As he recuperates, he begins to find out things about himself that he never considered, some of which are not so easy to take...
This story is complete however, I would like to warn you that The Sight and the following part Second Sight are in the process of being rewritten. This is because when I tried to continue Second Sight, I couldn't remember what was going on and what had happened before. So I ended up rereading the whole lot and like the idiot I am, I also started noodling; fiddling with the existing chapters and before I knew where I was, I had changed them both to such a degree that it would no longer have been possible to update each individual episode ... we were looking at replacing everything from one end to the other.
I wanted to take these older versions down or unpub them, but it was suggested that both should be left up side-by-side. So be aware, the story is incomplete, but will be just as soon as I can finish the new version.
This will be posted chapter by chapter at regular intervals until the whole novel has been uploaded to this site, at which point it will be published for Kindle. However, nothing of the new version will be published or posted until such time as it is complete and I've stopped picking at it.
Just thought you'd like to know.
© Nick B 2008
Marvellously edited by Gabi
Chapter 1
“Where am I?” asked sixteen year-old Darryl Groves. He felt as if he’d just wakened from a particularly bad night’s sleep, aching and stiff. He was surprised to see his uncle, Paul and his mum, Gemma peering at him and he appeared to be in bed. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean, what are we doing here? We’ve been talking to you for the last half hour,” said Gemma who turned away, muttering something about “stupid bloody motorbikes” and “taking the piss”.
“It’s alright, Gemma. He’s had a concussion and possibly more, it does strange things. I’ll stay with him until the doctors have been round.”
“Bloody motorbikes,” said Gemma again. “I’m sorry, Darryl, I’m going to have to go get ready for work,” Then, with no more than a swift peck on Darryl’s cheek, she marched straight out of the hospital ward.
“What happened, Paul?”
“You came off the bike. Richard was watching you as you jumped off the top of that mound. He said it was quite spectacular.
Darryl smiled ruefully. “Is the bike okay?”
“I think so. Nothing major broken or bent–unlike you. The equalisation tube from the air forks came adrift is about all. When we found you I thought you were dying. There appeared to be green gunk oozing from your stomach and blood coming from a gash in your left leg. I think your right leg broke when you and the bike hit the deck. Anyway, it’s nothing that won’t mend. We’ll know more when the doctors have been round. How’s your eye?”
“It doesn’t feel bad, but I can’t open it, so I don’t know.”
“It’ll be fine, I’m sure.”
“Sorry about the bike.”
“It’s only a tube and some oil. It’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“What about the gunk?”
Paul laughed uncomfortably. “Fork oil; it was dripping from the headstock. Boy was I relieved when I realised.”
“I don’t remember anything. The only thing I can remember is tootling around and then a couple of moments ago. Everything else–” Darryl tried to raise his hands and shrug, but the bruising to his shoulder prevented it.
The doctor came soon after and a nurse shooed Paul away to the waiting area. “We’ll call you when the doctor’s finished,” she said and drew the curtains around Darryl’s bed.
Paul went to the waiting area and sat down with a cup of coffee, wondering whether letting Darryl ride his bike was such a good idea.
He had played down Darryl’s injuries somewhat. The gash in his upper, inner thigh was nasty, bleeding quite profusely at the scene, but because of his jeans, it wasn’t obvious how far up or down his leg it went, what was actually damaged or how badly. It wasn’t known at this early stage whether his eye was damaged permanently.
The concussion was another consideration. Sometimes it can mask what damage has been caused inside, out of sight, although it didn’t appear as though Darryl had anything to worry about there. He was chipper and chatting away although his eye–the one that wasn’t damaged, was unfocussed, but he did seem to know who he was talking to and that was always a positive sign. Gemma was probably just worried for her son. Paul knew he was.
The nurse eventually returned with the doctor and met with Paul.
“You’re young Mr. Groves’–” asked the doctor.
“Uncle.”
“Right, right, yes of course. I’m afraid it’s worse than we thought. We’re prepping him for surgery and we’ll have to take it from there, but the injury he sustained to his left inner thigh is quite a nasty affair.”
“It’s serious then?”
“Certainly. I think you got him here just in time. As to just how much damage has been caused won’t be apparent until after we’ve cleaned him up properly and had a better look, but it looks as though the damage goes right into the groin. It looks as though we’re going to have to operate and see if we can get it all back to normal.”
“He will be alright won’t he?”
“Oh of that I’m sure. There will be some things he will have to get used to for a while at least, but he should be fine. Now we’ve had a chance to look, we can better see the most of the damage. If he’s lucky, he’ll be up and about in a couple of weeks–with a plaster cast and bandages of course.”
“If he’s not?”
“Let’s try not to think about that shall we?”
Paul went to the public phone in the foyer before heading out to the car park.
“Gemma… Paul… Yes he’s fine… They’re taking him into surgery… No, no, no. He just damaged his leg more than they thought… I don’t know, they didn’t say. I’m sorry–” Paul replaced the receiver, in no doubt as to whom Gemma was blaming for this, but accidents happen.
“Nurse?” he called. The nurse arrived after a couple more calls. “I need to go, um to the toilet.”
“What sort?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you need a bed-pan?”
“I just need to pee,” he said, frustrated at the fact that something so simple could be so hard to achieve.
“Then pee. There’s a catheter inserted,” she said after checking his chart. “Call if you need to do anything else.”
A catheter? What the hell had happened? Just the thought of something being shoved where he thought it had been shoved, brought tears to his eyes.
It was with no small measure of discomfort that he let his bladder empty. The pain down there was quite severe and though he was afraid of what he might find, he reached down, touching the area round his groin gingerly, meeting nothing but surgical tape and dressings around a smallish tube that stuck out from between his legs.
Oh Jesus… he thought, snatching his hand back and trembling noticeably.
It felt as though someone had driven the Queen Mary up there. He could feel it when he peed–-right deep inside. Curiously or frighteningly, he could feel nothing outside and that’s what set his mind racing.
There had been no visitors and about the only thing that alerted him to the time of day, was the fact at one point, dinner was served, although either “dinner” or “served” should be taken as very loose terms indeed. In the meantime, he noticed a strange sound, just too far away to be recognisable, occasionally, catching his attention and causing him great pain as he twisted to try and see where it was coming from.
Sleep came with difficulty. Perhaps if that humming in his ears would stop, it would have been easier; plus he had so many things on his mind. His groin and one leg were bandaged while the other leg was plastered from his toes to his thigh to name but two.
His eye was puffy though it was working, which was one thing less to worry about, but, having all this time with nothing to do, made his mind think of the strangest things.
He drifted off to sleep, though it was riddled with what could have been dreams or perhaps memories. Maybe they were just odd visions.
It was a few years ago, or that was the way it seemed. He was leafing through the mail order catalogue on the way to see a picture of the bike his mum had ordered for him to go to and from school on–ostensibly anyway. The fact that he would get to use it for fun too, was just a bonus.
He had his heart set on one particular model and because it saved money–i.e., negated bus fares, his mum relented and from the day she ordered it until the day it arrived, he pored over the catalogue to look at his newest and most prized possession–to be.
On this particular occasion, the book opened at the clothing section or more precisely, the girl’s clothes and he found himself looking at a picture of one girl in something he could only describe as amazing. The image was so strong, it even woke him and he opened his eye to see the ward subdued and quiet. Meanwhile, that vision burned into him like a red-hot poker.
He remembered the time he first saw it. Apart from the fact that she was pretty, the deep red leotard she was wearing outlined every bump, curve and valley on her body. It wasn’t revealing, just form-hugging and showed off her maturing body beautifully. Something inside him wished he could wear something like that; it looked so silky-smooth and before he knew it, his brain was imagining him running his hands over his body, feeling the satin surface of the garment as it clung tightly to every inch it covered.
To say he was stunned at his own head coming up with something like that was at the time–well, frankly hideous and no less in retrospect, but could he get that thought from his mind? Not a chance. He remembered how it haunted him for several days afterwards and during that time he didn’t know what to do. Why had it come back to him now?
Perhaps it was the fear of having lost part of him and to a maturing adolescent boy–a very important part of him. Despite trying not to, for fear of seeing more upsetting images, he couldn’t help himself dozing off again
They were perfect. They were platforms, which were the style everyone was breaking their ankles with at the time (usually after tripping over the horrendously wide flares everyone was wearing too); black, which meant they would fit with the uniform for school and best of all, they were platforms.
“Did I mention they had platform soles mum? Real trendy.”
Gemma wasn’t convinced. “I’ll see…” she said.
Wait until I tell Dawn at school… he thought as he scampered off to the bedroom, she had a pair just like them.
Again, he was awake.
Did I actually ask mum to buy me shoes that looked like Dawn’s? he asked himself.
The memory came back in dribs and drabs and he remembered how much trouble he got into when he announced, pleased as punch that his shoes looked like Dawn’s. Fact was, he didn’t get them. He told him mum which one’s they were so that she could order them, but she took one look and said “I’m not buying you those,” and that was all there was to it.
They had been in the men’s section, but they were almost identical to the one’s Dawn wore and that set a whole ball rolling that he never anticipated.
The term queer–-or any other terms synonymous with it–were applied in fairly liberal quantities when references were made to Darryl and if he ever answered back, then it was usually either a dunking into the lavatory or a sound pasting.
“Why am I seeing these?” he asked aloud to no-one in particular.
He tried desperately to stay awake; the thought of sleeping and being embarrassed by any more of his childhood faux-pas, was too much to contemplate and was that humming getting louder?
All comments and votes gratefully received...
© Nick B 2008
Wonderfully edited by Gabi
Darryl's stay in hospital continues and so does his worry about "the operation"...
Chapter 2
The next morning–day three–the murmur or hum in his ears had become noticeably louder. Just on the edges, was what sounded like chatter, but nothing discernible and before he had had a chance to try and fathom what it was, the nurse came to give him his medication.
Darryl was almost overcome by a wave of emotion that felt like worry. He looked at the young auxiliary nurse as she handed him a small beaker with three pills in the bottom. She looked fine, happy even, with a chirpy and bubbly nature. From the outside, no one would ever have suspected she had things on her mind.
He didn’t know how he knew, but he did know that she was the source of those feelings of worry and he wondered what could be on her mind to cause it or how on earth she managed to hide it so well. As she walked away, Darryl could feel the emotional wave receding with every step she took.
What the hell? he wondered. Would he get similar feelings from everyone that walked past or came to see him?
As if in direct answer, a woman was being escorted by the sister from the ward. There was no disguising how she felt. She was crying loudly as–with an arm about her shoulder–the sister took her across the polished linoleum tiled floor towards the doors.
Darryl was not prepared for the tsunami-like rush of despair that washed over, through and around him; so much so, that it was much later that he finally opened his good eye and stared around the ward.
The weeping woman was gone and so too was the feeling of despair, but without a watch or a clock that he could see, there was no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious.
“Holy–!” he exclaimed. “What the hell was that?”
“Are you alright Mr. Groves?” asked the sister.
He so wanted to say, “Aside from my balls being left on a gorse bush somewhere off the A23? Fine.” But no–it did make him snort a bit before getting out what he knew he could get away with.
“Er, fine. A bit of pain from the gash in my left leg, my right leg itches like crazy and I can’t see squat through my left eye, but apart from that, super, thank you,” he said finishing off with a huge cheesy grin. The sister rolled her eyes and shook her head as she wandered off.
As if being able to feel the emotions of others wasn’t unexpected enough, that last blast was a real kick in the teeth. He felt drained, both physically and mentally, but it did take his mind off the possibility of having been given the “snip and tuck” treatment. However it wasn’t long before it was back at the forefront of his mind, gnawing at him like a dog on a tasty bone.
Would being a girl really be so bad?
Propped up against the pillows, Darryl thought about his younger days (ironic at the tender age of sixteen). His almost overwhelming desire to wear what all the pop stars of the time were wearing and how this would not have gone down well in the provincial school he attended played on his mind. The shoes he wanted were a prime example.
The idea of a boy wearing something glittery or having boots or shoes with stacked heels; wearing his hair long or anything remotely ‘girly’ was likely to incite a riot, despite there being any number who were avidly listening to Roxy Music, David Bowie, Mud, Sweet, Slade, Kiss, T-Rex or any others in a long list of glam-rockers, but it wasn’t just that was it?
No it wasn’t.
He had found himself at school looking with envy at the way the girls could adapt their uniforms to incorporate other elements, such as longer pencil skirts, pleated skirts, circle skirts, ‘A’-line skirts; with tights, without tights, sheer tights, woolly tights, coloured tights; silky blouses, cotton blouses, cardigans or jumpers and that was apart from the fun they could have with underwear–a subject, about which Darryl knew precious little, other than what he had gleaned from his infrequent peeks at said items in his mother’s mail order catalogue.
He, on the other hand–as with all the boys–was stuck wearing the same old stuff day in, day out. Well not the same stuff necessarily, but certainly the same style; the trousers, shirt and shoes. Not exactly exciting.
It was odd; like the dawning of realisation.
He had what he termed as an unhealthy desire to be more like the girls and little interest in trying to fit with the boys. To him, they were just a necessary evil; something to tolerate until he could decide for himself…
The fact was he knew that school uniforms weren’t there to be exciting, but dress code aside, the girls seemed to have the better deal. They seemed much less prone to fighting, were generally a much better package visually (in most cases anyway) and from what he’d seen his mum go through, there were obviously bits that didn’t appeal, but not half as many as didn’t appeal about being a boy.
It didn’t help either that Gemma–a budding dressmaker–would often enlist his help when pinning the hem of a dress or skirt and he would stand upon the kitchen table, twirling slowly as pins were inserted into the fabric to mark the position of the hemline.
He tried to keep his thoughts to himself about how he felt when posing in his mother’s latest creation. The feel of the light, silken material as it swished like a soft breeze against his legs, or how the bodice enveloped his smooth, hairless skin sending tingles up and down his spine.
The killer was when she made a fairly tight-fitting skirt for her friend and he had to wear a pair of her panties as his own briefs were “far too lumpy”. This he did–after some protestation, although in truth he couldn’t wait–and upon slipping into said skirt, he was told almost immediately to “tuck yourself back. We can’t have that showing now, can we?”
After a little confusion, he had tucked his willy out of the way between his legs before pulling the panties firmly into place, followed by the skirt.
“See, nice and flat,” said Gemma.
The whole experience was one he will probably never forget. Seeing himself in the mirror, flat stomach and on down to the groin, just like the girls at school. Consequently, this had a profound effect on Darryl and whilst the feeling of wanting to be more girly waxed and waned, or at least didn’t dominate every waking hour of every day, one glance at that memory and it all flooded back.
So would being female be so bad?
He couldn’t answer that. He felt like a baby being taught how to swim by being chucked in a swimming pool, where the idea was to sink or swim. Nine times out of ten, the baby will float to the surface and splash along at its own rate, perfectly safe. Was this the same?
Hardly, but he did feel as if he was being dropped in the deep end and the thought of suddenly having to change his ways because of a stupid accident was not inspiring confidence. Having posed in a skirt or stood in a dress for a matter of a few minutes, did not constitute being a girl, however much he may have liked the experience.
“We know you’ve had sixteen years of being a male, but now we want you to forget that and do this now…”
Swimming never seemed so hard once you got the hang of it, but this wasn’t swimming, was it? No, this wasn’t even doggy paddle.
It was insidious; worming its way in from the edges of his consciousness, sometimes overshadowing sounds he needed to hear. What few conversations he had had with staff were difficult as many of those staff members were overworked, tired and stressed, which sent their emotional levels higher than he was comfortable with, and some were experiencing their ‘pre-monthlies’ which just made the whole thing a complete nightmare.
It was like an industrial air conditioning unit which makes you jump out of your skin when it fires up and annoys the hell out of you until eventually you get used to it, at which point, it shuts off and you get the feeling you’ve just gone deaf.
Would he get used to it or would it go away?
“How are you doing? The ward sister says you’re making good progress,” said his mum.
“I’m okay I suppose. It’s so boring.”
As clear as day, his mum’s thoughts rang in his head–you should try doing the job I do all day…
“I wish I HAD a job to do,” he said without thinking.
“Pardon?”
“Well, you know–all I do here is sit or sleep; there’s nothing much else to it. I can’t get up or go to the bathroom, although the sponge baths are rather nice…”
“You should have thought of that before you threw yourself off of that bloody motorbike, shouldn’t you? What is it with kids of your age and those infernal death traps?”
“It wasn’t like that. D’you think I did it on purpose?”
“No, no, of course I don’t,” she said, but was in two minds about that–and Darryl knew it. “But I do think Paul should have shown better sense.”
Paul just sat there quietly. He knew better than to argue. It was his bike and his fault that Darryl had got himself into this mess. Darryl meanwhile saw this as a warning signal and knew what to do about it.
“It WASN’T Paul’s fault this happened. He didn’t make me ride his bike. If anything, I made HIM let me ride it, okay? I’m sorry all this happened and I’m sorry I broke his bike, but it was MY fault–MINE!” he said, feeling redness creeping up his face from his neck to his brow and with that, he started to cry.
Tears streaked down his face and whilst he couldn’t look directly at his mum, he could see out of the corner of his eye that she was calming down, though occasionally threw black looks and Paddington-hard stares in Paul’s direction.
“For God’s sake stop that snivelling. D’you want everyone to think you’re a girl?” Gemma asked, coldly.
That was enough for Darryl, his emotional bank was already way overdrawn and a fresh flood of tears began.
“Still,” said Gemma, changing the subject and arranging her handbag on her lap whilst looking decidedly uncomfortable with her son’s outbursts in front of all the people on the ward, none of whom–in reality–were paying any attention. “If you continue making improvements like you are it won’t be long before you’ll be home again.”
“How long?”
“A day or two? Three at most?”
“Um, that’s great,” he said without any real excitement, but quite a few sniffles.
“You don’t sound too pleased.”
He wasn’t. The thought of being all on his own all day without being able to get about wasn’t as stunningly exciting as he had hoped. That was without even bringing the “surgery” into the equation.
Surely the doctors would have said something about what they were going to do wouldn’t they?
Maybe they did, just not to him. They did tell him they were going to perform a small operation. Did cutting off his manhood constitute a small operation then?
It just didn’t bear thinking about.
“I’m fine, mum. Happy to hear it, but I just don’t know if I’m going to be healed by then.”
“You’re not here to get healed all the way, just well enough to go home.”
Was it just the fact that he knew his mum so well, knowing that–all too often, her mouth was saying one thing but she meant another? This time, he could tell that she was afraid of not being able to earn the money to support them if she had to nurse him back to health. It wasn’t just the money either, it was the fact that if she had to take too much time away from work, they may well find someone else to fill her place; a place that wouldn’t be there by the time she was able to go back.
“But… I just don’t want to be a burden, mum,” he said, trying to head her fears off at the pass.
“Burden? How could you possibly be a burden? You’re my son.” He felt a bit better hearing that, but still he didn’t feel comfortable and neither did she. The tears rolled freely once again down his face and Gemma nervously fidgeted with her handbag, trying not to look directly at Darryl.
“There’s always my house,” said Paul helpfully. “You could have a bed downstairs. No awkward staircases and, with Doris at home all day, you won’t be on your own will you?”
“That’s kind of you, Paul, but we can manage,” said Gemma.
“No. I think that’s a very good idea,” said Darryl. “You don’t have to take time off work and I won’t be on my own. You can always come visit in the evenings after work.”
There was little hope of that.
In all the years that Paul had been living there, not once had she ever taken the time to ‘come visit’.
“Well, if that’s what you want…” she conceded, grudgingly.
It wasn’t really what he wanted. There was comfort to be had from being in his own bed, with his own stuff and in familiar surroundings, but somehow, as much as he loved his mum, he knew she would have greater difficulty accepting the ‘new Darryl’ that he had become.
“Well, I need to use the loo and I think we’d better make a move don’t you?” she said, clutching her handbag in front of her and looking directly at Paul.
“I guess.”
They said their goodbyes and left Darryl feeling somewhat shell-shocked. Why did she always have to be so confrontational? Why couldn’t she just accept that things happen?
He felt worse now than before they came and he had been so looking forward to it too.
Outside in the foyer things were getting heated.
“Do you have to be so cruel?” asked Paul when they were well and truly out of earshot of Darryl.
“Mind your own business, Paul. Don’t you think you have caused enough trouble, letting him ride that stupid bike?”
“He’s emotional. It’s not good to keep emotions like that bottled up.”
“Real men don’t cry.”
“Oh really? Where does it say that? Why can’t they show emotion and anyway, he’s not a man–yet.”
“No and we’ll be lucky if he makes it that far too, no thanks to you.”
“Me? What have I done?”
“Letting him ride your bike. Getting him mixed up in things he’s far too young for.”
“It’s no more than any father would do and besides, he has taken responsibility for it, which makes him more of a man than I think you realise. You want him to be a man and yet you won’t let him get there, you keep stopping him–why?”
“I think we’ve gone about as far as I want to go here, don’t you? He’s my son and my responsibility. I’ll thank you to keep out of it in future. Now I think it’s time to go.”
“Then I think you’d better go on your own. I’m angry Gemma and I don’t think it would be good for us to travel back together. I’ll get the bus if it’s all the same.”
“Suit yourself.”
Darryl’s face went from a twenty-to-four to a ten-to-two face in no time at all upon seeing Paul step through that door. His uncle looked a little sheepish and he shrugged, grinning at Darryl as he walked back to beside his nephew’s bed.
“I thought you’d gone, Paul.”
“You know how it is. People change their minds. I thought you could do with the company for the last fifteen minutes of visiting time.”
“You have no idea. Mum doesn’t exactly have a particularly good bedside manner.”
They laughed and joked for a few moments, but Paul’s face got serious.
“You’ve changed,” he said.
Oh God, he can tell. Is it that obvious? What am I going to do?
All comments and votes gratefully received.
© Nick B 2008
Excellently proofed by Gabi
Darryl starts to get to grips with his new abilities and has an unexpected meeting...
Chapter 3
Darryl went white. He knew that Paul was his uncle and his best friend, but didn’t realise what he had been through with regards to the operation and the effect it was having on him could be that obvious.
“What do you mean, I’ve changed?” he asked, trying to be as nonchalant about it as possible.
“Well, there’s just something about you that’s different.”
Apart from the fact the neither leg worked due to either bandaging or a plaster cast, various cuts, grazes, bruises and his left eye looked like he’d taken a slug from Mike Tyson, there wasn’t that much else that had visibly changed was there?
“I look a mess.”
“Nothing new there.”
“Thanks,” said Darryl dryly. “I can’t think of anything else.”
“I can’t put my finger on it either.”
They sat quietly for a few moments before Darryl said, “I know it’s not a nice thing to say, but I’m happier not to have to talk to mum. She can make things very difficult.”
“I know. Why d’you think I’m still here?”
“I did wonder. Did you two have a bit of a falling out or something?”
“Or something, yes. I don’t think we ever fell in, so we can’t very well fall out can we?”
That tickled Darryl and it was the first time he had laughed in three days.
“That’s better. I think it was your serious look, the frown. I don’t think I’ve seen you looking quite like that in all the time I’ve known you.”
Inwardly, Darryl breathed a sigh of relief. All the time he thought that Paul could see something else different, not that he simply was frowning more. Perhaps this was going to be alright after all. He could stop with Paul and Doris and try and figure this all out on his terms.
He was happier when Paul left. He had been cheered up and felt better than he had since arriving. What was also odd, was the hum that had invaded his ears, brain–whatever, was either something he had got used to or had gone away altogether. Whatever had happened, there wasn’t that jaw-jangling, teeth rattling buzz, hum or otherwise brain-numbing noise that had been such a pain over the last couple of days.
Paul had cheered Darryl up and put his mind at rest without actually saying anything. It’s funny how some people can do that and by nine that evening, Darryl was falling asleep.
It had been an exhausting day all things considered. Nurses came and went, bustling through their duties, some talking, some not and all inundating him with feelings of one sort or another. He wasn’t getting used to it inasmuch as he was becoming more prepared. After the tidal-wave of emotion that swept him out of consciousness early in the day, he made sure he readied himself although, more often than not, it caught him by surprise.
“You’ll get used to it,” said a voice.
“I don’t know that I want to,” he answered as his eyes shut firm and he drifted off.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” said one; a short, rotund woman with a kindly face.
“You have?”
“Do you not recognise us?”
“Um, no.”
“We’re your grandparents.”
“You can’t be. I know my nan and granddad and neither of you are either of them.”
“Your other grandparents,” said the woman, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.
“Oh.”
“We’ve been waiting for this and now it’s finally here.”
“It is?”
“Yes. It’s the time that our first grandchild takes up the sight.”
“What’s the sight?”
“Your birthright. Your destiny.”
“Er, I’m not with you here.”
“It goes to the first born girl. It’s been this way for generations without fail and you’re the next in a long line of those who have carried this gift in our family. I have carried it and now you will too.”
“There’s just one small problem...”
“There’s no problem; for it has been ordained and has been thus for generation after generation. It is time for thee to–” said the other, a tall thin man, whose features looked very familiar, but who was cut short by the woman.
“Don’t start with all that ‘thee-ing’ and ‘thou-ing’, Padraig, just keep it simple.”
“But it seemed appropriate, Mariella.”
“Well, it isn’t,” she said, rolling her eyes and tutting loudly. “So don’t.”
“You don’t seem to understand––” said Darryl, quickly trying to prevent what appeared to be an argument escalating.
“Oh, but we do. We’ve been waiting for this and you cannot deny your destiny,” said Mariella.
“You can’t,” agreed Padraig, unsure as to whether to shake his head in agreement of the negative or to nod in agreement with the fact that Mariella was correct. The resultant ‘nake’ or ‘shod’ served only to make Padraig giddy and confuse all three of them.
“No, you don’t understand,” said Darryl. “It’s all very nice and I really hate to break with tradition, but––” he thought for a moment, scratching his chin trying to figure a way of letting these people down gently. “I don’t think I’m the one you seek.”
“Absurd!” exclaimed the woman, her eyes flaring. “Absolute rubbish! You are our first born granddaughter, our only grandchild for that matter and this is how we know that you ARE the one.”
“Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but you’re wrong; I’m not really a girl.” He felt badly for being quite so blunt, but direct tactics were obviously the only way forward here. Darryl could see that these people believed what they believed and the only way to prevent this from going further was to be direct or as near a facsimile of direct as he could get.
The two people excused themselves and moved a few paces away into the room. There, they talked to one another, the conversation getting quite heated judging by the amount of gesticulating there was going on.
Eventually, the two figures turned to face Darryl, smoothed down their clothing and settled themselves before returning those few short paces to where they were in standing once again in front of him.
“Are you sure?” asked Mariella, scrutinising him from his feet to the top of his head.
“Quite,” replied Darryl. “Positive even.”
The two of them turned and moved away a few paces and once again, the conversation got quite intense amidst the flailing arms until Padraig advanced on Darryl.
“Look, this is all a bit ‘not as it should be’. This has never happened before. Just a minute, please,” he said and turned to go back to Mariella, who although it wasn’t easy to see, did not appear to be taking this well.
Moments later, they were standing before Darryl and it was evident from the tear-stains on Mariella’s face that she was one unhappy bunny.
“Um, can we get back to you on this?” asked Padraig.
“Of course,” replied Darryl.
“Thanks. You’ve been very understanding,” said the thin man and with that they vanished; quite literally, there they were–gone!
Darryl awoke with a start. He looked around him and could see the subdued night lighting of the ward. He could hear the occasional groan from the other patients and everything seemed to be as it should be.
“Whoa! Weird!” he muttered softly.
It was clear to him that all this worry about being turned into a girl was having a bad effect. The fact that he had suddenly developed this strange ability–whether permanent or temporary–was neither here nor there, really. He was more afraid of the trouble a change of sex would cause at school because of suddenly becoming a “freak” as he was sure he would be seen by most of them and that didn’t sit too well.
He had enough on his plate with finishing school without this sudden change of sex and whether either his friends or others at school would accept his current predicament as reason enough for becoming a girl–well, that remained to be seen.
It was with more confusion that he finally fell asleep again. Fortunately though, his dreams did not include two old folks with any more peculiar messages.
Although vision from the left one was blurry, his right one was functioning just fine and for the first time–pardon the pun, things appeared to be looking up. Without that incessant noise in his head all day, perhaps he could concentrate on getting well, on whether or not being a girl instead of a boy was as good an idea as the doctors seemed to think and how cool it was going to be spending time with Paul and Doris.
Unfortunately, his concentration upon anything was going to have to wait and the view from either eye was of a crowd of young people in white lab-coats all following one of the doctors around
“Here we have Mr. Groves. He had a nasty accident on a motorcycle and as you can see; his face seemed to take the majority of the impact upon landing. Not a wise choice to make,” said the doctor, which got a slight ripple of sniggers and giggles from the assembled students.
Darryl, though, was not impressed.
“How are we today?” he asked, flicking the pages of the chart back and replacing it back at the foot of the bed.
Darryl went straight into it.
“Well, you’re still trying to get over the fact that your wife left you and the dark-haired girl to your left wishes that she could tell her best friend how she really feels. The tall fellow to her right and just behind her is suffering from a hangover after drinking far too much in the pub last night–the Buccaneer wasn’t it? To your left, the gorgeous redhead would like to–“
“I think that’s enough. I meant how are you?”
“Well then why didn’t you say that?”
“I did.”
“No, doctor. You asked, ‘how are we today’. I assumed that you meant what you said and tried to give you as concise an answer as possible.” The assembled students actually laughed out loud, much to the distress of the doctor who immediately hurried them along to the next bed.
One of the students however was slow in moving with the rest of the crowd.
“How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I just did. Was I right?” he asked and the student blushed to the roots of her hair and nodded.
“I really don’t know what to do.”
“I would tell her. If nothing else, it will set things straight between you. I don’t know how she feels, but I don’t think she’ll be angry or disown you for it.”
“Thanks. I’ll try that. Was that true about his wife?” she asked, but Darryl didn’t know. He assumed so because it’s what his head told him, but who knows? He shrugged.
“Thanks again,” she said and hurried off to her colleagues.
He was a little shell-shocked after that. The fact that without any prompting from him, his head had supplied information, at least twenty-five percent of which was right on the button and presumably, since the male student with the hangover had had the good grace to blush, he wasn’t too far off the mark there either. It was eye opening to say the least and he wasn’t sure he wanted the responsibility of all this.
The more he thought about it, the more it grew, eating away at him.
“I shouldn’t have to think about things like this,” he muttered.
He felt dumped on; screwed into a round hole when he was anything but a round peg and once again, that frown reappeared on his face; that serious look that took him from a happy-go-lucky boy of sixteen to a serious young man who was trying to come to terms with the fact that he might now be a she, which would make him a serious young woman who, to add insult to injury, was going to be a serious young woman who could see into the minds of others.
This was turning into a few very weird days indeed.
Whenever she was around, his mum could make the atmosphere very frosty, with a canny knack of being able to alienate people for no good reason, and certainly make his life very miserable. So Paul and Darryl spent a good couple of hours just chewing the cud or shooting the breeze, whatever and thoroughly enjoying it.
“You have changed though,” said Paul suddenly.
“Good or bad.”
“Oh good; definitely good, but somehow, you look as though you’re looking right into people.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Mr. Groves?” said a voice. “I’m sorry to barge in, but I’ve been running late. I wanted to say you’re free to go home tomorrow. We have a few things we’ll need to sort out with you, but other than that, you should be out of here by lunch time.”
“That’s good news,” said Paul. “I’ll come round at about one to pick you up.”
That left Darryl with something of a problem. Sooner or later it was going to come out anyway, but how long was he going to be able to hide the fact that he was no longer the “he” they had all come to know?
He slept little that night. He tossed and turned after remembering that he had told the woman in his dreams that he really was a boy and was quite prepared to prove it.
Did that mean that he didn’t want to be a girl?
Not in so many words, but his preference was definitely leaning towards staying as he was, with what he knew and more to the point, what he was truly comfortable with.
Perhaps it was just him failing to accept the inevitable; a failure to see that the old ways were gone and the new ways were fast approaching.
Maybe.
He was more sure that his worst fears were true and he tried hard to forget what was going on while ideas for how the dialogue to explain how once he had a fairly normal male groin area which was now gone and a pretty, feminine one was now in its place.
It was difficult to say the least, with alternatives entering and leaving his head like a bunch of X-Factor hopefuls, but with little or no success and as so often happens, he had no sooner fallen asleep when he was being woken again.
“We’re going to have to remove this catheter,” said the sister, drawing the curtain around his bed. “Now it might cause a little discomfort.”
© Nick B 2008
Excellently proofed by Gabi
Meanwhile . . .
Chapter 4
Annabel worked at the local hospital as an intern, but had problems with her feelings.
As far as her family knew, she was a completely normal young woman–one they were extremely proud of–as she was now working as an intern at the county hospital, having finished her medical training. They didn’t know however that their daughter’s feelings ran to loving another woman; her friend and flat-mate, Jennifer–something they would never understand, much less condone.
It wasn’t a precipitous situation though–yet, as she hadn’t told Jennifer about her feelings; about the fact that she was in love with her.
Provided she kept quiet about it, maybe it would all go away.
That was doubtful.
Every time she saw Jennifer, her heart melted. She just wanted to run to her and hug her–feel her close. Forget about intimacy, she just wanted to tell her that she loved her; that she would do anything for her but that as far as Annabel could see, it would lose her the friendship of the only person in this God-forsaken town that actually meant anything to her.
It was a no-win situation. If she came clean with Jennifer, then she would doubtless have to come clean with her family as well–eventually–and that would really set the cat amongst the pigeons. They would tell her she was wrong, that it was wrong; filthy, disgusting, immoral or something like that, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t like that at all.
She knew her parents and they didn’t like anything that went against the grain. Gays and lesbians went against the grain in their eyes.
“Sexual deviants,” they said. “Doing it only to shock with an inherent unwillingness to be “cured” of their aberration.” To them, it wasn’t natural, which for years, frightened Annabel as she knew from quite an early age that boys did nothing for her.
“God made men and women and that’s the way it should be–a man and a woman. Not two men or two women,” they had said and it left no room for doubt in Annabel’s mind as to where they stood.
Annabel couldn’t help the way she felt though.
But what if Jennifer didn’t like the idea?
Would she lose Jennifer’s friendship?
Would Jennifer reciprocate or would it just be shrugged off–something Jennifer would laugh about with her friends?
“Ha, ha! Did you hear what Annabel told me? Eeeyewww, gross!” God, she hoped not.
What if she did try and forget about it, what then?
Would it finish with her being all screwed up–unable to move forward with her life, unable to relax and be ‘normal’–however normality was perceived in this day and age?
Any way that she looked at it, she felt that everything would come crashing down upon her like some great tidal-wave of despair sooner or later.
Then something amazing happened: while being taken on a tour round some of the wards with a doctor, one of the patients actually knew that she had all this on her mind.
Never mind how he knew. He didn’t know himself, but he got it right, hitting the nail fairly and squarely on the head and for some reason, coming from him, it didn’t sound dirty, immoral or illegal, saying it without any judgement or even condescension and for the first time since she admitted to herself that she may be that way inclined; she felt she could actually tell Jennifer what or how she felt.
It seemed like an eternity between hearing what she knew to be the truth uttered from that young man’s lips, until she could actually go home, but she counted the minutes and in between the ‘revelation’ and the end of her shift, she talked herself in and out of being honest with Jennifer countless times.
She’ll hate me… she thought and then his words would come back into her mind. “I would tell her…” and “I don’t think she’ll disown you…”
By the time her shift had ended, she was all of a dither. Checking her pockets several times, forgetting her brolly, finding her brolly and then checking her pockets and handbag another couple of times, before finally leaving the hospital and making her way back towards home–the place she shared with Jennifer.
The closer she got the more her heart raced; more excited and filled with trepidation she became, but as the rain started to fall, her need to get out of the wet overcame her fear and she walked up the steps to slide her key into the lock.
She shook her umbrella, closed the front door and looked at the staircase before her. Just two more flights of stairs stood between her, her love and discovering whether Jennifer was for or against.
She knew now that the truth would set her free; that once she had admitted to herself and to Jennifer that she felt that way and had done for some time, her demons–well some of them at least, would be vanquished.
Slipping the key into the door to the flat and turning the key, she shrugged off that feeling of impending doom, took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Jenny?”
There was no reply.
“Anyone home?”
Again, silence.
There was a light on, but it was only the light that they left on to make it look like they were home and after Annabel had checked all the rooms–though there were only five: Kitchen, Lounge, bathroom/toilet, her bedroom and finally, Jenny’s, she knew that Jenny wasn’t there.
“Where is she?” she said aloud.
All that planning, all that soul-searching would it ever come to anything?
She cringed at the thought that now at home and in that environment they both shared, the dry runs in her head she went through seemed somehow stale, bereft of any real feeling.
“Hi, Jenny. I love you.” Nah!
“Hello, Jennifer. I need to tell you something. I think I’m in love with you.” She didn’t like that one either.
“I just called to say, I love you?” Hadn’t that one been used before?
“Oh, blast!” she cried and sat down heavily on the sofa.
“Hi, Jen. Um, I don’t know how to say this, but over the months that we have shared this flat, not only have I found a real friend in you, but I think for me, it’s gone further than that. Please don’t be angry with me, but I think I’m falling for you. God knows I have tried to get that out of my mind and anything like that happening between us, but I can’t…”
That sounded pretty good. Perhaps it would work too.
Now if Jennifer would just hurry up and come home… she thought.
At least two hours passed while Annabel sat, wondering where on earth Jennifer had gone. She had never in all the time they had been sharing this flat, gone out and not told Annabel where. Even if it only amounted to shopping, there had always been a note, a phone call or she had been told to her face.
Never this.
She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she shrugged that off as she did have a habit of fearing the worst and in all probability this was just something that happened on the spur of the moment; something that just happened and happened quickly too, stopping her from leaving that all important note.
She made something to eat, though she merely picked at it and the majority went into the bin. She turned on the television and tried watching something to take her mind off of the fact that Jennifer had not returned, but couldn’t concentrate. Finally, she went and ran a bath, but even then, she left the bathroom door open in case the phone rang and she missed hearing it with the door closed.
It did not relax her and the phone did not ring.
By one the following morning, tired and worried, she went to bed.
The day at work proved arduous. At the first possible opportunity, she phoned Jennifer’s work.
“Is Jennifer there, please?” she asked.
“Haven’t seen her for the last couple of days,” said a nice sounding man on the other end of the line. “I’ll just check.”
He wasn’t gone for more than a moment, before returning to the phone and telling Annabel that she hadn’t been seen and more to the point, hadn’t phoned in either.
“This is most unusual,” said the man.
“I know. She wasn’t home last night either. I have to say, I’m worried.”
“Well, we’ll mark her down as sick for yesterday and today, but if you manage to contact her, would you ask her to ring?”
“Yes, of course.”
She put the phone down slowly, the blood draining from her face.
This was the first time since she had even known Jennifer that anything like this had happened and it had been over twenty-four hours since anyone had seen her, she wondered whether or not she should call the police. She didn’t know though, whether she was actually missing after all.
Moving down the corridors between wards, Annabel was in something of a trance, floating along the polished tiles, past offices, wards, stairways and–
Oh my goodness.
Sitting at the end of the ward was the chap who had had told her what to do just yesterday.
She walked slowly towards his bed, wondering whether or not she should even be there. Did this constitute getting too close to the patients? She didn’t think so, but the fact that she found herself there at all…
He appeared to be sleeping and was wearing a sweat-shirt although due to the bandaging and cast, was not wearing anything below. Was he getting ready to go home?
She found the ward sister.
“Would it be possible to have a quick word?”
“I don’t see why not. I should warn you though, he’s not in a good mood.”
“Why?”
“I had to remove his catheter earlier and I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me for that one. I did warn him.” The two of them laughed and Annabel made her way back across the floor to Darryl’s bed.
“Darryl?” she said softly. She looked at him and the slight fluttering of his closed eyes, told him that it was likely he was in REM state.
“Darryl?” she said again. There was no answer and she turned to leave.
“Dark; so dark and cold…”
“What?” she asked turning round quickly.
“Five of us…” he said.
“Five of who?”
“Cold… Dark… Can’t get out.”
“Darryl? Are you alright?”
“What?” asked Darryl, blinking away the light.
“You said there were five. Five what, or who?”
“Oh. I said that out loud did I?”
“You did. Are you alright?”
“I am, but I’m not sure about Jennifer, Suzie, Amanda, Natalie or Liz.”
“Jennifer? What’s wrong with Jennifer and who are those others?”
The ward sister wasn’t pleased with the sudden rise in the young intern’s voice and went over to see what was happening.
“Doctor, I appreciate you visiting the patient, but would you please keep your voice down, you’re disturbing the other patients.”
“Sorry, sister,” said Annabel, her face wet with tears.
“What’s going on here?”
Annabel did her best to explain and whilst it would have seemed that Darryl was out of his tiny, the sister was able to put two and two together thanks to the front page of one of the tabloids, which read “Four girls missing. Police to issue a statement.”
Jennifer made five.
“You have to tell the police what you know,” said Annabel, whose sentiments it seemed, were echoed by the ward sister.
“I don’t know how you know, but you really should pass this on to the police.”
Darryl was not happy about the prospect. For a start, he wanted to keep this ability quiet–though having given that doctor a subtle piece of his mind the day before, could hardly constitute keeping quiet and he didn’t think the police would believe him anyway.
On top of that of course, all he knew was that there were five girls, some of whom were in great distress, though why, he didn’t know. He also had no idea where they were or who it was that had held them captive.
What help could he possibly be?
© Nick B 2008
Most beaudaciously proofed at the drop of a hat by Gabi
Annabel gets a visit and the police get ready to make a statement . . .
Chapter 5
Annabel sat in one of the nurses’ common rooms with a cup of coffee that was rapidly going cold, having phoned the police about Jennifer’s apparent disappearance. Reading a newspaper that someone had left behind earlier didn’t make it any easier. The front page read as follows:
Daily Express
Fourth woman disappears – Police to make a statement later today
25-year old Natalie Page disappeared two days ago after going to the bakers for a lunchtime snack.Natalie’s boss, Stewart Noble said, “it was most unlike her not to be back early from lunch. I knew immediately that something was wrong.”
Natalie is the fourth woman over the last eighteen days to disappear from the area and there is speculation that they are in some way connected . . .
The lad in the ward she had been to see–or been drawn to, if that was a better way of putting it–earlier that morning, had definitely pulled something out of the hat when, the day before, he said what he had about what she wanted or needed to do.
However he did it; wherever he got the information, it was spot on and now this, she thought, studying the front page.
Did she believe him?
Should she believe him?
The fact remained that his rambling earlier may just have been just that–rambling; part of the dream. The names–well Jennifer’s name at least–could just have been coincidence, but then he had mentioned Natalie as well and to the best of Annabel’s knowledge, he hadn’t seen a newspaper.
He wouldn’t go to the police, refusing point blank to have anything to do with it and frankly as much as it hurt her to do so, she understood. There was no way that they would have taken his revelation with as much seriousness as she had and he would likely have been subjected to heartless, demeaning interrogation not to mention what would result for “wasting their time”.
For now, the fact remained that Jennifer was missing and Annabel was worried sick. Annabel’s pager beeped angrily and looking at it, she saw that there was someone in reception asking for her. Downstairs at the main entrance, even from behind, the figure of Annabel’s friend was unmistakeable.
“Sandy! What brings you here?” she asked.
“Oh, you know, I was in the area and thought I’d drop in,” Sandra said, though Annabel suspected there was something else.
“What do you want?” asked the intern, her eyebrow raised, arms folded and foot tapping.
“Oooh, you wound me,” laughed her friend and they embraced, air kissing before Annabel led her through to a waiting area. “Why would you think that just because I come to see you, I’m after something?”
“Because, dear friend, you always are!” The two of them laughed and sat at a quiet table to one side.
“So how are things with you?” asked Sandra. “It’s been ages.”
“Oh, you know; same old, same old. Overworked and underpaid as always,” said Annabel. “I have to say I’m pretty freaked out about those missing women. It’s all so close to home. Doesn’t make you feel safe does it?” She shuddered at the thought.
“Strange you should mention it. I’m going down to the police station shortly to hear what they have to say for themselves. Are you alright?”
“Well, I probably shouldn’t say,” Annabel said. “But I got pretty freaked out yesterday when some young lad told me some things about myself even I wasn’t sure of. Today, he said something about five women, Jennifer and that Natalie from the newspaper this morning, amongst others.”
“Jennifer?” asked Sandra sitting forward. “Jennifer–as in your flat mate, Jennifer?”
“Yes. She hasn’t been home the last couple of days and then this chap mentioned it earlier this morning. I wasn’t going to, but I just had to phone the police.” Annabel tried hard not to let the tears show, but they were starting to come thick and fast.
“You don’t think he has something to do with it do you?”
“No. No, definitely not. He’s been here since before she disappeared. He certainly couldn’t have known about me and––” she stopped herself, but could see Sandra had already picked up on it.
“You and Jennifer? Aren’t you the dark horse?” said Sandra putting her hand gently on her friend’s knee.
“It’s not like that…” Annabel started.
“But you wish it was?” The blush answered Sandra’s question.
“I haven’t told her,” said Annabel quietly, her eyes downcast.
“What were those other names?” said Sandra, taking a notepad and pen from her bag. “Can you remember?”
“Suzie, Amanda, Natalie, Liz and Jennifer I think were all the names.”
“That’s five now,” said Sandra, sounding very concerned.
“I know. I suggested he tell the police, but he won’t go and anyway, how can he possibly know all that? Even if he’s right, they’d never believe him.”
“Well, if it’s true that Jennifer’s one of them now, that means he’s hit two of the five names right on the button. Bit of a coincidence don’t you think? Is there any chance I can have a word?”
Annabel wasn’t sure about this, but she figured that Sandy, being a friend should be alright.
“You’ve come to ask questions, haven’t you?” he stated before either of the girl’s had even opened their mouths.
“He’s perceptive, I’ll give him that,” said Sandra. “What else can you tell us about what you said to Annabel this morning?”
“I can’t say,” replied Darryl.
“Can’t or won’t?” asked Sandra.
“Does it matter?”
“Well it might to those poor girls,” said Sandra.
Darryl seemed to think long and hard, glancing from Annabel to Sandra and back again.
“They killed Suzie Croft. The police found her about fifteen minutes ago near to Seven Dials; it was awful,” he said and the tears started afresh from his eyes. Annabel felt sick. Whatever ability he had, it was affecting him badly to even think about what was happening and if it was even partially as bad as he seemed to think, the idea of Jennifer going through the same was just too much to bear.
“What about the others?”
“I think that’s enough, Sandy. I think we should leave him be,” Annabel said quietly, putting her hand on her friends forearm to lead her away from the obviously distraught young man in the bed.
“But he knows,” Sandra argued, shaking her friends hand from her arm and turning back to the bed.
“I don’t care if he knows the Pope himself. That’s enough,” Annabel repeated, through gritted teeth, taking her friend’s arm and almost dragging her away from the crying youth.
How these people are found is something else entirely. Canvassing shelters for the homeless, favourite spots for tramps, watching railway stations, bus stations and airports is another and keeping vigilant is about all the police have for locating these people, short of sightings by members of the public.
Nowadays however, the public are loath to get involved.
Detective sergeant Ron Cummings had been given the dubious task of trying to make sense of these disappearances. Ron’s job was going to be hard enough, but he was also being asked to prepare and read a statement to the press.
“I’m not sure I should be giving this statement, sir,” Ron said to Detective Chief Inspector Rawles. “Wouldn’t it seem better coming from a more senior officer?” Ron wasn’t good at public speaking and wished to God that someone else–anyone else–would do it.
“Nonsense!” the chief inspector replied. “You’ll be fine. We have nothing firm to go on and it’s basically just an update, you know; keep those press bloodhounds off our backs. Besides, we have no proof that there is anything sinister about any of it and until we have more to go on, there’s little we can do, unless you have a crystal ball that is. Just let them know that we are treating it as suspicious, but at present don’t have anything to report.” The DCI went back to his paperwork without so much as another word–the kind of silent dismissal that left Ron in no doubt that he was the one with his head on the block.
Later that day in a specially set up room within the station, journalists had been invited to record the statement. There would be cameras, microphones and worse, questions.
Ron felt sick to his stomach.
Of course, hopes on both sides are always pinned on finding them all alive; and when the body of a young woman is discovered just an hour or so before the statement is due to be read . . .
By the time this news of this new development got back to the station, there was only twenty minutes before Ron had to go and face the press. He had already been sick twice and looked extremely green about the gills.
“You alright, Sarge?” asked one of the detective constables.
“Fine; I’m fine, thank you. I’m just not looking forward to this bloody announcement,” he replied somewhat curtly, but still managing a thin-lipped smile.
“Well, this might not make it any easier, DCI Rawles wants a word.”
“Bugger!” Ron exclaimed and went to the office.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes, come in a minute,” said Ron’s senior officer, looking at his sergeant over the top of his glasses. “I suspect you’ve heard?”
“Heard what sir?” asked Cummings.
“They found the body of a young woman.”
“Who is it?”
“That hasn’t been determined as yet, but so far, not many know about it and I would like to keep it that way. We’re certainly not going to make it known until we know who she was. Don’t want the press or public jumping to conclusions do we?”
“I understand, sir.”
“I knew you would. Good luck.”
Ron needn’t have worried. They were quite a civilised bunch who waited patiently for his arrival and he was greeted civilly–albeit through a flicker of flashes, clicks, whirring of cameras and the rustle of hand-held recording devices.
Detective Sergeant Cummings delivered exactly what was written, and no more, until the end and the questions. He was very nearly caught out by the blonde in the grey suit.
“Is it true that you discovered Suzie Croft’s body?” she asked and a murmur rippled through the assembly.
Cummings tried to appear nonchalant about her question–not an easy task, given that already he felt the flurry of questions that would undoubtedly follow the blonde’s statement. He did well because he was shocked, as Rawles had said no-one knew. This one obviously did. “I’m afraid I can’t say at this time,” he said in a measured tone and left the makeshift podium.
He was aware that he started to sweat almost immediately that last question was asked. He was sure someone would pick up on it and that led him to worry about the speech. He sat, pale-faced at his desk with a cup of iced water from the dispenser in his hand.
“Sarge?” said a voice, somewhere in the back of his mind as he wondered how that woman had known that.
“Sarge?” said the voice a bit louder.
“What?”
“DCI Rawles wants a word.”
“Shit!” muttered Ron and taking the last gulp of water and balling the paper cup, he threw it into the bin, where it rattled around the top a couple of times before landing on the floor under his desk. “Shit twice!”
“Come in,” called the DCI after Ron had knocked on his door. “Ah, Cummings.”
“Sir. You wanted to see me?” he asked tentatively.
“Yes. Close the door would you?” asked the DCI and removed his glasses, leaning forward on the desk, peering at the sergeant.
“You handled that pretty well,” said Rawles.
“Thank you, sir. It was a bit touch and go at the end though.” Ron was starting to relax. He thought he’d made a complete pig’s ear of it and was pleased that his governor hadn’t felt the same.
“Maybe, but you neither confirmed or denied any of it. I wonder; where did the “ice queen” get that information? We don’t even know name of the victim yet.”
“Well speaking personally, the team has been told to keep it to themselves and I don’t believe anyone has spoken out of turn.”
“Look into it, will you?” The DCI put his glasses back on and returned to his paperwork.
“Yes, guv,” Ron started for the door, feeling a lot less anxious than before.
“Oh and, Cummings?”
“Sir?”
“Well done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
PS
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© Nick B 2008
Most outstandingly proofed, edited and opinionated twice by Gabi
Darryl finally gets to go home . . .
Chapter 6
Darryl waited patiently for Paul, who was due to pick him up from the hospital later that day. It felt nice to be going, even though he’d only had the misfortune of spending three days in the hospital, but he really felt was long enough to come to the conclusion that he really didn’t like it there.
Of course it wasn’t his home he’d be going to, it was Doris and Paul’s and he had misgivings about that too–well, his misgivings were about Doris actually. She was a large woman, or more pointedly, tall; standing five feet eleven inches in her bare feet, with the build of an Amazon princess. This intimidated Darryl.
It wasn’t just her height; it was her whole bearing. She was strong-willed, opinionated, called a spade a spade and although he liked her, he got the distinct impression that she wasn’t overly fond of him. Despite Paul’s assurances to the contrary, he couldn’t just ‘not worry about it’.
Of course, for a sixteen-year old lad, the idea of a woman being stronger as well as several inches taller than him was disconcerting. The fact that she was also a good inch or so taller and probably stronger than Paul, was neither here nor there, it intimidated him.
He had already had an extremely unsettling experience with the young nurse he had previously spoken to about her “friend” and some woman she had brought along with her, which was something he was trying very hard to forget. It wasn’t just the image of the dead body either, there was so much more to it.
Afterwards, it brought back the feelings of the five women all huddled together in that smelly, damp, horrible place. It wasn’t a good start and now his mind was on going home with Paul, staying in Paul’s house with Paul’s wife and all the tension that brought–-it was all very wearing.
“Hello, young man,” said the ward sister brightly. “How are you feeling?”
“I just want to go home,” he replied.
“Won’t be long,” she said smiling and fussing as only nurses can; pulling him forward, plumping his pillows and sitting him back. He wanted to tell her that he was quite comfortable just as he was, but he didn’t. He wanted to tell her that it had taken him an age to get the groove in the pillows just right, but he didn’t do that either. It just made him feel more down in the dumps.
The idea of his own bed right then felt most appealing indeed, but he knew that trying to ascend those stairs into the flat he shared with his mother, would be next to impossible–-well possible, yes, but only with a block and tackle and the thought of his mum threading the rope and trying to do all the other things necessary–-now that was impossible.
The image that brought forth, made him smile as he tried to keep the thoughts and feelings of the others around him out of his head, whilst concentrating on his own worries.
Time went really slowly, past lunch and beyond. It was well into the afternoon before the ward sister returned with news of his departure.
“There has been a change of plan,” she announced.
‘Oh God, they’re not going to let me go,’ he thought.
“Doctor Jones has reservations about you going home in a car; he feels that although he’s happy for you to leave, trying to get you in or out of a vehicle that’s not best accessible for someone in your condition, would be unwise.”
‘They aren’t going to let me go home.’
“We’re going to have to get you home in an ambulance.”
He had held his breath while the sister was talking and the “whoosh” of Darryl’s lungs expelling what he’d been holding for the duration, was almost explosive. The smile that nearly split his face from ear to ear made the sister laugh out loud.
“I take it you’re looking forward to it?”
“You bet!” he said enthusiastically.
Doris however, was not happy about the impromptu change of plans. “Couldn’t you have let us know?” she asked, her face taking on a frown and her whole body, rigid. “You were lucky I was here.”
“I didn’t know until just before they came to get me. It was a last minute decision by the doctor.”
Tears welled up in Darryl’s eyes for the second time that day and he could feel that lump that was fast becoming an all-too frequent visitor in his throat.
“Are you alright?” she asked, suddenly softening.
“No, I–-I–-Oh, I don’t know,” he wailed and quick as a flash, Doris was there with a comforting hug.
This was all very disconcerting for Darryl. He’d been described as thick-skinned and the thought of getting all emotional over something that wasn’t even his fault to begin with was an alien concept.
His step-father had described emotional outbursts as ‘girly’, so as far as Darryl knew or understood, he wasn’t allowed to show emotion, let alone cry, so he didn’t–hence the thick-skinned comment, but now he had little choice and he sobbed almost uncontrollably as he had earlier when experiencing the plight of those poor girls in the grotty, smelly, damp place.
“How are you feeling?” Doris asked.
“Better, thank you. I just–-it wasn’t–-I didn’t–-” and it all started again.
He buried his face in her shoulder and with Doris rocking him gently and offering soothing words like “there, there” or “don’t you worry”, he managed after a good few minutes, to pull himself together.
“I don’t blame him. It’s a very nice place to be,” Paul replied with the grin of a Cheshire cat.
“I’m being serious, Paul,” she retorted, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder.
“Ow! I don’t think I deserved that.” He winced.
“You deserved it alright, buster, and don’t you forget it.”
Paul looked pensive for a moment. There was something different about Darryl these days, he’d noticed that. It may have been the bump on the head or the fact that Gemma didn’t seem interested in coming to see him–-or a combination of many things.
After all, Darryl was young and although very grown up in some ways, he was still young and trying to find his way. Paul could understand how something like the accident and being stuck in hospital for a few days could bring about sudden feelings of depression, after all, there was nothing worse than being all alone in a crowded room–-even if that room was a hospital Ward–-especially if that was the case. In his opinion though, Gemma could have shown a little more compassion than she had.
“I’ll go and say ‘hello’,” he said getting up.
“Yes, and mind you don’t blame him for not being there, it was the bloody hospital’s fault,” said Doris with that frown on her face again.
“Alright, alright. Keep your hair on,” Paul replied, deftly side-stepping another swipe at his arm.
He went through to what should have been a dining room, but actually used to be a workshop and now had become a bedroom–-after a lot of work.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Better now I’m out of that horrible place,” Darryl replied. “Do you know what the worst part was?”
“Go on–-”
“It’s embarrassing––”
“––Hospitals tend to be like that.”
“I thought they’d cut off, um–-” he pointed towards his nether regions and blushed furiously.
“Why on earth would you think that?”
“Because I couldn’t feel it,” he replied. “I thought that because of that and the fact they’d put in a catheter, I’d been, well–-you know–-”
“It was necessary after they did some minor work on the gash in your leg. I can see why you’d think that though,” chuckled Paul.
“It’s not funny,” Darryl replied, pouting and taking a rather limp swipe at Paul’s arm.
“Don’t you start; I already got one of those from Doris!”
Soon, Paul could see Darryl was starting to flag. His eyes were drooping and he was starting to nod off.
“Well, we’re glad to have you here,” Paul assured and squeezed Darryl’s hand, leaving him to his thoughts. “And we’re glad you’re okay.”
Darryl smiled slightly as his eyes closed and Paul closed the door.
“Hello, Darryl,” said one, though because of the light, he couldn’t make out who it was. One was tall and thin, the other, shorter and slightly rounded and while he wracked his brain to try and put his finger on where he’d seen them before, he just couldn’t place either of them.
“We’re concerned,” said the other. This time, the woman’s voice was more recognisable. The slightly foreign accent was ringing bells in his head, but the placing of where he knew these people from was tantalisingly out of reach.
“You do remember us, don’t you?” asked the tall man.
At that point, they were close enough, so Darryl could make out the faces and yes, he did remember them.
“You’re my grandparents, or so you say,” he said, perhaps a little less pleasantly than he should have.
“Hmm,” said the woman. “I can see that things are no clearer.”
“What clearer?” asked Darryl. “You think I’m a girl and I’m not. I know that for definite now.”
“Hmm,” said the woman again, looking at the man. “It looks like we have some explaining to do.”
“Morning, sleepy-head,” she said in a sing-song manner.
He forced his eyes open and sat up. “Hi. It’s the first time I’ve been allowed to sleep all night. Do you know they used to wake me up to give me a sleeping pill?”
Doris laughed and placed the tray on his lap. “Is there anything else you want? Remember though, we don’t do cooked breakfasts.”
“No, thank you, this is fine,” he replied smiling and Doris turned to leave. “And, Doris?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for doing this. I know you didn’t want to, but I really do appreciate it and I’m really sorry about yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?”
“You know–-I got a little–-er-–emotional, shall we say?”
“Oh that. Don’t worry about it and, Darryl?”
“Yes?”
“I really don’t mind you being here.”
The door closed softly behind Doris as she left the room and Darryl smiled broadly. He could smell the tea and toast and his stomach rumbled at the prospect of having some home-style breakfast, without the faux-pine odour of cleaning fluids, bed-pans or any other hospital smells that really are not conducive to getting better.
He pondered the dream of the previous night as he chomped his way through his Cornflakes and toast, wondering what it was about it that bothered him.
It was the second time he had had a dream like it and he wondered where it was coming from. There was nothing he could think of that would have prompted such a dream, as is so often the case with scary movies, but this wasn’t scary, just bothersome.
He could remember something about an explanation or some such thing, but an explanation of what was not forthcoming. He could also remember something about family, but again, it wasn’t within his grasp to put it all together.
It was a conundrum alright, but it was something that after breakfast was over, and he sat contentedly flicking through a book, he just put down to the worry about the possible loss of his manhood–which as it turned out was unfounded. He reached down and gave it a little squeeze.
It was reassuring to know that it was still there and as he heard the sound of daytime TV burbling away in the lounge next door, the little squeeze turned into something a little more–-
–-Or it should have done.
He couldn’t get any response from what would have been only too eager to become the centre of attention and try as he might, no amount of rubbing or even thinking about his giant poster of Debbie Harry lying on stage with her panties showing did any good.
‘Odd; that usually works,’ he thought and was about to try a bit harder when the door burst open.
“Hey, Darryl. You’re on the news.”
PS
All donations in the comment/vote department gratefully received as usual - and thank you for voting last time if you did!
© Nick B 2008
Gabi helped in a most awesome manner again, although I did change some things afterwards, but that was only because I forgot them first time round. Thanks Gabi
Darryl meets Detective Sergeant Cummings . . .
Chapter 7
Ron Cummings stood and took the grilling from his superior officer, quietly wishing he was anywhere but where he stood at that point in time.
Rawles threw yesterday’s Night Final edition of the local paper on the desk and it slid towards Ron. “I presume you’ve seen this.”
Ron nodded.
“And it was on the local news. I thought this was supposed to be kept under wraps–at least for the time being. Where do you think the kid got the information?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Ron replied.
“Who gave it to him?”
“The article said he got the information psychically,” Cummings said carefully.
“Balls!” Rawles snarled, practically climbing over his desk, his face reddening and the veins standing proud in his neck. “Complete and utter balls! There’s no such thing; it’s all parlour tricks. Have you looked into this boy’s story?”
“Only inasmuch as we went to the hospital and the staff there informed us that he’d been in hospital since before the fourth woman went missing. We ruled him out after that.”
“Well un-bloody-rule him then!” Rawles snapped. “Just because he wasn’t there, doesn’t mean he’s not involved. How else would he know?”
“No sir–I mean yes, sir,” Cummings mumbled.
“Well don’t just stand there. Go and do something and get my head off this blasted chopping block or you’ll be directing traffic before the day’s out.”
Ron went back to his desk, his ears still ringing. “Don’t even think about it, Harris,” Ron spat as Sergeant Harris stood by the side of Ron’s desk.
“Would I?” he asked, his tone mocking. “I was just going to say, it didn’t sound as though that went too well. We have an Ouija board if it would be of any help–” the rest of the office fell about in gales of laughter as Ron snatched up his jacket and stormed off to the sounds of people asking if there was anybody out there.
Some forty minutes later, he knocked on the door of a flat in a mews above a lock-up garage.
“Can I ‘elp you, mate?” said a grease-covered man in a boiler-suit, with something akin to an afro, who came out of the garage below the flat.
“I was looking for Darryl Groves,” Cummings said, smiling amiably.
“’E’s ‘ad an accident. Come off ‘is bike, ‘e did,” the man replied, wiping his grimy hands on an equally grimy rag.
“I know. Can you tell me where I can find him?”
“Dunno, mate. Fink ‘e’s gone t’ stay wiv ‘is uncle or summat.”
“What about his mother. Is she about?”
“Dunno. I s’pect she’s prolly at work.”
“I see,” said Cummings as the man eyed him suspiciously.
“You the filth?” the man asked. Cummings had to stifle a laugh at the irony, even though he hated the expression.
“That’s right. Detective Sergeant Cummings.” He was about to proffer his hand, but under the circumstances, thought better of it.
“I don’t know nuffin’,” the man said and turned away, closing the garage door behind him.
‘Shit!’ Ron cursed as he walked back along the uneven cobbles to his car.
The local paper lay on the front seat of his unmarked Sierra and on it was a picture of the lad in question. It was not flattering, but even so, he didn’t look all that. Certainly he didn’t look like some kind of Uri Geller or anything, but Ron’s training had given him the understanding not to judge a book by its cover.
Something didn’t ring true. If he had been involved in this sordidness, then why had he been so willing to pass on information about those he was in league with? Had they had some form of falling out and he was getting back at them perhaps?
It just didn’t add up. How could a boy who had no apparent connections with the women in question–other than that the last woman taken was the flatmate of one of the junior doctors at the hospital–know the name of the dead woman?
His boss may well have been right. Maybe he was involved, but somehow, that didn’t seem to fit. Call it intuition; call it what you like–even gut instinct–but Ron knew this lad was not involved and that it may well be true that he had dreamt the information, had a vision or whatever these people did.
Right now, it was the photo that was giving Ron grief. Where had it been taken? It looked very familiar.
Back at the station, Ron dropped his jacket on the chair at his desk and flopped into it. He just couldn’t place the scenery behind the lad. Okay, it wasn’t a very good picture to begin with, but there were elements that should have given the game away; elements that were poking at him. He knew the place, but where was it?
“Hey, Jim. Have a look at this would you?” he asked his colleague.
Jim stood looking at the picture on the front page of the Argus over Ron’s shoulder. “Oh, yeah. That’s that kid that’s supposed to be involved in the kidnapping isn’t it?”
“Don’t know about that. What’s bothering me is where this shot was taken.”
“Let’s have a look a minute.” He picked up the paper and looked at it closely. “Can I borrow this?”
“Be my guest,” Ron said, rubbing his tired face with his hands.
“Won’t be long,” Jim said as, paper in hand, he left the office.
Rawles did not look happy to see the Sergeant sat at his desk.
“What are you still doing here?” he asked as if Ron wasn’t doing what he should have been doing.
“I’m having something examined, Guv.”
“Best make sure you’re not here when I come back then,” the Chief Inspector said dismissively.
It amazed Ron to think that only the day before, he was being congratulated on a job well done and now, through no fault of his own, he was being blamed and made the fall guy for this apparent leak of information to the press.
Jim was back in no time.
“It’s a bit hard to see, but in the background there on the left, is a Post Office sign. I mean, the picture’s shit and looks like it’s been taken from a moving car or a train or something, but that’s a Post Office sign alright. Once I knew that, the rest was easy.” Jim paused, beaming, obviously for effect.
“Yes? And?”
“It’s the one behind the Cliftonville.”
“What, the pub by the station?” Ron exclaimed, jumping out of his chair.
“The very same.”
How could he have been so blind? Of course it was! He’d spent many a Saturday herding the “march of the morons” to and from the Goldstone Ground when Albion played at home. Thousands of Neanderthal football fans would troop over the footbridge and right past that very place.
“Thanks Jim,” he said, taking the paper out of Jim’s hands, grabbing his jacket and disappearing. “I owe you one.”
“You owe me more than that,” Jim replied.
He offered no explanation to begin with, but when Doris piled on the pressure, he explained about the visions of the women in the bad place and about seeing the body of Suzy Croft being dumped.
Doris was dumbfounded.
In all the time she had known Darryl, she had only ever considered him a child–and a pain in the arse at that. He always seemed to be around and Paul only encouraged him further.
But now it seemed different. She didn’t mind his being there at all. There was something about Darryl since he came out of hospital that seemed fundamentally different from the Darryl that went in. Perhaps it was the bump on the head. Whatever it was, she felt fiercely protective of him and seeing him in such distress over something like this, tugged at her emotionally.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” she asked.
“I did. I just–I mean, maybe not the right person, but it just sort of spilled out. I don’t know where it came from or how, it just did,” he said, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. “I thought I was helping–well, the junior doctor–or whatever they’re called at least. It wasn’t until she spoke to me that I realised that the two things were connected. When she came back with that other woman, the bit about Suzy Croft came out and it was awful.”
Doris could see the hurt in his eyes. This wasn’t the Darryl she knew and barely tolerated. She gave him a hug and smiled.
“It’ll be all right. When Paul gets home, maybe he’ll know what to do,” she said, brushing his fringe away from his eyes.
Even though he didn’t actually know who gave him away in the news article, he had a damned good idea and the more he thought about it, the less he wanted to keep that information to himself, though what he was supposed to do was something else entirely.
He knew that it was more than just an inkling he had about these women and he also knew that really he should have said something to someone, but what?
‘Hi, um, about those missing women … I’ve seen them.’ That would never work. He couldn’t say where or who held them. He didn’t even know what whoever held them was doing with them or why. Those were things he just couldn’t see.
If he had something more concrete, perhaps there’d be more legitimacy to going to someone in authority with what he knew, but right now, he knew no more than anyone else.
He suspected that the woman with that doctor girl had something to do with this part of things. He knew the moment he saw her to be careful about what he said in front of her and it seemed that his suspicions had been right. He had no idea that the names of those concerned weren’t public knowledge and now, not only had the information become so, but he apparently was the reason.
A tall woman answered the door. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Darryl Groves,” He replied.
“Who are you?” she asked and Ron produced his warrant card. “You’d best come in. This is about that awful stuff with those women isn’t it? How did you know he was here?”
“It was a hunch. I remembered this place from when I used to be on the beat. There were always bikes out front and the picture of Darryl in the papers showed the post office sign behind him.”
“Good observation. He’s through here.”
Cummings followed the woman into a room on the ground floor that had been made up with a bed. The young lad sat propped up with pillows, his left eye puffy in shades of purple and yellow and around the outside of the iris was heavily bloodshot.
Overall, he was of slight build and facially, taking into consideration his bruising, he was almost pretty, especially with that long wavy hair. He certainly didn’t look the sort of person who would be mixed up in something as terrible as the kidnappings he was currently investigating, but as he thought earlier, looks can be deceiving.
“This is Detective Sergeant Cummings,” Doris announced. “He wants to ask you some questions.”
Ron sat on a ladder back dining chair next to the bed. “What can you tell me about this then?” he asked, pointing to the picture in the Argus newspaper.
“I didn’t know that had been taken,” He answered, “But now I come to look at it, I know exactly when it was taken and I’m pretty sure who took it.”
“Go on,” Ron encouraged.
“I’m not absolutely positive, but I think the person who took this was the woman who came to see me with a junior doctor yesterday morning.”
“Came to see you? Why?”
“She’s a friend of the young doctor that I’d spoken to a couple of times about her friend.”
“I take it that’s Miss Carter?”
“I think she said her name was Annabel, but I don’t know.”
“That would be Annabel Carter and you’re right, she’s a junior doctor,” said Ron, writing down notes in his little booklet. “What did Annabel’s friend want?”
“She wanted to know about the missing women.”
“What do you know about them?”
“Strangely enough, before I spoke to Annabel–nothing. As soon as she mentioned her flatmate, Jennifer, I saw her with a bunch of other women in this damp, cold and unpleasant place. I could hear water dripping and felt their anxiety too.”
“You saw?” asked Ron, not sure if Darryl had his wording quite right.
“In my head.”
As soon as he said that, Ron sat up. He was so matter of fact about it, like it was normal or something, yet at the same time, he didn’t appear wholly comfortable with the idea either.
“You had a vision?”
“I guess.”
“What about the next time–when Annabel came back with the other woman?”
“I didn’t like her. She seemed pushy, not really interested in Annabel’s friend, but after the information for a different reason. Annabel looked upset and as soon as they came towards me, I knew what they wanted. Well, like I said, not Annabel so much, but the other woman wanted to know all about these women. The moment she asked, I saw someone dumping the body of Suzy Croft up near Seven Dials. It felt horrible and I really didn’t want to have seen that.”
“How did you know it was Suzy Croft?”
“I don’t know; I just did and the woman with Annabel wanted to know more, but Annabel took her away.”
“I’m having trouble getting my head round the fact that you saw all this, but weren’t there,” Ron said, looking directly at Darryl.
“You want to see it from my side,” chuckled Darryl. “You have no idea how it makes me feel. It’s like I was there.”
“I don’t know how others are going to find this though. My boss–“
“Thinks that just because I wasn’t there, it doesn’t mean I wasn’t involved–I know.”
“How did you know that?”
“The same way I knew the rest of the stuff,” Darryl said, smiling.
© Nick B 2008
Gabi has done a totally sweet job on this--as always
“A baby-sitter?” he asked, incredulous. “Go . . . Before I change my mind.”
Chapter 8
“Are you going to be alright?” Doris asked as she and Paul stood in their glad-rags in the doorway.
“No problem. Go and enjoy yourselves. For some reason I’m really tired anyway, so I’ll just read a bit and then crash I think. It’s weird, I don’t do anything, yet I’m dog tired at the end of it.” Darryl said smiling at them.
“You sure?” she asked again, giving Darryl a critical look. “I can always ring Carole.”
She was a neighbour’s daughter and about the same age, or a bit older than Darryl. Doris had offered to call her over to give him some company.
“A baby-sitter?” he asked, incredulous. “Go . . . Before I change my mind.” He flashed them a big cheesy grin and picked up his book. “Honestly, I’ll be fine.”
It wasn’t long before he was nodding off. He knew this as he seemed to be reading the same paragraph over and over and hadn’t turned a page for some time. He lay the book down on the chair by the bed, turned off the bedside light and was asleep before he knew it.
Some time later, he became aware of someone grabbing him under his arms and dragging him across a hard, rough floor. His bare heels chattered over the sharp ridges and pitted surface and he could feel the pain as it shot up his legs each time his heels found more of the protrusions.
“Come on, love, don’t make it any more difficult than it is already,” a gruff voice said, thick with a foreign accent.
He tried to struggle, but he felt almost powerless to do anything–tired or just drained he didn’t know, but he just didn’t have the energy. In addition, bindings around his wrists prevented it. He tried moving his legs into a different position to stop his heels being cut and scraped on the abrasive surface but found that that too was not possible as he just didn’t have the energy, nor it appeared would the bindings around them allow it.
It was difficult to focus his eyes. It was dark and something rough seemed to be covering them. All he could see was a kind of outline and indistinguishable shapes as they passed under faint lights.
Then they reached somewhere where he could smell salty air and feel a cool breeze as it wafted silently up and across his bare legs and arms. He could smell too the aromas of fast food being prepared nearby, the sound of a radio or cassette playing in the background.
“Let’s take one last look at you, darlin’,” the man with the accent said and removed a course piece of cloth from about his eyes, looking at him through dark eyes, his greased-back hair, shining under the sodium lights of the alley.
He turned his head and saw only twenty or so yards away, people milling about. Some carried the white bags with the red logo of some burger bar or other fast-food outlet. The frontage of a shop–a hairdresser’s perhaps, stood in the background, its glittery sign the last thing he saw before he was hauled into the back of a van, the doors closed and once again, blackness engulfed him along with such fear as he had never felt before in his relatively short life.
Gasping and sweating, his hair flattened to his head, he sat bolt upright, a twinge of sharp pain shooting up his leg from the gash that had suddenly been pulled tight. He looked about him, the dim light from the hallway filtering through the door that had been left ajar. The clock on the wall showed it to be less than an hour since Paul and Doris left.
The vision had showed him somewhere other than where he was, yet at the same time, it was so familiar. Was what he had seen something that was actually happening, about to happen, or had it already happened?
He sat for minutes that felt like hours, debating what to do. He ought to stay in bed, but at the same time, this nagging feeling told him that he shouldn’t; told him that he needed to get to the phone and call that detective fellow; to tell him what he’d seen.
The phone though, was at the far end of the lounge and it hurt enough just going to the toilet. He wasn’t supposed to do anything like that, but he couldn’t stand the thought of Paul or Doris having to deal with his waste and although difficult, he had elected to hobble out of the bedroom to the toilet next door on his own.
That compared to the distance to the phone was child’s play, but somehow, he knew that if he didn’t do something soon, another Suzie Croft was going to show up in the next day’s paper and this time he was not going to let anything like that happen if it didn’t have to.
He pulled back the covers and gingerly swung his legs to the edge of the bed. Despite the bandaging, his right leg could bend–although not far and the further he tried to bend it, the more painful and dangerous to the healing tissues it became. Nevertheless, he had got out of bed several times and this wasn’t going to be any different.
He grabbed the policeman’s business card from next to the light and pushed himself into a standing position, the majority of his weight he tried to put on his plastered leg, as that one just ached, where the other one hurt. In a series of hobbles, lurches, grunts and squeals, he made it sweating and panting, to the doorway although in considerable pain.
The next part was to negotiate the hallway. It wasn’t far, but if it had taken him minutes to make his way ten feet across the room to the door, this wasn’t likely to be any quicker.
He lurched towards the stairs and stumbled. It was only a step, but in his current state, one step was like a pigeon step, the front foot, only just past the back one and down he went, bending his right leg almost all the way under him, causing him to scream loudly. Tears stung and his breath was taken away as he grimaced and fought back the urge to go no further.
He passed on the idea of getting up again and tried instead, to pull himself along the carpet of the hallway into the lounge. His right leg hurt so much that waves of nausea threatened to envelope him. As he clawed his way along the carpet, inching his way further down the silent corridor and closer to the phone, the searing pain–almost akin to being burned, caused flashes before his eyes, already stinging from the sweat and tears.
He was whimpering as he crossed the threshold of the lounge and continued to inch his way across the floor to the phone on his stomach and elbows, clutching tightly to the policeman’s card as he did so.
Soon, the sweating, the pain and the effort will all have been worth it and he lunged at the phone lead that dangled from the window sill. It clattered down in front of him, the dialling tone buzzing at him through the ear-piece.
He tapped in the number on the card and waited as it rang and rang.
“Hello?” he said as the telephone at the other end was finally answered. He was starting to tremble; the effort, the pain and fear of being rejected by the copper all playing their part. Plus, he was still lying on his stomach and uncomfortable.
“Who’s that?” a woman asked.
“My name’s Darryl Groves. May I speak to Detective Cummings, please?”
“Are you alright? You don’t sound it.”
“Don’t worry about me. I really need to speak to him. It’s urgent,” he breathed and waited as the line went quiet.
“Cummings?” said the detective.
“It’s Darryl, sergeant. I have some information I think may be useful to you, but I don’t know how long you’ve got.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?” he asked.
“No, sergeant. I have just seen one of the women being loaded into the back of a van. I can’t tell quite where–it might come to me, but I did see some things that I think may well point you in the right direction.”
“This is another one of your “visions” isn’t it?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Look, I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but it’s gone nine and I was in the middle of my dinner. I can’t just jump up because you think you’ve seen something.”
“I can tell you that you’re no more than ten minutes from the place I saw. I think it was Waterloo Street, but I can’t be sure,” he said, breathing hard from the pain in his leg.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I stumbled trying to get to the phone is all and bent my leg. It’s hurting rather a lot, but I had to get to the phone and there’s no-one else here at the moment.”
“You don’t sound so good.”
“It’s nothing. Just please go and take a look will you?”
Darryl did his best to answer the policeman’s questions with as much information as he could remember from the dream–if indeed dream it was–and Cummings promised to go and check it out.
Darryl put the handset down on the cradle and rolled over onto his back. The pain still felt like a whole bunch of red hot needles being poked into his leg around the gash and he sat up to take a look.
The bandage was red–solid red and he had left a trail from the hallway into the lounge in trying to get to the phone. Moreover, the spot where he was currently sitting was wet with the blood that was freely flowing from his wound.
Suddenly he felt very faint at the sight and smell of all that blood and keeled over sideways.
“Can I help you–oh you’re that detective chap aren’t you?” Doris asked and then started giggling again.
“I am madam and I’ve come to see if Darryl’s alright. He didn’t sound too good on the phone earlier and once I’d been to Waterloo Street, I thought I had best check. I can’t seem to get any reply.”
“Well you wouldn’t. He can’t walk at the moment and . . . Wait a minute–did you just say he phoned you?”
“I did.”
All traces of semi-drunkenness had disappeared and both Doris and Paul seemed to have sobered up.
Their carefree and rather lackadaisical attitudes gave way to something much more urgent and Paul couldn’t open the door quickly enough. Switching on the light, they immediately noticed the trail of blood from beside the under stairs cupboard, leading into the lounge.
“Oh my God!” shouted Paul and ran into the lounge, stopping just inside the door and causing a pile-up of himself, Doris and the policeman who all bumped into one another in the doorway. “Darryl.”
All three rushed to the still figure lying on the floor, the telephone just inches away and a wide pool of blood emerging from under him.
“Quickly, phone an ambulance,” said Paul, rushing to the young man’s side and lifting one of his wrists to check for a pulse.
“How is he?” asked the policeman.
“Doesn’t look good,” said Paul. “I’m no doctor, but his pulse feels pretty weak and he’s obviously lost a lot of blood. Whatever he was phoning you for must have been bloody important.”
“As a matter of fact, sir, it was, which is another reason why I’m here.”
“You’ve found the women?”
“Sadly no, but thanks to Darryl, we do have much more now to go on. The lads are down there searching the place,” Cummings said brightly. “We may have a chance of getting those women out alive.”
“I’m glad to hear it. What’s happening with the ambulance, hon?” Paul asked Doris.
“They’ll be here as soon as they can. How is he?”
“Doesn’t look good, but I think he’ll make it–well I hope so anyway.”
“I’ll follow if you don’t mind,” Cummings said.
“Are you family?” asked the ambulance man.
“Of course, he’s my nephew,” Paul spat.
Paul climbed into the back and the driver closed the doors, before jumping in the front and with sirens wailing, they set out across Hove to the Royal Sussex County Hospital in Brighton–the nearest place with A&E facilities.
The traffic was quite light at that time of night and the paramedic* in the back was concerned over the blood loss that Darryl appeared to have suffered. Paul had to keep out of the way as he put him on a saline drip and monitored his heart-rate.
Paul could only watch and hope as the paramedic did his thing. Through the centre of Brighton they raced and just as they reached the Old Steine, Darryl started to shudder.
His face paled and as Paul looked on, the paramedic bustled about, shouting things at the driver. Paul noticed acceleration and as the paramedic continued to do things, they screeched to a halt at the entrance to the hospital and a bunch of people in uniforms came out to whisk Darryl away amidst much shouting of this that and the other–especially “stat”.
Paul was requested to wait in the waiting area as Darryl was wheeled further into the hospital with some very concerned looking people running after him down the polished corridor.
“Is he alright?” Cummings asked, his voice full of concern for the young man.
“I hope so, sergeant. I hope so.”
All comment-shaped donations, gratefully received . . . well nice ones anyway :)
* Not what they were called in those days, but it’s better than calling him an ambulance man.
© Nick B 2008
Despite being clobbered by Ang over the weekend, Gabi pulled out all the stops on this one. Thanks girly
“You mean he’s psychic or something?”
“It would seem so.”
“I shall have to watch what I’m thinking around him in future.” Gemma said wryly.
Chapter 9
Darryl could hear a lot of voices around him and could feel a lot of anxiety. None of it made any sense and all he wanted to know right then and there was whether Sergeant Cummings–and his men had managed to catch up with those poor women.
He was back in that all too familiar place; the white room. He knew who would be waiting.
“Hello. It’s been a while,” he said.
“We wanted to see how you came along,” Mariella answered by way of a greeting.
“And what do you think?”
“Not bad. You could use a little common sense though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you any idea what kind of danger you’re in right now?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“My point exactly,” said the short, dark-haired lady. “You have to learn to think. How ever well-intentioned your actions, they’re not much use if they’re going to kill you in the process are they?”
“Kill?” Darryl asked, his eyes going wide. “What do you mean, kill?”
“Your little escapade getting to the phone has opened up that wound in your leg. You lost a lot of blood and risked further damage to the tissue as well as infection. You’re lucky you didn’t lose it altogether. Looks like Paul and Doris got to you just in time.”
“Oh,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “It was an accident.”
“Listen to me, Darryl, you’re a very important part of our lives and by “our” I mean your mum, me, Padraig, Paul and Doris. You, my child, represent so many hopes, fears and expectations and with a little thought, there’s a chance that some of it at least may come to fruition. You carry on the way you are and you’re unlikely to see your next birthday.”
“But it was important,” he argued.
“It’s alright. I know and I forgive you. Just don’t make a habit of it. Never mind the mess you’ve made of Paul and Doris’s carpets, the near heart failure you gave them; imagine how they feel–how your mum must feel.”
“She doesn’t know.”
“She most certainly does,” Mariella replied hotly. “She’s been waiting with Paul in the waiting room for ages.”
“Why doesn’t she come and seem me then?” he asked, the sound of resentment in his voice.
“Because the doctors are still trying to put you back together,” she replied patiently.
“Sounds bad,” he said, looking mainly at the pristine white of the polished marble floor, but really, anywhere that escaped his grandmother’s angry gaze.
Mariella walked towards him. “You are a goose!” she said shaking her head and for the first time, hugged him tightly.
It was a confusing development.
Firstly, she hadn’t done that before. Secondly, he didn’t mind–at all, actually. In fact, it felt nice–comforting in a strange way; right in another. The third thing was how come he could sense it all? It was only a dream and yet, he could feel it, smell the soap in her hair; sense the body heat against his breasts as he reciprocated, hugging her just as tightly.
“You’re a slow developer, but they’re coming along just fine.” She smiled, looking directly at his chest and with a simple “goodbye”, she vanished.
Breasts? he wondered. I don’t have . . .
Oh but he did.
His hands flew to his chest and there beneath the simple tunic he was wearing were a pair of fledgling mounds, nothing to write home about–at least they wouldn’t be for a young girl, but he wasn’t a girl was he?
That simple pronoun “he”, signified that “he” was male, a boy, a young man, yet the protrusions on his chest started to call all of that into question. The memories of one of his previous conversations with Mariella and Padraig came back to him.
Maybe they were right after all.
God, he hoped not.
He had plenty to think about. He had admitted to himself that he was now capable of doing things that others couldn’t–at least not to the same degree or with such accuracy, but on top of that, he had now more to come to terms with . . .
His grandmother had been quite positive about his being a girl–something he had fought against and yet here he was with both hands on two small mounds that whilst weren’t every man’s dream pair, they were nonetheless–breasts.
They had all the hallmarks of breasts in their formative state. They were like small, round pancakes, each with a puffy sort of nipple. Both showed that they had every intention of getting bigger and more prominent. His nipples were actually quite sensitive too, by the looks.
He sat, his tunic pulled up while he craned his neck to take more of a look at these strange mammalian protuberances, which oddly, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes from–or his hands either, especially with the feelings they were bringing about.
Why is my body changing? he wondered. All this time, he had thought of himself as a boy and had several very salient points he thought would be proof enough of his masculinity.
Trouble was his masculinity was questionable.
It’s not that he wanted to be a girl; it was just that that was what seemed to be happening. Whether he liked it or not, it seemed that his body or brain, whatever it was that was controlling that side of things, had its own ideas.
The strange thing was, that more he thought about it, the less he found it bothered him. After all, it wasn’t like he had a choice was it?
He started hearing voices again, yet there was no-one near.
Some of them seemed to be agitated for some reason and there was an persistent, grating tone that he could hear just on the edge of everything; a constant, almost “whine”.
A flash of light hurt his eyes and the voices became more intense.
Another flash came moments later with more intensity. Darryl had to rub his eyes before things came back into focus and even in the dream room he wobbled slightly, his knees buckling. He looked around to try and fathom where the voices and that tone was coming from or what was happening, but as far as he could make out, there was no way in and no way out, what he saw was all there was.
Then something started beeping, the tone seemed to have disappeared and the voices around him seemed much mellower about whatever it was they were initially agitated about. Meanwhile, the white room started to fade . . .
“I can’t believe you went out and left him on his own,” she sniped.
“The only reason he is staying with us at all is because we are likely to be in more of the time than you are, so you have no grounds for getting shitty with us, or me in particular,” said Paul with uncharacteristic venom. “Regardless of what you might think, there is no way we could be there absolutely all of the time.”
“I wouldn’t have left him on his own,” she said petulantly, thrusting her nose in the air.
“No and I suppose someone else would have done the shopping.”
“No, I would have done that, but during the day.”
“What difference would that have made?” asked Paul. “We were only out for two hours, which is about the same time as the shopping would take. Besides, we have been there for him, which is more than I can say for you.”
Gemma almost seemed to have steam shooting from her ears at that remark and looked about to respond when a nurse came in.
“Could I ask you to keep it down, please?” she asked. Both Paul and Gemma looked shamefaced.
“Mrs. Groves?” she asked and Gemma nodded. “Your son is out of surgery. The doctors say he stable and is sleeping. I don’t think he’ll wake for some time, why don’t you go home and get some rest. Come back tomorrow. Things will look a lot better then.”
Gemma thanked the nurse then shot a daggers look at Paul who just shook his head.
Cummings returned as they were leaving and met them in the hospital entrance.
“Hello Paul,” he said and shook his hand. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s just come out of surgery and is described as stable.” Paul replied.
“I take it you’re Darryl’s mother?” he asked, turning to Gemma.
“I am. You are?”
“Detective Sergeant Ron Cummings,” he replied, cordially. “That’s a rare boy you have there.”
“Only just, from what I hear.”
“Yes, well . . .” he said somewhat awkwardly, fearing he may be stepping into some sort of family feud. “He has talent and at least he was trying to put it to good use. His information was of vital importance to us and hopefully will enable us to clear things up now.”
“Information?” she asked. “What information?”
Paul was making signals at Cummings out of Gemma’s line of sight and thankfully, the copper took the hint.
“I think I’ll let Paul explain that,” he said and turned to leave.
Standing outside in the cold night air, Gemma broke the ice.
“It looks as though I have missed quite a lot,” she said finally.
“Yes. Perhaps we should talk.”
“Do you want a lift?”
Nothing was said in the car through the half hour or so it took to get from East Brighton to Hove and when they pulled up outside Paul’s house, they could see that the lights were still on.
“I’d better let you go.”
“No Gemma. We do need to talk and if you don’t mind the mess, I think now is the best time. I know you’re busy.”
“Are you sure? It’s very late.”
“Looks as though Doris is still clearing up and I think she’ll appreciate a cuppa before I give her a hand finishing off.”
It was obvious that Gemma had no clue what Paul was on about and followed him into the house. The smell of pine scented cleaning fluid was abundant and Doris was on her knees, scrubbing at the red-stained carpet.
“What the hell–?” said Gemma, blinking.
“Ah. Yes. Darryl was pretty determined,” said Paul with a slight chuckle.
Paul had been right. Doris did want to stop for something to drink. It was nearing two in the morning and it was apparent that despite having been swabbing and scrubbing for nigh on two hours, still she could not get the congealing stain from the carpet.
“I’ve tried as hard as I can, but I still can’t get rid of the blood in here,” she said as she flopped down into a chair. Paul handed her a cup of coffee.
“That should help,” he grinned.
“Why, what are you going to be doing?”
“Helping. You don’t think I’d leave it all to you did you?”
“Damn right!” she said and laughed.
The laughter was contagious and pretty soon, despite the knowledge that they would probably have to rip out all the carpet from the hall and the lounge, they still sounded upbeat. That was something that surprised Gemma.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“What for?”
“For all this,” she said, gesturing around the wet and still stained carpets.
“Oh pah!” snorted Doris. “I can think of better things to be doing, but really in the great scheme of things, I don’t actually think it’s so bad. I’m more worried about him.”
“You are? I mean, you don’t?”
“Well no. True, he should have been more careful, but he has helped the police and I for one would rather he did that than kept it to himself, wouldn’t you?”
“How could he possibly have helped them?”
“It’s what he can do.” Doris said.
“You’re not making any sense,” said Gemma, so Doris went on to tell her just what she knew about Darryl, which wasn’t much, but it was enough to outline the fact that somehow, he had proved capable of knowing information about the women in the news and other stuff–stuff he couldn’t possibly have heard in passing.
“You mean he’s psychic or something?”
“It would seem so.”
“I shall have to watch what I’m thinking around him in future.” Gemma said wryly.
It had been a long time since she had felt so comfortable talking to someone else about family matters and had unfortunately tarred all others with the same brush as her ex-husband–Paul’s brother, who had little time for anyone other than himself and believed that her problems were her problems alone, not something she should burden anyone else with.
She had made her way to the hospital and wanted to be the first thing that Darryl saw when he came to. Further into the journey. She chuckled to herself for being so stupid. With round the clock supervision, it was unlikely in the extreme that she would be the first thing he saw.
It was as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders and she walked into the hospital with renewed vigour.
She was given directions to a different ward to that which Darryl had been in last time, as this time he was still under observation. The nurse on reception didn’t know whether he would be able to talk to her, but the doctor certainly would and she would page him while Gemma was on the way there.
The ward sister asked Gemma to wait whilst she informed the doctor that she had arrived and a tall, handsome man with a clipboard and a white lab-coat turned up minutes later.
“Mrs. Groves?” he enquired. “I’m Andrew Robertson, Darryl’s consultant. We put him in the observation ward as after his operation, we needed to keep an eye on him. It’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure, but he passed away on the table last night and we needed to defibrillate to bring him back with us.”
Gemma gasped. This wasn’t made apparent last night. “The nurse never–” she started, but he waved his hand to stop her mid sentence.
“We weren’t about to send you home worrying.” The doctor said smiling. “He was stable after all. It’s probably the trauma of the blood loss, but he pulled through. He’s a tough cookie.”
Gemma wasn’t quite so sure of things now. It brought home the fragility of life and she needed to sit down.
“I’m sorry doctor,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “I wasn’t aware of any of this. These last few hours have been a real eye-opener, I can tell you.”
“Would you like some tea or coffee?” he asked.
“Coffee would be nice. No sugar, thanks.”
Mr Robertson went off down the corridor and while he was gone, Gemma thought about this sudden influx of information about her son, none of which she had been aware of.
The doctor returned with a plastic cup full of vending coffee. “I’m sorry, it’s all there is round here,” he said, smiling.
“It’s wet and warm,” she replied smiling back.
Mr. Robertson took a pair of wire-framed glasses from his top pocket, flicked out the sides and put them on. “Is Darryl on some kind of hormone therapy?” he asked.
Gemma nearly sprayed her mouthful of coffee all over the corridor. “No. Why do you ask?” she spluttered.
“He’s nearly seventeen isn’t he?” Robertson continued, flicking through the information on the clipboard.
“Yes. He’ll be seventeen this December.”
“Good.”
“What’s this about, Doctor?”
“We probably wouldn’t have noticed had we not needed to use the defibrillator, but he’s developing breasts.”
All comments, votes etc . . . oh come on, you know the drill
© Nick B 2008
Big up to Gabi for giving this a polish . . .
“W-who a-a-are you?” he stammered, trying to back away from the girl . . .
Chapter 10
Darryl had been wrestling with a whole cartload of new things that since the accident had been dropped in his lap. There were the visions and other strange abilities he had suddenly found he had and now his physical development seemed to have taken a decidedly feminine turn.
In some respects, this “Sight” thing had both advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand, he was privy to matters that others were not, but at the same time, sometimes this information could be quite distressing. Since it first manifested itself, he had been shocked and upset by what he had been shown on more than one occasion. This was one aspect that he wouldn’t have minded not having at all. There seemed to be responsibility there that really, he would rather not have had to think about.
Then there was the fact that physically he was male and yet was starting to develop breasts, which was unnerving, yet at the same time, had an odd sort of “rightness” he wasn’t expecting. Perhaps that “rightness” was due to what his grandmother had been telling him, yet somehow, didn’t seem to be the case.
All he knew was that there was a lot happening and he didn’t know which way to jump. It turned out that his mother had been told about his unusual developmental spurt.
“It’s okay, Darryl,” she said, taking her son’s hand and patting it gently. “The doctor says they will go. It’s not uncommon for it to happen when boys of your age are growing up.”
Darryl didn’t think it was that straightforward, but then his mum didn’t know what he did.
Once she had gone, he had a chance to really think about things.
There was the fact that since his accident, he and Doris had been getting along much better. Even Paul had noticed he’d changed and that his change was for the better, though Paul couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Grandmother too was pleased with the way he was coming along, but he suspected that her delight in his progression did not have the same reasoning as Paul or Doris’s.
He thought at first that his new-found relationship with Doris was due to his abilities–his ability to know what she was thinking and was then able to avoid putting his foot in it as he had previously been known to do; however the more he thought about it, the more he realised that there had to be something else behind it.
His conclusion was mainly due to the fact that his “insights” into Doris’s mind hadn’t been that frequent and Doris’s change of heart towards him had been well, immediate, but more than that was his relationship with Anne.
She was the woman in the next bed whose visitors to whom he had spent a lot of time chatting. The initial introductions had been simply that he was Darryl, not Darryl, the young lad in the next bed. None of them–including Anne had the faintest idea that he was male and during one of the visiting times one of Anne’s friends actually referred to him as “she”.
“If I had her looks,” the woman had said and Darryl was shocked to the core. The wave of confusion that swept over him at that moment was colossal.
He didn’t want to be a girl. He didn’t want The Sight and all the responsibility that it entailed. He just wanted to go back to being plain Darryl, the boy who was just about to leave school and take up his place in the world.
That night, his grandmother “visited”. He found himself in that white room, sitting with his head in his hands as tears streamed down his face.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
“Do what?” asked his grandmother, placing her hand gently on his shoulder.
“This,” he said, standing and gesturing as if trying to encompass everything.
“You mean?”
“You know, this Sight thing, being a girl. I’m not a girl and was never meant to be one. If I were, don’t you think I would have been born that way?”
Mariella shrugged. “Some aren’t.”
Darryl stopped dead in his tracks.
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes the brain works one way and the physical works another.”
“But I am a boy,” he said, balling his fists and shaking them.
“Are you?”
“Of course. I have a willy for a start.”
“Doesn’t make you a man.”
“I didn’t say I was a man, I said I was a boy.”
“What’s the difference other than age?”
Darryl couldn’t answer that one.
“Just think what you are giving up, Darryl. You have a rare gift and you want to throw it away?”
“I never asked for it.” He turned away from his grandmother, knowing he was being petulant and childish, but his grandmother remained calm.
“Having a gift like The Sight is like being tall or having brown eyes. It’s not something you ask for, it’s something you’re given.”
“I wish it were that simple, Gran,” he said. “Right now I don’t feel that it’s a decision I can make.” He went and sat back down, resting his head in his hands again.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Mariella said, quietly coming up behind him and resting both hands upon his shoulders. “I think you’re very brave. I hadn’t really taken the time to consider what you’re going through before. It wasn’t just an accident that brought you to this point, but a whole lot of things. I only had the thought of being able to pass on The Sight but I never once considered what it would mean to you.”
“Can’t I just stay as I am?” he asked.
His grandmother smiled. “No child, I’m afraid not. You see, the reason why the women in the family have this gift and not the men, is because women’s brains work differently. They’re wired differently, which means we don’t think the same as men, neither do we do most things the same as men.”
“So you mean, if I were to stay as a boy, I would lose The Sight altogether?”
“I don’t know, it’s most probable; either that or you would retain your gift but not function fully as a male.”
Darryl understood that, for it was already happening. It was all starting to make more sense. The fact that he wasn’t working right may well have something to do with the fact that he has the gift. He now understood that he couldn’t have one thing without the other.
He looked up at his grandmother and put his hand on top of hers. Neither said another word, they just stood or sat for a few moments before everything faded away.
“For God’s sake stop that,” someone cried, but it didn’t cease, desist or even change its pace. It just continued its measured drip, drip, drip.
Someone else was sobbing, but there was no way of knowing who.
The smell was getting worse too, but that was unlikely to lessen since no-one was allowed to move, let alone visit the little girl’s room and it had been days since anyone had even been down there.
A small light appeared in the distance, bobbing and swaying gently, growing as it neared.
A man swore. “Bloody hell! It stinks down here. You’re going to have to move them sooner rather than later or we’ll start getting complaints.”
“I’ll move them when I’m good and ready,” said another man and the light continued to bob and sway, getting ever bigger as they approached.
“What do you want them for anyway?” said the first.
“That’s my business.”
“Only asking.”
The men were only a short distance away when they stopped.
“I’m not going any closer,” said the first man. “My eyes are starting to sting.”
“Stop your bloody moaning for fuck’s sake. I won’t be a minute.”
The light swooped around in a wide arc, illuminating each of them in turn, dazzling and making them squint and try to turn away, but with their bonds as tight as they were, there wasn’t much room for manoeuvring.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the stiffness that had invaded their muscles and joints, there was no escape.
“Get the one with the short dark hair,” the second man ordered.
“Why me? This has nothing to do with me.” The first one grumbled.
“Just do as you’re told,” said the second.
Muttering and grumbling, the man stepped gingerly across the wet concrete floor towards the girl whose face and upper body was being illuminated by the other man’s torch.
“Come on. We haven’t got all day,” the man with the torch shouted irritably.
“Alright, but I don’t know what I’m stepping in here and she smells bad,” whined the first.
The man with the torch started to say “if I have to come over there . . .” but the other picked up the girl in the torchlight and started to drag her towards his colleague.
She didn’t want to go and fought valiantly, but she had eaten nothing in days, drank nothing in just as long; had been bound in one position for who knew how long and had little fight in her.
“Careful, don’t damage the merchandise,” said the torch-bearer and as the labouring figure of his colleague continued to drag the moaning girl along the rough concrete surface, the light once again diminished and the remaining women breathed out, some seemed relieved although it’s doubtful that’s what was going through their minds.
“So what you going to do?” said the man with the girl as they disappeared out of earshot.
Darryl awoke in a cold sweat, looking around him, recognising nothing of his surroundings. They looked so similar to the dreamscape he had just witnessed in his dream.
It was cold and the pungent smell of excrement and urine was making his eyes water.
“It’s not pleasant is it?” said a voice.
Darryl spun round to see something that made him heave.
She was about his height and even in the half light he could see her perfectly clearly. Once he calmed from the shock, he wondered how this was possible.
“Sorry,” she said. “But I had to get your attention. This seemed the best way of doing it.”
“W-who a-a-are you?” he stammered, trying to back away from the girl whose neck was gaping open, with black gobbets of blood congealing around the open wound and whose skin had taken on a sickly green cast.
Her face was vaguely familiar, but battered and bruised beyond recognition. Her eyes had a kind of milky greyness about them that with the smell of the place, was doing its utmost to turn his stomach–and succeeding.
“I’m Suzie; Suzie Croft,” said the “thing” before him. She absently scratched at her chin and flakes of skin tumbled like green snow.
Darryl retched.
“I’m sorry. I’m not holding up too well, but I have to show you this. Will you be alright?”
“I don’t know,” said Darryl wiping his lips on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “But I’ll try.”
© Nick B 2008
Thanks to Gabi for doing that voodoo that she do . . .
“There’s so much . . .” Darryl whispered, shaking his head. “So very, very much . . .”
Chapter 11
In the blink of an eye, the scenery changed.
They were in now another room about the size of the average lounge, with a large bay window looking out over the street, but Darryl recognised nothing as the bright sunlight was piercing compared to the darkness that they had just left and he was still having trouble focussing.
It smelt dusty and mouldy; like it hadn’t been lived in or even aired for some considerable time. Darryl’s eyes adjusted to the brilliance and he went across to the window.
Outside was a bustling road. Two bus stops below had several people completely standing in the sunshine, unaware of the horrors that were about to befall his strange companion. Over the road, a solicitor’s office added one more note of realism to this strange situation and also recognition to the area.
The door banged open and there was a muffled cry.
“Hey! Be careful!” said someone from outside the door.
“Shut up!” said another. “If you weren’t such a weakling I wouldn’t be carrying her now would I?”
The voice was familiar and belonged to a man who it transpired, was about five-ten and was carrying Suzie. Darryl couldn’t be sure but it seemed like he was probably the same man who had been carrying the torch back in that dark, smelly place they had just been in.
The man didn’t seem to care about being gentle either, carrying her over his shoulder and catching her head on the door frame as they entered the room, causing another cry of anguish.
Shocked at the scene, Darryl turned to look at the other “Suzie”, who grinned back in a rather unnerving or even disturbing manner. In the daylight, she looked even more hideous than she had before and he was oddly pleased that the men couldn’t see what he could.
The man dropped, or rather threw Suzie to the floor and dusted his hands off.
“You’re right Adrian. She is a little ripe isn’t she? Go find out whether the water is on. I think we need to give her a bit of a hose-down.” Adrian–the smaller one, nodded and went out.
Darryl studied the man who had brought Suzie in. He had no idea what he had planned just by looking at him, but he knew how it all ended, he was sure from the look of Suzie that he didn’t want the gory details.
The only trouble was he knew he was going to get it–in Technicolor ®.
The man poked the prone figure before him with his foot and rolled her onto her back. Darryl could see that she was suffering and was surprised that she didn’t cry out.
“How does it feel to be the first?” he asked, in a truly derisive tone.
“Fuck you!” she spat.
All the man did was chuckle. “Yes and Adrian too. Don’t forget him.”
“I’d rather die,” she said through clenched teeth, sneering back at him.
Just at that moment, Adrian came back into the room.
“The water’s on, Ian, but there isn’t any heater, so it’s a bit cold,” he informed his friend.
“It isn’t for us, dipstick,” said Ian with forced patience. “It’s for her, now take her to the bathroom and bring her back–clean.”
Adrian grabbed Suzie’s arm and with great effort, hoisted her to her feet, muttering and cursing at Ian.
Suzie was not impressed and struggled, but even though Adrian was the smaller of the two, he was more than capable of preventing the bound Suzie from getting out of hand.
Ian busied himself by staring through the dust-encrusted window while the dead Suzie and Darryl looked on.
“This is it,” Suzie informed him.
“What?”
“Watch.”
There was a loud splash and a thumpthumpthumpthumpthump as Suzie ran at down the stairs.
“Ian!!” shouted Adrian.
Startled, Ian turned on his heel to head out of the door and straight into a naked Suzie.
“What have we here?” he asked, grabbing her arm.
“Ow!” she squealed.
“Now I’d have thought you’d have had more sense,” he said quietly and slapped her hard across the face, followed by one from the opposite direction, scratching her across the cheekbone with the ring on his left little finger.
Tears flowed copiously down Suzie’s cheeks as she refused to cry, staring at Ian instead with a look of defiance.
“Feisty little shit, aren’t you?” he asked, grinning. “Try this,” he said and punched her in the face sending her toppling backwards on to the stairs.
“FUCK YOU!!” she cried, trying her best to cover herself.
“I thought we had already established that,” he said, grinning.
Adrian slopped and squelched his way down the stairs, looking daggers at Suzie.
“What the hell happened to you?” asked Ian, looking at the dripping Adrian with a look of mild curiosity.
“I cut the tape off her arms to get her clothes off and she tripped me into the bath,” Adrian replied.
“Bloody idiot. Didn’t it occur to you to just cut her clothes off? She won’t need them again anyway.”
Suzie looked anxiously at the two men, obviously wondering what that last statement meant, but Ian grabbed her arm again, dragging her kicking and screaming along the landing and down another flight of stairs out of Darryl and Suzie’s sight.
“I thought you said . . .” Darryl began, just as the scenery changed again and he found himself in what looked like a cellar.
The only light seemed to be coming from one of those grated windows just below ground level, although that didn’t amount to much thanks to decades of built-up street grime and mould, all green and disgusting-looking.
The smell of mildew and other unsavoury things–which Darryl preferred not to think about, accosted his nostrils and the dust appeared to be inches thick. Age old bric-a-brac was scattered across the stone floor, on tables and dilapidated shelving, all of which had seen better days–much better days.
“What is it with these two and dark smelly places?” Darryl asked rhetorically.
Suzie shrugged shaking her head and the two of them returned their attention to the sight before them.
Throwing Suzie to the floor, Ian pulled on a small string suspended from the ceiling, and an un-shaded light lit up with a click. The poor excuse for a bulb, fly-blown and yellowed, did its best to shed some light on the miserable scene that was slowly unfolding beneath it.
Ian started to unbuckle his belt and undo the top button of his trousers, pausing before drawing the zipper down, to reach instead into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.
“Insurance,” he laughed, taking out a large knife and twisting it this way and that, causing what little light there was to catch on the highly polished blade. Then he stabbed it into an old worn pine table that was so thick with dust, it looked like it was covered in grey velvet.
Suzie looked at the knife–a smaller version of the one used by Mick Dundee, but no less sharp–then back at her captor as he dropped his trousers round his ankles and proceeded to push his underwear down too.
“Come here–bitch!” he demanded.
Suzie started to rise, shaking noticeably.
“Don’t bother getting up, I think you’ll do better on your knees,” he advised, grinning insanely.
“Now, get those sweet red lips round this . . .”
Suzie steeled herself as she advanced and kept an eye on the knife. Meanwhile, the other Suzie spoke quietly to Darryl.
“I thought there’d be a way I could get the knife away from that big idiot, poke him with it and get away,” she said.
Darryl was sickened, knowing as she moved slowly through the dust, across the floor on her knees, towards that disgusting phallus, that whatever it was that happened was very close to happening and he couldn’t take it.
He couldn’t face seeing Suzie in pain, couldn’t bear the thought of them doing what they did that left her as she now was. He wanted to do something about it; wanted so bad to be able to stop it and let everything go back to the way it was.
There was a scream and Darryl grimaced, opening his tightly shut eyes just enough to be able to squint through and was absolutely shocked at what he saw.
Ian’s dick was in Suzie’s mouth and it was he who was screaming.
“Arghhhhhh! Gerreroffome!” he shrieked.
Darryl realised that Suzie was biting and biting hard. Ian’s arms were flapping around uselessly as he tried to either slip out backwards or do something to make her let go, but it seemed that she had her teeth sunk deeply into his flesh and any movement whatsoever on his part caused considerable pain.
Darryl smiled a grim smile as he saw that thin trickle of blood flow from the corner of Suzie’s mouth and he knew that she was giving as good as she got– at the moment anyway.
His satisfaction though was short lived.
Ian did not stop yelling. Tears were flowing down his face and it was Adrian who had to stop things.
He wrenched the knife from the table-top and grabbed Suzie by the hair. Ian let out another blood-curdling scream as Adrian reached with the knife under Suzie’s neck. With his eyes closed and a look of grim determination, he drew the knife towards him.
“NO!” shouted Darryl and ran forward to try and stop Adrian from taking Suzie’s life, but was completely ineffectual. “Stop!”
His hands could not make contact with either of the men or Suzie either as she slipped gently off Ian’s tool to the floor, her eyes staring out blankly as the last spurts of blood shot from the gaping wound in her neck and through Darryl over the dust-covered stone.
“Can’t you do something?” he shouted at the other Suzie. She just ignored him, or couldn’t hear as she stood over her own body, watching the pool of blood get bigger and bigger…
“There’s so much . . .” Darryl whispered, shaking his head. “So very, very much . . .”
“She’s dead,” he replied, his face as white as the linen on the bed; his eyes blankly staring forward, not even appearing to register the person beside him. “Dead–I saw her. There was so much blood. It was everywhere.”
“Who’s dead, Darryl?”
“Suzie Croft,” he replied.
“It was a dream, a bad dream,” said the voice soothingly, but Darryl wasn’t having any of it.
“It was no dream, I was there. It was awful.”
The nurse ran from the ward and into the Sister’s office.
“I think our young man witnessed a murder. Worse still, he may even have committed it.”
“What?”
“The Groves boy,” the nurse said, clearly agitated. “He’s just said he saw Suzie Croft get her throat cut.”
In moments, the ward Sister and the nurse were back at Darryl’s bedside. He was still mumbling something about Suzie Croft, about the blood. He seemed unable to stop focussing on the blood.
“I think we’d better call the authorities.” Sister said, darkly and left the nurse looking worried by Darryl’s side.
One such was Annabel. The buzz that surrounded the ward was too much to ignore, but once she found out what had happened, she went to a phone immediately.
“Is that Detective Cummings?” she asked.
The phone call was over in less than two minutes and shortly afterwards Cummings passed through the main doors to be met by the junior doctor, Annabel Carter.
“What the hell’s happening?” he asked as she led him through into the body of the hospital.
“I don’t know. I think Darryl’s had one of his visions and the ward Sister took it that he was there in person. Now everyone thinks he’s the one who killed Suzie Croft,” she said as they strode purposefully towards the lift. Annabel pushed the button to call it.
“That’s absurd,” said Cummings. “He was here when that happened.”
There was a soft “ding”, the doors to the lift opened and the two stepped inside.
“What’s happening now, you said there was a police presence?”
Annabel pressed the button for Darryl’s floor. “I don’t know about presence, more like a reunion.”
“That bad?”
“You’ll see.”
A moment later, Annabel and Ron stepped out to see several uniformed policemen strategically placed up and down the corridor. The ward Sister didn’t look particularly impressed.
“This is a hospital,” she fumed. “If I’d have known you were going to go this far Chief Inspector–”
“We can’t afford to take any chances, Sister.”
“But he can’t walk for God’s sake. Where could he possibly go?”
Ron and Annabel walked down the corridor and turned left into Darryl’s ward. A tall police constable was about to bar his way, but without so much as a change in pace, Detective Sergeant Cummings flashed his warrant card.
“This is Doctor Carter,” he said authoritatively and the young policeman stepped aside.
“Hi, Darryl,” said Annabel.
“Thank God!” Darryl exclaimed. “This place has gone nuts. You have no idea how nice it is to see a friendly face . . . Well two. Hello Sergeant Cummings.”
“How are you doing?” Ron asked.
“Not too bad. I’m afraid I got a bit wound up over seeing Suzie Croft’s death. I think this lot think I’m involved, but I’m not–honest.”
“You don’t need to convince us, Darryl. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and have a word with the Chief Inspector,” Ron said smiling and with that, left Annabel and Darryl on their own.
Detective Chief Inspector Rawles was still in animated discussion with the ward Sister, who was threatening all sorts of trouble if he didn’t do something to greatly reduce the number of policemen in and around the ward.
To Rawles’ delight, Cummings turned up just in the nick of time.
“Ah, sir,” he said. “Could I have a word?”
“Yes, Sergeant. Would you excuse me please Sister.”
The ward Sister rolled her eyes and turned away.
“What is it, Cummings?” he asked, all semblance of camaraderie disappearing very quickly indeed.
“I think you might be making a mistake here, sir,” he said in sotto voice.
“Oh?” said the superior officer. “How so?”
“Well for a start, Groves was in here when Suzie Croft was murdered. There’s no way he could possibly have been there.”
“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved,” said the inspector stubbornly.
Ron tried to regain his composure. If Rawles could possibly pin this on Darryl, it would be a quick end to the whole affair, but as much as Cummings would like to have seen Rawles hoist by his own petard, it would never have got that far.
He had had the television on before he left and as he was about to leave, the reporter on-screen was already telling the story of how the police had got a positive lead on the murder of Suzie Croft and the abduction of the other women.
He was just about to turn the set off when the badly blurred and poor quality picture of Darryl leaving the ambulance flashed up on screen.
“The police don’t know whether this new suspect is directly involved . . .” the newscaster intoned.
“Shit!” he exclaimed.
I can assure you, sir, Groves is no way involved.”
Rawles rolled his eyes. “Not still trying to convince me the boy’s psychic are you?”
“No sir, just that he cannot have been involved in the murder of Suzie Croft or the abduction of those women and if we continue to involve him, it is likely to put his life and possibly the lives of those around him in danger too–both here and home.
“He’s already been featured for a second time on the television news this evening, thanks to that bitch Sandy Townsend and people are starting to make up their own minds. To many, he’s already guilty.”
Ron could see his words were getting through, so he pressed on.
“Psychic or not, the moment the Crown Prosecution Service hear that he was in hospital at the time of the murder and for some time prior to that, we’ll be laughed out of court. I’m just thinking ahead, sir. You understand.”
“Perhaps you’re right . . .” Rawles said, then thought for a moment. “I’m putting you in charge of keeping an eye on him then, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” Ron acknowledged and went back to the ward. On the way, he passed the Sister.
“I think you can breathe a sigh of relief now, Sister. You’re getting your ward back.”
“Not before time,” she said and laughed.
“I don’t know how you do it and I don’t want to know,” Ron said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I don’t know either,” Darryl chuckled. “At first I thought it was just coincidence, but now I can tell when I’m just thinking and when the thoughts are more, shall we say, informative.”
“How do you cope?”
“I very nearly couldn’t, seeing Suzie the way she was,” he said shuffling into a more upright position. “It was like some gory horror film–really gruesome. I did see where it was though.”
“Where?” Ron asked, taking out his notebook.
“Church Road. There are two bus stops outside and I think it’s above a shop.”
“I know you’re not going to like this, but can you tell me what happened?”
Darryl spent the next fifteen or twenty minutes going over everything that happened and Ron scribbled furiously in his notebook. When it got to the bit where she bit his . . . thingy, Ron couldn’t believe his ears.
“She did what?!”
“Bit him.” Darryl repeated, nodding to emphasise the deed. “He was shrieking like a scalded cat.”
“Good for her!” beamed Ron. “But that’s interesting. He’s going to have to get treatment somewhere and we’ll be waiting.”
“Well, I wish you luck.”
“Thanks. I think I had better be off. Let you get some rest, but don’t worry, I’ll leave someone here to keep an eye on you.”
“Rest? I don’t know if I’m going to be able to after that.” Darryl answered wryly.
“Well try. It’s the only way you’ll get out of here.” Ron said, getting up and slipping his notebook back into his inside pocket.
“Now you come to mention it,” Darryl said, yawning theatrically. “I do feel a bit sleepy.”
© Nick B 2008
Bestist thanks to Gabi for her editing skills at short notice.
No horrific bits in this one either, TK
“His hormone levels would be right were he a female of that age, but not for a male.”
“What does that mean, doctor?”
Chapter 12
As Sandy Townsend had left the police briefing a couple of weeks previously, an idea started to brew. Despite what the police had said, that Darren kid, or whatever his name was, had definitely hit the bull’s eye with Suzie Croft’s name. Somehow, he had managed to convince Annabel that he was psychic and this was the point where her idea came into play.
At first she, too, was taken in. The kid looked genuinely upset, genuinely concerned, but he refused to answer more questions, to give her more details, which meant he was holding back. She was, after all, on the side of those women, so if he knew something and she was trying to help, didn’t that mean that he was covering something up by not telling her all the facts?
He had been absolutely spot-on with the name, not just a vague “it’s something like” and from all the dealings with psychics she had had–which granted weren’t that many–they were always a little left of centre. This led Sandy to two possibilities: Either this Darren was for real–and how, or he was involved. One thing was for certain: he definitely knew more than he was letting on and that made her angry.
She sat at her desk at her home, scribbling down the pros and cons or in this case, “real” or “involved” and each time she added something to the “real” list, it was countered by an equally if not more compelling reason for him to be involved.
After about an hour of deliberation and having run through the two lists again–applying logic to each entry–she had two much shorter lists, although one was longer than the other.
It seemed that her initial suspicions had not been far off the mark and she began on fresh paper–another session of frantic scribbling–referring often to the two lists she had just compiled and edited.
Afterwards, she paused for a glass of wine and reread the notes, which had become more of an “article” already. Downing the last mouthful of her chilled white wine, she picked two sheets of paper and one of carbon paper from the drawer of her desk, wound them into the typewriter and started to tap away.
The words flowed quickly and the extended notes from her handwritten text, expanded like the flow of water across and down the page. Before long, she was inserting another sheet as the excitement inside her rose.
Soon, she hit the full-stop, pulled out the second page and began rereading her now finished article, her heart beating quickly as she felt the break she needed coming–all thanks to this.
Who knows, girl. You might even get a prize for this one.
The idea spread through her thoughts like wildfire as she took a sip from her second glass of wine, building to something akin to the Oscars ceremony as she took the stage to accept her prize for the best article of 1978.
The next morning at the office, Sandy could hardly contain herself, knowing that Joe Bates, the newspaper’s editor had her article. She sat at her desk, unable to work as she waited for his opinion and in due course, she saw him through the office window and heard him calling, “Sandy?” and beckoning.
Butterflies the size of pterodactyls flapped in her stomach as she entered his office.
“Take a seat,” he said, looking at her over his wire-rimmed half-moon spectacles. She sat down, the excitement in her building almost to the point where she thought she was going to explode.
“I’ve read your article,” he informed her, laying it on the desk before him then steepling his fingers.
“And?” she asked expectantly.
“It’s very good–if you like character assassinations.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her excitement dissipating and quickly being replaced by a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“What have you got against this kid? I mean, that’s all he is, isn’t he–a kid?” asked Joe.
“He’s a charlatan; a con artist and he’s stringing people along with this idea that he’s psychic,” she argued, defensively.
“Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t, but this newspaper isn’t one of those Sunday tabloids, notorious for burying those who don’t always deserve it.”
“I’m not trying to bury him,” she countered, trying hard to retain her decorum, while Joe just sat there, fingers still steepled, looking at her intently.
It was so infuriating.
There was a very real problem out there. Women had been abducted and one of those had even wound up being discovered dead–murdered. She had the inside track on someone who she felt should be being investigated more thoroughly and what were the police doing?
Sweet F.A. that’s what and now Joe was taking the same route.
“That’s not how it looks, Sandy.”
“It’s a straightforward question, Joe and I think I presented the facts in an even manner.” Her look at Joe was pugnacious and her demeanour started that slide into something bordering on belligerence. She was well pleased with her piece and if it meant that people saw the little shyster for what he was, then so much the better.
There was a pause.
“I don’t think it is,” he said finally.
“That much is obvious,” she spat, with something of a sneer.
“I can’t print it.”
“You can’t?!” she spluttered. “What do you mean? You can’t or you won’t?”
“Either is fine,” Joe stated evenly, shrugging his shoulders. “We’re a small newspaper and this is sailing far too close to the wind for my liking. You’re not asking a question. You’re guiding the reader to a point of view and it’s one I don’t happen to share.”
“But don’t you think it’s a bit much that he knows all this stuff and isn’t involved?”
“You can’t prove that. In fact, everything you have said here could be looked upon as hearsay. Turn it round and make it a little less confrontational and I’ll think about printing it, but not as it is.”
She snatched the papers off his desk looking daggers at the man behind it.
“Change this?” she said, waving the typed sheets in Joe’s face, a look of incredulity on hers. “Change this–the best thing I’ve written in ages?”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t be improved,” he said coolly, pushing her hand and the waved papers aside.
“Call yourself an editor? Your problem is you can’t see a good story when it comes up and bites you on the arse!”
“You’re out of line, Sandy,” he warned.
“Out of line? I’m just trying to inform the public that there’s someone out there that could be dangerous and the police and now you are doing nothing about it.”
“That’s enough, Sandy!” he said with uncharacteristic force. “That’s not going in this paper and that’s final. I’ve given you my opinion and if you don’t like it, you know what you can do.”
“Oh, I know alright,” she answered in nothing more than a whisper. “There are plenty of newspapers that would give their eye-teeth for an inside view of this case and you’re turning it away? Are you mad?”
“No Sandra,” he said sitting down and leaning back in his chair, watching as she fumed. “I’m not turning away a piece of insightful news reporting, but a piece of trash that is solely designed to destroy a poor kid whose only crime I can see, is to have been near you at the wrong time.”
Ten minutes later, Sandy still had her article, but no job.
An hour after that, she was talking to the editor of a popular Sunday newspaper and smiling broadly.
“Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Bates,” she said after she put the phone down
His breast development was causing some concern–with everyone else, that was. A blood test had shown that his hormone levels were all back to front.
“His hormone levels would be right were he a female of that age, but not for a male.”
“What does that mean, doctor?”
“Well, it’s probably just gynaecomastia; nothing at all to worry about,” the doctor told her.
“Gyne-come-what? What’s that?”
“It’s gynaecomastia–the growth of breasts in adolescent males. Not as rare as you may think. It normally rights itself in time. I’m sure he’s perfectly alright, but he may get a bit stressed about it. The results of the accident he had may even have had something to do with it, especially that bump he took to the noggin. Whatever it is, it’s most likely temporary, so no need to worry.”
“What if it’s not?”
“Then we can help him along with hormones, but we’d rather not try that until we’ve had a chance to chart its progress.”
“So you’re going to do nothing? That’s ridiculous,” Gemma responded hotly, wringing her hands.
“Mrs. Groves, please, calm down. We can’t just go steaming in there filling him full of drugs and hormones. It might cause more damage than it fixes. Just be patient, I assure you we’ are doing the best we can for your son.”
Gemma glanced at Darryl. He didn’t seem at all stressed, contrary to what the doctor had suggested. Curiously, he seemed bored–not in the least bit stressed. She on the other hand was sweating and trembling.
“How are you doing,” she asked, having regained some of her composure.
“I’ll feel a lot better when I can get out of here,” he said smiling ruefully. “I don’t think I have ever felt so bored.”
Gemma just looked at him and squeezed his hand reassuringly.
He had always been a pretty baby with long golden ringlets that when pulled out straight, were almost long enough for him to sit on. Now his hair had settled into a mousey brown sort of colour that lightened to blonde in the summer. It was wavy and long–not as long as it had been, but she had been forced to have it cut and now it had grown again, was just past his shoulders.
He wasn’t the baby he was, but he was still pretty.
She admonished herself for even thinking that. He was a boy and boys aren’t pretty, but as she looked at him, she realised that actually, he was pretty and not just good-looking in that boyish way either, but really pretty in a peculiarly girly way. He seemed more so now as the hospital gown rested on and accentuated the growing mounds on his chest.
Don’t be absurd, she thought. He’s your son . . .
These consisted of Woman’s Realm and Woman’s Own, with one or two copies of Elle thrown in for good measure. They were entertaining and the fashion and makeup tips were quite a revelation–matching colours with skin tones or eye colour and so forth. He never knew there was so much to it. It never took his mum that long to slap on her ‘war-paint’ as she put it, but it appeared that there was quite an art to it.
By Saturday, Anne was being discharged and ready to leave.
“Here, you have these,” she said, handing over a fairish pile of magazines.
“Are you sure?” Darryl asked, taking the magazines from his friend and hefting them a couple of times. There were definitely quite a lot of them.
She shrugged. “I can get more. Who knows how long you’ll be here.”
“Oh don’t say that. I may never get out,” he replied laughing.
“You’ll be fine,” she said, bending down and kissing him firmly on the cheek. “Look after yourself.”
With that, Anne was gone and Darryl was once again left to himself.
“See, Anne didn’t have a problem accepting you as you are,” said Mariella.
“No, I guess she didn’t. Others seem to be having a hard time of it though,” he answered, the depression showing in his tone.
“Yes,” she said, once again placing her hands on his shoulders and squeezing reassuringly. “But then some people have problems accepting things, even if you’re normal.”
“Aren’t I normal then?” he asked, a little surprised.
“Not really. You’re special. Not everyone gets the ability you have.”
“No and not everyone has to change sex to get it either.”
“Touché!” his grandmother said, grinning.
“I’ll be alright, but at the moment, I’m still not sure whether I want this girl thing. I mean sometimes I don’t even think about it and I’m just me, but then I find out that people are squabbling over me and what I should or shouldn’t be and it makes me question it too.”
“What sort of squabbling?” Mariella asked, concerned.
“Oh, it’s just Mum. The doctor told her I had gynae-something-or-other–it’s to do with these anyway,” he said cupping a hand under each of his small, but perfectly-formed breasts. “She can’t see why I can’t be given something to make me her son again, but the doctors don’t want to–um, let me get this right–go steaming in there filling me up with drugs and hormones.”
“At least someone round here has some sense then.”
The two sat in companionable silence for a while before Darryl asked a question.
“Where’s granddad?”
“Oh, he’s around,” said his grandmother, smiling. “He sends his love too. It’s just too difficult for me to bring him with me. Perhaps if I were younger . . .” she added wistfully.
“I still don’t know whether I can do this, Gran. I’ve been thinking about it and while some things appeal, it’s a heck of a change for me and Mum–not to mention the others. I know Anne accepted me, but can I?”
“I can’t force you one way or the other. It’s a decision you have to make for yourself.”
“That’s a bit of a change in what you’ve been saying, Gran,” he said suspiciously.
“I know, but I was blinded by what I wanted; what I would like to see, not what was right for you and looking at the trouble it is already causing, I realised that you were the only one that can make the decision.”
Suddenly, Gran was gone and he was rudely woken with several staff and the rear view of someone he thought he recognised as he was being rushed down bright corridors.
“What’s happening?” he asked, bleary-eyed from just having woken up.
“It’s alright Darryl,” said the familiar voice of Sergeant Cummings. “We’re just getting you safe . . .”
© Nick B 2008
An excellent bit of fettling by Gabi here folks, so give her a nice big, warm, round of applause
“Do you want to be a girl?”
“You know, before I had the accident, there were times when I wished I was . . .
As he was stood in a queue waiting to pay for The Observer, he noticed the headline on the front page of The News of the World and nearly fell through the floor seeing a picture of Darryl featured there.
“It’s a sad state of affairs when they can let someone like him stay in a normal hospital isn’t it, Jack?” the man in front of Ron said to the man behind the counter as he slapped his paper down and prodded Darryl’s picture aggressively.
“Too right,” Jack replied, tutting loudly. “’e should be locked up–after ’e’s told us where them other girl’s are. It’s people like ’im what make me feel that they shoulda kept the death penalty.” Jack added, counting out the change.
Ron mentally bit his lip and hoped he could remain invisible to these two. He had recently been in the papers–maybe even on the evening news, so it wouldn’t be at all surprising if they recognised him.
He couldn’t say anything as he knew it would cause all sorts of arguments. Instead, he kept his patience and his profile low, paid for his paper–plus a copy of the offending “rag” and headed back home.
He could feel his blood pressure rising as he finally made his way up the short hill towards his house, trying hard not to explode as he stumbled along, reading the article.
The phone was ringing when he opened the front door.
“Hello?” he answered, curtly.
It was the station. There was disruption at the hospital with people turning up shouting about Darryl and phoning too. They had sent several uniformed officers down there to try and restore some order outside, but the main worry was for Darryl, not to mention the other patients as well as the staff inside.
He arranged to go down as soon as he had showered and changed. Shaking his head solemnly, he walked away from the phone. “Another Sunday up the spout,” he said aloud.
Ron was at the hospital in under forty minutes and although he had been given a verbal appraisal of the situation, he had no idea it would be so bad. There was what amounted to a protest going on right outside the front entrance, and the uniformed Bobbies tried desperately to keep the unwanted out and let the needy through. Ron flashed his warrant card and immediately went inside.
He was met by a flustered-looking man–a Mr. Jacobs, who seemed to be on the verge of panic. They talked about Darryl as they rushed up to his ward and it transpired that although letting Darryl go would be best for the hospital, it wasn’t what was best for him.
“Some of the calls have been really bad,” Jacobs said. “People have even threatened physical violence. Are you sure he hasn’t done anything? That article seems pretty convincing.”
“I know, I read it on the way back from the newsagents, but believe me, I can vouch for the kid–he’s clean as a whistle. Can’t we move him out of the way somewhere, just temporarily?” Ron asked. The flustered hospital official looked at the ward Sister.
“I’ll see,” she replied.
He sat, or rather reclined, on the bed as two nurses and Sergeant Cummings hurtled down the corridors. As they went up to the next floor, he was relieved to hear that “The girl from Ipanima” wasn’t being piped through speakers in the lift.
“What’s happening?” he asked, but either those there were studiously ignoring him or they simply didn’t know. As far as he could tell, each of them there was just under orders to move him to room such-and-such on level so-and-so and that was that.
They manoeuvred him into position and the nurses made an exit, leaving Ron and Darryl alone together.
“It’s got a bit complicated, Darryl,” the officer said. “You haven’t seen today’s papers obviously,” Ron said.
“No, you know I haven’t.”
“Perhaps you ought to see this then.” The policeman said as he handed Darryl his copy of the News of the World.
The headlines read: ‘Are our hospitals safe?’
Darryl’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as directly beneath the screaming headline was a picture of him. It was grainy and not at all flattering, showing him sitting in bed in the ward he had just come from.
“How did they get this?” he asked, poking his finger roughly at the picture as tears started to well up in his eyes. “I’ve just been trying to help–that’s all.”
“We don’t know. It was obviously taken here, but that’s all we can tell.”
He read no more than the first paragraph and realised that the article was asking the question of whether he was involved in the abduction of those women and subsequent murder of Suzie Croft–even going so far as to insinuate that he might be behind it.
“Absurd!” he spluttered. “This is, like, a joke, right? Surely they can’t print something like this, just because they say it’s an opinion?”
“I’m afraid it’s no joke, Darryl, and yes, they can. They’re allowed to print it because of that.”
“That’s unreal,” Darryl said, shaking his head.
“I know. What’s worse is that the hospital has been receiving calls about this since early this morning. Some callers have even threatened to come and remove you themselves if the hospital didn’t do it first.”
“But I haven’t done anything. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
“Apparently it doesn’t apply where the newspapers are concerned,” Ron said resignedly.
“What do I do?”
“You don’t do anything, Darryl. According to the doctors, the cast on your broken leg will have to stay on at least for the next month, but more importantly, the gash in your leg will be healed enough within the next couple of days, then we can get you out of here.”
Darryl slept fitfully that night. He would have liked to have had a chat with Mariella, but for some reason, he couldn’t get hold of her.
The next day, his mother arrived.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“A little out of sorts to be honest,” he replied.
“I know. It must be hell after that newspaper shit.”
“Actually, it’s not that that’s bothering me.”
He didn’t know quite how to broach it, but he felt as if he’d gone mentally deaf.
“Well, there’s some good news at least,” said Gemma. “They’ve started you on some tablets to get you back to the way you were. They don’t think it’ll take long and think the pills they’re giving you might help kick-start your body into righting the old hormone levels again. They didn’t want to, bu–“
“They’re doing what?!” Darryl exclaimed, sitting upright and glowering at his mother whose face went white. She blinked a couple of times, obviously not knowing what to say or do as Darryl sat there, fuming.
“I had them start you on something to help you get rid of those breasts and get you back to normal.”
“You did what?!!” he almost shouted, shaking his head incredulously. “You bloody idiot. Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Well–I’m sure I don’t know what you mean and if that’s the kind of thanks I get . . .”
“Just forget it, Mum. Alright?” he said sullenly and turned away from her. Moments later he felt a hand touch his shoulder–which he shrugged away from and heard his mother’s footsteps as she walked away from the bed out of the room.
He slept in silence. In fact the whole day had been completely silent–as far as his abilities were concerned and it preyed upon his mind.
The nightmarish dreams were graphic and disturbing. The images of Suzie that he had already seen were bad enough, but they were followed by the other four women meeting horrible deaths, over and over again, while he looked on, powerless to do anything to help.
These were all mixed up with images of himself some four years previously, wanting those platform shoes, only this time he got them and instead of being ridiculed for what he was wearing, the other girls like Lisa and Jane, were interested–envious even.
And it didn’t stop there either.
The images tumbled seemingly end over end through the night as he tossed and turned restlessly trying to fathom what he was supposed to do and wondering why he couldn’t get his Gran to help now of all times and that was when it hit him.
“How’s my favourite patient?” she asked brightly.
“Go away,” Darryl muttered, turning away from her.
“What’s wrong?” she enquired, sitting beside him on the bed. “It’s not like you to be like this.”
“It’s not everyday you get your abilities taken away is it?” he pouted.
“What’s happened?”
“My Gran told me that The Sight–as she calls it, it given to the first girl and that would be me.”
“But you’re not a girl,” she replied.
“I know and that’s what I said too. Then in between the first time I came here and this time, these started to appear,” he said, doing his best to heft his two swollen lumps.
“So?”
“Well it got me thinking. Suppose I should have been a girl, but, instead, had developed into a boy? Suppose my body was trying to right itself and that’s why I got the ability.”
“That’s a fair thought. It’s unlikely, but fair.”
“Yeah, well it doesn’t matter now does it?” he said, his lower lip trembling and for the first time since this all began, he wished he’d said something to someone other than his Gran about all this. Perhaps if he’d spoken to his mum and made her understand . . .
Now it was too late.
It was too late to decide whether to take up the challenge. Too late to accept his new role as a girl–a psychic girl at that and however alien the concept may be it was too late to help those women and that was the bit that really hurt.
In truth, he was sensible enough to know that being a girl would be a difficult change to make, but he realised that this wasn’t being offered, it was a calling–a gift and whilst at first the idea of how to react to having the weight of such responsibility on his shoulders was hard, not having it and not being able to help was harder–much harder.
Now it had been taken away, he felt such a wrench, such a gut-churning emptiness that he wondered how he was going to go on without it.
“What do you mean, Darryl?”
“They’ve put me on some kind of medication and now The Sight is gone.”
Annabel sat there, not knowing quite what to do. Every time she thought of something to say, she seemed to think better of it and it all went quiet again.
“I can’t do anything for those poor women and I know time is running out. What can I do?” he said, tears flowing like waterfalls from his eyes, his lips quivering and his body shaking. “Oh, Annabel, I’ve ruined everything–everything.”
He flung himself at the young doctor, wrapping his arms around her and burying his head in her shoulder and crying his eyes out.
She sat there as he cried what must have been a river of tears and didn’t know what to do. Finally as the sobbing started to subside, she peeled him off of her and dabbed at his eyes.
“It’ll be alright, Darryl. Try not to worry about it,” she said, softly. “The most important thing at the moment, is for you is to get well.”
“How do you know. You don’t have the lives of four women hanging over you, or the death of one on your conscience,” he replied, regretting his outburst almost immediately.
“Oh don’t I?” she retorted, turning and facing the young man, a fire burning dangerously in her eyes. “Don’t I?”
Darryl didn’t answer. He just tried unsuccessfully to avert his eyes from her stare.
“Let me tell you, Darryl Groves. I have people relying on me in life and death situations all the time. If I’m off form or not well and I make a wrong diagnosis, what do you think that means?”
“I’m sorry, Annabel,” he said in a very small voice.
“What?” she asked, her eyes still flaring.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I just felt that I could help and now I can’t.”
“You don’t know that,” she said, her face softening slightly, though anger was still very much apparent. “You don’t know that at all. You can’t give up just because you’ve hit a hurdle. You have to pick yourself up and try again, but try harder.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t know for sure . . .” She was right, of course. He wasn’t the only one whose life was filled with the unknowing of whether what he did was going to make everything alright. Annabel had to live with it everyday, as did all the others in her field.
“But how do I get it back? I mean, Gran didn’t think that I’d keep it if I were a boy.”
“But you are a boy.”
“Only sort of. I mean what boys have these?” he asked pointing once again at the still-forming breasts.
“Breasts don’t make you a girl, Darryl,” she pointed out.
“No, but the other thing I have doesn’t work and hasn’t since the accident, so I figured that was my body righting itself again,” he said, shrugging.
Annabel thought for a moment. “Do you want to be a girl?”
“You know, before I had the accident, there were times when I wished I was; that I had the chance to wear some of the neat clothes they get to wear and stuff, but now all of a sudden I have to be one and I’m not sure.”
“That’s not the attitude to have though is it?” she sat beside him again. “If you really want to be a girl, there’s a lot that needs to change and it’s not just dressing up either.”
“I know–operations and that.”
“That’s part of it, yes. Does that bother you?”
“Not half as much as I thought and since I had my picture plastered all over the paper, I’m not sure Darryl the boy would be particularly well-received.”
“That’s probably true, but don’t you think that that’s the wrong reason to want to change?”
“No, but if it meant I could get to keep my abilities and help those women too, I think it’s a small price to pay.”
The door burst open and two people barged in, trying their damndest to wriggle and squirm out of the clutches of two of the biggest coppers Darryl had ever seen.
“I told you, we’re his grandparents!” the short, dark-haired woman snarled.
“I don’t care if you’re the bloomin’ queen of Sheba,” one of the grappling policemen gasped.
“But they are,” exclaimed Darryl, wide-eyed.
© Nick B 2008
My God that Gabi works damned quick :)
Don't know what I'd do without her though...
"you can’t know what it’s like to have a child like that…"
Ian however, obviously did. He was shivering and looking decidedly grey, but the worst part was his penis. It was covered in what looked like open sores; red, raised angry-looking ulcer-type things that were festering, suppurating and obviously very painful.
Even after ten days, the bite marks had not reduced in size, let alone healed or even scabbed over. They had in fact got quite noticeably bigger–angrier and Ian had not been able to stand it being covered.
At Adrian’s insistence, Ian had put ointment on it, but it seemed to have no effect at all. In fact, now, after nearly two weeks, Ian was in such bad shape that Adrian was toying with the idea of carting him off to hospital, whether he wanted to go or not–and as of five minutes ago, he didn’t.
Despite only having rudimentary knowledge of medical matters, Adrian saw his friend’s injuries as being the cause of his current predicament.
“We’ve got to get you to a doctor,” he said. “Better still, the hospital. I’m afraid that you’re going to get worse if we don’t.”
“Don’t even dare to think about it,” Ian had said angrily, his voice dry and rasping. “Anyway, how would we bloody explain it?”
‘Never mind explaining it, if you don’t get it looked at soon you may not live to regret it,’ Adrian thought.
He went to check the women: they were in almost as poor a state as his friend and whilst it was more than his life was worth to let them go, he did give them some soup, before scurrying back to Ian’s side in case the big man noticed he was gone.
He felt sorry for them, almost as sorry for them as he was for his friend.
Sure, he knew they weren’t going to get out of this alive, but they weren’t supposed to suffer like they were at the moment. He had never envisaged them being left down in the cellars under the shops in Waterloo Street like they were now, with no food or water–that had never been the plan, but that bitch had to go and complicate things by biting Ian’s willy.
Still that didn’t mean he had to be inhospitable.
Anyway, having given them each some soup–not much, but they did seem awfully grateful, he could turn his attention back to Ian.
I’ve got to do something…
He cobbled together a plan. It was risky, but in his opinion, risk was the least of his problems and if it worked, Ian might live and they might be able to get out of this awful predicament relatively unscathed.
The alternative was…well, he didn’t want to even consider that.
Apparently some kid had seen them when that dark-haired bird had had to die and that meant that with a witness hanging around, it was probably better that they didn’t.
Keeping a low profile was one thing, but trying to keep such a profile with Ian as he was, was not the best of ideas, so he decided to go ahead with his plan–take his chances and see what happened. What was the worse that could happen?
No-one knew where they were, despite this so-called witness and if–and only if–the plan went well, he could take care of Ian and the witness in one fell swoop.
In Ron’s opinion however, it was better to be safe than sorry.
The two officers stood when a man in a white lab coat approached, pushing before him a small trolley, loaded with medical paraphernalia.
“Can we help, sir,” said one.
“Ah yes,” he replied. “I have medicine for the chap in that room.”
“And you would be?” asked the copper suspiciously.
“Ed Spencer. I’ve got the job of medications tonight” said the man, holding his name tag out for them to see.
“You’d best go in then.”
Spencer nodded, smiling amiably as one of the two policemen opened the door to Darryl’s private room then stood aside to allow him to enter, closing the door quietly behind him once inside.
Darryl was awake and looking sullen.
“Good evening,” the doctor said urbanely.
“Who are you?” asked Darryl, without looking up, his tone surly and not in the least bit welcoming. The doctor didn’t flinch or even bat an eyelid.
“I’m Ed Spencer,” the man replied. “I’m here to give you a shot.”
“But I’ve already been given all the drugs I’m supposed to be taking. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”
“Heard? Heard what?” the man asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Darryl, getting yet more antisocial.
“Look, I’m just doing what I’m told. It’s just one shot then I can be off and leave you to your own devices. I can see this isn’t a good time, but this is a hospital and I am the nurse who's supposed to administer. You are the patient and…” he removed a small vial from the trolley and held it up between his thumb and index finger for Darryl to see. “This is a vial containing a drug, some of which I am about to give you–or I’m in big trouble.”
Darryl didn’t look at all impressed, but acceded.
The man picked up a syringe and a needle; popped the cap from the plastic casing and fixed the needle to the syringe.
He pushed the needle into the small vial and drew off a quantity of the clear liquid, flicking the syringe with his forefinger afterwards and squirting a minute amount to remove any air that had remained inside.
He placed the syringe back on the trolley, picked up some surgical alcohol, some cotton wool and swabbed the area just in the crook of Darryl’s right elbow. He was about to flick the area to raise a vein when the door opened.
“We’re going to have to ask you to wait here until we get back,” the policeman said.
The nurse froze; Darryl’s wrist in one hand and his other reaching for the hypo. “What’s the problem?”
“Something’s happened on one of the lower floors. We just don’t want to leave our man here unattended.”
“I won’t let him out of my sight,” the nurse assured.
The policeman smiled and closed the door again.
Doctor Spencer flicked the skin to raise the vein then pushed the needle in, gently squeezing the plunger of the hypo until it would advance no further.
“At least, not until he’s in the back of the van…” he said quietly, grinning.
Darryl looked very confused, looking at the doctor as he flopped backwards on the bed.
Something had happened, but for the life of him, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The “it” part seemed to be so tantalisingly close, yet just out of reach.
So much seemed to be going through his mind that he found himself flitting, butterfly-like, from one subject to the next, never quite alighting on any one of them.
The subject of his mother and grandmother came up a number of times and sometimes it made him laugh while sometimes it made him feel sad. He knew that there had been an altercation and he had been absolutely furious at one of them, but he couldn’t seem to remember which or why.
There was something else. Something about his grandfather, though it wasn’t Padraig.
Do I have more than one grandfather? he wondered, giggling slightly as he rolled sideways and landed up with his face against something cold and decidedly gritty.
He pushed himself back into a sitting position as further bounces, jiggles and squeaks filled the dark space and whilst he knew he ought to be scared, worried or even concerned about where he was, he couldn’t bring himself to concentrate on any of those at all.
His attention moved to the doctor. He seemed so familiar, but somehow, the “where do I know him from?” seemed to elude him.
Suddenly the motion stopped and again, he rolled sideways in another fit of giggles as his face hit the cold gritty surface. A door opened and the doctor was standing there, but this time he didn’t have his white coat on.
“Don’t I know you?” Darryl asked, trying to focus on the man, who appeared to be at a very odd angle.
“You should,” the man replied. “Now it’s time to get you out of here.”
“But I’ve only just got here.”
“Yes,” said the man calmly. “And now it’s time to go somewhere else.”
“Good,” Darryl replied, struggling to right himself. “This place is awfully dirty and squeaks a lot.”
The man blinked a coupled of times, his brow furrowing and then, shaking his head, he grabbed Darryl’s arm and pulled him towards the door.
“We should have brought that wheelchair with us,” he grumbled. “You’ll have to hop or something.”
Darryl giggled again at the thought.
“Just stop that. You sound like a girl,” the man said irritably.
Darryl couldn’t help it and giggled again.
They struggled through a place that sounded like a long tunnel, but it couldn’t have been as there were cars parked down either side, but then, in what appeared to be the darkest recesses at the back and behind a large pile of tea chests and packing cases was a warren of corridors and doorways.
Something seemed familiar again, though it passed and soon Darryl was wrinkling his nose as they moved into a yet darker area where there might have been other people, but he wasn’t at all sure. It didn’t smell nice though.
The man let him go and stood, huffing and puffing as Darryl swayed for a few seconds, then dropped on his backside, chuckling away to himself.
“Perhaps I overdid the Vallium,” the man observed.
“Warsfatpp?”Darryl said quietly, before beginning to snore gently.
“What were you thinking?” he asked.
The two officers didn’t know what to say, choosing instead to look at their feet as they scraped a speck of dust back and forth.
“In our defence, Sarge, we weren’t to know, were we?” one said. “And you weren’t here.”
Ron shook his head. “I can’t be here twenty-four hours a bloody day, can I?”
“But, Sarge. The man looked like a real nurse, I mean, how were we to know?”
“But you shouldn’t both have gone, should you?”
“No, Sarge,” they intoned in unison.
“You might as well go back to the station. There’s nothing for you here to protect now is there?”
Shame-faced, the two coppers left the scene.
Ron now had the awe-inspiring job of informing Darryl’s mother, and Gawd help him when that feisty grandmother of his finds out what has happened.
The place he was in seemed so familiar too–ringing warning bells and all sorts, yet for the life of him, he couldn’t recall why.
The next morning however, some of it at least started to fall into place, while his head felt like it was decidedly “out of place”; thumping and generally feeling like it had grown two sizes during the night and didn’t fit properly in his skull anymore. His mouth tasted foul and had been taped over and the smell was starting to sting his eyes.
On top of all that, his hands had been bound behind him, he had memories that he wasn’t sure were real or even his and despite the lack of light in the area, he was sure he wasn’t alone.
If only I could think straight…
Muffled whimpers emanated from the darkness and as time dragged by, he started to figure things out.
He was sure that he was with the remaining girls and if his hearing wasn’t playing tricks, there were three.
But there should be four.
He could hear from different areas of the space he was in, the sounds of sobbing, sniffing and other noises. Although he wasn’t completely sure, he could only detect three. Had the fourth died?
Maybe that was the one I saw being taken away… he thought.
He felt sick to his stomach.
So much for the bloody “Sight”, he complained, thinking that he had had no warning of the fourth’s demise. He didn’t even know which one of them it was.
He dimly remembered the night he went back to hospital. He had seen a girl being dragged into the back of a van in an alley that he thought may have been off Waterloo Street, but that was about all he could bring to mind–apart that was that when he saw her, she wasn’t dead.
The trouble was, he was thirsty and whatever he had been given last night was causing his head to ache. It didn’t seem to be getting any better, not helping his ability to think straight at all.
The biggest thing that kept rapping on his memory cell was something he had heard or perhaps he had just dreamed: he should have been a girl all along.
He kept having what he could only term as flashbacks from the day before. His mother and his grandmother were in a heated debate over him, but he was sure his grandmother kept referring to him as “her”.
He had to keep blotting it out of his mind as he was sure it was making his head hurt more.
He now had a fever and despite Adrian having shot a shit-load of drugs into him, nothing seemed to be making any difference.
Hijacking that doctor who was about to make his rounds in the hospital seemed to be bringing his plan to fruition and the fact that that call to the two cops while he was in the kid’s room, just made it look so much like it couldn’t fail.
So why wasn’t anything working?
“I got that kid–the witness,” he told his friend.
“Uhhh?” Ian replied, weakly.
“I said, I got that kid. He’s with the women under the shops. It all went so easily. I was in and out of the hospital in no time.”
Ian didn’t answer. His eyes looked glassy; unfocussed and Adrian was worried sick.
Perhaps I should give it a couple of days… he thought.
His relationship with the big man was strange to say the least.
He didn’t like the idea of the women at all; he’d much preferred it if Ian and he could have enjoyed themselves together, but Ian didn’t seem to see things that way–the way that he did.
In fact Ian didn’t like the idea of queers at all. Not that Adrian was queer or “gay” as it was now being termed. No, Adrian wasn’t queer, but sometimes he wondered what it would be like to have Ian hold him close and on the odd occasion when the sores weren’t obvious, he did wonder what it would be like to take Ian’s large tool in his mouth or…
He could feel his own tool stiffen at the thought.
No!
I’m not like that…
He would have thought he would have got used to the smell or the discomfort, but no.
His backside was sore from not being able to move much. He would liked to have laid flat, but his arms were in the way and he had terrible trouble moving as his legs were weak or immobilised.
Usually, his dressing would have been changed by now and he worried after that too.
Not as much as that argument between his Gran and his mother.
He still couldn’t believe that two people who had not seen each other in over sixteen years could have got so nasty towards each other; could have stood toe-to-toe and yelled–well argued so heatedly anyway–in front of Ron and Annabel and it was this that made it all seem so surreal.
He wasn’t a girl and he knew this, but without a working…well, you know…he wasn’t much of a man either.
He had never really fitted in as a boy. Mostly, it was just a case of him being him and nothing more, but there was more to being a boy than that, just like there was more to being a girl than the clothes, the hair and the makeup.
That all sounded rather a lot compared to scabby jeans, grubby t-shirt and Dunlop Green Flash or Converse All-Stars, but the idea of being attractive or even as his Gran had said, “pretty” appealed. He didn’t know why, but it did.
As a boy, he didn’t have much of a chance to be much. He was small for his age, not very masculine in his looks and was easy prey for bullies, but as a girl, he could be so much more. His sense of identity was blurred.
He really didn’t know whether he was one thing or the other and until the accident, had no idea about what he wanted. Now, his grandmother and her family had apparently given him something that made him think–made him wonder–about what was what.
Being a boy was hard and thus far was something he had not got used to. Being a girl would be hard too, but it would be hard with direction, which was a hell of a lot more than he had now.
Somehow, the discomfort he was suffering didn’t seem nearly so bad as he drifted off to sleep.
The next day he awoke cold and stiff.
His backside was sore and best part numb, partly due to the fact that he had had to urinate in situ and he shifted to try and redistribute his weight. It was no good and he gave up without much of a fight.
His head still hurt, or was at least as uncomfortable as his rear end and whether it was the lack of food or water, or the fact that he had been leaning against a brick wall for all that time he wasn’t sure, but there was a horrible buzzing in his ears.
He still wasn’t thinking straight. His mind was apt to go off at tangents and his memories were a still little blurry or skewed. The memory of his mum and Gran arguing wouldn’t go away and now it was tying together with the thing about his grandfather too.
No, it wasn’t Padraig, it was his mum’s dad–Reginald, or granddad as was preferred.
According to the argument, Darryl’s Gran accused his mother of thinking more about what her father wanted than what was right for Darryl. He distinctly remembered something about his mum saying “you can’t possibly know what it’s like to have a child like that…” and the conversation suggesting that he had been born with both.
Surely that’s not possible…
Once again, the thought was relegated to that “surreal” shelf in his mind.
“Please mum, get me out of here,” a voice said from the darkness.
He looked around.
There was nothing. He had been in that one place for hours–at least a day, perhaps longer and he had heard nothing. He also had reason to suspect that like him, the others there hadn’t had their mouths taped over and had been rendered unable to speak other than in muffled mumbles or groans.
They certainly hadn’t made much noise. Judging by the way he felt and the fact that they had been kept like this for weeks, not just a day or two, he would have thought they would have said something by now.
He could feel the despair in the voice; in the atmosphere and worried that if something didn’t happen soon, these poor women would be scarred for life, if they weren’t already.
Closing his eyes, he tried for all he was worth to call for Mariella.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright, Mrs. Groves?” he asked.
She took a while to answer as she stared into the nothingness that was the loss of her Darryl. “I think so,” she said at last.
“I’m only a phone call away–and don’t worry, we’ll find him,” he said reassuringly. “I’ll see myself out.”
She didn’t seem to register his leaving and as Ron stepped out into the bright light of the outside world, he wondered whether they would find him and if they did, would he be alive?
Had it not been for the skills or abilities of the lad, they would have squat right now; probably still chasing their tails in ever decreasing circles and he felt somehow responsible for the young man’s involvement, even though in reality, he knew he wasn’t.
“You have to come with me,” he said, struggling with all his might to get the bigger man up.
Unlike before, there was no struggle and Adrian was sweating profusely when he managed to get his friend to the van. He propped him up as best he could and opened the door, heaving his friend into the back. From there, it was a white-knuckle ride to the hospital.
Opening the door to the van, he ran into the hospital calling for help.
In moments, Ian was inside, connected to a drip and heading somewhere within the bowels of the big medical facility.
Adrian remained patiently in a waiting area for the better part of the day for news of his friend.
“He’s in a pretty bad way,” the doctor had said. “It looks like septicá¦mia. How long has he been like this?”
“It’s been a couple of weeks, doctor, but he just wouldn’t let me bring him in. What do you think has caused it?”
“I don’t know for certain, but it looks very much like the wounds on his penis.”
“I knew it!” he exclaimed. “I told him we needed to come in.”
“Do you know how he came by the wounds in the first place?” asked the doctor.
“No,” Adrian replied, without even turning a hair. “Can you treat it?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to keep him in for a couple of days and we’ll run some tests. I’m sorry to say that at the moment, it doesn’t look very good for him. His penis is extremely badly damaged and he’ll be lucky if he gets to keep it at all, let alone whether it will ever work again. Perhaps it would have been better news had you brought him to us sooner. In the meantime, I suggest you go home and maybe give us a ring in the morning.”
It wasn’t good news… well it was better for Ian. He now had half a chance of surviving, which was more than he had before, but it wasn’t good for their plan.
He stormed out of the hospital and jumped into the van, a look of grim determination on his face. It was that bitch’s fault. She was the one that caused all this, but it was that kid that had made them have to lie low. If he had just kept his mouth shut …
Back at their hideout in Bedford Square, it all felt so weird knowing that Ian wasn’t there. Adrian didn’t quite know whether or not he had done the right thing, but it was not a question of right and wrong, it was a question of life and death.
Right now, the question wasn’t so much whether his friend would live or die, but whether the kid should be punished for making things so difficult.
He closed the front door and walked down past the neatly mowed lawn of the square, along the sea front and right on Waterloo Street. It was about a ten minute walk, but it helped him to clear his head; helped him to reconcile the fact that Ian may not pull through.
He knew that the women with whom he was–albeit in a very detached manner, had been poorly looked after and probably were extremely weak. It was likely too, that they were spending more of their time asleep, which may well have explained why he wasn’t “hearing” them if The Sight had returned.
What was certain was the amount of effort he was expending trying to contact Mariella; it was exhausting,
He was about to try again when he heard what sounded like someone approaching.
A small beam of light preceded the approaching man. Darryl struggled, trying to reach out with his mind to see whether or not he could detect whether this was going to be good or bad, but he felt or “saw” nothing.
Then he was there, the smaller of the two men. In these surroundings and without the impeding drugs to cloud his mind, he knew that this was the man who cut Suzie Croft’s throat.
“You’re going to pay,” he said, shining the light right into Darryl’s eyes.
Darryl could say nothing, even though he tried. The duct tape that covered his mouth was far too well stuck for it to be easily removed.
“I’m going to do to you what you caused for him.”
What did I do?
Darryl couldn’t see what was behind the light and had no idea what was about to happen, but he could see the man approaching. He didn’t need any “third eye” or paranormal ability to know from the man’s voice that what was going to happen was not going to be good.
“You know Ian’s in hospital don’t you?” said Adrian. “You’re the reason for that too. You’re the one who saw us when I slit the throat of that bitch that nearly bit Ian’s cock off. If you’d only kept your mouth shut, none of this would be happening now.”
Adrian knelt down beside Darryl, who was now struggling against his bonds. His natural instinct was to try and get away, but with one leg weak, the other plastered and not much help, and his hands taped firmly behind his back, there wasn’t much he could do.
“Oh shit! He’s got a knife,” a voice called through the pandemonium in Darryl’s head.
“It’s no use you struggling. I learnt my lesson on that score with that dark-haired bitch!” Adrian chortled and grabbed Darryl by the top of his left arm, dragging him back close to him.
“Let’s see now,” he said lifting the front of the hospital gown. “Oh look, that’s so sweet. It’s a shame you’re going to lose it.”
It was all over in a second.
The knife was plunged downwards once, then again and again. Pain flashed through Darryl’s body like a red hot poker and tears poured from his eyes as he tried helplessly to escape the stinging blows.
He called out with his mind “help us. For God’s sake, help us!” trying as he did to picture the entrance to the place where he was being kept and after calling out for the third time, everything went black.
“You heard him too?” asked the diminutive woman.
“I did,” said Ron and I’m glad that I knew who it was, but I don’t think I could have ignored it anyway.”
“That’s my Darryl!” said the woman, beaming. “Do you know how he is?”
“Multiple stab-wounds is all I know for sure. I just don’t know how he faired. I’m surprised we didn’t find this place before though. That was one brave kid.”
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