Chapter Two: Thanks for the memories

Belinda clutched at her head as dizziness struck her. The world about her was fading, fading into a mass of blurred colours. Dimly through the haze she felt her knees strike soft turf as her legs gave way under her.

“Stefan, help!”

“It’s all right, I promise; this will be a memory coming back.”

No, this isn’t a memory, I can feel myself fading, going to another time, another place.

Belinda shut her eyes. Brian opened them.

51 Weeks earlier
Brian almost lost concentration, gazing at his surroundings as his Volvo passed the gates of Queen’s Lake Castle. More than a decade before, when he was an angry, violent, confused, unhappy twelve year old living in a frightening, overcrowded and occasionally violent childrens’ home he had been taken on a tour of this place and it had changed his life. Overwhelmed with the beauty, the grace, the air of history that the ancient castle and its grounds exuded he had been filled with an ambition to achieve, to learn, to get a decent job so that one day he could live his life as far away from the atmosphere of that childrens’ home as possible, and maybe, just maybe, live somewhere that reminded him a little of this. Now eleven years later he was visiting as the friend and honoured guest of Queens Lake Castle’s new owner.

Of course, he reflected, glancing at the array of bags piled on the seat beside him, he could never have predicted the circumstances. That new owner was Stefan Shilpott, the nerd he’d bullied remorselessly at that same childrens’ home – and before extending the hand of friendship he’d already taken his revenge.

“Brian!” Brian pulled to a halt and climbed out to meet a broadly grinning Stefan who was waiting for him. Not for the first time he reflected that nerds can definitely shoot up and fill out as he clasped hands with his old enemy and new friend and had to look up to meet his gaze.

“My God, Brian Jenkins! I haven’t seen you for years! You’re looking good.”

“Eh? You saw me last Saturday.”

“No,” Stefan winked “That was Belinda Jenkins.”

Brian let out something between a laugh and a snort.

“I still can’t believe I let you talk me into dressing up as a girl and going to a LARPers party with you.”

“You didn’t; I blackmailed you by seeking out your internet history, remember? All that cyber-bondage just looks bad to the average head teacher.”

“I remember. Would you really have sent it to my employers if I’d refused to co-operate?”

“You’ll never know. Come on in and have a drink.”

“This is the grand hall. What do you think?”

“I, er, wow!”

Dark, polished oaken floorboards stretched away from a front door that could have withstood a battering ram and was old enough that Brian seriously wondered if it ever had. Beams could be seen in the walls – not the mock-Tudor of post-war housing estates but the genuine Tudor of – well,Tudor times Brian supposed.

“How old is this place?”

“This part? Fifteen hundreds maybe. The very oldest bits of the house go back to about the time of King John, barring the foundations. Those old builders were building on older ruins even then. They say this was a Roman outpost once – but I won’t let them dig up any more than has to be done for occasional repairs – there’s a line between historical curiosity and tearing up a masterpiece to find how it’s made, you know? Or maybe you disagree, I don’t know.”

“I don’t disagree, not even a little bit. This place is beautiful. Nothing should ever be allowed to spoil it.”

“Steady on.” Stefan said, laughing. You haven’t seen the rest yet.”

“I remember it from when we were children.”

“Not this, you don’t. Take a look and tell me what you think.”

Stefan led the way to a huge open sitting room. Brian had seen it before but then it had been bare and mostly roped off with the huge velvet ropes English stately homes use to keep the fingers of the hoi polloi off the valuables. Now a fire stood laid and ready in the vast open fireplace with its beamed inglenook that was tall enough for a child or a small woman to stand upright in it. A copper warming pan hung on the wall beside it and a worn but obviously antique set of fire irons leant against the chimney wall. Tasteful leather chairs and sofas were arranged around it, close enough to get the heat but far enough to be comfortable in the face of the fiercest blaze. Thick rugs and carpets graced the floors and a Georgian oak table stood before the fireplace. Beside it was a bucket of ice in which a white wine lay chilling.

“I don’t know if wine is your thing. I have beer or single malt if not?”

“Wine is good.” Brian reassured his host “But is there somewhere I can dump all this lot first?” He gestured to the bags of feminine paraphernalia he had brought from the car “I feel kind of funny having these things around me.”

“Really?” Stefan grinned, a little wolfishly “I didn’t think you looked funny at all having those things around you, and on you. In fact I was pretty impressed.”

“Ha ha! You’re never going to let me live that down are you?”

“Of course I am. I’m just going to remind you from time to time because it’s so funny seeing the look on your face.”

“I bet it is.” Replied Brian ruefully. He had foresworn all revenge, not having understood until a few days before just how much undeserved pain he’d inflicted on Stefan’s adolescent years. All the same it was hard not to wince.

“Grab a drink first?”

“OK. And then I want you to tell me everything about what happened since you left the children’s home.

Once inside Brian was overwhelmed again, the huge open fireplaces, the antique furniture that looked better after two hundred years than most things did brand new.

“I can’t believe you got all this just by studying IT - oh! I’m sorry, that sounds really rude. I didn’t mean to put you - your trade down.”

“It’s OK, you don’t have to be penitent - although penitence kind of looks good on you.” Stefan grinned. Oddly enough something about that crooked grin underneath his mop of inky hair made him look less handsome but much more attractive. A girl would probably have melted. Brian eyed him suspiciously.

“Was that another subtle reference to the night of the dance?”

“Sorry. I just can’t get over how well you managed being a girl. I promise I’m not taking the Mick, in fact I’m even more impressed with your courage than ever.”

“But you really aren’t going to let me forget it?”

“I’m trying, honest. You won’t let it stop us being friends will you? I want us to be good friends.”

“Not as long as you understand that if I ever get anything good on you, I will take a fierce and terrible vengeance in the form of sarcastic remarks.”

“You’ve already got something on me. I was the designated victim and scapegoat at the children’s home, remember?”

Brian shook his head emphatically “No, that’s something you’ve got on me. You did nothing to be ashamed of. I’d take it all back if I could.”

“Then stop being so sensitive about my reve - oh no!”

Brian was thrown for a second before he too recognised the sound of a car’s engine heading up the drive.

“Who is it?”

Stefan pulled his head back in from the open window.

“It’s Tina and the others. From the party. God damn it, they aren’t supposed to be here! We had plans but they weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

“Oh my God! They’ll recognise me! They’ll know I was - it was - what am I going to do?”

“Hide! I’ll get rid of them if I can.”

Brian needed no second urging but was off and into a spare bedroom like a hare. Crouching behind the big brass Edwardian bed he found he was shaking with terror, heart thumping like a trip hammer.

I can’t go out there, I just can’t. They’ll recognise me at once! They’ll know I was Belinda. They’ll know I was Stefan’s date! Maybe he can bear that but I can’t.

Ten minutes later, the hum of conversation from downstairs suggested that there was no prospect of the unexpected visitors going away any time soon. Worse, he’d left his car out there. Soon or later someone was going to ask who Stefan’s other visitor was. Could Stefan think of a convincing answer? Brian doubted it; clever as Stefan was, he couldn’t tell a convincing lie to save his life. It had helped make him easier to bully. All you had to do was bombard him with embarrassing questions and listen to him choke on his own stammer.

But what can I do? I don’t know the house well enough to sneak out without being spotted and I absolutely can't go out ther- -. Wait. Brian can’t go out there. And this room is en suite. I should just have time to perfume and clear any unsightly hair. I can’t believe I’m about to even contemplate this after all my vows but..but...I've done it before...think 'Belinda'..think 'girl'

Into the shower, ow, that’s still cold, doesn’t matter, warming up now, oGodoGodoGod hurry, , legs still smooth, that hair remover really works, check the face, seems smooth enough but I’ve got wax strips here so might as well use the –owwwwwwwww! Out of the shower, faster, dry off Oh God give me time, I’m so scared I’m shaking!

Moisturiser, have I got time? Oh just do it. Perfume, quick spritz, too much, crap, now I smell like a stripper!

Breast forms, hold them up to check the postion’s right. Damn you Stefan for making me a C cup. Arrrghh! I’m out of the adhesive. No, it’s all right, here’s another tube. Gahh, that’s cold. I STILL can’t believe I’m actually doing this.

Wig, fix wig to own hair with hair pins, now fix hair back to stop it falling across my face. Damn it all Stefan, what have you done to me, I shouldn’t know this stuff. Hang on, I can’t blame Stefan this time – I’m doing this of my own free will! Ei yei yei!

Dress – Jesus, how do I get into these situations? I can’t use the one I wore to the party, I’m damned if I’m wearing the ruffled skirt – it’s so short I’d be flashing my knickers all night. That just leaves – oh no! The flowered sundress! Thank Goodness I hung it up – emerging all crumpled would not be good for my reputation.

Bracelets, check, rings, check, silver necklace chain to fiddle with nervously, check

Make up. Foundation? Don’t need it. Blusher? Really don’t need it. Eye pencil on the inside – ouch! Try that again without poking myself in the eye. Good, now mascara, heavy on the outer edges of my eyelashes so as to make them look bigger. Lipstick. I am wearing bright red lipstick and this time no one has made me do it. I’d better be convincing or I will NEVER live this down.

OK, blink a few times to check I can still move my eyelids with all this goop on them. Wait, did I just bat my eyelashes? Check voice “ Do ray me la so ti do” Contralto, a little sultry, it’ll have to do. Heels, balance carefully, OK girlybirds are go!

Belinda paused to listen to the sounds of conversation as she approached the enormous sitting room.

“So Stefan, exactly whose is that car outside.” said a girl’s voice

“What car?”

What car?? You mix with espionage agencies and that’s the best you can come up with?? Honestly Stefan, it’s a good thing you’re a genius because sometimes you aren’t fit to be let out alone!

“THE car. The one outside that’s obviously not yours because if you bought a new car it would be brand new. I smell gossip! Come on, spill.”

“I haven’t got any gossip!” Stefan protested

“Oh really? What about that mystery girl you brought to the party last week and then whisked away before we could interrogate her properly and who you haven’t mentioned since? Confess! Someone fetch …The Comfy Chair!”

Stefan’s familiar stammer started up as Belinda decided it was high time to run to his rescue and she strode through the door, skirts flying.

“He’s being chivalrous and protecting my reputation. The hot water is out at my place so I came over to shower.”

Cheerfully disbelieving smiles of sly mischief greeted her.

“Belinda!”

“We knew you’d be back.”

“Like the proverbial bad penny.” That was Toni, who Belinda was quite convinced had a major thing for Stefan, but she managed to smile to take the sting out of her words.

“So how have you two been getting on?” said Mildred Arwen to her friends I must remember

“Let the poor girl sit down first” chided Tina “Honestly, what are you, a papparazzi?”

“Papparrazzi is a plural.”

“Pedant!”

“Nosy cow!”

“All I’m saying is Belinda still looks seriously dressed up for someone who just popped over to shower and I want gossip. It stops life getting boring. Belinda can ask anything she wants about me”

“Why would she? Not everyone is as obsessed with other people’s love lives as you. Besides, you have no boundaries; nothing embarrasses you.”

“Yes, well urr!” and Mildred stuck her tongue out

Oddly, if anything had been required to convince the disguised Brian of the strength of friendship that bound this group it was the cheerful exchanges of genial abuse. Their bonds were clearly too strong to be dispersed by any casual cause and of course they would want to know all about Belinda. They wanted to know if she’d slip seamlessly into the group or exert a gravitational pull that would take Stefan away from it.

If only I could be here as Brian, I’d love to join the group; as it is, Belinda doesn’t even exist.
Oh no? said an inner voice Then who’s wearing this rather fetching outfit?

A guy from the party Heron? Herrick? That can’t be right slid along one of the sofas to make room for Belinda to sit down but before she could move she felt Stefan’s hand engulf hers and pull her gently on to the Edwardian love seat beside him.

He certainly has big hands. It’s not often I’m made to feel petite. Wait, did I just think that? Oh God, on the other hand, guys don’t grab my hand often. Maybe I am petite.

“Yes, well. This is actually the first time I’ve seen Belinda since the party so there is no gossip at all. There might have been but half a dozen people turned up on the wrong day.”

Belinda turned and gave him the evils “Don’t be so presumptuous!” She said as several people simultaneously burst out in protestations of

“This is not the wrong day.”

“All right, all right, maybe I was wrong-”

“Wrong day for what?” Belinda wanted to know

“Wrong day for us to talk about putting on a drama to raise money for charity. We all thought the house and grounds were the perfect place for it. I’m holding out for Midsummer Night’s Dream. Titania’s court, Oberon’s court , Puck, it’d be perfect! ”

“Faeries again. You really have a thing for faeries.”

“Well sure. “ Interjected Tina “What’s not to like? Haven’t you ever wanted to be a faery princess? Um, Belinda, are you alright?”
“Just a coughing fit. Don’t worry about it”

“Hey, maybe you could be in the play. Can you act? Belinda? Belinda? That cough is really nasty, you need something to drink!”

“I’ll get you a drink” said Stefan happily. “White wine OK?”
Help! Don’t leave me alone to be interrogated again!”

But it was too late, Stefan had gone and several pairs of eyes focused on the disguised teacher

“Good! That got rid of him. Tell us quickly, is it serious?” said Tina

“And what’s he like in bed? I always reckoned he’d be passionate and overwhelming but Toni’s betting on shy and gentle” Arwen chipped in

“I haven’t slept with him!”

“It’s serious then.” opined Toni

“What do you mean?” Belinda asked

“I mean that unlike some blokes, I reckon Stefan knows how to take ‘no’ for an answer, but if he wasn’t serious, I don’t see why he would. He’s young, good-looking, wealthy, and meets people all the time. If he wasn’t serious about you he’d just add you to his list of friends and move on.”

“Hang on,” said Arwen “How do you know that ? We’ve never seen him with anyone apart from the odd one night stand.”

“Exactly. Every girl we’ve ever seen him with it’s been so casual you’d miss it if you blinked. If he’s still with Belinda by the second date, he’s serious.”

“Wait.” Belinda protested “What makes you think this is a date? How do you know we aren’t just good friends?”

“Oh come on! Firstly you aren’t dressed for an evening with friends. Secondly, I can see how he looks at you. Thirdly, I’ve seen how you look at him. When he left the room you looked desolate.”

Believe me, not for the reasons you think, little Miss Spanish Inquisition.

Luckily Stefan chose that moment to return, laden not only with a bucket of chilled champagne and a carrier bag full of beers and spirits but a handful of take away menus.

“Everyone decide what they want to eat.” He announced “Belinda sweetheart, I ran out of plain white wine. I hope you don’t mind champagne?”

Before Belinda could react to being called “sweetheart” a chorus of groans arose

“Honestly Stefan, are you trying to tell us you still can’t cook? You promised you were going to learn.”

“I can cook!”

“Putting beans in a pan to warm up is not cooking. Especially when you forget to wash the pan and new life forms start evolving. I’ve known students who could take care of themselves better than you can.”

“I pay for everyone’s dinner!”

“Yes, but everyone else cooks when guests come round.”

“You can’t cook at all?” asked Belinda, startled into speech “But you have this fabulous house and grounds for parties. How can you not want to take advantage of it?”

“Exactly!” replied Toni “Keep telling him that Belinda, maybe you can change his ways.”

“What about barbecues?” Belinda persisted “Surely you could do one of those?”

“I can’t cook; stop rubbing it in. Anyway, I’d like to see you cook for this many people.”

“I could!” said Belinda, a little stung

“Really?”

“Really! “

“OK then, this weekend, we can have a party”.”
“Deal!”

Just a minute! That’ll mean I have to be Belinda AGAIN. And I’ll be Stefan’s hostess! What have I done??

Observing her stricken look Tina remarked
“Be careful Belinda. Stefan does that whole little boy lost thing so well you almost don’t notice he always seems to get exactly what he wants.”

“Hey!” said Stefan and Belinda simultaneously

“Ooh!” said Arwen “Careful Toni, I don’t think criticising Stefan to his girlfriend is a safe plan.”

“I didn’t say he did it deliberately, “ responded Toni mildly “It just always seems to work out that way.”

Hey! Why isn’t Stefan telling them I’m not his girlfriend. Stefan, I’m going to have serious words with you later – a joke is one thing but this is getting out of hand! Unless – I voluntarily came out here like this. Maybe he thinks I’ve changed my mind, or at least that I’m open to persuasion. I’ve got to nip that in the bud. I like Stefan, I can’t have him hurting himself with false hopes.

“Before you open that champagne Stefan, I’m sure I saw some more white wine in the kitchen. Come and help me look.”

Not subtle of me, but this is an emergency.

“Oof!” was all Belinda could say for a moment, as Stefan enveloped her in a bear hug the minute they passed through the kitchen door.

“Belinda, you are a genius!” Stefan whispered in her ear “ I was sure we were caught when in you come, gorgeous as can be and answer everyone’s questions before I even had time to panic. You are not just beautiful, you’re talented with it.”

“I don’t want to be beautiful and I’m not, even though your friend Heron can’t stop oggling my legs.”

“Don’t you mean ogling? And it’s Herrick by the way.”

“If I want to say oggling I’ll say oggling, and you’re missing the point!”

“OK, I’ll quietly warn him off. I don’t think he means anything by it though, you just have very good legs.”

“Stefan!” Belinda hissed “You’re still missing the point; I don’t want to have good legs because I am not a girl! I’m worried you’re forgetting that.”

“I’m a little worried about it too. It’s just incredibly hard to remember it looking at you. I did promise you I wouldn’t ever reveal your secret, didn’t I?”

“Of course you did.”

“Pity. I really like you this way; a spot of blackmail would be handy.”

“Stefan, you wouldn’t!” she said reproachfully

“No, I wouldn’t. I gave my word, and now I give you my word I will never hurt you or allow you to be hurt.”

Stefan’s devil may care grin flashed down at her

“Except for a little spanking, maybe.”

Belinda breathed in sharply with a mixture of relief, outrage and barely suppressed laughter.

“If I was a real girl I’d slap your face.” Belinda replied, but couldn’t help smiling as she did. There was something ineffably endearing about his sheer shamelessness.

“If you were a real girl I’d slap your –“

“Stop right there!”
They smiled at each other.

“For as long as you’re being Belinda for the benefit of my friends, will you still play my girlfriend?”

“Yes, for the sake of your reputation as a ladykiller, as long as you understand it stops after that. Mffl! You’re incorrigible! Honestly, I give you an inch and you steal a kiss! Let’s get back in there before you get carried away.”

“You didn’t find the wine then?” remarked Arwen slyly

“No, I must have run out after all. “ said Stefan, reaching for the champagne bucket “Would you like another drink Belinda?”

“A world of yes” replied Belinda, tugging at her skirt with one hand in order to minimise ogling and holding out her glass with the other.

I somehow think it’s going to be a long night

“Uffl! Wurghh! Kiwi fruit” Belinda thrashed in panic, not knowing where she was for a moment as she awoke.

“Morning sleeping beauty”

“AHH!” Belinda sat bolt upright in panic, but Stefan's voice, to her enormous relief, was coming from the doorway and not from the bed beside her.

“What happened?”

“You were in no fit state to drive, so you slept over. I didn't have the heart to wake you though so it's nearly 10am.

“Oh my God! I'm late for work! I haven't called in -”

“No, your doctor did that for you. There is a certificate with your school now stating that you are suffering from acute food poisoning, too much so to be able to call in yourself.”

“Huh?”

“Evil genius, remember? I called your school myself and used one of my programs to send a certificate from your GP's system.”

“Um, thank you, I think?”

“Are you OK, Belinda?”

“Are we alone in the house?”

“Yes”

“Then I'm Brian”

“No, I'm Brian of Nazareth!”

“Eh? Oh, I get it. Arrgh! Sorry, I think I'm still a little groggy.”

“I'd be surprised if you weren't. You were the life and soul of the party once you'd had a few glasses. “

“Sorry, I've really got to remember wine's stronger than beer, even if it is a bit of a girl's drink. Oh God, did I do anything embarrassing?”

“Not a thing,” replied Stefan reassuringly “You really helped make the evening go with a swing”

“Um,” said Belinda looking down at herself “Just how much of a swing?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean why do I appear to be wearing your shirt as a nightie?”

“You didn't want to sleep in your clothes and you really didn't want to wander about topless. You were very emphatic about that. You kept saying you weren't that sort of girl.”

“And, what the -the heck is – is – is?”

“Oh, that!You told me you were worried you might get overenthusiastic about Tina or Arwen as the night went on, so I dug that thing out.”

“Why did you have this thing?”

“I ordered it for our date but it didn't arrive in time. Luckily it wasn't needed.”

The 'thing' in question was a little curved device which slipped over a vital part of Brian's anatomy and kept it tucked away and out of sight. It's clasp wasn't uncomfortable but it was very firm and very obviously not coming off without the key.

“How did we manage to have that conversation discreetly?”

“We slipped away from the party for a little while. I think everyone jumped to evil conclusions about what we were doing, but I'm quite certain nobody jumped to the right conclusion.”

“This is worrying. I've only met your friends twice and already I'm the group slut.”

“You are nothing of the kind. Everyone likes my new girlfriend.”

“Stefan! I keep explaining that I am not your girlfriend!”

“You're dumping me already?” Stefan smiled in a way that left Belinda torn between suspicion and laughter. There was something endearingly shameless about the sheer incorrigibility of Stefan's flirting. “Don't you remember promising to be my girlfriend?”

“In front of your friends, yes. We're alone now.”

“I know,” Stefan smiled “but it can't hurt to keep in practice, can it? Especially since you're going to be hostess for the party on Saturday.”

“Oh crap! I actually volunteered didn't I? God, I am such an idiot!”

“No, no you aren't,” Stefan sat on the bed and took Belinda's hands in his “Didn't you enjoy yourself last night.”

“As far as I remember? Yes, I had a wonderful time. It was a really good evening; thank you.”

“So, what's to stop us having just as good a time on Saturday?”

“Nothing” said Belinda a little shyly “I'm just a little sad I won't be able to make real friends with any of them. I mean, you can't really be friends with someone if you're not being the real you.”

“That's no problem. We'll just introduce Brian some time next week.”

“We can't! They'd recognise me instantly!”

“Not if we explain you're Belinda's brother, or cousin or something.”

“A brother or cousin who is never seen in the same room as Belinda? I've seen this sitcom episode. It never ends well.”

“I'll think of something. Trust me, I'm a genius.”

“And modest with it!”
“Modest and I made you breakfast. So get yourself changed and dressed – you know what I mean - we'll eat and I can finish showing you around the place, the way I was doing before we were so rudely interrupted.”

Five minutes later Belinda erupted into the dining room clad only in a towel and utter panic

“Stefan! These breast forms! They won't come off!”

“Well of course they won't come off just by tugging, the way you're doing. You need the solvent. “

“I tried. It isn't working!”

“But – oh shit! Which tube of adhesive did you use?”

“The red one.”

“The red one? Why didn't you use the yellow one like you did the first time?”

“It's almost gone, is why; I didn't want to mix them for fear of - of this happening. Anyway, I only had a few minutes to get ready. I didn't see you coming up with any bright ideas last night?

“Whoa! You're right, you were brilliant. I promise I'm not criticising. But the adhesive in the red tube isn't designed to come loose for at least a month.”

“A month?? I can't stay like this for a month!”

“Of course not. All you have to do is apply the right solvent.”

“Do you have it?”

“Err”

“Stefan!”

“I sent everything to you along with the rest of the things for the party. Go and check if there's another red tube.”

Belinda turned and scampered away. Just moments later she was back.

“It isn't there. Stefan, what am I going to do?” Belinda pleaded

“Don't panic, I can easily order more.”

“Please do!” Belinda pleaded. Stefan flipped his laptop open and typed rapidly.

“OK, the good news is it's ordered.”

“Oh no, what's the bad news?”

“It'll take three to five days to get here.”

“Oh no!”

“I'm sorry petal,” Stefan looked at her with real regret as she subsided on to a chair clasping the towel firmly around her above the breastline “I promise everything will be fine. You were going to have to be ready for the party the day after tomorrow anyway. By the day after you can remove your err, whatchamacallits and just carry on regardless.”

“Did you just call my boobs 'whatchamacallits'?” Belinda said indignantly

“Sorry!”

It wasn't until much later that Belinda wondered why she should care.

“You're forgiven. I just don't know where to go from here.”

“Isn't it obvious? We have breakfast together, you get dressed, I walk you around the grounds, then we go get essential cooking supplies and a nice new outfit for you for the party.”

“Works in principle, but why do I need a new outfit?”

“Well everything you have has been seen. Don't you want a new outfit? It is a party after all.”

Belinda heaved a martyred sigh “Well if I have to be your girl again I suppose I should do it properly. Alright, let me get something on.”

'Something', turned out to be the full party dress, the sundress being too crumpled to wear and the layered skirt showing more leg than Belinda cared to display, but somehow she couldn't regret it. If I have to be a girl for the day Belinda thought to herself better to do it right.
******

“Um. What are you doing?”

“The dishes, of course. What does it look like?”

“I don't really do that. I mean, I have a lot and I can always wash a plate if I need it. I eat a lot of takeaways anyway.”

“Stefan! Firstly, eating take aways should be an occasional treat; it's not healthy to do it as a lifestyle. I know you're fit and healthy now, but you won't stay that way if you don't eat properly. Secondly, if you have a house like this you should clean up after yourself or it will turn into a giant slum.”

“No it won't. I call in maid services when it gets bad.”

“Stefan! That is not the point!”

“Are you telling me that what this place needs is a woman's touch?”

“Definitely. Stop laughing! I didn't mean me. I am not your woman. But since I'm doing a party here on Saturday I need everything to be clean and tidy.”

“I thought you were doing barbecue?”

“Unless you expect them to juggle two chicken wings, a lamb chop, a kebab, a sausage and a baked potato people still need plates. And that's without counting the salad course, the bread, the grapes and the vegetarian alternative. No one's a vegan are they?”

“Not that they've ever mentioned.”

“Thank Goodness. Vegans are impossible to cook for. Oh and I need to know if anyone is kosher or halal. Anything like that has to be prepared completely separately.”

“Half of them are pagans. “

“OK then, I'll start with a sacrifice and a libation.”

“Eh?”

“Had you going”

“Minx!”

“Temporarily. And by the way, I'm pretty sure that's a sexist term.”

Stefan spluttered with laughter. “I've seen your internet history and the footage you keep on your hard drive, remember? You are in no position to accuse anyone of sexism. Do you remember that girl you filmed wearing a collar and cat ears and nothing else? Do you remember what you did to her?”

“She enjoyed it.”

“It certainly looked that way. And then you dumped her as soon as you'd had your wicked way with her because – what was it you told her – oh yes 'I don't do relationships.' “.

“I know,” said Belinda, looking into the depths of the sink “I'm not a good person. “

“Hey! I didn't say you were a bad person, or anything of the kind.”

“No, but I do.”

“No, you did some bad things when you were a child. That isn't the same thing at all.”

“How can you say that? Look at all the pain I caused you,look at all the people I've hurt. Look at that poor girl you were just talking about. I wasn't a child then. “

“So be Belinda. Belinda's never done anything mean to anyone.”

“That sentence makes absolutely no sense. You can't be a different person just by choosing to be.”

“Really? So how else are you supposed to do it? If you don't like the things you've done, stop doing them. You can't change what you've done, but you can change what you do. All you have to do is take a decision and stick to it. “

“Just decide to be a good person? I wish it was that simple – oww! What was that?”

“Well you seemed intent on punishing yourself so I joined in. That was me spanking you. “

“Spanking me?? Oww! You did it again!”

“Feel better?”

Belinda narrowed her eyes “I can see I'm going to have to watch you. There's obviously some ways you're far more like me than I realised.”

“Au contraire. You were lamenting things you'd done to innocent people a minute ago. Doesn't that mean you deserve a spanking?”

Belinda gave her best death glare, but she was fighting to keep a smile off her face. Something about Stefan's mop of unruly curls and urchin grin made it almost impossible to stay angry with him for long.

“Probably, but just because I deserve something I don't think it automatically gives you the right to do it to me. Besides, I'm still evil, remember, “ she teased “I might do the same thing to you.”

Stefan's grin widened

“As you rightly say, we aren't children any more. I really don't think you could”

Belinda considered carefully. Stefan had certainly shot up and filled out since their school days. She still fancied her chances but proving physical superiority by force was exactly the sort of behaviour that made Brian a bad person

“Are you going to help dry these dishes?” Belinda said, quickly changing the subject.

“Can't we just leave them in the rack to dry?”

“No, because there is about three times as much washing up as the rack will hold; it's a miracle you don't have some sort of infestation. So stop moaning and give me a hand.”

“Yes dear”

“Hey! That isn't fair; I am not a nag. Besides, I'm the one doing the mucky bit. “

“You certainly are – your nail polish is coming off with all the scrubbing.”

“Fudge! Hey!”

Belinda yelped a little as Stefan embraced her from behind and hugged her warmly

“What's that in aid of?”

“Thank you for doing the washing up. And thank you for last night. And thank you for offering to do this barbecue on Saturday. And most of all, you're doing brilliantly as Belinda. Even to the point of saying 'Fudge!' when you want to swear.”

“Well I don't want your friends to think I'm a foul mouthed harridan, so I'm trying to be ladylike even when they aren't here. Otherwise I'm bound to make a fuc- a foul up, sooner or later.”

“Belinda come back!” Stefan shouted without warning. Belinda cried out in shock and then confusion as she realised she was not standing by
the sink but lying on an enormous four poster bed, with Stefan leaning over her, face wan with panic.

“Belinda, can you hear me?”

“I – I – what happened??”

“I said the trigger words that I was told would gently bring your memory back and you just collapsed! I carried you back to the house and you've been babbling and thrashing about for an hour. I was very worried; I mean I rang the hypnotist who blocked your memories of the transition in the first place and he swore you'd be fine, but even so, you and the girls have been planning this afternoon for ages, I figured you'd all be upset if you had to cancel it. Are you OK now?”

“I think so. Maybe. Only an hour? I was back, back at almost the start of all this, the night I came over after the ball.”

“But you have all your memories back now?”

“No. Only up until the morning after, the one when you called in sick for me. Oh crap! Does that mean this could happen again?”

“Hopefully. I mean, you want the rest of your memories back, don't you?”

“Wait. I need – I need to be sure of some things, before I say anything else. Where am I?

“In our bed, at Queen's Lake Castle.”

“Crap. So I'm definitely a girl again, not just dressed up?”

“Yes.”

“And I'm your fiancee? I mean, I actually agreed, you aren't just pranking me?”

“Yes.” Stefan bent over and kissed her softly and for a few moments there were no more words before Belinda pulled her mouth away and continued

“And despite the fact that it's twelve by the clock and we've had sex twice today you still appear to be very randy?”

“We do have an hour before Tina and co are due to arrive.”

“Hmm. OK, last question for now. What am I supposed to be doing this afternoon.”

“You, Tina, Toni and Arwen are going to pick out a wedding dress.”

“Oh my God!!”

A Faery Tale Christmas: A Stefan and Belinda Vignette

I awoke to the smell of freshly cut fir. Even without opening my eyes I knew I must be by the Christmas tree. Something was wrong there. I’d definitely gone to sleep in the master bedroom, the way I had pretty much every night since Stefan had made me into his girl. As I sometimes did I’d tried to pretend aloof indifference and go to sleep early. As usual I’d ended the evening flushed and sticky, curled up in Stefan’s arms. He was very determined to make sure I got used to my new life as his adored and adoring girlfriend. The constant ravishing was certainly an effective way of reminding me I was a girl now, on a level impossible to deny or ignore. I’d hardly developed my new body before he started playing it like a violin.

So how come I could smell the tree? I opened my eyes. There was dim greyness all about me with little spots of light here and there. I moved, reflexively – and then froze. Something, a cool, smooth, flat something, was wrapped around my upper arms. For a moment I almost panicked, before realising it was fairly loose and I could still move my lower arms, although something similar was wrapped around each wrist and around my hips. Otherwise I realised, I was naked. At the same moment I realised what it was that I was wrapped in.

Ribbons, that was what! Very broad silk ribbons. And the spots of light were from airholes in a cardboard box. My eyes were beginning to adjust now and I could see the outline of giant bows all over me. And I wasn’t by the Christmas tree, I was under it. I took a deep breath.

“Stefan!! Stefan, why have I been gift wrapped??!”

There was a rustling as the top of the box came off and Stefan’s boyish grin appeared. I reminded myself to be stern. It wasn’t easy. I melt into giggly fondness when he smiles like that and I think he knows it.

“You said I could have anything I wanted for Christmas. I chose you.”

“Gaaahhh!!”

It was no good. I couldn’t resist him. Besides, as a former man I knew just how good I must look to him and couldn’t help a little touch of pride in that.

“Oh well,” I said with a mixture of real and mock resignation “If you must.” As he unwrapped me I reminded myself that Christmas is a time for giving.
THE END

A Faery Tale Princess: A Stefan and Belinda Vignette

I shudder pleasurably as a million-million snowflakes dance inches from my nose. As far as the eye can see the grounds of Stefan’s castle are turning white, a winter wonderland just for us. I am safely inside of course, watching through the lead paned windows, warm in my long-skirted Victorian style dress, with its multiple petticoats. Don’t look at me like that. Stefan likes me elegant and I like making Stefan happy. How much of that is post-hypnotic conditioning I’m still not sure. Right now he’s very happy. He’s standing right behind me, long arms pulling me into his embrace.
“See doushenka? The winter snows set in. Time to don the Gloomy and Purposeless Trousers of Uncle Vanya and stoke the samovar.”
Unseen, I roll my eyes. Stefan feels the need to keep up this cod-Russian stuff to maintain the family tradition. One of his grandfathers was Russian. We think. Since he’s an orphan and I was abandoned as a child genealogy isn’t really an exact science for either of us.
Of course it would be harder for me to trace my family line. When he turned me from Brian, his childhood bully, into Belinda, his ideal girlfriend Stefan arranged to have any evidence that there ever was a Brian Jenkins altered or destroyed. That’s why I’m officially three years younger than I used to be and without any qualifications – pretty much utterly dependent on Stefan for anything my salary as a pathetically underpaid nursery school worker doesn’t cover.
Not that that’s much of a hardship. Stefan is a multi-millionaire and loves to shower me with treats. There’s nothing I can’t have as long as I accept I owe it all to him. I suppose there’s no control freak like a former geek who’s finally got the children’s home bully where he wants him – or her.
In a way I’m very lucky. Stefan is generous, kind, funny, affectionate, thoughtful, endearing and brilliantly, dazzlingly clever. If he hadn’t drugged me, hypnotically conditioned me, given me an unwanted sex change and made me into his demure yet passionate love slave I couldn’t find a word to say against him. The worst of it is, he is a genius – so smart that even though the best conditioning available in the world couldn’t directly change my heterosexuality he found a way to make me respond to him. He arranged for me to become aroused every time I became embarrassed. Right this minute I’m wearing a corset and French knickers under a dress. Exactly how embarrassed do you think I feel? Quite.
“Do you know what this reminds me of?” Stefan asks
“Tell me.”
“The beginning of Snow White.”
“Huh?”
“Do you know the story?”
“Not really. Tell me more?” Stefan sometimes forgets – his parents were very good ones right up until the car crash that killed them. Mine didn’t read me fairy tales or anything else. I’ve sort of got to like hearing them from him.
“The story begins when the Queen is sitting sewing by the window of a castle just like this one, on a winters’ day just like this one and pricks her finger with a needle. A drop of blood falls on the ebony of the window sash. She looks at it and thinks how beautiful a daughter would be who had lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow and hair as black as ebony. Nine months later Snow White is born and the Queen has her wish.”
“Stefan! “ I say in warning tones. “Are you comparing me to a fairy tale princess?!”
“Yes!” He says squeezing me so hard I can’t say anything at all for a moment. Stefan’s bear hugs are the only thing I know that makes me more breathless than wearing a tight corset. This may be a blessing. I’m trying not to ask him what a samovar is. (I know what doushenka means; it’s ‘my little soul’. For a kidnapping, brainwashing, forcibly feminising, mad scientist who plays computer games he can be very romantic.) It’s not that I don’t want to know what a samovar is; I do. It’s just that if I ask him I know what will happen. He will explain, in a lively, interesting fashion, and then he will be carried away by the expression he insists I always wear when I ask these sorts of questions. He calls it my ‘puzzled kitten’ look and I know the effect it will have.
First, he’ll kiss me and I’ll start to melt. He’ll caress me and I’ll tremble under his touch. Then he’ll pick me up and carry me over to the huge fur rug in front of the open fireplace where a cheery blaze of birch logs is roaring away. He’ll strip me, slowly, carefully. (OK, he’ll probably leave the corset on and just pop my breasts out of the top to play with. ) An hour of slow, masterful, insistent lovemaking later I’ll be lying spent in his arms and another inch of my soul will have been conquered and...and..and...Oh God, I’m so easy.
I turn in his arms, tilt my face up towards his wrinkle my nose and say “What’s a samovar?” He kisses me.
A few minutes later I’m lying underneath him wearing only my corset and trying to send up a silent prayer before I so lose control of myself that I can’t think.
Please God, I know I’m stuck as a girl and I’m helpless to change that. I know I’m stuck as Stefan’s girl and I’m helpless to change that. Please don’t make me more helpless, Dear Lord. Please don’t let me fall in love!

Chapter Two: Fourteen girls grabbing balls

I tried to hold on to that thought as I made my way to my first class – PE, or physical exercise. Yes, English schools let you drop out of this at sixteen but I wasn’t working to school rules but those set by The Organisation and the Dacres and for some reason one or other had decreed that I was going to play sport as a girl. Of course, my new school held that rugby, soccer or even hockey just weren’t ladylike enough. I was about to open my school girl sporting career by playing my first ever game of netball.

Netball, for the uninitiated, is played by two teams of seven, each member of which is allocated to a specific area of the court, which she (and it is a she, mens’ netball is about as popular as mens’ embroidery classes) is not allowed to leave.

No one is allowed to tackle – it’s a completely non-contact sport – but that doesn’t matter because you aren’t allowed to keep the ball once you’ve got it either, you have to pass almost immediately or it counts as a foul. At either end of the court is a hoop, set considerably lower than a basketball hoop, into which you make ladylike throws from a short distance to score a goal. Slam-dunks are not allowed. Netball is also habitually played in little pleated gym skirts and matching T-shirts like the ones I had in my bag.

Netball teams do not usually have names the way American high school teams do, but for some strange reason the school had overturned that tradition, so now our school team was the St Blasius of Cappadocia Academy Tigercats. Fortunately I wasn’t going to make the team; I’d seen the uniforms and they looked like they’d been designed by a cheerleader on a sugar high.

I was already going red as I wended my way down the corridor, keeping a careful eye out for any boys sneaking up on my butt. I was just about to go into a girls’ changing room. Regardless of what I looked like, I defy anyone to spend a lifetime as a man and then feel relaxed about that. Add in the fact that I was really twenty-one and it just felt inappropriate. Maddy, the only person I knew in the whole place, unless being groped counts as an introduction, had abandoned me, having given up sport the year before. So much for my native guide! Still, she had promised to meet me in the library later.

“Who are you?” blared a leathery, angry looking woman of maybe forty as I came through the changing room door. On top of the thoughts I’d just been having this was almost enough to make me turn and run.

“I er um”

“New girl?”
“I, um”

“Don’t say ‘um’. I detest people saying ‘um’? Are you any good at netball?”

“I er”

“Don’t say ‘er’ either. You must know if you’re any good or not. Just don’t be one of those deferential girls. ‘Oh, I don’t know Mrs Davidson, I don’t like to admit to being good, people might not like me. In fact I don’t even like to get sweaty in case it puts the boys off’ “ She rolled her eyes exasperatedly “So are you any good or not?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never played.”

“Oh. What have you played?”
“Soccer.”

“God help us. Right you’re with Kirsty’s team. Try not to commit too many fouls.”

Kirsty was presumably the tall girl now making a ‘don’t panic’ face at me from behind the woman’s shoulder.

“Hi, there...?”

“April.”

“Hi there, April. As you haven’t played before I’ll put you in defence. All you have to do is try to catch any balls going by and pass them to someone else on our team. We’re red today, so don’t forget to grab an armband.” She leaned close and whispered “Don’t worry about Mrs Davidson. She just likes to keep people on their toes.”

And with that she began to strip off. I was in a room full of healthy teenage girls unconcernedly taking their clothes off and you know what? Nothing. Alright, not nothing, twenty-one years as a heterosexual male doesn’t go away all at once, but between embarrassment, a deep desire not to be anything like the boys from the corridor and having had my system flooded with massive doses of female hormones for months it wasn’t a problem.

Sadly I realised that it wasn’t inappropriate for me to be in a girls’ locker room at all. I really was a girl and a pretty one too. My knickers lay snug and flat over my pubic mound, my full breasts invited the gaze of the passerby, my hips and bottom curved enticingly. I wasn’t even the tallest girl in the room, or the heaviest built. Nobody could tell I wasn’t born this way. I was going to be the ravishee, not the ravisher. My new role in life was as a girlfriend, wife and arrgh!

I shook myself. There was no sense getting maudlin. I’d known for a while now there was no escape from my female status, and I’d promised myself to be the one thing no Organisation, no brainwashing, threat or blackmail could ever take away from me. I was going to be a good person, to give friendship and love, whether I received it or not. I was going to be nice to people, make the world a better place and the first step to that was to get changed, get out there and stop moping. Go Tigercats!

Besides, I reminded myself as we filed out to the netball court, there were far worse things I could be. Better a girl than one of the Grope Patrol!

Minutes into the game I was starting to realise that there might be more reasons than being ladylike for the rules of netball. I wasn’t Dolly Parton but I was quite buxom enough that – sports bra or not – I, well, wobbled. Not just up top either, my bottom was trying to join in the fun, though not quite as urgently.

On top of this, although I’d brought a sports bra to school, I hadn’t changed my knickers. This meant that every time I jumped too high or too fast to try to intercept the ball I risked giving everyone watching an eyeful of my purple satin underwear. That included the spectators. I hadn’t known that quite so many boys would develop an interest in watching netball on sunny mornings. Vincent Dacre didn’t appear to be among them. I wasn’t sure whether that was good, because it meant at least I wasn’t going to be married to a lech or bad because it meant he wasn’t unable to resist my charms. Or maybe it was neither and he had class?

In the meantime I was on display for the edification of a lounging, laughing, occasionally leering audience and I was getting hot and bothered. I tried to ignore it and with an ever so slightly unladylike jump managed to score from way back. The cries of surprise and congratulation from my team mates were good to hear – I’d missed feeling like a success.

Unfortunately they were almost drowned out by the whoops and whistles from the audience. I flushed scarlet. No wonder girls did better in single sex education. I couldn’t do a thing without an appreciative and disrespectful commentary. In this case one that was openly debating whether the colour of my knickers was a sign of sexual repression!

“Clear off you lot!” shouted Kirsty. “We’re trying to play sports here.”

“Sport is for guys. Go and have some babies.”

I gaped. I couldn’t believe someone had actually said that. From the look on Kirsty’s face neither could she. And worse, it had had the desired effect. It had shut her up, leaving her speechless and open mouthed. Me too. That was when I realised; sexist put downs don’t have to be something a guy believes as long as he learns that they work.

“You! Head’s office. Now!” Mrs Davidson was heading straight for the offender and he blenched and turned away without another word leaving us to get on with the game under the gaze of an at least a moderately quieter crowd of lecherous youths.

The whole thing had had an effect on me though. I could still throw but when it came to jumping, for the rest of the game the most I could bring myself to do was a little knees-together bunny hop. Mind you, I noticed that I wasn’t alone in that; clearly I’d discovered a hidden reason as to how the rules and tactics of netball had evolved in the first place.
Still, I wasn’t too bad at it, better than average, I thought, a thought that was confirmed at the end of the game as Mrs Davidson came up to me.

“New girl. April. You lost it for a while there but overall I was impressed. If you can keep your thoughts off what the boys think of you, you might shape up. We’re one short for the next game so I’m going to put you on the reserves. You should get at least part of a game. Practice is tomorrow afternoon at four – don’t be late.”
She walked away leaving me speechless as three thoughts hit me simultaneously

Oh my God, that is so unfair. It’s not like I asked the boys to distract me!

Oh my God, I’m on a school team!

Oh my God, I’m going to have to wear that stupid uniform!

Chapter Three: A Red Letter Day

Showers. They’re different for girls. Now, I’m not talking about some soft-porn shower room scenario here, but outside of keeping clean there are strict limits to how far I’d explored my new body. It was at moments like this that the shock of contrast really hit me. OK, not just moments like this. I’d been post-hypnotically conditioned to be scared of spiders. I was starting to wonder if I’d also been post-hypnotically conditioned to never quite get used to my condition. I kept thinking I was getting used to things, a few hours, a day, sometimes even two would pass and then the utter contrast between what I once was and who I had become would hit me like a breaker crashing onto rocks. The trigger this time was when I realised that my breasts had become full enough that I had to lift them up and clean underneath or fall victim to sweaty boob syndrome. The curse of care and upkeep of my curves had struck. I was going to have to do this for the rest of my life.

Or maybe not. I realised. Soon, even the right to take care of my own body might be a thing of the past. A month from now I might be sharing a shower with Vincent Dacre, looking up at him as he soaped my small, soft body all over, possessively, smoothly, carefully, his big rough hands roaming freely, heating me up for, for...for something that would mean I needed another shower! I emitted a little groan.

“April, are you OK?”

I jumped and turned scarlet. Kirsty’s concerned face was peering at me.

“Uh, just easing the shoulder muscles.” I lied. I hope she believed me. I hope she hadn’t heard the moan. I wasn’t sure if that groan was fear or despair or something else. Really. Honestly.

“OK, well, be careful. If you think you’ve got a strain Mrs Davis will let you cry off the game you know. She’s not an ogre, for all that she barks at people. In fact she’s really nice underneath.”

I believed her, but right now the gym teacher was the least of my worries. What was happening to me? My first day of school as a girl was always going to be a strain but so far I’d suffered nervousness, anxiety, tears, mood swings and now inappropriate shower thoughts. I surely couldn’t go on like this. I fled the shower as soon as I’d got the last of the soap off me, towelled off vigorously, thanking heavens that at just past shoulder length my hair was still short enough that I could mousse it damp and leave it to its own devices. Then I fled down the corridor still blushing furiously. I hadn’t made it to my next class before it happened.

A painful cramp hit me, like a jab to the kidneys and I winced. Something suddenly wasn’t right in my abdomen – not exactly painful but distinctly uncomfortable. I ran the rest of the way to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall and sat down. I didn’t need to go. So what did I need, what the heck was going on? That’s when I noticed the tiny darker spots against the purple of my knickers.

I was having my first period.

I sat there a long time and let it sink in. I was having my first period. Like the Lady of Shallott, the curse had come upon me. Mother Nature was punishing me for not yet having made her Grandmother Nature. The lining of my womb was renewing itself, so that it would be ready to have a fertilised egg – my egg- settle in it to grow into a baby. I said it four or five times in different ways just trying to accept what I couldn’t possibly deny.

Yet again I’d been served up with indisputable proof that I really, truly was a girl. No, I was a woman. I could have babies. The chances were I would have babies. Vincent Dacre’s babies. A teenage boy who I didn’t even know yet was going to impregnate me as part of his insane well-meaning control freak parents’ plan to buy him the perfect life and he didn’t even know it yet. What the Hell was I going to do? I think that was the point where I realised I was crying.

I let myself cry for a little. The traumas of the last year or so had taught me that sometimes tears could be a relief and whether the reason was trauma or hormones they came easier nowadays. Then I pulled myself back together. There’s a fine line between a therapeutic weep and becoming a cry baby and I was determined not to cross it. Vincent was only a teenager and hopefully headed for University. Provided I remembered to take a few elementary precautions it would be years before the workings of my new womb became an issue for the purposes of anything other than PMS. Take that, Mother Nature!

And who knew, there might still be a way out of this. I frankly doubted it, but still. Or Vincent might not want children, or – a hundred things might save me.

And if not? Then I would scream and pray and rage and curse God and the Dacres and the Organisation and the hour that I was born and the night on which it was said, ‘There is a child conceived’ . And after that?

Then I would love my children, never, ever let anything hurt them and never let on that the mere thought of them had once been enough to send me into hysterics. I would do everything I could to ensure they were raised in a stable, happy home. Children didn’t ask to be born. They deserve every bit of love and support and help we can give them, whatever the cost. Yes, I am aware I am both over-protective and over-emotional when it comes to parenting. I’m an orphan, it goes with the territory. Sue me.

Oh my God! They knew! They knew I’d react like this!

I suddenly realised that this had probably been a factor in the Dacres’ decision to pick me. The Organisation, whatever else could be said about them, knew everything about manipulating human psychology, so they knew that I was a deeply unlikely candidate to ever neglect or hurt a child. I started laughing, because I had to laugh or cry and I’d cried more than enough. I, the former Adam Bell, thrustingly ambitious and successful salesman, womaniser, black belt in Shi-Kon Karate was sitting with my knickers round my ankles in a girls’ bathroom because someone had looked at me and known I’d try my best to be a good mother.

With the mental conditioning the Organisation had given me, embarrassment meant I became turned on. I braced myself for a knee-trembling burst of lust – and didn’t get one.
I wasn’t ashamed, I realised. I wasn’t ashamed at all. Being a good parent was a good thing to be. Granted I’d be the father if I had my choice, but I didn’t. But male or female, being a good parent was a thing to be proud of.
Of course, first, I had to get my man! That did get my knees trembling. The whole concept still gave me the willies. Pun unintended!

I focussed on what I knew about Vincent Dacre, casting my mind back to the day his parents had taken me to their home and let me loose in his room so that I could scope out his secrets and learn everything about my target as part of the great sales campaign that he could never, ever find out was being aimed at him.....

I have never seen anyone with this big and this varied a music collection was my first thought as I stepped into Vincent Dacre’s room and nearly tripped over the guitar leaning against the bottom of the bed as if it had been hastily put down by someone who’d been strumming away up until the very final moment before they left. Even from across the room I could see the mass of shelved DVDs that lined the whole of the far wall. Vincent appeared to have everything. Rock, indie, heavy metal, thrash metal, rave, acid house, folk, country, Country and Western, Blues, pop, punk, the Clash, Fugazi, Chagall Guevara, Kate Bush, Fairport Convention, Johnny Cash, Kenny Rogers, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, Muddy Waters, Nirvana, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, – the only things missing, so far as I could see were rap and trad jazz. They were probably stacked under the bed.

“I’m so sorry about the mess.” Mrs Dacre murmured from behind me. “He doesn’t like me poking about in his room, even to tidy it; you know how boys are.”

Since I used to be one, yes, I do. I thought but all I said was

“Please don’t worry about it. I’ve seen far worse.”
“I’ll leave you to it then. And please don’t let the mess put you off. I’m sure you’ll be a civilising influence.”

I certainly hope so I thought, as the door closed behind me Since I’m going to be responsible for clearing up after him, and something tells me you’re going to be the sort of mother-in-law who’s more house proud about your son’s place than about your own. Argh! OK, that’s a later problem. Focus!

The walls that weren’t devoted to music had bookshelves flanking a little computer table, but the books seemed to have bred on the shelves; they overflowed into teetering piles scattered everywhere like the spoor of some giant beast that crapped literature. A look at the titles revealed, at first, absolutely no discernible theme. History, Shakespeare, Dickens, fantasy, science fiction, historical literature, legends, thrillers, politics, mingled indiscriminately.
I was going to have to widen my circle of interests. Either that or perfect a wide-eyed “You’re so clever, tell me more” look.

The second was probably easier, but life would be more fun if I genuinely made an effort to take an interest in his interests. Of course, I could still use the second method to learn. Would he be pleased or not if I took notes when he was talking? Ok, that was completely over the top! Maybe I was getting a little light headed what with all I’d been through.

I looked under the mattress. No porn mags. Hey, maybe he really was classy! Or maybe his imagination did better things than a photographer could. Or maybe, not growing up in an orphanage – oh, I’m sorry ‘Childrens’ Home’ – he had unsupervised internet access and didn’t need to shell out for magazines the way a lot of the lads in the Home had done.

No, not me. I’d always worried about how a girl would feel if she saw me with them. Having subsequently been the subject of some very dubious photos for The Organisation’s sales brochure had only confirmed my opinion. Nothing else was under the bed either except more books, a lost plectrum and a sock that had obviously gone there to die.

I moved a mingled mass of old books and suppurating clothes from a chair and stood on it to access the top cupboard. Too tall for me or his mother to reach unaided, surely this was where he would keep the incriminating secrets that would tell me the way into his affections. A mass of odds and ends nearly fell on me and an exercise book bounced off my head as I frantically crammed things back into place, none of them, as far as I could see, of any interest to me. Stepping down from the chair – a chair, I realised, that Vincent wouldn’t have needed to reach the cupboard You really are going to be the little woman a voice whispered in my head – I picked up the exercise book.

Paydirt. Or at least, a start. It was full of poems – some of which were song lyrics really, judging from the repetition and non sequiturs – interspersed with musings on various topics obviously written by Vince himself. And those topics, as you’d expect, included women! Now, all I had to do was find Vincent’s ideal woman, mould myself into her and I was all sorted. There is something so profoundly wrong with this idea that the mind boggles. But then it wasn’t my stupid idea in the first place, I’m just doing as I’m told. Which I hope isn’t part of being Vincent’s ideal woman.

A few poems later, I wasn’t entirely sure. The lyrics or verses or whatever were ambiguous, but there were plenty of references to sweepings off of feet, passionate ravishing, ties of love etc to make two things certain.

Firstly, he liked brunettes. Hurrah! At least I wasn’t going to have to go blonde.

Secondly, unless he lived entirely in imaginings that he didn’t dare put into practice – and if he did it was my job to overcome that – then the first girl to truly inspire Vincent Dacre was going to be subjected to a level of burning, passionate, possessive desire that would leave her –me! - not only breathless, but sitting down carefully for months.

On the other hand better to be a young man’s darling than an old man’s slave. Or is that the other way round? Wait, slave, oh no!

Dropping to my knees I burrowed under the bed again. I must have subconsciously noticed the first time round and blanked it because now I knew what these books under the bed were.
“Oh no! Why me?!”

Copies had circulated round the Home, usually worn half to pieces and inclined to fall open at certain passages. They were a series of fantasy novels written by a teeth-grindingly bad writer whose butchering of the English language could only be justified by the fact that apparently in real life he was a professor of German philosophy who spoke English as a second language. It didn’t matter, no one read his books because they thought he was a good writer, it was purely and entirely because of the plot – and with a few minor alterations in detail it was the same plot in book after book.

On a pre-technological world a beautiful woman, either one from that world or brought from Earth by aliens for their own purposes, it made no difference which, was enslaved. She would be locked into a metal collar with her name and that of her new owner engraved on it. Usually her name would be changed just to make it clear to her that she was just an animal now. She would be branded, literally, with a red hot iron. Then she would be stripped, or given a very brief, translucent piece of cloth as her only clothing, then whipped, then...well, you get the general idea.

Invariably, usually in identical, pedantically precise, unnaturally stiff, dull terms, the girl would be raving about how much she loved all this by the end of her first good orgasm. That wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst of it was what dull lives the girls seemed to lead after this point, rarely saying anything other than “Yes Master” or “No Master”.

So, did Vincent read these because they were around and they were books about sex, a topic in which any healthy adolescent has an unhealthy interest, or did he want to...had I just discovered the real reason why none of his relationships lasted? Was I doomed to be just a plaything? Submissive, humiliated, displayed, docile, obedient? The whole idea was just so...so.. Embarrassing.
“Oh no!”

I was vulnerable to any kinky desires Vincent had in the worst possible way. Firstly, I didn’t dare run or resist. Secondly, and far, far worse, the Organisation’s brainwashers had tied my sexual desires to my sense of embarrassment. Every time I got embarrassed, I got turned on. I’d thought nothing could be more embarrassing than being a girl. What about being a slave girl?

Sure enough, I could feel, even without slipping a finger inside those oh, so embarrassing frilly lace knickers I wore, that I was wet. Wet and ready for whatever my new lord and literal Master, whether he knew it or not, wanted to do to me. I was going to be a cook in the kitchen, a lady in the drawing room and a –
“I am not a whore!” I admonished myself, ignoring the warm throbbing that seemed to have crept into a vital part of my anatomy and the twinge in my stomach.

“I am a good person. That means I will do the only good thing open to me in my situation and try to make this poor boy, whose parents are helping a complete stranger to manipulate him by letting me in here, happy. And if I have to be passionate, abandoned and –and-and- spanked, to do it, so be it!”

And the fact that you are actually trembling a little with emotion at the thought has nothing to do with that decision whispered my inner voice.
“Well, of course not. That tremble is mostly fear.” I murmured aloud
Sure. .
I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that my inner voice was a meanie.

Abandoning the memory and focusing on the here and now, trapped in a girl’s bathroom , I decided I was probably worrying unnecessarily. Vincent might not be into this kind of thing on any scale to worry about. After all, I’d read a couple of the same books and I wasn’t. In any case, it didn’t matter, what I had to work out was how to get close to him. Unless any bright ideas or handy encounters came up I would have to start with either books or music. I was going to have to find out when his next gig was and in the meantime get cracking on reading some of the books I’d seen in his bedroom - when I wasn’t stalking him through the corridors waiting for a chance to do a smile and a hair flip at him without looking like a stalker.

Or I could just go up to him and say something submissive, if I really wanted him to think I was crazy.
“Yes Master, no Master, three bags full Master.” I murmured derisively.

“April?”

“Ahhh!” I shrieked and nearly jumped out of my skin, flushing a fiery crimson. Someone else was in the bathroom!

“Who’s that?!”

“It’s me, Maddy. I got worried when you didn’t meet me in the library. Are you all right?”

Oh Lord, please, please don’t let her have heard me! How loud did I say that? What possessed me to say it at all?

“I – I’m alright, I’m just stuck. I’m sorry, I did mean to meet you.”

“It’s OK, really. I was just a bit worried about you. Shall I fetch the nurse? Are you ill?”

“Not exactly. My, my period started and I haven’t got...anything” I finished lamely.

“Don’t worry. I have.” I heard the sound of Maddy rummaging in her capacious ethnic bag and the inevitable clatter of items falling to the floor. Thank goodness this was a girls’ bathroom; if it had been a boys one then she really wouldn’t have wanted to pick any of them up again.

“Are pads OK?”

“Yes! Oh thank you Maddy, you are a life saver. I feel like such an idiot, I just wasn’t expecting this.” A moment’s awkward fumbling and I could emerge, safe in the knowledge that I wasn’t going to leak through my knickers and leave a bloody trail everywhere I went. Periods are proof positive that God is a man!

I was still almost purple with embarrassment. I just prayed to the God I now considered a sexist brute that Maddy hadn’t heard what I’d said just before she spoke. If she had though, I would have expected her to be as purple as I was. She looked a little pink but gave me her familiar, helpful, slightly worried smile.

“Feeling any better?”

“Infinitely better. You are such a lifesaver.” Maddy went a little pinker, but beamed. She was so nice and yet the way she reacted to compliments suggested she wasn’t used to them. I would worry about Maddy, except that she was coping with life far better than I was today so it would have been patronising.

Of course, she had a lot more practice being a girl.

“Have I missed class?”

“No such luck I’m afraid, we’ve got about ten minutes to get to Domestic Science. If you’re feeling up to it, that is. I can still take you to the nurse’s office if not.”

“Thanks Maddy, but I feel a lot better knowing why I’ve been so tense. I’m sorry I’ve been so flaky with you today.”

“Don’t be silly. You got a period and a first day of school and a close encounter with teenage perverts all together. In your shoes I’d have gone completely mental. All you did was get upset when you were groped. Come on, let’s get there early and grab some decent seats.”

Chapter Four: Where Are You Going, Said Meet-on-the-Road

A few hours later I was walking out of the school gates reflecting that life could definitely be worse. Maddy and I were becoming firm friends and I seemed to get on well enough with her immediate circle. I know I wasn’t at school to make friends but it was better than the alternative. Also it meant I didn’t have the added hurdle of trying to persuade Vincent to date a complete social outcast.

Most tangible of today’s achievements, I was carrying an apple and rhubarb crumble which I’d made in Domestic Science class and was now bearing home in triumph to Mrs Turnbull. We could have it for dessert , meaning I wouldn’t have to make a dessert this evening – frequently one of my chores. Mrs Turnbull was very traditional about chores for girls. Russell had chores too, but his mostly involved helping Mr Turnbull rake leaves or chop logs for the fire.

It seemed very unfair; I was only a few hundred yards from home and had suffered nothing worse than the discovery that it was very difficult to stop your skirt riding up when you were holding a crumble when a large figure stepped out of the patch of scrubby thorn bushes and woodland that bordered the road causing me to jump and send my culinary masterpiece crashing to the ground!

“You!”

“Yeah, me. “ said Mr Tait, scumbag, pervert and worst of all, muscle for The Organisation, whose bulldog jowled face I had hoped never to see again.

“Come with me.” He gestured into the patch of wood from which he had emerged like a low rent version of Banquo’s Ghost.

“Why?” I was still shocked but not so shocked that I’d forgotten to mistrust everything this guy did and said.

“Because I got a message for you. Because I got this and because I’m telling you to, you stupid cow.”

‘This’ was a flat black box a little smaller than a man’s palm with a button on it and the sight of it told me I was beaten. All he had to do was press that button and I would be in mind-scrambling, wordless, screaming agony for as long as he chose. Silently I abandoned the sad remnants of my afternoon’s work on the pavements and followed Mr Tait into the woods –an activity any girl in her right mind would normally be well advised to avoid. Although I didn’t want to admit it, and certainly wasn’t planning to show it I was afraid. Being groped this morning had well and truly reminded me that I was vulnerable in new and different ways now that I was female.

We stopped behind a little cluster of thorn trees maybe a foot or two higher than a tall man – quite enough to hide us from the road.

“Now what do you want?” You may have twigged that Mr Tait and I did not get on. Of all The Organisation’s minions I’d met he was the only one who I had every reason to suspect did this out of choice. Everyone else I knew or suspected had been put under intolerable pressures. Tait, I was pretty sure, did this because he enjoyed tormenting people. Of course, I may have been misjudging him.

“Kneel down first, slut.” Then again, maybe I wasn’t.

“Why?”
I hit the ground shrieking before he turned the Pain off.

“That’s why.”

I struggled to my knees.

“That’s better. You look way prettier that way, bitch.”

Did I mention that when I was first captured I’d put Tait down for the count with a blow to solar plexus? Something told me he was still holding a grudge. When I’d been waiting to be ‘deflowered’ on the orders of The Organisation he’d volunteered and been prevented by one of his colleagues in a public and humiliating way. I suspected he was still holding a grudge for that as well.

“I’m not a bitch.” Risky, but Tait was making my skin crawl. I had to say something.

“Yeah, you are. You’re a bitch to me and a whore for everyone else. I know you spread your legs for Elliott.” I flushed. Technically true, though not by the choice of either of us. Geordie Elliott was as trapped by threats to his children as I was by the Pain and the new body that had been forced upon me.

“The alternative was being tortured to death. And he was still way nicer about it than you. What do you expect? Do you think I could ever like you? Just give me the damn message!”

“There is no message from The Organisation. Just one from me. You’re a whore. They’ve been too soft with you and if you don’t get put in your place you’re going to fuck this mission up. It’s time to learn that mouth of yours isn’t for speaking. You know what to do whore, so do it.” He pulled his trouser zip down.

I was trembling with fear and disgust now. I’d once been strong enough and fast enough to flatten this man but that was when I was the salesman and martial artist Adam Bell not the schoolgirl April May and worse, before I’d had the implant that meant one press of a button could render me helpless and agonised. I calculated the chances of getting to my feet and disabling him before he could press the button. On a generous estimate, no chance at all. Shuddering, I reached forward to free a thick, stubby organ from Mr Tait’s pants, opened my mouth, winced at the thought of the taste – and prepared to bite down hard!

As it happened, I was saved by a whirlwind. A furious, screaming whirlwind in the form of a thorny branch lashing directly into Mr Tait’s face again and again in a frenzy driven by the stick thin arms of – Russell.

I was being rescued by my thirteen year old foster brother and as I struggled to adjust Mr Tait fell backwards, the black box flying off into a thicket of brambles and undergrowth. The branch Russell had chosen wasn’t thick or heavy enough to deliver a knockout blow, even if it had been in stronger hands but it was well equipped with thorns and spines and spiky twigs and a length of trailing bramble caught up in it only made matters better. As Russell struck again and again with hysterical strength Mr Tait’s face was becoming invisible under scores of tiny rivulets of blood. He wasn’t going to be happy about this. If he made it up I was in real danger – and so was Russell.

I scrambled to my feet, tights torn to ribbons and grabbed Russell by his shoulders.

“Stand back, stand back, or you’ll hit me.”

That was the only thing I could think of that might cut through Russell’s berserker frenzy and it did, if only for a couple of seconds of confusion. I used those seconds to step ahead of him and balance my entire weight one legged on the narrow edge of my wedge heel, right on top of Tait’s package. I’m not sure quite what he said but I think dogs could have heard it clearly.

“Next time you call me a whore, remember you’re not even fit to be a pimp!” I spat and then turned to flee, Russell and I supporting each other.
OK, it was more him supporting me. I don’t know how that undernourished, frail body of his did it, half hysterical and exhausted by reaction as he was. Tears were pouring down both our cheeks and I had to stop to be sick before we reached the road. God knows what I looked like but for once that was the least of my problems.
Now I had to worry about Russell.

Russell had done a truly heroic thing, in the face of potential death or serious injury, this neglected, unloved child who, before the Turnbull’s had never had so much as an example of decent behaviour, never mind heroism, in his entire life

Russell deserved thanks. He deserved a medal. He deserved anything he wanted. And I was going to have to hurt him, because what he wanted was me. I was the princess of his imaginings and he’d just been a genuine White Knight and rescued me. Everyone knows what happens next. I had to nip this in the bud before his heart got broken, because I couldn’t, for a thousand reasons, starting with the fact that he was only thirteen and including the fact that if he interfered with their plans for me to seduce Vincent The Organisation wouldn’t hesitate to do to him what they had done to me. If I hadn’t been crying already, the cruelty of it would have made me weep.

“Russell!” I grasped him firmly by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Russell, look at me and listen. You’re a hero, Russell. That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen, so much so that I’m scared. You mustn’t ever put yourself in danger like that again.”
“April, I had to, I saw him lure you off the road when I was walking from the bus stop. I love you, April.”
“I know. And I love you too. As my foster-brother. You saved me Russell, and I’ll always love you. But as a sister. I can’t be anything else to you.”
“But-“
“I know, it’s not fair. But you’re a hero Russell. You always will be one of the good guys. In a year or two girls will be old enough to recognise that and they’ll be flocking around you. Trust me, I’m a girl, I know these things.”
Liar. You know nothing sneered my inner voice.
I know I will help Russell, whatever it takes. If that means I have to teach him the social skills to get a girlfriend his own age from scratch, I will. I’ll start by spreading rumours about how he saved me. What kind of salesman can’t sell a hero to adolescent girls?

“I love you, April!” He repeated.

“I love you too. You’re my hero Russell. My brother, who saved me. But next time, call the police before you go charging in against four times your weight.”

“I did. I called them on the cellphone Mrs Turnbull gave me for emergencies. They should be here any minute.”
Sure enough sirens could be heard in the distance. Two cars, driven fast. We hugged, and I cried again. The crew of one car went to search the woods while Russell and I staggered into the second and went home to face the music.

“Russell saved me!” were the first words out of my mouth as the police escorted us through the Turnbull’s front door, scratched, tear stained, the ragged remains of my tights falling around my ankles, so while, after the police had finished interviewing me, I had to endure long lectures on the sheer stupidity of allowing a stranger to lure me into a deserted place, Russell got the full measure of praise due to his heroism from the police and the Turnbulls both.
I had to think on my feet, mind you. Russell had seen me go with Mr Tait so I couldn’t simply claim he’d dragged me off the street. I had to tell them that he’d told me there was somebody fallen unconscious into a creek and he needed help dragging them out before they drowned. At least I got credit for being good-hearted if a bit gullible. ‘Well meaning airhead’ was the phrase I heard one of the police officers say when he thought I couldn’t hear. ‘Silly goose!’ was the one Mrs Turnbull used. I swear, who calls anyone a goose in this day and age?!

The upshot of it all was that Russell and I both got wrapped in blankets and fed hot, sweet tea and then I was sent to bed early in disgrace! Whether you count from my real age of twenty-one or my official age of seventeen that’s still bang out of order. I would have protested, but after the day I’d had I suddenly realised that a warm bed and an early night sounded like paradise. An hour later, as I sat sipping hot cocoa in my nightie, warmly surrounded by the sea of frills the Turnbulls considered suitable for a girl’s bedclothes Russell popped his head round the door.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course, come over here.” I patted the surface of the bedcovers.

“I just wanted to check how you were.” He said, perching on the edge of the bed.

“I’m perfect. Home and safe and happy, thanks to you.”
Russell coloured with pleasure and embarrassment, but looked awkward. No one had taught him how to cope with compliments. Given his family background, maybe he’d never had any.

“April, what you said earlier –“
“I can’t, Russell. I know what you’re going to ask and I can’t. Even if I could think of you like that it would simply be wrong.” On more levels than I can possibly explain.

“Besides, you aren’t going to need an old bag like me. Soon there will be plenty of girls flocking around you.” I smiled at him.

“Girls my age don’t – I – they don’t seem to talk to me much.” Russell mumbled looking down at the bedpane.

“They will. You can’t force these things or rush them, but they will, and I’ll help with tips. Consider me your spy behind girl lines.” We both smiled at that. “Now I’m going to collapse. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight April.” I kissed him on the cheek as he got up to go and he walked out of the room floating on air. Good! He’d earned it. And I’d earned sleep. After I dug my mobile out of my bag and called The Organisation. On the second ring Miss Erinye picked up.
“April.”

“Miss Erinye. I thought the Dacres wanted their property untouched. Is there something about this assignment I haven’t been told?”

“No. But you may have been told something which wasn’t true. I know Tait approached you this afternoon. I know that he has been arrested and is now whinging for me to pull strings to get him out. Now suppose you tell me what I don’t know.”
So I did.

“Very well. I will get him out.”
“What? I thought he was acting without orders, against his instructions?

“He is. That is why I am going to get him out. I can do much, much worse than the police can. Treachery is the one thing The Organisation will never tolerate.”
It’s nice to know you draw the line somewhere I thought.
“Can I ask what you’re going to do? I’d like to feel safe walking the streets?” Safe from Tait anyway, I’m starting to realise I may never feel safe walking the streets as a small girl in a short skirt. Or a short girl in a small skirt, or, oh, whatever.

“I assure you the former Mr Tait will never be seen on a street in this hemisphere again. I won’t tell you exactly what I’m going to do, because you sound tired and I don’t want to give you nightmares.” And with that she hung up. I could guess part of it by the reference to the former Mr Tait. I shuddered a little. For all the adjustments I’d managed I still wouldn’t wish this fate on my worst enemy. Which Tait probably was. Enough. Time for sleep.

As I drifted off my very last thought was to hope that tomorrow wasn’t quite as busy!

Choices, choices, Chapter 2: Consequences

I sat at a woman’s dressing table, wearing only a silk wrap around robe. I could still feel the throbbing where the tubes supplying blood to my testes had been crushed. The DNA therapy, supplemented by a little surgery to pretty me up if necessary, wouldn’t take place until later, but the pain was a constant reminder that I’d made my choice. Granted, the alternative had been death, nevertheless I could never pretend that I’d been forced to do this. I’d had a chance to go down fighting. Instead I’d submitted to being made into a woman. Now all I could do was make the best of that choice.

Sitting on the table in front of me were a letter, a small lacquered box and a manual. The first two were from the parents who had bought me as a chattel bride for their son. I decided to open the letter first.

Dear Ruth it began. Well now I knew my new name at least. It could have been worse. It could have been Polly. Ruth. I was Ruth. Oh God.

This is a family name and with it we welcome you to our family. It is also a Bible name. We don’t know your beliefs, but if you know the tale of Ruth you will know that she too left her land and family, to work amidst “the alien corn” and though it was hard for her she found a fine husband, just as we know our son will be to you and her grandchild became a King. We hope your children and grandchildren will make you just as proud.

Every word of this so far was simultaneously kindly meant and made me shudder.

You don’t know us yet, but please believe we love you as our new daughter in Christ and we have done everything in our little power to equip you and our son Ephraim Ephraim? Really? for your new lives. From everything we know you will live on your new land much as our colonial ancestors did. Those were the fathers and mothers of a mighty nation and a God fearing folk. We know you will be worthy of them. We know you did something foolish to be where you are but we know you never meant any harm. I had to stop there for a moment. The fact is, guilt for what I had done had gnawed me for all the months from that day to this. I hadn’t been driving, but my drinking can’t have been a good example and I’d freely got in the car even though I knew my brother was too drunk to drive. Forgiveness, even from strangers, touched me a little. I don’t know why. The victim’s parents had sent a letter explaining that, as Christians they had to forgive me and it had only made me feel worse.

Once you have become a Christian wife you will have the firm and loving guidance and authority of Christ acting through your husband to keep you on the straight and narrow so that your weaknesses cannot lead you into danger any more. Remember the words of the book of Timothy.

Actually, no I don’t, but something told me there would be a Bible available in my new marital home if I wanted to refresh my memory.

The little something in the box is a family heirloom. We have no daughters and so we would like it to come to you, our new daughter in law. Welcome once more to our family dear Ruth and our prayers go with you to your new home, With love and good wishes, Gideon and Esther Holmann

They seemed like good people. Utterly different from most I knew, but good people. I might want to laugh at their decades out of date religious views, but compared to Trump they were probably liberals, and if my parents had shared their views they might not have died drunk driving when I was twelve. Yes, the irony is not lost on me. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. There was a reason I’d clung to my brother against all sense. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t still paralysed with fear at what lay ahead of me.

I opened the box. Inside lay a silver chain with a locket. I opened the locket to see two cameo style pictures. One was a man in his early twenties with a lantern jaw, vaguely reminiscent of the late John Brown. The other was a woman with wavy red hair, a straight nose, a sprinkling of freckles and a sad smile. She looked familiar. With a queasy feeling I realised that I’d seen her before. Way back at the start of this ordeal some official had shown me a computer generated image of how I was expected to turn out if I opted for life as a woman. I was looking at my future self! Which meant the young man was…my future husband. Oh God, I was going to be sick. I put the locket down hurriedly and reached for the manual.

Biblical marriage on the frontier: a woman’s guide.
Welcome and congratulations. If you are reading this book then you are about to become (or have already become) a bride for a bold settler of our new frontiers. You have been given the chance to help make a better world and a better future for yourself and for God –fearing Americans. Had my new in-laws helped to write this book, I wondered

However, it is important to understand your role as a wife. You may have been born a woman but educated in the Godless days Before Trump. You may be a New Woman, as we like to call our fresh sisters in Christ who had the misfortune to be trapped in the wrong bodies before their follies revealed to the world they were unfit to be in charge of their own actions and a benevolent justice system gave them a new way and a better chance.

“And the Lord God said ‘It is not good that Man should be alone; I will make unto him an helpmeet for him’”

You are now exactly that – a helpmeet. Your husband is going out to make a new Eden for you and your children; he needs your support. He does NOT need a competitor, a critic or a rival. This is why you swear in your wedding vows not only to love and honour, but to obey.

“Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord”

Moreover, you must understand that your highest priority can no longer be yourself but must be your husband and children. This is not degrading, but on the contrary, a life of highest service and pleasing to God. To quote the book of Timothy - Him Again! - “I will therefore that the younger women marry, bear children, guide the house..” In short, your place really is in the home and this is a good thing.

God and your Nation and above all your husband, to whom you belong in the eyes of God need you to bear children. How many is not your concern. Your husband’s job is to provide for them, yours is to raise them as happy, healthy God fearing American children. (You will, most likely, need to nurse them yourself for a longer period of time than you might have expected. Formula is rarely available on the frontier. For those of you who were men, you finally have a use for those nipples)

This does NOT mean your only role is motherhood or even offering material supports such as cooking and mending to your husband. You and he are each others source of greatest pleasure. As your family grows do not forget your body is there to please your husband, and that when you said ‘I do’ you entered into a lifelong contract in the eyes of God and man that you consent to do so whenever he should seek you.

The rest of the chapters in this book will help you gain the immense number of practical skills you will need from cooking meals to canning vegetables to weaving cloth. There will be many times when you will feel overwhelmed, but in all you do remember the words of the Bible about a virtuous woman “Her price is far above rubies.” What you are beginning now is a good and glorious enterprise and you are blessed by God.

Blessed to be a massively overworked baby machine who spreads her legs whenever she’s told! Oh my God, what was I going to do?? I looked out of the window. I couldn’t see a guard anywhere and I was on the ground floor. On the other hand, nothing could restore my balls. I couldn’t be a man anymore; at best I could be a eunuch. God dammit, why hadn’t I stayed sober and gone out as a pioneer myself? I could do with a nymphomaniac sloe-eyed helpmeet waiting on me hand and foot.
Because you were a lazy useless slob who was no good to anyone my inner thoughts replied and if you run you will be defrauding your nice, albeit nutty future in laws who probably spent their last penny on this. This isn’t what you wanted. That girl who died as a result of your night’s binge drinking didn’t want to be killed. Aren’t you EVER going to face the consequences of your actions.

Yes, but..

If not now, when? If not this way, how?

I..I..

I wasn’t decided yet. I might still run later. But however much I hated the idea of being a woman I couldn’t be a man again. I had to at least stay until my transition was complete. And whether I would try to run before I was made into Mrs Ephraim Holmann? I could decide that another day.
I slowly picked up the chain of the locket, that unmistakable piece of female jewellery, and carefully fastened it around my throat.

Choices Choices Chapter 3 Changes

“Oh no!” I thought, gazing at my reflection in the full length mirror “They’ve turned me into Anne of Green Gables!”

I hadn’t really had time to think of what I looked like for the past few months. A mass of fevers and growing pains had gripped me and kept me confined to bed in semi-delirium as the gene therapy converted my Y chromosomes to X chromosomes and my body started to reshape itself accordingly. Consequently I’d had little thought for anything besides fever dreams and exhaustion, but now, staring at my lightly freckled face, framed by a mass of wavy red hair held back with a green ribbon, big blue eyes staring out at the world in astonishment, the resemblance was unmistakeable.

Of course, the clothes helped – a long, turn of the century dress with puffed sleeves and ruffles, trim little pixy boots with a slight heel and a straw hat adorned with flowers around the brim. The dress was modestly buttoned up to the frilled collar but couldn’t hide my new figure in its corset , which part of me, incidentally, was still suffering growing pains. Maybe I was as much Christina Hendricks as Anne. Either way it was frightening. I think a bit of me had still been convinced it couldn’t be done, that try as they might the government institute in charge of my transition could never turn me into a girl. Well, so much for that theory. I shifted uncomfortably. This was one of the very few times I’d been dressed in anything other than a hospital gown since my induction began and I couldn’t see how anyone could ever get used to it. Stockings, frilly knickers, two petticoats, a dress –arghh! Just arrghh!

There was no help for it though. Today was the day I was going to meet Ephraim Holman, the pioneer settler whose parents had bought me for him, for the very first time. With a sigh I looked around the room I had been assigned as my own only a couple of days ago. I had everything I needed; no more excuses. I crossed to the door and said “I’m ready.”.

Wordlessly the orderly outside led the way to the restaurant/tea room provided for the transformees such as myself to meet guests from the outside world. Awaiting me there was a long, lean man, dressed in clean jeans and a heavy cotton shirt. Even more than in his photo he looked like a younger version of the late John Brown.

“Ruth!” He clasped both my hands in his and planted a kiss on my cheek “It’s good to meet you at last.” I could feel myself go bright red. It was a friendly enough greeting, and considering I was a bought chattel bride I could hardly complain that it was over-familiar. Nevertheless I found it deeply embarrassing, not least because it was a reminder of what I was in for unless I could escape. Even women who had legal rights got handled a lot more than men, and I had no rights at all. Technically Ephraim would have been within his rights to throw me on the floor and take me on the spot. Suddenly I was glad of the ridiculous outfit I was wearing. The heavy duty petticoats might slow him down a little. I cast my eyes down in embarrassment and fear and said

“Pleased to meet you too Sir” I bobbed a curtsey the way I’d been told to, but I hadn’t practiced so I probably looked like a goose trying to do calisthenics.

“Now, Ruth, I want you to call me Ephraim. “ he rasped in an accent I couldn’t quite place, but which I reckoned would be ideal if you were casting a remake of ‘The Grapes of Wrath’

“Yes, Ephraim” I managed to say through a throat that had somehow gone tight and dry.

“Please look at me, Ruth.” A hand very gently took me by the small rounded chin that was all that was left of my once manly jaw and tilted my face upwards. For a moment I was afraid I was going to be kissed properly and my breath caught as I met his intense dark eyes.

“Ruth, and I hope you’ll come to be happy with that name, Ruth I can’t pretend to imagine how hard things seem for you right now. I know everything you ever were has been taken away. I know you’ve been assigned to a new life without so much as a by your leave and that that new life would be incredibly strange even to most women – in fact just about all women unless they’ve been raised Amish.”

I nodded wordlessly. I still didn’t trust my voice.

“I know you weren’t a woman and you don’t want to be one. I didn’t cause that and I couldn’t have helped you. I want to help you make the best of things now. So for our first meeting I want us to talk properly. All I ask from you is that you’ll answer my questions honestly and I promise I’ll be honest with you. Deal?”

“OK,” I managed

“So did you deliberately set out to look like Anne of Green Gables this morning, or is it just the way it turned out?”

I choked on a half-hysterical giggle and Ephraim laughed with me – before looking alarmed and patting me vigorously on the back.

“I’m OK, I’m OK, “ I managed to splutter through my laughter “It’s just – that’s exactly who I thought of when I saw my reflection this morning. No it wasn’t deliberate, I think you just can’t avoid it if you’ve got red hair and freckles and dress this way. “

“And a pretty nose” Ephraim interjected “Don’t forget people remarked on her pretty nose as well.”

“Thank you, I think. Anyway, you can’t talk; you look just like John Brown.”

“Old Ossawatomie Brown the abolitionist? Hanged for trying to free slaves? I surely should, he’s kin to us on my mother’s side. One of my childhood heroes. Thank you Ruth, that’s about the nicest thing you could have said to me on first acquaintance.” Ephraim smiled at me broadly. “Come on, let’s go to the cottage where we can relax and talk in privacy.”

“Cottage??”

“Sure. The one for, well, I guess you’d call them conjugal visits. A place where the girls here can spend a day or a weekend getting to know…they didn’t tell you did they? Here, sit down, you look white as a sheet.”

I half sat, half fell on to a chair. What a fool I was. They hadn’t told me, but I should have guessed they wouldn’t waste any time getting me used to my new role in life.

“Ruth, Ruth come with me, I’m going to take you to the cottage where I can take care of you. “ I bet “Now don’t you take on so, I promise you, there’s nothing to fear.”
Easy for you to say I thought but kept the thought to myself. Instead I let him help me to my feet and lead me away by the hand. Holding a man’s hand helped me walk in my first ever heels but also freaked me a little, especially seeing how pale and dainty my small fingers looked in his massive sunburned paw, but I supposed it was something I was just going to have to get used to. I was a girl and men could hold my hand. Much worse, I was a chattel and I was about to be conjugated!

That thought left me a little shaky, legs trembling and tummy doing flip flops. I didn’t say a word as Ephraim led me across a green field, like a high school recreation ground, towards a little cluster of homes.

When we arrived Ephraim did a strange thing. He carefully scanned the door lintel and then removed a little something from where the door met the door jamb. It was a hair!

“What was that for?”

“Shh. Come on in and I’ll tell you.”

So I did. Inside the little cottage was furnished much in the fashion of the new frontier. There were a few electrical devices, but the iron stove and the big old fireplace were the obvious sources of heat and the oil lamps were the obvious sources of light. Obviously the conjugal visits were to get us used to our future role as domestic serfs as well as bedwarmers. A big scrubbed pine table dominated the room and Ephraim gently guided me to it and pulled out a chair for me on to which Ingratefully sank.

“Coffee?” He said, picking up a pot from the stove.

“Please.”

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug gratefully and surveyed Ephraim from across the table. He didn’t seem to be a monster, at least, in fact he seemed kindly and considerate on first meeting, but I’d known him less than ten minutes and there was still plenty of time for that to change.

“So tell me, Ruth. You’ve been here six months now. Have they told you much about what happens from now.”

“They haven’t had much time. I’ve only been up for three days. I know that I’m anatomically and genetically female now. I’ve been told there’s still time for me to get bigger or smaller, slimmer or softer in certain areas, but basically I’m finished. I’ve been told I have no rights of any kind for as long as my sentence lasts except that it’s still murder to kill me, and that my sentence is lifelong. Chattel slavery was the word they used. I know that the plan is that I should be a wife, rather than a maid of all work, but that doesn’t make any difference to my rights. They made me watch a black and white film called ‘The Devil and Daniel Webster’ to show me what a proper wife should act like.”

“And what did she act like?”

“Well her husband sold his soul to the Devil, alienated everyone they’d ever known, took up with another woman, built a big new house so he could move his fancy woman into it and she still stuck by him with never a cross word. I’m not sure if she was a saint or a doormat. “

“Think you can do that.”

“I – I can try.” One of the things they’d also told us was that a man was entitled to beat his wife in the colonies with a stick not thicker than his thumb. My new lord and Master’s thumb looked pretty thick and I felt very fragile.

Ephraim smiled at me. “You don’t have to. I’ve seen that film too. She was a good woman, but her husband didn’t deserve her. I’ve always thought she should have left if only for the sake of the child. She could always have come back if he repented. Listen Ruth, I’m an abolitionist, so are both my parents. My great-grandparents were in the Underground Railroad – to hear my grandparents tell it they used to run slaves across the border playing tig with the paterrollers twice a week. If we could free you and let you go back to your life we would, but it isn’t allowed. You’d be picked up inside a week. Being under my authority is part of your sentence, otherwise I’d let you walk out the doors of this compound now. Besides, things have gotten a lot worse even since your arrest. It isn’t really the USA out there any more.. It’s Trumpland now, even though the rumours say he’s dead and his crazy advisers are running the country. It isn’t a safe place for any one, let alone a woman without legal rights. That’s why I’m getting out, going to the colonies. The government has a hard enough time keeping the original owners away; settlers there are left to govern their own lives. It’s a chance to make something decent out of the wreck this place has become.”

I was cringing with terror and astonishment

“Bugs! There are bugs all round this institute! Oh please hush, they might not have heard you” I prayed not. What Ephraim had said was quite enough under the Presidential Defamation Act to get him put where I was – if he was lucky!

Ephraim’s slow smile spread across that lantern jaw of his.

“Just because I’m a redneck, doesn’t make me stupid. I swept for bugs and cleared them all when I came to this cottage earlier this morning. The hair on the door jamb was just in case I’d had visitors while I came to collect you.”

“So, you’re saying-“ I paused, not wanting to smash my hopes by uttering them aloud

“I’m saying the minute we hit the colonies you’re a free woman. You want to stake out your own homestead, make a dash across the border, anything, you can go right ahead.”

“But – but – your parents letter”

“My parents would very much like you to become a good Christian wife to me, but they hold no marriage is valid without a real, genuine choice. That locket you’re wearing is a gift, not a shackle.

Now let me tell you the downside. Out there pretty much the only jobs going are farmer or craftsman, cook or domestic servant. I’ve been out there this last six months breaking ground and building a snug little cabin for us. I seriously doubt you’d be strong enough to be a farmer, or a blacksmith or a cooper, not the way you are now. You just won’t have the physical strength. Sexual division of labour makes sense in a situation like that, especially when domestic chores are so time consuming. To give just one example, in an old fashioned farm if you don’t keep the kitchen sparkling clean you will get food poisoning mighty fast and out there a family mostly has to make its own soap. One person can’t plough and clear land and do that at the same time. So it’s very unlikely you would be able to find a job which isn’t some version of a wife’s chores, without the freedom a wife has of knowing she works for herself and her family instead of an employer.
So…you could share my home and keep it and we could live as brother and sister.”

“Or?” I said, breath still a little tight from the shock of all this

“Or, Ruth, you could marry me and I would be pleased and proud to make you my own.”

“I – I Ephraim, I like you, really I do, even though I’ve only known you ten minutes, and I know my options are narrower now but – but I don’t know if I can be a wife. I don’t know-“ I paused, twisting my hands nervously together on my lap “I don’t know if I can do what a good wife does. And I don’t mean cooking, or sewing, or churning butter. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

“And?”

“And you’re blushing, which I think is very sweet and a good start.”

“Oh my God! I mean, oh my goodness, I mean I’m sorry, I don’t want to offend you.”

My hands flew to my flushed cheeks. Clever I chided myself the man offers to get you out of slavery and you spit on his beliefs by blaspheming in front of him

“Don’t worry, I do prefer ‘Oh my Goodness’ but everyone is responsible for their own soul. I’m not going to try to tell you how to talk.”

“Well, I’ll try to stick with ‘Oh my Goodness’ anyway. “

“Back to the topic. What did they tell you here at the centre about it?”

They haven’t told us much yet, but there were two manuals. One was from the medical people. They said that in some cases the transition itself seemed to change people’s sexuality, but in most cases it left people - confused. The manual said that the first..um..experience after transition tended to fix er preferences, for good or ill. Like chicks imprinting, you know? Mostly. Some people never adapt.”

I was blushing furiously now and Ephraim’s grin said he was enjoying my discomposure.

“What did the other manual say?”

“Lie back and think of Jesus.”

Ephraim burst out laughing and my tenseness dissolved into a fit of – oh crap, they were giggles. Somehow, when the laughter stopped we were holding hands across the table and smiling at each other. My hand looked tiny and delicate in his. Looking at him I decided I’d better get used to being smaller. Let’s face it I was the little woman, in every sense of the word.

“I have a suggestion. “

“What is it?”

“I promise you’ll leave this house a virgin, but there are plenty of other things I can do to you. I propose I do them, slowly, carefully, stopping if you get scared. By tomorrow you should have a better idea of whether you can be a wife. What do you think?”

I looked down at the floor, face burning

“I think” I squeaked Crap, I can’t even talk properly “I think we should try it.”

I felt my hand being squeezed gently and heard the creak as he got up from the old wooden chair. My eyes were still firmly fixed on the floor. An enormous, warm, calloused palm gently cupped my face. A butterfly kiss on my forehead sent a strange tingle through me and I realised I was shaking. I closed my eyes, and felt his warm, rough skinned hands cup my face and thread themselves into my hair. Soft kisses landed on my closed eyelids. Then I felt my face being tilted up and his lips met mine. I was still terrified and kept my mouth firmly closed. He seemed to accept that and dropped gentle little kisses along the line of my pursed lips. I seemed wildly sensitive as if fear was sending thrills along my nerves. My face burned where his hands touched me. His mouth seemed to leave a distinct impression wherever it touched my face and lips. Somehow the situation seemed both new and terrifying and oddly familiar. Then I realised where the familiarity came from. My first girlfriend had been a shy, nervous virgin too. Now the shy virgin girl was me. I was the curves, my partner was the angles, I was the smooth, he was the stubbled, I was the one trying to make sure things went slowly, he was the one working to get me out of my dress, I was the soft, he was the - ei yei yei!.

Ephraim’s arm was around me now, he was crouched down by the chair where I still huddled, terrified hands clutching each other. Well, that was hardly fair. He was bending over backwards to be nice to me, the least I could do was not sabotage matters. With an effort of will I put my arms around him. He seemed very warm and very, very broad and his strong well made frame felt odd in my arms after years of embracing girls. It made me feel slighter and more fragile yet just to touch him in this way. Of course, he was reciprocating, but more easily. One arm was quite enough to wrap me up the other was carefully pulling the bow on my long hair and as the knot came loose I felt it cascade forward around my face. It didn’t seem to bother him, he was undistracted from his kissing of me, but one hand idly stroked my hair for a moment, before moving down my upper back.

For a moment I wanted to laugh. I knew where he was going next. Sure enough, that hand worked its way, carefully, slowly, taking a few minutes to do it, down to brush the top of my buttocks, just the way I had done seducing my first serious girlfriend. Granted my bottom was guarded by the thickness of a dress, two petticoats and some very substantial knickers, this was still a little scary and I opened my mouth to say so. That was my first mistake. Ephraim’s lips worked against mine and his tongue darted into my mouth, stifling my little squeak of nerves. He caught my lower lip between both of his and worked away at it. I shuddered, but realised I had to let him continue. I’d agreed to find out if I could be a wife, I certainly couldn’t if I couldn’t bear to let him kiss me properly.

Besides, he was really rather good at it. I was starting to have trouble distinguishing between the thrills of fear and …something else. Every nerve in my body was alert, thrumming with electricity. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to carry on or run away.

But Ephraim was in no hurry. Now he’d got my mouth open he went to work in earnest, claiming me with lips and tongue. Meanwhile one hand traced feather light touches on my bottom and lower back, while the other kept me firmly in his grasp. We might have stayed like that for half an hour or more before he pulled back.

“Huh?” I said stupidly, looking up at him. My eyes were a little unfocused with being closed so long and my brain felt a little unfocused as well.

“I’m getting a cramp crouching here,“ smiled Ephraim

“Oh.” I replied. I was a little relieved and …wait, surely I couldn’t be disappointed? Was he really going to stop there? Was I that bad a kisser? Next minute I was being carried in Ephraim’s arms.

“Time for us to go upstairs.”

My terror returned. I was a girl, a man was taking me to his bedroom and I already knew it wasn’t to look at his etchings

“Don’t look so scared, little petal. I promise I’m going to take things real slow, so as not to scare you.”

I noticed he’d already decided he was in charge. Well, I suppose that was accurate enough. In law I was his belonging. I’d known that for a while but borne effortlessly in his arms up the stairs I felt it on a deeper level than I had before. Also, little petal?? Was that sweet or annoying? Probably both I decided, as we reached the upstairs landing, and realised I was only focusing on that because of my utter terror at what might come next.

A moment later and we were in the bedroom. I stared at the bed with its brass bedstead, vast mass of pillows and fluffy white duvet. It had class, it had charm and it reminded me that it wasn’t mine. The chances were any bed I slept in from now on would belong to a man, just as I did, for all that he was restraining himself from taking advantage. Men owned beds, I warmed them.

I must have groaned for Ephraim looked at me questioningly.

“It’s alright, “ I reassured him “Just nerves.”

“Don’t be nervous my lovely, haven’t I been gentle with you?”

Really not the point I thought You seem to have forgotten I was as much a man as you six months ago. No, scratch that, I was a foolish irresponsible reckless boy six months ago. But still male, dammit

Then he set me on my feet and kissed me again. For a moment I cooperated, allowing myself to react to Ephraim’s undoubted skills. Then I froze! While one arm held me firmly clasped to Ephraim’s manly chest the other was undoing the buttons which ran down the back of my dress!

“Stop! Please stop!”

“Ruth?”

“You – you promised I’d still be a virgin. “

“And you will. But I want us to lie down and relax and I don’t want us going to bed fully clothed.”

He had a point.

“I’ll wait outside”

He had tact too. As the door closed behind him I hastily pulled the dress off, reflecting ironically that only this morning I’d been gripped with horror at wearing a dress and now I was gripped with horror at taking it off. The petticoats quickly followed. Remembering that I was now responsible for the neat upkeep of this mass of ruffles I carefully hung them up in the wardrobe which I’d been too distracted to notice coming in then contemplated myself in the mirror built into its door. A flushed and frightened girl stared back at me, looking, if anything, even younger than her nineteen years. Her red hair hung in wavy tresses around her flustered face. Her lips were swollen and around them – yes- she, I had man rash where Ephraim’s stubble had reddened my soft skin.

I was slim but amply curved with it. I wore a bodice top with frills around the bosom and shoulder straps and long Victorian knickers, also frilly. If I’d still been a man and a girl like this had been given to me- well let’s just say my admiration for Ephraim’s kindness and self restraint was growing moment by moment. I just hoped he could keep it up. As I thought that here came a knock at the door. I leapt for the bed and dived under the covers.

“Come in!”

Ephraim smiled at me from the doorway and crossed the room towards me, shedding clothes as he came. I noticed he didn’t stop to hang them up; anti-slavery or not he was either naturally scruffy or used to women picking up after him. If I married him that woman would be me. Oh, who was I kidding? Frontier life was obviously big on gender roles. If not Ephraim I would be picking up after someone else, maybe someone a lot less kind or considerate. The only question left was could I bear to be a woman sexually or was I going to opt for a lifetime of celibacy at the age of nineteen?

Then Ephraim was in the bed with me, one arm under my slender form and the other brushing my long hair back from my cheek as he kissed me again. This time my mouth opened under his. It felt like we were starting on a deeper level than before and I closed my eyes and allowed him to take the lead. All my skin was tingling now and I felt almost liquid, melting into his kisses. I let one hand drift up to feel his chest. It was like warm, slightly hairy flesh over solid teak. He’d carried me effortlessly and I had no doubt he was much stronger than I’d been as a male and far, far stronger than I could ever be now. As a man, being this close to someone that strong was a threat or a challenge. As I began to relax and snuggle against him now it started to feel like a kind of security. Ephraim was the kind of man who would see a wife as someone to be protected and looked after, that I was sure of. Sexist? Probably. Did I mind? I was starting to think probably not.

Then his kisses moved down from my mouth to the slim column of my neck. My very sensitive neck. Meanwhile his other hand was doing some delightful things to my bottom. I wanted to be ashamed of how I was reacting but I was too busy trying to keep my reaction in bounds. I still wasn’t sure if I could go through with this but I had to admit Ephraim was certainly having an effect on me. This was worrying. If I married him I was going to a frontier where I was dependent on the food he could grow or raise, he was already my legal owner and he was bigger, older fitter and stronger than me. If he could make me hot for him as well, that was just way too many advantages.

So you have to have the same effect back I chided myself An attractive woman can drive a man crazy with desire – and unless that mirror lied you’re somewhere between very pretty and beautiful. You don’t have a man’s means of getting what you want any more, you have to learn to use a woman’s. With that thought I stopped being a wallflower and reached out to embrace Ephraim. As I did so his lips reached the rounded tops of my breasts and I froze. The effect was…effective. Very effective. He felt me freeze and his mouth moved back up to close over mine again, but while I was kept from speaking by his busy lips and tongue firmly keeping mine occupied one hand lightly traced the curve of the underside of my left breast. Electricity shot through me and I felt my heart pounding in my chest. Since he was now undoing the top button of my bodice maybe he did too. I closed my hand over his; now he’d have to pull away if he wanted to undo more buttons. He didn’t, but instead moved back to my throat, kissing and nibbling his way down towards my breasts again. This time he was able to kiss a little more of them, meanwhile was between my cheeks and reaching forward. A long forefinger grazed the lips of my vagina and I didn’t move away. I wasn’t sure any more if I was more frightened or more excited but I knew something was coming and I was no longer sure I could stop it.

“Please..” I whispered

The other hand moved; somehow I had forgotten to hold it safe and it undid the next buttons on my bodice, exposing my breasts to Ephraim’s gaze. I’d barely explored my new body at all in the short time I’d had it, certainly not the way Ephraim was exploring it now. My breasts – and they were my breasts now, however weird a thought that was – looked unfamiliar to me, smooth mounds surmounted by pink puffy nipples. Ephraim kissed my nipple and I felt it harden, he brushed my clothing aside and as his hand held my breast steady for his attentions I felt it harden like a blown up football. I tried to steady my breathing enough to ask him to stop – and that’s when the finger of his other hand slipped inside me!

I was ridiculously, shamefully wet. He was able to slip inside me as easily as an eel that’s been coated in Vaseline and as one end of his finger penetrated me the other end brushed across my clitoris. I felt my hips give an involuntary twitch and my breaths came short and hard and embarrassingly loud. A line of fire seemed to run from my groin to my breasts and Ephraim was using it to play me like a violin. His finger was deeper in me now, moving backwards and forwards. My eyes were closed and my lips parted and all thought of embarrassment or resistance had gone. I don’t know how long things went on like this before I gave a little cry and a shudder and collapsed against Ephraim’s chest.

For long minutes I lay there quivering, wrapped in Ephraim’s arms. I no longer had the slightest doubt as to whether I could bear the bedwarming part of marriage. The manual was right after all; we could be each other’s greatest source of pleasure! I almost didn’t notice as Ephraim slipped the last of my clothing from me, leaving me nude but for the locket and chain I still wore about my neck, until he lifted the covers to get a better look at me.

I shook my hair forward over my face in embarrassment and tried to cover my breasts and groin with my arms.

“Please don’t. I want to look at you.”

“Why?”

“Why? My petal, you are beautiful and smart and used to be a man. Surely you know why I want to look at you.”

Of course I knew. It just felt incredibly strange to be the object of such unashamed male desire. I pouted.

“Tell me why. I want to hear it.” Oh God, I was flirting, fishing for compliments.

“Because I want to enjoy the view.”

I opened one eye.

“I’m not a landscape.”

“No, but you are an area of outstanding natural beauty.”

“Flatterer,” I smiled

“Nope. It’s true. Can’t you see it?”

“Maybe. Seen enough yet, I’m getting chilled?”

“I can tell” he grinned, looking pointedly at my erect nipples

“Oh, you. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but all the same, men!”

I grabbed a pillow and tried to swat him with it. A brief tussle predictably ended up with me pinned helplessly beneath him, hands held above my head with effortless ease. I was keeping my legs closed. If they’d been open I absolutely wouldn’t trust his self control. I wasn’t certain I trusted mine. Ephraim must be wildly frustrated now, I could feel his hardness pulsing against me. Weirdly, I liked it. I liked knowing he wanted me. I liked him being stronger than me. I liked lying there helpless, knowing I was his for the taking, though I wasn’t sure I’d enjoy the last so much if I didn’t trust him so well.

Ephraim swooped on me like a stopping falcon, crushing me to him almost painfully, I could feel him moving against me in desire and frustration.

“Ephr-mffflll –wait! Give me a free hand. Mff!!”

He did, and a moment later my smooth delicate fingers were wrapped around his frankly enormous feeling manhood.

“Ruth, “ he managed to gasp “Ruth, you don’t have to do this.”

“I can’t leave you like this.”

“I’ll be OK”

“Shut up, you’re hurting my feelings.”

His hand closed over mine and mere seconds later I was being splashed with hot – well, you get the idea.

“You’ve made me all sticky. “ I complained, smiling contentedly up at Ephraim.

“Mmm.” He seemed a little out of breath, but it didn’t stop him - how shall I put this- glazing me. I didn’t mind. I’d done the same thing to girls myself. I seemed to have come a long way in an hour .

“Happy, little petal?.”

I thought about it. For the first time since the crash, yes. I actually was.

“Very happy.”

“Good!”

“Hey, where are you going?”

“To get this”

Ephraim knelt beside the bed holding a small box opened so that I could see the contents held towards me. A diamond was set on the little gold ring, flanked by two emeralds.

“Ruth, will you do me the honour of marrying me?”

My heart was in my mouth. Ridiculously so. I’d been a full on girl for less than a week and I still felt the traditional thrill of excitement. I realised I was holding in a breath and felt an enormous, I’ve swallowed a banana sideways type grin spread across my face.

“One condition”

“What is it?”

“I’ll be your wife, your lover and your companion, for richer or poorer, for better or for worse. I’ll try to be the best wife ever. But I don’t want to be a Ruth. Ruth was an exile. I feel more like I’ve found a home. So I want to be Anne. Anne-with an- ‘e’.”

The End

Emily's Strange Life

“Good morning everyone; my name is Emily and I'm an amnesiac.”

“Good morning Emily,” the guys and gals of my therapy group chorused.

“I've been coming here for nearly three years now, so those of you who know my story off by heart, please take this opportunity to catch up on your sleep or something. You all know the damned Canoeheads attacked us without warning five years ago. I only know that because I was told. I was found wandering three years ago. One look and they knew I must have escaped from a Canadian slave labour camp. I was so emaciated they weren't sure at first if I was a girl or a boy.” I saw a few smiles at that, which pleased me. Nowadays you really couldn't make that mistake. I like to think of myself as voluptuous. I've heard people who thought I wasn't listening refer to me as 'stacked'. I know they're essentially describing the same phenomenon but 'voluptuous' is ladylike and 'stacked' isn't so I'm sticking with the classy version.

“I was wearing the rags of a black dress. I had this bracelet on – I must have concealed it in the camp somehow or found it after I escaped because it would certainly have been stolen otherwise.” I held up my wrist to show the bracelet, a silver band with further strands of silver twisted around a piece of polished bluejohn to hold it in its setting. “I like to think I had it before the camp, that it's something that was always precious to me, a link to my old life.”

“Because I was dressed all in black with long, straight black hair and couldn't remember anything – my name, my age, who I was – one of the orderlies at the hospital nicknamed me Emily the Strange after the cartoon character, so, not having any better ideas, I took the name Emily .I'm still pleased with the name.” I paused to take a sip of water

“I'm what they call a retrograde amnesiac. I can learn things, I have no problem forming new memories, I know what has happened to me in the three years since I was found. I know how to do all the things I obviously learned how to do before the invasion like reading and writing, but I literally cannot remember a single event that happened to me before the rescuers found me. The doctors are pretty certain I'm repressing traumatic events from my captivity. I know that would be a real gift to some of you to be able to forget the things you've gone through and I'm sorry. I often pray to get my memories back. I know from other people's stories that it may be a blessing that I don't..

“You all know the sufferings we've gone through since the war began. You all know the strains our emergency services have been under. For all that they decided an amnesiac teenager with no identifiable kin or friends couldn't be safely left in a refugee camp. The doctors believed me to be eighteen years old – with thousands of small children orphaned there was no way I could be adopted. The alternative seemed to be leaving me to be institutionalised or turning me loose to sleep on the streets. Then someone came up with a bright idea.

“There was a special forces officer, Michael O' Halloran,” I feel a big, stupid, goofy grin spread across my face just saying his name and lower my head to let my hair fall across my face for a moment, a little embarrassed at the glee I feel “He spent a lot of time on missions, but had a lot of R &R between them. So, he needed someone to make sure he had a warm, clean, dry home with a functioning fridge and in-date food in it. They could have assigned an enlisted man but that's not really an efficient use of resources in the middle of a war. I needed a home where I was safe, and someone to periodically check up on me and make sure nothing terrible had happened to me.

So I became Michael's live-in housekeeper and ward. I got a wage, a home and security. While he's there he takes care of me; when he's away the neighbouring army wives pop in from time to time to make sure I'm still lucid. I'm fairly sure that at the start they were expecting to have to call the nice men with the thorazine and the straightjacket. Now they mostly come for the coffee or to see if I can babysit. I've been Michael's girlfriend now for two and a half years. That's my story. That's my happy ending.”

“Thank you Emily,” said the facilitator “I asked Emily to tell her story just to remind people that hope springs eternal. That whatever sufferings we go through things can and do get better.”

I silently pray that this is the effect my story will have on people instead of making them think 'Why has that bitch got a happy ending when my loved ones are lying dead?'. I listen carefully to the next survivor's story of horror and sadness and try very hard not to be sick.

Five hours later I'm heading home, having spent the rest of the day babysitting Jeanette Rutherford's unruly trio of terrors. There is an unmentionable stain on my dress, my hair hurts where Kelly used it as handlebars riding on my back, Jack has drawn what he fondly thinks are tattoos all over my hands in felt tip, my face is still painted as a tiger and I'm nobly resisting the urge to just stop taking the Pill. It would be utterly wrong to land Michael with an unplanned pregnancy after all he's done for me. I just can't spend any time with the little tykes without getting deeply broody. Jeanette had this worried, pitying look on her face when she came in and found them romping all over me. I think she worries about me. She knows how I feel about Michael. She also know that I'm still just a girlfriend/housekeeper.

Army circles are fairly conservative. If you haven't got that ring on your finger after this amount of time, the wives on base are bound to wonder if I'm just a bit of fun for Michael, a convenient way to get his house kept and bed warmed. At least I think that's why I still get these looks from the other girls.

I wonder that sometimes too, in my darker moments. When I first came on to Michael he looked so surprised. I swear, up until that moment he thought I was like, his little sister or something. Not that he didn't get over that quickly – he did and with great enthusiasm. We've been so happy ever since but I do worry. I mentioned recently that some cultures think the ideal aged woman for a man to marry is half his age plus seven years. I'm now twenty-one. Michael is twenty-eight. The math works. Michael laughed and said we were obviously ideal then, but he didn't say anything else so I dropped it. I don't want to be that girlfriend – the one who's always pouting insecurely and dropping hints, stopping outside the window of jewellers and pointing our rings. On the other hand I would be a lot more secure if he'd only pop the question. As for children, I daren't even think of hinting. I've heard other officers talk about their partners on this topic when they think only men are listening. I don't want Michael to think I'm a 'silly, broody hen'. Even if I am.

As I enter the house I realise that something is wrong. The place is still clean and tidy but I can sense someone has been here. Before I can do or say anything two strong arms grab me from behind.

“What have we here?” growls a deep, male voice

“I'm a tiger. Please don't hurt me, I'm an endangered species.”

“What about ravishing?”

“Oh well, if you really must,” I murmur as Michael picks me up and lays me on the long pine scrubbed kitchen table, flipping up the skirts of my dress to provide a cushion for my back. He's so thoughtful.

*****
I am definitely getting Michael a new razor. It's fabulous the way he's willing to practice his linguistics on me, so to speak, but as far as I know I'm the only girl in town with man rash on her inner thighs. (With the likely exception of Kelly Gunderson, whose husband, Staff Sergeant Gunderson is one giant mass of bristles and probably has to shave just to get down to five o' clock shadow).

Still, I'm standing by the stove in only my slip so a nice cool breeze is playing over the affected area. I'm making something to keep Michael's strength up. We've migrated upstairs to the bedroom in the three hours since he got home (via the living room sofa and the big rug on the first floor landing) but he shows no sign of getting sleepy. He only managed to get twenty four hours leave which is why he chose to surprise me so we need to make the most of it.

It's a fortnight until his next regularly scheduled leave, so it won't be long to wait, but I miss him, even when he's gone for relatively short periods. I keep reminding myself that this is the price you pay for being with a hero in time of war – he spends a lot of time in far off places being heroic. At first I used to get paranoid fears that he might be seeing someone else while he was away but the wounds reassured me. No matter how enthusiastic the cheating sl*t gets a woman is unlikely to leave shrapnel in a man's body by means of an affair. So, keeping Michael healthy in between missions is my job. Healthy food, healthy exercise and no way is he going back with a hangover, which means I have to be a more alluring and effective away of unwinding. Luckily we both have really good imaginations and his physical stamina is amazing!

That night I have the nightmare again.....

It always starts the same way. I'm in agony, so filthy I can smell myself, the vinegar sourness of old sweat overlying the sickly sweetness that says my body has started to break down its own tissues for food. I half-know that I'm dreaming and this must be some distorted memory of the Canadian slave labour camp. I'm wearing those foot and chain manacles they use on prisoners so I can barely shuffle but it doesn't stop the two guards flanking me from pushing me along the rough-cast concrete corridor, sometimes adding encouragement with a jab from a rifle butt. I turn and snarl at them. I feel dangerous, wolfish, not like me at all.

“Cowards,” I hear myself say in a harsh grating voice, quite unlike my own. ”If you were any good you'd be at the front. If these chains were off I'd kill you.”

I glare at the guards and can tell they hate me all the more because they know it's true. The taller guard tries to hit me with his rifle butt again but I manage to tangle it up in my chains and jerk it from him. There is no escape from here I know, but I may still be able to make them kill me. Unfortunately the second guard isn't so impulsive or so stupid. Instead of coming forward to grapple which would give me the chance to take him down he steps back out of reach and pulls a taser on me. I'm wearing nicely conductive metal chains which makes it all the more effective and I hit the floor. Two more guards come racing from the other end of the corridor and together they drag my semi-electrocuted form through the doors and the end of the corridor into a comfortable, furnished office. I hear a voice say 'Operation Disney Princess subject # 239 Sir.”

This is where the nightmare becomes surreal. Sitting behind the desk is the saviour of our nation, the Orange One, President for Life, Commander-in-Chief Trump. I don't understand why, in the dream, he's looking at me like I was an enemy. I'm a red-blooded American girl. My lover and hero is Michael O'Halloran, a decorated Special Forces officer. I've every reason to hate the damned Canoeheads so why is my own President looking at me like that?

“Mr President,” said a voice wearily, as if it had said the same things many times before “Can I remind you that this ..this reorientation programme has a zero per cent success rate so far? With the greatest of respect Mr President is this really a prudent use of medical, scientific and military resources in the middle of a war?”

“What are you talking about? This project is one hundred and ten per cent success!” The President waved his hands excitedly. Even in the dream I knew the stubby fingers must be part of my imagination. No one has hands that small, surely?

“We're building the future here. A literal marriage of the best America and Canada have to offer with us providing the knowhow and Canada providing the raw material.”

“Yes Sir. It just doesn't work.”

“Of course it does. Now take 'em away! Call me when we succeed!”

After that the dream gets weird. I'm in a lot of pain and nauseous most of the time but despite this I seem to be doing normal things, getting dressed, cooking, cleaning, mending, pretty much the routine I have now, minus wild table sex. The dream isn't always coherent, but it always ends the same way, with me wandering the roads, barefoot, hungry and ragged under a dreadful sky.

As usual I wake up crying and Michael has to hold me to comfort me while I soak his bare chest with ugly, unladylike sobs and tears. I love him – he puts up with so much!

End of Part One

A few hours later and I'm seeing my boyfriend off on another potentially fatal trip. Naturally, I concentrate on being perky. However worried I feel the last thing Michael needs is me bringing him down ahead of a mission.

“Be careful while I'm away,” Michael warns me “I worry about you.” He does too. He's off to the wastes of northern Canada where literally everyone will want to kill him and he's busy worrying about me.

“Do you have your pistol handy?” He asks me

“It's at home, safely locked away.”

“Emily, I didn't get you a concealed carry permit so you could lock your pistol away. It's no use to you locked away. There are some bad hombres out there.”

“I know, but I'm no good with guns. You should remember that.” Michael took me to a shooting range a couple of years ago because he wanted me to be able to defend myself while he was away. The first shot I took with his 1911 the recoil nearly broke my wrists besides causing the barrel to buck so high that if it had been an indoor range I would have put a hole in the ceiling. Passing birds were in danger! Michael had to get me a .22 pistol that fires what he calls 'teeny-weeny ladylike bullets' , with a smirk that makes me want to reach for the rolling pin. One of the things about dating very manly men, I've come to realise, is that however encouraging they try to be they find it cute and funny watching women fail in manly pursuits. The odd thing is, I swear he also looked a bit relieved. Still, he probably spends enough time around crack shots without getting it at home.

“Remember,” he says “Stay fit and healthy – I have evil plans for you when I get back!”

“How evil?” I ask, smiling up at him flirtatiously

“Well, I'll start by giving you a good seeing to and after that I'm afraid you're too young to be told, so I'll just have to demonstrate.” He pulls me close and I squeak and slap at his hand as he slips his fingers under the waistband of my skirt to touch me intimately. In a crowded airport! I let loose an outraged giggle

“You are sooo rude!”

“Nonsense! It's not my fault you're an innocent.”

“Of course,” I say, preening, “Far, far, too sweet and innocent to understand what you're talking about.”

“Never mind,” he says “I'll be back soon to give a practical demonstration.” and with that and a kiss that leaves my insides melted he is gone.

The warm glow he leaves me with lasts all the way to the car park where I burst into tears. Honestly, I'm so silly, this is no way to react to a routine separation, Michael is definitely nt sexist, but no wonder I occasionally get the feeling he's exasperated with my outbreaks of silliness when I behave like this, even though I try not to do things like this in front of him. Really I'm lucky it's not worse; some of Michael's friends are sexist I know. They don't mean it in a bad way, I'm sure. They like me, they think I'm good for Michael but because I stay home and care for my boyfriend I can tell they think I'm somehow submissive, or even inferior.

In fact I be have the way I do, caring for Michael, worrying about his needs, waiting on him, because I see this as a complementary partnership; he pays the bills and guards and looks after us. I look after Michael's health and happiness and make sure he has a warm, clean, safe refuge to come back to and love and care for him while he's there. If I was working outside the home I'd expect a different division of labour. Some of Michael's fellow officers or NCO's don't understand that though. They see me so busy and happy, looking after Michael and they see a hausfrau, an amiable bimbo. They don't understand that I'm a strong, capable independent individual and this is a deliberate act of love. I know Michael doesn't think that way though. Even though he sometimes teases me by pretending to be sexist, calling me his pretty little wench and slapping me on the a- on the backside or hiding my clothes so that I have to make breakfast in the nude, he respects me, I know it.

He doesn't think that way. He just doesn't.

I know he doesn't.

Blowing my nose and pulling myself together, I head home in the little economy car he got me for my last birthday. Michael has a Ferrari but he doesn't let me drive it. It's not because I'm a woman, he just doesn't let anyone drive it except himself. Michael explained that to me very carefully and I believe him.

It's a beautiful day, I have twenty-four hours before Michael gets back.and I plan to make the most of it, so I'm wandering the forest with a basket on one arm. As part of my quest to eat organic and stretch the housekeeping I go out and gather forest fruits every year. Michael laughs (in a nice way) and calls me a wood nymph but it doesn't stop him eating the blackberry crumbles or the rowan jelly or drinking the sloe gin (So far he won't touch the rose hip tea even though I assure him it's good for the blood, but hey, one step at a time). I've got stout boots but I indulged myself with my favourite skirt. I know jeans would be more practical but I just don't like them. Right now, I'm regretting that for two reasons. The first is that a trailing bramble has laddered my tights. The second, more important reason, is that I think the man a couple of hundred yards back is deliberately following me and if I'm right and it's for the wrong reasons my Hell Kitten layered miniskirt isn't even going to slow him down.

These woods are riddled with criss crossing paths, so I've changed direction seven or eight times in the last five minutes.. Every time I do, he does the same and speeds up a little. It could be coincidence, or he could be wanting to talk to me for some entirely innocent reason, or it could just be a desire to catch up with me so he can flirt with a pretty girl (I know I sound vain, but honestly, when Michael isn't with me this happens a lot).

That said, since the war, crime has gone up a lot and women are always the most vulnerable. I've never heard of anyone being attacked in these woods but I know quite a few women have been raped or otherwise sexually assaulted in the area of the town near the base. Not all of them have survived the experience. No one in their right mind would try anything with Michael around and I rarely go off base after dark without him, and then not on my own, so I've never dwelt on that fact before. I'm definitely dwelling on it now.

The man is speeding up, he's less than a hundred yards away now. I abandon all pretence at calm and turn to run. As I do, he breaks into a sprint. I can see him clearly now and he's twice my size and burly with it, so much so that it seems unfair that he can also sprint that fast. His expression gloats, there's no pretence now that the situation is anything but what it is. Then he is on me and it's too late for anything but a hopeless scream.

Michael was right. There are bad hombres out there and one of them has me trapped now.

I cry out in fear and pull away as the man grabs me, one hand holding my arm and the other squeezing my right breast hard enough to bruise. I manage to pull out of his grip, stepping backwards and opening my mouth to scream again.

My attacker doesn't like that; suddenly a haymaker is swinging at me to shut me up. That's when it happens. My left arm comes up hard and fast, blocking his arm with a bone bruising collision and then using the momentum to chop at the side of his neck. The Jew's stop a part of me knows after the heavyweight champion Mendoza. It slows him down and my fists bang hard against both his ears simultaneously before my forearms come down on his collarbones with a sickening snap. He starts to crumple and the top of my lowered head crunches into his nose. My attacker, if I can still call him that, rears up in pain and my stiff fingers jab into his windpipe, then his solar plexus. Lastly my knee connects with his crotch. He can't even scream, only writhe in agony at my feet. A six foot, two hundred pound man seriously injured by a five foot five woman, most whose hundred and thirty-odd pounds, I have to admit, is curves. The whole thing has taken maybe twenty seconds, tops.

What have I done?

How have I done what I've done?

Who am I?

An hour later I'm sitting in Kelly Gunderson's kitchen wrapped in a blanket and drinking hot, sweet tea. (Staff Sergeant Gunderson did a tour of duty attached as liason to the British, years ago. They swear by this stuff.) The man is under guard in the base hospital and the MPs have just left. A message came through from the city police while they were taking my statement that he matches the photofits and descriptions given by a score of witnesses over the years. He hasn't even got the excuse of being a traumatised veteran, he's just a creep taking advantage of troubled times and the fact that half the men who'd otherwise be police or security are out on the front lines. It looks pretty certain I'm not going to get into trouble. I can clam self-defence and no judge is going to be sympathetic to this guy. If I hadn't done what I did I'd have been raped and beaten, maybe killed.

I don't feel good. I hate violence. It just isn't who I am or who I want to be. One of the reasons I can't forgive the damned Canoeheads is that they attacked first. I mean, whatever the problem was couldn't they have just talked to us, instead of inflicting all this misery?

And now I know I'm a trained killer. My life Before Michael, once a lost Garden of Eden, is starting to look as if it might be a cesspool filled with barbed wire.

So how did I learn to do what I did? I half crippled a man, in a way they don't teach you in evening class karate. To do what I did suggests I was in the armed forces, or at least an elite police unit. But if I was in any such group in the United States then when I was found wandering and lost I could easily have been identified by fingerprints or dental work. The authorities keep track of people who can do what I did, especially during a war. Which means...

Oh my God!

Oh my God!

I'm Canadian!

The door opens. Michael is home.

“Emily?” I hear him call, walking into the darkened hallway. He's uncertain, I can tell by the tone of his voice. Normally when he arrives on a scheduled break the house will be lit and cheery and something will be ready to eat – probably something which will still be edible if I turn it off and reheat it later, just in case his other appetites are going to take priority. Usually I'd be rushing down the hall to greet him by now. At the very worst, even if I was tied up with something that couldn't be left, the place wouldn't be unlit and silent as the grave. Michael is no fool. He has to be wondering if the time bomb he's been keeping in his home for the last three years has finally gone off. I'm wondering that too.

“Emily?” Michael says again, as he steps into the sitting room and flicks on the light. Then he sees the gun I have pointed straight at him.

“I know the secret.” I say sadly

“Emily, Emily my lamb,” he says, in tones of such love and concern that I want to drop the pistol and go rushing into his arms. “There's no need for this. You're my Emily. I'm your Michael. I promise we can sort this out.”

“Emily isn't my real name,” I reply stonily “And you aren't my Michael, are you? You're my jailer. My something anyway. Your job is to make sure I don't remember who or what I am, and to make sure I don't get away if I do.”

Michael starts to say that he doesn't know what I'm talking about but I cut him off, icily

“Don't lie to me, Michael, please. If I mean anything, if I ever meant anything, please tell me the truth.” Michael falls silent for a moment
“You said you knew the secret. So, you already know that you're...” Michael hesitates and his voice trails off.

“Canadian,” I say “I'm a Canadian soldier, or maybe some sort of spy. You've been sleeping with the enemy.” I let out a short, mirthless laugh. Michael lets out a real one.

“Wait, you think that's the secret? That you're Canadian?” He starts laughing so hard it would infuriate me under other circumstances.

“You mean I'm not?” I feel a bit of hope rising. If only I've got it all wrong, Michael can just explain it to me, tease me for being so silly and I can go back to my happy life as Michael's Emily. Or Kelly or Alyssa or whatever my real name is

“You are, but really, that's the least of it.”

“Oh God,” I feel my heart sink again “Am I a war criminal then? Have you been waiting till my memory comes back so you can put me on trial. For whatever I've done?” No wonder he never asked me to marry him; all this time he's just been making my captivity as humane as possible. That's so Michael, kind even to monsters. Monsters like me.

“What's a war criminal? No one's followed any rules of war since the day we nuked Toronto and started our surprise attack. Believe me, if you were a war criminal we'd have shot you without wasting time, but from what I've heard that's been done to plenty of prisoners already.”

“Wait! Wait! We launched a surprise attack?”

Michael laughs at me again. There's a fierceness, a cruelty in his face I've never seen before. This isn't the Michael who comes home to me. This is the Michael who fights a war.

“Don't tell me you believed all that crap about a Canadian attack on the US? Shit, you must be the only person on Earth who doesn't realise that you can tell when the President is lying because his lips are moving. I suppose only having three years of memory must do a lot for naivety, but really this beats all.”

“We, I mean, you started the war?” I say again, stupidly.

“The US outnumbers the Canoeheads by ten to one. Why would you start it?”

I can't say a thing. My worldview has just been turned upside down. I'm a damned Canoehead. And the damned Canoeheads might not be the villains after all.

“Is that the secret?” I finally manage to ask

“Yes; it's so secret everyone in the world knows except you and the President, who can convince himself of his own fantasies, and I figured you were just paying lip service for fear of a treason charge.”

“Then what is the secret?”

“Your real name is Captain Marcus Julius Naso.”

“But that's a boy's name.”

“Yes. You are another of the President's fantasies made real.”

“Huh?”

“Trump was surprised how much resistance Canada put up. Hell, all of us were. We beat you at every kind of conventional warfare but you turned out to know everything about guerilla warfare. What with that and the French and British sending you supplies it still isn't safe for a US soldier anywhere in Canada unless he's in an aeroplane too high for surface to air missiles to reach. So when US scientists developed a way to alter people at the genetic level it gave the mad old bastard an idea.”

I sit numbly, trying to grasp the total overturning of everything I thought was solid, so confused that I still feel offended to hear the man I thought was my President described as a 'mad old bastard'. Even though it now appears he actually is.

“The way he figured it, you give women jewellery, money, flowers and pretty clothes and they're happy.” Michael shrugs “It's worked for him all his life so I suppose it makes a sort of sense from his point of view. He never has listened to anyone else's and I suppose that's worked for him too. After all, no one in their right mind expected him to be President in the first place.”

“Less commentary, more info!” I demand, waggling my little .22 pistol with its ladylike bullets.

“The President figured if the entire population of Canada consisted of pretty girls being showered with treats instead of infuriated guerillas, problem solved. Operation Disney Princess was born.”

“Operation Disney Princess?”

“Yes. This breakthrough could be used to create super soldiers who could end the war in months. It could be used to devise plagues that we could immunise our citizens against and then turn loose to wipe out our enemies. It could eliminate every genetically transmitted disease or weakness. It could even give us a stab at immortality. So what does the President use it for? Creating more women for him to grab by the pussy.”

There's something familiar here. The words 'Operation Disney Princess' have literally haunted my dreams so I must have some connection with it but for the life of me I can't see what. My bewilderment is obviously reflected on my face because Michael gestures impatiently and says “Don't you get it? You were a man.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” I say automatically. The idea just doesn't make sense, so much so that I'm torn between relief that I'm not a war criminal and annoyance that Michael is so obviously misinformed that I may never find out the truth. Men can be wonderful. I wouldn't be without one, but they're stubbly, insensitive creatures, who can't pick up on hints, are inordinately proud of being able to pee standing up and would live in a cave made of dirty laundry and unwashed plates if you didn't pick up after them. The idea that I could have been one is just untenable.

“You were a man,” Michael repeats “A Canadian soldier. A notorious Canadian soldier, cunning as a wolverine and tougher than a wasp and if you hadn't been so badly banged up by your capture that no one recognised you at first you'd never have made it to the prison camp alive But you did and you were selected as one of the subjects for Operation Disney Princess.”

“i don't believe you. No, I believe you're telling me truthfully what you've been told, but this can't be right Michael. You don't know any of this first hand. Somebody's fed you a line. You'd never met me before I was brought to this base as your housekeeper. “

“Yes, I had.”

“Eh?”

“I was the one who finally destroyed your unit. I captured you. Then, because keeping hundreds of prisoners in one place and experimenting on them is never a safe proposition, they pulled me out of the front lines and made me Head of Security for the project.”

I can feel my jaw drop. Either this is some very weird elaborate hoax, or a cover up for something even stranger, or Michael is telling the truth. And everything, everything I've learnt about Michael's face and voice and stance and whole being in three years of intimacy says he's telling the truth. It makes sense of some things too, even as it makes nonsense of others I thought I knew. Unless he can read my mind Michael can't have taken Operation Disney Princess from my thoughts. It explains how I was able to take down a man twice my size, effortlessly and within seconds. It doesn't explain why I find the idea of being male so alien of course and it doesn't explain my emaciation when I came here.

“Wait, so I was never in a Canadian slave labour camp?”

“There are no Canadian slave labour camps. That's just propaganda. They haven't the people to spare to run them and they can't hold territory in the face of overwhelming force. Your side either kills people or lets them the fuck alone.”

“Then why was I so emaciated when I was found?”

For the first time Michael looks ashamed.

“The budget for feeding US prisoners is miniscule to start with and by the time various contractors and cronies who run the programme have taken their cut it's less. Subjects for Operation Disney Princess get special treatment, of course, but you hadn't had much time to put on weight when you escaped. After that you were missing for days, probably with nothing to eat but what you could scavenge, and that's not a lot for anybody nowadays”

“in my dream... in my dream someone said I was subject 239. How many others are there like me?”

“None.”

“What?”

“There were five hundred test subjects before the project was abandoned. You are the only success.”

“I thought you said scientists had worked out how to alter DNA.”

“With test animals, yes. They ran through thirty or forty prisoners before the subjects stopped dying. After that everyone thought it would be plain sailing. It wasn't. It turns out that changing someone's sex without so much as a by-your-leave is one of the most traumatic things you can do. Some of the test subjects lapsed into catatonia when they saw their new selves, some slipped into psychosis. Quite a few killed themselves, more forced us to kill them or died trying to escape. A dozen or so did escape and were never heard of again. And then there's you.”

A realisation hits me hard. “That's why I'm alive isn't it? You wanted to study me, to see why I was different.”

“Not me, I don't get to take that kind of decision. The scientists did though. They were very eager to see if the project could be put back on track. So when you claimed to have lost your memory I was diverted to this base as your -”

“Jailer!” I interrupt bitterly

“I prefer the term handler”

“Does everyone know? Everyone on the base?”

“Yes. Families live here. With us not knowing if you were faking memory loss, or if you'd get it back at any moment, we couldn't do anything else.”

“No wonder I sometimes get funny looks. Everyone I know must be laughing at me behind my back.”

“No, it isn't like that. People were nervous at first but they came to trust you pretty quickly. Heck, not only do the local koffeklatsch girls drop in on you all the time, they let you look after their children. If you think about it that's the biggest compliment anyone could give.”

“What about tricking me into being your fucking bedwarmer? Is that a compliment too?”

I see Michael wince a little. I don't usually swear and my tone is accusing. That's how I want it. I daren't soften now.

“It wasn't like that! You came on to me remember?”

“Yes, I remember. You must have laughed yourself sick.”

“No! Listen to me for God's sake. Emily, I love you.”

“You have a funny way of showing it. Deceiving me so your damned mad scientists could dissect my soul to see how I was different. Did they ever figure it out?”

“Yes. We knew where you came from. Eventually some bright spark had the idea of digging your medical records out of the ruins of your old town. Do you really not know? Can't you guess?” Michael looks at me curiously

“Just tell me.”

“Tell me something first. How do you feel about being a girl?”

I consider the question. “Honestly? Normal. There's nothing about being a woman I don't like, apart from the things which are nothing to do with being a woman and everything to do with men. Like being lied to by my boyfriend!``”

“So you don't want a dick on you? As opposed to in you?”

“Firstly, that's just crude and secondly, euww! No I absolutely don't!”

“Well that's the secret of your success. It seems you were transgender to start with. You'd already been living as a woman full time for months when the war began and were about to start further procedures. You deliberately put off transitioning so it wouldn't interfere with you volunteering for the armed forces.” Michael shrugs “What can I say? You're a patriot.”

I sit in silence for a moment. I don't know a lot about transgender people, but what I've heard is that they're born trapped in the body of the wrong sex. If that is so I can believe I was transgender a lot more easily than I can believe I was ever a regular male. Now that's irony; being given the gift I most wanted by my most deadly enemies. Go figure.

“Emily, “ Michael is saying gently “Your war is over now. Stay here. With me.”

“So you can think up more experiments to try out on me? I don't think so.”

“No!” Michael is starting to sound desperate now “Once they found out why you were different the scientists lost interest. I managed to persuade the powers that be to let you alone, just so long as you were in my custody. But you have to stay in my custody or all deals are off.”

“You mean I have a choice between being your skivvy and whore or going back to a POW camp? I think I prefer the camp.”

“It's not like that. Emily, I fell in love with you. What does it matter how we met? Emily, Emily will you marry me?”

I can feel the tears forming and a lump in my throat. Such a little time ago those were words I longed to hear and now..as Michael steps forward, arms open, reaching for me I jerk the pistol barrel at him

“Get back!”

“Emily, why can't you trust me?”

“Why? Why? I'm either Captain Naso, in which case this is a breach of every law on treatment of prisoners ever written or I'm Emily, in which case you got me to sleep with you by deception. That's rape, Michael, as surely as if you'd jumped out on me from behind a bush!”

“It is not!”

“No? Do you think I would have come on to you if I knew the truth?”

“Wouldn't you?”

“You know the answer, or you would have TOLD me the truth.”

“Emily, please. Think about this. If you go running away you'll be caught, as sure as can be. The government can't afford to let you go telling the things you know now. When they catch you God only knows what they'll do to you next. There are worse places than this to be.”

“No one will catch me. I'll head for the border. You haven't the numbers to search a nation bigger than the whole continental United States. The manpower that might have found me is bleeding away on the frontlines. Everyone on this base talks to the women they sleep with and then we talk to each other over coffee. It's the best intelligence network in the world. Why do you think I worry so much when you go away? You're losing this war.”

Michael glares, I've gotten him angry now. “Emily, whatever your gaggle of hens tell you, you WILL be found.”

“Because of this?” I sniff away tears and hold up my silver and bluejohn bracelet. “You know, in three years it never occurred to me to wonder why I had a bracelet with a semi-precious stone that's found in caverns in exactly one mountainside in all the world. And then I worked it out. It's semi-precious so I wouldn't wonder how I could afford such a big piece of it and it's this particular semi-precious stone because it carves well. So you could have it hollowed out and put a transmitter in it.” I drop the bracelet on the floor and crush it under my foot. “Thank you for the lovely bracelet though; I always wondered where it came from.”

“Emily -” Michael begins but I cut him off.

“That's why I can't stay. You're still lying to me even now.” I keep a straight face but inside it feels like I'm dying. A little voice inside my head is still screaming at me not to ruin things. If I let Michael put his arms around me now I'll crumple like a wet handkerchief.

“Emily, I can't let you go.”

“You can't stop me.”

“Maybe not.” Michael draws himself up to his full height “But you'll have to kill me to get past me. I'm still prepared to die for my country. Are you still prepared to kill for yours?”

That's when I burst into sobs and Michael steps forward to comfort me. I jump up and put a bullet into the floor between us.

“No!”

With a sigh that clearly says “Women!” Michael turns his back and leans on the desk in an exasperated fashion while I stand irresolute.

I can't kill Michael. Whatever he's done, whatever he deserves I can't kill the man I've loved for three years. As he turns back towards me, the automatic he was concealing in his waistband streaking to the firing position so fast it almost blurs, it's obvious he doesn't feel the same way.

I pull the trigger.

Half an hour later speeding south in the Ferrari he never let me drive before, I'm still having to dash tears from my eyes from time to time. He didn't love me, not at all, not ever. He couldn't have tried to shoot me if he did. And I still couldn't kill him. I put a .22 slug into the muscle of his shooting arm, hit him over the head with a lamp and then tied him up with his own zip tie restraints. He regained consciousness while I did, kept muttering about how he'd always known he'd regret showing me how to use those things.

“That's what you get for bringing your work home!” I'd shouted as I left.

The worst thing was that I'd already inflicted my revenge on him – the revenge I'd never wanted and which he would never know. Maybe the worst revenge possible – Michael would never know his own child. It turns out the Pill isn't a hundred per cent reliable Maybe, just maybe, if it had been I would have kept my mouth shut and stayed, pushed down my doubts and worries, given Michael another chance. But no way was my child going to be raised with a liar and murderer for a father.

I'd tricked Michael by saying I would head for the border. Canada is no place to raise a child right now. I was heading south and west, too far south to be in danger from the war with Canada, but stopping too far north to be in range of the battle lines if this band of lunatics started a war with Mexico. I had a cunning plan. I was young, I was pretty, I was healthy, I was hard working. I would find one of those idyllic small towns with no crime, get a job and make a life for us. And maybe, just maybe, one day I'd find someone honest and decent who was good father material and then they were going to get very, very lucky

Emily's Strange Life Chapter 5

I don't know what religion I was baptised into, or if I ever was. I don't know if I'm Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Wiccan or Hindu. But I do know that I will never hear a word against nuns as long as I live.

After I escaped from Michael I stopped at a car dealership and exchanged his conspicuous, easily traced Ferrari for something a bit more under the radar. The fact that the Ferrari was obviously stolen meant I had to trade it at well below its value. The fact that the dealer would obviously inform on me at the sight of a dollar bill meant that I traded the car I'd got from him a couple of hours later, in a town diametrically opposite to the direction I was planning to go in. After I'd muddied my trail by repeating this a few times the car I was left driving was what Michael would have called a piece of shit. I thought it was a good, faithful little car that got me the best part of a thousand miles before conking out, but there was no denying that the only thing to do was give it a decent burial.

So there I was in a big, flat state that I shan't name, but they're still very fond of the memory of John Brown, with no transport, hardly any money, no medical insurance and in what used to be delicately called 'an interesting condition'.

This is where the nuns come in. I'd been driving for two days and a night, almost without a break, no proper meals, figuring I could go back to living right once I'd put some distance between myself, an avenging Michael and, probably, a horde of mad scientists eager to carry out more tests. By the time I'd walked fifteen miles from where I broke down to the nearest town.. well, I might as well admit it. I was standing in the high street, debating whether to go to the bar ( for food) or the garage first when I fainted.

When I woke up I was in a nunnery. No, that isn't the fate they reserve for unmarried mothers here, besides, I'm not showing yet and won't be for a while. It turns out the good sisters run a charity hospital, treating the destitute, the homeless, the poor and the uninsured and under insured. In particular, as part of their mission to save children from being aborted they offer an unrivalled ante-natal and maternity service. Sometimes I really can believe there is a God looking out for us. I didn't even know America had nuns!

I think I must, at some point have regained semi-consciousness without remembering it because nuns got into my dreams. I dreamt I was being pursued by Michael dressed as a Nazi. I dreamt Michael was being chased by anti-Nazi nuns. I dreamt I was a Nazi and I'd been captured by nuns who were forcing me to sing numbers from 'The Sound of Music'

Of course, I didn't know about the hospital when I woke up to find myself strapped to a bed, with a nun in full habit leaning over me. I don't think I was tracking too well, because the first thing I said was “I can't sing! Please let me go!”

The nun sort of smiled and frowned at the same time.

“Please don't panic, you're quite safe. I'm Sister Maria. “ She must have seen from my face that I didn't find this reassuring because she hastily added “The only reason you were strapped down is because you've been thrashing about a lot while you were unconscious and we were afraid you might hurt yourself. You're safe now,” she repeated, unbuckling the straps that held me down “You're in the hospital of St Blasius of Ragusa, run by the Sisters of the blessed order of Saint Maximilian Kolbe.”

“Um, good?”

“You'll be pleased to know there's nothing much wrong with you. You were exhausted, a little dehydrated, you've got some painful blisters and you could do with a good meal but otherwise you're in good shape, “ Sister Maria hesitated for the first time “Did you know you were expecting?”

“That's why I had to run awa- oh!” I winced. I may have been a good soldier once, though I still found it hard to believe, but I was a terrible fugitive. I'd just blown my cover to the very first person I met who wasn't a car dealer or gas station attendant.

“Don't be afraid,” Sister Maria smiled reassuringly “A lot of women we see here are fleeing bad relationships or the war, or .” she hesitated for a moment “all sorts of things. No one is going to send you back to whoever you're avoiding.”

“Thank you.” I let out a long breath I hadn't even realised I was holding.

“Get some rest now, if you can. Dinner is in an hour.” I was asleep before she reached the door.

Three days later I'm sitting in the office of Father Flaherty, Head of the Hospital's Welfare, Pastoral Care and Community Outreach Department. Once they discovered I not only had no intention of getting rid of my baby but was determined to raise it myself the nuns couldn't do enough for me. That was why I had this appointment. The trouble was, I was going to have to blow it – I'd told Sister Maria I was running away, I'd given them a name that was easily traceable. I was going to have to find a hospital sooner or later, but I needed to establish a new identity first and how I was going to do that I had no idea. Frustratingly, I suspected Captain Naso would have known exactly what to do, but since I couldn't remember being Captain Naso that didn't help me at all. Sister Maria had told me that they wouldn't send me back, but when Special Forces arrived with a warrant for my arrest that would certainly change.

“Emily?”

I jumped as Father Flaherty came into the room. Despite the name he looked like a South American statue of one of less amiable Aztec gods, hacked out of teak with a blunt chisel. If I'd met him in the street I would have wanted to run away. As it was, I tried to make myself small, and smoothed my skirt nervously.

“That's me.” I squeaked. Darn it, I've got to get a hold of myself.

“Emily O' Halloran? I see we're both from the Old Country, or at least some of our families are.”

Father Flaherty smiled. I winced. I am such an idiot! Fancy using Michael's surname as an alias. I'd just blurted it out. In a fit of genius it meant I'd given a name that was easily traceable and failed to match my ID. My ID said I was Emily Doe. No,really. Social Services are very unoriginal at giving surnames to wandering amnesiacs.

“If you have another name you'd rather use, all you have to do is tell me. I promise I won't remember or repeat it. The good sisters think, they aren't certain, mind you, but they think you may need more help than simple medical treatment can provide. Sister Maria thinks you're fleeing trouble.”

I contemplated my options. I'd brought down a man Father Flaherty's size not long ago, not to mention getting the drop on Michael, but I still didn't know how. Those skills were in me somewhere, buried deep and twice now they'd saved me, but I didn't think I could access them at will. I'd tested myself and I was no stronger , jars were still as hard to open as ever, so without those skills I had no prospects of overwhelming Father Flaherty and escaping, even if there was somewhere to escape to on this expanse of flat prairie.

Besides, it would definitely be a wrong thing to do, after all the kindness I'd been shown, to turn on my benefactors now. On the other hand, didn't I have a duty to my unborn child to keep him or her safe, whatever it cost me? As I sat lost in indecision Father Flaherty said

“In case you were worrying, I am willing to take this whole conversation under the seal of confession.”

“Um. I'm really sorry, I don't know what that means.”

“It means that I may not, under any circumstances reveal to anyone what you tell me.”

“I get that you mean that Father but obviously you would if it involved a legal inquiry. And it might. I can promise I haven't done anything wrong, well not very wrong” As far as you remember my conscience whispered. Stupid conscience. “but that isn't necessarily the story they'll tell you and they aren't people you want to annoy.”

“I promise you, my child,” Hey. I'm twenty-one. Or thereabouts. Probably. “If it is a choice between my death by torture or revealing the secrets of the confessional a priest is duty bound to choose the first. To break that vow is the number one sin – worse than buggering the Pope.”
I choked on a giggle and then pulled myself together.

“All the more reason not to tell you. I don't want to put anyone here in that position.”

Father Flaherty smiled again, a gentle, understanding smile. Somehow he was much uglier smiling, but much, much more attractive. His grotesque features radiated good nature, in a way that was infinitely endearing.

“The nuns here are Sisters of the blessed order of St Maximillian Kolbe. I am their confessor as well as my role as an administrator of the hospital. Do you know who Maximillian Kolbe was?”

“No.”

“He was a priest in Poland during the Second World War. Together with a number of other clerics he was hiding a group of Jews from the occupying Nazis. It was against every law of the secular powers and when he was caught they were not amused. Father Maximillian was sent to the death camp at Auschwitz.. In the camp one day the guards decided they were going to lock ten men in a room to starve to death. I think they had some sort of excuse about camp discipline but the real reason was that they enjoyed doing that sort of thing. One of the men they chose had a family, children.

Maximillian Kolbe voluntarily took his place and died in that underground chamber, faithful to the last, praying and praising God so long as he had strength to kneel and speak. Later he was declared a saint. We here, the good sisters and my unworthy self, seek to model our lives on his, to protect children, to stand between the family and a harsh world, to do that which is right, regardless of the consequences that may come upon us.

“I doubt if you are fleeing a death camp, but nevertheless, if you need help, you would be doing us a favour by allowing us to help you. As for governments, armies, Presidents or kings, we have one ruler and his name is Jesus Christ. That is where our allegiance lies.”

“I'll tell you, but you won't believe me. I hardly believe it myself. To start with I'm Canadian, a Canadian soldier, or I was. My baby's father is an American soldier named Michael O' Halloran, a special forces officer. I have no memory that stretches more than three years back so when I ..got together with him I had no idea who I was. He did. He was really my jailer and I never knew it. When I found out ,I knew I had to flee. “ I pause and blush

“My name isn't really O'Halloran. Michael never married me.”

“Did you want him to?” asks Father Flaherty gently. I stare at the the floor.

“Yes. I'm so stupid, I still miss him. After everything he did I miss him.”

“That doesn't sound stupid to me. A bad plan perhaps. Painful for you, certainly, but not stupid. Love is never stupid, even love for someone not worthy of it . Love is a gift of God.”

“Michael didn't think so,” I whisper. My throat is closing up now and I'm trying to hold back a wail of misery and despair.

“Perhaps. Now tell me. Do you think, knowing what you know now, that this man would have been the right husband for yourself, the right father for your child?”

“No.”

“Then what you have done is right, and brave,”

“I thought,” I hesitate and decide to say it anyway “I thought Catholics were all about not allowing divorce and things.”

“We do tend to frown on it, “ Father Flaherty said dryly “but then we also think people should make the commitment of marriage before having children, and that they should be very certain they are with the right person first, for reasons which I suspect will be obvious to you at this moment. In your case however, given that vital information was concealed from you, you would be a good candidate for an annullment.”

“That's allowed?”

“That's allowed.”

“What am I going to do, Father?”

“You're going to do what you are doing. You're going to have your child and give him or her a decent upbringing. And we're going to help you. I can arrange identification for you that will hold up well enough for you to get a job. There are people in town who will be happy to take in a lodger or a tenant who's not going to rip out the piping to sell for drugs or get blind drunk every Friday. We'll do what we can to help you find a job. I'm afraid it probably won't be anything glamourous, waitressing or shop work.”

I suppressed a laugh, he sounded so worried about this last

“Do I look glamorous?”

“Perhaps glamorous is the wrong word, but certainly refined.”

“Oh. Um. Thank you. Er, how can you arrange false ID?”

A slow smile spread across Father Flaherty's face

“ That would be betraying the secrets of the confessional.”

Moment of truth. I'm in the hospital's cybercafe. It's three am so I have the place to myself and I'm about to do what I've been putting off since Michael told me the secret, or at least, what he claimed was the secret. I google 'Marcus Julius Naso', the name Michael told me was mine. .

Then I look at my search results and shudder. I attempted to usurp the throne of the Roman Empire before being assassinated in 407 AD? Oh, wait, that's the wrong Marcus Julius Naso!

The rest of the results are worse.

Units of the 5th Irregular Infantry under Captain Naso are suspected of being responsible for the ambush and massacre...no survivors....blinded by improvised 'napalm' made from ...under Naso 'poor man's napalm' has become a trademark....Naso is suspected of having killed surrendering US soldiers. ...Naso, pioneered the use of mines designed to cripple and maim not kill....Naso, the Butcher of Mayberry... notorious suspected war criminal Marcus Julius Naso killed in action by US Special Forces on a raid near Ironwood, Minnesota..

It goes on like that and I can feel myself getting queasy. If this is true I'm a monster. I deserve everything that was done to me, even Michael trying to shoot me and much more besides. If a quarter of this is true I deserve it. On the other hand I'm looking at newspaper headlines and government reports in a country that invaded mine, unprovoked and where accusing a government source of lying can land you on a treason charge. I don't know how much of this is true. I don't know if any of it is true. I thought if I could find out something about myself my memories would come flooding back like in a film where amnesia just goes away. After three years of not knowing who or what I am, you'd think I would know better..

Maybe something visual would help? I move my cursor to the top of the search page and click on 'images'. Pictures spread across the screen. A burned town, a battle scene, a wanted poster. There I am. Or there Captain Naso is at any rate. Oh crap, I look like a psycho!

I study the man in front of me for any sign of familiarity. He kind of has my colouring. His face is fierce, even cruel, like the face I saw on Michael that last night, when he dropped the mask and let me see the Michael who can kill and burn and destroy. Michael still looked kind of wholesome though. If Hollywood were casting a film Michael would be the corn fed Iowa boy and Marcus Naso would be the terrifying adversary he overcomes at the last minute by moral fortitude and being the American.

That said I can see that a stranger wouldn't be surprised if they were told this man was a cousin of mine, or even a brother. There is a resemblance On the other hand that stranger wouldn't be saying “Damn, they look alike” either. Does this mean Michael was just playing me? Or does it mean that the scientists altered more than just my sex? I look down at my D cup boobs which for some reason never cause me backache. I I think they did some tinkering. My lips don't look anything like Captain Naso's either, his being a thin, cruel line, but again, that's got to be a prime area to upgrade if you were playing God. Marcus Julius Naso could be me, if Michael was telling the truth.

I could be him. If so, it would explain why I lost my memory. If I am that man then I really don't want to remember what I've done.

First thing in the morning I need to see Father Flaherty.

“Bless me Father, I may have sinned.”

“Emily, is that you?”

I'm sitting in the confession booth, so Father Flaherty can't see my face with the screen between us but it's clear my voice is distinctive enough.

“Yes, it's me Father. I think I need advice. Or possibly punishment.”

“Punishment is for God, my child but I can give you a penance if you need one.”

“Um, I'm not sure what that is Father?”

“A penance is an act of atonement for sin. Now forgive an old man's ignorance, but what do you mean you may have sinned? You can't have seduced Father Rodriguez, he was out taking confession and giving the last rites to a housebound parishioner half the night and was still snoring when I left our dormitory this morning.”

“I haven't seduced anyone Father. I'm not a slut. But I may be a murderess. Murderer even.”

“Go on my child I am ready to hear your confession.”

“I..I think you're not going to believe me. In fact I think you're going to think I've gone mad.”

“Perhaps. But if you are mad I could probably help you better if I knew it. If you aren't, then telling someone else might help. Either way I don't see how you could lose out by talking to me.”

“Father, you know I was a Canadian soldier.”

I pause, but Father Flaherty says nothing

“I only know that because Michael told me. Last night I googled my name, or at least the name Michael told me was my real name and it's the name of a war criminal. The only thing is, I don't know whether I really was that person. In fact, it seems impossible. The- the person in question? They were a man.”

“I see. Did your Michael explain this discrepancy to you?”

“Sort of. He told me I was the subject of a government experiment to alter people at the genetic level. That can't be true can it Father? It must be nonsense?”

I'm practically pleading with him to tell me that Michael was lying to me. I don't want to be a war criminal, a murderer or a freak from a lab. Unfortunately Father Flaherty isn't going to let me off the hook that easily.

“What do you think, daughter?”
“I – I've had this persistent dream for years. It seems to fit with what Michael told me. And the person I was in the dream, they seem like the sort of person who might just be able to do the sort of things this Captain Naso is accused of.”

“Captain Naso? Marcus Julius Naso?”

“Yes Father.”

There is a very long pause before I say

“It can't be true, can it Father? I mean, look at me! There's no way I could ever have been a man.”

“A while ago I would have reassured you but the trouble is, one of our sister orders passed on news a few years back that such experiments had been taking place. And....your story ties with something else I know. Something I can't tell you more about at present.”

“Oh God!”

“I can tell you one thing though. If you are Captain Naso then you definitely are a Catholic.”

Another long pause.

“In the absence of any countervailing evidence and given what I know but cannot tell you I think it is reasonable to assume that you are, or rather were, Captain Naso.”

“Oh God! So I've done all these things they say?”

“Some of what you've read will be lies. As always, truth is an early casualty in war. You may not have breached any of the rules of war. That said, those are human rules. It's hard to see how you could have been a successful guerrilla leader without breaching several commandments. No matter how good your reasons men have died because of you. Given what happens when automatic fire and flame and explosives are used in residential areas it seems very likely you have killed civilians, including women and children, not intentionally, but, at least, recklessly.”

“Oh God, no!” I can feel tears starting to trickle down my cheek now. Stupid, pointless self indulgent tears because no amount of tears can wash away what I've done. Father Flaherty waits for my strangled sobs to subside before saying

“Let us consider the situation. What has been done to you, and others, is a blasphemy. The power to alter humans so fundamentally is a perilous one in the best of circumstances. To do this to someone against their will is to spit in the face of God.”

“I'm an abomination then?” I whisper tearfully

“You, daughter? No, you are an erring child of God who has suffered at the hands of wicked men, But I think, and remember I am only a poor priest struggling to understand His purposes, but I think this is a case where God has turned evil back upon itself and used evil to do good.”

I feel a tiny surge of hope, together with a lot of confusion.
“What do you mean Father?”

“I mean child, that you were, if we are right, a victim and a perpetrator both, twisted by an unjust war. Not only were you a danger to others but your feet were set on the path to Hell. Who knows how far you could have followed it, to what depths you might have fallen? Young, brave, charismatic - who knows how many others you could have dragged with you, what suffering you might have inflicted before you died, still in your rage and sin?

Now look at you. You could not kill the captor who you had every reason to be angry with, to hate. Instead you sought escape, not vengeance. You turned your back on war, made a conscious choice to be a mother, not a warrior. I think God put you where you are to turn your steps on to a better path. This is your second chance.”

“How?”

“Your penance will be in several parts,”

I wince and brace myself. I've heard some weird stories about Catholics, flagellation, fasting, vows of silence. I Still, whatever I can do to atone, I will.

“Firstly, you will say five 'Hail Mary's and five 'Our Father's. Secondly you will strive every day to be a good person, to give others the love, mercy, help and forgiveness you would want Our Lord to give to you. Thirdly and most importantly, you will strive to be a good mother,”

"I -uh- Father, that's pretty much what I was planning to do anyway, apart from the prayers."

“I know, but it doesn't hurt to remind you that this what God wants of you too. Besides, there is one final part, and you may find it as difficult as all the rest put together. I want you to pray day and night for the soul of Michael O'Halloran.”

“I-uh-uh. I mean- what?”

“”God gave you a second chance. I think he also gave your Michael a second chance and you were it. When he turned his back on your love for him he gave up that chance. If I am right then he is in terrible danger.”

“Does he deserve them?” I retort with a flash of bitterness, but I don't mean it, I actually have horrible butterflies dancing a fandango in my tummy at the thought that anything bad might happen to Michael. I'm such a wimp! On the other hand, considering what I used to be, that's a distinct improvement.

“Child, we don't offer prayers for others because they deserve it; we do it because they need it.”

A terrible thought strikes me. “Father, does that mean I've endangered Michael by leaving?”

“Were you in danger from him?”

“Yes. He pulled a gun on me.”

“Then you did the right thing. You have a duty to your unborn child, that outweighs any duty to Michael. Do you accept your penance, my daughter?

“I do.”

“And do you truly repent your sins and promise to sin no more?”

“I do.”

“Then I absolve you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Go and sin no more. Oh, and drop in on Sister Consuela, she has a surprise for you.”

One important thing to be aware of about nuns. When they say they're going to give you a total makeover, they aren't kidding. I figure it's the backed up pressure of not really being able to experiment themselves that means when they do get a chance it's Nuns Go Wild!

Not that I'm complaining. The object was to make me unrecognisable to the casual observer whilst definitely not matching any photofits or previous photographs that could be given to the papers, police or TV for use in a manhunt (Womanhunt? Personhunt?). The good sisters have certainly succeeded. I woke up this morning a pale skinned, goth girl type with blue eyes and straight, raven black hair, called Emily. I'm still pale skinned, but with masses of wavy flame coloured hair, and green eyes (contacts), and a lovely, pale, floaty dress which I think is attractive but still within the bounds of non-slutty respectability.

My name is now Aoife Donnelly and I have the id to prove it. Who would have thought nuns would be natural criminal masterminds? Best of all, I look totally different but still pretty. Yes, I know I'm shallow. Sue me.

On top of this I have a job interview, arranged for me by Sister Consuela. As I step from burning sunshine through the deliberately old-fashioned-Western-style swinging doors into the dim bar it looks like things are looking up. That's when I see the bear.

“Aaah! I shriek, as it rears over me. Then I feel extremely silly as my eyes adjust and I see that the 'bear' is actually a very large, very broad, very heavy man with long greying hair, and a beard you could lose a badger in.

“How do you feel about flirting?” He rumbles

“Um, I'm sorry but I only just got out of a relationship, I don't think I'm ready for anything new.”

“I meant customers. We don't allow harassment and if anyone lays a finger on you me or the boys will break it for them, but there ain't nothing on Earth will stop young men with a drink in them flirting with young women, so I need to be sure you can cope.”

Bearface McBear paused for a minute and his enormous bushy eyebrows knitted together in what I thought was probably a frown if only I could have seen his forehead under the hair falling over it. “You are here about the job aren't you? 'Cause I'm gonna be real embarrassed it turns out you ain't.”

“Oh, I am!” I said hastily “And honestly, I quite like being chatted up, as long as the person doing it understands that a no is a no.”

“Folks that come in here understand that or they go out of here real fast.” He reassured me. “The name's Adams, Grizzly to my friends.”

“Grizzly Adams? Seriously?” I blurt, before clapping a hand over my mouth. What is it with me and verbal incontinence recently? Luckily he's laughing at my consternation.

“Yep. Showing my age, I know.”

“Huh?”

“There was a TV show by that name a good many years ago. Warn't all that good. Let me show you around”

My newly adjusted eyes could see that the building was old style timber framed, divided into several enormous rooms, each served by bars and counters from the same central rectangle. What was surprising was just how different the rooms were.

“This place is the town's best bar, a good restaurant, the comedy club, a music venue and the coffee bar for the town's college students.”

“There's a college here?”

“Nope, it's twenty miles away, but it's cheaper for a lot of students to live here and commute, especially the ones who come from here in the first place. We can be very intellectual here. Why we used to have performance poetry nights in the back room.”

“Used to?”

“Old man McGinty got up and asked why the poems didn't rhyme. Then he started quoting Longfellow, to show them how it was done. Give them credit, those poets took it pretty well and there was a fine debate going right up until someone said Marlowe wrote Shakespeare's plays. A little while after that Mr McGinty slugged someone with a stool.”

“Oh! Does he care a lot about the authorship of Shakespeare's plays?”

He don't know a darn thing about it. That's why he had to slug somebody. He just plain ran outta argyments” Mr Adams paused, lost in thought for a moment “Some of those poets are real mean for their size. I guess Hell hath no fury like a poet scorned.”

“What happened to Mr McGinty?”

“Oh I barred him too, so he converted a barn on his farm into a venue and started a weekly poetry appreciation society. I've never been. Truth to tell I've heard stories and I reckon I ain't man enough.” From somewhere in the mass of hair a bright blue eye winked at me.

“Now this room,” he continued, leading me through another door “is where we hold bluegrass night on Wednesdays and open mike nights on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Those nights you can sing anything you like except for white boy rap or Gregorian plainchant. I've had to throw a few of your friends from the nunnery out over that. Not fun, nuns get kind of mean when they're riled.” All this was said so deadpan he almost had me for a moment.

Abruptly he turned around.

“Now, you've seen the place. I need a barmaid from 6.30 to 1ppm Monday to Thursday, through to 1am Fridays and Sundays and a waitress 11am to 3pm Monday to Friday, occasional overtime for special events and I pay three dollars an hour over minimum wage plus overtime after midnight. You want the job?”

“Just like that?”

“Yup. No one Sister Consuela sent ever let me down yet.”

“Yes please!”

I was positively looking forward to this. I wasn't sure if I could believe a word Mr Adam's said but I was pretty certain working for him would never be dull .

I remember that Zoe Haeckelthrope, who had a minor in sociology and clearly thought my feminist consciousness needed raising, used to tell me that the Male Gaze objectifies women. If that's true then after a month of working here I ought to be a statue.

It's nothing dramatic and never gets creepy, with the exception of one guy who honked my boob and was bustled out the door so fast I almost missed it just by blinking, but I am clearly considered a local beauty spot.. Truth to tell, I rather like it. I get to effortlessly bring some pleasure into peoples' lives and those people are consistently nice to me. Zoe was right; my feminist consciousness does need raising.

Right now the Three Amigos, as they are collectively known are doing their best to entertain me by giving a fine demonstration of what would be mansplaining except that they really do know more than I do and they are out to entertain me not talk down to me. Mind you, just looking at them is kind of entertaining. It's like they were put together by a film director.

Magnus is well over six feet tall, slim build, with long dark hair and a beard and moustache with hints of silver in them – basically, think of a younger version of Christopher Lee's Saruman. Stan, aka Stan the Man or Jammy Stan (I know; apparently it means 'lucky') is a few inches shorter, medium build, with very white teeth and thick hair and beard so dark as to be blue-black. Stan is white but something about his colouring makes me think a not very remote ancestor was something more exotic. Lastly Kit Branston is a burly, heavy muscled, ruddy faced, red bearded man who would be the very picture of a latter day Viking warrior bar the fact that he's a shade under five feet tall.

All three had been invalided out of the army with injuries that, if they bothered them at all, they never let it show. All three were now studying at the University on army veteran scholarships, or supposedly anyway. Since the University was twenty miles away and they always seemed to be around I had my doubts.

Of course they had other duties. All three of them were members of the Home Militia, made up of men who were were too old or medically unfit for front line service but could still be formidable on their home ground. The idea was that they would be the last line of defence when the Canadian hordes came pouring across the border, killing, burning and raping. Since I was already here I figured they were falling down on that one. Of course I lacked the inclination and, in one case the equipment for any such catalogue of atrocities.
Still, regular college attendance or not there was no question that they'd learned stuff somewhere. They positively rejoiced in obscure knowledge

“Don't tell me you don't know the tale of Cuchulain,” says Magnus “And you with a name like Aoife Donnelly?”

“Ker-who?”

“Cuchulain, the champion of the men of Ulster?”

“Which wasn't his real name by the way” put in Stan “It means 'The Hound of Cullen' and it was a nickname he got after strangling a dog.”

“What? He was a dog strangler??” I'm a cat person myself, but this was going too far!

“It was a monstrous hound that was trying to tear his throat out at the time. We aren't talking about the family labrador here.” said Magnus

“Um, still not ideal but more understandable.”

“But that isn't the important story about him. No the real tale is what happened when Ulster was invaded by the men of Connacht.” said Stan

“Led by Maeve, the Queen of Connacht” added Magnus

“Have you two rehearsed this?” I asked suspiciously

“No,” Kit reassured me “They just know this story really, really well. It's always like this. You're being complimented though, they only inflict this rigmarole on people they like.”

I manage to restrain my preening. It's nice to be popular. Of course, being young, single and professionally obliged to listen with interest helps. The fact is I'm pretty sure I could net myself a boyfriend without difficulty if I put my mind to it but I just can't bring myself to do it. For a start I'd have to open by explaining that I'm pregnant which is a bit much to spring on someone on a first date, or alternatively conceal it until they'd well and truly fallen for me which just seems manipulative and mean. So I'm going to wait a year or two, so when I do start looking it's too obvious to need explaining that me and my child are a package deal.

There's another reason I don't like to think about. The truth is I just can't get Michael out of my head. I think about him constantly. I want his smile and the smell of him and the warmth of his arms around me and his touch. I ache for him.

I realise with a jolt that I've lost track of the story. Luckily so have Stan and Magnus, who are now engaged in a passionate debate over whether Cuchullain is a demi-god (being the son of the god Lugh) or something else entirely as Stan insists Cuchullain was also part fairy on the other side of the family tree. The two of them are locked in battle over who someone called Cathbad the druid married and I'm trying to make sense of it when I notice that Kit is staring ostentatiously into the middle distance with a strange expression on his face.
That's when I realise that in following the story I'm leaning so far over the bar counter that I'm giving a fine display of the contents of my scoop top to anyone who cares to look, which is why Kit is chivalrously not looking.

“Oh my God.” I can feel myself blushing from my toes to the top of my hairline as I scramble upright. Magnus and Stan look at me in surprise and I realise they were so absorbed they didn't even notice!

“What just happened?” asks Stan

“I'm not telling you!” I reply firmly “Now skip the family trees and get to the story.”

So they do and a real Greek tragedy of a tale it is too chock full of foredoomed heroes, magical prohibitions, tragic last stands and capricious gods. Someone really should make a movie out of it. I reckon all it needs is a love interest and I say so.

“Arghh!” Magnus grimaces at me

“That would take away the simplicity of the story,” Stan argues “Really the whole focus, the point of it, is that dreadful day when Cuchulain and Ferdia, the greatest champions of Ulster and Connacht, each the other's closest friend, are trapped and driven by honour and duty and country and circumstances they can't control or escape, into facing each other in a duel where one must die. That is the drama and the tragedy of the tale, and anything that distracts from that diminishes it.”

What if Cuchullain could persuade his father or one of the other gods who flit through the story to turn Ferdia into a girl, so these two who love each other so much could face off as man and woman, not bull headed warrior and mutton brained hero? I wonder. Would that give them a happy ending, or would it just make things worse?

Emily's Strange Life Chapter 9

There is no reason why I should be cooking dinner for my landlady, but somehow it seems to have turned out that way. I blame the sexist manufacturers of meat sauce jars. Mrs Pilsudski couldn't get the jar she'd bought to go with her evening meal open and neither could I, so now it sits there mocking our female weak wristedness while I glower at it and make a casserole from scratch.

“You are such a good girl, Aoife, to help me out like this,” Mrs Pilsudski sighs

“It's nothing, really, I would have been making dinner anyway, so there isn't really any difficulty just making a bigger portion.”

“You're going to make some lucky fellow a wonderful wife one of these days- oh don't look at me like that. I know you career girls think I'm very old fashioned, but believe me there's nothing wrong with having a family.”

“Err..Mrs Pilsudski, I did tell you about..”

“Oh yes, I know, dear, but believe me, I've raised four children and it's a lot easier with a man to help you.”

“I'm sure you aren't wrong Mrs Pilsudski, but if it's not the right man it's way worse than being alone.”

“So right you are dear, I was lucky with my Hermann, God rest his soul, but all the same, a young lady like yourself, you try to have it all, career and children with no one to help you, believe me, it's no easy path.”

I winced internally. Mrs Pilsudski was a lovely person, but she had that habit, common to a lot of old ladies who'd come triumphantly to harbour after a lifetime of storm and struggle, of letting the rest of us know just how much trouble we were in for.

“I don't really think being a barista and waitress counts as a career. Job yes; career, no.”

“Oh, believe me honey; you have a career for life with Mr Adams, only the other day he was telling me how well liked you are there. He may be a mad old coot who looks like silverback gorilla that's been taught to walk upright and strategically shaved, but he's a good mad old silverback gorilla. You can rely on him.”

“That's true, I'm lucky to have met Mr Adams“

I was pretty lucky to have met Mrs Pilsudski come to that. She was an elderly widow who'd refused to leave her big old rambling house when her children and grandchildren had moved on to other cities and other states. The only trouble was she was nearer eighty than seventy years old now and although she still kept the place in fine shape some things were starting to be just too much physically and expensive to hire someone else to do.

Hermann, ('God rest his soul') who apparently had been a saint with a striking resemblance to James Stewart had left her 'well-provided for' as she liked to put it, but she was saving as much as she could for her grandchildren's inheritance. This being the case it hadn't taken Father Flaherty long to persuade her that what the house really needed was a nice, quiet young lady paying rent for a spare bedroom, who could do things like moving bins (Or undoing jars. Darn it, I'm a failure).

I suspected Father Flaherty had hinted I would also help out generally round the house. I'd never been asked formally but I'm not the kind of person who can sit still while an old lady is working so that was always going to happen anyway. On top of that Mrs Pilsudski was a deep sleeper, so there was no problem coming in from late shifts. In short, it was perfect. My biggest problem was Mrs Pilsudski fretting that I didn't eat right!

“Are you working tonight?”

“No, I've got the evening free.”

“Such a pity my grandson Harold isn't here you know, with you having a free evening, he'd be just right for you. He's young,he's handsome, good provider,”

I had my doubts. I'd seen photos of Harold. He looked kind, he looked cheerful, but either he was one of those people who just don't come out well in photos or Mrs Pilsudski and I had very different ideas of what was handsome. On the other hand, maybe there was a point to matchmaking. Look what a mess I'd made of my life by following my heart. All things considered it was probably a good thing that grandson Harold was electronic engineer on a warship somewhere in the Atlantic desperately trying to stem the flow of arms from Britain, France and goodness knows where else into Canada, so for all practical purposes the problem would never arise.

Aloud, all I said was, “Honestly, I think Harold is busy enough without having random waitresses sprung on him.”

“Don't you call yourself random, young lady,” Mrs Pilsudski looks so fierce as she says this that I actually feel a bit nervous.

“Umm. Yes, Mrs Pilsudski.”

“Besides, I can tell, whatever you may be doing - and never let me hear you be ashamed of honest work – you definitely haven't always been a waitress.”

That, of course, was a remark which required a week's answer or none at all, so I changed the subject and Mrs Pilsudski happily told me all about how her grandchildren were doing again while I diced tomatoes and mushrooms, and continued to chat away amiably all through dinner until I went to bed, hoping that her offer to invite her other grandson Kyle to come from Kentucky to stay for a while hadn't been entirely serious.

I know Michael very well. I think about him constantly. That's how I instantly knew, waking in my moonlit bedroom that Michael had found me. The way the restraints that tied my hands so securely to the brass bedstead combined inescapability with softness told me they could be the work of no one else. Michael likes to dominate but he's always been very careful not to hurt me. Apart from the time he pulled a gun on me.

“Emily!” Michael whispers “Time to come home.”

“You tried to kill me!”

“No! Never! I just wanted to get you to drop the gun before things got out of hand.”

“I think I can comprehensively say you were several years and an invasion too late there.”

“Oh come on, Emily. Since when did you care about politics?”

“All my life for all I can tell, “ I begin and then he cheats by kissing me. I'd slap his face but my hands are tied and besides, I'm too busy melting.

“This won't work, “ I manage to say when he breaks the kiss, but already I'm sounding breathy and uncertain

“It has to, Emily. I've really stuck my neck out over you. I've managed to get you a promise of citizenship and a guarantee of your freedom from any consequences, not just from this little escapade but from anything you did in the war as well.”

Escapade? My desperate bid for freedom is an escapade?? I think, but Michael is still talking, gabbling on in his need to persuade me that being kidnapped and dragged back to be his live-in love slave is a good thing.

“You have to stay with me obviously. There have to be certain guarantees.”

“Guarantees? Like the bracelet with the tracker in it? I still haven't forgiven you for that by the way.”

“Sort of. You'd have to wear this.”

'This' is – I actually snort with inappropriate laughter when he shows it to me – a collar. Slim, circular, etched with swirling flower patters to try to give the impression it's a necklace, but quite definitely a collar.

“Michael! I can tell that has nothing to do with guarantees!”

“On the contrary. This enables the Army to track you wherever you go. It can give you a shock that incapacitates you so you can be picked up. It's made of titanium alloy. If you wore out ten thousand hacksaw blades you'd maybe have made a decent scratch on it. That's the guarantee that keeps you free and safe.”

“Ha! I bet you begged the scientists to come up with this one. I bet they were just going to do an implant. “

Michael smiles at me.

“I'm not going to tell you what they wanted to do. The point is I won't let them. You're my Emily.” Michael pauses “Besides, you know you look pretty in collars.”

I blush in the moonlight. To my great embarrassment I do know that. No, I'm not going into detail but its for the same reason I know how it feels to be tied to the bed by him. Oh God, I'm such a slut.

“Don't get my hair caught in it this time,” I murmur as Michael fastens the collar on my throat. I should terrified. I should be outraged. I should be spitting defiance. But honestly? All I can feel is relief! I've done everything anyone could expect of me. I escaped. I took a false identity. Now I'm caught and I can't hope to escape again. So I can forget about it. I can go back to being Michael's girl and nobody can blame me, not even me. Maybe I can even be a good influence on him; after all, surely he'll settle down a bit once he's a father.

Then Michael is kissing me again and his hands are on me, roaming possessively as my legs gently open of their own accord and I can't think any more.

* * * * *

“Mmm. God I've missed that” says Michael as I snuggle into him.

“Me too. Don't get too used to it though. I'm still cross with you. You may have to sleep on the couch for a while.”

“If I do, you do too. You aren't getting away from me that easily.”

Michael rolls me on to my back to my apparent indignation and actual delight when a thought suddenly occurs to me.

“Wait! You do know about the child don't you?”

Of course he doesn't, you dizzy mare, you didn't tell him

“Whoa! You're pregnant? Is that why you ran off?”

“Well that and the other obvious reasons.”

“Honestly Emily, you really are a ditz sometimes.” Michael gathers me into an enormous bear hug “As if something like that could ever come between us. You can easily have an abortion or if you're scared we can just give it up for adoption.”

“NO!!!”

The force of my anger is so great it wakes me from my dream and I find that I'm sitting bolt upright in bed, alone, panting with fury.

“Aoife, are you all right?”

Now I've done it. I've actually managed to wake my landlady with my nightmares.

“I'm sorry Mrs Pilsudski, I just had a bad dream.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, no, I'm OK. Sorry I woke you.”

“Well if you're sure dear. Night, night.” I hear Mrs Pilsudski shuffle down the corridor and as I get my breath under control I feel a tear trickling down my cheek.

My subconscious has obviously decided I need reminding of the most important thing. I very much doubt if Michael would want me to have an abortion or give our child away but if I weakened and went back to him it would become his choice, not mine.

Which meant all I could do was go on trying to make the best of what I had. Go on missing him. Go on aching.

Emily's Strange Life Chapter 10

“Through here,” says Father Flaherty, unnecessarily, since I'm following his lead and can hardly miss him, even in this dimly lit corridor of an abandoned building on the trading estate outside town. Abandoned by everyone except Father Flaherty and the Sisters of the Blessed Order of St Maximillian Kolbe that is. I'm feeling nervous. Ever since Sister Immaculata dropped by earlier to say there was someone it was very important that I meet I've been not far short of a state of suppressed terror. What with one thing and another I think I've really, really had enough surprises.

“Father, what is this about?”

“There's someone we think it's very important for you to meet. It isn't safe for them to stay long but you have until morning, when we need to spirit them away again.”

As I follow Father Flaherty through a metal door I blink at the sudden brightness. Everywhere else in the building that I've seen is lost in shadowed dimness. This windowless room is dank, with bare dirty concrete walls and the only furniture is a camp bed, obviously temporary, but by comparison it is ablaze with light.

“Captain Naso? Sir?” The voice is odd, harsh and dulcet tones at the same time, like a soft voiced soprano attempting a drill sergeant's bark

The figure in front of me drops his salute and comes to rigid attention

“Ma'am! Beg pardon ma'am. Was expecting my former commanding officer Captain Naso ma'am! Sergeant Hathersage ma'am. Pleased to meet you.”

“Sergeant? I am, I was Captain Naso. No, please don't salute.”

The soldier's jaw drops. So does mine. The figure in front of me is dressed in a worn Army uniform, threadbare, thin and faded but kept meticulously clean and pressed. It might as well be in rags because it hangs from - his – from her, I realise - slender figure, like a sack from a pole. The sleeves and trousers have had to be rolled up so as not to hang a foot or so past the end of the girl's stick thin limbs. A tight belt cinched around the waist just manages to hold the combat trousers up. In contrast to the uniform the face is streaked with dirt, as if this Sergeant Hathersage has tried to coarsen the skin with grit or muddy it to hide its fresh bloom. If so she, or he, or, oh, I don't know what the correct term is in these circumstances, has clearly failed. So they've tried scarring. The face before me has been clawed, torn at, with fingernails by the look of it. The sergeant has literally been trying to tear her own, female, face off.

Sergeant Hathersage's expression is disturbing too. Every few seconds a sort of twitch runs through the whole face and the mouth twists. It takes me a few seconds to realise that what I'm seeing is an iron will fighting an almost irresistible urge to break out screaming and crying, a war that strives to tear the person in front of me apart, constantly, a fresh tremor breaking out every few seconds.

The head is shaven, in a way that would look brutal on a man, but on this person only serves to emphasise the diminutive size and delicate bone structure. Even under the looseness of the grotesquely oversized uniform I can see the swell of child bearing hips. Something tells me I've just met one of the dozen or so fellow victims of Operation Disney Princess who went over the wire and were never caught.

“Sergeant...Hathersage?” a quick nod “Sergeant I'm very sorry to say I don't remember you. Do I take it I should?”

“Are you really Captain Naso?”

“I'm an amnesiac so I honestly can't say of my own knowledge but everything seems to point to that conclusion. Did we serve together?”

“Sir, yes Sir. I was sergeant in A company Sir, for a year before, before we were captured Sir.”

“Then I'm glad to see you alive and healthy Sergeant Hathersage,” but the words ring false in my own ears. Physically there may be nothing wrong – no injuries or sickness at any rate, but there is nothing healthy in this agonised, twitching tormented person standing before me.

“How did you escape?” I ask

“They underestimated me Sir. After – after they'd done what they did they stopped watching me so carefully. I managed to kill a guard, take his weapon and escape. Killed two others on the way out Sir. Managed to get to a Catholic church and begged for sanctuary. Didn't think it'd work in this day and age, but I couldn't get any further on my own. It did. “”

I shudder. I may have been a soldier once but the thought of killing is something I find repugnant. I absolutely don't blame Sergeant Hathersage, but I want no part of it any more. Maybe my expression gives it away because Sergeant Hathersage's face twists again and he changes the subject.

“Permission to ask a question Sir?”

“Of course you can. We aren't on parade and I'm not your superior officer any more – if I ever was.”

“Begging your pardon Sir but yes you are. No one gave us our discharge. We're still soldiers Sir. Which makes you still a Captain Sir”

I hesitate. I don't see things that way. On the other hand duty is clearly the only thing that is keeping Sergeant Hathersage within shouting range of sanity.In the end all I say is“Ask your question.”

“How, “ for the first time the clipped, military tones falter “How did you do it Sir? How did you survive? I – I think I'm going mad. I can't look at myself. I can't touch myself. You've obviously managed to blend in brilliantly pretending to be a woman Sir, please don't misunderstand, you were always fantastically good at stealth work, but I – I don't know how Sir. I mean, I escaped, but I can't blend in ”

Now I understand why Father Flaherty brought me here. Sergeant Hathersage desperately needs help. I don't think I can provide it, but at the very least I can explain why. Father Flaherty himself is nowhere to be seen. I suspect I've seen the last of him tonight; after all I know the way back and he has nuns to confess and an underground railroad to run.

“Sergeant – what's your first name, I can't just keep calling you by a rank?

“Ashley”

“Ashley, I'll tell you as much as I can, but like I said before, you need to remember some of this is stuff I've only been told. I don't remember it myself.

“The first thing, the very first thing I remember, is the pain of a badly blistered foot. I was on a road, a tarmaced road and my shoes were literally falling apart, so with every step I was cutting or bruising myself. I was hungry, desperately hungry, the sort where it's gone beyond just hunger and you're feeling sick, shaky, on the verge of keeling over. and the only reason you don't is because there's no food in this place and if you fall over you won't be able to get up and more even than rest or warmth or oblivion you want food.

The cold was biting through me. I was wearing a long black dress, but it was worn to such a state it was barely decent. By the looks of things I'd been scrambling through rough country, brambles, thorn bushes, Heaven only knows what. I don't suppose it was any colder than spring in Minnesota always is but I was so thin, so thin. I diidn't look like I do now, more like a camp survivor. I felt like I was going to die and I would have done it gladly if only I could get something to eat first..

And then, then thank God a car came along and the family in it bundled me into the backseat and took me to a hospital. The people at the hospital fed me and looked after me, and found me a home and I loved them for it. And then three years later I found out it was all a lie. So you see, I didn't have anything to adapt to because I couldn't remember being anyone else. That's part of how I did it. The other part, and again, I only know what a proven liar told me here so it might not be true, is that I was transgender before the war. So if that's true I was where you are now, in a body of a sex I didn't believe I belonged to.”

“So how did you cope with that Sir? How do I cope with it?!” The tone is pleading now, on the verge of tears. “The church people Sir, they saved me from capture but they can't save me! How do I turn back???!”

The beautiful delicate face staring at me is twisted in entreaty, with the need not to be beautiful, not to be delicate, above all not to be female. I want, more than anything at this minute to turn Ashley Hathersage back into the man she was and there is literally nothing I can do.

Well, one thing, and I don't know if it will make matters better or worse, but it's all I can do so I do it. I reach out and embrace Ashley Hathersage, pouring whatever comfort into that human touch that I can, and the face twists again and I feel the storm of tears break on my shoulder soaking into the cloth of my dress with huge, heaving sobs. A few minutes later Ashley sniffs and pulls away.

”I don't know, “ I answer “I don't know how to turn you back. But I know it can be done. This war will end, one way or another, but the capacity to do what was done to us, that isn't going to go away. People will develop it, improve it, learn everything about it. Michael told me the scientists who created this process think it could even lead to immortality. At the very least there is no need for anyone to be sick ever again. This could be the biggest advance in human capabilities since we discovered fire. In five years, or ten or twenty this is going to be available to the general public, one way or another. You need to live through those years, so you'll be here when that chance arrives. I know what you're thinking about doing Ashley Hathersage, it's written all over your face. Don't do it. It's not even a permanent solution to a temporary problem they way they say. It's a permanent way of making sure you never can solve any problems again. “

“You really think we – we could be men again?”

“You can, I'm quite sure of it.”

“But, Captain Naso...”

“I definitely can't. I'm not a man. Unless I've been well and truly led up the garden path I doubt if I ever was, not really. I don't ever want to be Captain Naso again. I'm Emily. Or Aoife. Take your choice.”

“I – I don't disbelieve you, it's just hard to believe, I mean you were such an amazing soldier. And you were a chick inside all along?”

“Hey! Chicks would make great soldiers if they had the upper body strength. You don't have to be macho. “

“I once saw you kill a man by tearing his carotid artery open with your teeth. That's pretty macho Sir”

“Eueww! God I'm glad that's all behind me now.”

“You really, really do look female Sir. Emily. “

“Yes,” I say dryly “I can see you've noticed.” If anything was needed to convince me that Sergeant Hathersage was mentally and had been physically male it was the way s/he (God this is confusing) was checking me out. Ashley coloured a little

“I,m sorry. It's been a very long time and,” that dreadful rictus made a return “It's likely to be the rest of my life. I can't have a woman any more, not with what they did to me.”

“Why can't you?”

“I'm a freak of nature. Look at me. How could any woman ever let me touch her again?”

Now I know what I can do, the one gift I can give the poor tormented war victim in front of me

“Give me your hand.”

Ashley didn't move for a moment, then reached out tentatively. I took his hand between my own and placed it gently on my left breast.

“Do I feel like a woman to you Sergeant?”

“Yes,” the answer came, hoarse and rough.

“Do I look repulsed?”

“No,”

“If you could do anything you wanted to me, what would you do?”

“Everything. Oh God!” His hand clenches unconciously, bruising me a little, but I won't turn back now

“Then do it. You want a woman? I'm all yours.”

As I'm borne down onto the bed I have time to be surprised and a little frightened by just how much strength is in that frail body before I'm given an array of other things to think about.

Making my way back through the morning sunshine a few hours later, tired and a little sore (Why do men always want to spank me? Am I giving off some sort of vibe?) I really feel like I've done a little good in the world. Sergeant Hathersage will hang on now, in hope of a cure, and has discovered that life can go on even in the weirdest of circumstances. I feel good – until I realise that I've been out all night on a dirty stop out. How am I ever going to look Mrs Pilsudski in the eye? She thinks I'm such a nice girl!

Selkie

I lean against a post as a sudden wave of nausea and weakness tells me I'm pregnant. Again. For the seventh time. At least I'm not barefoot, well, not in winter anyway.

Old wives will tell you that feeding your own child is a sure guarantee against further pregnancy for as long as you keep it up. It seems to work for every other woman on this Godforsaken Scottish island, but not me. (I assume it's a Scottish island, it could just as well be Irish. All I know is everyone speaks Gaelic, which took me forever to learn. My husband had to teach me so the first phrases I learned to understand loosely translate as 'Come here, gorgeous' and 'Go and make breakfast').

Of course, I'm different in other ways. All my children are still alive. I never get sick. I don't look a day older or a pound heavier than when I first came to the island. That was approximately seven years ago but my kind don't age like mortals do. Exactly what year it is I have no idea. No one on the island is literate apart from the priest and no one would understand our modern idea of a calendar. The year follows the festivals and harvests. My husband tells me Jamie is King, which if I remember my history right means that could be any one of seven kings spread over at least three hundred years.

It doesn't matter to me. Whoever is King my lot is the same, spinning, weaving, cooking, cleaning, washing clothes in the burn (which is freezing) raising six children, gathering kelp and shellfish, gossiping with the other wives and every night, in the darkness, being passionately ravished.

My husband Kenneth devotes fierce, lengthy efforts to this. There is no such thing as a quickie here or an unsatisfied woman. Sex is the greatest pleasure any poor crofters can find in this time and place and they dedicate a lot of care and effort to it, but even so I think Kenneth is extreme. It's almost frightening to be the object of such desire and more so that he can play me like a violin. Kenneth has to put his hand over my mouth a lot of the time to stop me waking the children – turns out I'm a screamer. Afterwards of course I worry about just how many more children I can cope with before my head explodes!

It would be no use talking to Kenneth about it. It's not that he would be unsympathetic but he literally wouldn't understand. Children are not only a joy in themselves, in a time where there are few others to be had, they are also the only prop or guarantee of old age.

Explaining to anyone, male or female in these times, why you might not want more children would be like, oh, I don't know, explaining to 21st century people why you think the innocent should be executed or why you should burn your house down every time it rains. It would be as illogical to my fellow islanders as that!

I did try once. Everyone was very patient and gentle with my nonsense. They expect the faery folk to be strange and no one holds it against me. I'm pretty sure that was the night I got knocked up for the fourth time though, which shows how much Kenneth failed to take it on board.

Oh,yes, the faery folk. You see, I am, I suppose, a selkie, also called silkie or roane. In Scottish, Irish and Scandinavian legends of the sort I used to study back when I was a comfortable academic living in 21st century America, selkies are seals who come ashore to shed their skins whereupon they become beautiful maidens, fair beyond the lot of mortals, who dance on the strand for a night before returning to the water.

Eight years ago - or centuries in the future- when I was Professor Ronald Lockley, Chair of Comparative Anthropology at the University of -----. I was on a research trip to the Hebrides – what's that? Yes, I was a man, though sometimes I find it hard to believe. Try being a wife and then bearing and raising six children in a society rigidly divided by gender roles and see how masculine you feel at the end of it.

The trip was to gather oral traditions, to chart the change and development of old folk beliefs in modern society. It was purely by chance that I went for a walk on the deserted beaches of that tiny island one evening and saw the seal maidens dance. It was then that I took a selkie's skin from where it was hidden, behind rocks, far from the firelight and slipped it on.

Then I knew the magic of the sea. As a seal I explored reefs and coves and the hidden grottoes of the ocean. As a faery seal I saw things no words can describe. The electric feel of the brine around me was pure ecstasy. I don't know how many months or years I roamed the seas before a curious urge drew me to go ashore to dance, on an island which I later found wasn't even in my own time. It turns out the realm of faerie touches the human world at different points in time as well as space. None of the legends warned me of that!

When I shed my skin, the human form I returned to was not the one I had left. I was female, beautiful – and so distracted I didn't even notice a poor fisherman slipping through the darkness to take my skin.

I really should have thought of this. In all the legends I'd studied, if a human could take a selkie's skin she was his, for as long as it was kept from her – my own curiosity had led me to take a different route on that night I was in the fisherman's position but my husband to be had other ideas.

I looked round when I felt his hand take me by the wrist.

'Tá tú níos áille ná réaltaí nó gealach. Bí mianach, cailín séala. Bí bhean mo theach. An bposfaidh tú mé!'

'Um, what?'

I later found out that means 'You are more beautiful than the moon and stars. Be mine, seal girl. Be lady of my home. Marry me.' He started out romantic and he still is.

At the time I didn't know that, of course. I couldn't understand the words but the look in his eyes gave me a fairly good idea of what he was thinking even though I'd never seen a look like that directed at me before. I was overwhelmed. I hadn't had the chance to even begin to come to terms with being female and, apparently, a good forty years younger than before and this tall, dark young man, no older than one of my students, was gazing at me like he'd just seen the sun for the first time and I was it.

'Please,there's been a mistake. I'm not – wait, where are you taking me? No, put me down. Hey, seriously, stop. I'm a man! I'm too old for you! Can't you speak English? I – wait, pogue mahone? Doesn't that mean kiss mflll!? Mmmm! Oh, oh well, if you must...Oh! Don't ...stop...don't stop....ohhhhhh!”

He was mad with desire for me and only waited until he had taken me to his two room hut to demonstrate it. So what was I doing during this um, demonstration, you ask?

Whatever he wanted. The possession of my skin doesn't just stop me going back to the water. It makes him the centre of my Universe. I think it has the same effect on him in reverse. So is what we have true love? Magic? Obsession? A bit of all three I think. Next morning a hasty baptism (I'm now Kirsty, if you were wondering, or Bean Cionnadh, Kenneth's woman, in the third person) followed by a hasty wedding bound us together for life.

The next day one of the neighbours kindly brought in a distaff and spindle and I began to find out exactly what I was in for. Clothes can't be bought here. Thread can't be bought here. Cloth can't be bought here. So what do women do? Well, we start with a fleece, wash it, comb it, card it, spin it into thread, weave it into cloth and sew it into clothes and blankets. No help, no shortcuts, no escape. Kenneth's mother brought me a dress and a shift to go under it. Everything else I've worn since then I had to make myself.

Married life is not like it is in the 21st century. Apart from all my domestic responsibilities, which I can't complain about because Kenneth spends all his waking hours either working his little patch of land or risking his life on the freezing seas just to feed us, it turns out I'm a community resource. No, not like that. What I mean is that if any woman gets sick I can literally be lent to the household to do the woman's work of making sure everyone is warm, clothed and fed.

Community is everything here. Refusing would be the equivalent of accidentally running someone over in your car and then reversing over them a few times to make sure they're too dead to report you. Any of our neighbours would do the same for us, so the principle of it is fair enough, the problem is that this occasionally means looking after the household of a Mac an Diabhal like Feargus MacCodrum.

To understand what's wrong with that dirty omadan you need to know more about how things work on the island. You may have gathered that gender roles are traditional here, but they aren't as uneven as they look on the surface. Everyone knows the man is the head of the household and any woman who challenges that publicly is either a shrew or a flibbertigibbet too young to know better. Everyone also knows that any man who doesn't talk to his wife and make damn sure she agrees with every word before he starts giving orders is either an idiot or a tyrant. Feargus is both.

I'm pretty sure the reason his poor wife is sick was because he'd been beating her. You don't get a black eye like that walking into the flimsy pile of rubbish that he thinks will do for a door, the lazy sacshrathair that he is, so I don't grudge helping her out or seeing that her children get as good a breakfast as possible out of what that fireside-sitter provides, even though it takes time I could be using to gather shellfish (limpets are tricky; you have to sneak up on them) or weave more good cloth. No, it's feeding Feargus himself that grates on me.

Long after he should be out and working he sits by the fire, watching my every move just a little too closely, not even drawing back to a decent distance when I bend over the pot to ladle out porridge. So I did something my friend Bean Seamus (transl: Seamus's Missus) taught me. I prepared him a bowl of porridge all of his own and over salted it to the point of being truly awful. The minute he tasted it I knew he wanted to hit me and couldn't. Kenneth would drag him out in front of the whole village and beat him bloody if he so much as dared to lay a finger on me. Complaining would do him no good. I was doing him a favour. Community or not, no one would ever help him again if he was that ungrateful. All he could do was eat the horrid mess or go hungry. I quietly spread the word to any other woman he might borrow and now every time he puts his wife out of action the same thing happens. Who knows, he may actually learn one day.

Revenge isn't sweet, it's salty.

Life isn't all work though. Every so often we have a ceilidh. In the 21st cntury that means a dance. We have those too, but here a ceilidh is for stories, songs, poems and tall tales, the last being called 'a lee', with prizes for best in category. If I was still a professor I'd have gathered enough information for at least two theses, just by sitting still and listening carefully, which is what I prefer. From time to time I do get roped into things though. The first time I was forced to sing I gave them an improvised Gaelic version of 'Bat Out of Hell'. Suffice to say everyone gave me very funny looks and it didn't catch on.

The second time I couldn't think of a thing so I told them all the tale of how I came here, how I'm a male professor from the future and what the future is like. It turns out my neighbours may believe in trows, fair folk and selkies but not in Professors of Comparative Anthropology. You guessed it – I won the prize for best lee at the ceilidh!

Of course I have one possible get-out. All the legends I've studied end the same way. The selkie bride finds her skin, no matter how well concealed and returns to the sea, leaving her bereft husband and children to carry on as best they can.

I sometimes see the neighbours look at us, in worry and pity, as they await the inevitable and try to work out if years of bliss are worth a lifetime of sorrow.

They can look all they want. What no one knows is that I found the skin years ago. I found it and I sat for an hour and I looked at it.

I looked at my chance to go back to the seas, maybe to be a man again, my chance to go back to the 21st century. To be warm at the flick of a switch instead of gathering peats all the time and huddling over a smoky fire through a northern winter. To have food that isn't porridge, fish, milk, cheese or oatcakes, food that I don't have to make from scratch and cook over an open fire. To wear clothes I haven't had to make myself. To have television and books, the internet, electric lights, real beds. To not have to work from can see to can't see. To not be pregnant all the time. To be a free citizen of a modern democracy, not a rightless, helpless strand wife dancing attendance on her husband and children.

But I wouldn't be loved. I wouldn't be loved. So I cut the skin up and turned it into mittens for my children. I'm going nowhere!

I just had time to think “Oh dear God please save me!” as the shark erupted from under my bodyboard, sending me flying. Even as I fell back towards the water, limbs flailing, that dreadful maw was gaping below me at the exact spot where I would land. My death scream was echoing in my ears when suddenly the noise of everything else stopped. So did I in fact, suspended in mid air, water droplets all around me frozen in flight. Below me the sea was unmoving and the monster that an instant ago had been poised to devour me was halted in mid lunge, it's head just emerged from the water.

“You can get down if you like,” a voice said “It won't hurt you for the minute”

I have no idea what I burbled in response but I somehow twisted myself around until I was standing upright on the water's surface. It rippled gently over my toes as if I was standing on a ledge just underneath the warm water, Behind me stood a figure like a man, but almost too bright to look at, with an enormous pair of feathered wings spreading from its mighty shoulders. On one level it was awe inspiring. On another something about its expression suggested a fussy and slightly crotchety old man

“I are – you – an?”

“Yes, I am an angel.”

“You answered my prayer?”

“Yes and no. Let's not jump to conclusions.”

“Surely you aren't going to let that thing eat me? You're an angel!”

“I am. And you're a human being. And that is where the problem arises. You have free will; I don't or only within very narrow limits. You used your free will to come galumphing into the territory of this poor shark, who is one of God's creatures and really can't be blamed for wanting to eat. It's not as if you didn't know there are such things as sharks or that they sometimes attack humans, you just chose to take a gamble. I'm afraid you lost.”

“What? Did you just pause time time to tell me that you aren't going to help me?”

“I did say not to jump to conclusions, You humans always wonder why we don't seem to answer your prayers, Well, free will is the answer. If we save you from the consequences of your actions all the time or even a significant part of the time free will itself becomes meaningless. There must be consequences to actions.”

“Oh God, I'm dead” I looked down at the open jaws of the apparently blameless-in-the -eyes-of-God shark and felt sick

“Not necessarily. You see there must be consequences to actions, but this is one of those occasions where we can give you a choice as to what consequences. You just sent up a very heartfelt prayer. Elsewhere in the world so did someone else. If you agree to answer that prayer, to be the answer to that prayer then I can answer yours.”

“Do I just sound stupid if I say I don't understand?”

“Not really. After all you've had a shock. More than one come to think of it. To cut a long story short, someone else has sent up a prayer as fervent and desperate as your prayer for life, to meet their true love, in time for Christmas. If you will be that true love, I can take you away from this situation you got yourself into. It's still a consequence, so you'd still be exercising free will

“So what's this woman like? I'm assuming there has to be a catch.”

“This person is a man; that's the catch. Part of it anyway.”

“I'm not gay!”

“Neither is he.”

I must have looked as glassy eyed as the shark

“If you agree I will help you become his ideal woman. His dream come true.”

“Arrggghhh!” Suddenly the shark looked a lot less worrying “What if I say 'no'? One quick bite and I go to Heaven, right?”

“Unfortunately not. Firstly, I'm afraid this shark is quite a messy eater, you'd probably have at least a minute of agony before you passed on and then of course, there's Purgatory.”

“What's Purgatory?”

The angel gave me a mildly irritated look “The quality of religious education has definitely declined. Purgatory is where you purge away your sins by suffering of course.”

“So what exactly happens there?”

“Well first of all you get eaten by a shark.”

“I meant in Purgatory”

“So did I. I'm afraid you've led this shark into temptation. You are about to give it a taste for human flesh that will lead to the deaths of a number of innocent people and, as the authorities react, quite a few entirely blameless sharks. You have to pay for that somehow and I'm afraid in Purgatory the punishments tend to fit the crime. Not that being repeatedly eaten is the worst thing waiting for you, oh dear me, no”

“But I'm not a bad person!”

“My goodness,is that really what you think? Oh well, I suppose you have to sleep at night somehow and it's true there's worse around than you. That Hitler fellow will still be trying to dig his way out of a pit of red hot ashes for half an eternity.”

“Wait, are you saying he gets out at the end of that?”

“Of course not; when he emerges from the ashes he joins Stalin trying to dig a trench through an eternal Siberian winter with his bare hands. ”

But I'll get out, yeah?”

“Oh yes, a few decades and you'll be done.”

“Decades?”

“You've got a fair bit of making up for things to do. Almost all humans do, but sooner or later you will move on to eternal bliss. God loves you all. You can torment yourselves and each other, you can rack up sins that will cost you millennia in purgatory but in the end God grants you eternal bliss despite yourselves. Even your free will can't change that. He loves you, you see, all of you. “

The angel paused and sniffed in a vexed fashion “Personally I don't see the appeal, but there you are. Put it down to His mysterious ways, I suppose.”

“So hang on. If I'm going to purgatory anyway why not just start now?”

“Well you can, of course,” the angel sniffed “its just a question of how long you plan to spend there. Right now you haven't many good deeds to your credit, but if you take this opportunity you're being offered and use it to spend a lifetime being a good person, well, who knows how much time off you could earn for good behaviour. Not that you can escape Purgatory altogether; only actual saints and true innocents do that. “

I looked down at the shark “How long do I have to decide?”

“All the time in the world. Literally. We stand outside the stream of time here. Feel free to ask questions.”

“Is this really the only way. For me to be a-a, to be female?”

“Humans constantly amaze me. Here you are being offered the opportunity to escape a terrible death and an even more terrible afterlife, to live a virtuous existence, to make a good man happy, to have a chance at earthly happiness yourself and you're actually thinking about saying no. Why? Are you afraid of knickers? Do you think blouses are going to rend you limb from limb? Have you somehow confused lipstick with fuming sulphuric acid? No, you just think it's some sort of comedown! I have no idea what He sees in you.” The angel sniffed disapprovingly again.

I sat down heavily on the warm water's surface. Again, it felt as if I was sitting on a surface three or four inches below the water. Little wavelets lapped around my bottom and tickled a vital part of my anatomy., the part in fact whose future existence was the subject of the debate.

“Can you tell me more about the, the man you want to give me to?”

“What would you like to know?”

“Well for a start, why can't he get a girlfriend without divine intervention?”

“Oh he can. What he prayed for wasn't a girlfriend, it was his ideal girlfriend.”

“Please tell me that isn't a bimbo with hair spray for brains.”

“Not at all. Physically he has varied types; you could choose between being a curvaceous redhead a curvaceous blonde or a curvaceous brunette. I don't mean fat exactly, but ample hips, bottom and breasts are a definite plus.”

Hmm I thought well at least I know I have something in common with him

“Oh, lots in common. Apart from him being a good person that is. Oh and clever, of course. Self sacrificing too. You can see why He wants to answer this fellow's prayers. Yours now, well, I suppose compassion and mercy is what He does.”

Did he just read my mind?

“Yes. You can't read mine though so let's stick to actual conversation.”

“Alright, so what do we have in common?”

“What do you look for in a woman?”

I froze. I knew the answer but didn't want to say it.

“A best friend”

“True, and?”

“Funny, witty, cheerful”

“True, but still not the whole truth.”

“Beautiful, vivacious, an artistic nature”

“Keep going”

“A sexy dresser but stylish not slutty. Except sometimes.” I confessed shamefacedly

“Still not quite all”

I slumped. What was the point in lying. Clearly you can't fool angels.

“A lady in the living room, a cook in the kitchen and um passionate in the bedroom.”

“And?”

“And that's it.”

“Not quite, and?”

“And totally devoted to me.”

“You don't expect a lot, do you?”

“Hey, there's nothing wrong with aiming high.”

“No but there's something wrong with dragging people down. She lost the child by the way.”
“What?”

“Kirsty. The girl you got pregnant and then fled across the world to avoid by becoming a surf bum and leading innocent sharks into temptation.”

“Oh,” I suddenly felt a strong and entirely useless, selfish and pointless desire to cry

“Remind me again why you object to being someone else? I mean it's not like you were making much of a go of it.”

I stared wordlessly and the angel seemed to soften for a moment

“They are happy now.”

“Huh?”

“The child. They are enjoying eternal bliss now. Innocents go straight to Heaven.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Shall we talk names?” the angel said gently

“I, I haven't decided yet,” I replied, glancing nervously at the shark beside me

“Of course, of course. Take all the time you need.”

There was a long silence while my divine guide looked down at me with perhaps a little more sympathy than before, or than I felt at the moment that I deserved.

“I suppose we could talk names while I think about it.”

“That's the spirit. How about Sarah. That's a nice name. It means 'princess' you know.”

I boggled

“Or how about Rachel?” The angel continued, impervious to my boggling “That translates to 'Innocent as a lamb'. “

I tried to imagine being named after a lamb, innocent or otherwise. Hell, if the guy they were fixing me up with knew what that name meant 'lamb' could easily become my pet name; a lot of guys give their girlfriends cute pet names. I should know, I'm one of them. I boggled some more. Then it hit me that my own girlfriendhood, if there is such a word, was actually a real and imminent possibility and I had to stop boggling to put my head between my knees.

“Deep breaths, deep breaths,” the angel said gently “I do realise this is a shock. You've devoted a lifetime to being male, it's going to take you a while to realise that being the opposite is the object now rather than something to be avoided. I can't really understand how you feel myself, not being human, but maybe if you remind yourself that what you once would have run a mile from is what you're trying to be, it might help.”

I gradually regained control of my breathing and sat up properly.
“OK. OK, maybe you have a point. Let's try again. Are there any good girl names that don't basically translate as 'piece of fluff'?”
'.
“Victoria means 'victory' which is definitely unfluffy, but for some reason humans always shorten it to 'Vicky' which means 'Person whose full name I can't be bothered to say'.How about Polly? That means 'Star of the Sea'?”

“Um. I like the translation better, but I just don't think I could cope with a name that sounds like a morning person.”

Let's see, there's a long tradition of girls being named after virtues, Faith, Hope, Charity, Ruth- “

“Ruth?”

“It means pity or compassion”

“Oh, all right, let's put those on the list.”

“That's the spirit. Now, plant and flower names are very popular too, Heather, Flora, Laurel, Ivy, Laura, Daisy, Tulip, Rose, Camelia.”

“How about Josephine, or Charlotte?”

“Well you must have realised that free will means I can't prevent you, but I don't think it's a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can see your thoughts and I know perfectly well that you chose those names so you could call yourself Joe or Charlie.” The angel shrugged “Do it if you want to, but believe me, if you go into this with that spirit you aren't going to make it work. And if you don't make it work you're just starting a whole new lifetime of opportunities to rack up bad karma for yourself.”

I sighed “I see what you mean. Alright carry on with the names.”

“Let's see, Kayla which means slim and fair, Rhiannon, pure maiden, Annabelle, grace and beauty, Amanda, fit to be loved, Seren, star, Chloe, blooming, ”

“I think that's enough to choose from.”

I looked at the shark again. I really was going to have to do this. “Annabelle,” I said “I'll be Annabelle. Grace and beauty it is.” Oh God help me I thought, and then remembered He already had.

“I think that's a very brave step,” said the angel, smiling properly for the first time “grace and beauty are fine things to aspire to.”

“I don't aspire to them yet, “ I said a little sadly “I don't even want to aspire to them. But at least I can want to want to.”

“Let's get you out of here then Annabelle,” smiled the angel. An instant later we were standing on a walkway under blazing sunshine. To my relief I was still a man.

“Becoming a woman takes practice,” the angel answered my unspoken question “You'll be gradually learning everything you need to know over the course of the next year or so. We'll be posing as father and daughter but you can call me Clarence, if it makes you more comfortable.”

“Clarence?? Did you just make a joke?”

Clarence, whose wings appeared to have vanished, only smiled.

A young woman who looked like she had just stepped out of a movie roller skated past wearing only a skimpy pink bikini. Oh sugar, that's the competition now, I realised Hey, where are we- oh no!

California girls, we're unforgettable
Daisy Dukes bikinis on top

“Oh my G-”

To be continued

Answer To A Maiden's (?) Prayer Part Two

“This is the work of the Devil, right?” I asked, discontentedly, staring at the colour wheel. Designed supposedly to help you choose what make-up would suit you, the wretched thing baffled me. I'd expected learning to wear make up to be embarrassing, even humiliating. I hadn't expected it to be intellectually challenging. Clearly I was going to have to rethink my whole definition of what constituted a bimbo. Maybe so-called bimbos had a reputation for vapidity because their minds were on higher things – like figuring out colour wheels!

“The Devil has nothing to do with it I'm afraid,” replied Clarence. “You humans make your lives so complicated the Adversary is hard put to it to keep up. These days he mostly sticks to straight violence and occasional politics.”

Since Clarence was, literally, an angel, he knew what he was talking about. He'd been masquerading as my father for a week now, which I suppose made him my guardian angel.

That didn't stop me being annoyed with him. As he rightly said, I needed to learn feminine skills so I was working on sulking and had been since he told me I couldn't change my new name from 'Annabelle' which meant 'grace and beauty' to 'Morag' which meant 'Great Sun'. The way Clarence argued it, if I changed my name once I'd keep changing it every time a new name occurred to me, and I'd never truly come to accept that my new, female name was really who I was now. The fact that he was probably right was doing nothing for my mood at all.

“Of course I'm right,” said Clarence, one of whose annoying habits was reading my mind “You're simply upset by all the hormonal changes you're going through. It's nothing to worry about. You physically can't stay calm and cheerful until things settle down a bit. Just remember this will pass.”

Clarence was probably right again. When I'd been told the deal I'd assumed Clarence would simply wave the angelic equivalent of a magic wand and turn me into whatever I was going to be, like the fairy Godmother in 'Cinderella'. It turned out that although God could have done that (or anything else He wanted) angels had to work with existing materials.

I hadn't understood the explanation but broadly this meant that Clarence couldn't turn me into anything my genes, suitably recombined and fiddled with, didn't have the potential for in the first place and although he could dramatically speed it up he couldn't avoid the need for me to undergo a new and female physical adolescence. I'd lost four stone in weight and five inches in height, not to mention most of my body hair and muscle mass over the course of the last month, a process physically gruelling enough that I'd spent most of it in bed with the worst flu-type symptoms ever. The fact that my fever dreams had constantly involved being attacked by giant sharks hadn't really helped either.

I'd refused to remove my knickers for the last ten days. I showered in them, slept in them and, when I really had to change or remove them, shut my eyes. There were changes going on in there which No Man Should Wot Of. Granted I couldn't keep this up for ever, but I was pretty sure I wouldn't be a man for more than another couple of days, no matter how you stretched the definition. After that, I could explore without forbidden Wotting.

No, what was getting me down today and causing me to panic, was that I had definitely budded; two little lumps, very sensitive lumps I might add, were under my nipples poking them forward to stand clear of the puffy skin developing around them. Given my current rate of development I reckoned that in a week at most my nether regions would have settled down to femininity and a week or so after that I would have full-on boobs, which, with the way I was shrinking would probably be a major part of my body mass.

I was completely and utterly terrified!! I was turning into a girl! My name was Annabelle! In order to avoid Purgatory I had to lead a life of virtue and achievement, starting with becoming a stranger's Ideal Woman! A stranger I hadn't met yet. How was I going to flirt as a woman? What could I say? “You had me at 'The alternative is being eaten by giant sharks'?”

“You're jumping too far ahead,” said Clarence “Stick to doing the things you can practice now and worry about everything else when you've got those learnt, or when you have to, whichever comes first.” Clarence was clearly determined to continue his streak of being annoying, sensible and right but it was good advice, so for the next hour or so I continued to practice my list of non-swear words. I didn't particularly like it when women swore and Clarence had been helpful enough to inform me that my destined partner felt the same way, so I worked on saying, fudge, sugar, gah, bother, blast, gosh, darn, blooming, oh my Goodness and scary biscuits instead of swearing properly.

“Argh!” I eventually concluded “Fudge! I can't concentrate any more. I need a break. Is it all right if I get changed and go for a walk?”

“Of course it is,” smiled Clarence sweetly “But do be careful. Remember, an adolescent girl is vulnerable in ways a young man is not.”

I just managed to stop myself from screaming I am not an adolescent girl! I was going through female puberty, so that's exactly what I was, no matter that I'd lived twenty-five years and no matter how much the thought frightened me. “Giant sharks” I murmured to myself “Just think of giant sharks”

The hot water of the shower soothed a lot of the aches and pains that seemed to come with my rapid physical changes. One of those changes was that my hair had grown about eighteen inches in the month since all this had begun and I took the opportunity to crunch handfuls of mousse into it. To my surprise it actually worked. A few minutes later I had fine thick wavy tresses instead of my natural straight, lankness. I'd actually done something right! Maybe this whole 'being a girl' thing wasn't going to be impossible after all!

Then I braced myself. Since this started I'd been sticking to jeans and shirts. Clarence had raised an eyebrow but nothing more, since there was no reason why a woman couldn't or wouldn't do exactly that. But what Clarence knew and I knew and I knew he knew I knew was that I was simply terrified to wear unambiguously female clothing. So I'd come to a decision: it was thirty-eight degrees centigrade outside, I was going for a walk, the time had come to grow a pair (of ovaries, obviously) and try on a dress. I had to take several deep breaths before selecting something summery from the wardrobe Clarence had supplied and slipping it over my head. After that I had to take some more to avoid hyperventilating.

The good thing about the dress was that as a light, floaty, short-sleeved piece of cotton, thin enough that it might have been see through without the brightly coloured flower patterns that covered it , it effectively came with it's own air conditioning. The bad thing was everything else. It suited me! It made me look pretty, carefree, delicate, everything I didn't want to be. Granted I had no real cleavage, but the cut of the dress gave enough exposure to my soft, smooth flesh and long legs that there was plenty to distract from that.

OK, to Heck (very good, Annabelle) with make-up, which I was no good at anyway, this was as far as I could bear to go right now. So, quick trip into town, buy a paper and a snack and back I came.

I hadn't gotten more than half a mile from the front door before I was wanting to swap the dress for a nun's habit, or maybe a burqa. No one had made any remarks, but the way people were staring made me worry constantly that someone was about to. Oddly enough, although they were more subtle about it some of the women were as bad as the men – it felt like they were rating me on the Slut-O-Meter. Whether they were or not, I couldn't have borne to wear another stitch. By the time I reached the town centre I was sweating, which was mildly embarrassing in itself and also causing me to give off great bursts of peach scent due to my generous lashings of perfumed deodorant. What with one thing and another I was as nervous as a carefully disguised cat at a dogs convention. So when someone shouted a crude albeit complimentary comment about my bottom I almost jumped out of my skin.

I turned to look at the man who'd shouted at me, a young tough of maybe twenty who looked as if he'd slept in his clothes and peed in them in his sleep (Later I was to discover that this impression was almost cer5tainly right on both counts) dithered for a few seconds between confronting the commenter and running for my life and while I dithered someone else jumped in

“Rocky, you apologise to that poor girl right now or I swear you can sober up on the streets next time and take your chances with the police.”

Rocky recoiled before a dark haired man a few years older than himself who'd just emerged from the door of a building marked Socal United Charities Homeless Shelter. To his credit, although the newcomer, who sported a staff badge, looked to be made of hawsers wrapped around crowbars Rocky's expression suggested genuine regret, rather than fear.”

“Hey, I'm sorry man, you know how it is, when you hungry and a steak dinner walks by somedays you just got to say 'hello'”

“That metaphor would work better if the lady was a steak dinner and not a person.”

“I'm sorry Miss, I didn't mean anything by it.”

I was no longer paying attention to Rocky however, because I recognised the Sir Galahad in charity worker form who'd come to my aid – Clarence had shown me a picture. A picture of the man whose prayers I had been transformed to answer. I was so not ready for this.

“I – oh -oh my goodness- “

When I came to I was indoors lying on a bed in what looked like a first aid room while several people stood around looking worried and Sir Galahad sponged my forehead with a cool cloth.
“What happened?” I said feebly

“I'm not quite sure,” my personal white knight replied “I think it was a faint, but I'm not quite sure if you were out or having some sort of a fit because all the time your eyes were closed you were babbling about fins and waves and huge sharp teeth.”

“Oh holy fu-”

End of Chapter Two

The Answer To A Maiden's (?) Prayer Chapter Three

I suppose there are worse nicknames to be stuck with than “Miss Steak”, even if it is constantly in need of explanation ( No, not Mistake, Miss Steak) but I still hadn't entirely forgiven Rocky for landing me with it. That said, in over a month of volunteering at the homeless shelter I'd discovered there was a lot more to him than the brash youth who'd compared me to a steak dinner before being slapped down by James, aka Sir Galahad, aka Hopalong, aka Shaft, the man who'd founded and ran the shelter.

James was called Hopalong because one of his legs was a prosthetic after the original one had landed, as he liked to put it 'Somewhere between Hell and Huddersfield but damned if I could find the spot.' during a rocket attack in Afghanistan. He was called Shaft because he had a long leather trench coat like the eponymous detective (No, I'd never heard of Shaft before I started volunteering at the shelter either).The reasons why he was called Sir Galahad are obvious – he can't see someone sick, cold, scared or hurting without wanting to do something about it. He'd managed to get a grant out of the city after the first year, so at least he was getting a basic salary and not paying all the bills himself but I knew he would have done the same work for nothing if only he could survive doing it. The respect he garnered as a veteran,plus the fact that he could break most people in half one handed was also a bonus in that the clientele, many of whom were frankly unruly, would listen to him in a way they wouldn't to most people.

They mostly listened to me too. I like to to think this is because of my charm, beauty and good sense and there's no doubt a lot of the people who come here enjoy talking to a young woman, but I think the fact that James has taken a shine to me is the decisive factor. I definitely am a woman now, physically anyway: the seething mass of flesh and mucus between my legs has settled down into labia major, labia minor, etcetera. I never thought I'd be glad to look between my thighs and see a pussy.

I may be a steak but it seems unfair to cover myself in sauce bearnaise unless I plan to be eaten, so I'm wearing jeans, albeit with flowers stitched on them and a loose shirt open over a stretchy top. The jeans are women's jeans and have a tendency to cling a little too tightly to areas which are more shapely than I'm comfortable with but there's definitely nothing indecent about them – in fact by local standards I look positively demure. (This isn't difficult; I don't know if it's the climate or what but in a beach town in California there appears to be a widespread belief that you don't wear clothes, you wear bait.)

Unfortunately there is no avoiding the stretchy top – my breasts have expanded from little buds to a B cup in the space of a few weeks. No one has commented on this fact but everyone stares. On the other hand I am the only young woman working here on a daily basis (Hannah and a couple of other girls in their last year of high school help out periodically) so the staring may be a comment on the fact that I have breasts to stare at rather than on their rate of expansion..

Things which are part of being a girl that no one ever warns you about beforehand, number 236; when your breasts are growing, they ITCH! I've had to spend a lot of time massaging cream into my boobs. The feelings this produces are just downright disturbing!

I'm in weird place sexually right now. Clarence explained it to me but I'm not at all sure I understood the explanation, which was full of phrases like celestial dynamics, the paradox of free will, the ineffability of the Divine Plan and non-determinative genetic propensities. As far as I could make out what he was saying was that most people are born with an inclination one way or the other but the potential to go either way depending upon their experiences and environment including hormonal and chemical exposures and social, cultural and psychological influences. Clarence says this summary is full of fundamental misunderstandings, but it's good enough for government work and he's tired of explaining. Not as tired as I am of listening!

Anyway, to give the best explanation my flawed understanding can for where I am now, Clarence has reset my genes to be as inclined towards liking guys as he can, which is about sixty-forty. As against this is the experience of my entire life! So, I'm trying to avoid thinking about girls or my past experiences with girls for fear of resetting myself so as to make a relationship with a guy impossible. This is not easy – see aforementioned comment about wearing bait. Even the sight of myself in the mirror makes me uncomfortable in ways I don't entirely understand. I say not entirely; one part I understand very well and that is sheer terror! Most men are polite enough not to come out with the sort of comments Rocky did, or at least not to my face. I don't think I'm being vain when I say that they are definitely thinking them.

Clarence's comments aren't helping. I was kvetching about how difficult all this was yesterday. He suggested that to get used to female heterosexuality I think about the positive aspects.

“Such as?” I said

“Well why not try imagining the soft folds of a beer belly rolling back and forwards across your stomach and breasts, squashing you beneath it as you gaze into a red, panting face above you?”. When I gave him a look he shrugged and said he was just describing what he'd seen.

“You really don't understand human sexuality at all, do you?” I'd said

“On an observational and theoretical level I know more than anyone alive,” he'd replied “but as to how it makes you feel, I'm very relieved to say I do not.” He smiled and settled back contentedly “I suppose that's one reason He indulges you so much. You're basically all crazy.”

So, rather than thinking of beer bellies when I cream myself (No, you know perfectly well what I mean) I'm trying to think of James, his smile, his kindness, his good sense. These are all things I like and admire and so is James himself. Massaging creams into my new parts definitely turns me on. What I don't know is whether the two go together – does James himself turn me on?

I really need to find out soon. James has invited me for drinks tonight. There's nothing unusual about that, the staff and volunteers here are a pretty sociable bunch and I've got to know them all fairly well. Tonight though I'm pretty sure, I'm almost certain....this is a date.