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

***

"Hi Chris. It's Suzanne. I need you to do something for me."

How typical, I thought, that those should be Suzanne's very first words since we had ended our steamy relationship almost a year ago. No, "How are you?" or, "Are you in another relationship?" or even, "Do you miss me?" Simply, "I need you to do something."

That had been the whole problem with our relationship. The sex had been incredible, but Suzanne wanted little else, except perhaps someone to perform a few trivial tasks or accompany her to the occasional official function. If she'd been born a man, she'd have had no problem in having a little wife who played the mouse to her dominant role. But I believe it will take a long time for human relationships to catch up with the changes in society that sexual equality has brought on. Plenty of women are turned on by rich and powerful men; but not many men by rich and powerful women; and certainly not me.

Whatever. Suzanne had departed to a high-powered job working for the European Commission in Brussels and I hadn't heard from her since, until that Wednesday afternoon, when the telephone in my home office rang.

"Hi Suzanne," I replied. "How are you?" I deliberately didn't respond to her demand.

"Oh, er, great, actually." She seemed a little put out at my diversionary question, which pleased me, in a childish way. "I've had a promotion since I've been here, and I'm pretty certain I'm going to get another one fairly shortly. And er..." she paused slightly, as though the thought of social niceties had just struck her, "How are things with you? Are you... seeing someone?"

"Nothing serious," I replied, when what I really meant was: no one at all. "How about you?" I asked. "Are you in another relationship?"

"I'm quite close to one of the Commissioners," she said, "but he's already married, so we're both quite happy to keep it low-key."

I idly wondered how much her career advancement had resulted from being 'quite close' to a Commissioner, but instead of pursuing it, I gave her the conversational lead she wanted. I was gaining no pleasure from prolonging this exchange. "You said you wanted me to do something."

"Yes." I could hear the relief in her voice that we had got back onto safer ground. "A few months ago, my niece, Lucy, died in Seacombe. As I'm her only living relative, I had to go there to identify her. The problem is that they want me to go over again and clear her effects from the cottage where she was living with her boyfriend. Only I'm right in the middle of difficult talks over the EU Budget, and I simply can't get away. I wondered if you could pop down there for me?"

Seacombe was a long way from London - a four-hour drive I guessed, so 'pop down' was not quite the phrase I'd have used. "It's a long way. Can't you get the boyfriend to send you the things?"

"Jason Farr? He was a real slime-ball, and it was all his fault. He was a drug pusher - it was him that got Lucy into drugs and it was a drug thing that killed her. Good riddance to him. But Lucy's name was on the lease agreement for the cottage, so it's my responsibility to get it cleared." She sounded more upset that her name might somehow be linked with drugs, than she was about her niece's death.

"Well, there are companies who will do house clearance for you..."

"But I don't know whether there's anything of value in the cottage. I need someone I can trust to go through it all.

"Look," she continued, "I'll be honest with you; I've tried several of my female friends in London who have all refused. I realise it's an unsuitable job for a man - but all you have to do with Lucy's clothes is simply stuff them into plastic bags and take them to a charity shop."

Suzanne always did find the way with words to goad me into action. Her comment about it being an unsuitable job for a man was a deliberate challenge - a reference back to a remark I'd made to her when she obtained her first project from the Commission - a report on the affects of pornography on males. I'd argued that a woman wouldn't have a clue what drives men to read pornography. She had proved me wrong - even I had to admit her report was not only unbiased, it was excellent. So of course, she had reasoned that I would now have to rise to her challenge.

"If there's any of Lucy's furniture in there," Suzanne was continuing, "do a deal with the landlord, or simply take it to a refuse tip. Obviously, take anything you want for yourself, but if you do find the family jewels around, or insurance policies or anything like that, then let me have them."

She didn't say what I was to do if I found any illegal substances; presumably, that was the real reason why she wanted someone else to take on this job. A person in the European Commission certainly could not be allowed to come into contact with illegal drugs. The thought didn't particularly bother me; I could either flush the stuff down the toilet, or contact the police. There was no skin off my nose either way, although I guessed I'd get involved in a far fewer procedural issues with the former.

"It's not difficult," she continued.

"I suppose not." I sighed, thinking about all the good times we'd had together. I guess I owed her something. It was also true that my computer consultancy business had been so busy that I hadn't had a break for months, but I was now in a lull between projects - I could afford a little time away from work. A trip to the seaside - even in April with the current forecast of continual showers and chilly weather - would make a nice change provided I didn't try to rush the job, as Suzanne would obviously like me to do.

"It's a good drive," I said, "and it will probably take some time to clear out the cottage. I may need to spend a few days down there."

"No problem. The rent is paid until the end of the month, so you have almost two weeks. I'll email the coroner's office, who are holding the keys, and tell them you'll be picking them up, and I'll email you with all the details. Thanks Chris." And she was gone.

After I put the phone down, I turned that conversation over in my mind several times. I had intended to ask a few questions about her niece's death, but she had abruptly rung off, perhaps predicting my questions and unwilling to discuss an issue which disturbed her.

On the other hand, if I was going to stay in Lucy's cottage, using her mugs, sitting in her chairs, and sleeping in her bed, perhaps I, too, did not want to know too much about her. After all, it was an unfortunate fact of life that young women are dying all the time - car accidents, cancer, drugs - and you can't get emotional about their deaths - unless you knew them.

So when Suzanne's email had come through, I deliberately didn't try to look up the details of her death on the web. The email gave the address of her cottage, the coroner's office, and the landlord's agent.

Like Suzanne, Lucy's original surname was Richards. But she'd been calling herself Mrs Lucy Farr, using her boyfriend's surname, although there was no record of them ever having got married.

Hell, I thought that habit had died out before Lucy was born.

Suzanne had added a note at the bottom of the email, "You don't have to tell anyone they weren't married or what her real name was." No doubt it was not concern for Lucy's reputation that had prompted that rider - more likely she was worried that her own name might be linked to her drug-user niece!

***

The drive down to Seacombe the next day was an easy one. I deliberately left later, rather than earlier, thus avoiding the normal horrendous congestion around the M25, and once I was clear of the motorways and suburbia, the traffic dropped to a trickle, the sun came out from behind the clouds, and the journey became enjoyable. I found a pleasant pub to stop for lunch, and consequently arrived in Seacombe around three pm.

Conveniently, the coroner's office and landlord's agent were within a minute's walk of each other, so after picking up the keys from the coroner, I called in at the agents and got an inventory of the contents that I'd need to check were all present when I handed the property back to the agents. A few minutes later and I was back in my car, heading for the cottage.

In Britain, there are two meanings of the word, cottage. The first is the classic chocolate-box picture of a small house, probably hundreds of years old, set deep in the countryside or in a small village. In more recent years, estate agents have purloined the word, and used it to describe any small, elderly house they are trying to sell, usually in the middle of a town, almost certainly a terraced house.

With Lucy's boyfriend pushing her onto drugs that led to her death, I wrongly assumed that their cottage would be a run-down version of the latter. So I was surprised at the quiet country lane on the edge of Seacombe, with the scattering of small country cottages spread along it. Lucy's cottage was almost at the end, at the point where the tarmac ended and it turned into an unmade road. It looked absolutely delightful, apart from one boarded-up window.

Inside, it was certainly compact - just a kitchen and main living room downstairs, with a bedroom and bathroom upstairs. Not much in terms of rooms, but the rooms were by no means tiny, and they were nicely furnished, although the window in the bathroom had been broken and boarded-up, and there was no natural light. I guessed the place was mainly used as a holiday cottage, for most of the essentials, including plates and cutlery, a TV and small Hi-Fi were on the agent's inventory.

The only problem was that everywhere was covered in a layer of white dust. At first, I thought it was simply because the place had been empty for some months. Certainly, I would need to clear it up before bringing in my suitcase, or getting anything out of the cupboards or drawers, otherwise, the contents would quickly become as dusty as everything else.

But after I'd found a vacuum cleaner, cloth and spray cleaner and started to clear up the mess, I realised there was a more sinister cause. This was no normal dust - it was fingerprint powder. Presumably, after Lucy's death, the police had fingerprinted the place to find who had been involved in whatever drug dealing Lucy's boyfriend had been up to. I sighed. An all too close reminder of the untimely end met by poor Lucy. On the other hand, it meant I probably would not have to deal with a cache of heroin under the floorboards - the police would have already thoroughly searched and taken away any illicit substances.

I did hesitate for a few seconds before opening the Jiffy bag lying on the doormat beneath the letterbox, along with a pile of junk mail and free newspapers. It had obviously been delivered subsequent to the police search, since it hadn't been opened or covered in fingerprint powder. It was addressed to Mrs Lucy Farr, and it had a return address of a company in Seacombe, so I found a pair of scissors and slit open the bag.

I wasn't quite certain about the contents of the two clear plastic bags inside; each appeared to contain a skin-coloured garment, and the packing note referred to them as a Bustlet and Hiplet, and came with an apology: "This completes your order. We regret the extensive delay in delivering these products for reasons outside of our control." Obviously some kind of clothes that Lucy had ordered for herself. I took the things upstairs and popped them on top of the now-clean dressing table. I could put it inside the bags of clothes I would take to Oxfam next day.

It was only at that moment that I noticed that the mattress was missing from the bed. That was really a nuisance. Not only had I been counting upon sleeping there for the next few nights, having brought my own clean bed linen, but a quick check on the agent's inventory showed that it had been provided and they would certainly be expecting it still to be there when I handed the cottage back. If I didn't buy a new one, the agents would charge me an extortionate price for replacing it.

It was almost six pm. Many shops would already be closed. My only hope was to find an out-of-town trading estate with a bed store. I groaned, and pulled the Yellow Pages from its shelf.

***

It was eight o'clock, dark, and pouring down with rain by the time I returned - a mattress filling the inside of my car to the point where I had to drive with my head twisted down to my shoulder. Fortunately, I'd chosen the cheapest - and consequently the thinnest - mattress the bed store had in stock, so, with a bit of assistance from the store, I'd been able to double it up and feed it through the rear hatch. At least there had been a McDonald's on the trading estate, and I'd popped in there for a Big Mac, so I didn't need to eat. Without further ado, I could get straight onto the difficult handling bit.

But I seemed to have even more of a fight pulling the mattress out of the car than I'd had getting it in, and then I had to carry the thing up the narrow stairs and around the tight bend at the top, and finally plop it down on the bed. The combination of the rain, and the sweat that was pouring off me by the time I'd finished, meant my clothes were wet through and I felt cold and miserable.

The cottage was heated by night storage heaters, which had unfortunately been set to their frost setting, and were completely cold. I turned them right up, but of course, would not get any heat from them until the early hours of the morning.

Fortunately, I had switched on the immersion heater as soon as I'd arrived that afternoon, so the water was plenty hot enough for me to take a shower. I pulled off my sticky clothes, ran the shower and stepped inside.

Of course, it wasn't until I had stepped out of the shower and dried myself off on Lucy's towel, that I realised my clothes were still in the suitcase in my car. Damn it! The things I had been wearing were soaking wet and felt most unpleasant. Still there was a flowery dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door and, wonder of wonders, it was large enough for me, although I can't say it did anything for my masculinity.

I switched on the heated towel rail and draped my clothes over it. Hopefully, by morning they would be dry enough to put back on again. I certainly wasn't intending to go out to the car that evening wearing the pretty dressing gown; Sod's law would dictate that someone would come out of the cottage opposite at just the wrong moment!

I had a rummage through Lucy's drawers and wardrobe - I hoped wherever she was, that she wouldn't mind - and pulled out a pale blue sweater and a pair of jeans. I'd been expecting them all to be too small for me, but in fact they were both quite a loose fit.

A quick check on other clothes hanging in Lucy's wardrobe established she was a size 18, which surprised me. Suzanne was tall and very thin, a shape made fashionable by Princess Di all those years ago, before people realised her associated health problems. Suzanne had determinedly remained thin ever since, and rather foolishly, I'd assumed her niece would have been the same.

Which of course got me thinking about the two items I'd pulled out of the Jiffy bag, which if I remembered correctly, were called a Bustlet and a Hiplet. I went over to the dressing table and shook the two items out of their bags. I picked up the nearest and held it up in front of me. It was like a skin-coloured crop top, with a long neck, and with painted rubber nipples protruding from the front.

"Adjustable Bustlet," said the heading on the leaflet packed with it, followed by, "Be the breast size you want to be, depending upon your mood." I smiled, and sat down at the dressing table. This sounded like a good read.

"Be the breast size you want to be, depending upon your mood. Feeling shy? Then go for the little girl look. Want to get noticed? Then instantly become the biggest girl in town. So quick and simple to change, you can alter your breast size in the cloakroom! Includes Sensotouch for the ultimate in touch sensitivity."

Reading the instructions, it appeared that the breasts on the Bustlet could be inflated with water to make them any size a girl wanted. I couldn't help but be amazed just how gullible some people are at buying such a device and expecting blokes to be taken in by it.

I stared at it. Just for a laugh, I thought, I could put it on and fill it until I'd got a superb pair of mammaries, and have another laugh about how stupid they looked. Well, why not? I'd got the rest of the evening to myself, I could hardly go down the pub dressed like this, and I didn't even fancy sitting downstairs in Lucy's clothes, in case the Mormons came knocking on the door, trying to save my soul. They'd be in for a shock!

So I took off Lucy's sweater, pulled the Bustlet over my head, pushing my arms through the armholes, then pulled the garment as far down my chest as it would stretch. Well, I had to admit that, when I looked in the dressing table mirror, everything appeared all right. The join at the top was hidden under my chin, and I could hardly see the join where my arms protruded. Even the breasts looked like - well - breasts. Admitted, they weren't inflated, so my tits were hardly bigger than normal, but without my chest hair and with the rather prominent nipples, they looked just like the tits on a slim sexy woman - Suzanne, perhaps.

Still, the real test would come when I filled them. I went into the bathroom, taking the dressing table stool with me so I could sit at the washbasin. The flat, flexible piping was exactly where the instructions had said it would be, underneath the lower edge of the garment, and I pulled it out. The end fitted snugly over the hot tap and I turned it on.

Sure enough, my breasts started to fill out, and although I'd been pretty sceptical about them a few minutes before, I had to admit that as they filled, they looked bloody good - in fact, they looked exactly like the real thing.

Whilst still holding the pipe onto the tap with one hand - I'd had plenty of experience of being liberally sprayed with water whilst connecting washing machines and the like - I raised my other hand to cup a breast. Well, that's where the illusion failed. I hadn't let the hot water run though the tap before fitting the pipe, so my breast was full with cold water.

But hot water was now coming out of the tap, and I could let it continue to fill my breast until the temperature was about right. Only then did I turn off the tap, pull off the pipe (fitted with a one-way valve, the instructions said, so my breasts didn't immediately deflate) and stand up so I could look at them in the mirror on the bathroom cabinet.

What a pair of beauties!

Never before had I been this close to such a large pair of knockers. OK, you can see them in porn magazines and on the internet, but never before had I seen them on a real woman. Except, of course, I wasn't a real woman! What a bloody pity! For the first time ever, I thought about what I had missed.

"Don't be stupid," I thought, "these aren't real tits, just inflatable ones." But, I had to admit, incredibly realistic-looking inflatable breasts. It crossed my mind that perhaps one or two women whom I'd recently dated might have been wearing a Bustlet - although inflated to only the half the size of my two. Why would any woman, I wondered, choose to have surgery, when she could have a beautiful-looking pair as easily as this?

Of course, what really spoiled my look in the mirror was the head above the torso - mine. I hadn't bothered to shave recently - I only did that when meeting clients - and I had several days' growth. Having lived with a few women, off and on, during my life, and being a fairly curious person, I'd always taken note of what women did to enhance their beauty, so on a sudden whim, I wondered whether Lucy had any face wax - after all, that's how some of my girlfriends had got rid of unsightly facial hair.

I took my stool back into the bedroom and sat in front of the mirror. A quick rummage through the dressing table drawers and I found Lucy's face wax.

"Hmm," I thought, "this is going to hurt."

***

Forty minutes later, I sat and stared in the mirror, astonished at the face staring back at me. It had almost been as though Lucy had been sitting at my shoulder, advising me on what to use at each stage, and where everything was stored. Perhaps even, I thought, goading me on at each step to achieve an even more realistically feminine look.

Sure the waxing had hurt quite a lot, but the little voice inside told me that if women like Suzanne and Lucy could put up with it, then so could I. Afterwards, I'd smoothed a little cream over my wounded skin, and then figured that a little camouflage make-up would disguise its raw appearance. Then I'd added a little powder, and gone on to trim my eyebrows with a pair of Lucy's tweezers.

After that, I'd discovered some brown contact lenses in a drawer. Although in the past, I'd never been able to get used to lenses, I managed to get these in without difficulty. What's more, the prescription was more or less right for me. Then I'd found some mascara and eyeliner, and gone on to use a little eye shadow. Finally, I lined my lips with a pencil, and then used gloss to give my lips a wonderful sheen. The piece de resistance had been when I'd rummaged through the cupboard next to the dressing table and found a shoulder-length wig of dark brown - almost black - hair.

So now, as I looked in the mirror, I wasn't looking at myself, but at a woman, naked from the waist up, exposing firm, large, rounded breasts, and a face which, although not particularly pretty, was definitely female beneath the make-up.

What was truly amazing is that I'd had so little problem with the make-up. Most women seem to take ages to do the simplest make-up jobs, but without any previous experience, I had totally transformed my face.

I grinned back at the reflection. "Thanks Lucy," I said to it. "You were a great help with the make-up."

I shuddered, suddenly cold, as though a draught had come through the open window, but a glance around showed that all the windows were as tightly closed as when I had come into the house. I turned my gaze back to the mirror. What really spoilt the effect, I decided, were the hairs on my lower body. I glanced downwards. For my legs, I thought, I would need all the wax Lucy had, and more, if I wasn't careful.

***

In fact, Lucy had plenty of wax, which proved sufficient to do my arms, legs, and the rest of my torso. I'd even given myself a nice triangular patch around my genitals. The next stage, I reasoned, would be to put on the Hiplet. I wasn't quite certain what it was, but since Lucy had purchased one, then I wanted to wear it. I found the instructions for the Hiplet and read a similar blurb to before.

"Be the shape you want to be, depending upon your mood. Want to look the little girl? Then stay slim. Want to get noticed? Then instantly get the biggest curves in town. So quick and simple to change, you can alter your hip size in the cloakroom! Includes Sensotouch for the ultimate in touch sensitivity."

It was strange, I reasoned. Most women I knew (especially Suzanne) had wanted to be as slim as possible. They would use girdles and waist-clinchers to pull in their shape, but I'd never heard of women trying to add inches to their hips. Personally, I'd always found a round arse and shapely curves added attraction to a woman, but just try telling that to a modern woman! I read a bit more of the instructions.

The Hiplet was normally worn by transvestites!

So why had Lucy bought one? Okay, the instructions did say that women who wanted to gain curves could also use it. There was even a special instruction enclosed to show how to push the artificial vagina inside a real vagina, allowing 'fully-protected sex without a condom'.

I pulled the Hiplet over my legs and up my body. There was a gusset hanging from the front, and I had to feed my prick inside a pouch, and then pull it back between my legs and fasten it. A glance in the mirror confirmed it appeared to function like an invisible panty-girdle, slightly compressing my waist, but not adding appreciably to my dimensions.

A further look at the instructions told me to pull out the piping from the waistline, and attach it to the tap in the same way as I'd done for the Bustlet. Five minutes later, I had a wonderful round arse and well-padded hips. I needed some clothes, and with a shape like I had, something far more elegant than the sweater and jeans I'd put on earlier. I turned to the wardrobe.

***

No one could have guessed that the person facing me in the mirror was anything other than a woman, with vivacious curves in all the right places. I had on a black dress with a deep scoop neckline. I wore black, high-heeled sandals, having first painted my toenails to match the colour of my acrylic fingernails. I had a dazzling necklace, which matched the long earrings hanging like chandeliers, almost to my shoulders.

I still couldn't believe that, without a moment's hesitation, I'd pierced my ears, when I discovered that none of Lucy's earrings were clip-ons. It had hurt a bit, but nothing as bad as the waxing. I knew that I'd have to take care of the piercings for a few days, but what the hell, I looked fantastic!

I was ready, I reasoned, to go downstairs. So what if a couple of Mormons did come knocking on my door? I could flash my tits at them and tell them to piss off and go and bother some other poor women.

Anyway, it was almost ten pm. Far too late for any casual callers to come knocking at the door. I paced around the bedroom a little before trying to walk downstairs - I didn't want to fall arse over tit in my new heels - but quickly got the hang of it, even managing a sexy little swing of my hips as I did so. I went downstairs.

***

Considering the police had presumably been all over the cottage, I was a little surprised that they'd left Lucy's supply of wine untouched. I'm not accusing police of being bent, you understand, but I would have thought they'd have sent all those bottles to the police laboratory for 'checking'.

I found a rather nice red wine. In fact, every bottle in Lucy's wine-rack looked 'rather nice' - she had obviously not wasted all her money on drugs, and she certainly hadn't wasted it on the wine. As I took the first sip, it tasted excellent. I switched on the CD-player. One of those smoochy, romantic songs was already in the deck so I let it play - it matched my mood. I sat down on the settee, and relaxed. Yes, this wine really was excellent. I replenished my glass and wriggled down in the settee. It really was very comfortable, and I'd had a long, hard day. I closed my eyes and relaxed.

When Chris's ex-girlfriend asks him for a favour but explains that it's actually an unsuitable job for a man, he cannot turn down the challenge. In any case, a few days by the seaside spent clearing out the effects of her deceased cousin would make a break from the routine of work. But his startling realistic dreams drive him to pursue the mystery of her death, regardless of the challenges it poses. This story is complete, but serialised over six chapters.

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

Chapter 2

The rattle of the front door opening made me jump, even though I'd been looking forward to it. The guy who came in from outside was in his early twenties, about five feet, nine inches high, rather thin, with a pasty complexion and a shaved head, and a stud in his nose. He wore a dark-green fisherman's sweater and blue jeans. He looked at me, and a big smile lit up his face.

"Hi Lucy, darling," he said in his Liverpudlian accent, which made him sound just like Paul McCartney. "You look incredibly hot tonight."

"I'm waiting for you, my super stud. I've been thinking about you for so long that I'm all wet down here." I wriggled my hips at him, to show the area of wetness, but I think he'd guessed that already. Unfortunately, the wriggle caused the wine to slop out of my glass and over my hand. I transferred the glass to my other hand and used my tongue to lick first the back of my hand clean, and then, in an incredibly suggestive way, each of my fingers.

He stepped over to me, took the glass from my hand and placed it on the side table. Then he leant over and kissed me. His kiss, as always, was fantastic. His lips were so warm and soft, and then they parted and his tongue was forcing its way into my mouth.

I let myself flop sideward on the settee, so I was lying along it, and he followed me down, so he was almost, but not quite, lying on top of me. My hands slid down his body to the hard bulge that was already trying to push its way out of his trousers.

"Oh Jason," I said, unzipping his trousers and helping to ease out his wonderful prick. "I do love you."

I think I almost did too. Okay, maybe I'd started this relationship purely for what he could bring to it, but I'd got to like him very much. And there was no doubt he knew how to pleasure a girl. My hand gave a few thrusts on his prick, just to spur him on a bit.

"Fucking hell, Lucifer," he said, "you're gorgeous. I've got to have you. Now."

He sharply pulled my dress down my shoulders until my tits burst out, popping off a couple of buttons as he did so. I should have been angry with him because it was one of my favourite dresses and I think he might have torn some of the buttonholes, but I found the experience so incredibly erotic that I almost had an orgasm on the spot.

"Ah, you are so beautiful," he breathed on my tits, and that's when I did have my first mini-orgasm. I had the Sensotouch on my Bustlet turned onto eight, which I'd found was about optimum. I knew from experience that a setting of nine could be incredibly painful if he got too rough.

"I'm going to give you the fucking of your life," he said.

"Yes, please," I said, getting both my feet flat on the floor and thrusting my pussy up towards him. Simultaneously, I pulled up my dress so he could get at me without doing any more damage to it. My panties were expendable; I'd specially chosen them to be so flimsy that they would easily tear off.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Not a gentle tapping on the door; certainly no Mormon missionaries. There was only one group of people who knocked the door like that, making it sound as though they would kick the door down if you didn't answer it.

"Shit! Who's that?" Jason stuttered.

"The Old Bill, of course," I told him, pushing myself to my feet and pulling down my dress, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in it, and button up the top. Damn! The buttonholes really WERE torn. I'd have to get them mended now.

I strode over to the door as the knocking was repeated.

"Okay, okay," I said. "I'm coming.

"At least," I added, purely for Jason's benefit, "I almost was."

I turned the latch, glancing back towards Jason to make certain he was respectable before letting them in.

Except that Jason wasn't there! The room was empty!

Of course it was empty. I was staying here on my own. I'd taken a shower and then put on Lucy's clothes and made myself up to look good. After that, I'd come downstairs and sat down on the settee and drunk too much wine. I must have fallen asleep and been dreaming, and now I'd opened the door to...

I turned my head to look through the open doorway. A policewoman stood there. Shit!

"Sorry to bother you," she said. "I'm PC Sally Wright, and we've been keeping an eye on this place, and I noticed the lights on. Can I ask you who you are, and under whose authority you're here?"

Gulp! I had to say something.

"Yes officer, of course." God knows how I'd managed to produce the voice. I think by creating the sound in my mouth, rather than in my throat and chest, but it sounded all right. "My name is Chris Jones, and my friend Suzanne Richards asked me to come down here and clear the flat, and hand it back to the landlord. There's no problem is there?"

She smiled at me - not a nasty, police-type, cynical smile, which according to the TV, they always give before arresting or baton whipping you - but an open, wide smile, that made her whole face light up.

"Oh no, but in view of what happened, we are obviously still taking an interest. Do you have any documentation with you to prove what you say?"

An instant's panic, and then, "Yes. I brought the emails down with me that I had to show the coroner's office, before they'd release the key."

Thank God I'd brought my laptop case in from the car, into which I'd stuffed a printout of the emails. And for once, I also thanked God that my name was Chris, and not Bob or John or Jason. At school, I'd been nicknamed Christine, but at last, my ambiguous name had turned out to have some benefit.

I got out the email and showed her. She gave me another smile to show she was satisfied.

"Thank you very much, Chris. I'm sorry if I disturbed you." She paused for a second before adding, "That's one of Lucy's dresses, isn't it?"

I nodded. "Yes, officer. Suzanne said I could take anything I wanted, so I thought I'd try it on."

"Please call me Sally, and I wasn't trying to suggest you were stealing it. It's that it really suits you." Her glance dipped to my bust line, before returning to my eyes. "Of course, you have the figure to fill it properly, rather than having to pad it out, as Lucy did. It fits you really well, and you look very good in it."

"Thank you, Sally," I said, and I gave her a nice smile.

"I suppose..." Sally said.

"Yes?"

"No, that's silly. I can sense you are one of those women who really like men." She gave a little smile. "I'm the other way, myself, but that's life. I'll leave you now. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I said, watching her walk down the path to the gate onto the road, where her police car was parked. I closed the door on her, and then punched the air in exuberance.

"Yes!" I gasped, in my little girl voice. I had fooled her. I went over to the settee, poured some more wine into the glass, slumped down on the settee and spread my legs wide, making my skirt ride up my legs, and exposing my panties.

I giggled. So, lesbian PC Sally Wright had not only been taken in by my makeover, she had fancied me enough to almost ask me out. Only she could sense I was 'one of those women who really like men'. Where had she got that from? I had another giggle, and then took a large gulp of wine.

***

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Well, at least I knew who knocked in that fashion.

"The Old Bill, of course," I said, pushing myself to my feet and pulling down my dress, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in it, and button up the top, made all the more difficult by the torn buttonholes.

I strode over to the door as the knocking was repeated.

"Okay, okay," I said. "I'm coming.

"At least," I added, "I almost was."

I turned the latch, glancing back at the room. Jason was zipping up his fly over his huge bulge. He gave me a leer, and mouthed, "You just wait."

I would too. I turned my head to look through the doorway. Shit! There was a gun pointing at me!

In fact, there were two men standing there, pointing guns at me.

Before I had time to even think about shutting the door in their faces, they were marching through it, one stuffing his gun into my stomach, the other pointing his directly at Jason.

"Ed. Barry. What are you doing here?" Jason sounded very nervous, and, surprise, surprise, his erection had completely disappeared.

"On the floor. Both of you." The taller of the two, an evil-looking bastard spoke with a Dorset accent. Of course! Jason had spoken about a couple of hard nuts that he'd known in Bournemouth - Ed Little and Barry Tool. No one ever called them by their surnames, in case they thought you were taking the piss!

Both men gesticulated with their guns, and Jason and I did as they said. As I got down, my mind was working overtime. Jason was frightened, which probably meant he was going to get a slapping. I had to make certain they didn't do the same to me. Well, there was one way of making certain of that, and after all, I was still feeling bloody randy after my foreplay with Jason.

As I got down onto my hands and knees, I pushed my bum in the air, so that my dress rode up and exposed my little panties.

"Fucking hell, Ed! Look at the arse on that," the shorter of the two men, the one who had been covering me, spoke. He, I reasoned, must be Barry Tool. I hoped he had the equipment to match his name.

"Shut your face. Cover them, whilst I tie them up," Ed said. "Both of you, flat on the ground, and put your hands behind your backs. Any funny business, and Barry gives you another arse-hole."

He flicked the safety on his own gun and thrust it into his pocket, and followed that with such a tremendous coughing fit I was pleased he'd managed to put his gun away in time.

With Kung Fu training, we might have leapt up at that moment, kicked the gun out of Barry's hand, and then swiftly dealt with Ed. Instead, both of us lay flat on the floor and kept our hands behind our backs until Ed had recovered.

Lying in that kind of position limits your view, but it didn't take much to work out that Ed fastened our wrists behind our backs with those plastic ties. Once pulled tight, they are impossible to get off without cutting them with a sharp knife, preferably wielded by someone else. I had a feeling we weren't going to be given that opportunity.

Time to put Plan A into action.

"Please," I whimpered, struggling to turn over, and incidentally managing to let my left breast topple out of the torn front of my dress, "they're very tight. Couldn't you loosen them a bit?"

"I think I could." Now we were both tied up, Barry also put away his gun, and he knelt down astride my torso, slipped his left hand inside my dress to squeeze my right breast. With his right hand, he viciously tore open the dress, almost down to the waist.

Jesus! That was erotic. I almost had another instant climax. I have to say that I found being tied up was an unbelievable turn-on. I'd thought about trying it in the past, but you've got to have a lover you can put a lot of trust in, and I'd never been in that position. Now it was being forced on me, I could hardly wait until one - or preferably both - of the buggers raped me.

"Leave her alone."

Ah, Jason had responded at last. It was a pity that he sounded such a wimp, terrified in case they told him that little boys should be seen and not heard. Both Ed and Barry turned to stare at him, and I managed to give Jason a wink without them noticing, to try and calm him down a little. Provided things didn't get out of hand, we could talk our way out of this, come to some kind of agreement. But only, of course, after they had both shagged me something rotten.

"Have you got a problem?" Barry asked, standing up, and walking over to where Jason lay on the ground. We all heard Jason gulp, as he tried to swallow.

"She's my wife," he said.

Well, at least he was keeping up the pretence, I thought.

"Well, we're all going up to the bedroom now," Barry said. "And I'm going to fuck your wife, and you are going to watch me do it. And if you raise one word of fucking objection, I'm going to cut off your balls and make you eat them. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No," he said, in a quiet voice.

No heroics there, I thought. Good job that I don't mind.

Mind? Hell, I was getting so horny at the thought of being shagged by these two baboons that I was on the verge of climax. Normally at this point, I'd have been fingering my clit to bring relief, but with my hands behind my back, there was absolutely nothing I could do. Sweet ecstasy.

Barry turned round and bent over and grabbed me around the shoulders, and lifted me to my feet. He must have been pretty powerful to do that, since I'm no lightweight with my Bustlet and Hiplet on, but he hardly seemed to struggle. As for Jason, Ed simply grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled. A few buttons came off, but no worse than what Jason had done to me earlier, so I didn't think he could complain.

So, we proceeded up the stairs, which goes straight into the bedroom, and Barry pushed me towards the bed, and twisted me at the same time, so that I fell onto it on my side. He grasped one of my ankles and lifted, and then grasped the other ankle, so he was standing between my legs.

"Oh please don't do anything," I whimpered. (I thought that would add to the excitement.)

Barry had pushed himself between my legs, and was pulling down his trousers and underpants. Lying on my back with my arms tied behind me, it was bloody uncomfortable, but it did mean my head was elevated slightly, so I could see his prick leap into view. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed by it. It was far shorter and thinner than Jason's, but in that kind of bargaining position, you don't have to be totally honest.

"Oh God! You can't put that inside me. It's evil. Please! No!"

"Condom," Ed said.

"Fuck off, I'm going to make her pregnant," Barry said.

"No, please," I sobbed. (Although the makers of my Hiplet ought to sob more, because I'd sue the bastards if he did.)

"And leave your semen inside her cunt?" Ed said. "Grow up. Fuck her if you want, but use a condom."

Fortunately, Barry was still wearing his jacket, and he had a condom in his inside pocket. Thirty seconds later, he was slamming his prick inside me. It may have been smaller than Jason's, but it was still a very nice feeling. But then, I never could resist a nice prick - even less could I resist a nasty one!

"No! No! No!" I moaned.

There was no finesse about Barry, but to be truthful, finesse was the last thing I wanted at that moment. I was tied up; I was being raped by a gunman in front of my boyfriend. All I wanted was to have a bloody great orgasm.

"Please stop it!" I groaned.

Suddenly, I knew I was going to achieve it. I felt my body responding to his thrusts. I wrapped my feet around Barry, and dug my heels into his inner thighs, to give him a bit of extra leverage.

"Fucking hell! Your wife's enjoying it, Jason. Just look at the bitch on heat. She can't get enough."

"No, he's horrible. His thing is so big. He's hurting... Ah! Oh God! Oh yes! Yes! YES! Y-E-E-E-E-S-S-S!" I squeezed my eyes tight shut as the wave came over me, and then I could feel Barry squirting his load. What a shame he had on a condom. I always like to play with semen afterwards, and there appeared to be an awful lot there.

"No!" I heard Jason shout.

Bloody hell, I thought, don't tell me Jason has found his balls at last. I only hoped that Barry didn't go looking for them as soon as he'd finished with me - I had grown rather fond of them, after all.

Just then, Ed pushed a pillow over my head, and that was followed by a massive explosion of pain as the bullet passed through my head.

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

Chapter 3

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

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

The bastard had shot me!

It was unbelievable!

Things like that happened to other people, not me.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

And had a continuation of my earlier dream.

***

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

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

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

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

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

"Rape, murder and torture in seaside town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I turned to my car and...

My car wasn't there!

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

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

"Lucifer!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So you expected something like that to happen?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks," I said, and went inside.

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

"Lucifer?" he said in a hushed voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded. "Yes please."

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 4

It was a five-minute walk to the river down the narrow lane through the woods that lined the sides of the valley. Although still wet from last night's rain, the trees already had most of their water shaken off them by the gentle breeze, so thankfully I didn't get badly dripped upon. The road surface was rough, but not particularly uneven or slippery, and the glimpses of the river through the trees, as lane meandered slightly left and then right, made it an absolutely delightful walk.

The trees suddenly opened out, and I was standing on the shore of the tidal river, perhaps fifty yards across at this point. On my side of river, a row of expensive looking motor-yachts were moored between buoys, in a line which stretched both upstream and downstream. Right in front of me was a simple landing stage, comprising a wooden gangway with primitive handrails, floating on fifty-gallon oil drums.

The tide was going out; the boats were beginning to tilt as they bottomed on the mud, and the walkway was floating half in the water, and half out on shore. A sign at the shore end announced: "Smugglers' Ferry. Please ring the bell on the gangway for service."

Across the river, The Smugglers looked extremely picturesque with its thatched roof, and tables with umbrellas in the garden overlooking the river. Even today, not a particularly warm day, a surprising number of people were sitting out there. It was Friday, I suddenly realised - typically the day when office workers would go out for a lunchtime drink and a meal, at a convenient and pleasant country pub.

I walked along the gangway - not a particularly enjoyable experience, as it lurched with every step I took, and I had to hang onto the handrail to stop myself being thrown to my knees. At the end was one of those large ship's bells, hanging from a post, with a length of rope tied to the clapper. I grabbed the rope and vigorously woggled it from side to side. Gong-Gong-Gong. The sound reverberated across the valley.

It took a couple of minutes before anyone came out of the pub, and I was almost on the point of ringing again. But then a man with a captain's cap on his head appeared on the quayside next to the pub. He got into a little motorboat, started the engine, cast off and chugged across to my side of the river.

***

"She was a lovely girl, Lucy was."

We had gone through that bit where, on first sight, he thought I WAS Lucy. After that, he asked me if I was a relative, to which I'd given my same evasive answer. Now, he was complying to form by telling me what an innocent, lovely girl she had been, albeit with big tits.

"She worked here as a barmaid," he continued.

"If she was such an attractive, but innocent girl," I asked, "surely some of the fellers took advantage?"

"Nah." He shook his head vehemently from side to side. "All the regulars cared for her and looked out for her. If anyone tried it on, they'd get thrown in the river."

I wondered whether Lucy had generated some jealousies. "Did that happen often?" I asked him.

"Nah." Another shake of the head. "A little warning was all it took. Blokes got the message pretty quick."

"Hmm," I said.

***

It was occurring to me that everyone I spoke to was protesting her innocence too vehemently. If she really was so sweet and childlike, why did she wear the Bustlet and Hiplet, with almost every item of her dress designed to expose as much of her breasts as possible? Surely, no woman would choose not only to have such large knockers, but to openly display them, unless she wanted to attract men like moths to a naked light bulb.

I went inside the pub, which had lots of seafaring and smuggling items such as mariners' lamps and brandy barrels (presumably empty) fixed on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. It was easy to see why so many people were sitting in the garden; inside, it was packed with people, with a three-deep crowd jostling for service at the bar.

If I'd arrived there in my car, I'd have driven off and found somewhere else, or gone back home for my bread and cheese; but the thought of getting the ferryman to again relinquish his pint and take me back across the river, was more than I could bear. I joined the queue at the bar.

There were three people serving: the middle-aged landlord and landlady, and a younger barmaid. The two women wore serving-wench uniforms - full, black skirts with colourful aprons tied around the waist; white smock blouses with peasant-style necklines, which displayed ample amounts of cleavage; and a black, front-lacing bodice, along with a white smock cap. All rather appealing, I thought. It was easy to see why the mainly male clientele flocked here, in spite of the crowd and resultant slow service.

"The Special Bitter needs the barrel changing." The barmaid at the far end had been pulling the pint - I had been admiring the way the work made her boobs squash together and then release - and she now shouted above the general hubbub of conversation in the pub.

"Can you do it, Sue?" the landlord shouted back. "Give me a shout if you need a hand."

The girl nodded and turned towards the rear of the bar, opened a four-foot high door, and bent over double before disappearing through it. The crowd sank back in front of where she had been serving, accepting it would be some minutes before she returned.

***

"The Special Bitter needs the barrel changing," I shouted at Sam above the general noise in the pub.

"Can you do it, Lucy?" he shouted back. "Give me a shout if you need a hand."

I nodded and turned towards the rear of the bar, and went through the tiny door and down the steep steps to the cellar below. Sam's wife, Sally, had shown me how to change a barrel when I'd started work as barmaid, the day before, and it had seemed pretty simple.

A few seconds was all it took to swap the pipe from the empty barrel to the full one. I'd almost finished when Sam's voice came from behind me.

"Joe decided to have a pint of Best, instead, so I've served him to it. Are you getting on all right?"

"Fine," I said.

With the low ceiling in the cellar, neither of us could stand up straight, and I was bent double over the barrel, having just connected the pipe. I had to twist my body completely round to look at him. I knew the operation would enable him to peer straight down the front of my blouse. I had on a quarter-cup bra, which pushed my boobs up and out, but wouldn't at all interfere with his view.

"Ph-e-e-w!"

"Enjoying the view?" I asked him.

"Not half," he said with a wicked grin.

"What would Sally say?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Sally wouldn't say anything," he said. "She's gone to the cash and carry."

"Well in that case, we can't afford to keep the customers waiting," I said.

I turned back towards the barrel, bent right over it and moved forward, straddling my legs, until I was astride it. Then, with both hands, I simply flicked my skirt up my back, so that Sam could see I wasn't wearing panties.

It was a good, quick fuck; actually the first of many we were to have over the next few months in that identical position. The customers were generally quite understanding about it, as long as it wasn't too busy, and we didn't take too long. After all, most of them were getting their share of my generous nature.

***

"What will you have, luv?"

"What?" I jerked back into the real world. "Sorry, Sam, I was miles away."

Sam smiled at me, and looked a bit quizzical. "Do I know you?" he said. "Only normally I pride myself on never forgetting a face. People may come in this bar only once and I'll remember them. But not you. Mind you, you do look like someone who once worked here..."

"I'll have a half of lager, please, Sam," I said, and added in response to his query, "I'm from Lucy's aunt's side of the family. A few people have said they think there's a resemblance."

That gave him a good-enough explanation of how I knew his name, and he started talking along the same lines that everyone else had adopted. "Can I say how upset we all were over that horrible event," he said. "We simply couldn't believe it. She was such an innocent..."

"So everybody says," I agreed. I looked around at the bar. The crowd had almost gone. "What happened to them all?" I asked. "Everyone seems to have disappeared whilst I was in my daze."

"They're mostly from the offices in Seacombe," he said, "and they all arrive about the same time and don't have that long for lunch. It's a bit of a rush for a few minutes, but you're the last. They're all out in the garden now.

"Trade is starting to pick up now that spring is here," he continued. "Lucy was a godsend. She worked hard, all through last summer, and the customers really loved her. I'm trying to recruit another barmaid, but it's too far out of town for most of them, especially for the relatively short lunchtime session. Sue's only doing it for us as a favour, and she can't continue next week." He looked at me. "You're not interested, are you? If you're living in Lucy's cottage, it would be very convenient for you."

I simply don't know what I was thinking about, except continuing to wonder how I knew that the landlord's name was Sam. The only scientific explanation I could find was that someone had called him by name whilst I'd been waiting at the bar, lost in my daydream, and the name had infiltrated itself into my dream, in the same way that last night, PC Sally Wright's knocking at the front door had.

So there was a kind of explanation there, although I didn't feel particularly happy with it. My explanations were starting to appear more and more contrived. It seemed quite sensible to conduct a scientific test, and observe the results. I realised he'd asked me a question I hadn't answered.

"I'm not certain about working for you," I said. "After all, don't you have your bar staff over a barrel?"

The results of my experiment were made all the more dramatic because Sam had just taken a gulp of beer from the half-pint glass he kept below the bar. Fortunately, he wasn't pointing in my direction when the contents of his mouth sprayed liberally across the bar.

"Jesus Christ! Keep your voice down." He took an anxious glance across the lounge towards where his wife was clearing glasses from a table, whilst talking to a couple of men.

"Look, I don't know what Lucy said to you, but it's all untrue."

"If you don't know what she said, how do you know it's untrue?"

He energetically applied himself to cleaning the mess he had made on the bar, saying nothing, but looking extremely worried.

Since he hadn't responded, I decided to apply a little pressure. "Having your staff over a barrel is a common expression, so why did you react so strongly?"

"Exactly," he said. "No reason at all. It's simply that my beer went down the wrong way."

"So there's no problem in me talking to the police about it?"

"Jesus! Don't do that. They'll suspect me, and start asking all kinds of embarrassing questions, and then the whole story will come out. What do you want?" he asked.

"I want to know the truth," I said.

He nodded, slowly, eying his wife as he did so. "Fair enough," he said, "but not now. Were you really serious about working here as a barmaid, because we certainly need someone, and we could talk properly then. And, er..." He gave a smile. "No barrel. Okay?"

Afterwards, I couldn't believe what I said in response. For I replied, "Okay."

***

As I walked home, I recounted my latest daydream, and the simple experiment I had conducted on its authenticity. There had to be a scientific explanation. There just had to be.

It came to me in a flash - a totally obvious solution. The barmaid had shouted, "The Special Bitter needs the barrel changing." In the general mutter of conversation, I hadn't consciously heard anything, but my sub-conscious had detected some wag muttering words to the effect of, "I bet Sam sends her down to do it and then he'll go down and give her one over the barrel." From that, my imagination had leapt into action, and created another highly effective daydream.

I shook my head. It was an explanation of a sort, but...

It was also strange, I thought, that I had arrived at Lucy's house less than twenty-four hours ago, but I already felt completely at ease with dressing in her clothes, staying in her house, and living her life. In particular, the very idea of dressing as a woman had never crossed my mind when Suzanne talked about an unsuitable job for a man. Yet hadn't there been a bit of cross-dressing involved in that book by P D James? And now, I had agreed to take on Lucy's job as a barmaid, and I didn't feel at all stressed by it. Weird!

I went inside the cottage and went upstairs to check my wardrobe. Sam had said that Lucy's Smugglers Inn gear had never been returned to the pub. It hadn't, and I tried it all on. Lucy had been right to choose a quarter-cup bra to wear with it, since the bodice itself provided no support for my breasts, and the bra really pushed them up nicely, and I looked extremely pretty.

"Damn!" I muttered. Of course, it had been my imagination that had provided the quarter-cup bra, not any communication from Lucy. Which proved, I guessed, that I actually knew far more about women's attire than I had previously assumed. As well as, I reminded myself, the expert way in which I applied my make-up - a task which many women had difficulty with.

I shook my head in frustration. I was letting my imagination take hold again. Everything had a scientific explanation. Everything.

***

I'd agreed with Sam that I would work lunchtimes, a rota which suited me - since I didn't want to work until late at night and then negotiate the ferry, followed by a climb up the dark, narrow lane on my own. It also mirrored, Sam said, the rota Lucy had done, as he found it much easier to get evening staff who would generally arrive by car.

I'd also agreed that I would start work the next morning - Saturday. I would go in early so that I could be given a brief introductory training session. In fact it was Sam's wife, Sally, who gave me most of the training - yes I know that was her name in my dream, but just like all the other things, I must have heard someone call her that before my dream started.

"She was a nymphomaniac, you know?"

"Pardon?" I said. Sally and I were in the cellar, and she had been showing me how to change a barrel of beer. Although I'd never done this activity before, I realised my dream had been uncannily accurate. Still, it was fairly obvious stuff, really. Wasn't it?

"The doctors call it Compulsive Sexual Behaviour, but everyone else knows it as nymphomania," Sally said. "Lucy told me that. She admitted quite freely that she had it, which is why she had sex with most of the men in this pub."

"Oh," I said, thinking, "Christ, this is getting onto sensitive ground."

"It's all right," Sally said, "I know that Sam had sex with her as often as everyone else - probably more often, knowing him - but I didn't mind. He became much more gentle when he was having sex with me, you see. It was about us pleasing each other, rather than seeing how quickly he could spurt inside me. I think we both benefited from Lucy's nymphomania."

"Right," I said.

"That's the way most of the other wives felt, as well," she continued. "You've probably heard lots of people saying how nice Lucy was, and thinking that didn't square with the Lucy you knew. But she really was a wonderful person; we all loved her. Most of the men had sex with her, and there was no jealousy, or anything like that.

"That's why we all agreed to keep quiet about Lucy's little problem when she was so horribly murdered. We knew the police would simply waste all their time investigating us, and not look for anyone else. Our lives would be turned upside down and exposed in the gutter-press, and the killers would get away with it."

"I see," I said. I did too. Here was a bunch of people with obvious motives for Lucy's murder, and whom the police knew nothing about. Maybe most of them were totally innocent, but one of them could have got jealous or obsessive. Now I understood why Lucy had brought me into this job.

"Damn!" I muttered. It had been my decision to work here, not some figment of my dream.

"I can understand why you think someone here was the killer," Sally went on, virtually reading my mind, "and why you wanted to work here to discover who it was. But honestly, I'm convinced it was some men from outside the area."

"Weren't you worried about Sam, er, catching anything from Lucy?" I asked.

"Oh no!" Sally said. "That wasn't a problem. She explained to me straight away, and I gradually told all the other women, so it just became common knowledge."

"What did?" I asked.

"Apparently a doctor in Bournemouth recommended it. Said it was very good for people with her kind of compulsion. It was called a Hiplet, or something like that. It contained the equivalent of a permanent female condom, which fitted into her vagina. You still get most of the feeling, but you can't get pregnant, or catch anything, and as long as you douche out afterwards so there's no sticky stuff left around, disease can't be carried between your partners. Sounds ideal to me."

So that's why Lucy had started wearing the Hiplet, I thought. "Do men know it's there?" I asked.

"Apparently not," Sally said, "or they didn't until one of the wives let it out the bag. Sounded quite good actually, and I thought I might get one, until Lucy told me they cost well over a thousand pounds."

"Where did Lucy get that kind of money?" I gasped.

"She used to work in a club in Bournemouth, she told me. And you really don't want to know how she made so much money. Needless to say, it involved lots of men, and her favourite occupation."

I nodded. I could imagine.

***

Over the next week, I really got into the swing of being a barmaid. I also got to know most of the customers very well, especially the males. I won't go through all the names, but there were a few characters of note.

Jack was the ferryman. Apparently, he had an arrangement with Sam to spend most of his time in the pub - with an occasional refill over the course of the day - and work the ferry as needed. In the summer, it would virtually be a non-stop job. Now it was April, there were only the occasional users such as Mick Walters (who was in the pub most lunch-times) and me. Jack and Mick would spend hours talking to me, whenever I was free.

It was quite obvious from conversations I had with Mick and Jack that they, too, had had sex with Lucy. At their ages! It was disgusting. But I quickly ruled out both Jack and Mick as murder suspects. After all, why would they? They were probably getting more frequent sex with Lucy than they had had all through their adult lives.

As Sally had intimated, that also appeared to be the case with almost every other male regular in the pub. As soon as they knew that I knew Lucy's medical problem (to put it delicately), they were completely open (except in front of their wives or girlfriends). All of them clearly liked her, and were terribly distressed by her death.

The one regular male visitor to the pub who didn't have sex with Lucy was pointed out to me as a novelty. He always came into the pub with his wife, who kept him on a short leash. He hadn't even been allowed to go to the pub toilet, the regulars joked, in case Lucy crept in with him. Edward and Elizabeth, the couple were called - definitely not Ted and Liz - and they were recently retired with presumably, a fairly comfortable pension to go with it.

Edward owned one of the smart cruisers moored in the river across from the Smugglers, and it was called Bolshoi - presumably after the name of the Russian ballet company. However, most of the regulars called it Bolshie - and thought it a highly appropriate name, based upon the prickly nature of her owners.

They would often have lunch in the pub before he rowed his tender across to Bolshoi. Elizabeth would watch until he had cast anchor (or whatever you do to mooring buoys) and motored down the river towards the sea.

Later, I was told, she would arrive back at the Smugglers in good time to watch him motor up river to the mooring, tie up and row back to the Smugglers, where, if the time was right, they would have an evening meal.

Unless one could count not having sex with someone as adequate reason to murder them - a complete reversal of normal - that meant I had to rule out Edward.

Which left, for suspects... Absolutely no one, apart from the names of the two men in my dream, who I was determined, I would not try to identify. I certainly wasn't going to condemn a person whose name just happened to be the same as someone I dreamt about. In any case, if I went to the police they would laugh me out of the police station, or charge me with wasting police time, or perhaps even try to frame me for the murder.

You can see that I was settling in to my life as the new Lucifer. Quite surprisingly, I really enjoyed my work as a barmaid. I'd expected that, since I'd never worked in a bar before, I would have tremendous difficulty in learning the ropes, remembering the price of everything and recognising the strange drinks that many people ordered - in my formative years, it had been halves or pints, mild or bitter. But I grasped all of that fairly easily, and Sam and Sally remarked how quickly I had settled into the job.

I also discovered that the changed location made me enjoy my own professional computer consultancy business far more than I had for many months - probably since Suzanne had left me. One of the advantages of being a computer consultant is that you can work wherever you take your laptop. On Monday, I'd started working on A Round Tuit - a project which had to be done but which I'd being meaning to get 'around to it' for some time, as I expected it to be incredibly boring. In fact, I as soon as I got into it, I found it much more challenging than I'd expected.

I adapted my working day to suit my own preferences. I would usually wake up about four am, and immediately get up, have breakfast and do my professional work almost unbroken until ten, when it was time to prepare for my bar duty at the Smugglers. I'd put on my make-up and uniform, arriving at the pub by eleven, and have an early (by most people's body clocks) lunch on the house.

I would serve all lunchtime, and be back at the cottage by about three pm, whereupon my body clock was telling me it was time for bed! I'd sleep for a few hours, then get up, do another couple of hours professional work, followed by a normal evening in front of the TV, before having an early night to bed.

The fact that I was able to continue my normal business, as well as making a bit of pocket money as barmaid at the Smugglers, made me decide I could pay the rent on the cottage for a few additional weeks' stay. The agent was delighted, and gave me a good deal on the rent if I stayed for another month. I took him up on his offer.

***

I wasn't quite certain how important the cross-dressing aspect was to my enjoyment. In the course of my bar work, I obviously met lots of blokes, and it was inevitable that they tried to chat me up. After all, I did have tits the size of melons (Okay, small melons), and even with my expert make-up, I was no beauty, but when has that stopped a man from fancying a shag? If only they knew the truth!

I often played mental 'what ifs' with myself. What if he offered to take me out, would I accept? What if he squeezed my bum, would I punch him on the nose, or tell him he was 'saucy'? What if he asked me to give him a blowjob around the back of the pub, where Lucy used to operate?

Blokes would often offer me a drink, and mostly, I'd take a half of bitter or a glass of wine - even the house-white was pretty decent - or charge for it and slip the money into my tips box. However, on the day that I made the breakthrough, the customer looked fairly wealthy so I said I'd have a brandy, instead.

Well, he looked a bit shocked by that, so rather than taking a glass of the Courvoisier, as I'd planned, I put the glass under the optic on the standard house brandy and poured out a measure. It was a quite cheap brandy, and I was surprised how popular it was with many of the regulars. Even the customer was mollified when I told him the price.

But when I took my first sip of the brandy, I realised this was a drink of real quality, at a damn good price. I took another look at the label. Impossible. There was no way this nectar came from that bottle.

Except that, of course, in a pub called the Smugglers Inn, there was one way in which quality brandy could be sold at a knock-down price. I thought again about the quality of the house wine, and the superb collection of wines that Lucy had at home. (At least, when I first arrived, she had - they all seemed to have disappeared now.) It would be very good, I thought, to restock her wine cellar. Therefore, I needed to find the supplier. But there was a sudden flurry of customers, and I didn't have chance to think about it until later.

***

As I walked back to the cottage, my mind kept thinking about smuggling. The inn was on a tidal river, with the sea just a few miles downstream and from there, France was the next stop. Plenty of sailing and motor boats along the South coast would cross the Channel, spend a day or two there, load up with all the booze and tobacco they could carry and sail back to England.

One of the incredible benefits of being in the EU was that it was all perfectly legal, provided it was for 'personal use only' - you didn't even have to declare it. Only if you subsequently sold the goods would you have been guilty of smuggling. And once the stuff had been sold to someone else, it would be difficult to prove it had been smuggled.

There was, of course, one obvious contender as smuggler: Edward, with his motor cruiser, Bolshoi, moored just across river from the Smugglers. On the one hand, so what if Edward was a smuggler? It was hardly as though it was harming me or anyone else. You could theoretically argue it was damaging the economy, but it had the kind of value that the Chancellor of the Exchequer wouldn't bother to pick up if it dropped out of his back pocket as he was running for a bus. (Even supposing he could remember what a bus was!)

But the more I thought about it, the whole issue started to take on a lot greater importance than being able to buy a few bottles of wine at a knock-down price. I knew that violence and death often accompanied the work of serious smugglers. Suppose Jason had got involved with Edward in bringing a little white powder across the Channel? That would put the smuggling into a very different ball game - a game where a drug smuggler and his girlfriend might very easily get 'taken out', because they had strayed onto someone else's ground.

It would be good, I decided, to surreptitiously have a closer look at Bolshoi. I would wait until it was dark, and then go down to the river. With that thought, I went up to the bedroom for my customary afternoon nap.

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

Chapter 5

I stayed in bed quite a bit longer than normal, but finally got up and dug out the black bikini from a drawer. I knew that at this time of the year, the water would be bitterly cold, but I also knew precisely what I had to do about it.

I turned on the shower and waited until it was running hot before stepping in and washing myself. When I had finished, I let the shower continue running as I emptied the water out of my Bustlet and Hiplet.

I found it rather sad watching how my fabulous tits and arse shrivelled up to almost nothing - a bit like watching a tremendous erection do the same. Once the two were properly deflated, I unscrewed the shower rose from the flexible hose and pulled the pipe from my Bustlet over the end of it. Then I inflated my tits with piping hot water, and repeated the operation for my Hiplet.

I now had most of my torso protected by an all-embracing hot-water bottle. My legs below the knees, my midriff and my arms would not be protected, but then I would only be in the cold water for a few minutes, as I swam out to Edward's cruiser.

When I returned to the bedroom, Jason was still in bed.

"Get out of bed, you lazy bugger," I told him, but letting a bit of affection creep into my voice. He really had incredible staying power - the kind that a girl like me found invaluable. The session we had just finished had given me more orgasms than I'd had all day - and it had been a busy day! Jason had squirted so much spunk inside me, so many times, that I could have half-filled a bucket with it when I'd cleaned myself out in the shower.

"I'm just thinking of you," he said, turning over, so his prick lifted the quilt like a tent pole. "I want to watch you put on your bikini."

I couldn't deny him that, but I'd have to be careful that it didn't degenerate into another bout of sex. I was so easily persuaded, and I simply didn't have time for that. I slipped my arms through the bikini straps, and let my tits dangle into the cups, before I fastened it behind my back, pushing my tits upwards towards my chin in the way that Jason loved.

"Jesus!" he said. He flicked the quilt to one side, exposing his enormous erection, and added, "Come here. I want you again."

Fortunately, I was prepared for him, and I had the sponge soaked with cold water already to slap around his balls.

"A-g-g-h-h-h!" he screamed.

"That'll teach you, you randy git," I said. "Now, I have to get off, or I'll be late." I grabbed my bikini bottoms, my dress, flip flops and cosmetic bag, and dashed downstairs.

***

Ten minutes later, I was down at the ferry crossing, although for my next leg of the journey, I wasn't going to be using any ferry. It was now virtually dark, but there was just sufficient light for me to check there were no anglers on the banks, who might observe. Across the river, the floodlighting of the Smugglers had been turned on, and it blinded you to all else if you stared at it. I took care not to.

I slipped off my flip flops, and put them into my transparent sealable bag - designed especially for swimmers. I pulled my dress over my head - my dark-blue beach dress made of a material that would not take up too much space inside my bag and put that in, also. I always kept my wig on for this operation - my natural blonde hair stood out too easily in the dark, and in any case, I preferred people not to know too much about me. I carefully sealed the bag, and slipped the loop on the end of the cord around my wrist, and checked the state of the tide.

For most of the time, there were strong currents running along the river, as the tide filled and emptied the long valley. For just a few minutes either side of high and low water, the current slowed and then turned, and that was the moment to swim out towards Edward's boat. I was quite a strong swimmer, but if I had missed the moment, I would had to have entered the river upstream, and tried to catch hold of the boat as the current swept me past.

Fortunately, the current was just coming to a halt - I could tell from the way the boats were changing their position on their moorings. I had just a few minutes.

I stepped quickly into the cold water. This was the moment I hated, but it was better if I did it quickly. Underfoot, was the horrible, slimy mud, that I imagined contained all kinds of nasty creepy-crawlies, which might bite me as I walked. I always found it strange as the water moved up my body, that I had alternate bands of freezing cold and piping hot.

It was only a few seconds before the water was deep enough to swim, and I pulled forward with a strong breast-stroke, taking care not to break the surface of the water. Now I was fully in the water, it would be extremely difficult to see me in the dark, but I preferred not to chance it.

It was barely twenty yards before I was at the bathing platform at the rear of the Bolshoi. I pulled myself out of the water and half-turned, so I could sit on it with my legs still in the water. It was always tempting to dash straight up onto the deck and into the saloon, but I knew Edward would be furious if I brought mud on board, so I spent a few seconds rubbing the mud away from my toes, and washing my feet clean.

The spare key was where it always was, in the third deck locker on the left, on a little hook at the back, and I unlocked the sliding door into the saloon, and then returned the key, before entering. Once inside, I helped myself to one of the fluffy white towels kept in a locker next to the door, and dried myself. Only then, did I unseal my bag, and pull my out dress and shoes, and slip them on.

There was a little light from the Smugglers coming through the windows, revealing that the saloon, as always, was completely clean and tidy. Edward told me that Elizabeth would come in at least once a week and help him clean it, which was why I could never leave any of my things on board

I heard a soft bump outside, as the tender bumped against the bathing platform, and then it was all silent until the saloon rear door slid wide open against the stop with a thud, and Edward was standing there, staring at me.

"Lucifer," he gasped, his mouth agog, peering at me in the half shadows.

***

My mouth, too, I realised was agog. I had been dreaming again, and now I was aboard the Bolshoi, and Edward was looking at me as though he'd seen a ghost.

"No," I said, totally bemused at how I had got there, and then having the presence of mind to step forward and add, "It's Chris Jones - the barmaid from the Smugglers."

"Bloody hell!" he said. "You gave me a fright. You looked just like her in that light." He peered at me a bit more closely. "Mind, you look very different now."

I had a sudden panic. "I need to repair my make-up," I said, and I dashed down the companionway and into the guest toilet, clutching my bag containing the all-important cosmetic kit.

I'd chosen the guest toilet because it was on the side of the boat facing my side of the river rather than the Smugglers - which meant I could put on the light without it being noticed from the pub car park, where Elizabeth might still be watching. I stared at myself critically in the mirror. Actually, I didn't look too bad.

A rummage through my cosmetic bag revealed that all the items in it were waterproof. Presumably, I had put these on before leaving the cottage. But I could remember nothing about using them, or any other aspect of my afternoon since falling asleep after returning from the Smugglers.

On the other hand, I knew exactly what Lucifer had done, and had obviously done on any number of past occasions. She had been Edward's mate on his smuggling trips, no doubt finding plenty to keep them both occupied on the long journey across the English Channel.

"But only if you believe the dream," I said aloud.

"What did you say?" Edward's voice came through the door. It sounded as though he'd been waiting outside. "Look," he continued, "I think I deserve an explanation, don't you? What are you doing on my boat? I've a good mind to call the police."

"No," I said. I unlocked the toilet door, and went out to face him. "You won't call the police, because I know too much about the purpose of where you're going tonight."

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

It was time to go with my instincts rather than my logic. "Lucy told me about it," I said. "The little trips over to France to purchase a few goods for 'personal use', and how you illegally sold them to Sam."

"She must have been making it up." But his words lacked conviction.

"And the trips had another benefit, didn't they," I continued, ignoring his response. "What did you and she get up to on the voyage? Does Elizabeth know about that little extra? I think not."

"Alright," he said. "Come this way."

He made his way back to the saloon and I followed. He motioned for me to sit down.

"I give you that Lucifer and I enjoyed each other's company on voyage and that Elizabeth doesn't know about that," he said. "I'll also accept that sometimes I accidentally brought back more goods than I actually needed, so I sold them onto someone else. But that still doesn't explain what you're doing here. Are you trying to blackmail me?"

Blackmail? That opened another avenue of motive for Lucy's murder.

"No! Was Lucy?" I fired back at him.

"No," he said. "She wouldn't do that kind of thing." Then he had a little think about it and added, "At least, I don't think she would. She didn't anyway, and you still haven't told me what you're doing here."

I'm not certain where the words came from. "I want you to take me with you, just like you took Lucy."

"You mean, just like I took Lucy?" He put the emphasis on 'just' and 'took', so I would know exactly what he was talking about.

"Apart from the sex," I said.

"Why should I?"

"Because I'm not going to let go of this, now. If you don't help me, I'm going to carry on digging around and asking embarrassing questions until I find out the truth. Or you can assist me, which means I'll then turn my investigations elsewhere."

He paused, considering, and then sighed and nodded. "Have you got your passport with you?"

Again I went with my instincts. "Lucy never brought hers. I'll go through the borders just the same way that she did."

He shrugged. "Okay, if you're sure that's what you want. Now, I'd better get underway, otherwise Elizabeth will be wondering what's happened to me."

He stepped across to the helmsman's seat, flicked a few switches, then started the engines.

***

There's something about motor-yachts that look so enviable. You see the adverts in the colour supplements; of beautiful babes lazing on the sundeck, sipping champagne, the boat flying through the waves over a blue sea, leaving behind a huge white wash. You think, "I want to be there, doing that."

But when you actually get to do it, you realise how incredibly boring it is. Especially with all the automation that's crept into it. Can you believe it? There was a GPS navigator-thing with the exact course already programmed in. Once Edward had slipped the mooring buoys (that's the term I was looking for earlier), he simply switched control over to it, and it guided us along a precise route out of the river.

"If we meet another boat, I may have to take action," Edward said, "but it's unlikely at this time of evening. Once we're out at sea, it will automatically increase the speed, and set the course for St Marriot. All I have to do is keep a lookout. Fantastic, eh?"

I muttered appropriate noises, but personally I thought about how much more fun it would be on a sailing cruiser, splicing the main brace and shouting out, "Avast ahoy!" On the other hand, perhaps everything is done electronically on sailing boats as well. I silently sighed and made myself comfortable in the saloon.

***

The voyage took around ten hours, which Edward told me was a reasonable time. If the sea had been flatter, he could have typed a higher speed into the GPS thing, and it would have obeyed, but as it was, we simply smashed our way through every wave between England and France with a crash that made my spine judder.

I periodically made cups of coffee for Edward, and around four am, I got him some breakfast, and even took over from him whilst he went for the occasional piss. Mind you, it was an incredibly skilled task, and he had to give me precise instructions.

"Don't touch a thing, and holler if you see any lights in front of us, except for those... and those." He pointed to the permissible lights then went dashing down to the heads (not toilets).

Finally, at about six am, the engine note lowered, the crashes subsided, and Edward was turning to me.

"We'll be there in about ten minutes. Lucy used to go below at about this point to get ready to swim ashore."

"Swim?" I asked, looking with alarm into the blackness that surrounded us.

"You wanted to do it the same way as Lucy," he said, with a sickly smile - the smug bastard!

"But... how far is it? Which direction will I go? I can't see a thing!"

Thankfully, he took pity on me. Presumably, he wasn't into making his unwanted guests walk the plank.

"I anchor just off shore until the tide's right to enter St Marriot," he said. "It's only about fifty yards to the beach, and there'll be a light on the villa that Lucy visits. Just point at that, and swim."

"What about coming back?" I asked.

"To get the tides right, I'll be back here at 20.13 hours, BST," he said. "I'll stop in the same place, although I won't drop anchor. As soon as you see my stern light from the villa, start swimming. If you miss me, see if you can get back to Seacombe before me."

He grinned, to show it was a really funny joke. I curled my lip at him, and went below to prepare for my swim.

***

It really wasn't much of a villa. A single-storied building about twenty feet square, with steel shutters on every window. One of the keys on my key ring fitted the door (I'd wondered what that key fitted), and I stepped inside.

It was furnished as a small holiday bungalow - lounge, kitchenette, bedroom and shower room/toilet, equipped with all items necessary for a pleasant holiday - including plenty of holiday spending money in one of the cupboards - about fifty thousand pounds, I reckoned, although I didn't bother to count it all - and a large stash of illegal drugs. At least, that's what I assumed it was, but having no expertise on white powder inside sealed plastic bags, it could have been sugar, for all I knew.

I would have done it straightaway, but there was already a man walking his dog along the surf line. The dog played in the surf for ages, and by the time they had finished, a few other early dog-walkers were coming onto the beach.

So, it was just before Edward's pick-up time that dusk descended and the beach cleared sufficiently for me to carry out my task. I found a sharp knife from the kitchen, picked up the plastic bags and took them down to the water's edge. There would be some very crazed-out fish in the sea that evening.

Once I'd done that, I returned to the villa, prepared for my swim back, then locked up and stood outside, awaiting sight of the Bolshoi's stern light.

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

***

The pickup went as smoothly as the drop off. The Bolshoi was precisely where Edward said it would be, at the right time, and having prepared my hot-water jackets exactly as Lucy had shown me the evening before, the swim in the cold water was bearable - just.

Edward helped me onto deck from the bathing platform, and then led the way to the saloon. He handed me a towel, then went and switched in the autopilot, and the boat surged forward, on its way back to Seacombe.

"Just a moment, my dear."

I paused, my dress in my hands, prior to pulling it over my head.

"What's the problem?"

"You may think me an old fool with regard to Lucy, but I'm not a complete fool. I'm going to search you, just as I used to search Lucy. I want to make certain you aren't carrying any illegal products."

I might have quarrelled with him over that, in view of the dozens of boxes of wine, spirits and beer packing the saloon, and which I could also see stacked down below. But the contents of the villa made me keep my peace. I wondered just how thorough a search he had made of Lucy - obviously, not thorough enough.

"Your bikini, please." He nodded at my only coverings, and I shrugged, removed both top and bottom, and handed them to him. He felt them carefully, to make certain there was nothing in the lining, and then dropped them on the settee.

Then he turned his attention to me. "Stand up straight and let me look at you."

I did so.

"Now turn around and face the bulkhead."

Once again I complied, thinking that when it came to him examining my swimming bag, he was going to get a little surprise. I guess I should have left that  £50,000 behind in the villa, but I am only human.

"Let me see your fingernails. Put your hands behind your back."

I did so.

Click-click.

"What the hell?" My hands were secured behind me. I turned, furiously towards him.

"What do you think you're doing? Take these handcuffs off me, immediately!"

"I'm afraid I'm not going to do that."

"This is illegal. I'll have the police on you."

"Oh, I think not. Now, come here. I really have been missing the pleasure of Lucy's company, and I think it's time to make up for that."

He stepped forward, his hands reaching towards my tits. I kicked furiously towards his bollocks, but he simply smiled, twisted, and his hands had grasped my ankle and were lifting it higher, and higher, into the air. I toppled backward onto the settee and he came with me, so he flopped down between my legs and onto my body, driving the breath out of me.

"Bastard! You bastard!" Struggle as I might, with my hands secured behind me, and my legs either side of his body, I couldn't push him away. "You fuck pig!"

"I really do not like young ladies swearing, you know," he said, "and nowadays, many seem to do it all the time. Fortunately, I came prepared." His hands were reaching behind my head.

When they came into view again, they were clutching a length of parcel tape, which he pressed across my mouth.

"Bushtard." I could barely squeeze out the word. And after he had applied two more layers of tape across my mouth, I could make no sound apart from "Mmmm!"

"That's much better, my dear," Edward said. "Now, I am really going to enjoy fucking you. It's been so long since I had Lucy."

His hands were at the belt of his trousers, then he was lifting his body off me so he could slide his trousers down, before dropping back down, and I could sense he was penetrating me.

"You fucking bitch!" He thrust downwards.

Surprisingly, I felt something. I'd thought that I would be totally senseless down there, but I wasn't.

"You're no better than that fucking bitch, Lucy."

Another hard thrust which wasn't particularly unpleasant. Dear God! I thought back to the dream I'd had that first night. This was definitely deja vu.

He must have seen some expression of surprise on my face, for he said, "That shocks you, does it, you cunt? That I should call Lucy a fucking bitch, when everyone else says she was an angel. Well, I know what she was bringing into the country - just as I know what you're bringing in."

He clearly wasn't talking about the money, although with the parcel tape over my mouth, I could hardly tell him that. He gave another massive thrust, which again was not unpleasant - well, actually, it was rather nice.

"You think I'm that stupid to fall for the same trick twice?" (Thrust. Mmmm. Yummy.) "It was obvious, once I knew what to look for. Oh fuck."

He slammed inside me harder, giving me another pleasant surprise. And then again. And again. It was obvious this particular round was reaching a conclusion, and unlike Lucy in my dream, this was not going to be one of those wonderful joint orgasms. He slammed once more, and then I could feel him spurting inside me. I had a cunt made of plastic! How on earth could I feel anything? It was impossible.

Two more smaller thrusts, and he was done. He looked at me, with a curl to his lip. "You cunt," he said. "You evil cunt."

I shook my head as he stood, and pulled up his trousers, and fastened them.

"You're wondering how I knew what you were up to? Simple. Your bra was warm."

What on earth was Edward talking about? If only he'd take off this gag, we could have a proper conversation.

"Still trying to play dumb?"

That was hardly fair. I had no choice. I gave another, "Mmmm," just to make the point.

"Well, let me tell you how I found Lucy out. Last September, Elizabeth hosted a ladies bridge evening at our house. I made myself scarce for most of the time, but I did pop into the kitchen to make myself a coffee, and that's when I overheard the conversation through the serving hatch. They were talking about Lucy, so I kept quiet and listened in.

"Sally was there, from the Smugglers," he continued. "She was telling everyone how Lucy had breasts that were inflated with water to make them so enormous. And her hips and bum were the same. 'What a laugh,' Sally was saying, 'even her pussy is false and none of the men have a clue.'"

Edward's face revealed unimaginable rage. Right from my first night in Seacombe, I had considered that blokes would get pretty pissed off when they discovered the truth about Lucy's tits, but I'd never realised just how pissed off they might get.

"That's when the truth hit me," Edward continued. "I'd been diligently searching Lucy every time she came back aboard, when all she had to do was dissolve the drugs into hot water, and pump it into her inflatable breasts and arse. She'd taken me for sucker alright, but she didn't know who she'd taken on."

Edward's face softened temporarily. "You see, three years ago, our son got hooked on heroin and eventually, he died from an overdose." The look on Edward's face hardened again. "And I'd been helping Lucy smuggle the shit into the country."

He shrugged. "That's why she and her no good boyfriend had to die."

Gulp! This was a confession that, in my rather precarious position, I didn't particularly want to hear. But obviously, there was nothing I could say to dissuade him. There was nothing I could say, full stop.

"I had these friends from my army days - long time back. Oh, I was an officer, and they were only privates, but they owed me a favour; a big favour. I'd saved their miserable lives in the Falklands. I knew they'd gone bad ways since, so I went to Bournemouth and offered them five thousand pounds each to kill Lucy and Jason."

Gulp!

"They already knew Jason from when he'd lived in Bournemouth, and they'd had a few arguments with him then, so they were more than willing to do me a favour. Since Jason had got Lucy into the filthy business, I told them to make it a slow and painful death.

"On the other hand, I couldn't be as hard on Lucy. I told them to kill her quickly. It was probably an act of humanity on their part to give her a last request - knowing what she was like, there was only one thing she'd want."

He looked down at me, dispassionately. "And you come back on board my boat trying exactly the same trick, with your tits full of hot water mixed with drugs. You must think I'm absolutely stupid."

I vigorously shook my head from side to side. He had to understand I'd washed the stuff into the sea.

Instead, he shook his head, rather sadly. "I'm afraid you're going for a little swim - with a length of anchor chain around your feet."

Oh shit! Someone help me.

"I don't think so."

We were both taken by surprise at the voice behind Edward. He swivelled around but I could already see the young woman standing there wearing my dark-blue beach dress - how had she got that out of the bag without me noticing?

"Lucy," Edward gasped, but I guess I already knew that.

She was a slim woman without her Bustlet and Hiplet - with a pretty face and short blonde hair which had always been concealed from the people of Seacombe by her dark-brown wig.

At first sight, it was impossible to understand why so many people had confused her with me, but then she had that certain look in her eye, and that way of standing which I realised I had been sub-consciously mimicking, even though I had never met her! I found her whole appearance so incredibly attractive that it was also easy to see why countless men had enjoyed fucking her.

She took a step toward him, and he a step back.

"What do you want?" he said.

"Retribution," she said, and took another step towards him, and another and another. And with each step forward, he took a step back, until he was edging out of the saloon onto the rear deck.

Still they shuffled along until they were right at the stern of the boat. As the boat ploughed through the next wave with a judder, Lucy pushed at Edward with both hands, and her hands and arms simply went straight through his chest! The look of fear on Edward's face turned into absolute terror, and he lurched backward over the stern and disappeared from sight. There was an audible clunk, presumably as his head crashed onto the bathing platform below, and then silence - apart from all the other crashing that was the norm for a motor boat travelling at speed in a choppy sea.

Lucy came back inside and stepped over to me.

"Well, you took your time getting the confession," she said, ripping off the tape from my mouth. "Still, I'm glad you did. Even in the afterlife, I'd never been able to work out why Ed and Barry killed us - and you can't go on to the other place until the reason for your own death has been resolved. That's why I had to work so hard on you to take over my role."

"You mean you've been directing me - you made me dress up in your clothes?" I was gob-smacked. One simply could not have these kinds of conversations with a ghost. I must be hallucinating.

She smiled at me. "I couldn't MAKE you or anyone else do anything. Let's just say I exposed your latent desire, and when that was combined with your scientific craving for knowledge, it turned you into a passable detective. I'm afraid I also encouraged those drunken slobs to nick your car so you were stranded without your clothes."

She shrugged in an innocent way, and with such honesty, I could instantly see why everyone she had met had fallen in love with her.

She nodded down at my bag, where the thick wad of money could be seen through the transparent sides. "I see you've taken my money."

"It seemed a shame to waste it." Why was I justifying myself to a figment of my own imagination?

"Of course," she said with a shrug. "I can't take it with me, and you can have it as a reward for services rendered."

"But..."

"Why did I smuggle drugs?"

She accurately forecast my unasked question, but since she was in my imagination, that shouldn't have been a surprise.

I nodded.

She smiled. "You know, I think I really must have the devil inside me," she said. "I was always wicked, and drug smuggling was exciting, it was fun, and it made us a lot of money - for a short time. Jason was just a small-time villain - he hadn't got the brains to work everything out, or the guts to put it into action. But he had a lot of contacts, and I thought that if we did get caught, he could conveniently take the blame.

"He was also incredibly good at sex," she continued. "So when we moved to Seacombe, I really enjoyed playing the innocent wife, and portraying Jason as the evil husband. I didn't expect it all to end quite so soon, but still that's life - and death."

She gave me an angelic smile. It was easy to see why she'd fooled everyone into believing her an innocent. "Enjoy yourself," she said.

Then she quite simply disappeared. The dress she was wearing floated down to the floor, as though she had never been wearing it, and I was alone in a boat full of contraband, charging across the English Channel, having lost its owner overboard, with my hands handcuffed behind me, and having just witnessed a ghost disappear.

***

You can probably understand that afterwards I had a great deal of trouble trying to rationalise what happened on the Bolshoi that evening with any kind of scientific explanation. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that when I'd slit open the plastic bags in the surf, I had probably ingested sufficient of the contents to cause me to hallucinate.

Edward, of course, must have accidentally fallen overboard in the process of trying to throw me into the sea, and my imagination had built the dream around that, just as all my dreams since arriving in Seacombe had been constructed around other bits of information I'd picked up.

If Lucy and Jason had been using their cottage as a laboratory to extract the drug from the solution, then her clothes might well have been covered in a fine layer of dust, and I could have been inhaling it, right from that very first night that I'd worn them. Which could explain all of my vivid dreams.

Well, that's to say that the logical side of my mind concluded that was the explanation. My irrational side decided that there were more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of, even by my mind.

***

I guess that after Edward 'fell' overboard, I should have done something about rescuing him. Afterwards, I noticed there was a 'Man Overboard' button on the GPS autopilot that would presumably automatically bring the boat back to the exact spot where the button had been pushed. But in the dark, it would have still been almost impossible to find him.

And what if I had? With my hands handcuffed behind me, I could hardly have got him on board if he'd been unconscious. And if he'd been conscious, I would never have let him back on board, to give him another chance at murdering me.

Apart from the practicalities, one develops a certain hardness about someone who has tried to murder you. If I had found him swimming around in front of the boat, I'd probably have opened the throttle and run him down, rather than trying to save him.

But that's the kind of feeling one can never openly admit, so I had all kinds of excuses ready as the boat approached Seacombe. Fortunately, I'd found some bolt cutters in Edward's extensive tool kit, and eventually managed to remove the handcuffs without also removing any of my fingers. After that, I found some nylon gloves and spent some time cleaning every surface that my fingers might have touched whilst on board, for I hoped not to argue such philosophical issues with the local police force.

Thanks to the GPS autopilot, it all worked perfectly. It was around five am and still dark, but the autopilot cut speed as we headed into the river at Seacombe, it negotiated all the turns in the river up to the Smugglers Inn, and then did a neat U turn to halt directly next to the buoy where Bolshoi was normally moored. Once there, it adjusted engine speed so it kept precisely on station in the slight current as the tide slackened.

I was all set, with my Bustlet and Hiplet filled with hot water, ready to slip into the river and swim back to shore. Once there, I slipped on my dress and shoes, and walked up the hill to my cottage. My home.

***

The next day I learnt that Elizabeth had been waiting in the car at the Smugglers for the Bolshoi to arrive. When Edward failed to appear on deck to moor the boat, she had woken Sam who, in turn, had got hold of ferryman Jack, and they'd gone over to the Bolshoi to find her deserted.

Fortunately, they'd had the presence of mind to bring the Bolshoi back to the wharf by the inn, where they'd unloaded her contraband cargo and hidden it, before calling the coastguard, and reporting Edward missing.

Edward's body eventually turned up, several days later, and a lot further up the Channel, and the police were apparently satisfied that he'd accidentally fallen off the Bolshoi after suffering a massive heart attack. Case closed.

***

Incidentally, my stolen car was discovered in Bournemouth shortly after they recovered Edward's body. Fortunately, it was still in reasonable shape, so of course, I'd had to go all the way there to collect it. However, I took the opportunity to do a bit of shopping whilst I was there, and also send a few post cards and a letter, since there was no post box near to the cottage or the Smugglers.

As for me, I'm continuing to stay on in Seacombe, and still working lunchtimes at the Smugglers, and really enjoying myself. You see, as I previously mentioned, when Edward raped me, I could feel his prick inside the false vagina on my Hiplet.

I re-read the instruction manual, and it appeared there was a facility called Sensotouch built into both the Bustlet and the Hiplet. The skin had a touch-sensitive membrane, similar to that used on a computer screen, and the signals from that were amplified and then applied, by means of tiny electrodes against my own skin. What's more, the sensitivity could be adjusted by a remote control.

Up until that time, the sensitivity had been set to Level One. However, when I located the remote control and increased the sensitivity, I started getting feelings that were remarkably intense! A stroke of my breast would have me gasping; a finger slipped into my vagina would bring me to a shattering orgasm within a few minutes. No wonder Lucy had had such fun!

So I guess it was only natural that after I'd played with myself for a while, that I wanted to experiment with other people, and see what different kind of pleasures they could give me. All I can say is that being a barmaid at the Smugglers was a wonderful opportunity, both for the customers and me.

***

Oh, one last thing to say is that, a couple of weeks after Edward's death, two guys named Ed Little and Barry Tool from Bournemouth were charged with the murder, rape and torture of Lucy and Jason.

The pair protested complete innocence. However, during the subsequent trial, it was revealed that the police had found a condom floating in the toilet bowl in the cottage on the night of the murder; traces of recently coughed phlegm had also been found on the floor. DNA testing proved the pair of them had been there that night, and their subsequent conviction rested on that evidence.

Apparently, they had only been apprehended because of an anonymous letter posted in their home town. Although the police were never able to trace the sender, it was presumed to have been sent by someone they knew, to whom they had let slip their guilty secret. Fortunately, no one ever connected the letter with my visit to Bournemouth, the day before it was received!

So, the moral of the story is that when you can no longer trust in science, then trust your instincts. Oh, and also there's no such thing as an unsuitable job for a man!