount of practice discussing the salient issues with our neighbours. As the ‘normal’ one in our family, they seemed to feel more comfortable talking to me about the dads, and in a lot of cases I’d been able to change minds and garner sympathy. There were some, like Miss Kerridge, who would not budge on their opinions though.

Generally, the older people were the tough ones, which I understood from personal experience because old age is a state of mind in which you become set in your ways. It leaves you with a considerably more restricted view of the world and an inability to adapt to new ideas.

Of course, my views hadn’t been quite the same as most folk my age, but I’d definitely become set in my thinking. Fortunately for me, sharing a mind with Max had helped fill in the ruts and restored our collective capacity for flexibility of opinion. I’d grown old once and had no intention of doing it again.

In my mind, you understand. Old body couldn’t be avoided, at least if you chose to stay in the land of the living, and I already knew the alternative to that wasn’t worth considering. Old mind though, that was a choice as long as you kept on top of it.

My experiences in growing old also helped us identify those rare individuals who had survived the decades while maintaining a flexibility in their world view. They were the pleasant surprises along the way, as much for the wisdom they were able to share as the unexpected delight at discovering allies where we’d more than half expected to find adversaries.

All in all, I considered my discussions with our neighbours to be a success. Working on the principle that I couldn’t expect to please all the people even some of the time, I’d focused on those I felt were likely to be open to persuasion and succeeded in bring pretty much all of them round to my way of thinking. Either they were inclined to agree with me in the first place in which case they became more so, or they were swinging the other way in which case I brought them back across the line.

Of course it helped that the dads were outgoing, friendly and helpful, so all I needed to do was help people see past the elephant in the street. Once they’d been convinced that two men in love with each other wasn’t a thing to be concerned about, they could see without any help from me that Peter and Paul were the sorts of people who could be relied on in a crisis and would put their own concerns to one side if you needed help.

It was a holiday though and a number of my friends from school invited me out for party nights and sleepovers. Despite the dads’ concerns I indulged myself. The Gerald in me was responsible enough to keep me from indulging too far, and I’d become pretty good at tucking my bits away, so even when half the girls at the sleepover had no idea about my unwanted extras, they never suspected. I did dance and dally with quite a few cute guys, but never allowed myself to be drawn into anything approaching a relationship.

Which meant I didn’t have a date to take to Lily and Pam’s double wedding, but perhaps that was a good thing. Bad enough my turning up to a family affair in a dress, a boyfriend would definitely have pushed things over the edge, and I didn’t want to be responsible for any brouhaha that might steal my cousins’ limelight.

The day of the wedding came and Paul fussed over me until we were very much in danger of being late. I didn’t begrudge him a single minute and absolutely loved the final result.

“There,” he said at last. “As close to perfection as we could hope.”

“I don’t want to outshine the brides,” I said.

He snorted. “I doubt you’ll do that. Pam and Lily will most likely opt for something in trousers, which I’ve always struggled to understand. I mean if they’re so adamantly anti-male, why is it they dress up as men?”

“I don’t think they’re anti-male, just anti-men. The dressing up is just their way of saying to the world, ‘there you are, this is what being masculine should be.’”

“I’m not sure you’re allowed to be this beautiful and this intelligent at the same time,” he answered. “Me, I chose beautiful…”

“Obviously…”

“Well honestly, you should opt for one or the other, or you’ll scare all the good guys away.”

“I already have some experience of that, Aunty Mum.” There was a term of endearment I’d come up with over the weeks she’d put into helping me through adjusting to my hormones, and I could see she loved it.

“Yes you do. Well that guy at your prom was an absolute pillock, and he will most definitely regret his decision to dump you in years to come. You know, I take it back. Be as fabulous as you are and one day the right man will find you. Or woman?”

“Man. Definitely man. And not for a while yet. I want to make sure there are no unpleasant surprises to find before I let anyone that close.”

“My word, beauty, intelligence and wisdom. What more hidden depths are there to find in you?”

I smiled demurely. Paul always had to have the last word, so I was used to letting him. Especially with Peter pacing a hole in the carpet in the room next door.

It was a civil ceremony in the grounds of some rich country estate. No church for Mandy’s girls, though that would probably have been a hard sell with it being an all-girl affair. Which is to say all those being married were girls. Paul had called it right with Pam and Lily taking the grooms’ positions and waiting for their brides, both of them wearing all white tuxedos, although with a very feminine cut. Knowing my cousins, the white was a little hypocritical, but I had no intention of being judgemental.

Not about that at least. There were a lot of guests and a great many of them were single men of about Pam and Lily’s age. Peter and I exchanged looks at the sight of the crowd. I was going to have my work cut out for me later. With being overlooked as a bridesmaid, I felt no guilt at all in allowing Peter to inveigle me into his plans to check out the male invitees.

Most of the women present had either come with a significant other – mainly other women in the case of Lily and Pam’s friends – or they were sitting at the top table, which made me the centre of everyone’s attention. I barely had to do anything beyond smile and sip at my champagne; they were all tripping over each other to impress me, and apparently the easiest way they could think of to do that involved explaining to me in detail how they’d come along to make a few quick quid out of the situation.

Lily and Pam’s brides appeared in very similar frilly meringues, and the ceremony ran through to its secular completion. It felt like it was missing something major in leaving God out of the dealings, but maybe that was just what remained of my traditional mind-set.

After the ceremony, all the young, single men continued to compete for my attention, making progressively wilder claims about how much they stood to gain from the afternoon.

I made a mental note of all the mercenaries, pausing to jot down names when I had a few quiet moments, usually in the loo.

That in itself made for an interesting turn around. The degree to which the men outnumbered the women meant that there was pretty much a constant queue of blokes waiting to empty their bladders of all the free beer, whilst the girls were in such a minority that we could come and go as we pleased.

I caught sight of Max’s sperm donor – we’d both stopped thinking of him as our dad – glowering at me from halfway down the line for the gents. I smiled and quirked an eyebrow at him as I slipped into the ladies to take care of my own business.

The restraining order was still in effect, though it had been eased for the day in order for us to coexist under the same roof while my cousins – his nieces – got hitched. He still couldn’t talk to me unless I initiated contact, which I had no intention of doing. He evidently didn’t approve of my using the girls’ loos, but even he could see how much of a riot we’d have on our hands if all those blokes who’d been chatting me up suddenly discovered I was similarly equipped to them underneath my skirts.

But it was obvious he wanted to make things difficult for me. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly five years, and here he was still trying to derail my train ride to happiness.

The gents’ line hadn’t advanced much by the time I was done. I had to walk past his scowling face on my way back, which didn’t do much for my mood.

“I have a spare skirt somewhere if you’d like to borrow it.” I couldn't help myself.

Neither could he. “You have no right going in there, you little pervert. I’m glad I disowned you.”

“You keep telling yourself that, old man. I’m going back to my dads.”

“You little shit. I’m your...”

“No, you’re not!” I hissed, rounding on him sharply. “You gave up the right to that years ago when you thought beating me into submission was a better parenting technique than listening to me.”

“I gave you life!”

“You contributed a few strands of DNA and you can’t believe how fervently I hope that none of it went I to making me.

“Do you remember when I told you the reason I tried to kill myself was because I couldn’t think of a way I could keep on living with you and Mum the way things were?”

“Bunch of fucking nonsense.”

“And that’s why you don’t deserve to be a parent. Why I hope you never will be one again. Why, and I can’t really tell you how much it hurts me to say this, why you’ll never be a parent to me.

“Now, that restraining order. I agreed to relax it enough that we could spend the day in the same building, and I know it was me started this conversation, but you obviously have nothing to say to me that I want to hear, so let’s see if we can get through the rest of the day without either of us saying another thing to each other.”

“Your mother...”

“Last time I spoke to my mother, she was as much of an inflexible bigot as you.”

He stiffened, then forced himself to relax. “You’ll do whatever you think is best as usual, but if you’re prepared to talk to me, the least you owe her is the same.”

“And the least you owe me is not to say another word to me. Today or ever.”

Despite the continued anger and outrage in his face, he flinched. He made as if to speak again, then thought better of it. He nodded once instead and stared me in the eye as if trying to convey that he was prepared accept my terms.

There was nothing left to say. Well, from his expression he had a bunch more he wanted to say but nothing I wanted to hear, and I had nothing more to say to him. I walked past daring him in my mind to say just one thing more, but he didn’t.

I hadn’t promised him anything, but when I arrived back in the main hall, I caught sight of Mum sitting at a table on her own. I walked across and sat next to her, placing a gentle hand on her knee.

She looked up.

“Max?”

“Not for some years now, Mum.”

“You look...”

Different? Pretty? Ridiculous? My mind filled in the blank with a random spray of suggestions. Not all of them were...

“You look just like I remember.”

“Well, my hair’s longer and not such a greasy mess, and I think I’m a little slimmer, but yeah. Yes. That’s kind of what the drugs do. They stop you from changing.”

“But... five years?”

“Getting on for that, yes Mum.”

“Why would you want to stay a child, and you’re still wearing dresses? It’s Peter isn’t it? He just wants to get his own back on the family.”

“Peter’s been amazing, Mum. And it’s Paul who keeps buying me the dresses, but mainly because I ask him to.”

“Paul? Who’s Paul?”

“My other dad.” I point him out, standing very close to Peter.

“You only have one father, dear.”

“Maybe, but I have two dads, and they’re both over there. I was kind of wondering if I had a mum still.”

“What kind of a question’s that? Of course you have a mother. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because last time I saw you, you told me you wanted nothing more to do with me. Because the last time you were given the opportunity to act as my parent, you promised one thing and did something totally other, or don’t you remember? You ask me why I want to stay a child. I don’t, but the law wouldn’t allow me to make any changes until my last birthday, and the drugs I’ve been taking in recent weeks haven’t had a chance to take effect yet. You ask me why I’m still wearing dresses, it’s because I’m that kind of girl...”

“You’re not a girl, Max...”

“And that’s why I don’t believe I have a mother. Because you don’t have a son. You never did. The person you think of as your son, as much as he was real in any way, died on grandma and granddad’s bathroom floor on Christmas Eve four and a half years ago, wearing your party dress if you remember. I’d love for you to be my mum, but it’s only going to work if you accept you don’t have a son. You have a daughter. You only ever had a daughter, and until you can see that, until you can embrace it, I can’t have you in my life.”

“Max, why are you doing this?”

“Abrielle, Mum. Or Abri. Max is gone, if he ever was in the first place. I’m sorry this hurts, but I’m Abrielle. Unless and until you can see that, I think it’ll just be too painful for either of us to be in each other’s lives. I do love you, but I need you to see me. The real me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know, Mum, and I’m sorry. Maybe next year you will.”

“Why, what’s going to happen next year?”

“The drugs, Mum. Like I said I’ve started my next course of treatment. The dad’s suggested I wait until after my exams before doing so, and that was just a few weeks ago. Not much to show yet, but I’m kind of hoping that within a year I won’t look quite so much like a child.”

“You mean...” There was a sourness to her expression.

“It’s what I want, Mum. It’s what I’ve always wanted. I wish you could just see it. I mean why are you so hung up on Max, on having a son? Why won’t you see the girl that’s always been inside of me? Why won’t you accept that I want to be her inside and out? Not that pathetic little half and half.

“I’m hoping that when you see me with breasts and hips and curves, then you’ll maybe see the real me at last.”

“Stop it!”

“What? The drugs or the talking like this?”

“Both. Can’t you see you’re deluding yourself.”

“Goodbye mother.” I stood and gave her one last sad look. I could see the distress in her eyes, but I had given her what I could, and she had nothing to offer me in return.

Peter, Paul and I weren’t on the top table – we hadn’t expected to be, I mean it was pretty full with four brides, their entourage and their parents – but our table was close to it. The reason became apparent when the speeches began, a short time later.

The fathers of Pam and Lily’s brides gave their semi-maudlin ‘such a lovely girl, sad to see you go’ speeches with just a hint of confusion over the absence of any grooms, or best men for that matter. Maddy gave an impassioned address on how fiercely proud she was of her two girls, fuelled by more testosterone than either of the previous two offerings. Or at least, if not testosterone then spiked oestrogen. Then it was my cousins’ turn.

Pam and Lily stood together and did the token complimenting of their brides and bridesmaids, which felt more like feminist solidarity than honesty or tradition.

Not that there could be a lot of tradition in such an all-female wedding. The closest we’d come was the twins’ brides enveloped in layers of taffeta and chiffon. The girls turned quickly enough in our direction.

“Uncle Peter,” they said in that disturbing unison some twins can manage, “wasn’t there a letter from Great Uncle Gerald which mentioned a certain sum of money for each man at our wedding? We count forty-seven not including family, fathers-in-law and husbands, which makes nine thousand eight hundred pounds. Each. What say we round it to an even twenty grand?”

So they weren’t great at maths. At least the error was in their favour. It put Peter in an excruciatingly awkward position.

“Why don’t we discuss it later,” he said, “in private?”

“Why don’t we discuss it now? In front of witnesses?” There was a hint of steel in the words, as though this had always been intended as a trap and a way of demonstrating how worthless men were. Even the gay ones.

Peter made to stand up, but I put a hand on his knee and climbed to my feet before he could fully respond.

“Hi Pam, hi Lily,” I said. “Hi everyone. I’m Abrielle. I’m a cousin to these two. I was there when the letter they’re talking about was found, and I distinctly remember it stipulating that the men in question should be your friends, and that Uncle Peter could take whatever measures he thought appropriate to verify that the friendships were genuine.

“Now it strikes me as odd that neither of you has a best man. If you had any genuine male friends at all, I’d have thought you’d invite one of them into that role, each. The fact that you haven’t brings into question the status of these others.

“I should mention at this point that I’ve spent the better part of today being hit on by one after another of the single guys here. Not all of them, I’ll admit, but most of them, and pretty much without exception they all said something about only being here to... how did that one guy put it? ‘To scam some queen fuck out of a bunch of money.’

“Now, since the letter gave our uncle final discretion on whether or not any particular individual happened to be a genuine male friend, I’m inclined to recommend that he discount all of this lot. Of course Uncle Peter, being the fair minded individual he is will most likely want to give everyone here a chance to prove themselves. I mean he did want to deal with this privately to spare you the embarrassment, but personally I have no such qualms. I mean if you’re prepared to pull a stunt like this on you own wedding day, I really don’t know what that says about you. As for you two,” I addressed the taffeta clad pair on the top table, “I know you just took your vows, but if you weren’t aware of the sorts of people you were pairing up with, it really isn’t too late to change your minds. Personally, I’m appalled at the thought of being related to these two.

“Anyway, why don’t we invite all the guys present who consider themselves to be genuine friends to Pam and Lily to stand up. Bear in mind that there’s a pretty good chance I will recognise you if we’ve spoken today, and if I’m prepared to shame my cousins on their wedding day, do you really think I won’t do the same for you?”

One solitary figure stood, buttoned his jacket, and turned to face the twins.

“I actually thought I was a friend,” he said, “to both of you, but if you’re prepared to do something like this against a member of your own family and on your wedding day, I’m not sure I want to be.”

With that, he turned on his heels and walked out.

“He’s one of the few I didn’t talk to,” I said to Peter, but loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Pam gave me a Gorgon’s stare which genuinely, although only figuratively, petrified me.

“You little shit,” she spat. “I thought you were supposed to be on our side.”

“Why? Because I’m a girl? Solidarity among sisters and screw every man who ever lived? That’s the exact thing that Great Uncle Gerald was trying to steer you and your mum away from.”

“What do you mean, ‘because I’m a girl,’ Pinocchiette?” Lily added her rage to her sisters. “You’re not even a real girl, and you never will be.”

That turned a few heads in my direction. My father’s, I noticed, was sneering in smug satisfaction.

I refused to let them get at me. I could feel the blush rising from deep inside me and I fought to keep it at bay. Fat chance, trying to fight a hormonal response. My oestrogen levels may have stabilised, but I was still more a slave to my feelings than their master.

“Come on,” Peter said climbing to his feet and putting a hand in the small of my back. “I don’t think we’re welcome here anymore.”

Paul stood too and led the way out of the room.

“What about our money?” the twins called after us.

“We’ll talk about it privately at another time. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”

A bit of a forlorn hope perhaps after all that, but it was a mess of their own making and I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about my part.

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 8

An uncomfortable silence settled on the car as we drove away from the venue. Paul looked back at me from the front passenger seat but kept his peace. I could feel Peter putting together his lecture as we put miles behind us. I was hungry. The wedding meal had been due to follow the speeches, which meant I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Not something I felt would go down well should I mention it. I waited for my inevitable telling off and marshalled a few responses to what I felt sure was coming.

“What you did back there wasn’t very kind,” Peter said at last.

“Neither was what they did.”

“I’d have paid the money rather than ruin their wedding day, or at least I’d have promised to.”

“In front of witnesses? You’d have been legally obliged to pay. They’d have made sure of it.”

“And it would have been worth it to avoid that unpleasantness. No-one deserves to have their wedding day ruined like that.”

“Even if they deliberately planned to use it to scam you.”

“It’s only money, Abri.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s that they deliberately tried to con you out of it. It’s that they chose to do so on their special day in order to put you in an impossible situation. It’s that they set the whole thing up to make men look bad – you in particular – whatever the outcome. You refuse to pay up, you’re tight and dishonest. You give in and you’re a pushover, especially when they let on that they set the whole thing up. It doesn’t matter whose idea it was, they went along with it and they fully deserve to reap the whirlwind. Harsh on their brides, but the sooner they learn who they’re hitching themselves to, the sooner they can escape from it.

“I made that offer to Mandy and the twins to try and steer them away from rampant misandrism, and they chose to use it as a way to express their hatred of men. I want to be a woman, but I fucking well don’t want to be associated with people who’ll pull a stunt like that.

“Sorry Paul, but that...”

“It’s alright Abri. If ever there was an appropriate use of the f-bomb.”

“I thought you didn’t like bad language.” Peter said.

“I don’t like inappropriate use of language. I don’t like when people say awesome and mean that’s nice, or when they say devastated and mean a bit miffed. Some words need to be reserved for special occasions. But we’re getting off piste here. Abri, you were telling my wonderful but maybe a little too kind and thoughtful man here why that shit show could not have gone any less worse...”

“Paul!”

“No Peter, I’m sorry you were put in that position, and I am so grateful that our daughter was there to step into the breach. Those two are a couple of hideous creatures, whether by their own choice or their mother’s influence, and they deserved what they were just given, even if it was on their wedding day. Especially on their wedding day given that stunt.

“I’m really sorry, but you come from some appalling genetic stock and we’re better off without any of them. I’m only glad there are a few precious nuggets hidden in all the shit, and that I’m lucky enough to have them all in my life. The thing to remember is when you’re panning for gold, after you’ve retrieved the bits worth keeping, you dump the rest of the silt back in the river.”

“They’re my family, Paul. Abri’s too.”

“Pht! People like us don’t have the luxury of confusing genetics with family. Some are lucky, but for those of us who aren’t, family is the people you find, the people who will love you, not some arse-shit-fuck-twats who will try to rob you of half your inheritance in that most heinous way.”

Peter stared straight out the windscreen, focusing on driving. Eventually he let out a breath.

“Okay,” he said uncertainty.

“Any chance we can stop for lunch soon,” I asked. “I don’t have the same reserves you guys have.”

“Did you just call us fat?” Paul said sucking in a grin. “Did she just call us fat?”

“I would never do that,” I said allowing my own smile to creep onto my face. “Cuddly, maybe.”

“You minx!”

“Alright, alright,” Peter laughed. There’s a pub up ahead. I’ve no idea if it does food, but at least we’ll be able to get you a packet of nuts, and I need a drink as long as Paul doesn’t mind driving.

“I had a few more glasses of champagne back at the wedding farce or whatever you want to call it than would make me safe behind the wheel. Why don’t you see if they have a room we can stay in? I mean we’re about twenty grand better off thanks to Abri. It’s not as if we can’t afford it.”

The pub didn’t have rooms and it didn’t do meals, but the barman gave us directions to a place five minutes down the road that offered both. I got my packet of crisps, because Peter felt something was owed for the barman’s assistance, and he got his drink, albeit a little later than planned because five minutes was really fifteen and then we had to check in and drop stuff in our room. Paul, unsurprisingly, had brought an overnight bag for us all, which meant he and Peter were able change into something more comfortable. I was happy in my posh dress even if it meant I was too posh for the place and I had to be careful eating in case I had leaky food.

I wouldn’t have minded a glass of wine to settle my own nerves, but there were laws about that in public places, so I settled for a coke which was probably worse for me than the wine.

Max enjoyed it anyway, and once my stomach was full, I didn’t need any artificial stimulants.

Peter’s phone rang halfway through the meal. He looked at it with growing surprise. “Dad,” he said standing up and putting the phone to his ear. I saw him wince as soon as he did, so I put down my knife and fork and eased the phone out off his hand.

“Hello granddad, it’s Abrielle. We’re eating lunch at the moment so would you mind waiting half an hour? Thank you.” I hung up then put the phone beside me as I sat back down, pulling it out of Peter’s reach just as it rang again. Once more Collin’s name came up.

I answered and put the phone to my ear, then pulled it away and hung up without saying anything. I had time to put a forkful of desperately needed sustenance into my mouth before it rang a third time.

I waited till I’d swallowed before answering, then waited patiently for Collin to take a breath.

“Granddad, we’re eating. Give us half an hour, please. If you call again, I’ll block your number which’ll mean you won’t be able to call him again ever.

“No, he probably doesn’t know how, but I do.

“Oddly enough I was thinking the same thing, Granddad. As I say, call again in half an hour. Oh yes, and if you could be a little less shouty, that would be appreciated.

“No, but if you knew that the only thing someone did when they called you was yell at you, you’d block their number, wouldn’t you?

“Thank you, Granddad. We’ll talk again in a while.”

I hung up and took in another forkful, very much aware of the two people staring at me.

“What?”

“I was thinking the same thing?” Paul asked.

“He said I was being very rude.”

“If you could be a little less shouty?” Peter asked.

“I’m reasonably certain everyone else in the restaurant could hear him despite it not being on hands free. Besides, how are you supposed to hold a conversation with someone if all they do is shout?”

“I think that’s why he does it.”

“And that’s why you have the call end button and the option to block him. This is your phone. You get to choose who you talk to and how.”

“Could you show me how too block someone?”

“Sure. After I’ve finished eating. This is very good, by the way.”

I slid the now quiescent phone back to him.

“Sometimes I forget you’re older than me.”

“Only bits of me, and I’m glad you forget. I missed out on being a young girl before, so I’m kind of keen not to this time round.”

“How does Max feel about it?”

“Totally on board. He would have missed out too, wouldn’t he”

“He doesn’t mind sharing?”

“That might have been a better question to ask four or five years ago.”

“I think we did ask back then. Just not recently.”

I shrugged. “It’s not really sharing. More like becoming each other. You know that song, Two Become One?”

“I thought that was about two people deciding to have sex for the first time,” Paul said.

“Yeah, well maybe. Except when you have sex... No when you make love, which is different, you open yourselves up to each other and you kind of grow into each other. You learn to think the same, feel the same, believe the same. Two bodies, one mind.”

“Now that has to be the Gerald talking,” Peter said, “because Max has never had that kind of experience. The thing is, I didn’t think Gerald did either.”

“Only in my imagination, Peter, but underneath that crusty exterior there always was the heart of a romantic. The thing is, Max and I started off as two minds, one body. What we have isn’t sexual at all, you’ll be glad to know, but it is deeply spiritual. We both kind of died, me more successfully than Max, we both met this guy waiting on the other side...”

“Jesus?”

“Maybe, who knows. He didn’t exactly introduce himself. He was too busy trying to save us, I’d say.”

“Sounds like Jesus.”

“Yeah, but what would a Muslim say, or a Hindu?”

“I suppose.”

“Anyway, Max and I decided a long time ago that we were parts of a whole and belonged together, so we’ve been practicing being each other, or rather being the combination of both of us. We’re pretty much one person now and it’s only rarely that one of us kind of takes over for a bit.”

“What does it feel like?” Paul asked.

“I suspect you know. It’s like what you and Peter have, right down to the constant banter. For Max and me that’s a sort of inner dialogue, but it’s still the bits of him that aren’t entirely part of us rubbing rough edges with the bits of Gerald that are the same. It’s become something we kind of like about being like this. There’s comfort in knowing we have two different perspectives sometimes, and there’s strength in knowing that we are an amalgamation of two people.”

We finished lunch chatting about more mundane matters. Peter and Paul both ordered coffees and I settled on another coke. The Max in me had quite the sweet tooth, or maybe it was the underage body, or perhaps even the hormones. I already had the itchy puffiness I’d been expecting on my chest, so who knew what else was going on.

Eventually, with drinks half drunk, Peter’s phone rang again. We had the place pretty much to ourselves so he put it on speaker phone.

“Hi Dad,” he said with a world weary sigh.

“Don’t you fucking well call me that. You lost the right to call me that when you fucking told me you were a poof.”

“Just so you know, Dad,” complete with pause to make sure he knew it was deliberate, “we’re on hands free, and most of the people in earshot don’t appear to take too kindly to the word poof. One or two are a little young for the courser swear words you like to use as well.”

“So why don’t you take the fucking phone off hands free and speak to me directly?”

“Because I don’t particularly want to talk to you, Dad. You’ve avoided talking to me for, what, seven years now? You even refused to talk to me about Uncle Gerald’s letter...”

“That was a crock of shit, and you know it. Gerald would never have cut me off like that. You poisoned him against me.”

“Yeah, I suppose I did. I turned up on his doorstep because I had nowhere else to go after you kicked me out, and then I answered truthfully when he asked what happened. I guess that’s what it took. You know, when I finished answering his questions, he wanted to come round yours and punch your lights out.”

“Heh. I’d like to have seen him try.”

“That’s what you get from that? Who cares if you were stronger than him or better with your fists? Doesn’t it bother you that he wanted to hit you? Doesn’t it even occur to you that the person who poisoned him against you was you? I sent you the letter, even the bit he addressed to me, so you know damn well why he wrote you out of his inheritance. He also told you what he wanted more than anything else.”

“Yeah, well fat fucking chance of that happening after today. Do you have any idea what kind of fucking mess you left behind when you buggered off today?”

“Actually yes, we do. We were discussing it in the car a while ago. Besides, what do you care? You don’t approve of Lily and Pam’s choices any more than you do mine.”

“That’s not the point! You wrecked your nieces’ weddings over a few quid.”

“No Dad, that’s not what it was about. I had the same initial reaction but was put right by someone very special, and if you’re not going to fact check before you decide to think the worst of me, I don’t see any value in continuing this conversation.

“Please don’t call this number again unless it’s to apologise. If you do, I will block your number.”

“You will pay Mandy’s girls what you owe them.”

“I already did, Dad. You know, between you kicking me out, Mike and Lisa driving their child to the brink of suicide and Mandy turning her girls into a pair of predatory man-haters who don’t even have the conscience to keep from attacking their own family, I think I’m done with you lot.”

“Peter!” Collin growled.

“No, Dad. You’re the one who kicked me out first. Between my memories of Uncle Gerald and the precious girl I get to call my daughter...”

“He’s not a fucking girl!”

“You know Dad, you make it really hard to give a rat’s arse about your opinion on anything. I have this sneaky suspicion that you’re never going to change. You should know that neither am I. Your great niece is, but only in as much as she’s going to become more obviously a girl. Unless and until you’re prepared to deal with that, please don’t bother calling me again.”

He stabbed the end call button and put the phone on silent.

“You’re going to have to show me how to block a number,” he said.

I took the phone. This was more Max’s department, so I gave him free reign over our fingers. He opened up the call log and Collin’s last call then brought up the options. He handed the phone back, pointing at the entry for block number.

“Okay, that seems simple enough. Maybe not just now though.” The phone vibrated in his hand. He stared at it for a moment then put it to his ear. We could both hear a screeching edge to the voice on the other end. He listened for about three seconds then hung up. “That one we can block though.”

“Mandy?” Paul asked.

“Either that or a banshee stole her phone. Can I block someone without them calling me?”

“I’m not sure, but when you receive a call from someone you don’t want to talk to, there should be a drop down menu which includes block call.”

“How did we get by before these things came along?”

“Bongos and smoke signals I think,” Paul answered. “Does anyone fancy going for a walk?”

“You two go,” I said. “I’m about ready for comfortable clothes and see what’s on TV.”

Paul opened his mouth, but Peter held up a hand. “I think you’ve earned it.”

Up in our room, I changed into the jeans and tee-shirt Paul had packed for me. My little fella had, if anything, shrunk further since I’d had the oestrogen shot and patches. It wouldn’t have taken much to tuck it away, but I still found tucking uncomfortable. The jeans were stretchy and tight and the tee-shirt nowhere near long enough to hide the bulge. I didn’t much care though. Honest I didn’t.

The room TV had on demand services from a number of mainstream companies. Max and I scrolled through the usual mix of guns and violence and found an absence of the usual level of interest. On a whim, I started scrolling through the chick flicks, which Max hadn’t wanted anything to do with up until now, and he steered us towards some modern teen retelling of Rapunzel, I think. It was hopelessly mawkish and way too American for my tastes, but neither of us could do anything without the participation of the other and growing into each other meant accepting each other’s preferences. By the time the dads made it back to the room, Max and I were lying on the big bed, our arms wrapped around a pillow and gentle tears trickling from our eyes.

Yeah. The we and me thing. Most of the time it’s just me these days, which is to say the single person Max and I make between us, but there are times when one of us has more to contribute, like Max with the phone settings or Gerald with the honest and uncomfortable appraisal of what had actually happened at Pam and Lily’s wedding. Then the better one of us for the job takes over the driving seat for a while. Then there are times we agree to an activity which is more the choice of one of us than the other. Reading for Gerald, crappy American made for TV films for Max. Those we agree to share, and pleasingly there is a degree of vicarious pleasure to be had. Max ended up being totally caught up in that film which meant I – Gerald – had to let him without spoiling it. So I sat behind his consciousness and rode the roller coaster ride of our artificially augmented hormonal response.

The dads read the room right and backed out. There was half an hour left of the film which was just enough time for them to chase off to a nearby shopping arcade – within walking distance. When they came back it was to find the credits rolling up the screen and me wiping my nose and eyes on my pillow.

“We bought you a gift,” Paul said, throwing me a soft package.

“It’s pink” I said. More an observation than a criticism.

“Nothing wrong with pink,” he huffed. “Why don’t you go and try it on?”

It was deliberately oversized. It hung off one shoulder and the short sleeves hung down below my elbows. Most importantly it came down below my crotch. Apart from the puffy eyes it made me look soooo cute.

I came out of the bathroom and threw my arms around Paul’s neck.

“It’s perfect.”

“Even if it’s pink?” Paull still had a strop on.

“I love pink.”

“I’m sorry sweetie, I wasn’t thinking when I packed. One day those jeans will look spectacular on you.”

“Unless I discover chocolate and give up on trying to look like a girl.”

“You do that and I swear I’ll do the same, and you do not want to see me when I bloat.”

“He’s right, you don’t,” Peter said with a bemused smile. “He’s also... I don’t know. I mean you look fantastic when you do the girl thing, Paul, but it’s not as if you try all the time, is it?”

“That shows what you know. I’m in a constant war against body hair, my eyebrows need daily attention and my skin care regime takes forever.”

“That is true.”

“Tell me you want me to stop and I will.”

“It’s worth every bit of effort you put in, especially when you put on a frock.”

“I didn’t pack one this time, but we could always go back to the shops.”

“You look perfect just as you are and I was hoping we could do something else with the afternoon.”

“Well that would have been easier if our designated driver hadn’t needed something to fortify him at lunchtime.”

“Or if his beautiful husband wasn’t such a lush.”

“Do you want me to step outside for a bit?” I asked.

“Would you?” Paul asked. “I’m feeling a growing need to ravish someone.”

“I may not be gone very long if I don’t find something to do.”

“You are such a mercenary. Here’s forty quid. The shops are that way.”

I barely had time to grab my phone and my trainers before I was unceremoniously kicked out of the room.

The shopping arcade was only a five minute walk away, which was just as well because it really wasn’t worth much more of an effort. I found the shop where Paul had bought my oversize pink tee-shirt, and had to admit he’d bought me the best from a pretty dodgy lot of options. Nothing else in the window appealed enough to encourage me through the door, so I ambled on to the next place.

They were all much of a muchness, a phrase that confused the Max part of me even as it rose from Gerald’s memory. I made a note to include Alice in Wonderland in our near future reading. Still the shops were pretty bland and uninteresting with nothing worth spending Paul’s money on. I was about to head back when a young boy on a bike appeared.

I say young. He was probably only a year or two younger than my age, by which I mean Max’s. The Gerald part was still struggling with being over half a century younger sometimes.

“You’re not from around here,” he said with brash confidence.

“No,” I agreed. “I’m staying at the pub, with my dads.” I pointed somewhat redundantly. There was only one pub in sight.

“Dads?” he snorted. “Don’t you have a mum?”

“Yeah, but she’s a cow, so my uncle adopted me.”

“Along with your real dad?”

“No, he’s a worse arsehole than my mum.”

“Then...”

“My uncle’s gay. Listen, is this interrogation going to last for long, only my dads are expecting me back soon.”

“I bet they’re not. I bet they’re shacked up in their room making gay love.”

No less offensive for being correct. “That’s not very nice,” I told him.

“Doesn’t stop it being true, does it?”

“What if I said, ‘I bet you dad’s having wild passionate sex with your mum behind some tree somewhere?”

“You take that back!” he yelled.

“Alright, I will. But now you know how it feels.

“Look, I’m going to head back now. I’d say nice talking to you, but it wasn’t really.”

“You’re mean.”

“Sometimes, but you were mean first.”

My phone vibrated in my hand. It was Peter.

“’Sup?” I said into it.

“Where are you?” He sounded serious.

“Down by the shops. I was just about to head back.”

“Stay there. We’ll pick you up in a couple of minutes.”

“I thought you’d had too much to drink.”

“We’ll be in a taxi.”

“What’s happening? You’re scaring me.”

“Can it wait till we pick you up?”

“Okay. I’m by the shop where Paul bought my new tee-shirt.”

“I thought I recognised it,” the boy on the bike said. “They only have seriously crappy stuff in there.”

I thought about giving him the finger, but I was the older and more responsible one here and should set an example. I stuck out my tongue at him instead.

“We're on our way. The taxi just arrived.”

I looked toward the pub where my dads were climbing into a grey saloon. “I can see you.” I raised a hand and waved.

“We see you too. Just stay there.”

The car was alongside in less than a minute. I climbed in the back with Paul, ignoring the parting comment from the latest arsehole to impinge on my life.

“What did he say?” Paul asked.

“Probably something homophobic. Come on, tell me what’s going on.”

“Your granddad called,” Pete said from the front seat.

“Again?”

“Yes, but... It’s your mum. She’s been taken to hospital.”

My blood ran cold. I hadn’t been that nice to her at the wedding.

“Because..?” I asked.

“She tried the same thing you did a few years back.”

Blood now freezing.

“Did she...?

“No, they got to her in time. Will you be okay to see her?”

“Yeah, I should think so.”

“Your father will most likely be there.”

“I imagine so. It should be okay.”

“We’ll stay close, don’t you worry.” Paul had his arm around me. I was grateful for the contact. I could feel tears filling my eyes. I mean this was my mum, and it was my fault!

Only was it really? The older and wiser part of myself wanted to argue with the younger and more emotional part. Fortunately it was old and wise enough to leave it at, ‘let’s wait and find out.’

The journey to the hospital took twenty minutes and went via some pretty complex road systems, so it was probably as well we were being driven. Peter hadn’t drunk enough to be so (drunk I mean) but I suspect he would have missed several of the twists and turns. Add to that not having the complication and expense of parking when we arrived at the hospital, this way was definitely quicker and probably not a lot more expensive.

Directions from main reception had us following a coloured line along the floor for what seemed like miles until we arrived on a ward where a familiar if not exactly welcoming face rose to greet us.

“This is your fault, you little cunt,” my father glowered at me. He looked ready to turn violent so I hid behind Paul while Peter stepped in front of us both, ready but reluctant to meet whatever the arsehole had to hand out.

“Way to overreact, dickhead,” Paul said from safely behind his husband.

“Paul, please.”

“What? He’s ready to blame anyone but himself.”

“How do you see this as my fault!” Mike shouted, or at least started to. Heads turned his way, reminding him where he was and he dropped his tone to the level of a menacing hiss.

“Actually, it is mine,” I said, stepping out into the open. “At least partly. But I can’t be what Mum wants me to be, or what you want me to be. The thing is, as far as I can see, you don’t really care. If I can’t be the way you want me to be, you’re happy just to chuck me out on the streets same as granddad did with Peter. Mum’s different though. You don’t know what it’s like for a woman to lose her child.”

“And what would you know, you little pansy.”

“A damned site more than you, you Neanderthal.” Paul coming to my defence again. “She has more empathy than most people I’ve met whereas you've got fuck bloody all.”

“She is not a fucking girl!” Again his voice raised. This time the nurses made moves to intervene.

“Please,” I said. “They’re not going to let us stay if you keep arguing. Can I go in and see her?”

“I don’t know if I should let you after what you said to her earlier.”

“She told you what I said?”

“No, but I could see she was fucking upset. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was that pushed her over the edge.”

“But you don’t know, do you?” Paul carried on bravely in the knowledge that he was protected. “In fact it doesn’t matter so much who pushed her over the edge. What we should be asking is who led her up to it in the first place, and from where I’m standing there’s only one clear candidate for that honour.”

“Why you...”

Peter stood in Mike’s way. I took advantage of the tussle to slip past into Mum’s room...

...which was dark. Curtains drawn, lights off. I couldn’t tell if Mum was awake or asleep.

I perched gently on the bed and rested a hand lightly on her arm.

“Max?” she murmured.

“I’m here Mum.”

“What... What are you wearing?”

“It is a bit tacky, isn’t it. The thing is, Paul packed a pair of skinny jeans for me which don’t do a great job of hiding my thingy. I mean I can tuck it away, but it’s a bit uncomfortable. He also packed a tee-shirt that was a bit short, so he figured this would be better than nothing. I’m not too keen on the sequins, but I don’t mind being a princess.”

“But you’re...”

“Mum, please don’t. I love you, but I have to be me, and this is me.”

“I can’t accept that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re my mum and I know you love me.”

“Yes, but it’s my son I love, not...”

“Mum, if I’d been born with six fingers or a hair lip, you’d still have loved me just the same, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes of course, but...”

“It wouldn’t bother you that I was deformed?”

“That’s a horrible thing to say. Of course it wouldn’t bother me.”

“Because what matters is the person on the inside.”

“Yes. So why would you say such a wicked thing?”

“Because this is the person on the inside. My ‘deformity’,” I used pauses rather than air quotes, “is that I was born with the body of a boy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There is if the person inside is a girl.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“You’d like to believe I’m taking nonsense because it makes it easier for you. You’re lucky enough to have a woman’s mind in a woman’s body. I imagine most of the people you know are the same or the male equivalent, so you don’t know any different.

“I don’t know, maybe you do know a few people who’re mixed up like me, but your generation was taught to see us as perverts, people who choose to do something everybody knows is wrong, so it’s hardly surprising people like me all kept hidden back in your day.”

“But if it’s something every one knows is wrong, why would you choose to do it?”

“Because for one thing, those things that everyone knows to be wrong aren’t always wrong.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It wasn’t that long ago that everyone knew that left handed people were favoured by the devil and a lot of left handed people were beaten until they learned to write with their right hands.”

“No, that’s not right.”

“Not anymore, but go back a few generations. Ask your dad about his grandmother. The thing is, a lot of those things everyone knows to be right or wrong are often beliefs that have grown out of prejudice or religious or cultural influence.

“How can you know what motivates people like us when for generations we’ve remained so well hidden no-one has had the opportunity to ask? Or when, on the rare occasion one of us was discovered, that no-one had the inclination to ask?

“What everyone knows on this matter has grown largely from a tendency to be wary of or to dislike anything that’s different, leading to homophobia specifically within religious circles – perhaps where it offers the opportunity to influence people – leading to convenient misinterpretation of religious texts with overwhelming consequences.

“As for choosing to do something we know is wrong,” emphasis on choosing, “if you cared to ask, you’d learn there’s not a lot of choice involved. If you’d take time to learn what medical science has been uncovering in recent years, you’d discover that there are reasons for that lack of choice.”

“None of this is making any sense.”

“Really, Mum? I think you’d just prefer that to be true. You, along with the majority of unaffected people would just rather we kept ourselves hidden from the world like we have until recent decades.”

“Well, I don’t see why you can’t do that.”

I let out a deep sigh and marshalled my thoughts.

"Imagine I was born with my feet on the opposite side to normal. Left foot on the right, right foot on the left. Would you allow me to wear shoes in a way that was comfortable to me even though it looked freakish to ordinary people, or would you expect me to wear them on the same feet as everyone else so I looked normal, even though every step I took would be excruciatingly painful?”

“You’re talking nonsense again, darling. Who ever heard of people with their feet on the wrong side...”

“What makes it the wrong side, Mum? I said opposite to normal. Just because it’s different to the majority doesn’t make it wrong. You never know, maybe there are advantages to having your big toes on the outside.

“Maybe people like that exist, only they hide their difference because they know everyone else will respond badly. I don’t have my feet switched, but I am different in a way that the majority of people don’t want to accept. In the past people like me have learned to live with the discomfort of conformity because people like you aren’t prepared to accept that people can be different.”

“I don’t get this feet backwards thing, dear. What are you trying to say?”

“We’ve all put our shoes on backwards at some stage, right? Maybe when you were a kid, maybe when you weren’t thinking.”

“Well, yes. I suppose.”

“Imagine what it would be like wearing your shoes like that for a whole day.”

“Well I wouldn’t, obviously.”

“Just imagine you didn’t have a choice. You could do it for a day, couldn’t you? It would be uncomfortable, but you could do it.”

“I suppose, but...”

“Imagine you reached the end of that first day and in the comfort of your home, behind closed curtains, you removed your shoes and felt that sense of relief as your feet were removed from their constraints.

“Now imagine that in that moment of relief you realised that you were going to have to do the same the next day, and the next day, and every day for the rest of your life.

“I don’t know, it’s uncomfortable, painful even, but you can adapt to it right? And maybe you choose to, but the discomfort is with you every day as well as the knowledge that it’s never going to get better. After a while it infiltrates every thought you have. It gets in the way of everything else you try to do with your life. Every time you try to put your mind to something new, something you should be able to look forward to, the awareness that everything you do will be accompanied by that same discomfort in your feet. It’d suck the joy out of life, wouldn’t it?

“Under those circumstances, wouldn’t you wonder why you had to keep doing it? I mean, if you wore your shoes in the way that felt most comfortable to you, yeah normal people might be bothered by it at first, but they’d adapt, wouldn’t they? What seems weird today seems less weird tomorrow and eventually they'd accept that some people have their feet backwards and it doesn’t really make much difference to them.

“The shoe thing is about physical discomfort and its something everyone can get their head around. The transgender thing is psychological, but it’s no less real. It gets in the way of, of pretty much everything.

“You remember what Max was like? Sullen, silent, depressed, never achieving well at school.”

“It used to make your father really angry.”

“Ironic since it was largely his bigotry that got in the way of me realising my potential.” I twitched my head to where he continued to argue a little too loudly with Paul.

“He is your father dear.”

“And your husband, but exactly how does that make him right? How does being loud and obnoxious make him right? Are we to do what we’re told by the people who make the most noise? Isn’t that the real nonsense, Mum?

“You know Oscar Wilde, I expect? Someone else my father would never have approved of. Someone who lived in a time when homosexuality was illegal...”

“Quite right too.”

“Again, is that really what you believe? Or have you spent too long living under the same roof as his high and mighty-ness out there? Do you really think that the two people who’ve given me a loving home for the last nearly five years belong in prison because what’s natural for them, being two men in love with each other, feels wrong to people like you and him out there?” I waved at Mike.

“Well, they turned you into this...”

“No Mum, you’re not listening, or not hearing at least. They allowed me the freedom to turn myself into this. You and... my father – I can’t even bear to call him Dad anymore – drove me to the edge of despair, pretty much the same despair that's put you in here right now. Peter and Paul nurtured me and encouraged me to become who I am. Which is to say happy, contented, successful...”

“Successful?”

“I’m sixteen, Mum. Most kids my age have just finished GCSEs. I’ve just finished A levels for the second time round. The way I was with you and... him forcing me to live life your way, I’d barely have any qualifications at all and be looking forward to future on a zero hours contract behind a McBurger Fried Chicken counter asking people if they want to supersize the overly processed crap they just bought. Instead, with freedom to live my own way, I have a scholarship to start university any time I like in the next couple of years, studying pretty much whatever I like of the half dozen A levels that I should have come August.”

“Should have?”

“I already have three grade As in maths, sociology and politics, and I’m expecting three more, in IT, biology and psychology. All of it largely because I get to live the way I feel I should. All because I don’t have to spend every day fighting my nature just so I can conform to somebody else’s idea of normal. All because I feel comfortable enough being this version of me, the true inner me, that I’m able to focus on things that really matter.”

Okay, maybe a lot of my recent success was down to my dual inner nature, but I didn’t need to complicate matters more than they were, and the reason I’d done so well was down to my mind being unfettered by arbitrary restrictions to my behaviour.

“Mum, Oscar Wilde spent a long time in prison because he refused to live the way society tried to force him to. He wrote something that is often quoted in part these days. Do you mind if I share it with you?”

She shrugged uncertainly.

“Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live,” I said recalling the full quote from memory. It had featured in several of my more heartfelt essays. “It is asking others to live as one wishes to live. And unselfishness is letting other people's lives alone, not interfering with them. Selfishness always aims at creating around it an absolute uniformity of type. Unselfishness recognizes infinite variety of type as a delightful thing, accepts it, acquiesces in it, enjoys it. It is not selfish to think for oneself. A man who does not think for himself does not think at all.

“It is grossly selfish to require of one's neighbour that he should think in the same way, and hold the same opinions. Why should he? If he can think, he will probably think differently. If he cannot think, it is monstrous to require thought of any kind from him. A red rose is not selfish because it wants to be a red rose, bit it would be horribly selfish if it wanted all the other flowers in the garden to be both red and roses.”

“You’re trying to confuse me.”

“No Mum, I'm trying to help you understand. You believe what you believe because it’s been rammed down your throat for so long there’s no room for you to form your own opinions.

“Mum, I love you and I want you in my life, but not on his terms. Maybe not on your terms if you insist on sharing them with him.

“I don’t know what drove you to take those pills today, but I’m hoping it’s because something inside you is challenging the way you are, but take it from one who knows, there are better options than killing yourself. If you really feel you can’t stand to carry on living with things the way they are, if you don’t like the way your life is going, then change it, don’t end it! If you don’t like the way people are treating you, ask yourself whether it’s you or them that’s at fault. If it’s you, change yourself; get help if you need to. If it’s them, get away from them.”

“Is that what you did with me?”

“Mum, if you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it’s not going to work. Yes, that is what I did with you, but only after you told a judge you were going to support me then did the exact opposite the moment we were out of the courtroom.

“You gave birth to me, but that doesn’t give you the right to define me. You said you’d accept me and love me even if I had a few minor defects. Guess what Mum, I have a few minor defects and this could be considered one of them, from your perspective at least, and his. You want me to be a part of your life, I’m here and more than willing, but this is the me you’re going to get.”

“What if I can’t accept that? What if the only way I can feel right again is if I have my Max back?”

“I’m right here, Mum. Same person, just different packaging and a hell of a lot happier for it.”

“Yes but...”

“If this is all about trying to turn me back into what I was, then I can’t help you. I can’t live like that. I think I pretty much showed you.”

“And I can’t live with you like this.”

“If I’d succeeded in killing myself, you wouldn’t have had Max in any form. Isn’t this better than that?”

“Yes, but...”

“If you were to manipulate me back into being my old self, I don’t know how long it would take before I started looking for bottles of pills or razor blades, but it would come eventually.

“Mum, I don’t know why you did this to yourself. Only you can answer that and I beg you to answer yourself honestly. If you’re genuinely depressed enough to want to end your life, try and understand why. Get help and see if there isn’t a way out of it that doesn’t involve destroying your only child. If it’s a cry for help, then I heard and I’m here, but like I said, this is the me that’s here, and you know, I think you’ll really like me when you get to know me.

“If this is an attempt to manipulate me though, I’m not sure anyone can help you, least of all me. I’m here now like this, but if it isn’t enough, I could always go.”

“No. Please stay. I do want you here, and I will accept you no matter what.” She glanced out the room at the ongoing argument, now with three nurses working alongside Peter to try and defuse it. From the looks of it, security would be involved soon, then at least we’d have some peace and quiet. “Tell me about yourself. What’s been happening in your life over these last four and a bit years.”

So I did. I told stories about Peter and Paul, how they were constantly bickering, but in a way that revealed how much they cared for each other. I told her about my room and the stack of clothes and toys they’d bought me even before they had found out about Uncle Gerald’s legacy. I told her of the bigger room I had in Gerald’s old house and how I was helping Paul in the garden.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in gardening,” Mum said.

“No, neither did I, but I love all the different types of flower there are and how they can make the whole place look beautiful and different throughout the year. I kind of discovered a love for it once I wasn’t always looking inwards only at my own problems.”

Security arrived. We watched as Mike and Paul were escorted away, still sniping at each other. The nurses explained that Peter had been trying to calm things down so he was permitted to stay. He found a seat and a not dreadfully out of date magazine and sat down to wait.

“Oh dear,” Mum said, watching her husband’s departure.

“I’d have thought you’d be used to that by now.”

“Not really. He usually gets his own way.”

“That’s often the way with loud, obnoxious people. It’s generally easier to give in to them than to keep fighting.”

She looked at me as though I were something utterly alien.

“When did you grow so wise?”

“It’s like I’ve been trying to tell you Mum. This all changed the day I became a girl.”

“You haven’t...” She looked at me with sudden shock.

“No, Mum. The law is clear on what’s allowed at what age. Up until a few weeks ago I was only on the blockers. You know, the drugs the judge told you to get for me. I had the option to start taking female hormones on my sixteenth birthday, but Peter persuaded me to hold off until after my exams, so I only started on those a few weeks ago.

“He was right too. I’ve been feeling quite a bit more emotional since I started on them. I definitely think they would have affected my performance.”

“So what do you mean, since you became a girl?”

“I mean I’ve been living full time as a girl since I moved in with Peter and Paul.”

“Whenever you say their names like that it makes me think of that nursery rhyme. You know the one?”

“Two little dickie birds sitting on a wall?”

“That’s the one. I’m surprised you remember it.”

“It’s amazing what you dredge up from the back of your mind when you’re babysitting a grizzly toddler and looking for ways to distract him.”

“You babysit?”

“For our neighbours three doors down to the left. Every now and then they look a bit frazzled and in need of a night out. Jasper’s a cutie, but he doesn’t sleep that well. The dads only let me offer on Fridays and Saturdays because apparently I get a bit frazzled myself after just one night, and that wouldn’t work on a school night.”

“Do they know about, erm...?”

“My unwanted extra under the skirt? Yeah, I figured it was only fair they should know what they were getting before they agreed.”

“And they don’t mind?”

“Not everyone’s as blinkered as you and your husband, Mum.”

“I wish you wouldn’t...”

“Mum, the way he treated me, he was never my dad. I have two dad's now who show me how he should have been.”

“I bet they spoil you rotten.”

“You’d lose the bet most days, Mum. They love me to bits, but they don’t let me get away with much. Paul hates bad language, except on the rare occasions it’s deserved apparently, and he has very clear ideas on how a young lady should behave.”

“But he’s a man, and he’s gay!”

“So? He says if I have to be a girl, then I’m going to be the best girl I can possibly be. You know they enrolled me in a private girls’ school? Peter knows the headmistress and she offered him a deal. It’s still wicked expensive though.”

“Well, I’m sure they can afford it with Uncle Gerald’s money, and I begin to understand why you’re so keen on pretending to be a girl.”

“Firstly, they arranged the schooling before they knew anything about the inheritance, so you don’t get to dis them like that. They were ready to sacrifice their holiday plans for me.

“Secondly, it’s not pretend and it’s not what you think. Well, maybe a bit, but not for the reasons you think. I get on better with girls, I always have. And I don’t think about them in that way.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes I’m sure. I mean I’ve never had an erection because the drugs kind of stop me from producing any testosterone, so my man bits aren’t developed. Any kind of instinctive attraction of that sort just doesn’t happen.

“That being said, a few of my friends are, you know, kind of experimental? I mean no boys in an all girls school, so why not take the opportunity to explore? One or two of my friends did kind of offer, and I suppose I was curious.”

“Did they know they were kissing a boy?”

“They weren’t. Mum, how many times do I have to tell you I’m not a boy.”

“You just said you still have your boy bits.”

“Which don’t function properly, largely because I don’t want them to and I’ve been taking drugs to make sure they don’t.”

“So, tell me what it felt like to kiss a girl?”

“It was kind of soft and sweet, which was nice, but it wasn’t like kissing a boy.”

“You kissed a boy? When? Where? Why?”

“At the prom, at the prom and because I wanted to.”

“What?”

“The girls’ school holds a joint leaver’s prom with the boys’ school. The two schools invite senior students over to plan the prom once all the GCSEs are over. You don’t have to get involved, certainly not to all the time, but how else are you going to meet someone to go with to the dance?

“Blain was the hooker on their school rugby team. As I understand it, that means he’s the guy who tries to hook the ball out of the scrum, hence the name – nothing to do with prostitution I’m sure you’ll be glad to know. He was smaller than the other guys on the team, which was cool ‘cos I’m small too, and he’s fast and nimble which means he still has all his teeth and no broken nose or cauliflower ears.”

“Did he know about you?”

“Mum, it was a school prom, not a commitment to a lifelong partnership. It turned out neither of us intended to make it last more than the one evening. I had my plans to let him down easy at the end of the dance, but he got there first.”

“Just as well! What if he'd found you out?”

“Not much chance of that, Mum. There’s not much to find, and like I said earlier, it tucks away quite neatly when I take the time.

“So yeah, he asked me to the dance, and Paul bought me this gorgeous dress. I mean there was no way anyone was even vaguely going to suspect I wasn’t all girl dressed like that. Even the friends I’d told about me shook their heads in disbelief when Blain and I made our entrance.

“So, we danced the night away, then the music turned real slow and I kind of melted into his arms, and after the last dance, he cupped my cheek in his hand and pulled me gently into this kiss.

“It was purest magic, Mum. I kind of melted all the way through. Nothing like with Jules or Ali. I felt in control with them, like it was, you know, ‘so, let’s try it and see what it’s like. Mmn, not bad,’ kind of thing. But with Blain it was like floating away on a cloud.

“Until he was done. Then he said something like, ‘it’s been great, Abri, but I have to go.’

“I don’t know if he was trying to get a rise out of me, but I wasn’t about to let him. It was a bit of a shock, but I shook it off and said, ‘okay, bye then,’ in an offhand way and went to find my friends.

“I think that upset him a bit, but that was kind of his own lookout, don't you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. My son kissing a boy. Does that mean you’re like Peter?”

“No Mum, because Peter’s a guy who likes other guys. I’m a girl who happened to be in the wrong queue when they were handing out body parts. I’m not into girls, ‘cos that would make me like Lily and Pam, assuming they are actually like that and not just messed up by their mum.”

“Max!”

“Abri, Mum. Abrielle if you must.”

“I can’t call you that, sweetheart.”

“Well I’m not going to keep responding to Max, so we’d better sort something out. What were you going to call me if I’d been born a girl?”

“It never came up. Your dad wanted to know what we were having from the ultrasound.”

“And I suppose whenever he wants something, he doesn’t give in until he gets it.”

“He’s nothing if not persistent, your dad.”

“He’s not my dad, Mum. My biological parent maybe, but he gave up his right to be my dad nearly five years ago.”

“Do you think the same about me?”

“Yes,” I snapped, but then I was frustrated and angry at how little progress I was making.

“Oh my God!” she sobbed.

Okay, so maybe a little too abrupt. She was in a delicate state after all. I couldn’t really take it back, but maybe...

“The thing I’m trying to decide right now is whether you want to earn that right back.”

“Of course I do! I thought that should be obvious.”

“Why? Because you swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills?

“Mum, I love you and I don’t want you to die, but I’m not about to give you everything you want because you threatened to end your life. What I’m trying to figure out right now is whether you want to be a part of my life – this life,” I indicated my very pink and girly self, “or whether you’re still trying to manipulate me back into being ‘your Max.’”

“Do you really think so little of me?”

“Says the person who listened to the advice of both medical and legal professionals about what was best for me and still chose to disregard it.”

“...”

“Says the person who’s been talking to me for, I don’t know how long I’ve been here and still refuses to accept I’m a girl.”

“How have I done that?”

“You keep calling me Max. You say I’m pretending to be a girl. You imply that the reason I’m doing so is so I can go to a girls’ school and have my wicked manly way with all the girls there. You fully expect me to have had a snugglefest with some of the girls and you’re okay with that, yet you’re shocked and outraged that I should be intimate with a cute guy – he really was cute, Mum. You accuse me of being a gay bloke because of that. Do I need to go on?

“You asked about my life and I’ve shared it with you. I haven’t deliberately tried to go over the top with the ‘hey look, I’m a girl now’ thing, but it’s all I've been for the past four and a half years, so I haven’t had much else to talk about and it’s like you have deliberately refused to acknowledge any of it.”

“Max...”

“Abri.”

“You have to understand, this is difficult for me.”

“Me too, Mum, because I can’t go back to the way things were. You have to give me something, some indication that you can adapt to this change in me.”

“Laura.” She said it so quietly I barely heard it. “I would have called you Laura.”

I squeezed her hand. “All my documentation has me named Abrielle Lassiter, but there’s room for a middle name. I could add it if you like, and I don’t mind if you call me Laura.”

“Did you hate us so much that you didn’t even keep your family name?”

“Not hate, Mum. It was kind of a way of marking the start of my new life. Besides, Lassiter is still the family name. Just not his. It makes it easier that my name matches Peter’s, and it is your maiden name too. Maybe there is some distaste in there because I want as little as possible to do with Mike Baxter.”

“I see him in your stubbornness you know?”

“I suppose it’s not so surprising that I should inherit something from him. I can live with stubborn.”

“Laura?”

“Yes Mum?”

“I don’t know. I was just trying it out. Laura Lassiter is a bit...”

“Alliterative?”

She smiled, but with a tinge of sadness. “I never expected you to turn out this bright, you know? That sounds like a dreadful thing to say about your own child, doesn’t it, but you learn to be pragmatic about your children, and Max always seemed a little...”

“Preoccupied?”

“I don’t know if that’s quite the word I was looking for, but it’s close enough. The Max I remember never had that sort of vocabulary, or even the potential for it.”

“Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you for... gaah! Is it enough for you to believe that I’m better off like this?”

“I don’t know. I always believed doing this sort of thing was wrong.”

“Because that’s what your dad always said. Most likely what your husband said too.”

“It was one of the reasons I agreed to marry him. You know, we both believed in the same sort of thing?”

“I wonder if you did though. I mean I get that you agreed with granddad. It’s kind of built into us girls to want to please our dads, isn’t it?”

“How do you see that working for you? I mean after the way you've been talking about your father?”

“Well, like I say, he’s only my father in a biological sense, and he never saw me as his daughter, so it doesn’t apply at all. Peter’s the one I really think of as my dad and I know he sees me as his little girl, so it definitely works with him. Sort of the same with Paul, but to a lesser extend because he’s a lot more feminine.”

“He was the one who picked a fight with your... with Mike just now.”

“Yes, but only a verbal fight and only because he felt safe with Peter there.”

“He would have made an impressive woman, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, but he also makes an impressive gay man, as long as you're okay with that sort of thing.”

“You know, the more I listen to you, the more I begin to wonder.”

“That’s all I’m hoping for.”

“Well, don’t expect it to happen all at once.”

“Hardly, Mum. Just as long as it happens. As long as you’re committed to the journey I’ll be by your side.”

“What about your dad?”

“You mean Mike? I don’t see him changing, or granddad. I’d offer them the same as I’m offering you, but they’d have to show some sign of being prepared to change.”

“No, you’re right. I don’t see that happening.”

“Which puts you in a situation not so different from mine all those years ago. I mean you don’t have the same need to change the way you are, so you probably won’t necessarily have to get away from them, but you will need to find a way to hold onto any newness in the way you see me. I’m guessing they'll try to change you back to their way of thinking, so you’re going to have to come up with a way of dealing with them.”

“I don’t know how I would do that.”

“Well Mum, I’m afraid that’s for you to figure out, because only you know what consequences you’re prepared to live with.”

“Consequences?”

“Like whether you’re ready and willing to disagree openly on your opinion of me with your husband or your dad, or whether it would be better to keep that sort of thing hidden from them. How you deal with their finding out is another matter. Whether it would be better for you to capitulate with them or to escape from them.”

“Do you think it might come to that?”

“I don’t know, Mum. It took me a lot of heartache and soul searching before I decided to distance myself from you and... him. Less so with him, but...”

“I really did mess this up, didn’t I?”

“You were in an impossible situation, Mum, the same as me. When you’re in the middle of a mess like that, just finding a way out is an achievement.

“The nurses have been giving us looks for the past few minutes, and I have been here quite a while. I think I should let you have some rest.”

“Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about. Will you visit me again?”

“Of course, though I don’t know how long they’ll keep you here. I’ll leave my mobile number with the nurse’s station. You let me know when and where and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you Laura.”

“Thank you too, Mum.” I leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek, then left her touching the spot with a vaguely surprised expression on her face.

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 9

It didn’t take long to leave the number, with explicit instructions to give it to Mum and definitely not the arsehole. The nurse who took it from me assured me there was no chance of her making that mistake.

That done, Peter and I left the ward with one last smile and wave in Mum’s direction.

“I wouldn’t be doing my dad duty if I didn’t tell you to be careful about her.” Peter only spoke once we were at the lift.

“I wouldn’t be doing my daughter duty if I didn’t listen to you. It’s okay, Dad, I want to help her, but there’s only so far I’m prepared to go.”

“I forget how wise a head you have on your shoulders.”

“It’s kind of a mess at times, and I get the impression the hormones aren’t going to help.”

“You don’t have to take them.”

“Yes I do.”

“Yes. I suppose you do. Overall, nothing too bad yet?”

“Itchy chest. Unless Paul’s changed the detergent he uses?”

“Not as far as I know. You’re okay with all the emotional rollercoaster thing.”

I shrugged. “Actually enjoying it more than anything. It’s a wild ride at times, but then the same can be said for rollercoasters, and I love those. Or maybe I should say used to love. I haven’t been on one since I started using the patches. Maybe be a little too much to cope with right now.”

“Never know until you try.”

We reached the foyer where Mike and Paul were glowering at each other from a distance. Paul’s expression had a hint of smugness behind the anger.

Peter leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, probably more to get a rise out of Mike than anything.

“How did it go?” Paul asked us.

“Better than it might have if he’d stayed outside the door, so thank you.” I reached in to kiss him on the other cheek. That was enough to cause Mike to turn away in disgust.

“Can we visit again soon?” I asked Peter, probably a little late since it would have been easier to arrange while we were on the ward.

“That might be problematic,” he answered. “I had a word with the nurses while you were having your chat and it seems like Mike was already making arrangements to have her released.”

“He probably doesn’t want to risk making the same mistake he did with me.”

“Maybe. Or it may simply be that this hospital is a long way from their home, same as us. He can’t easily visit here, so it’s simpler to bring her home.”

“And leave her on her own while he’s at work.”

“Again, maybe, but maybe he’s making arrangements for her to be looked after at home.”

“Can we make sure?”

“I doubt Mike’s going to accept any interference from us. Paul hasn’t done much to promote positive relations between us, and neither of us helped just now.

“You left your mobile number with her just now. If she needs our help, she'll be in touch .”

“I suppose.” I didn’t like it, but I had little enough choice on the matter.

We found a taxi easily enough and headed back to the pub. Peter ordered room service, which meant I could enjoy a glass of wine with my meal. Max wasn’t too keen, and if I were going to be honest, my younger taste buds hadn’t adapted as much as I’d hoped. Still it left us with a gentle buzz, which meant that the early bedtime led rapidly enough to sleep.

Morning, with a breakfast of scrambled egg on toast, left us all awake and alert enough for the drive home. It was lengthy, but without incident, unless you counted the text that appeared on my phone just as we were pulling up on the drive.

“Mum’s asked to meet up,” I said once the engine was off. “She says she’s home, but would love it if we could meet up in the park near theirs anytime I like.”

“That would mean a couple of hours’ drive, Abri. I don’t know when I’d find the time to do that.”

“I could take the train.”

“Not on your own sweetheart. I don’t trust them.”

“Paul could come.”

“Paul has a life of his own.

“Leave it for now. We’ll talk about what’s possible once we've had a rest. Maybe next weekend if she can get away from her jailer.”

“That’s not very nice.” Paul standing up for Mike of all things? “I know one or two people in the prison services and they’re not at all like him.” Okay, so maybe not.

“Can I text her and ask?”

“If you like,” Paul sniffed. “Try not to be too obvious in case Little Hitler is screening her communications.”

I gave it some thought. ‘Do you know when the park’s open over the weekend?’ Not the most imaginative of questions since I already knew, but it had been some years.

My phone beeped. ‘Usually until sunset. If you remember, I like to feed the ducks around four on Sunday.’

The lake was just next to the play area. Sunday afternoon used to involve a short walk and a longish play if I wanted, as long as I could show I’d finished my homework.

They hired rowing boats from the north shore, and the playground was on the south, which gave us a safe way to approach.

‘I’ve often wondered what playing on those swings would be like in a skirt,’ I sent back. ‘No promises, but maybe next Sunday.’

That was all I could do. A week was a long time to wait, especially given what she’d been through, but it would have to do. Besides, as Peter had said, there was no guarantee she was being honest.

I helped Paul with dinner. Something light since the pub food hadn’t been great for any of our figures, then we found a family film to watch with me snuggling up between the dads. I’m not sure how much they minded, but they seemed happy enough to make it a three way snuggle.

Peter was back to rehearsing for his next show the following morning, while Paul settled back into his normal routine at home. A lot of that meant keeping the house tidy and being available for me should the need arise. The combination of those two meant I ended up with the lioness’s share of the household chores (have you ever noticed how they do ALL the hard work in the pride) leaving Paul to focus on things only he could do.

I didn’t mind. He’d put so much of his life on hold for my sake over the previous four and a bit years, it only felt right I should pay something back.

That was an area where Max and I didn’t quite meet eye to eye. I mean he was grateful for all the kindness and effort the dads had shown us, and he wanted to give something back, but his limit was considerably lower than mine.

I had my own plans, but they could wait until the end of the summer. I hadn’t received any replies from the organisations I hoped to work with , so I had time to spare.

It wasn’t all child slavery. There were a lot of things we did together, like the garden, which was loads of funs, and doing what we could to keep the neighbours happy and pro us. Plus he’d offer little incentives and rewards, usually of the retail therapy variety.

The drugs began to kick in during that week. I noticed myself growing for one thing, and my body started changing shape for another. Every morning I’d look in the mirror and search for even the slightest hint of change. The acne wasn’t welcome but it was manageable. My skin was already child soft, but it became girl soft with subtle changes to the distribution of my weight. My boobs were definitely growing, though not significantly in just a week. I still made use of the chicken fillets Paul had put into my wedding outfit. They augmented my appearance in a pleasing manner, but I was definitely heading towards the stage when my cleavage would soon be all my own.

By the time the weekend came round I could see the changes beginning to form. Most of it more of the same: fuller lips, thicker hair, subtle changes to the shape of my face which looked less child-like and more... well, it’s overused in TG circles, but nothing else would fit... more feminine.

The changes to my body were less obvious, but they were there to see if you looked for them.

I’d worried about this stage a little. I knew there had been the possibility that my body wouldn’t respond so well to the female hormones, that I might lose my hair, that the changes would be minimal. There were long term health issues to worry about like blood clots, but my doctor had suggested hormone cream or patches over pills because the risk was less. I was still happy with the way the patches were working out.

For now, it seemed that the absence of testosterone in my system meant there was no clash between opposing hormones, and my body simply set about growing me into adulthood with the building blocks it had available.

My male bits shrivelled until it became easier and less uncomfortable to tuck them away, so by the following weekend I felt confident enough to appear in public in quite short skirts. Nothing scandalous, but no longer than halfway down my thighs.

Sunday saw me in a short denim skirt and white cotton gypsy top. Lots of smooth skin on show – still showing a fair amount of tan courtesy of the holiday as well as some very girly tan lines from my swimming costume. Best of all was how gloriously cool everything felt in the summer heat. The bra was a necessary evil and I suspected always would be. For now it held those pieces of silicone gel tucked under the existing and gradually expanding soft flesh on my chest.

Paul gave me a delighted smile when I came downstairs for breakfast. My gestures had become naturally girly over my years at the girls’ school, and I felt myself slotting ever more completely into my life. There was so little to remind me where I had come from.

“There’s my little angel,” he said, causing Peter to look up from his paper. He smiled indulgently.

I dipped my head, embarrassed by the attention. A curtain of long honey blonde hair slid in front of my reddening face. It was naturally a sort of mousey colour, but the dads had finally permitted me to dye it, and I was delighted with the results.

“One more thing we’re going to have to pay for on a regular basis,” Peter teased. “Honestly, if we’d had any idea how much you were going to cost when you came into our lives...”

“Then we’d have done it anyway,” Paul said. “Pancakes?”

I nodded, brushing the hair out of my face. Sunday was the one day of the week we permitted ourselves a day off from the ‘fight against flab’ as Paul called it. Not so much an issue for Peter and me. Him because he burned off so many calories at rehearsal every day, me because I had the appetite of a mouse, but we showed solidarity most days.

“Peter and I thought you might like to go for a drive after lunch. There’s a park a couple of hours away from here with a boating lake.”

I smiled. All teeth and sheer delight. “I’ll text Mum, just in case she has other plans,” I said, reaching for teenage accessory number one.

“There are a few things I’d like to get from the shops this morning. We can leave the lord of the manor to his newspaper if he doesn’t mind us taking the car.”

By way of response, Peter threw the keys across from where he was sitting. Paul caught them easily and placed a small pancake in front of me. The size was my choice. If it had been any larger, I’d have left most of it.

I settled into the passenger seat and looked wistfully over at the steering wheel as Paul started the car. He gave me an understanding smile.

“Soon, Abrielle. You’ll be seventeen again soon enough. I take it you’d like driving lessons for your birthday next year?”

I smiled at him. I loved the way he read me so easily.

“How would you feel about me having a small motor scooter?”

“Less happy. I have no doubt you’ll be safe on it, but there are thousands of idiots out there who wouldn’t be as thoughtful. It would only take one accident. Maybe you wouldn’t die, but you’d almost certainly be left with some permanent scarring. Do you think that would be worth it?”

He was right. As Gerald, my time on motorcycles had been brief, but it had involved several minor prangs. Ice, oil, idiots speeding past badly parked lorries. No permanent damage, but it could easily have happened. I looked down into my lap.

“A few months on public transport won’t hurt. If you like, we can get you a provisional licence and get you through the theory test over the summer, then it’ll depend on how quickly you can impress your instructor.”

“You know, given how great you are with kids, Paul, you should think about teaching.”

“Good God, no! Whatever made you think I was that much of a masochist?”

“You put up with me.”

“And you are a very rare delight, sweetheart. Too many of the kids you come across these days are like Lily and Pam; spoilt, selfish and in many cases sadistic.” We arrived at the local shopping centre and parked. “I did have an ulterior motive in asking you to come out with me today though. Follow me.”

He led me to a small jewellery shop where, a couple of sharp stabs later, I came out with a some cute little silver dolphin studs pinned to my earlobes.

Just being out and about was a pleasure. Something I’d been doing for years now, but somehow this felt different. Eyes turned my way. Hungry eyes belonging to boys my age, envious eyes belonging to their girlfriends, smiling eyes that drew out the smile inside me from almost everyone else. For over four years now, I’d been a girl. Small, mousey, invisible. Now I was turning into a pretty girl. Partly from my effort with the hair and clothes and pectoral augmentation, but also to an increasingly large extent, from the hormones flooding my bloodstream. They left me feeling soft and sweet as much as they were turning me into much the same. Every small change, the gentle pinch of the new studs in my ears included, reminded me I was a girl. Every admiring glance I received boosted my confidence and self worth. The studs had come with a slim, silver necklace with matching dolphin pendant, which Paul had paid for without comment. I think the delicacy of it more than anything delighted me. As Gerald, I’d offered up some of Karen’s finer jewellery to my neck, but it had contrasted too much. As fragile and graceful as the necklaces were, they only served to show how oversized and clumsy I was. Now the slender elegance of the silver chain enhanced my own dainty features. The phrase 'high on life' sprang to mind and I wondered how soon I’d come down from it.

Not too soon, I hoped.

The rest of the shopping was drudge work, but I swept through it on a wave of natural endorphins. Back home Peter made appropriate comments about my new adornments before I tied myself into an apron and set about peeling and chopping vegetables for lunch.

We were done and fed by one thirty. Mum had responded to my text with a thumbs up and a smiley face. Emojis seemed out of character for her, which put me on my guard, but not enough to change my mind about going.

We parked at the north end of the park and hired a rowboat for a couple of hours. Paul and I sat back to watch with some admiration – and maybe avarice on Paul’s part – how his muscular body made easy work of rowing us across the lake.

I spotted Mum when we were halfway across. She didn’t look particularly happy. On the one hand, unsurprising since she’d attempted to take her own life a week ago. On the other hand, she’d been eager to see me again, so shouldn’t that factor in?

If I’d voiced my concerns Peter would probably have just turned around, so I kept my worries to myself.

“Stay close?” I asked as I stepped ashore on the south bank of the lake.

“Sure,” Peter said, holding my hand till I was safely on land.

I approached the bench where Mum was sitting. She looked up, but there was no happiness there.

“Mum? Are you okay?” I asked, settling onto the bench beside her.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she said.

I’ve never been a fan of clichés, but it really did feel like the blood turned to ice in my veins. A large figure settled a little too close beside me on the other side. I breathed in the sickly sweet smell of too little deodorant losing a battle against too much perspiration. I wanted to run, but terror paralysed me.

“Alright you fucking little shit,” Mike growled in my ear, “let’s see you get out of this.”

I swallowed twice, fighting for some measure of control. “You know, the injunction’s still in effect, don’t you?” I managed to squeak out.

“Oh, I’m just out for a walk with the missus,” he said. “What judge is going to believe you didn’t approach us?”

“I suppose it depends on what you choose to do next...”

“What makes you think I’m going to do anything other than sit here and enjoy the view?”

“Past experience?” I don’t know where I found the courage to answer him back like that, but it seemed even a minor act of defiance was enough to start the fear draining from me. I caught sight of the brief flash of temper behind his eyes and felt the cold terror rising again. I needed to be cautious.

I looked around for Peter and Paul and found them still in the rowing boat talking to a park warden.

“I figured you’d bring your bodyguards with you,” Mike said when he noticed where I was looking. “You know how easy it is to get hold of a uniform like that?”

I looked again. The warden looked vaguely familiar. It had been nearly five years ago, but I wasn’t about to forget the bunch of goons Mike had brought with him when he’d first tried to take me back.

“The thing is,” he continued, evidently enjoying his moment to brag, “when you have a uniform on, you can say pretty much whatever you like and most people will believe you. Your dads, I think you call them, are currently being told that they can’t land their boat there.”

And by the looks of them, they were believing what they were told.

“What do you plan to do?”

“Oh, just what I said: Sit here with my darling wife for a while, then leave. If I were you, I’d worry about what my cousins were planning.”

“I thought they’d still be on their honeymoons.”

“You think they went on honeymoon after that shit show you pulled?”

Actually I had. “What happened?”

He laughed, not in a nice way. “Their blushing brides decided they didn’t want anything more to do with them after all that unpleasantness. They snuck out of the hotel and ran off together. Fucking lesbians eh?”

“That’s not funny,” I said primly. I made to stand up, but a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. I knew it would be pointless to fight so I settled back onto the bench.

“That's right, you little shit. Just sit back and wait. It won’t be long.”

I felt more than heard a sob from Mum and reached surreptitiously for her hand, giving it a squeeze. She squeezed back almost desperately.

“What makes you think you’ll get away with this?” I wanted to sound defiant, but I could hear the tremor in my voice.

From the quiet chuckle in his voice and the tightening squeeze from Mum’s hand, we all could.

“Look around you, sweetie,” he snarled the term of endearment. “No-one’s looking at us. Not even your dads?”

I looked out into the lake and found Peter and Paul rowing towards the north bank. Paul glanced back from time to time, but he was already too far away for me to make out any details in his expression.

“As far as anyone knows we’re just like any other happy family here.”

“What do you think would happen if I were to scream?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. You’d probably be able to get away, but your mummy wouldn’t. She’d still be with me tomorrow morning, and what, with her being in a suicidal state the other day, I have to wonder what she might try.”

Mum shuddered beside me.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “I haven’t done anything to hurt you, and Mum definitely hasn’t.”

“Oh, is that so? What you’re doing right now, sitting there in that fucking dress, turns my stomach. Then both you and your Mum pull this shit with the pills to try and make me feel sorry for you. You are a fucking boy, Max, and you should fucking well accept that.”

I wanted to argue, but I remembered the anger in his eyes. I didn’t want to tempt bringing that all the way to the surface.

Then again, if I could drag this out... Peter was rowing like his life depended on it, which... maybe not his life. How long would it take him to get back to the jetty and run back here? We thought we’d been so clever using the rowing boat. Chance of scoping out the area safely, only Mike had kept hidden until I'd stepped off the boat and settled next to my mother, and he’d come up with the plan of how to use it against us.

“Well, one of us is wrong...”

“Yes, you are.”

“I was going to say that we’re stuck in a Mexican standoff. We both think we’re right. Neither of us is prepared to give in to the other. Which means we have two options. Either we agree on an independent third party to decide which of us is right – an option which could well switch the focus of the argument – or we could agree to stay out of each other’s lives like we’ve been doing these last few years. I don’t know about you, but that’s been working out quite well for me.”

“Yeah, well not so well for us. Your mum won’t stop fucking moping about her lost little boy, and even when you’re not around I can’t help thinking about how you shamed me, so I think we’ll go for option three.”

“Which is?”

“You accept that your father knows what’s best for you and do what I say. You stop taking those fucking pills and go back to being our son.”

“Well, I don’t know how you plan to pull that off. If the last few years show anything it’s that the law protects people like me from people like you.”

“British law maybe, but I’ve just been offered a contract out in Saudi Arabia, and you and your mum are coming with me. You know what they do to poofs out there, don’t you?”

I had a fair idea and it was definitely not something I wanted to experience first hand. As far as I knew, Saudi had no official laws against LGBTQ people, but they weren’t tolerated. I remembered researching an essay in which I’d read of several incidents where transwomen had been arrested and beaten severely with clubs and hosepipes, on occasions to death. Looking as I did, even dressed in male clothes, I was likely to end up on someone’s radar.

“You realise what a fuckload of trouble you’ll be in when you get caught?” I asked.

“Better make sure I’m not caught then, hadn’t I? Right, that’s our signal. Time to go.” He stood up, grabbing my upper arm in his massive hand. Well massive to me, but then everything was.

Mum stood up without any prompting. I glanced over at her. Everything about her stance spoke of defeat. The way her shoulders slumped, the way her head hung bowed, the expression on her face, everything.

“We don’t have to go with him, Mum.”

“I’m sorry dear, he’s my husband. I made a vow.”

“Which I’m sure no-one’s going to hold you to given the sort of person he is.”

“No darling, it doesn’t work like that.”

“No, it works like this,” Mike said through teeth gritted into an artificial grin. “You come with us to that van over there, or the next time you’ll hear anything about your mother, the news will be worse than last time. You get my drift?”

I couldn’t leave her with him and the dads wouldn’t get to us in time. If I struggled, he’d probably do the dad with a naughty daughter routine and I was small enough that he’d probably get away with it. I didn’t like it, but I was, stuck with doing things his way for now.

I slipped a hand surreptitiously into my handbag and triple pressed the power button my phone. It vibrated in my fingers, telling me it was doing as I wanted.

“So, what made you decide on Saudi Arabia?” I asked, more for the dads’ benefit than anything. “Is the Middle East the only place you can find a country full of bigots like you?”

“Shut your fucking trap and head for that van.”

“Which one?”

“The fucking white one, dick.”

No dicks here, or at least nothing to speak about.

“Which white one? Do you mean...” I reeled off the number plate on the closest one ahead of us.

He gave me a sharp look and stuck his hand in my bag, fishing out the mobile. It was locked and showing nothing, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Think you're fucking clever, don’t you? Well you fucking ain’t.”

He tossed the phone into a nearby bush and dragged me the last few yards to the van.

The doors opened to reveal Lily and Pam. Their smiles were not welcoming. They grabbed me and hauled me on board. I couldn’t resist them any more than I could my father.

“Make it quick,” he told them. “The little fuck used his phone somehow without my seeing.”

He slammed the door. I was vaguely aware when the van pulled out, but a little more preoccupied with what the twins were doing. One of them was undressing me from the feet up while the other had a battery powered hair trimmer which she used to attack my hair.

I gave up struggling once she’d mowed off the first strip and waved it in my face. The damage was done. Whatever else she did, I wasn’t going to keep the last five years of growth.

I felt a tugging at my skirt as the other twin cut it from hem to waistband.

“Leave the underwear,” the first said. “If they make him strip at the airport it’ll just mean he’ll get his first beating sooner.”

She made quick work of the rest of my hair leaving me with a full buzz cut. No frills, but that was part of the idea, I suspected. The scissors made short work of my tee-shirt and they sat back to survey their handiwork, laughing openly at me, the androgynous boy with the shaved head in his knickers and bra.

They threw a pair of shorts at me along with a spiderman tee-shirt and a pair of flip flops. Appropriate clothing for the summer with nothing saying little boy like a spiderman tee-shirt.

“He still looks like a girl,” one of them said. Pam I think. She tended to dye her hair darker.

“Yeah,” Lily said. “The bra’s padded. We’d better get rid of it.” She flourished her scissors.

I reached behind myself and unhooked it through my tee-shirt, pulling the straps through my sleeves and reaching up under the front of the shirt to remove it along with the silicone enhancement. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to preserve the bra for any reason – I fully expected to lose it – but I didn’t trust Lily with those scissors.

“He even moves like a girl,” Pam scoffed.

“Yeah, and just getting rid of the bra doesn’t do much for his appearance. Is he wearing makeup?”

“Yeah. Let’s sort that out.”

Several cotton wipes with one of the many options on creamy goo for removing the small amount of makeup I was wearing came and went. The van slowed to a stop just as they were finishing with the last. They surveyed their efforts just as the back door swung open.

“Fucking hell, is that the best you can do?”

“You didn’t give us much to work with, Uncle Mike. I challenge anyone to do better.”

“Fuck, it’ll have to do. Come here you fucking prick, we need to go.”

I’m sure I mentioned something about the absence of prick.

Max wasn’t too keen on my dark sense of humour, but then he was turning into a gibbering wreck with the way things were falling apart.

‘Hang in there,’ I told him. It was rare I spoke to him directly these days. ‘Everything’s going to be alright.’

‘How? How is anything going to be alright?’

‘The dads know what’s happening to us. This van’s registration...’

‘Which we’re about to abandon.’

‘But it will serve as proof that we’ve been abducted, and the dads know where the arsehole’s taking us. They’ll follow. It may take a while, but they’ll follow.’

Mike grabbed our – my – arm and pulled me out of the van. “You’d better fuck off,” he said to the twins. “I’m guessing the boys in blue will be looking for this van.”

“Where are we?” Pam (I think) asked.

“Just round the corner from where I picked you up. The carpark you used should be down that way and turn left.” He pointed with his free hand.

“You pay us what you agreed,” Lily said.

“Fuck, of course! When we get to Jeddah.”

“No. I want it now. It’ll be impossible to chase you up when you’re in the land of the terminally oppressed.”

“Fuck! Well I’m not hanging about. You want it now, one of you fucking come with us.”

The twins exchanged a brief glance before Pam headed off to fetch the car and Lilly joined us down a narrow lane, which led onto a wider road where a red saloon sat parked next to an expired parking metre – assuming anyone had bothered putting any money into it in the first place.

Mike removed a handful of parking tickets from the windscreen and dropped them in the gutter.

Mum and I were bundled in the back while Lily and Mike sat up front. My appearance shocked Mum out of her depression, but seemed to push her into a fugue state instead. There was a blankness to her expression, and she didn’t respond when I tried speaking to her or when I shook her.

Heathrow was a couple of hours drive away and neither Mike nor Lily felt much inclined to travel the whole distance together. The two of them started arguing as soon as they climbed into the car. It gave me the opportunity to search Mum’s handbag without being noticed, not that I gained much by it. She didn’t have her mobile on her, possibly because her husband didn’t trust her, and all I was able to steal was a little money and a notepad and pen. The shorts had pockets but they were light enough that I’d probably only get away with hiding the cash and a sheet of paper or two, so I had to figure out what would be worth writing before we got to the airport.

I had time though. Mike pulled into a service station just outside of town and begrudgingly paid the twins what he owed them. We left Lily at the station and drove on in silence for about half an hour before he spoke.

“What the fuck’s the matter with her?” he asked, tilting the rear view mirror to get a better look at Mum.

“I don’t think she likes what the twins did to me.”

“It’s a fucking improvement if you ask me.”

“I didn’t, but then when did you ever care about what anyone else thought?”

“Watch out you little cunt, or I'll make you fucking regret it.”

Never much cared for the C word, but I wouldn’t have minded having one just then.

“Go right ahead. I don’t have enough hair to hide the bruises you might give me, and it might just be enough to persuade someone to stop you.”

He sneered at me. “I can wait,” he said. “This time tomorrow we'll be in a place where no-one’ll give a shit how badly I bruise you. Now shut the fuck up.”

“I didn’t say anything until you talked to me.”

“And now I’m not fucking talking to you.”

It suited me. I thought about what I might write and set about putting pen to paper without drawing shit face’s attention. Not my best penmanship, but then it wasn’t easy to write in a moving vehicle while pretending you were doing nothing.

I had about a dozen notes written by the time the signs for Heathrow indicated we were getting close. I Would have preferred more, but we seemed to have acquired Max’s tendency towards travel sickness and I’d had to pause my efforts frequently to keep my lunch down.

I carefully and quietly tore out the sheets of paper and tucked the pen and notebook back into Mum’s handbag. She continued to stare into nothing and didn’t seem to notice. There wasn’t much else to do except watch the world go by, which at least settled my stomach before we arrived at the long term parking.

Mike lifted a coupe of suitcases out of the boot and told me to bring Mum. She seemed content enough to follow whoever led her.

“What if I don’t?” I asked.

“Then I’ll give you a thick fucking ear and you can drag one of these fucking cases while I hold her fucking hand.”

Not time to go full rebel yet. I took Mum’s hand and followed him towards the terminal.

“Whose car was that?” I asked idly as we exited the carpark.

“Why do you fucking care?”

“I don’t really, only if it’s a rental, you know they’re going to charge you for all the parking violations.”

“Yeah, well I borrowed it, so they’re somebody else’s problem now.”

Borrowed most probably meant nicked, but that wouldn’t help. By the time the authorities figured that out, we’d be beyond their jurisdiction.

“I need the loo,” I said.

“Hold it.”

“What if I can't?”

“Then piss yourself and see if i care.”

“I expect you will when the little kid sitting next to you on the flight smells of wee.”

“Fucking hell, what is your problem?”

“Girl’s plumbing isn’t as good as guy’s.”

“You are not a fucking girl.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” I pulled Mum towards the ladies.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He pointed me towards the gents. “And leave your mum.”

It had been years since I’d set foot inside a gents public toilet and my nose wrinkled involuntarily at the stench.

“You sure you’re in the right place, love?” a random stranger asked.

“Tell me about it,” I said, managing without effort to sound like a girl. “My father won’t let me use the ladies.”

“You’re one of them, er...”

“Transgendered kids, yes. Look, I’m okay with fitting in with what other people want, and I understand why a lot of women don’t like the idea of people like me using their facilities. If you feel uncomfortable with me being in here, I can go and use one of the stalls, but it’s not really why I’m in here.”

“Oh?”

I pulled out one of my notebook pages. “Yeah, the guy outside is my biological father and as transphobic as they come. I’ve had an injunction keeping him from coming anywhere near me for the past five years, but today he’s trying to kidnap me and take me to Saudi.”

“So lock yourself in here then?” He finished with his business and zipped himself up. It turned out he was one of the rare ones who washed his hands.

“It’s not quite that simple. My mum’s in a delicate state and he’s taking her too. He’s already as much as threatened her if I don’t go with him. Look, could you please take this and call the number on it. It’s my legal guardian’s number.” I’d had Peter’s number in my memory since he came to stay with me, and he hadn’t changed it in all that time. The phone a couple of times, but not the phone number. “Just tell him what I said. We’re heading to Jeddah as far as I know.”

He took the paper uncertainty and looked at me.

“What’s taking so long, Max?” Mike’s querulous voice sounded from outside.

The man sighed and nodded. Not the overwhelming promise of support I’d been hoping for but better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

Max gave me the mental equivalent of an odd look so I referred him to my mental library of trivia and Monty Python quotes.

I actually did need the loo, so after a brief detour to leave one of my notes in every stall – some on the cistern, some tucked into the loo roll dispenser, some tucked into the lock on the door – I sat down in the last one to go.

As an afterthought, once I’d finished my business and cleaned myself up, I took the time to tuck everything away as well as I could and to check the hormone patch behind my left thigh. I didn’t have any spares, so it was going to have to last me. Right now it was as well hidden as I could hope, so I left it where it was. The money I’d taken from Mum’s purse also went into my pants.

Mike was waiting for me when I emerged, brandishing the note I’d given to the guy I’d just met.

“You got any more of these on you?” He roughly checked my pockets and came away with the few I still hadn't distributed. He then checked the other stalls and retrieved the ones I’d left on the cisterns and the backs of the doors.

Alright, so maybe a poke in the eye might have been preferable. I still had the notes in the loo roll dispensers, but they’d have to wait for someone in need of more than a piddle, and would rely on them being curious about the extra piece of paper.

Mike marched us through check-in and security, where I was treated to a close and sceptical inspection every time my passport came out. It was six years older and I’d changed a lot in that time – Less so during my time on the blockers, but the hormones were coming into their own. I returned the looks with a tight simpering smile and was let through each time, the last one with a comment to Mike that maybe he should update my passport soon.

We made it to the boarding lounge hours before the flight, so now it was down to the dads and what breadcrumbs they’d been able to follow.

About an hour and a half later, a couple of security guards approached us. They addressed Mike, which I suppose was understandable since I looked so young and Mum looked so out of it.

“We’ve been informed that you have a legal injunction against you preventing you from approaching your daughter.”

“Yes, but this is my son.”

One of the security officers looked at me uncertainty.

“I’m transgendered,” I explained. “I was born his son, but I am currently legally female, except on old documents like the passport he has for me. I’m still the person he’s not allowed to approach.”

Mike’s eyes flashed with the promise of future violence. He had a contingency for this though.

“Yeah,” he said, “but you said you were prepared to overlook all that so you could come with us and look after your mum until she was better. You said you were worried about what might happen to her if you didn’t come.”

“I still don’t understand why Mum and I can’t stay here though. Uncle Peter would look after us both and I could care for her here.”

“She’s my wife and she’s coming with me. The question is whether or not you come as well.”

“What’s wrong with her?” the second security guard asked.

“She tried to kill herself last week,” I said. “Makes you wonder why anyone would take someone in that state to live in a country that oppresses women, doesn’t it?”

“Well, there’s not much we can do about that,” he replied. “We can take you away from him if you like, but we don’t have any authority to do anything to help your mum.”

“I want to bring assault charges against him. He cut off all my hair and dressed me like this.”

“I most certainly did not. That was your cousins, and if I’d had any idea...”

“But you did. You fucking paid them to do it.” F word a little gratuitous, but might just fall into Paul’s category of appropriate use.

“We can’t get involved in that sort of thing,” the first security guard said. “Now, are you coming with us or what?”

“I can’t leave my mum.”

“Then there’s not much we can do.”

“You can get some actual police here.”

“Sorry love. This counts as international territory. Outside UK law, and so far no-ones broken airport rules.”

“Then let my dads in to talk to me.”

“I thought he was your dad.:

“My guardians then.”

“Sorry, they can’t come through without a valid ticket and passport.”

“Can you at least take them a message from me?”

“Well...”

“Look, he’s shaved my head against my will and dressed me up like a fucking boy...”

“I didn’t...”

“Your fucking money did. If he’ll do that to me in broad daylight then there’s no telling what he’ll do to my mum. I can’t leave her. You can’t or won’t do anything to stop him from getting away with what is frankly criminal, then the least you can bloody well do is tell my dads...”

“I’m your dad.”

“You’re a fucking wanker who happened to land some of his spunk in my mum’s vagina one time. My dads are the people who care for me and make sure I stay safe, which if you gave a fucking rat’s arse would mean you wouldn’t be trying to take Mum and me to fucking Saudi Arabia.” I turned back to the guards. “The least you can do is tell my dads what’s going on so they can come up with a plan to fucking well save us.”

“Young lady...”

“He’s a fucking boy!” This from Mike who'd been growing progressively angrier with every insult I threw at him.

“Whatever." One of the security guards had found the limit of his patience. "All of you. If you keep behaving in this manner, we’re going to have to detain you.”

“Fine by me, as long as you hold him and my mum too.”

“No, it’s fine.” Mike made a Herculean effort to keep calm. “We won’t cause any more trouble. You won’t either, Max, if you want to stay close to your mum.”

“It all rather depends on these two,” I said. I made a note of reading their name badges out loud. “I’m sorry for shouting, but I'm the victim here and you’re nor even offering to do the smallest thing to help. Honestly, if anything happens to me or my mum because of you, I’ll make sure your inaction gets noted.”

“What’s your message?”

“Hang on.” I fished in Mum’s bag for the notebook and pen and scrawled out a short missive.

“Your, er, dads wanted you to have this back.” The younger of the two offered me my phone. It had survived its short flight into the bushes with only minor scuff marks.

“And what do you think this arsehole’s going to do the moment you’re gone? Who do you think threw it away in the first place? No. Please take it back to my dads. They can give it to me when they come fetch me from wherever we’re going.”

They didn’t much like it, but at least if they took the phone it committed them to finding Peter and Paul with my note.

Mike didn’t like it either. “You are going to get such a fucking hiding for that lot when we get where we're going.”

“You think you’re scaring me? It’s been a few years since anyone raised a hand to me, but I remember what it was like, and it wasn’t that bad.”

“That’s ‘cos I never really laid into you before.”

“Yeah, try telling yourself that. You see this?” I pointed at my head. "You’ve already done the worst you can do.”

“Yeah, well you keep telling yourself that, then we’ll see when we get where we’re going, eh?”

After that it was a bit anticlimactic. A few of our fellow passengers kept giving us the evil eye for disrupting their wonderful travel experience. Mum remained unchanged and Mike settled into a sullen silence. When our gate opened, he grabbed Mum by the upper arm and pretty much dragged her to the front of the queue. I had no real choice but to follow.

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 10

We travelled cattle class ‘cos Mike was either too cheap or too poor to afford anything better. Being small has some advantages, one of them being when the passengers sitting either side of you are morbidly obese. I had to remind myself I’d been like that not so many years back, the difference being that I had always made an effort not to encroach on any fellow travellers. It wasn’t so easy, but I was just about small enough to avoid having to touch these guys’ sweaty flesh.

On the downside, the hormones were making me more sensitive to smells, especially offensive ones.

The flight was six hours of misery with both my travelling companions hands ‘accidentally’ falling onto me for a quick grope every so often. I kept my own hands in my lap the entire time. I’m not sure if they assumed I was a girl despite my hair and clothes or if they were into boys. Either way I didn’t want any trouble, so I endured in uncomfortable silence.

Mike looked on from his own central aisle seat next to Mum with an amused grin. On the very vaguely plus side it meant he’d probably be in a slightly better mood when we reached our final destination. For all my bravado, I didn’t much care for the thought of him beating me again.

Max’s memories rather than Gerald’s.

King Abdulaziz International was like pretty much any other major airport I’d visited, only on a grander scale. Futuristic with glass everywhere – not that there was much to see though the tall windows in the middle of the night. Vaulted ceilings, tiled floors and clean like only someone with OCD could maintain. The night-time temperatures weren’t that different from the daytime ones we’d left behind, hovering around the upper twenties centigrade – what’s that in old money? Certainly over eighty. Inside the terminal they had the climate control turned up enough that I was shivering from the cold. I knew I’d be glad of the shorts and tee-shirt come the new day, but right then and there I was perishing.

Mike took charge which I didn’t object to for once. Mum and I didn’t have anywhere to escape to now, so best to follow along.

Passport control became the first challenge when the man behind the glass took one look at me then glared angrily at Mike, spouting something unintelligible, at least to us uneducated Brits.

“Sorry, I don’t understand,” Mike said with an uncharacteristically servile voice.

More garbled gobbledegook in what I could only assume was Arabic, this time with a fairly clear gesticulation that we should stand to one side.

Ten minutes of foot tapping – from Mike – brought a khaki uniformed official accompanied by a couple of armed soldiers marching our way. The official waved us into a small room and held out a hand for our passports.

He gave Mum’s and Mike’s a cursory look over before staring at mine for some minutes, glancing back and forth between the photograph and my face.

“This says it is a boy,” he said at last, his voice brusque and no nonsense.

“It is a... I mean he is a boy.”

“No. This is a girl.” He waved a hand at me. “You should know we do not tolerate such depravity in this country.”

“He’s a f... He’s a boy.” Mike reached over and yanked my shorts down. Luckily he didn’t get a handful of my underwear, so I was left standing there in the knickers Pam and Lily had left me wearing, my bits neatly tucked away giving me a flat and very girly front. I added to it by blushing prettily and crouching to hide my embarrassment.

The official glowered at me then at Mike. I retrieved my shorts from around my ankles and pulled them back up.

“In Saudi Arabia, this is a girl whatever you or she may wish to believe. You insult us by bringing her here looking this way.

“There are shops here in the airport. Your wife should buy her something appropriate to wear.”

“My wife is... unwell.”

He glanced at Mum’s vacant expression. “Then you will go and buy for her. A skirt, a tee-shirt that is not for a boy, and a hijab to cover this, this disgrace.” He waved at my hair or lack of it. “Your wife and your daughter will wait here. I will keep your passport until you return.”

He turned to one of his companions and spoke briefly in, as I say, probably Arabic. The soldier guided Mike out of the room.

The official turned to me and stared down from his height advantage. “You cannot dress like this here,” he said. “In your country you may pretend to be a boy if you wish, but here, since Allah has seen fit to make you a girl, it is blasphemous to try to be anything else.”

I wanted to argue, to explain how it had been Mike’s idea, that I mourned the loss of my hair, but something inside suggested a different response.

“Yes sir,” I said quietly, dropping my head in a demure fashion. Maybe it was the hormones, but I didn’t have to try too hard to bring my tears to the surface.

I went over to where Mum stood staring into space and led her to a chair, settling her into it and perching next to her, leaning my head on her shoulder.

“What happened to her?” the official asked not unkindly.

“She had a shock,” I said, “earlier today. At least I think today.”

“It is ten o’clock in the evening in your country. What kind of a shock would do this to a person?”

I didn’t see why I shouldn’t tell him.

“My father paid my cousins to shave my head and dress me like this.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “He always wanted a boy. I think I’m a disappointment to him.”

“So, this is not your idea?”

There were the tears again. I shook my head and clung to Mum’s arm. I was playing a dangerous game here. If he found out I actual had male body parts his sympathy would turn all the way to anger, but I couldn’t help myself. However he might interpret my physical nature, I knew I was the girl we were discussing here.

“How is it your passport says you are a boy?”

I shrugged. “I have a newer one at home that says I am a girl. This is an old one with a mistake in it.”

He nodded. “It looks old. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen!”

“I’m a late developer.” I was making good use of my shrug in this conversation.

“Why did he not use your new passport?”

“He doesn’t have it. I’ve lived with my uncle for the past few years because he,” I waved in the rough direction Mike had gone, “has always been so mean to me.”

“Then why do you travel with him today.”

“To look after Mum.” I squeezed her arm. She turned vaguely in my direction in response. More of a reaction than I’d noticed in some hours. “I don’t trust him to do so.”

“You are a good, dutiful daughter. He should be proud of you, not…” he waved his hands just as vaguely at me.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do now we’re here. I tried to persuade him not to bring us because I don’t know how to look after my mother in this place.”

“I will make sure you are taken care of. I have a brother in the police. He will make sure you are visited often to make sure your father does no more of this foolishness. I see he has a work visa in his passport. Are you enrolled in a school here?”

“I don’t know. He just turned up today and gave me the choice. Either come and look after Mum or stay in England in which case if anything happened to her it would be my fault.”

“What might happen to her?”

“I don’t know. She took an overdose of pills about a week ago, so she needs someone around.”

“I agree. It is well that you are here.”

“I don’t know. I don’t mean anything bad by this, sir, but I really don’t want to be here.”

“It will not be so bad, I think. I will make sure you are looked after. Here, I will give you my number in case you need help.”

“I don’t have my phone. He took it and threw it in a bush.”

He stiffened, just as Mike returned with a bulging carrier bag which he thrust at me. I looked around for somewhere to change. My newest friend held up a hand and turned to my father.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“I’m not sure what business that is of yours...”

“It is my business because I am making it my business.”

Mike gave him an address which the man copied down. He also photographed all our passports.

“Someone will be checking on you, soon and often after that. You are to enrol your daughter in a girls school and buy for her a mobile phone to replace the one you discarded. It is to be a good quality phone, you understand?”

Mike had gone from angry to defensive to worried in the course of the exchange. He nodded.

“When the police come to your home, and this will be several times every week, sometimes perhaps twice in the same day, they are to find her dressed respectably. Until her hair grows, she is to wear the hijab before the door is opened and each time she goes outside. If I hear any report that she is behaving as a boy or dressing as a boy, or if there is any evidence that she is being treated poorly, then it will be you the police take into custody, do you understand me?”

“Er, but...”

“Do you understand me?”

“Yeah, fine. Alright.”

“I will expect to hear from Max within a day on her new phone. If I don’t, it will be me who comes to your home, and you will not enjoy what I choose to do with you.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Max, if you come through to here you will find a room where you can change.”

With that I was led into a nearby room and left to my own devices.

It didn’t take long. There was a long skirt with an elasticated waist like my shorts and a white plush, faux fur top with three quarter length sleeves. No buttons, zips or ribbons, just pull it all on. The most complicated thing was the hijab, but even that only took a little common sense. Fold in half along its length, drape over the head with uneven lengths hanging down over the shoulders, then wrap the longer length around the back of the neck and arrange the loose folds decoratively. Without a mirror it was hard to see if I had it quite right, but it had to be close.

I put the shorts and spidey shirt back in the bag, checked to make sure my skirt was hanging right and made my reappearance.

The official and his two guards visibly relaxed on sight of me. I rejoined my mum who absent mindedly made a few minor adjustments to the hijab.

“So, we understand each other, I think,” my self-appointed protector said then nodded at one of his guards who opened the door back out to the terminal. “Welcome to Jeddah.” The man handed our passports back to Mike.

I took Mum’s arm and waited for the rather shell-shocked figure of my father to lead us out.

“What the fuck just happened?” he mused once we were relatively alone.

“I believe you were bested by your daughter,” Mum said quietly.

“He’s not... For the last time, we don’t have a fucking daughter. I thought we agreed on that.”

“We did, but I’m coming to realise we were wrong.”

I squeezed Mum’s arm and we exchanged smiles.

“I believe this little plan of your is backfiring on you dear. You can’t force her to look like a boy, because I don’t think that’s possible anymore, and you don’t dare hit her. You brought her to one of the most transphobic and repressive places on Earth in an effort to turn her back into that sad little mouse of a son you pretty much hated anyway, and they’re forcing you into letting her be the girl she really is. I think I finally understand what irony is.”

“When the fuck did you come back into the land of the living anyway?”

“Oh, sometime while you were off buying our little girl these pretty clothes. You really have quite a good eye, you know?”

“Yeah, well shut the fuck up. I think I preferred you when you were catatonic.”

Our cases were the last ones on the carousel. Mike retrieved them just before the baggage handlers removed them ahead of the next flight’s influx. Customs waived us through and we were outside in the warm air.

Mike found us a taxi and half an hour later we arrived at our new home. There wasn’t much to see in the darkness, but the place gave a sense of having more space than you’d expect in a major city. Certainly the apartment was large. Only two bedrooms, but they were a good size.

Mum opened one of the suitcases and rifled through it until she found a couple of white cotton nightdresses. She handed me the shorter one along with an unopened pink toothbrush.

“We’ll go shopping for more appropriate things tomorrow,” she said to me.

“What the fuck?” Mike said.

“You know you use that word a little too often,” Mum told him with an uncommon edge to it.

“You never fucking minded before.”

“I did. I just didn’t say anything. I’d rather you didn’t use words like that in front of our little girl though.”

“He’s a fucking boy, and he’s got fucking pyjamas in the case!”

“She doesn’t look like a boy and according to the official we met at the airport she isn’t one. So, when the police come banging on our door at six o’clock in the morning, how do you propose explaining why our daughter is wearing pyjamas?”

“They wouldn’t...” he trailed off uncertainty. “I fucking don’t like this.”

“Then perhaps you should book us all a flight back home.”

“This is our home now. I’ve got a job here and everything.”

“Everything meaning?”

“What?”

“You have a job here, but what else? What are we supposed to do while our lord and master is out earning us our daily crust?”

“Whatever you fucking like. There’s loads to do around here.”

“And no-one much to do any of it with. You didn’t think to ask how I felt about leaving my friends behind did you?”

“I left my friends too you know?”

“Yes, but that was your choice. You didn't offer me the same courtesy, did you?”

“What the fuck has got into you, woman? Look it’s late. We’ll all feel better after a good night’s sleep. Let the fucking fairy sleep in your spare nightie if he wants.”

He stormed off leaving Mum and me with a quiet moment.

She helped me into the nightdress whereupon I almost disappeared in the folds of thin white cotton.

“You know, you look really cute with short hair,” she said. “I mean, I, I’m not trying to make light of the situation or anything. What Lily and Pam did to you was unforgiveable, and I’m so sorry you got dragged into all this.”

“It’s alright Mum. It’s only hair. It’ll grow back.”

“No, I mean bringing you here, trying to turn you back into a boy. I didn’t know how to stop him.”

“You could have refused to come.”

“He’s my husband.”

“He’s a bully and he’s selfish, and he’s never going to change.”

“Yes, I suppose I can see that now. You could have refused to come too you know?”

“No I couldn’t, not and left you on your own with him. Jeddah’s not as bad as some places in the Middle East, but it’s not a great place to be a western woman on your own, and after last week...”

“I suppose. I am glad you’re here. Not glad you came, if that makes any sense.”

“It does, Mum. I feel the same.”

“Are you fucking coming to bed?” Mike called.

“Well, there goes Mr Romantic. I suppose I’d better head off for my night of indescribable passion.”

I smiled. If she could joke about it like that, she was in a better state of mind than I’d thought.

Bedding was light, which you’d expect given the climate. I settled down for the night luxuriating in the caress of soft cotton. I felt an uncomfortable pinch in my ears and sat up long enough to remove my studs and necklace. A wave of fatigue washed me away into dreamless slumber.

The police didn’t bang on the door at six the next morning; they let us lie in till half past. By the time Mike was out of bed and had the door open, I’d hunted out my hijab and wrapped it onto my head. The cotton of the nightdress was a little thin to be strictly respectable so I hung back until Mum found me and draped a light robe over my shoulders. She placed a hand between my shoulder blades and guided me into the living room where a policeman was speaking loudly to Mike in heavily accented English, or so one presumed.

“You are Max?” he all but shouted at me when I made my appearance.

I nodded little uncertainly.

“You are okay? He does not mistreat you?”

“I'm a little tired,” I said. “We didn’t get to bed until after two o’clock.”

He gave me a close examination that had me pulling my mother’s robe tight about me.

“These are not your clothes.”

“No, my mother leant me a nightdress for tonight. We’re going to go shopping later, I think.”

“This is good. I will come back this evening.”

He left without another word. Mike closed the door firmly behind him, not quite slamming it.

“I’m going back to bed,” he said and disappeared.

“Cup of tea?” Mum asked.

“What? Oh, er yes please.”

“I find I need something to calm my nerves after something like that. I have some camomile. It’s a bit of an acquired taste, but you might appreciate it.”

“Thanks, that’d be great.”

Paul had tried me on camomile after some of my occasional nightmares. I was getting used to the flavour. I needed something right now because my heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

“We’ll have to ask your father for money for the shopping excursion. I thought I had some but it's not in my bag.”

“Oh.” I ducked into my room, returning with the money I’d taken.

“Oh no, you keep that. You never know when you might need an emergency fund.”

“Really? There’s quite a lot here.” Fifties. Maybe ten of them.

“I’m not sure where I’d get it changed anyway. Not at a decent rate. No I need local currency, so that’s going to be your dad’s first job when he gets up.”

“He's not my dad.”

“Honestly, between him insisting you’re not his daughter and you insisting he’s not your dad, it’s like I have no idea who’s version of reality is real.”

“Well you were right about the police visit.” I took a steaming mug from her and breathed in the fumes. My heart rate eased off.

She snorted. “That was hardly difficult. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it coming.”

I shrugged and gave her a searching look.

“What?” she asked after enduring it for a few seconds.

“I was looking for the woman who tried to top herself last week. You know, the one who sat next to me on that park bench yesterday and couldn’t do anything more than cry.”

“She’s still here, just... I don’t know, a bit more aware. Am I making sense?”

“A bit. Are you ready to go home yet?”

“Sorry dear. For better or for worse, that’s the deal. He’s my husband and there’s not much to be done about it. I won’t do anything to hurt you again though, and I won’t let him hurt you either if I can help it.”

“I appreciate that Mum, but it’s you I’m worried about. The only reason I let myself be dragged into this situation is because I want to make sure you’re alright.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, dear.”

“I think we’ll just agree to disagree on that, Mum. You know you don’t have to stay married to him, don’t you?”

“That which the Lord has joined together...”

“The church allows three reasons for divorce, Mum. Adultery, abandonment and abuse, and before you say anything, abuse doesn’t just have to be physical.”

“That’s the thing though, sweetheart, your father has never abused me. Not physically, not mentally, not emotionally.”

“What do you call the way he talked to you earlier?”

“He’s upset. His plans didn’t go the way he wanted, and he has a tendency to lash out after that. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Then why did you agree to all this?”

“I was confused, dear. I think that’s what made me do what I did last week. Your father – you don’t mind me calling him that? – Between your father and your grandfather I had pretty much made up my mind that what you were doing was wrong. You made a lot of sense when you visited me in the hospital, but not enough to overcome years of... of, well, conditioning I suppose.

“I thought bringing you here was for the best, though I suppose there was a part of me that felt it wasn’t. That’s why I was so conflicted about it all. Then I saw what the twins did to you and what your father meant to do to you when we got here, and I began to understand.”

“Understand what, Mum?”

“Well, it was like that quote you shared from Oscar Wilde. Your father and your grandfather have always insisted that they knew best, and they’ve had a tendency to become quite unpleasant when things haven’t gone their way.

“You were different. You only asked, then when your father and I refused to listen over and over again, you gave up believing things could change and... took drastic action. Even after you survived that you still tried to persuade us. Then, when we refused to change, you didn’t insist that we do so. You simply withdrew from us. You never insisted that any of us change, only tried to reason with us.

“After what the twins did, I suppose I saw what your father and grandfather stood for – what I’m ashamed to say I believed as well – for what it was. It’s abuse, plain and simple. It’s what you suggested he might have been doing to me in some form or another, and I suppose I can understand that. After he was so brutal to you, it’s only natural to believe he would be the same with others.

“Laura – or Abrielle if you prefer it – I see you for who you are now, what you tried so hard to show us. Realising it has brought me a lot of peace. If truth be told, I’m quite glad that you’re here with us now, because it gives me a chance to get to know my daughter. Mike may not like it, but he doesn’t have a great deal of choice. Who knows, maybe if he’s forced to live with you for a while, he might just catch a glimpse of the real you.”

“You think so?”

“Not really, no, but stranger things have happened. Have you finished your tea?”

I was surprised to fund that I had.

“Let’s go back to bed for a few hours then. Have some brunch when we wake up, then you can show me how much of a girl you really are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, shopping of course.”

There were no more visits from the police to interrupt my sleep. I woke again around eleven to find Mum putting together a brunch of flatbread, salad and cold meat. I washed and slipped into my only girl clothes, wearing my knickers inside out since I had no clean ones. The hijab went on with everything else. Since I expected to be wearing it a lot, it made sense to make it a part of my everyday clothing.

I joined Mum in the kitchen and picked up the plates, knives, forks and glasses she’d put out, laying places on the breakfast bar. There was a sort of tropical fruit juice in the fridge, so I poured out a couple of glasses before taking a sip of mine.

“Anything more I can do?” I asked.

“No, I think that’s about it.”

She passed a few plates across to me, which I set out between the place settings while Mum removed her apron and joined me.

“I assume he’s not here?” Safe-ish assumption since there were only two place settings.

“He had to go into work and familiarise himself with the place. He should be done by three.”

“Couldn’t he take a bit longer?”

She smiled. “We’ll need him to pick us up from the shops. I’ve ordered us a taxi to take us there and I imagine we’ll all be a little tired by three. Besides, we have to enrol you in a school and your d... your father owes you a new mobile phone.”

“I’ve just finished school, Mum.”

“And you’re going to have to start it again. The first semester here begins mid August. There’s a girls school near here on one of the bus routes. The lessons are in Arabic, but that shouldn’t bother you, should it? You already have six A levels, so you can concentrate on learning the language instead.”

“I don’t want to leave you on your own, Mum.”

“I know, but we’ll have a few weeks together before school starts and hopefully by then you’ll see that I’m alright.”

“If you’re not, I’ll be staying home.”

“And get us all in trouble? I should think not. The police have us on their radar now and they expect you to act like a perfect girl, which means demure and obedient. It’s what you want anyway, so it’s what we’re going to give them.”

That was the point when I first realised I was actually going to do this. Crazy as it seemed, risky as it almost certainly was, I couldn’t leave Mum until I was sure she was going to be okay and she certainly wasn’t going to leave with me.

I had my year out and hadn’t committed to anything. I’d wanted to spend the time researching the ways underprivileged people were being let down by the system and joining the fight to help them. Saudi Arabia had a better reputation when it came to women’s rights than most Gulf states, but it was still a long way from showing anything like equality. It was also brutally anti gay and trans. I wasn’t sure what I could do, being in such a vulnerable position, but I was sure I’d find something.

The options for clothing were limited in some ways and wonderfully diverse in others. Pretty much all that was on offer were long dresses and skirts with long sleeved tops, but in lightweight materials that were surprisingly comfortable in the near forty degrees heat. That’s a hundred for you Neanderthals. I’m not going to do the conversions for you anymore. Just double it, take off a tenth and add thirty-two. The different patterns and embroideries meant that pretty much no two outfits were alike.

Mum bought some more respectable clothing as well. We didn’t want the authorities to look too closely at me, and the best way to achieve that was to do more than necessary to conform. Jeddah was pretty relaxed about how women dressed, but covering our knees and elbows as well as our heads went a long way towards keeping the angry looks at bay.

We’d bought me a whole new wardrobe and Mum quite a few necessary accessories and settled for a late lunch at half past two. Neither of us was particularly hungry, but a bottle of cold water and a salad did the trick.

The seating was segregated which put us in the crowded women’s area while the men’s was nearly empty. I wondered if it might be worth suggesting to the cafe owner that he make the women’s area bigger since he seemed to have more female customers, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate advice from a girl, so I kept my mouth shut.

I poured a third of my water over my salad before taking a bite.

“Why did you do that?” Mum asked.

“What are the chances they washed the salad with tap water?” I asked.

“They say the tap water here is safe to drink.”

“In theory, yes, and they may be right. It’s mainly reclaimed from the sea though, so it’s going to taste a little salty. Chances are we’ll acclimate quickly enough, but best not to take chances early on. I don’t want to end up in hospital with my anatomy.”

“No, I suppose not.” She followed my lead.

“I have a favour to ask, Mum.”

“Yes?”

“You know I said I’ve started using oestrogen patches for hormone replacement? They’re pretty much the same as the ones used by menopausal women. Each patch lasts about a week I think. I only have the one I’m using at present. Do you think you could get me some more?”

“I’m not menopausal, dear.”

“I know, but could you say you are, or that you’re getting them for a friend? I’m worried about the changes I’ll go through if I don’t keep taking the hormones.”

“I’ll see what I can manage.”

We finished eating and headed for the spot Mike had agreed to pick us up. He was standing impatiently by the car looking around when we turned up.

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Language Mike. We’re doing our best to blend in. You could do the same.”

“Fuck that.”

“You realise how ignorant you sound when you speak like that? Please make an effort not to.”

“This is supposed to be the place where you fu... where you do what I say, not the other way around.”

“Yes, well I’m asking, not telling.”

“We should go.”

Mum sat up front with him giving me the whole back seat to myself. The seats and the metal of the car were hot, but my new clothing afforded me some protection. The long skirts hobbled my movements a little meaning it took a while to sort out how to climb in, but I figured it out before the arsehole totally lost his rag.

“School first,” Mike said.

“Mobile phones first,” Mum corrected him. “We’re both going to need smart phones if we’re going to use public transport.”

“I’m not fucking made of money you know.”

“I thought one of your reasons for coming here was the higher wage.”

“Yeah, well give me a month to earn a bit before you start gouging me.”

“Laura needs a phone at least. The airport official is expecting to hear from her today, remember? We’ll be doing things together so we can get by with one for a few weeks, at least until school starts.”

“Fuck me.”

“Not likely unless you learn to curb your language.”

“I’ve about had enough of your fucking lip, woman.”

“And what do you propose to do about it? I suggest you think clearly before answering.”

“Why Laura?” he asked, neatly sidestepping the issue.

“What Mum wanted to call me if I’d been born with girl bits,” I said.

“But you weren’t, which makes you a fucking boy.”

“Except on the inside I’ve always felt like a girl.” It felt like this was the only conversation I could have with my father.

“We can soon change that.”

“No, you can’t. You tried for twelve years and only succeeded in making me try to kill myself. But that doesn’t make any difference to you, does it? Your way or the wrong way as far as you’re concerned.”

“You mean my way or the highway?”

“No, that’s just a tired old cliché and doesn’t even apply here. If you’d ever offered me the highway, I’d have taken it in a heartbeat.

“What I meant was you can’t conceive of being wrong. You are so adamant that someone born with a penis can’t be a girl that you wouldn’t even talk to me about it. You were ready to let me kill myself rather than accept that you might be wrong. Is it any wonder I don’t think of you as my dad?”

“You fucking little shit...”

“And there you go, only seeing the insults, never giving any thought to whether you might be even a little bit at fault.”

“Stop it, both of you!” Mum interrupted. “Laura, you’re never going to get anywhere with that sort of argument and frankly I’m surprised you’d even try. Mike, we’re stuck in this situation where she has to be our daughter, so you’re going to have to put your feelings away and deal with her as though she always was our little girl. You saw how angry they were when they thought we were trying to pass her off as our son. Can you imagine how they’d react if they found out she actually has male genitalia? And that would land on all of us.”

Mike fell silent after that. I didn’t much care for the thoughtful look on his face, but then he spent more than I was expecting on the phone and I was distracted loading up the various apps I needed. Including the emergency app I’d written, now available for free on the app store.

“No International calls to your uncle on that thing if you don’t want me to confiscate it.”

“Okay.”

WhatsApp installed, Peter’s details added. I had quite a lot of mobile data in the contract and sending text on WhatsApp didn’t use much of it.

‘Hi Dad, it’s Abri.’ Message sent. Three-thirty here meant twelve-thirty in England. He might be on his lunch break.

‘Abri thank God. Are you alright? Where are you?’

‘I’m fine. We’re in Jeddah where everyone thinks I’m a girl despite Pam and Lily cutting off my hair and putting me in shorts and tee-shirt.’

‘We know what happened to you. The airport security guards at Heathrow told us. They wouldn’t let us through to you, I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, they said as much. Something about the airport beyond security control no longer being under British law or something.’

‘Give me your address. I’m coming to fetch you.’

‘Please don’t. I mean I love you for wanting to, but circumstances have changed.’

“What are you doing?” Mike glanced back at me suspiciously.

“Setting up a few apps. You know, Uber the bus app, that sort of thing.”

“You’d better not be...”

“Concentrate on your driving dear. We don’t want more trouble with the police, do we?”

I went back to my conversation with Peter. ‘We had trouble at the airport because they thought I was a girl trying to pass myself off as a boy. They made Mike buy me a skirt and stuff. Now the police are checking on us to make sure I’m behaving like a girl like I ought. It’s kind of funny in a way. Mike hates it. He brought me here to turn me back into Max and now he has to help me become more of a girl.’

‘Yeah, well be careful. Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if the find out what you have under your skirt?’

‘Yes, I do, but Mum won’t leave. Marital obligations or some such. I can’t leave her until I’m sure she’s going to be okay, and that might take a few months. It’s not as if I had anything solid lined up for this year anyway.’

‘I want your address anyway. I won’t come unless I think something’s wrong, and I’m going to expect you to contact us every day. I don’t hear from you for twenty-four hours and I’m on a plane to come and fetch you.’

‘Forty-eight hours. I’ll make sure I contact you every day, but I can see the arsehole confiscating the phone for a day if he can think of a way to justify it. If anything goes badly wrong, I’ll make sure Mum calls you.’

‘Will she though?’

‘I believe so. Either that or she’s a much better actress than I thought possible. She says she had an epiphany after what Pam and Lily did to me.’

‘I won’t pretend I like it, but you’re old enough to make your own decisions. Which would be true even if a part of you wasn’t older and wiser than me. Okay, agreed. What’s the address?’

I sent it to him and told him I was setting up my emergency app with his contact details. I then cleared the conversation from the phone in case Mike should check. The rest of the journey had me adding apps that might be useful. They included Facebook which I used to post privately to my friends that I had a new phone and they should link to me on WhatsApp using it. By the time we were at the school I had a bunch of messages from my school friends and Dad’s entry – hidden in plain sight as Petra L – disappeared among the inundation of contacts.

Mike snatched the phone out of my hands as soon as we had parked and hunted through it.

“What’s this?” He held up my well populated WhatsApp contacts list.

“Friends from school.”

“They’re all girl’s names.”

“Duh! It was an all girls school.”

His scowl deepened. “I’ll be keeping an eye on this.”

“Sure, whatever. Do we have WiFi at the apartment? It’ll keep my data usage down and I can make sure I only chat with my mates when I’m at home.”

“We’ll sort something.”

“I’ll most likely need a laptop for school.”

“God’s teeth! I’ve just bought you that phone, what more do you want? Do you think I’m made of money?”

“No, of course not, but... Why don’t we see what the school says.”

We all went in to see the principal, who happened to be a severe, matronly woman who wasn’t at all happy to see Mike with us.

“Usually the mothers make arrangements for their daughters. I prefer not to talk to men.”

“Well I’m here now.”

“Yes. Well, we can make some allowances for expatriates. You are working in the city I believe.”

“Yes, I’m a...”

“I don’t need to know, nor do I wish to. Will your company be paying the fees or will you?”

“I will but...”

“Then all I need from you is an assurance that the fees will be paid promptly and in full.”

She turned to me. “Max is an unusual name for a girl.”

“I know,” I said. “I never liked it, which is why I prefer Laura.”

“Your middle name?”

I looked at Mum. Let it be her lie if she chose to tell it.

“My husband wanted a boy. Max was his idea. Laura was my preference.”

“So we will register you as Maxine Laura Baxter, preferred name Laura. Do you have any qualifications, or should I assume you’re waiting for your GCSE results?”

“I took my GCSEs four years ago. I have A levels in maths, sociology and politics from two years ago, and I’m waiting on results in IT, biology and psychology this year.”

That shut everyone up, Mike especially who had no idea.

“How old are you?” Principal Habib asked.

“I turned sixteen a few months ago. I took most of my GCSEs when I was twelve. Straight A stars. No sorry, I only managed an A in double science. My last lot of A levels were all A’s and I’m hoping for the same this year.”

“You might prove difficult to accommodate. Many men in Saudi Arabia are threatened by successful women and you are already ahead of the game. A young girl with your intelligence might turn a few heads.”

“I’m hoping not. I have it in mind to start university next year, in England.”

Mike made to protest, but Mrs Habib jumped in ahead of him. “Do you mean this September or next?”

“Next. I was planning to take a year out this year, and I wanted to spend it with my mother.”

“So, what can we offer you for one year of study?”

“My mum suggested I should study Arabic, which sounds like a good idea. I’d also be interested in learning some Arabic history.”

“We should be able to manage that. I was wondering if you might be interested in helping some of our girls as well. English of course. I know you only have a GCSE, but you are a native speaker and there is nothing better when it comes to teaching languages. Maths as well would be greatly appreciated. You will benefit from exercising your knowledge, and of course there would be a reduction in your fees, depending on how much time you would be prepared to give to us.”

I looked at Mike who looked very much as though he wouldn’t mind a reduction in what he had to fork out.

“Of course,” I said. “As much as you think would be reasonable. I assume I’ll need a computer?” I wasn’t going to let him get off that easily.

“If you’re going to be helping in the lessons, I don’t see why we can’t make a school laptop available to you. We will have to assess your abilities for ourselves before we agree to anything. Perhaps you could come to the school again in a few days time?”

“Let me know when you’d like me to come in and I’ll be here, though I may need a little help figuring out how.”

She looked at my application form. “There is a direct bus route from your neighbourhood. You pay with your mobile phone.”

“Yes, I already have the app, but knowing where to pick up the bus and where to get off.”

“I’ll make sure you have the details when we ask you to come in. We have a relaxed dress code when the school is in session, so you will only need your hijab for the journey too and fro.”

“I think I’d prefer to keep in the habit of wearing it if that’s not a problem.”

“Of course. Many girls feel the same. Are you Muslim?”

“No, but I think it’s best to respect the cultures you visit.”

“A commendable attitude. I think you will fit in well here. Do you have any special consideration from us?”

“Er,” I looked at Mum.

“Laura is exceedingly shy and self conscious when it comes to her body. We would prefer for her to be excused any physical education and any situations when she might be expected to change in public.”

“This also should be possible. If that’s all, I’ll draw up the paperwork and I’ll be in touch in a few days. Do you have an email address? I only appear to have your father’s here.”

I gave her the Gmail account I’d set up from my phone.

We headed home shortly after that. Another WhatsApp to Peter (or Petra) asking for photographs of my GCSE and first round of A level results to be emailed to me, then clear the cache and start over.

‘I believe I’m white this time, so e4.’

I’d pulled down a chess app that allowed me to record a game manually rather than play the computer. Petra’s reply came back quickly enough.

‘Neat idea, c5.’

Sicilian defence then. This wouldn’t take much thinking, but if I restricted myself to sending a move every morning, then he’d have all day to reply. I could also give some early indication of things going pear shaped by sending an impossible move or maybe just a bad one.

The apartment came with WiFi, so I was able to get online. I kept an eye out for Peter’s email, which arrived around nine-thirty, after he made it home. I saved the images to the phone, made a note of his email address in Petra L’s contact entry and deleted the email. Mike wasn’t super tech savvy, but I didn’t want to risk him finding anything on the phone.

Mum and I enjoyed a quiet few days exploring Jeddah. The two of us, respectably dressed, turned no heads as we wandered around Al Balad, the now uninhabited old town. Rather than hire a guide and incur the wrath of the old skinflint, we invested in a book or two and matched our exploration to our reading. We also investigated our local neighbourhood since it would most likely be where Mum would be spending most of her time, and tried to make a few friends.

There was a degree of reticence at first, but I’ve always found women to be naturally more friendly than men, and this proved to be true of our neighbours. We started off by exchanging greetings with shop keepers and cafe staff, making sure we only addressed the women with our “As-salamu alaykum”. I think they saw how hard we were trying and eventually gave in and spoke back. Not a great many spoke English, so we were limited in who we could build friendships with at first, but it was a start.

There wasn’t much to do in the evenings so, once I’d planned my chess move for Peter, I did a little revision of my maths and English.

When I was invited into the school a few days later, I took the images Peter had sent with me.

“Abrielle Lassiter?” Principal Habib asked.

“I have a poor relationship with my father,” I explained. “I left to live with my Uncle nearly five years ago. I chose the new name to mark the separation and adopted my uncle’s surname. Abrielle means God is my strength. I needed His strength to get me through that transition.”

“And now you are back with him.”

“For my mother’s sake only. She hasn’t been well, so I came to live with her more than him.”

“Within these walls you will hear many stories of daughters estranged from their fathers, but you would be advised not to speak of it outside. Women do not have the best of lives here in Saudi. It is improving by slow degrees, but we are aware that if we were to make a stand we may lose the advances we have made more swiftly than we gained them. In the world we must be second to our husbands, our fathers, even our brothers, but because our culture is separated so much into men and women, we have a place where we may speak freely and dream of a better future. I believe you understand that of which I speak.”

“I am glad of your advise. Outside these walls I will show him as much respect as I can bear to, and I will be cautious who I share my genuine feelings with.”

“Hmm.”

“My English? It is true that the preferred grammar was once to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition, but that was largely the influence of writers who wanted to align the rules of English with those of Latin. Modern versions of Miriam Webster’s English Grammar state that there is no reason to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition. There is an apocryphal story, often attributed to Winston Churchill, that when confronted with this matter, the respondent replied, ‘That’s the sort of nonsense up with which I will not put.’ The intention of the response being to demonstrate how unnecessarily tortured a sentence may become when such rules are applied rigorously.”

“Hmm.” This time there was a definite positive lilt to her response.

“So, these are my credentials. My qualifications if you prefer. As you may have noticed at our last visit, my father was not aware of them, and I do not consider it his business that he sees these proofs. In his eyes, I was an irredeemable waste of effort, and it was only after I came under the gentler and kinder care of my uncle that I came into my element. My father deserves no credit for my accomplishments and within these walls he will not have it.

“I will accept his surname and the name he gave me because it is written on the passport he used to bring me here, but he is not a man worthy of my respect, although I will accept your advice that he should be given it when I am not here in the school.”

“Will you remove your hijab for me please?”

“What you will see is his doing and not mine.”

I took off the head covering.

She stiffened. “I heard something of this,” she said. “He tried to bring you into the country as a boy. Does he not know how dangerous it was to attempt such a thing?”

“I don’t believe he much cared.”

“I have some Mathematics and English questions for you to answer and then the heads of our Maths and English departments will want to discuss your answers.”

“Of course.”

“I would also be interested to discuss your views on feminism at a future time, if you would be willing.”

“It is not my intent to fight the establishment on matters of gender superiority or equality. You said yourself that to do so might jeopardise the progress women have made in this country in recent years and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for damaging such a worthy accomplishment.”

“I shall have to see what I can do to win your trust then. In the meantime your caution reassures me.”

I took the assessments, finding them easy enough. The head of the Maths department didn’t have many questions for me other than to confirm my preference for statistics. It wasn’t that I found the subject easier, just that I expected to make more use of it, so I’d made more of an effort. The head of English and I spent more time speaking. She wanted to query certain nuances that had come out in my own answers which indicated an odd mix between Gerald’s influence and Max’s natural tendency towards youthful expressions and idioms. I didn’t try to explain the idiosyncrasies but described where they came from, giving examples from literature where I could.

They were overall satisfied with my competence and, along with Mrs Habib, invited me to fill pretty much all the empty slots in my timetable and then some. Not as a teacher – I wasn’t qualified for that – but as a teaching assistant. On the plus side, no preparation and no marking so I could focus on my own studies. With the amount they intended to use me it meant Mike had almost nothing to pay. I negotiated with Mrs Habib so that at least part of what I was earning would be paid to me, giving me something of an income and a degree of independence. I even wangled for both Mum and me to be included in the Arabic for beginners course that ran three evenings a week.

Mike made no complaints when the first bill came through so I can only assume he was happy enough with the amount he was being charged. He didn’t much like having to fend for himself every Monday, Wednesday and Friday evening, but Mum and I saw it as payback for him doing the same to us pretty much all the rest of the time.

Over the next three months, our Arabic improved markedly and the circle of friends Mum was building grew in consequence. They found our efforts to speak their language a constant source of amusement and a reason to ease their wariness. They helped us with our pronunciation and vocabulary and by the end of October we were holding reasonable conversations in Arabic and I was able to follow the lessons in Gulf history well enough. Reading and writing the language was a challenge I had yet to master though, so my assessments were verbal, the history teacher not being an Anglophone.

November brought with it a life of comfortable routine. Mike seemed pretty much to accept having me around as a girl, the police visits dropped to almost none, I’d just completed my fourth game of chess with Peter and had just sent off my opening for the fifth, since it was my turn to be white again. My circle of friends had expanded too, with all the girls in the school eager to improve their knowledge and seeing me as a means to do so. I even had those discussions with Mrs Habib once she convinced me of her good intentions.

It felt like nothing could go wrong, which of course meant it was bound to. It happened towards the end of a maths lesson. I was doing the rounds of the class, helping explain the intricacies of bivariate data and Pierson’s correlation coefficients, when a group of policemen appeared at the classroom door. It had a glass window and they were all looking at me.

I reached for my phone and pressed the power button three times. I didn’t have time for more.

“Laura Baxter!” It came out as more of a declaration than a question. They knew who I was so there was no sense in denying it.

***
Next chapter will have the really nasty bits in red and the not very nice bits in darker red so anyone who wants to avoid the serious unpleasantness can do so. You may miss a few minor bits of storyline if you avoid the darker red but nothing critical.

***

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

This is the bit where the CAUTION: Violence applies. When the text changes to dark red or maroon, it means things are about to turn a little rough. When it changes to bright red, then things are about to get a lot worse. Please take care while reading.

Chapter 11

I followed them out of the room leaving a whisper of speculation behind me. They led me to the principal’s office where I was met with a look of angry betrayal from Mrs H.

What follows is unpleasant. Laura is stripped, degraded and brutally tortured over several days. The dark colour covers some of the humiliation and the reaction of Laura’s friends. The lighter red is when it gets violent. The end of the red text indicates where it’s safe to continue reading.

“Take off your clothes,” one of the policemen demanded.

“What?”

“Your clothes. Remove them.”

“But...”

He grabbed a handful of my dress and yanked at it, ripping it from my back and unbalancing me so I fell onto my rump. My hijab fell loose revealing my pixie cut. Hair grows about half an inch a month and the three months we’d been in Jeddah had only just about given me enough hair to style. It still wasn’t a look that anyone here would accept as appropriate on a woman, even though it couldn’t have left me looking less like a man.

The hormone patches Mum had bought for me had done a fair job of filling out my bra. As breasts went, they were small still, but no-one could deny they were there. Even the part of me I’d never wanted had shrivelled to the point where it was all but unnoticeable. Unfortunately, all but is not the same as entirely. The way I landed jiggled it loose and, small though it was, it was there for all to see forming a distinct bulge in my knickers.

Mrs Habib scowled at me for a second then turned her back on me.

“Come,” the more vocal of the policemen said to me, throwing the remains of my dress on the floor and hauling me to my feet. There wasn’t a lot of me to haul so it was effortless for him, but from my perspective it felt as though he was yanking my arm from its socket.

I tried not to make any noise and to move with him, but he didn’t make it easy. He dragged me sideways making it impossible for me to walk, then yanked at me impatiently when he felt I was resisting. I yelped involuntarily prompting him to tug at me more violently.

I fought my way onto my feet and scurried along rapidly in an attempt to keep up, all the while blushing furiously as my near naked body was marched past glass fronted doors filled with familiar faces.

Outside felt cool. It was actually in the mid-thirties with the sun beating down out of a clear blue sky, but I wasn’t used to the feel of air on my bare skin. I didn’t have time to enjoy the sensation though, as the brute holding me pulled open the door of a nearby van and threw me bodily inside.

I cracked my head on something hard and sharp and saw stars while the van lurched around me with policemen climbing in after me and settling onto the bench seats. None of them offered to help me and before I could recover enough to get up, the van started and sped out of the school grounds.

Between the reckless lurching of the vehicle, the lack of outside reference and the spinning in my head, I felt a nausea overwhelm me. The gorge rose in my throat and I spewed the contents my stomach – a surprising quantity given the small amounts I had eaten at lunch – over the boots and trouser legs of my captors.

They cried out in protest and I received more than one boot in the face to add to my misery. It didn’t help settle my stomach, but I’d apparently emptied its contents, so I spent most of the remainder of the journey dry retching.

At the far end of the journey we pulled up inside a rough enclosure with high walls made from corrugated iron sheets and wooden beams. The ground was bare earth which I was encouraged to examine at close range after I was thrown bodily from the van.

I tried climbing to my feet and made it as far as my hands and knees before a heavy boot caught me in the lower ribs. I’m not sure if I imagined it, but I thought I heard something crack. Certainly pain flashed through me like hot lava.

I flew several feet before landing hard on the dirt. The ground was rough enough to scrape off bare skin wherever I made contact with it. I had little doubt what was coming next and curled myself into a tight foetal position with my arms over my head before the first blow came. Backbone exposed, but not much I could do about that.

Reading about it does nothing to prepare you for the experience. Small as I was, they couldn’t fit more than half a dozen around me without risking hitting each other, but it was more than enough. It meant they could take turns which in turn meant the were unrelenting. One would drop out, winded and another would take his place, kicking with renewed vigour, on and on without any sign of an end.

It only started with the boots. Heavy army boots designed to cope with any terrain. They were tough with hard edges and I was soft with no significant padding. It hurt enough when they hit the softer parts of me, their blows reaching deep enough to bruise my underlying organs. When they hit bone though, my hips, my ribs, my arms and lower legs, that was what caused me to cry out.

My cries only encouraged them. Each time I let out an involuntary yelp, the next kick would be harder, more enthusiastic. I bit down on those helpless noises my body so wanted to make, gritted my teeth and endured.

It only served to escalate matters. A brief pause then something hard reaching through my defences and cracking me in the jaw. I tasted blood and could feel a few loosened teeth. I tightened my arms around my head, ignoring as much as I could the pain from my damaged bones. What followed took the whole experience to another level. Hard wooden clubs beating down on my arms and legs, shock blows reaching through to my bones, cracking them, shattering them it felt like, then the hose pipes. Thick, sand filled, wrapping around my body, splitting the skin, rupturing capillaries in my muscles, spreading pain like I had never known.

In the midst of it all, the boots added their own contribution to my misery. Enough if the kicks were well placed enough to land between my legs, and then the pain would flare bright enough to take me to the edge of oblivion.

Never quite all the way though. These were experts in their trade, striking hard enough to cause a maximum of pain yet never quite hard enough to take me all the way into unconsciousness. How long the beating lasted I cannot begin to guess. Hours, days, I lost all sense of time. The pain stretched on interminably and all I could do was burrow into that innermost part of me and hold on.

They say that extremes of pain do not last in memory, that childbirth is such a traumatic experience you would never choose to go through it a second time if you could truly remember what the first time was like. I learned something of the truth of that over the next few days. The first was the worst for all that it lasted so long. Finally I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, and only then did they ease up. No sense in flogging a dead horse or, so it seemed, one that was incapable of feeling pain.

The second day was worse than the worst. I woke to a bucket of ice cold water splashing over my tender skin. It stank of... I revised my opinion of what had just been thrown over me. Stale and acrid, I spat out what small amount of foulness had made it into my mouth. I would regret doing so later when the day passed without a drop of water being offered to me, but that was the least of my concerns. Strong hands grabbed me, renewing the excruciating pain of the previous day, except that was only the beginning. I was thrown once again onto the rough ground and fresh blows landed on tender bruises proving to be a far more unspeakable agony than anything I had experienced. After that my mind entered a numbness as my body succumbed to a torture that was no less terrible for being a repetition of the previous day.

Being stoned to death couldn’t have been more horrible, because at least there would be an end to it. This was designed to take you to the very edge of your endurance and leave you wondering how much you really wanted to fight your way back from it, given the sure knowledge that if you did, all you had to look forward to was more of the same the next day in an increasingly broken body.

I didn’t even try to count the days. I assumed they were days in any case. More like periods of beating followed by periods of unconsciousness. A rude awakening in which I would swallow down as much of the liquid foulness thrown over me as I could stomach and then a brutal manhandling before the beatings would start over. Never anything to eat, but then I’m not sure my damaged jaw and uncomfortably loose teeth would have been able to cope with food. I was never given time to make use of a toilet, nor was there a toilet around as far as I could see. It didn’t really make much difference. With someone else’s urine as my only source of hydration, I was probably overloading my kidneys with urea, which meant I really wasn’t filling up my bladder much. The rare occasions when I had to go, I was already such a stinking filthy mess that it didn’t make any difference where I evacuated myself. It hurt to pee anyway, so I didn’t do it much.

Nothing had remained of my underwear by the end of the first beating, so for most of my time in that place I was reduced to less than an animal. Naked, smeared with my own excrement, covered in someone else’s piss and existing as a tiny ball of consciousness within a massive ball of pain. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to stay still. It just hurt.

In rare lucid moments I wondered what had gone wrong. What had happened to put me in this place. To think was to raise my consciousness to a point where I was acutely aware of the torment my life had been reduced to. In those moments I’d dive back deep within myself, holding the child within me deeper still, trying to keep Max from the worst of it. Somehow I held on.

And then a day dawned that was different from the others. It started the same with light pouring into my cage and me scrambling on agonised, fractured bones for the shadows. Whimpering in expectation of those same rough hands, that same brutal drag into the courtyard, the same blows, the same involuntary cries of pain, so far removed from my consciousness I scarcely believed they came from my mouth.

This time was different though. No abrupt dousing in urine. Instead tender hands and a soft touch that still drew whimpering cries of pain from my cracked lips. Soft words that made no sense. How long had it been since I’d heard words other than the brutal insults of my captors. This wasn’t Arabic though. They couldn’t reach through the near madness that filled my mind. Then the words turned angry, but they weren’t aimed at me. Somehow I could tell. Then gentle hands lifting me. They tried to be gentle, but they hurt. Everything hurt.

Then something cold wiping my arm, a sharp prick. I almost laughed at that. You call that torture? Then a soft numbness that spread and filled me with peace and darkness.

I awoke to the sound of rhythmic beeping. The pain was there but held at bay by a numbness in my mind. I tried moving and the pain screamed at me, still too distant to reach me, but it did something, triggered some alarm. Within a minute a kind face was looking down at me, shining a light in my eyes.

That hurt. I wanted to laugh again, but that really would have hurt. I closed my eyes until the light went away. Words were spoken, but they were dim and indistinct as though a long way off. I couldn’t make them out. I didn’t try. Sleep beckoned. More words in the background, but they faded as I slipped back into unconsciousness.

There were other times like that, and the sense of remoteness lessened each time. Eventually a day came when I woke to the intolerable sensation of my entire body itching. I couldn’t move to scratch anything and eventually called out feebly for help.

The kind face appeared within my field of vision and smiled down at me. This time I noticed the white coat.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“I itch everywhere,” I said, “and I can’t move.”

“That’s because pretty much your entire body is in an immobilisation cast. You have quite a few fractured bones. What do you remember?”

“Thankfully not much. Is there anything you can do about the itching? It’s going to drive me insane.”

“One might suspect you are already insane, doing as you did. A great many people wanted you dead, and one of the main reasons you are not is that a great many of them wanted you to suffer first.

“Another is that you have a number of powerful advocates who spoke on your behalf to the crown prince, and he has seen fit to intervene.

“Some of the details are unclear, but it seems certain aspects of your, er, physical nature, shall we say, were passed to a radical branch of the police. You’ve heard of CPVPV?”

“The Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice,” I managed with an unsuccessful attempt at moving.

“Ah yes, you’ve been studying our history haven’t you?”

“Can you do something about this itching or not?”

“I am doing something, which is to say I’m trying to distract you. The casts have to stay on for now, and there’s no way to reach the places that itch without compromising their effectiveness. Now, if we may return to your recent history. Do please allow it to distract you if you can.

“Both the king and the crown prince have been working to limit the influence of such extremists. It is unfortunate that your details were passed to this particular group because your nature and your recent activities are just the sort of thing that these people stand most strongly against.

“They came to the school where you were working – I have to ask, what is it that made you feel that as a trans woman you could get away with doing such a thing?”

“I don’t consider myself a trans anything. I am, and always have been, a woman. My father brought me to this country with a shaved head and wearing boy’s clothes with the intent of forcing me to resume my life as his son, but one of the airport officials...”

“Commissioner Ahmad. He was one of the people who spoke to the crown prince on you behalf.”

“He insisted I was a girl and made my father dress me as such. He then arranged for the police to visit us and ensure that I was continuing to live as a girl. He thought I was a girl trying to be a boy, but I told him the whole male thing was my father’s idea.”

“Yes. He continued to insist that you were a girl, even after we told him what you actually have... er, had between your legs.”

“I’m sorry doctor. What was that last bit?”

He sighed. “Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t mentioned that just yet. I was told you were quick”

“It’s a little late to change your mind now, doctor.” At least he’d managed to distract me from the itching..

“There is no easy way to tell you of this. You suffered a considerable amount of trauma while you were in police custody, in particular to your genitalia. Much of what was there had to be removed.”

“How much?” The thought of being catheterised for the rest of my life did not appeal.

“More than any man would feel comfortable speaking about. Both your testicles were ruptured and there was extensive necrosis to the soft tissue in the penis.”

“My sphincter?”

“That remains intact as does the head of the penis, but almost all of what remains had to be removed.”

“Exactly what do I have down there, doctor?”

“Please understand, I find great discomfort in talking about such matters. To lose one’s manhood is a thing I think most Arab men would dread above all others. To perform an operation to change a man into a woman, most of us see this as a sacrilegious act against Allah, and most doctors would refuse to conduct such a thing. The damage to their reputation alone would be...”

“So you chose to turn me into a eunuch rather than a woman.”

“Not true on several levels. For one, I am not a surgeon so none of what was done to you was by my hand. For two, the man who saved your life acted out of necessity rather than choice. He removed only what would have killed you. And this he did because, for three, the king decreed that for us to leave you in such a state after the treatment you received at the hands of our officials – radicals to be sure, and acting beyond their authority – would be unjust.

“Throughout your surgery, he insisted your surgeon remain in constant video contact with Mr Chakrii who is a highly skilled and respected surgeon from Thailand. He has performed a great many successful operations such as yours and is widely considered to be the world’s leading specialist in his field. Once you were stabilised, the king arranged for Mr Chakrii and his entire medical staff to be flown here to complete your, er, transformation. As I understand it, the final outcome was considered to be an outstanding success.

“You are, as far as modern medical science can make you, in all respects a woman, though why any man should wish such a thing...”

I closed my eyes and breathed in the relief. I’d have been happy at that stage to settle for being able to pee on my own, perhaps to have enough of me left down there to complete the transition at some stage, but to have it already completed was a wonderful feeling. I tried squeezing my thighs together, but between the restrictions imposed on my movement and the feeling of something packing out the space down there I was unable. I settled for talking; it was about the only thing I could do in my current state.

“Do you see women as being less than men, doctor.”

“Different certainly.”

“If it was only different, surely you wouldn’t consider being turned into one such a terrible injustice.”

“My culture considers women to have a lower status than men, which means to change a man in such a way would be to take away from him some of his birth right, to consign him to a leaser life in which he would be controlled by his peers.”

“And yet, in your mind you must accept that women are no less intelligent than men.”

“There is a gulf between that which is in the mind and that which is in the heart. I have seen this, and yet I still feel it to be wrong.”

“Indoctrination perhaps? Brainwashing is a harsh and evocative word, but perhaps one we should consider.”

He stiffened.

“I do not mean to disparage your faith, doctor. There are faults in the way we all choose to worship God, and they are of our making, not his. We would all do to question our traditions from time to time, because even with the guiding hand of the Almighty, we are prone to mistakes. Sometimes through ignorance, sometimes through deliberate manipulation of people’s beliefs.”

“Please do not speak of such things. You will make enemies.”

“Doctor, I appear to have made enemies without speaking of such things. In my culture we recognise women as being equals, at least in principle. There is momentum within our beliefs that means a great many men hold onto outdated beliefs in this matter, but the law sides with women in their call to be seen as nothing less than men. Even if this weren’t so, I have always believed myself to be a girl and, even in a culture such as yours, I think I would only have found contentment as a woman. There is something in the way in which I think and feel that causes me to prefer female company and a female way of life. This transition I have been given is something I’ve sought all my life, and I believe I would have wished for even if I had been born in your country.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad my origins are in a culture where not only being a woman, but being a person who desires to become a woman, is not something that is considered to be so wrong.”

“Well, don’t expect such openness of mind here.”

“I don’t doctor, though I do hope I may be able to influence a few less traditional thinkers.”

“Yes, well once again I feel you should lower your expectations.

“I have kept you awake too long. You need rest and to sleep.”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep with this itching, doctor.”

“Perhaps not. I will instruct one of the nurses to give you something to help you sleep. When you next wake, there will be visitors if you feel up to it.”

“I should like that doctor. You still haven’t told me how I came to be rescued.”

“I will leave that for your father to tell you, after all it was his doing.”

“My father?” I couldn’t imagine Mike acting in any way in my interests.

“Yes, but sleep for now. He will tell you of it when you wake.” He nodded at a nurse who came over and swiftly prepared a syringe which she injected into my IV line. The world faded to black within seconds.

I awoke to the sound of quiet talking. I grunted and Mum’s anxious face appeared in front of me.

“Laura,” she gasped. “Thank goodness, we were so worried.”

“We?” I croaked.

“Your Uncle Peter is here.”

“Dad?”

“No, he’s... Oh, yes. I suppose.”

Peter’s cautiously smiling face appeared behind Mum’s. “Hi Abri. Or is it Laura now?”

“Mum’s preference. I kind of like it. Will someone please tell me how I got here?”

“That’s more Pe... your dad’s story than mine. As far as I knew and thing, you didn’t come home a couple of weeks ago and your... Mike refused to do anything about it. I contacted the school and was told not to call again, then I called my dad who’s been talking to me every day since we’ve been in this country. When I thought to call Peter, he was already on his way here.”

I shifted my focus to Dad’s eyes.

“That app of yours is a lifesaver, Abri, and I mean literally. The alert came through just as we were coming together after lunch. The director wasn’t happy with me, but then what are understudies for. He threatened to blackball me, but I didn’t much care. I’ve had a go bag in the car since you came over here and a ticket on reserve, so I called Paul and told him I was on my way here.

“I arrived in Jeddah in the early hours of the morning, found a hotel and grabbed a few hours sleep. First thing in the morning I followed the map on your app directly to the girls school where you’ve been working and into the principal’s office.

“She wasn’t that pleased to see me, but once she realised shouting at me wasn’t going to get rid of me, she eventually told me what had happened to you. From there, I started making enquiries of all the police stations and got nowhere.

“After three days, I went back to the school. I’ll give her some credit, Mrs Habib was concerned that I’d not been able to find where you’d been taken. She gave me access to the security footage so I could at least go back on my search with a number plate and a photograph or two of the arresting officers.

“By the end of the week, I’d made enough of a nuisance of myself that one of the high ups in the security forces came to see me. I think he’d intended to escort me onto a plane out of the country, but when I showed him your photograph, his attitude changed very abruptly. He took me to see your mum and... yeah. I’d been in touch with Lisa since the beginning of the week, but with nothing useful to report. Mike was being about as useful as a fishnet condom as usual. This time, with my official companion things went a lot different. The man wanted to know why Mike hadn’t reported your absence and made a lot of very angry noises.

“When I showed him the security camera photographs I had, he became quite troubled and made several phone calls – in Arabic, so I had no idea what he was saying – and the next thing I knew we were back in his office, videoconferencing with the king and crown prince of all people. The principal of your school was there to, Mrs Habib. Of course I didn’t understand a word being said, only that it was all very heated. I thought Mrs Habib was arguing against you, since she knew about your bits, but it turned out she was arguing along with the police official to persuade the royals to get involved. It took a while to bring them around, but I’ll say this for them, when they commit to something, they do so all the way.

“It took another couple of days to make our way around all the haunts of these radicals these PDFQs or whatever.”

“CPVPVs,” I chipped in.

“Yes, them. By the time we found you, you’d been in their hands for twelve days. I...” He bit his lip, tears streaming freely from his eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him cry. “I could barely recognise you through the bruises and the filth. Your whole body was black and blue, and I mean all of it. Even the soles of your feet.”

The tears got the better of him again and Mum pulled him into a hug. Tears blurred my own vision, only I had no way to wipe them away.

One of the paramedics who’d come with us gave you something to put you under and you’ve been in a medically induced coma since then.”

“How long?”

“Nine days. They had to operate.”

“The doctor told me.”

“Not all of it I imagine.”

“My bits are gone.”

“Yeah,” he laughed through his tears. “The first gender reassignment surgery in the Middle East. I imagine they’ll want you to keep that quiet.

“They did right by you there though. They flew in the best specialist there is along with his entire team. God knows what that cost.

“They had to open up pretty much every part of you though. The number of broken bones in your hands and feet, you’d likely never have walked again, or held anything.”

“You’re scaring her Peter.”

Mum was right, I knew how complicated hands and feet were bone-wise.

“Oh shit, sorry. It’s okay sweetheart. They may not have any experience in chopping willies off, but what they can do in other areas is beyond amazing. They had a separate surgeon working on each of your hands and feet at the same time. Talk about jigsaws! Mind you They said it’s as well you have such young bones. Outer part pretty much shattered in places, but held together by a sort of softer interior. They let me watch from the gallery. It took hours, but they were meticulous and put everything back exactly where it belonged, then used some sot of organic cement to hold it together. They said it doesn’t just hold the bones together, but it encourages them to knit back together stronger than they were to start with. It’s the reason they have you in this immobilising cast. If you shift any of the breaks out of position, it’ll be extremely hard to fix a second time round.”

“Scars?”

“You really are a girl, aren’t you? They used laser scalpels which apparently don’t create much scar tissue. For the most part they just made relatively minor incisions and pealed back your flesh to get at the bones. The chief surgeon seemed to think there would be almost no signs.”

“Why doesn’t the rest of the world know about this kind of treatment?”

“Probably a bit because it’s prohibitively expensive, and probably a bit because it was developed for use on horses.”

“Horses!?”

Peter shrugged. “They value their horses in this part of the world.”

“And it’s being used on my because...”

“Because the king decreed it. Because without it you’d be a bag of jelly and bone chips.”

“Peter!”

“It’s alright Mum, I’d rather know. Can you tell me anything else? I mean my organs must have taken quite a beating, and I only had someone else’s piss to drink for two weeks.”

“Laura!”

“Can’t help it if it’s true Mum.”

“And this would explain the severe uremia you experienced,” the doctor said from the doorway to my room. “Not so bad as to cause kidney failure, but it was close. Many of your other organs were quite badly bruised too, but you are young and the treatment is effective. It will take a while but you should make a full recovery.”

“Thank you doctor. Perhaps I might ask how much time?”

“The body cast will be removed in five days. I know, it is an eternity when your skin itches as yours does. After that, your bones will be strong enough for you to walk and behave as normal, but they will ache and your joints will feel stiff at first. This may last several months I’m afraid. We don’t know how long since, for one thing we only have our observations of the horses we have treated which do have few similarities with human beings, and for another we haven’t used this treatment on someone as extensively injured as yourself.

“The bruising to both your skin and organs will fade within a month or two as will the tenderness you will most certainly feel. The same applies to your, er , new arrangements below. You are catheterised for the present, but this will be removed when you are released from the cast. After this you will be restricted from strenuous exercise for some weeks.”

“That’s so much better than I was expecting, doctor. Thank you. I thought broken bones took much longer to mend.”

“It varies. Smaller bones typically six to eight weeks and more if you don’t immobilise them. Larger bones more like twenty weeks. Your breaks are extensive and quite serious, and they definitely won’t be mended when we take the cast off, but the cement, the glue that was used will hold everything together and encourage your bones to knit so the healing time will be shorter. That being said, you will feel a considerable amount of aching in your bones all the time they are mending. I anticipate you will feel considerable discomfort all over your body for a month or two after the cast is removed and you will continue to feel discomfort in your thighs and hips especially for four or five months.”

“It still sounds so much better than I was expecting. Er, when will I be able to return home?”

“To your home here in Jeddah, or your home in England?”

“There’s a difference?”

“I’m a little concerned how air travel will affect your recuperation. Once we have you out of the cast, I would want to observe you for a few days before discharging you to your home here in the city. A few more tests and perhaps a couple of weeks beyond that and I imagine air travel will be safe. I won’t guarantee anything at this stage, but I am tentatively confident we can get you home to England before Christmas.

“For now, rest is again essential. You have had a good visit with your parents, yes?”

“Erm,” I said as Mum and Peter looked at each other a little sheepishly.”

“I’m missing something, I think.”

“This is my Uncle Peter,” I said. “My father is...”

“A piece of shit?” Mum suggested.

We all looked at her with varying degrees of surprise.

“I’m coming round to your point of view,” she said to me. “He showed no concern and made no effort after you were arrested, despite my obvious worry, and he hasn’t come to visit you since you’ve been in here, nor has he even asked how you are. He even went so far as to complain about the amount of time I’ve been spending here the other day.”

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, “then who is...”

“My brother,” Mum said. “He has legal guardianship for Laura in any case, at least in England he does. I’m not sure how it works here.”

“As far as I’m concerned, this is my dad,” I added twitching my eyes in Peter’s direction – the full extent to which I could move.

“I’ll make a note of this. In any case, you need to rest now, so your mother and your, er,, dad should leave now. Will you be able to sleep without assistance?”

“I think so. I think I’m getting used to the itching.”

“This is common. Whatever our circumstance we acclimate to it in time. It is as well also. I have decreased your pain medication because I do not wish you to become dependent, but if you find the discomfort too great, ask for help. You are being monitored at all times and a nurse will come to you if you ask.”

“Thank you. I seem to be saying that a lot, but I really am grateful.”

“Yes. Perhaps you will have an opportunity to offer your thanks to those primarily responsible for your care later this afternoon.”

“You’re not suggesting I’m going to have a visit from the king or the crown prince?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Neither will be visiting you, though they are concerned and have sent a representative for when you feel up to it.”

“After my rest then. I suppose it wouldn’t do for Saudi royalty to be seen consorting with a deviant.”

“You understand our culture quite well.”

“For an infidel.”

He laughed again. “For a deviant and an infidel. We shall talk again soon. For now I will leave you to sleep.”

I didn’t get much rest. Partly the itching, partly the pain, which was worse than it’s let on, partly wondering what this representative of the crown would want to say. I must have dozed for a short while at least because when I opened my eyes, I found a middle aged Arab in robe and keffiyeh standing in my doorway.

“As-salamu alaykum,” I greeted him

The traditional greeting went through its various stages. I continued in Arabic.

“You honour me with your visit. I realise I am not the sort of person you would wish to speak with.”

“I have spoken with women before. You are foreign and allowances must be made.”

“You are kind. I owe the king and the crown prince my life.”

“Both the king and the crown prince regret that your life was placed in jeopardy.”

“It has been said to me that I put my own life in jeopardy.”

“Perhaps there is some truth in this, and yet both the king and the prince would wish that no visitor to our shores be subject to the unpleasantness you experienced.”

“It seems your country is not ready for people such as myself.”

“As Allah wills it.”

“Does not Allah will that we should choose our own futures.”

“It is as you say. Yet sometimes the choices we make do not bring us the futures we wish.”

“So, how are we to know what choices we should make to bring the best future.”

“We are bidden to follow the Quran and the teachings of the prophet.”

“And what is it the Quran says about people such as me? What does the Hadith say?”

He looked uncomfortably to one side; the first show of anything other than smug self-confidence.

“It is my understanding that on the subject of those born men who choose to live as women, the Quran has nothing to say, and that among the sayings of the prophet, sallallahu alayhe wasallam, there were times when he welcomed such individuals into his home and permitted them to mingle with his wives.”

“It is said that one cannot fully understand the Quran or the aHadith unless one studies them in the language in which they were written.”

“I have heard this too. I am aware my Arabic is not perfect, but I had hoped it good enough for such a task. I have been told I speak it better than many rural natives.”

“Then perhaps it is for this reason that the king and the crown prince are so insistent that you have done nothing wrong and that it is our responsibility to see that you are adequately recompensed for your troubles.”

“I am grateful for my life and for the health that is being restored to me. It is enough.”

“Your life was not endangered nor your health so harmed except by the actions of our countrymen. The king believes more is owed.”

“And if I can think of nothing I would want?”

“The Saudi Royal family is the wealthiest family in the world. Surely there is something you could ask for?”

“I understand the medical team who operated on me to make me physically as female as it is possible were brought here at the king’s expense. This is no small gift, and I can think of no gift I could appreciate more.”

“And yet...?”

I thought for a while. “There is, perhaps one thing I might ask for, but it worries me that I may be asking too much.”

“You believe you can ask for too much from our king? Ask and it shall be given.”

“Do you know the story of the man who invented the game of chess?”

“Perhaps you would enlighten me.”

“It is said that the Grand Vizier Sissa Ben Dahir gifted the first chess board to the Indian King Shirham. In return the king asked what Sissa would ask in return. Taking the chess board, Sissa said to the king, ‘On this first square, give me one grain of rice, and on this second give me two, on the third four, and so on, doubling until you reach the final square.’ The king declared that this seemed a fair price and decreed that it should be paid until his accountants calculated the total and found it to be more the five hundred billion tonnes. The story is almost certainly untrue, but it teaches us not to make a promise without understanding what is being asked.”

“Then ask, and I will tell you if you ask too much.”

“I would ask that the crown prince agree to listen to the council of a woman regularly.”

The man stiffened. “You are right, you ask too much.”

“Perhaps you would tell me why.”

He looked at me sternly.

“Does the Quran not teaching us that men and women are equals spiritually?”

He nodded reluctantly.

“Does this not mean that men and women possess wisdom in equal measure?”

This time he just stared at me.

“And if this is so, why should a wise king, or prince, accept wisdom from one and yet deny it from another.”

My visitor appeared to have turned into a statue.

“I understand there are many who would object to such behaviour and for a member of the royal family to do as I have asked would weaken his position in the eyes of such people. This is something I would wish to avoid. I would leave it to the king to decide how often would be meant by regularly; once a week, once a month, once a year perhaps. It would also be for the king to decide who would be a worthy woman to offer such advice and whether or not he should heed the council offered. If it would help, they might say they are only doing so as an obligation to me because of what was done to me by extremists ”

“What is it you seek to achieve by this?”

“That a woman should be permitted to contribute in some small way to the ruling of this country. The more it can be seen by all that what they have is valid and worthwhile, the sooner the true value of women in this culture will be seen and accepted.”

“I will take this to the prince. He will decide if it is something he is prepared to give.”

“Please tell the prince I do not wish to cause difficulties. I am a foreigner and I do not understand this country as well as you. If he thinks granting this would cause more harm than good, then I would not wish him to commit to such a course.”

“I believe you understand our country very well, and you possess the wisdom we would wish to hear. Both the king and the prince share your views on the value of women in our country.”

“But not you?”

“I do not believe my country is ready for such a change.”

“And if Allah wills it?”

“Then it will be as Allah wills. It did not please me to be sent here today. I believed you to be an abomination and worthy of damnation.”

“Those who do good, whether male or female, and have faith will enter Paradise and will never be wronged; even as much as the speck on a date stone.”

“You have read the Quran.”

“Only in part and in as much as it supported my studies.”

“This has been most instructive for me. I do not say this easily, but you have humbled me this day. Even if my king does not choose to grant your request, I will ponder the words we have shared this afternoon.”

“Then we have already achieved much. I am most grateful for your visit.”

“I wish you a swift and painless recovery.”

“And I wish you clarity of mind and peace in your heart. Ma’a salama.”

“Ma’a salama.” He bowed and withdrew.

It took no time at all for me to fall asleep after that. I may have spotted the doctor coming into my room, but I was already halfway into the land of dreams. If he said anything to me, I didn’t hear him.

This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Laura recalls some of her experiences in this chapter, and quite graphically. I’ve marked them in red in case you prefer to skip.

Chapter 12

Mum and Peter were there when I woke. Neither said much, but I could feel the weight of their hands resting on the casts encasing my body, just I could feel the intensity of the love in their eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind, Mum,” I opened the conversation, “but once I’m back on my feet again, I’m going back to England with Peter.”

“I should hope so too,” she snorted. “I shall miss you of course, but I don’t think I need you now.”

“The doctor suggested there might be a delay once you’re out of the cast,” Peter said.

“Oh yes, he said the same to me. Well, as soon as he gives the all clear.”

“No arguments from me,” Peter said. “The sooner you’re home, the sooner we’ll all be happy.”

“How’s Paul handling this?”

“You know Paul.”

“As bad as that?”

“He went ballistic when I told him what you’d been through. It took me the rest of that call to persuade him not to get on the next flight.”

“Why wouldn’t you want him to?” Mum asked.

“You remember how effeminate I used to be?” Peter answered. “Paul’s so much more. He wouldn’t last ten seconds out here.”

“So what is going to happened after you’re discharged?” Mum asked.

“I shall need somewhere to stay for a week or two,” I said. “I suspect everyone’s expecting me to go home with you. I mean, my clothes are there, I have bed... I’m assuming you don’t have a spare bed in your hotel room, Dad?”

“Just one enormous double which wouldn’t be appropriate. They may start charging double occupancy too and the room’s expensive enough as it is.”

“Well, it would be good to spend a few more days with you before you go,” Mum said hopefully.

There wasn’t much else to talk about, but that was okay. Mum and Peter had enough to catch up on, and it was less tiring just listening.

Most of the next few days went the same way but by the third I was in desperate need of some distraction. The air conditioning had kept me from sweating too much, so the itch wasn’t half so bad as it might have been, but it was driving me out of my skull.

Peter brought in a chess set and we kept a dialogue going throughout. Gerry had taught him initially, but he’d kept with it and improved over the years so he was a pretty decent player and we were actually quite well matched. For a change we decided to discuss the options we could see as the match went on. It meant neither of us made any glaring mistakes and by the time the doctor stuck his head in to call time on us, we could both see we were heading for a stalemate.

“Doctor, are all these monitors necessary?” I asked as Peter packed the game away.

“I suppose not. A few certainly, but not all. Why?”

“I was wondering if it would be possible for my dad to bring in a phone tomorrow so I could videoconference with some people back home.”

“I don’t see why that shouldn’t be possible.” He looked over the machinery, deciding which would still be a good idea to keep on and whether any of them might be sensitive to mobile phones. “I’ll check the adjoining rooms.” Then to Peter, “Bring your phone in tomorrow, but check with me before you turn it on.”

So my last day’s immobility was made bearable by the virtual presence of my other dad. He kept me entertained with stories of the neighbours. Apparently, Mrs Bickerage had slipped while peering over our fence and fallen in one of her rose bushes. No serious injury, except to her dignity, especially when she’d needed Paul’s help to rescue her from her predicament. Paul had been baking for the local fete at the time, and had been wearing the pink gingham apron. Mrs B hadn’t known whether to be grateful or outraged.

Jasper was finally going through the night, much to his mum and dad’s relief. They’d probably missed me almost as much as the dads, and Paul had taken pity on them and sat for them on one evening so they could escape the horrors.

“I don’ know how you coped with that little grizzle-pot,” Paul said shaking his head. “I was walking up and down from the moment they left me with him to the moment they got home.”

“I guess you understand why I was always a bit frazzled after one of those sessions.”

“Sweetheart, you are a saint! I mean you kept going back after the first time. Me, I spent nearly a week trying to avoid them before they cornered me one day and said they probably wouldn’t need me any more. The little tyke – that’s my term for him, uou understand, not theirs. They were a whole lot ruder...”

“They weren’t!”

“Listen, who’s telling this story, you or me?”

It went on in the same vein and had me laughing hard enough that the movements were just about rubbing my body against the inside of the cast. I certainly felt some degree of relief from it, but it raised a little concern with the doctor who sadly cut the session short.

“One more day,” He said. “For peace of mind I think it will be worth it.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow Dad,” I said to Paul, raising a questioning eyebrow on the doctor’s face. He’d probably stopped trying to understand the intricacies of my family relationships though, because he didn’t ask me about it.

Peter and Mum left early promising to be with me early in the morning, and I had an afternoon and evening to endure with renewed irritation all over my body.

Morning arrived along with my family – two members of at least. They kept the small talk going and almost managed to distract me. I was more than ready when the doctor arrived ahead of a machine that looked a lot like a handheld circular saw attached to a cart.

“Looks a little low tech,” I said dubiously.

“And yet it is the best tool for this job. Please close your eyes and permit me to do this.”

I did just that, and for half an hour, listened to the sound and smell of an electric saw cutting through plastic. It came close enough to tickle my skin but never closer. It meant I had to grit my teeth in order to keep from moving, but I could feel the tight grasp of the cast loosening all over.

At long last, the front piece was pulled away and I could move my arms. Before I could attack the multiple itches, now all the worse for being exposed to the air, strong hands closed around my wrists and biceps and lifted me clear of the back piece.

I didn’t have time to object before multiple nurses with rough flannels began to wash me all over and blessed relief flooded through me.

“Relax,” the doctor said, smiling into my eyes . “We have done this before and we know what we are doing. A bath is being prepared for you, and believe me,” he twitched his nose slightly, “you could do with it. We will help you to it shortly. For now, permit my staff to clear away the dead skin and bring you some relief.”

And relief there was. Tempered a little by the expressions on Peter and Mum’s faces as they looked down on me. I barely had the strength to raise my head, but I managed it. My entire body was covered in bruises.

“Shouldn’t they have cleared by now doctor?” I asked.

“The ones from your beating, yes. These are from the surgery. Rolling back the flesh to give access to your damaged bones is a trauma in its own right. A moment’s discomfort.”

I felt an unusual twinge between my legs. The doctor came away with a length of plastic tubing and a bag of yellow liquid which he gave to a nurse to take away.

“Now, when you are ready, I would like you to try and sit up. You have people to help you, so take it slowly and rely on them if you need to.”

It took a while. My whole body felt stiffer than at any other time in my life and it felt like I had almost no muscle left.

“Is there a mirror, doctor?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Your body has been through quite an ordeal, as I say, most recently from the reconstructive surgery.”

“Please doctor, I really need to see myself.”

He hesitated, but nodded. One of the nurses – there were a lot of them – hurried from the room and by the time I’d been helped onto unsteady feet and had a light silk robe draped over my shoulders, she returned with a full-length mirror in tow.

I stared at my reflection and let the tears well up. I was skinnier now than ever and covered with so many bruises I looked like an abstract tattooist’s masterpiece. All that I took in my stride. What filled my eyes was the very neat arrangement between my legs. I’d never had much down there in the first place, but now there was a very distinct gap and, quite visible with my pubic area shaved and only beginning to grow back, two neat yet distinct labia.

My breasts were larger too, unless it was an optical illusion from my body having wasted away so much. I cupped them in my hands, my joints moving with an almost painful stiffness.

“Mr Chakrii considered giving you a little help with those,” the doctor said, “but suggested it would be as well to see what change would come from the hormones first. We have continued to administer them intravenously.” He indicate the bag of transparent fluid hanging from a stand and still attached to my arm. “If you will permit me.” He deftly removed the tape holding the cannula in place and slipped it out before I realised what he was doing. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat like the rest of us again.”

“Bath first,” I said. “I stink.” I really did.

Not that I could do much other than lie there. It didn’t matter. I was surrounded by nurses who did everything necessary, including washing my hair. It was still short, but just beginning to tickle the nape of my neck.

With everything washed and the bathwater looking decidedly murky, one of the nurses lifted me out as though I weighed no more than a child, which I probably didn’t. Between them, they towelled me down, helped me into a pair of knickers and a fresh cotton nightdress and led me back to my bed, now sporting crisp, fresh sheets.

Apart from the ache in my joints, nothing could have been closer to a taste of heaven. Then a different nurse turned up with a bowl of porridge laced with honey and I found myself looking around for the guy I’d met after I died. It may have been a fancy, but I had a sense that he was standing nearby and smiling.

I managed half the bowl before my stomach began protesting. The nurse wiped my lips with a paper napkin, smiled at me and left with the bowl.

“You are comfortable?” the doctor asked.

“Mum and Dad?”

“I sent them home after you went for your bath. You will be tired.”

“Oh yeah.”

“I shall leave you to sleep. The button to call for assistance, should you need it, is here.”

“Mm, thank you. Doctor?”

“Yes?”

I looked about at the many nurses still scurrying around, doing things.

“I really thought my seventy-two virgins would be men.”

He chuckled. “Sleep now. We will talk more when you wake.”

We did, only for him to explain my new regime, which consisted of eating progressively larger amounts – if you could call an extra half spoonful each day larger – exercising – if you could call covering fifty feet in a very slow, geriatric walk exercise – and sleeping. Lots of sleeping. I spent two more days and nights in the room very slowly regaining my strength.

The first morning I woke early with the dim light of dawn penetrating into the room. I twisted under the sheets, luxuriating in my freedom of movement, stretching gently, exploring the aches filling my body. I thought of how horribly mangled my body had been and how much of a gift it was simply to be able to move like this. I thought of my previous five days consciousness, locked into that cast and unable to move and allowed my imagination to compare it with a lifetime in the crippled shell my body had been. Tears of gratitude and relief filled my eyes.

My hands moved almost without deliberate thought to that space between my legs. It was something I’d been prone to do every morning since Max and Gerald had begun combining into me. Nothing really dodgy about the act. More like the way your tongue explores the space left by a recently lost tooth, or how fingernails will quest after a fresh scab. Only this time there was nothing to find, just a flatness and those soft folds.

The discovery ran through me like an electric shock, thrilling me and filling me with fresh gratitude. The trickle of tears became a flood and I had to take a few calming breaths to keep from sobbing out loud.

I’d wanted to explore the previous day, only I’d never been left alone for a moment. In the privacy of my bed, hidden under thin sheets, I cautiously gathered up the hem of my nightdress and sent questing fingers down the front of my underwear.

Something responded down there. A sort of faint ghost of one of Gerald’s remembered erections. Fingers slipped between soft folds of skin, encountering a small, sensitive nub that had to be all that remained of the tip of my penis. Ice cold tendrils of delight shot through me in all directions and I bit back on a gasp. I had to wonder how close that experience was to a real woman’s, then I chided myself for the thought. I was a real woman, and how could any one woman really compare her own experiences to any other? Like how could we tell that we all saw colour the same way? Me telling Jasper that the picture of an apple in one of his books was red. I’d been taught to recognise the colour as a child and now I was doing the same for him. The commonality was in the communication, not necessarily in how each of us experienced it in our brain.

Except here was I with a unique vantage point. The Gerald in me had experienced the world through two sets of sensory organs. True, colours seemed brighter through Max’s eyes, sounds crisper, tastes more intense with the sweetness of chocolate appealing a great deal more than the fruity sharpness of a good Malbec, but that could simply be the difference in age. Certainly the way I experienced colours now was not so different from the way I remembered.

Someone came into the room. I withdrew my hand from its exploration and rearranged my nightclothes before drying my eyes on the sheets. I sat up, grunting quietly as my aching bones objected to the sudden movement.

“As-salamu alaykum,” the king’s representative said. “Forgive me, I did not mean to wake you.”

“Wa alaykumu s-salam. No forgiveness is necessary. I was awake.”

“It is early, but I have much to do today. The nurses permitted me to see whether you were awake so I could give you the response of the king.” He was having difficulty deciding where to direct his eyes.

I looked around me. There really wasn’t much I could use for a hijab, but I could at least lift up the sheet to cover my shoulders. He gave me a grateful look.

“I imagine this is a little different after your last visit. A body wrapped up in an immobility cast must look the same whether it belongs to a man or a woman.”

He bowed his head a little way. “It occurred to me that since you came into this world as a man, I could continue to think of you as such. This is no longer possible.”

“I am sorry if this causes you difficulty, though I have always thought of myself as female, for the true nature of a thing lies in its heart, and my heart has always been that of a woman. That is why I did not fear to claim to be a woman when the official at the airport saw me to be one. That is why I did not feel it wrong to attend the girls school and work there. Your culture believes men and women should remain apart. I felt, as I have always felt, that I belonged among the women. But for a defect of birth, now corrected, I would never have needed to argue the fact.”

“I have no words to answer you, but I shall consider what you say as I have considered what you told me yesterday.”

“I could ask for nothing more than that you do so, and perhaps that the king might also listen to a woman’s voice?” That last came out as a question. After all, this was the news he had come to deliver.

He smiled. “And so your wish is to be granted. The king has agreed to hear the council of a woman, and if he finds it worthy, to do so more often than once in a year. He has also agreed that, should he find value in what he hears, he will prevail upon his son to do the same. He does this out of obligation to you, that having received such harsh treatment at the hands of our countrymen, he feels we owe you something in return.”

“The king is gracious. It is my hope that he finds a woman’s council to be of profound value.”

“The king would ask if you have someone in mind who might offer such council.”

“I would not presume to suggest someone, though perhaps I might know a person who could offer this advice. Mrs Habib, the principal of the girls school struck me as someone who might be able to speak on this matter.”

“Then I shall contact her as soon as I may. The king wishes to know your intentions once you are well enough to leave this place.”

“My doctor has some concerns that I should recover fully before boarding an aircraft, but I believe if I were to stay, I would sow discord within your land. My nature and my story is known to a great many now and there are those who would despise me because of it. There are also those who have come to know me and see there is no harm in me. I do not wish to be a cause for strife, so I will return to my home country as soon as I am able.”

“This is well. The king would ask for your discretion during the remainder of you stay in this country.”

“Who am I that I should deny the king such a request? Please convey to your king and to your prince my heartfelt thanks for all they have done for me.”

“I shall do so. He has one more gift he wishes you to accept.” He pulled an envelope out of his robes and passed it across.

“May I ask what this is?”

“You may open it and discover for yourself. Though if you prefer, this is an invitation at any time in the future for you to make an appointment with Mr Chakrii to make any adjustments to your appearance you feel are needed or desired. The king will pay for your transportation to Thailand, your accommodation while you are there and the services of Mr Chakrii and his clinic. All you need do is call the number in the envelope and the rest will be arranged for you.”

“And what if I’m happy with the way my body turns out?”

“Then you will be unique amongst women. However, in the unlikely event that this should occur, then you and your parents should at least enjoy a first class trip to Thailand and fourteen nights stay in a five star hotel at the king’s pleasure.”

“The king is most generous.”

“I have always found him to be so. Now, I believe we have concluded our business. Ma’a salama.”

“Ma'a salama.”

The royal representative withdrew only to be replaced by a smiling nurse. She helped me to the toilet, my need for which had been growing in urgency, then brought me a light breakfast , yet again of porridge and honey. The doctor arrived as I was finishing and spoke to me about my next few days’ rehabilitation.

Mum and Peter continued to come daily and provide encouragement and incentive to put some strength back into my muscles. I pushed myself, but only as far as the doctor would permit me. It was enough that he felt ready to discharge me after just a couple more days with the warning not to overexert myself.

I did receive a couple of unexpected visitors over those days, though. Unexpected or no, I had asked for a hijab in case someone like the king’s representative should return. It was as well because my first surprise visitor was Commissioner Ahmad. His expression darkened at the sight of me. Despite the hastily added head covering, my body was still largely one giant bruise.

“The ones who did this to you do not deserve to live.”

“Yet how will evil learn to become good if it is destroyed in the moment it is discovered?” I didn’t feel like explaining my current bruises had been given me by a team of highly skilled surgeons in pursuit of my well-being.

“You possess both wisdom and beauty. How could anyone believe you to be anything but a woman? If it is your wish they be forgiven then I shall strive to forgive them.”

“Forgiveness requires repentance. To forgive an unrepentant soul is to encourage yet more evil.”

“Then...”

“Show them kindness that they might learn from it. In the Bible there is a proverb. If your enemy is hungry, give him food to eat; if he is thirsty, give him water to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head, and the Lord will reward you.”

“I do not understand this. Do you show them kindness or pain?”

“As I understand it, the proverb looked back to the time of the Exodus when the People of the Book wandered the desert. At night all tribes would settle and make a fire, but from time to time one family would neglect theirs and let it go out. When this would happen, one of their number would place a basket on their head and run through the surrounding camps where those sitting by their fire would throw hot coals into it. When the runner had enough, he would return to his camp and pour the coals on his family’s fire and so relight it.

“People do evil because they have strayed from the light. To show them kindness is to show them the way back to the light. Whether they elect to take the path is their choice, but at least you have shown them the way.

“Does not Allah love all men and women? Would it not bring him joy to see one lost soul returned to his embrace?”

“Definitely wisdom and beauty. And goodness. I believe I saw through to your true nature on our first encounter.”

“I believe so too, and I thank you for it.”

Other visits were less philosophical. Kadijah Habib came and wept at the sight of me. Despite the tenderness of my body I climbed out of bed and pulled her into a hug, saying, “It’s alright. It will all be alright.”

Despite her reaction to my former nature, she didn’t stiffen but rather leant into the embrace. “How will it be alright? I let this happen to you. How can I be forgiven?”

“Because I forgive you. At the time you saw a young man pretending to be a woman and putting you all at risk. I did not see it that way myself, because all I saw was the woman in me and all I felt was that I belonged with you. I should have thought about how my actions might have affected you, put you all in danger, but I didn’t. It is I who needs to ask your forgiveness.”

“All I ever saw in you was a sister. Then they showed me what you were, and I could see nothing else. Now all I see is my sister again.”

“If it helps, that which they objected to so violently is gone.”

“It doesn’t. You would be my sister regardless. You showed nothing but a sister’s care during all the time you were with us. And now, the king comes to me and asks me to recommend a woman to advise him.”

“The king came?”

“His advisor, but it is the same. He said you suggested me for the task.”

“He wanted me to suggest someone, but what do I know of Saudi women or Saudi culture? You told me once this was your battle, and that only you knew how to fight it, that a foreigner like me might put your cause back decades with a single word.”

“And so you disregarded me completely.” She laughed. “No, I’m pleased you did. Rather than set us back decades, you have put us forward the same.

“The girls have been asking me when you will be coming back.”

“I can’t Kadijah. There are still those who despise me for what I am. If they were to see me welcomed into your school, I hate to think how they would react. I am touched by their feelings though, and I would be grateful for an opportunity to say goodbye before I return to England.”

“And when will this be?”

“In a week, perhaps two. I will be leaving the hospital soon and spending my last days here with my mother. I imagine we’ll be visiting some of my mother’s friends in our neighbourhood. There is one cafe we frequent daily.”

And so they came in small groups. No-one could argue that I was doing anything wrong. As per the king’s request, I kept my arms, legs and head covered and a little makeup went a long way to covering the bruises that remained exposed. Mum and I would head down to the cafe and spend time with her friends, and throughout the day small groups of my former fellow students would come, filled with questions, and so they would leave filled with tears. Tears heal, and theirs restored so much to my soul. For all the hate that had been committed against me, here was love to mend my inner self even as time continued to mend my body.

Mike didn’t say a word to me during all the week and a bit I spent back at the apartment. He’d stop and stare at me most times when we crossed paths, but he never uttered a word. I probably didn’t help much because I spent all the time I was indoors wearing pastel tee shirts and short skirts. Doctor’s orders, you understand, to give my skin as much exposure to the air as I could manage. It put my plethora of bruises on full display, and it may have been this, along with the stiffness when I walked, that upset him. I didn’t much care. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d said anything to me I’d wanted to hear, and if he felt even a little bad about what had happened, then all for the better.

He was at the door on my last day, watching as I struggled with my overstuffed suitcase. I was back in head to toe coverings out of respect for the host nation as well as out of caution because I didn’t want the authorities delaying our departure.

“Thanks,” I told him as I settled the suitcase beside the door.

“What for?”

“It was actually meant sarcastically, but that’s not really going to help either of us, is it? So, how about thanks for not making this week any more difficult than it had to be.”

He snorted a sort of disbelieving laugh. “You know it was me sold you out to them bastards?”

“I suspected, but I wasn’t going to assume.”

“Is that why there’s been a fucking police car opposite my place of work all this week?”

“What? No, I... I don’t know anything about that.”

*My boss is getting fucking nervous. Expecting a raid any day. He says when he finds out who’s fucking responsible, there’ll be hell to pay.

“Mind you, it’s no more than I fucking deserve. I mean I thought it’d sort out this fucking girl thing out once and for all. I didn’t expect them to...” he waved a hand at me. “Not to a kid.”

I shrugged. “Live and learn. I mean it did sort the girl thing out once and for all, didn’t it?”

He winced. Mind you, if there was ever anyone who’d miss his testosterone more...

“You must hate my fucking guts.”

“Actually less now than before.”

“What do you mean? ‘Cos you got what you wanted?”

“No, because of the way you are now. Before, you were all about turning me into what you wanted me to be. You didn’t care about what I wanted. Now, it’s... I don’t know, it feels different.”

“Yeah, well...” Then after a pause, “You still think of him as your dad though, don’t you? Peter I mean.”

“And Paul. Mind you, I could probably make room for three dads if you feel like giving it a go.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think on it then. You know how to get in touch if you change your mind.”

Sometimes the universe has an impeccable sense of timing. The doorbell sounded before he had a chance to respond. I opened the door to reveal a burly individual in a chauffer’s uniform. He picked up my suitcase without effort, leaving me with the slightest twinge of envy, and led the way outside. I paused long enough to give Mum a kiss and a proper hug goodbye.

One final gift from the king saw Peter and me return to England in style. First was the limo which was all air-conditioned and smooth as riding on a cloud. Then there were the first class tickets on the seat next to me. I pulled out my mobile phone and put a call through to Commissioner Ahmad.

“I am busy!” was how he answered his phone.

“Hopefully not that busy.”

“Max!” He’d never got used to my change of name. “Never so busy for you.”

“I wonder if you would be able to pass on my thanks to the king... for the tickets.”

“I do not often have the honour of speaking to the king.”

“But you must surely know one of his assistants.”

“I will do what I can. You are returning to England?”

“I am.”

“My life is about to become less complicated, though I think I shall miss you.”

“And I you. You have been a good friend to me, Commissioner.”

“Perhaps good enough that you would call me by my name. It is Omar.”

“Omar then. You should know my name isn’t Max. That belongs to someone I once was. My mother calls me Laura now.”

“It is a better name. It has a meaning?”

“After a plant, I believe. The bay laurel. Yellow flowers. The leaves are used in Mediterranean cooking.”

“It is good you are named for a flower. It suits you well.”

“May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know anything about the police car that has been parked in front of my father’s place of work this past week?”

“I may have requested from my brother to send it to that place.”

“To what purpose?”

“I have been thinking about what you said, about showing kindness to those who do wrong to you. It is in my mind that your father should worry for a while that the same thing that came to you might be coming for him. Then when you are safely far away from this country, perhaps the police might bring your father to the station. Then once he is fully aware that the same thing could happen to him – perhaps my brother will have some of his policemen surround your father, holding clubs and other weapons. Then at the last, I will appear, or perhaps my brother if he prefers to do this and we will ask your father if he knows what might happen to him. Then when we are sure he is aware, we will tell him why it will not. That it is because you wish to heap coals upon his head. Not to cause him harm, but to show him the way back to the light.”

“Perhaps I might ask you not to be too harsh with him.”

“You are too kind a person, but since it is you who asks, I will consider your request. God be with you, Laura. Allah Ma Akum.”

“Allah Ma Akum, Omar. My time in your country would have been so very different if not for you. I am so very glad to have met you.”

The limo pulled up outside Peter’s hotel, so it was time to end the call. He was waiting out front and climbed in beside me while our driver loaded his suitcase in the boot.

“You’re smiling,” he said doing the Dad states the obvious thing. “Glad to be heading home?”

“Actually a bit down about that,” I said.

“You’re kidding! After everything that happened?”

“A lot of good happened before the bad, Dad. Under different circumstances I think I might have enjoyed living here.”

“Then why the grin?”

“Oh, a number of things.” I showed him the envelope.

“Oh my! I already paid for our tickets though.”

I pointed at the special conditions on the new ones.

“The king respectfully requests you reimburse the holder for any tickets they may already have regardless of your policy or any conditions that may apply. Can he do that?”

“He’s the king. I don’t think many locals ask that question.”

So we had a few hundred extra quid to put towards Christmas as well as first class seats for the trip home. It meant I wasn’t as uncomfortable as I might have been, and the complimentary champagne turned out to be remarkably effective as a pain killer. Even the Max in me didn’t object to the taste.

We were held up at passport control in London because I’d left on one passport and returned using another. Peter had both documents and explained the circumstances of my departure. They confiscated my old one and destroyed it in front of us. It didn’t bother me. The person in that document was dead and gone.

Back home the streets were decorated for the season. Bright lights festooned the neighbourhood and brought cheer to the darkness and the cold.

Paul had the house decorated inside and out and it did me so much good to see home again, and to be reunited with all my family.

I still moved with the cautious, slow gait of an elderly cripple, which made Paul all the more gentle when he greeted me. I hugged him back hard to let him know I wasn’t so delicate. It hurt, but in the best way.

I still didn’t have much of an appetite, which bothered Paul who didn’t need much of a reason to worry. I was also tired so headed for bed as soon as I could. The day had started three hours earlier for Peter and me, so I had an excuse, but it didn’t stop Paul muttering his concerns in my wake as I made my weary way up the stairs.

I stripped naked and stood in front of the wardrobe mirror. The bruises were definitely fading and my boobs were coming on nicely. Still growing if I was any judge – and I was – and my body was beginning to show some distinctly pleasing curves, even on my stick figure body. Twelve days without food while the police had me and two more weeks being fed through a tube in hospital had shrunk my stomach to the size of a walnut. Mum had done her best after I was released, but I hadn’t regained much of an appetite yet.

Best of all was the lack a dick though. They’d had to shave me down there before operating and it would take time for my pubic hairs to grow back, but for now that just meant I had a better view of what I did have.

“Very nice.” Paul had done his stealth creep up the stairs. He hadn’t been around to do anything like that to me in quite a while, so it took me by surprise.

“Aunty Mum!” I screeched, using my all too inadequate twig like arms to cover myself above and below.

“What? You never minded that I saw you naked before.”

“It’s different now.”

“You’re telling me!” he said making an effort to peer round my nicro-barriers. Then he threw up his arms at my shocked response and turned away. “Alright, alright. My little baby got all shy and self-conscious while she was away.”

It wasn’t that, it’s just that I was a girl now and... he was my Aunty Mum. “Fine, you can look if you like.”

He half turned, his eyes tight shut and squinted one eye open.

“They did a damned fine job, sweetie.”

“They did, didn’t they,” I grinned delightedly and gave him a slow twirl.

“Yep. Now get some clothes on, it’s disgusting having you running around the house naked.”

He closed the door, so my stuffed elephant bounced off it rather than him as I’d intended. My joints were still stiff which slowed me down. At least that’s my excuse.

Fresh underwear and a light, loose nightdress set me up for the night. I brushed my teeth and settled down, arms squishing my breasts together and hands between my legs. Nothing erotic you understand, it just drove home how different I was now, enhanced my sense of being… complete.

Christmas day came sooner than expected. One day it was something nearby in the future that I was looking forward to, the next it was Christmas Eve and everyone was filled with an excited anticipation of what the morning would bring.

I woke bright and early to the sound of Paul making impatient noises outside my room. I invited him in so he could help me into the Santa’s little helper outfit he’d bought for today’s bonus activities. I could probably have managed myself but I was still not bending quite as much as I’d have liked.

The costume consisted of a skin tight body stocking in bright greens and yellows with a short tunic dress over the top. It wouldn’t have looked exactly right on the me from several months ago but, skinny as I was, I still had bumps and curves in all the right places. The stiffness meant I didn’t move with the sprightly gay abandon of one of Santa’s helpers, but...

“You look perfect,” Paul lied.

“I don’t.”

“You will when you smile. A smile hides a million blemishes.”

I stood up straight and gave him my best sparkling white grin.

“See? Perfect.”

Peter waited for us in the kitchen, breakfasting on mince pies and coffee.

“You won’t need the padding if you keep on like that,” Paul grumbled at him.

“Happy Christmas to you too,” Peter said and kissed him.

“Mince pie?” Paul offered me the plate. “While there are any left.”

“Do we have time for a present or two before we go?” Peter tried to steer the conversation towards safer waters. “Abri, one each for us, then we’ll do the same for you.”

“Actually, before we get to that, I was wondering if I could ask a question.”

“Sure,” Peter said. Paul sat and turned his full attention to me by way of answer.

“You know when you set me up with documents in the name of Abrielle Lassiter? Was that a lot of work?”

“Quite a lot, yes. Why?”

“I was wondering if I could change my name to Laura.”

“Laura! Why on Earth…?”

Peter put a gentle hand on his significant other’s arm. “I wondered if you might.”

“It’s the name Mum would have chosen for me,” I explained to Paul. “I’d like to respect her wishes. Apart from that, I like Abrielle, but it’s a bit…”

“Pretentious?” Peter asked.

“Maybe.”

“Fabulous?” Paul offered.

“Definitely that, but still a bit much.”

“I’m sure we can sort it out. In the meantime, if you’d prefer us to call you Laura?”

“Yes please.”

“I may still call you Abri from time to time,” Paul said. “Totally by accident of course and not at all because I think it suites you so well. For now, Abrielle sounds like a much better name for an Elf, so could we leave it as is for today?”

“Sure.”

“Well, go fetch your presents then. You’re going to need to get going if you hope to be back for Christmas Dinner.”

We did the exchange. Gold bracelets from me to them, bought in Saudi with the help of one of my friends before we caught the flight home. Not something you were likely to find anywhere in the UK. Much appreciated by them both and bought out of my own earnings from working at the school.

Mine consisted of an exquisite new dress from Paul. The softest fabric imaginable and loose fitting. It would be so comfortable on my tender skin, and definitely just right for Christmas once Abri the Elf went back in the closet. The one Peter gave me turned out to be a brand new MacBook. I’d looked after the one they’d bought me when I started school and it had served me astonishingly well for all the five years I’d used it, albeit a little creaky slow towards the end.

I toned down my exuberance and gave each of them as tight a hug as my aching body would endure.

“You can bring it with us if you like,” Peter offered.

“Thanks, but I’d prefer to talk. I mean we haven’t really since Saudi.”

“As you like.”

“Don’t forget your beard and your stomach,” Paul said to him, handing over a fistful of white fluff and a spare pillow. “I’m aiming to get dinner on the table for two-thirty.”

“It’s what, eight now? That should give us oodles of time.”

I curled into the passenger seat, arranging the seat belt so that it caused me the least discomfort, and just watched Peter drive until we were clear of the town and speeding along on an A road. When he was settled, he glanced across at me.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

“I keep thinking about that day. I saw you and Paul talking to the park warden then rowing back across the lake.”

“Worst day of my life.”

“Even worse than when your dad kicked you out?”

“So much worse, though maybe not as bad as the day I found you in Jeddah. At first, I was afraid you were going to die, then I was afraid you were going to live.”

I could hear the catch in his voice. If his eyes were brimming like mine it didn’t bode well for a safe journey. I steered the conversation in a safer direction.

“You know that park warden was just one of Mike’s cronies in a borrowed uniform?”

“Not at the time we didn’t. He did a very believable performance of an officious jobsworth. Told us we weren’t to land on the southern bank under any circumstances. I wrote to the council to complain and it was only when they wrote back to say there was no rule stopping boats from coming ashore wherever they liked that we realised we’d been had.”

“It didn’t help us on the day though. We rowed back as fast as we could and then ran, but by the time we made it to the bench, you’d gone.

“I remembered feeling my phone buzz, so checked and there was that link from your app. I clicked it and followed the map to a bush where we found your phone.

“Then I opened up the voice message thing and there you were talking about going to Saudi Arabia. I can’t tell you how terrified I was for you. Someone like you In a place like Saudi Arabia. You wouldn’t last ten seconds.

“We called in the police who were actually pretty decent about it. That app of yours is getting about and they know of it. They treated our concerns seriously and set out in search of the van. Nice try with giving the registration, but Mike’s not that thick.”

“I wouldn’t have held onto the phone much longer anyway. As soon as he chucked me in the back, Lily and Pam cut off my clothes and hair.”

“I know, the police found it and showed us. It would have been easier to follow you if you’d been able to hold onto the phone though.”

“Yes, except the phone would have been left in the van with my other stuff.”

“I suppose. Anyway we Googled flights to Saudi and the only ones leaving that day were from Heathrow, so we hotfooted back to the car and headed straight there. Took a bit of the old Lassiter charm to persuade the lady at the check-in desk to find out which flight you were on.

“You’d already gone through security by that time though, and they wouldn’t let us follow you, even with a chaperone. Some nonsense about us possibly being terrorists. Honestly, can you imagine Paul and me as terrorists?”

I smiled. Too tired and achy to laugh.

“Then you made them bring the phone back to us. We gave you a way out and you wouldn’t take it. Do you have any idea how that made us feel?”

“I’m sorry Dad, I...”

“No! You don’t get it! Paul was beside himself. I was too stunned to know how to react. We’d done everything we could to get you back. Everything! And you... you wouldn’t even take back your damned phone!”

The tears were back. Angry tears this time. I’d never seen him this worked up. But this was why I’d wanted to talk. For all the love and support through my time in hospital, I’d felt something buried deep inside him. I’d never sensed anything like it before – a knowing without knowing why; a certainty without supporting evidence. I’d known it was there like some deep seated boil of the soul, festering inside him, needing to be lanced before it poisoned him.

Logic hadn’t help me find it and logic wasn’t going to help me fix it. I needed... something else. Something deeper.

“Sophie’s choice,” I murmured, looking away from him.

“What?!” he looked across at me, veering across the centreline.

“Dad!” I screamed.

He wrenched at the steering wheel, hauling us back to our side of the road just in time to avoid the oncoming eighteen-wheeler with the angrily blaring horn.

“There’s a layby ahead, Dad. Can we stop.”

“We’re on a schedule.”

“Which we’re not going to keep if you end up killing us! Then how’s Paul going to bloody well feel?”

That was like a face-full of snow for both of us. It shocked us out of the mood for long enough. The layby was one of those that took you behind a stand of trees. Peter pulled into it and stopped.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I’m sorry. Never drive angry. I shouldn’t...”

I undid my seatbelt and climbed across into his lap. The bruises objected, and the joints protested but I had to do this. I put my arms around his neck and buried my face in his shoulder.

“I put you and Paul through hell,” I said, my words muffled by his plush white collar, “but I couldn’t leave Mum. I wish I could say I figured you and Paul would cope with my decision, but I just didn’t think. You two have been so strong all through the last five years I just took it you for granted and I shouldn’t have.”

“What did you mean Sophie’s choice?”

“You know the film? With Meryl Streep?”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s about a woman in the Second World War who’s sent to Auschwitz with her two children. When she arrives, a German soldier tells her that only one of her children will live. The other will be sent to the gas chamber, but she has to decide which. If she can’t or won’t choose, then both will be killed.”

“That’s horrible.”

“I know.”

“What does she do?”

“Watch the film if you want to find out.” Maybe I was a bit mad at him for nearly killing us.

“That’s not fair.”

“She chooses her son, not because she loves him more, but because she thinks he has the better chance at surviving.

“Me, I couldn’t leave Mum. She wouldn’t have made it on her own. For one thing, Mike as much as threatened me.”

“What do you mean? Threatened you how?”

“I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something like, ‘She’s already tried to kill herself once. Whose to say what she’ll do when we get out there.’

“I didn’t want to go, you have to believe me about that, but I couldn’t leave her.”

“And the phone? You could have called us at least.”

“Mike already threw it away once. I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to do so again.

“I wish I could say I thought about what my decision would mean to you and Paul, but all that was on my mind was how Mum needed me. I’m sorry, I...”

“You’d have done the same even if you had thought about what it would do to us.”

“Maybe, but I’d have done things differently afterwards.”

“Yeah, well at least you explained what you were doing and why. You know, you really are going to have to work on your penmanship.”

I hit him, girly style. No intention of inflicting pain – in fact it almost certainly hurt me more. “You try writing something neatly with nothing to lean on and no time to write.”

“Paul and I hated that you chose to go with them, but... I suppose I have to admit I was proud of you for doing so. Maybe even a little grateful. I mean she is my sister.”

“Then what was all that shit about just then?”

“All that shit was about what you put us through. The day after you left was the longest day I’ve ever known. I couldn’t go into work I was so fraught. Paul wouldn’t stop pacing and he started chewing his nails again. Then you finally contacted us, and I have never been so relieved in all my life, except the thought of you masquerading as a girl in a place like that…”

“I was not masquerading.”

“Well, perhaps not, but from their perspective. The chess game was inspired. Got me back into the game for one thing, and it gave me something to look forward to every day. Waking up to a new move every morning, knowing it meant you were alright, having the rest of the day to think about my response. You’re a really good player.”

“Gerald more than Max.”

“It’s been such a long time since you talked about the two of you as separate people.”

“Because we’re not really. It’s a bit the same as with you and Paul. Well, similar anyway We share the same mind and we have access to each other’s memories, so it’s more noticeable for us. There are times when one of us has more experience or greater aptitude than the other, but for the most part it’s like we’re driving this body together.”

“Even when they arrested you?”

“No, that was mainly Gerald. You can’t imagine how unutterably horrible that experience was.”

“I think I have some idea. I’m the one who found you, remember?”

“I’m not sure. First there was the humiliation. Being stripped down to my underwear, being shown off in front of all my friends and colleagues, having that bulge showing for all of them to see. Then being thrown into that van and banging my head. So hard I actually saw stars. I never knew what that meant before, but now I have first-hand experience.

Laura relives some of her experiences, describing them quite graphically. Please skip if you feel inclined.

“After that the beatings. I haven’t the first idea how long they lasted, but it was like they took turns so they could keep them going. All the different kinds of pain. The boots in the groin, those big sticks cracking my bones, those hosepipes like thick whips, bruising everything they touched. Over and over for what felt like hours…”

“As I understand it, it was hours.”

“Then the hours of quiet, lying there with everything hurting, waiting for the next time they would come for me, and every new beating was worse than the last because they were laying bruises on bruises, hitting broken bones to break them worse.” I could feel the tears coursing down my cheeks. “And my groin hurt so badly. Starting off that first day it felt like something burst, then every day after that it hurt so much more, but I had to keep my legs together to stop them from making it worse.

“Then the door opened on that last day and I was expecting horrors all over again, but instead you were there. Impossibly, you were there. You touched me so gently and it still hurt so bad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it wasn’t… That’s not what I meant. Everything hurt then. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move, it hurt not to move. Where the ground touched my skin hurt, where the air touched my skin hurt. It’s hardly surprising when you touched me that it hurt.

“It was hard to believe it was over, but everything was different. No more beatings and eventually that blessed injection. I’m just glad you did find me. Max dug in deep inside me like a tic and I just held him and took as much of the pain as I could.”

“When you say you, you mean Gerald.”

I nodded, aware of how soggy I’d made his Santa suit. “This is probably going to shrink,” I snivelled.

He squeezed me. “So I won’t need the cushion.”

A gasp of a laugh escaped me.

“You were right though. I should never have gone, never have stayed over there.”

“And what would have happened to Lisa? No, you did what you felt you had to, and... I don’t know, was it worth it?”

“Not if it means you and Paul are mad at me.”

“I’m not... I guess I don’t get to say that, do I? I buried a lot, Abri... Laura. I didn’t realise how much until... I’m sorry I almost...”

“Yeah, well.” I rubbed at the damp patch. “Maybe not shrinkage, but you’re going to have a definite snot stain there.”

“What Santa worthy of the name doesn’t have snot stains these days?”

“Do you think we could get going again? But, you know, on the right side of the road this time.”

“Not with you sitting on my lap, little girl.”

“Ho ho ho.” I tried to make it deep, but my voice wouldn’t do it.

“That’s my line.” Then with a jovial voice that was deeper, “So little lady, what do you want for Christmas this year?”

“Just to be with my dads.” I kissed him on the cheek and shuffled back into my seat, clicking the seatbelt back into place.

“Then what are we doing out here?”

“We’re out here because Christmas isn’t about what you want; it’s about what you can give. Come on, we still need to get this done and go back home.”

We drove for while in silence, me curled up on the seat and looking at him. The knot was gone from my chest, just like that indefinable something was gone from him.

The silence lasted all of fifteen minutes.

“We could put some Christmas tunes on if you want,” he said.

I shrugged which was all the prompting he needed to turn on the stereo.

“You may want to sort out your face before we get there.”

I pulled down the sun blind and checked my face in the mirror. Definite panda eyes going on. I dug in my handbag for some wipes, then waited till we arrived before repainting my eyes.

We rang the bell and waited.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Collin asked when he opened the door.

“Wishing you a Happy Christmas, Granddad.” I said with a cheery grin. My body twinged at me half way through and I winced.

“Oh, well, yes. I suppose.”

“From me too Dad,” Peter said. “Merry Christmas.” He slipped the sack full of presents off his shoulder and handed it over. Mum and Mike were still in Saudi – whether or not the commissioner’s scare tactics changed Mike’s mind about staying we’d find out on time – but the rest of the family would be here as usual, so we’d catered for everyone.

Nothing fancy you understand. You don’t buy your way back into your family. For Collin and Amy we’d bought a quality frame and filled it with a photograph of me and the dads (Max’s choice of sentence structure, sorry), taken the day Peter and I flew back from the Middle East, but with me covered with enough concealer to hide the bruises. For Pam and Lily I hadn’t been able to resist buying them a hairdressers kit and a sewing kit. Then, because this was an attempt at a peace offering, a box of their favourite chocolates each. For Mandy we’d bought a boxed set of Virginia Woolf. She probably already had it or something like it, so I’d made sure the receipt was tucked in with a scrawled note, ‘In case you already have these.’ Raymond and Russell were archetypal boys with toys so a couple of gimmicky gadgets sorted them out. Perfume for Their significant others and an assortment of generic toys for their sprogs – I mean you can’t go wrong with Lego, can you? The whole lot was topped off with a decent bottle of champagne.

We turned to head back to the car.

“Wait,” Collin said.

We turned back.

“You’ve come all this way. The least we can offer you is a cup of tea and a mince pie.”

“Thank you,” Peter spoke for both of us. “Not a fan of equine oral examinations, but can I ask why?”

“What?” he said.

“Gift horses Granddad. Mouths? Looking in them? We’re both curious. Last time you spoke to us wasn’t exactly on the friendliest terms.”

“No. But that was then and this is now. Lot of water under the bridge since. Come in, unless the, er, the twins being here makes a difference.”

“Either of them have a pair of scissors?” I asked.

“Heh, no. You know, I always thought you were a bit of a wimp, but you have quite a pair of balls on you.”

“Actually I don’t Granddad, not any more.”

“Hmm? Well that’s your affair. Come in, I’ll stick the kettle on.”

We followed him through to the lounge where no-one seemed that happy to see us, Pam and Lily in particular.

“We have visitors everyone, Peter and, er, Abri, er, Abrielle came round with...” He trailed off but put the sack on the coffee table.

“We didn’t get you anything,” Pam (or Lily) said rudely.

“No, we didn’t expect you to,” Peter said, “so open them after we’ve gone. We won’t be staying long. You may want to put this in the fridge though.” Peter pulled the bottle of champagne out the sack and offered it to his dad.

“What are we celebrating?” Lily (or Pam) said.

“Whatever you like,” Peter said. “We have a bottle like it back at home and we’ll all be raising a glass later. I had it in mind to raise mine to having my little girl back safe and sound, but we’ve already celebrated that. Instead I’ll be toasting the first civil conversation I’ve had with my father in a lot of years. Though like I say, I’m curious.”

“Well,” Collin said drawing all eyes to him. “Ever since what happened earlier this year with your sister, I’ve been speaking more often with her. I’ve been worried for her and never more so since she and Mike, and... present company,” he indicated me with a wave of his hand, “moved to Saudi Arabia.”

He paused as Amy came in with a tray of drinks. His idea of putting the kettle on still seemed to be to say it loud enough and expect his wife to comply. Still she was willing. She offered the first to me and the second to Peter. Guest protocol maybe, or perhaps there really was a change in the way they thought of us.

“Lisa told us what happened at the airport and before.” He glowered at the twins who refused to meet his eyes. “She told me how you had a choice on whether to go and you went anyway. I’d tried to persuade Mike not to go, but when he sets his mind to something...”

“A bit like you dear,” Amy said serving him last.

“I suppose. Anyway, we argued about you. Lisa would say what an amazing daughter you were and I’d tell her she was being a prat. You know how agreeable I can be to talk to.”

Prompt for laughter. Everyone obliged.

“So then, more than a month ago she called me up in a state because you’d been taken by the police and no-one would tell her where. Mike was the usual no help whatsoever and it took Amy and me to hold her together. We were looking to fly out to be with her ourselves when we heard Peter had beaten us to it.

“We kept calling Lisa. Daily. Twice daily sometimes, then after two weeks she called us, crying with relief, saying you were okay, or alive at least. The rest is... well I’m sure you know.

“Anyway, when I’ll be raising my glass later it’ll be to the two most courageous members of our family. My granddaughter, Abrielle, who risked her life and almost lost it because her mum needed her…”

“Actually grandad, Mum told me she’d have called me Laura if I’d been born a girl. I kind of prefer it.”

“Then to my immensely brave granddaughter, Laura, and to my son, Peter, who also took a massive risk – I mean I know you went on your own so there was no way they’d know about you and Paul, but if they’d found out from somewhere that you were, you know, you’d have been in as much danger.

“Anyway, thank you for looking after my daughter,” he raised his mug to me, “and thank you for rescuing my granddaughter.”

The mug was raised a second time to Peter and everyone in the room raised their own drinks with a murmured if, in some places, unenthusiastic acknowledgement of the toast. I sipped at my own in embarrassment.

“We thought you’d just want to be on your own this year after what happened,” Amy said looking at Collin for support, “But next year you should come, and bring Paul.”

Peter blinked back tears and looked at me. My own eyes were flooding as I nodded enthusiastically.

We enjoyed a mince pie or two, at least it averaged out that way. I had one and I think Peter had three. It was Christmas; I wasn’t going to tell. Then, with our mugs drained and a quick precautionary visit to the loo – my plumbing didn’t seem as efficient since the operation – we left them to their celebration.

Peter focussed on his driving until we were on the fast country roads while I WhatsApped Paul to tell him we were on our way.

“Who’d a thunk?” Peter mused.

“Mmm?”

“Five years and you nearly being tortured to death. Didn’t take much to change Dad’s mind, did it?”

“Mmm,” I agreed. “Will you share Gerald’s inheritance with him?”

“Your inheritance you mean. Do you want me to?”

“Gerald isn’t around any more, remember? Neither’s Max. We’re just Laura. As for the inheritance, he left it to you along with the letter in which he said the choice was yours.”

“Well, we have more than we need since we sold the old house. Enough to pay your university fees and then some, and we don’t have the expense of your surgery to look forward to.”

“Collin and Amy used to talk about taking a world cruise.”

“Sounds like a Christmas present for next year. What do you think?”

“I think you’re the best dad in the world.”

I curled up on the seat and, because I still had quite a lot of mending to do, I fell asleep.