I woke early. At this time of the year it is getting bright around 4:30 and I had not slept well. What had started out as a good day two days ago had developed into a bit of a nightmare all due to an impulsive act involving me in something that wasn’t really my business. On top of that, I had possibly endangered Janet, and maybe my family. I hadn’t called home yet and was a little surprised that they hadn’t made contact with me. I would do it later; first things first. Keeping the lights off, I looked out through my venetian blinds at the roads that were visible from my windows but saw no lurking hitmen or surveillance cars. There was no surface carparking in my field of vision so anyone trying to keep my apartment under surveillance would have been readily obvious. I could not see the underground carpark entrance which was at the back of the apartment block, but would not be exiting that way in any event.

I felt that I had complied with the Detective Inspectors request in that I had remained home for the rest of the day yesterday. I suspected that the DI would rather that I’d checked in with her before leaving my apartment, but reckoned that I’d be back there before she had her first cup of coffee in the Police Station. I quickly packed my small laptop rucksack with my iPad, Janets pistol along with her two ten round magazines and a box of 50 rounds. I put my own pistol into the inside pocket of a light summer jacket, loaded but not racked, with my spare magazine in the left outside pocket. The first inbound train was passing my nearest station at 05:40 so I slipped out the front door of my apartment block at 05:25 and walked quickly to the station; nothing unusual about this, just another commuter heading for an early start in the big smoke. Reaching the station I backed into a corner, pretending to be half-asleep leaning back against the wall, and scanning the platform, my neck and face wrapped up in a scarf, as if against the morning chill. There were very few commuters, none looking suspicious, at least to me. Just to be sure, I got off the train after two stops; no one else got off this inbound train. I got on the next one and texted Janet.

“Chez vous 30 mnts”.

Her thumbs up reply came almost instantly; she wasn’t sleeping either.

I took a tram from the station to a stop near her apartment, got off, stopped to see if I recognised anyone following me, then walked to her apartment block taking a circuitous route. I let myself in, took the elevator to her floor and knocked gently on her door. She let me in: Black rimmed eyes testified to a bad night. She locked the door after me, fastening the security chain as well. I pulled her into a long hug, then sent her to have her shower while I got breakfast. I knocked on her bedroom door when I heard the shower stop and brought her a mug of freshly brewed coffee as she dried herself off.

“Why’d you knock? It’s not like we’re strangers.”

“Just didn’t want to give you a fright, not this morning… breakfast ready in five, ok?”

She took the coffee, sipped it, and nodded. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and headed back to the kitchen to finish the two omelettes that I’d prepared. She came into the living area just as they were being plated and about to be placed into the oven to keep warm. We ate together in relative silence, not even bothering to turn on the radio for the morning news. Eventually I spoke:

“I’ve brought your pistol, some mags, and a box of ammo.”

“Do you think I’m going to need it?”

“No; just nice to have around for a few days. The mags are expanded to ten rounds.”

“Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”

She got up, went to the bedroom and returned in a few minutes with a shoulder bag. She tried the pistol in it. It fitted, just about; the Victory is a range pistol, not really suited as a concealed carry gun, but it was the best we had.

“You going back to yours?”

I nodded.

“At least until that DI contacts me again; she’s supposed to be checking if there’s a contract, or whatever they call it here, on me.”

Janet gave an involuntary shudder.

“It doesn’t seem real; more like we’ve just been dropped into a movie.”

“I’m sorry, really sorry, I’ve dropped you in this.”

“Not your fault, and nothing we can do about it now.”

“Suppose not; will you be OK here?”

She hesitated for a minute.

“Yes; but don’t you think that you should move out of yours? They probably know your name, and it’s not hard to find out where someone lives now. You could move in here.”

“Thanks, but that would put you right in the frame. I’ll stay in my place for a while and see how the police call it”.

“You said it yourself, you’re just waiting for someone to take a shot at you and hoping that they’ll miss.”

“I’ll stay put for a while. I’m more protected than they think; they won’t expect me to have a pistol.”

“They might if they follow you to the range.”

“They’d stand out like a blue rhinoceros.”

That I was very sure of. The range was down a country lane, with nothing else around. Anyone following me there would be more than obvious.

“Any client meetings?”

I was hoping that Janet would have some reason to leave her apartment during the day. Staying in too long is not good for either mind or body.

“Not until tomorrow.”

“OK, we’ll talk tonight so?”

She nodded. Another long hug and I was gone. I stopped in the hall outside her apartment door for a minute and could hear her locking the door, fitting the security chain and a thump as something was pushed against the door. I was starting to get more worried about her wellbeing than the Kingstons following me.

The morning rush hour was over by the time I was back on the streets. I walked around a bit checking for a “tail” before eventually getting the tram to the train station and heading for home. Again, nobody appeared to be following me from the train station or around my apartment block so I decided that it was safe to get my car, drive to the local supermarket and buy some food. Just as I was heading back to my apartment the DI rang. I answered on hands-free.

“Hi, Jos here.”

“Jos, DI Jones here. Can you talk? Are you driving?”

“Yeah, hands-free.”

“I thought you were staying at home?”

She sounded a bit like a teacher talking to her pupil.

“That was yesterday; today I needed some food.”

She obviously decided not to have an argument with me so got straight to business.

“Well, the good news is that there’s no word yet that there’s a contract out on you. The bad news on the street is that it’s only a matter of time before there is one. The Kingstons will be furious that their man was caught and will want to make a point.”

“So, what do I do?”

“Nothing yet; we’re looking at options. In the meantime, we’re asking the local police to step up both uniformed and under-cover patrolling around your apartment area.”

“How’ll I know that your undercover people aren’t the bad guys?”

“I’ll get you a number so you can call the local police station if you see anything suspicious. If it’s one of theirs, they can tell you.”

“Thanks; one other thing. My building has security cameras on each landing, the perimeter, front door, garage and garage door. It’s monitored by Active Watch. Could I get access to this so I can check around before leaving or coming to the block?”

Our condominium management company had installed this security monitoring system almost as soon as the building was occupied and had outsourced the surveillance to Active Watch as we had no permanent concierge on site.

“I can try; there’s GDPR and all that stuff to consider.”

GDPR, the General Data Protection Regulation, had become the goto excuse for anyone trying to be uncooperative.

“HMLL trumps GDPR.”

“HMLL; what’s that?”

“Help Me Live Longer.”

“Look, I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, just be cautious. It’s probably too soon for anything to happen.”

I hoped she was right. I wondered about Janet.

“Have you heard anything about Ms Rabbit?”

“Sorry about that; it was a slip of the tongue. No; I think she’s in the clear.”

“Don’t worry about the name; after all she started it. Are you going to ring her? She needs to hear it from you.”

I felt that any messages passed to Janet through me might just seem like friendly reassurance.

“I’ll do that. Speaking of Ms Murphy, and your disguise… am I correct in assuming that that wasn’t your first time? I don’t want to be nosey, but you carried it off very well.”

Of course I did; I’d had five months of intermittent practice.

“You’re not nosey, and you’re right. Jesse is my alter ego. Why do you ask?”

“It just might work to your advantage, but right now I’m not sure how.”

“OK. You won’t forget to ring Janet?”

“No; I’ll call her now.”

“Thanks.”

I rang off; I was almost back at my apartment. I looped around the block, saw nothing, and drove into the underground garage and parked. As I was getting my shopping out of the car, my neighbour from across the hall came out the door heading off to work. An on-site engineer, he normally did his emails and admin in the morning before heading off on site, thus missing the rush hour.

“Hi Jos; did you get my note? Nice job on that guy.”

“Thanks Tom, I got the note. Please, say nothing to anyone; it’s very important.”

His bonhomie disappeared in an instance. Being a smart chap, he got the point immediately.

“Oh, shit! I never though. Are you OK?”

I gathered from his reaction that he’d probably already been telling his friends that I was his neighbour.

“Yes, and I’d like to keep it that way. We don’t want any visitors. Speaking of which, if you see anyone strange, can you call me?”

“Sure, I will. Stay safe!”

He climbed into his truck and pulled off. I gathered up my shopping and rode the elevator to my apartment. Once in, a quick check out the windows, nothing to see. My phone rang; Janet.

“Hi Ms Rabbit.”

“Oh yeah; she apologised for that. She just rang; I’m still in the clear.”

“Great; she told me that. Will you go out tonight with the girls?”

I wanted to get her to leave the apartment; she needed to get out.

“Yes; I’ll send them a mail. Would Jesse like to join us?”

I’d never thought of that. It would probably be a good idea to get some fun time in before things moved on to a more serious threat level.

“Hmmm, not a bad idea; what you have in mind?”

“Just a few drinks; I’ve a client meeting tomorrow. Probably the Palace Bar around 9pm.”

“OK; I’ve just bought some lamb shanks which I was going to freeze. I’ll cook them in the slow cooker and bring them over to yours around 6pm if that suits.”

“Great; see you then.”

Given that she was bringing me out for the night, and I’d be staying over, I thought I could do dinner. I like to cook, but first things first; I rang my parents. My mother answered:

“Are you all right? We didn’t want to ring in case you were hiding somewhere!”

I had briefly worked in Africa and had been given a security course. One of the things not to do is to call someone who might be hiding from an active shooter and I’d warned my parents not to call me if they heard of any security situation on the news, I would call them. They had obviously erroneously transposed this advice to the current situation which explained why I hadn’t heard from them.

“Sorry, I should have called you. I was just busy with the fallout. When did you hear?”

“Well, your Aunt Mary called this morning. We hadn’t heard about all the fuss until she told us.”

That made sense. Neither of my parents bothered much with social media although they were around the Facebook generation. The farm would be very busy at this time of the year with milking getting into full swing.

“Look, I’m safe, but I have to be careful for a while….”

We chatted, and my father came in on the call for a few minutes. They were concerned, although they tried to hide it. They wanted me to come back to the farm for a few weeks where the remote location, the dogs and the shotguns would provide a significant level of security but the very remoteness would mean that I couldn’t work as the broadband reception was inadequate. Besides, it would put them in harm’s way as well. I declined on the basis that the threat was minimal; I wasn’t sure that they believed me. Eventually I got off the call by promising a daily text or call, and that I’d come back to the farm if the threat escalated.

I seared and sealed the lamb shanks on a hot pan and put them in the slow-cooker with shallots, garlic and red wine, I would add carrots later, and finally got down to work.

My solicitor client had emailed: In view of the circumstances, he did not consider it appropriate that I continue to provide services to his firm. Scumbag! I computed my hours, added €1,000 for the inconvenience and breach of our non-existant verbal contract and sent him an invoice. I was sure he’d pay just to keep everything quiet. It also suited me not to have any further work in the criminal legal system; too big a chance of being seen by the bad guys. I worked until 5pm, stopping only at 2pm to add the carrots to the slow-cooker and have a snack of corn and sardine with a small glass of (boxed) dry white wine. Then, a check out the window, nothing there, so I got my overnight bag, put the slow-cooker into a cardboard box in the boot of my car, and drove off towards town. At this time, I would be going against the traffic, and a hot slow-cooker with lamb shanks is hard to manage on a train and tram!

I drove sedately out of the mixed estate of houses and apartment blocks and turned onto the inbound motorway. I would only take this for a few kilometres before turning off towards town. I kept a careful eye in the mirror going onto the motorway. There I put the boot down until I got to the exit, weaving through the lanes of traffic, and then turning off. A grey Ford Mondeo had been with me, at some distance, all the way. Heading towards town, I went right around a roundabout, acting as if lost by indicating to go off and then correcting myself, ending up behind the Mondeo and getting its number, before continuing on my way. It also looped around the roundabout and continued after me. I used the speed dial to call DS White; he answered almost immediately.

“Hi, DS White, Jos McNamara here. I’m on the N32 inbound and being followed by a grey Mondeo, Reg ABC123D.”

“OK; how’d you spot him?”

“Stood out like a parson in a brothel; not one of their smartest thugs.”

He sighed, sounding really pissed off.

“You’re OK; it’s Detective Byrne. We sent him out until the local police took over tonight.”

Shit! Clouseau. I had definitely trodden on their toes now… time to try to make amends…

“Ah, he probably wasn’t trying to stay covert so. Thanks for the escort; I’m heading to Janet’s place for the night.”

“Try to get some sleep!”

He must be remembering Janet’s description of our last night in her apartment.

“Janet and Jesse are going to meet some girls in the Palace Bar for a drink around 9pm. It won’t be a late night so if Detective Byrne is happy that I’m not being tailed by someone else we’re OK for the night.”

“Ah yes, Jesse. DI Jones told me about her. Have fun.”

“Thanks; we’ll try.”

I continued into town and towards Janet’s apartment block. I had some time to spare so I drove around a few loops to check if I had a second tail; I wasn’t confident of Clouseau’s ability to detect one. Not seeing anything, I drove into her block and parked in her underground space. As usual, she’d already moved her car into a visitor’s space to ensure that I’d somewhere to park. I looped the handles of my overnight bag over my arm, picked up the cardboard box with the slow-cooker, rode the elevator to her floor and rang her doorbell; with arms full I couldn’t manage the keys. The chain came off and the door opened; good, no couch blocking the door this time. Janet looked a lot better; she had just showered and her hair was drying naturally in a tousle of curls and waves falling down onto her shoulders. I put the slow-cooker down on the kitchen worktop and pulled her into a long hug and kiss.

“You’re looking great!”

“You’ll be looking good soon, once I’ve finished with you!”

I plugged in the slow-cooker to ensure the lamb was hot while Janet prepared some cous-cous. As it was mid-week, and we were going out later, we restricted ourselves to a small glass of arak, our preferred drink with lamb. Then we got to work. I showered and shaved, face, legs, underarms. This was easy as it was just a top-up. I had long since learned to ignore the sometimes curious stares of some guys in the gym at my lack of body hair. Over my knickers I carefully slipped my legs into a pair of M&S Rose Quartz 10 Denier tights which Janet had left on the bed and a lace, underwired long line bra. I popped in my breast forms, pulled on a robe and sat at the vanity to wait for Janet to dry my hair. This time it was more like a tutorial. She showed me how to towel-dry my hair and add product to give it volume and a natural appearance as it fell in curls onto my shoulders. She was doing us up as a matching pair. As my hair was drying naturally she started on a make-up tutorial; moisturiser, foundation, under eye concealer, eye shadow, mascara, eyebrow pencil and lipstick.

“And now for the pièce de resistance. I was keeping this for your birthday.”

She reached her hand into the wardrobe and pulled out a short, shift dress which was, in effect, a mass of gold sequins. She helped me into the dress and zipped it up. I looked at myself in the mirror; I was delighted at the effect. The dress hung perfectly, coming down to mid-thigh, shimmering as I moved.

“You’ll have no problem picking up a man tonight!”

Janet was looking over my shoulder, leaning in against me. I turned and went to kiss her; she put a finger on my nose.

“Lipstick, remember.”

“What’s my chances of picking up a lovely, sexy woman?”

“Great if she’s a lesbian.”

“Well, that moron on the street yesterday thought we were even though he didn’t appear to approve of us!”

“Come on, watch me doing my makeup… keep learning…”

I sat on the bed and watched Janet intently. We hadn’t discussed this yet, but instinctively we both knew that Jesse was going to have to learn to stand on her own two high heels and that she was going to become a very important part of my, hopefully long, future. Janet talked me through her makeup application, explaining what she was doing and where I would need to do it differently. Eventually, about 8:30pm, both ready, we decided to get a taxi to the Palace Bar. I carried my pistol in a totally unmatching bag; Janet had bought me one to match the dress, but fashion sometimes has to take second place.

The taxi dropped us three minutes away from the bar so we walked the rest of the way, slowly, in our heels. I found that I was enjoying the looks we were getting from passing men, some open, some surreptitious, all admiring. Funny, I’d never envisioned myself with a man, always seeing myself as a man playing a role, so why was I enjoying their attention? Janet’s friends hadn’t arrived so we grabbed one of the booths surrounding a large open floor used sometimes for dancing, other times just as a circulation space, ordered drinks and waited. Tonight I was on mocktails; drinking a lot of alcohol while carrying a gun is simply stupid. I did feel that Janet needed to have a few and, within the limitations of her meeting schedule tomorrow, let her hair down. Her two friends arrived soon afterwards; air kisses all ‘round.

Men and women seem to hunt in pairs so, as a group of four girls, we weren’t approached in our booth by any aspiring Lotharios. Anyway, it was mid-week and most of the patrons were, like us, probably working the next morning so the hunting season was deferred to the weekend. Janet’s friends, Louise and Grainne, knew me only as Jesse and were not fully sure of exactly what Jesse was all about, knowing only that she and Janet were FWB. For that matter, I was equally unsure about Jesse, although I liked having her around, and so did Janet. Leaving all that uncertainty aside, we were just out for a few drinks. We chatted for a while; Louise was sitting on the inside of the booth, opposite me, and looking outwards.

“Don’t look now, but I think there’s two guys eying us up.”

“What?”

Janet and I both had a brief moment of panic and the same reaction.

“Only two? That’s disappointing after spending all that time getting ready. What do they look like?”

Grainne, thankfully hadn’t noticed our discomfort.

“A bit nerdy, one tall, gangly, looks like his mother just let him out for the night, the other a bit older, eying up every woman in the place.”

I looked at Janet:

“Maybe Clouseau and a friend? I’ll check. If I walk away it’s him”

I slid out of the booth, collected my bag as if going to the Ladies’ room, turned around and saw Clouseau and a friend both looking at me. I ignored them and walked off to the Ladies’. As I rounded the bar I saw Clouseau’s friend slide out of his booth and start after me. I continued on, visited the Ladies’, came back out and there he was, loitering in the vicinity of the door. I moved quite close to him and whispered:

“Our friends have spotted you. Don’t follow me back too closely or they might ask too many questions.”

I walked back to our booth, swaying a little provocatively, and sat back in.

“I was just telling the girls how we met Clouseau on a client video call; bit of a coincidence he turns up here!”

Janet had invented a cover story in my absence. I nodded and sat down.

“Why’d you call him Clouseau?”

Louise’s question was reasonable in the circumstances; he didn’t remotely resemble Peter Sellers. I looked over at Janet and winked with my hidden eye.

“We figured after the call that he made as much sense as Clouseau did when he was talking to the accordion player and the monkey.”

Thankfully we moved on. The girls were planning their trip to Algarve and seemed to forget that I was an imposter and Janet’s sometime sex-partner. I didn’t mind; I was enthralled by their conversation about what they would wear going out at night, who was bringing what sexy dress, how to avoid sunburned boobs when sunbathing topless, whether to go the nudist section of the beach this year. I would have loved to be going, but as one of them, not just pretending to be.

We broke up around 11:30pm, more air kiss goodbyes with Louise and Grainne, and we walked along the street to the taxi rank. I noticed Clouseau and his friend following us at a discreet distance. Again, I decided to take the maximum enjoyment from being out on the street, all dressed up, and still being noticed. I was linking Janet; she was marginally tipsy as indeed was everyone on the street at that time, me and hopefully the following policemen excluded. We were almost at the cab rank when I felt my rear being fondled by a guy who passed close from behind and made off down a side alley just as quickly.

“That f***er just felt my ass!”

Janet sniggered.

“Get used to it, it happens! Good job he didn’t go for anywhere else.”

“Yeah; he’d have gotten some surprise. What do those creeps get out of it anyway?”

It was a rhetorical question. We got our cab after a short wait and were soon back at Janet’s. Once inside, I declined her offer of a G&T and persuaded her instead to have a glass of water and two paracetamol. She’d thank me in the morning.

“You enjoyed yourself tonight!?”

I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

“Yeah, I did. I like just being out with the girls.”

“As a girl?”

“Yes; do you find that strange?”

She paused for a minute to compose her answer. Definitely the water had been a good idea; I refilled her glass and handed it to her.

“No; I think I like it. I mean you just blend in… a bit of work on the voice and…”

I was sitting on her two-seater. She put a knee either side of me and sat on my lap. I reached my hands behind her, unzipped her dress and opened her bra. She lifted her hands into the air to let me take both off over her head, then leaned in and rubbed a boob across my face.

“Maybe Girlfriends With Benefits?”

I couldn’t reply; it is rude to talk with your mouth full!

I woke Janet up with a glass of water and two more paracetamol. She wasn’t that bad; I just wanted her to be in good nick for her meeting at 11am. As usual when I was there I got breakfast; pancakes with maple syrup and bacon. We ate together and I headed off, going against the incoming traffic. I really needed to get some work out of the way so was planning to just get my head down for the day. I slowed down coming into the cul de sac which led to my apartment block and drove in, keeping an eye out for anything unusual; just what that might be, I hadn’t a clue. I did notice that a car, parked outside one of the townhouses lining the way in, appeared to be occupied; the driver might just have sat in to start his commute. As usual, I circled the block and met the same car on its way in as I was approaching the way out. I still didn’t have a number for the local police liaison so I called DS White.

“Good morning; Jos here again. Another number, WXY789Z, brown old Nissan. Apparently following me around the area.”

“I’ll call you back. Get back on the motorway and don’t stop if you can avoid it.”

By now the motorway would be starting to slow to a crawl inbound; I needed to head outbound, away from the probable traffic jams. I pulled away, keeping an eye in the mirror. The Nissan followed me onto the motorway, but pulled off at the next exit. I went one more exit and looped back. The ‘phone rang.

“Jos, DS White. Are you OK? That car’s a problem.”

“Think I’ve lost him.”

I recounted the tale: The DS reckoned that the bogey had abandoned the tail once it was obvious that I’d spotted him. They’d be more careful next time. The police would pick up the registered owner and grill him, but nothing much could be expected from this. With this heartening news I headed back to the apartment, circled a bit, saw nothing and pulled into the underground carpark. By this stage I was a nervous wreck and waited with my hand on the S&W until I saw the gate close. I parked in my space, racked the pistol, put on the safety, hid my right hand under a jacket, hung my overnight bag over my left arm, got out with my keys in my left hand, locked the car and pressed the elevator button. I waited just a bit away from the door until the door opened, waited a second or two, then peeked into the elevator. No one there; I got in, pressed the button for my floor and backed into a corner, pistol pointing towards the door under my jacket. The elevator arrived at my floor. Again I waited a second or two, then almost jumped out, trying to look both ways at once. Again, no one there. I opened my door, went in, bolted, chained and blocked the door behind me. It wasn’t even 10am, but I desperately needed a drink. No can do; must stay in control. Now that the threat was real, not theoretical, I felt desperately scared, alone, vulnerable.

I changed into a kilt-skirt and top, made a pot of tea, poured myself a mug, added a half teaspoon of honey along with a thimbleful of milk and got down to work. Work occupied my mind and calmed me down. I worked for about three hours before stopping to break some 78% chocolate into a mug, adding 200ml milk, and zapping it until I had a nice thick chocolate drink. I was sitting back enjoying this with some digestive when the DI rang.

“Jos; DI Jones here. How are you?”

“Frankly, scared shitless. You heard about this morning?”

“Yes; you did well to spot him.”

“Was he the hitman?”

“No; just a low level scumbag. Surveillance.”

“But they are planning a hit?”

“Yes; but it will take some time to set up.

“Look, if you get me the cameras I asked for I’ll have at least a fighting chance of seeing if there’s someone out there waiting for me. They’ll have to do some more of this observation shit before they make a move?”

“Yes. They’ll just send some more low level thugs to do this and we won’t be able to touch them… no evidence!”

“Maybe I’ve an idea of how I’ll disappear for a few weeks.”

“You thinking about Jesse?”

“Maybe, not sure yet.”

She gave me a contact number in the local Police station and rang off.

My immediate plan was, once Janet went on holidays in a week’s time, I would move into hers and live as Jesse for the two weeks. If I got there without being followed, I would be safe, particularly if I used a VPN. I wasn’t sure how technically capable the Kingstons were, but I had to assume that they had some capability, so I needed to cover my cyber footprint as well. The downside to this was that I would not be able to easily meet either of my other two occasional partners.

Anyway, work to be done. I texted Janet and my parents, All Well, and got back down to earning my daily bread. The DI Rang back around 4pm; I would be getting a monitor to view the apartment block cameras; a police technician would be around first thing in the morning. I thanked her and hung up. Progress; once I had the feed into my apartment, I would be able to get it on the web to be viewable from my iPad. No need to tell the police that; they didn’t need to know. Eventually, tired out, I took a bean stew and some ciabatta from the freezer, heated the former and toasted the latter before sitting down to dinner with a glass of white wine. I was “meated out” after the lamb last night.

Was that only last night? What a day! If I don’t get some exercise in soon I’ll creak to a halt. Can I exercise in the gym in Janet’s block as Jesse? I rather fancied myself in a crop top and spray-on shorts, but this was a non-runner, for obvious reasons! I filled the dishwasher, soaked some oatmeal for breakfast, checked the door and got ready for bed. Just as I was about to put the S&W under my pillow I remembered to take the round out of the breech: I’d need to be more careful! I poured myself two fingers of Glenmorangie and slid into bed. The Glenmorangie was still sitting there when I woke up at 5am.

I slid out of bed and did my floor and weights exercises: It was important to get back to routine. I texted Janet at 6am; she was also an early riser when not out the night before. Then my parents; the cows liked an early start as well so they would be up milking. As this was Friday, I would call to the farm tomorrow and collect my side-by-side shotgun; it would significantly enhance my “home-defence” firepower! I did my usual squint through the venetian blinds but saw nothing, had breakfast and dressed in leggings and a long shirt. This was my sole concession to the fact that a police technician would be calling “first thing”; I now normally wore either skirts or dresses in my apartment, sometimes pulling a shirt on over a dress if doing a Zoom call.

“First thing” turned out to be 10AM. Clouseau called to let me know that the technician was outside the apartment block so I let him into the lobby and then into my apartment. He was taciturn, which I reckoned was almost a prerequisite for his line of work, and we barely exchanged ten words before he was finished and gone, even refusing my offer of a coffee. He did leave me a number to call in the event of any technical problems.

I stayed at home for the day; I would have to come to some arrangement with the local police to get some exercise in. At least I caught up with work, even getting two Zoom calls completed. I only realised afterwards that the shirt I was wearing buttoned on the wrong side; none of the clients had seemed to either notice or mind.

The following morning, Saturday, I rang my liaison at the local Police Station. A female voice replied.

“Hi, Jos McNamara here; I’m just checking if you’ve anyone around?”

“Not at the moment; we checked your area a few times last night, nothing seen.”

“Thanks, I’m leaving for my parents’ place for the weekend in an hour, just in case you think I’ve disappeared.”

“Where’s that?”

“I’ll text you the address; it’s just a bit beyond the middle of nowhere.”

“Will you be safe there? Houses in the middle of nowhere, or just beyond, tend to be vulnerable.”

“Farm, dogs, squinting windows, one road in. Will be OK as long as I’m there.”

“You forgot to mention the shotguns! I thought all farmers had them.”

“Well Miss, you know yourself that self-defence is not recognised as a legitimate reason to have a firearm. You guys do all the defending for us.”

“Bullshit; and my name’s Jacinta.”

“Hi Jacinta.”

“Look, I’ll pick up your car leaving the estate and check that you’re not being followed.”

“You on your own?”

“Yes, but I’m a big girl now.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to follow me to the motorway stop for a coffee? Could be useful to meet.”

“OK, am I meeting Jesse or Jos?”

“You’re well briefed; Jos, I’m driving to my folks, remember?”

“OK; pull in when you get there and wait for a blue Ford to pull up beside you.”

I checked the CCTV screen for a few minutes but saw nothing amiss, then prepared a weekend bag, put the pistol into my shoulder bag, and left exactly an hour after my call with Jacinta. I had the camera showing the outside of the garage gate on my iPad as I waited for the gate to open, drove out, looped the block and drove off slowly. There was nothing behind me as I headed for the motorway; maybe I’d left before she’d arrived? I drove normally down the motorway, pulled into the stop, parked, and a blue Ford pulled up alongside. The driver’s blond hair was gathered into a ponytail high on her head and she was wearing a casual jacket over a white vest-top. She saw me looking and waved; I got out of my car and walked over to hers.

“Jacinta?”

“Yep; that’s me.”

I held the door while she got out. She was my age, or maybe a bit older, no ring, a good chassis in tight blue jeans, and altogether quite as attractive as her voice suggested.

“I never saw you behind me.”

“You weren’t meant to!”

We walked into the soulless motorway café/shop and I bought two cappuccinos before we sat down at one of the tables. At that time on a Saturday morning there were few enough people about so we could talk without being overheard. I started with a question.

“Can I check, the number I called, is that your personal work number or do you pass the number around between whoever’s on duty?”

“It’s my number. I’m your liaison officer for our station.”

“So, what happens when you’re off duty?”

“I answer the call; it’s a 24/7 job.”

“Even if you’re out for a drink?”

“Can’t drink, well, maybe one or two.”

“How long will you have to do this?”

“Not sure yet; I might do week on/week off with someone if it goes on for a long time.”

“Are you planning for it to go on for a long time?”

“Don’t know yet; depends on whether you stay in our area and the assessed threat level”.

“Must be a right pain for your partner, family, whoever.”

“You sure you’re not in the police yourself?”

“Me, no, why?”

“I get the feeling you’re asking an indirect question to build up a picture.”

“Guilty!”

“To answer your indirect question, I don’t have a partner. And just in case it matters, I’m not into guys.”

“Hmmm, you might get on better with Jesse so!”

“Seeing as you brought it up, can you tell me about her?”

“I’m really not sure at the moment. She’s always been around in the background, but moved more to the foreground last Christmas. She’s hanging around more and more as time goes on.”

“Like how?”

“Like, when I’m at home on my own, it’s generally Jesse who’s there now.”

“Yeah, our video technician was a bit confused. He said that you were dressed like a girl, but not trying to pass as one.”

“That’s me, confusing, and often confused! Sometimes, going out, I do the whole “pass” thing. It’s a bit of fun.”

“And your girlfriend, Janet, is OK with this?”

“She’s not my girlfriend. We’re old friends who look after each other. It’s not exclusive. Actually, Jesse first went sort of public with her, last Christmas. She was meeting her girlfriends, I happened to be in town and called, so Jesse ended up going out with Janet, Louise and Grainne. Speaking of, they’re all going to the sun in a week’s time so I was planning on moving into Janet’s place in town while they’re away.”

“You’re not tempted to go with them?”

“No way; they are heading off on a two week manhunt. Not my scene, and I’d only spoil theirs.”

We’d finished our coffees and started to walk back towards the cars.

“Will I get to meet Jesse, or will it always be Jos?”

“If you’re available next Friday, call to my apartment, after work. I’ll get dinner.”

“I’m not supposed to socialise with people I’m involved with professionally.”

“Who said anything about socialising? You’re calling around to inspect the security arrangements.”

“You’re on.”

I held the door of her car as she got in; she lowered the window.

“You drive off first; I’ll tail you for a bit to see that you’re not followed.”

I drove away at normal motorway speeds, passed a few exits, then drove off at an exit I knew had a complex series of roundabouts that would both allow me to get back on the motorway and check the cars behind me. Jacinta either avoided my ploy or had already abandoned the tail. No car that had come off after me came back onto the motorway so, doubly reassured, I headed off towards my parents’ house, still fifty miles or so to go.

The dogs were happy to see me. I got the usual enthusiastic jumping and charging until both were satisfied that I still remembered them. My parents both came to the door to greet me; not their usual practice as I normally just barged in. They were worried and I was sorry that I was causing them upset; I would have to try to reassure them. I threw my bag into my old room, hid my pistol in the inside pocket of my casual jacket and joined them in the kitchen for a cup of tea.

This being a dairy farm at the end of May, I was soon in the tractor driving around a field on the first silage cut of the year. This work is either mind numbingly boring, or relaxing, depending on your perspective. I found it to be relaxing. No need to think, just listen to downloaded podcasts on earbuds under the ear defenders, and follow around in ever increasing circles. Most local farmers, and I presume nationally as well, had adopted the practice of first driving into the middle of the field and cutting outwards in a “square circle” towards the hedgerows to give any wildlife in the field an escape route. Eventually I spotted my father waving from outside the house, stopped the tractor, and headed in for dinner. This was normally eaten early, before the milking, to give the cows the maximum grazing time. Life revolved around them!

“Are you cold?”

My mother was looking at me, still wearing my jacket as I sat down for dinner.

“Just cold a bit across my back, hunched too long over a computer isn’t good!”

Not a lie, really!

“Is this business about that witness getting shot finished?”

My father was getting straight to the point.

“I might have to go to court as a witness myself when the shooter’s case comes up, but that’s a good while away yet.”

“And how do you know those fellows won’t be coming after you, like they did to the other fellow?”

“I’ve nothing important to say; I didn’t see the shooting and I never saw the fellow’s face when I tripped him. I mightn’t even be called.”

“So what’s the shotgun for?”

I had told them that I was collecting it, along with a box of BB’s or buckshot.

“I’m going to shoot some clays on the range next weekend; I’ll go directly from my apartment.”

“Shooting clays with BBs? I never heard of that!”

“They’re for a demo for new shooters. We’ll shoot up a few buckets and stuff just to show them how dangerous a gun can be.”

There was a bit of a non-sequitur there; why do a demo with ammo never found on a clay range, but fortunately my father didn’t follow up the point. He didn’t use the range and wasn’t familiar with our routines or practices.

I helped with the milking after dinner, giving my mother some time off. That job finished and the cows turned back out, we sat around for a while chatting before turning in early. Jacinta was right. Sleeping on the ground floor did make me feel very vulnerable. I checked all the windows and doors, trying not to be noticed, made sure my curtains were drawn so nothing could be seen looking in from outside, put my pistol under the pillow, and stayed awake most of the night. Bummer! I probably drifted off around 4am, to be woken by my alarm at 6am. I got up and helped again with the milking before getting ready to travel. As I was getting ready, I heard my mother being busy in the kitchen. I knew better than to offer to help; nobody was allowed cook in her kitchen except her!

We sat down to a breakfast that would give nightmares to a dietician; bacon, sausage, pudding, eggs, tomato, tea and brown bread. I think my mother figured that I lived on a diet of low fat milk, yogurt, granola, fruit and fish and felt the need to restock my supply of saturated fat and cholesterol anytime I came by. Untroubled by the advices of the diet police, I enjoyed every morsel! Breakfast over, I put my bag into the boot of my car along with the cased shotgun and box of cartridges, said my goodbyes, and headed off. Out of site of the house, I took the pistol out of my jacket pocket and left it in the pocket in the driver’s door; I could reach it more easily that way. I did my usual off and on routine at the motorway to check if I was being followed; nothing suspicious. I even filled up the car with diesel before turning off the motorway.

I decided against calling Jacinta; she knew that I was coming back today and would have called if there was any issue. I did take out my iPad and checked the cameras; nothing suspicious there either. I drove in, did my usual loop around, and pulled up to the underground garage door. I kept looking in the mirrors and at the gate camera on my iPad as the gate opened. Shit! A scrambler-type motorbike with two riders pulls up, not quite behind me, I slip the car into reverse, just in case, the motorbike passenger jumps off and starts towards my car, I hammer the accelerator and reverse straight back, on the road now, brake, into drive, the passenger is now at the front of the car, off balance, he’s turning, arms come up in front of him, I know that stance. Hammer the accelerator again, duck to the left, hit the motorbike a glancing blow, straighten up to see and steer, windscreen is shattered. Drive off like a maniac. I ran the redlight at the entrance to the estate and headed towards the shopping centre, people, witnesses, maybe safer. Can’t see the motorbike behind me. Slow down; don’t kill someone else with the car. Breath, deep. Still unwilling to stop, I run another redlight, more carefully this time and drove into the middle of the shopping centre carpark. I pulled up in a laneway, not parked, ready to go again. Breath, deep.

There’s people looking, some filming, some on phones, probably calling the police. I rack the pistol, keeping it hidden, sneak it into my jacket pocket. Out of the car, look around, the crowd is getting bigger, hit the speed-dial for Jacinta.

“Hi Jos, are you back…

“Jacinta, I’ve just been shot at, not hit, in carpark at Greenfield Shopping Centre. Can you send help?”

“Stay on the line…”

I heard her call on a radio, all available cars to Greenfield Shopping Centre, shooting… etc. She came back on the line, I could hear cars responding as she talked.

“Are you OK?”

“Yes, but there’s too many people around.”

“Just shout “Police, stand back!””

“I can’t pretend I’m police!”

“JUST F***ING DO IT.”

“POLICE, STAND BACK, STAND BACK.”

The crowd push back a bit. I turn my attention back to the ‘phone.

“Thanks, that worked.”

“Sorry about shouting at you. Any sirens?”

I listened.

“Yes. Look, a motorbike pulled up behind me as I was turning into my apartment garage. The passenger took at least one shot at me. I think I hit the motorbike getting away. If you get one car there, and if the bike’s still there, you’re looking for two on foot.”

“Wait on the line…”

Again, I hear her on the radio…

A police car pulls up, lit up like a Christmas tree; two constables get out, I wave them over… they were coming anyway. Before they get a chance to talk I wave the ‘phone…

“I’m on the line to one of yours…”

They wait, patiently enough. They can hear the radio traffic so have a good idea of what’s going on. One wanders around to the front of the car, looks at the shattered windscreen, comes over to me.

“I’d better call an ambulance; that’s a nasty looking cut.”

“What?”

“Your head, you’re bleeding.”

I hadn’t felt anything. I went to put up my hand to check…

“No, No, don’t touch… infection and all that. You’re not losing too much blood so we won’t do any first aid until the medics get here”

I had forgotten that Jacinta was still on the line. I raised the phone…

“Hi…”

“I heard all that; are you sure you’re OK? I’m on my way.”

“Sorry to f*** up your Sunday. I’m OK, just woozy… shock kicking in…”

“Can you give the ‘phone to one of the police there?”

I passed the ‘phone to the guy who’d spoken to me. I was suddenly feeling very weak as the shock really kicked in. I opened the back passenger door of the car and sat in; the front was covered in glass fragments. I leaned my head back on the headrest and closed my eyes.

“Oh no you don’t! No going to sleep until the medics get here…”

I swung my legs back out of the car and just perched on the edge of the seat. The place was swarming with blue lights now. A medic arrived, looked at my head, came back with a large white bandage that he pressed against it lightly, and wrapped it around like a turban.

“OK, can you walk to the ambulance?”

I nodded. He helped me up from the seat and loosely supported me as I walked towards the ambulance. Jacinta arrived as I got to the step.

“There you go! I let you out of my sight for a few hours and you start World War 3!”

“Sorry Miss Jacinta. I promise to be good next time.”

“Actually, can you give me your jacket? I’ll look after your wallet and anything else you’ve in it!”

I took off the jacket, taking care not to let the inside pocket turn outwards.

“Now that I think of it, there’s a shotgun in the boot.”

She rolled her eyes.

“OK; I’ll get your stuff and bring it to your apartment. I’ll meet you in the hospital.”

“Thanks!”

She checked which hospital the medics were bringing me to and headed off. I got into the ambulance, got strapped in and finally let myself just drift away…

The ambulance stopped at A&E. I went to get up but the medic intervened.

“We’ll carry you in; get seen quicker that way!”

It’s only then I realised that there was a policeman there as well; I hadn’t seen him climb in.

I was carried in and parked in the where the hell are we going to put this one space when I remembered my ‘phone. I needed to get some messages out before the 6pm news.

“Shit, I’ve lost my ‘phone.”

“No, it’s here. You gave it to me to talk to Jacinta, remember?”

Thankfully that was the same policeman.

“Thanks, can I have it? I need to text home.”

He passed me the ‘phone.

I texted my father.

Call me ASAP, DON’T let Mom know.

I was in the middle of texting Janet when the ‘phone rang.

“Hi Dad.”

“What’s up?”

“Look, I’m OK, just in A&E with a small cut from a broken windscreen.”

“What happened, you crashed?”

“No, now don’t panic, someone took a shot at me, a warning kind of…”

“Oh shit! Your mother will go ape when she hears. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Look, I’m fine. Sorry; you’re going to have to tell her. Try not to let her watch the News, distract her.”

“No chance of that; she always watches it and definitely will tonight.”

A doctor was hovering.

“I have to go. Last thing, under no circumstances come here. It’s too dangerous.”

“Ok, Ok, Ok,…”

I rang off and the doctor came over. He unwrapped my turban and had a look at my head.

“Any glass left in there?”

I had to have glass picked out of my leg before and wasn’t looking forward to having to have the same job done to my head.

“No, no glass, not a glass cut from what I can see. How’d you get this?”

He looked curiously at my police escort.

“Someone took a shot at me and smashed the windscreen. That’s how I got cut”.

“I don’t think it was the glass; I think you’ve been very lucky. Another centimetre and you wouldn’t be here in A&E.”

“What?”

“I think the bullet just grazed your head; you’ve been extremely lucky, this time.”

I think that he was assuming that I was a criminal of some sort. He looked at the policeman.

“What calibre?”

The policeman just shrugged; I answered.

“Pistol, centrefire, probably .38, 9mm, that kind of thing.”

“OK, let’s get you cleaned up. Bleeding’s stopped, but seeing as it’s a head wound, you’re with us for the night in case of concussion.”

I looked at the policeman, he looked pissed off.

“Sorry, ruined your evening too. I know Jacinta’s coming by later; you mightn’t have to stay.”

The doctor looked from the policeman to me.

“What’s the story here? Are you police too?”

“No, just a regular good guy”.

The policeman looked up and simply said…

“Witness…”

“Now I recognise you… you’re the fellow on the internet…”

I put my finger to my lips…

“Please… least said, best chance I won’t be back in here..”

He nodded and slipped away, presumably to arrange to have me cleaned up and warehoused. I took the time to text Janet.

In A&E, minor injury, do NOT come, bad guys tried, see News, will text when sorted.

I knew that, unlike my parents, she’d pick up the story from the news feeds.

I was wheeled into a cubicle and a nurse along with a junior doctor came along and worked on me for a while, maybe half an hour, maybe less. They cut away some of my hair, much to my disappointment, put some stingy stuff on my head, and spent a fair bit of time combing my hair out of the way and putting a dressing on the wound. The doctor was a bit of a comedian and kept up a running commentary as he worked, irritating the nurse who tried not to let it show. Eventually, job done, he prescribed some painkillers and left to patch up someone else. Only when he was gone did I realise that the Guardian Policeman had flown off to be replaced by Jacinta.

“How’s the head?”

“Won’t be doing much thinking for a while; it hurts! Are you babysitting me tonight?”

“Only until an Armed Response Team turns up; won’t be too long. I’ve brought you some stuff.”

She showed me what she had repacked into my weekend bag; a towel, toothbrush, toothpaste, mouth wash, electric razor, underwear (actually black knickers), dressing gown, laptop, power strip and chargers.

“Thanks Ma.”

She gave a fleeting smile and hooked the bag on to one of the bed side rails.

“You can reach it here, and it won’t get lost when they move you again.”

“Move me, to where?”

“They’re going to find a private room somewhere. They don’t like armed police roaming around common areas; it upsets the rest of the patients.”

I nodded.

“While we’re here, can you tell me what happened?”

I went through the story, sotto voce, as there was only a curtain separating us from the casualty, or whatever, next door. She took notes, rarely interrupting. When I was finished I had to ask;

“Did I actually hit the motorbike?”

“Yes, they abandoned it and ran to the train station, ran across the line and disappeared out the far side. No cameras once they got out of the station.”

“So they’ve gotten away?”

“For now..”

She was interrupted by two over-armed policemen coming in, festooned with pistols, tasers, pepper spray, handcuffs and H&K MP7s.

“Ah, here’s your baby-sitters for the night. Give me a call when the hospital is releasing you and I’ll bring you back to your apartment.”

“What about my car? With the windscreen broken it’ll get ruined if it rains!”

“Forensics will look after it; they don’t like getting their nice white overalls wet so they’ll cover it up and bring it to our garage once they’ve done the on-site stuff.”

“Thanks.”

She disappeared out through the curtains. The baby-sitters didn’t look communicative and I was getting too tired to make conversation. I texted Janet again.

OK to talk when you OK to call.

I closed my eyes. As I drifted off I saw Oliver Hardy look, disapprovingly, at me:

“Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into!”

My phone rang; I was jolted awake; Janet. I answered, quite disoriented as I was in another room. I hadn’t even woken when I’d been moved.

“Hi; how you?”

“More to the point, how are you?”

“Fine. I've just woken up; what time is it?”

“7:10pm; did I wake you?”

“Yes; but I’m glad you did. I just wanted to let you know what happened.”

“You’re all over the news… and you’ve been identified from the pictures of where you tripped up the gunman. How’d you get away?”

“That old saying… be alert; your country needs lerts. I was watching in the mirror when the garage gate was opening and saw them coming…”

I gave her the detail of the story.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I’m in here for the night, then back to my apartment. I have some armed police here now; I’m not sure how it will work in the future.”

“Do you want to move into my place?”

“I thought of that, but now it’s just too risky. I don’t want you to be associated with me.”

I had changed my mind in relation to staying in her apartment. It had seemed to be a good idea when the danger was theoretical; now that it was manifestly real it wouldn’t be fair to her. I continued:

“I’m sure the police will come up with something; I’ll think about it in the morning. I’ve no idea why I’m so tired now.”

“How’d you sleep last night?”

“Bad; I’d forgotten that.”

We chatted for a while then rang off. It was harder for her and my parents than for me: I knew where and how I was whereas all they could do was worry. I decided to call my parents but first things first; I was starving! I got out of bed, tested that I wasn’t dizzy before standing up, went to the door and peeked out. Outside my room there was a short, relatively secluded corridor joining a main corridor after about 5 metres; ideal. As hoped, my escort was there, sitting in a chair, looking bored. He did come alert as the door opened and looked up.

“I’m going to order in some pizza; will I include you?”

“Pizza?”

“Yes; the catering here will be finished and it’s a long time to breakfast.”

“Good idea; I’ll have a Rustica.”

“OK; where do I tell the guy to go?”

“Ward 17, on the third floor, Room 5.”

I ordered a Rustica and a Siciliana along with some cokes. The delivery rider would earn his money on this delivery as he would have a distance to walk. While waiting, I called my father, and, of course, he put my mother on the ‘phone. This was a difficult call as all I could do was try to reassure them that I was now safe and OK. Unfortunately the police press statement had mentioned that I had received a “superficial wound” and was currently recovering in hospital. I had to admit the truth and try to convince them that I really had thought I’d had a windscreen cut when we’d spoken earlier. I used the arrival of the pizzas to eventually end the call. I felt really bad about the trouble I was causing everyone!

I tipped the pizza guy a fiver and invited the policeman in from the corridor. In the room we had a table and a bit more comfort. I pulled the table around so that he was mostly facing the door and anyone coming into the room would see him first. I didn’t explain it to him; I assumed he would know. I would have been more impressed if he had suggested the arrangement himself. He was personable enough once we got talking: Like a lot of people who carry guns for a living he was very much into firearms and we got into a lively conversation about the suitability of his H&KMP7 for use in a place full of civilians like a hospital. In particular, would the higher velocity rounds designed for better penetration through body armour be much more likely to cause collateral damage than the 9mm that the police used to use in their previous SMGs?

I had the TV on mute and tuned to the local news channel. We paused our discussion when the carpark shooting incident came on. As usual, the news reporter gave a half-assed version of the incident leaving the impression that the shooting had happened in the carpark. The pictures showed my car with its shattered windshield, some forensics guys poking around and finally the car being carted off on a police truck. The police were not releasing my name until relatives had been informed but did confirm that the shooting was linked to organised crime. Fortunately my car registration was pixilated out or everyone watching that bulletin and who knew my registration would assume that I was a gangster.

Pizzas finished, my baby-sitter went back to the corridor and, now awake, I decided to get some work done. I reckoned that I’d lose at least half of tomorrow, Monday, and didn’t want to either let clients down or develop a reputation of unreliability. It also gave me something to think about other than my current predicament and, strangely, allowed my brain to develop some solutions to that same predicament, probably in my sub-conscious. Some day I’ll have to ask someone how that works. Eventually I turned in around 11:45pm and surprisingly, slept well until my usual waking time of 5am. Knowing that breakfast would not arrive until around 8am, I did my floor exercises. Not having my weights I tried some press-ups; I hate them! I showered, shaved particularly carefully, got dressed and then texted Janet:

“OK to Call?”

She rang back almost immediately. I picked up:

“Hi, how you? Sleep well?”

“Not great; otherwise fine. You?”

I kinda guessed that that would be her answer.

“Actually quite well; I worked late and tired myself out. You need a holiday! This time next week you’ll be soaking in sun, sand, sangria and sexy senhors.”

“I’m much more classy that that; I drink wine!”

“Can you do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“I’m going to leave here as Jesse. Can you pack all her stuff into something and I’ll let you know where to send it.”

“I can send it to you, there?”

“I’m not sure; it could be a security breach. We don’t know who the courier might be.”

“Ok.”

I rang off and texted Jacinta:

Can you talk?

She texted back:

Yes; learned when I was small.

I called. I had intended to have Janet send Jesse’s clothes to her, Jacinta, at Woodview, her home police station. She had a much better solution: She would arrange for a motorcycle policeman to call to Janet’s, collect the bag, and deliver it to her. That way there’d be no potential dodgy motorcycle courier in the loop. I called Janet back and explained the arrangement; her response was typical:

“Mmmm, I love them in their leather suits. Will he bring his handcuffs?”

“Just make sure you don’t keep him too long!”

It was good to see her mood lighten; she was taking this worse than me. I texted my father to let him know that all was OK and turned on the TV news. Even if often late and incomplete, it was convenient and filtered through a reputable organisation. I was about to stick my head out into the corridor to see who was babysitting me when there was a knock on the door: Catering had come with the breakfast menu. I made my selection, juice, poached eggs with bacon, black coffee. I went out to the policeman with the catering lady; it was a new guy who had come on last night. He was happy to accept my suggestion that he order a breakfast as well and join me in the room to eat. The catering lady had no problem with this; it was a public hospital and the public purse is infinite.

I was half listening to the TV when my attention was caught by one item:

A man has been found dead following what police believe was the second gangland shooting in two days. Police say that the dead man was known to them and are keeping an open mind as to the motive…

I wasn’t the only one on the hit list. I shuddered involuntarily; that could have been me.

Breakfasts came and the policeman joined me. This guy was much more interested in what I did for a living; I suspected he was on his way to a more interesting role than Armed Response. He had no more knowledge of the shooting than what was on the news so no interesting titbits to pick up there. We chatted for a while then he resumed his lonely vigil in the corridor outside my door. Those guys have to have an infinite capacity for boredom.

Jacinta called; she had the bag and would pick me up in about an hour, and, as a girl, understood that I would need some time once she arrived. She was to bring me first to Independence Street to meet DI Jones and we’d take it from there. I realised that the DI had never actually met Jos, only Jesse, and today would be no exception. When Jacinta arrived there was a slight hiccup; I hadn’t been seen by a doctor to be formally discharged, and we didn’t want the hospital staff to see Jesse. Jacinta went to find a doctor and managed to expedite the process on the basis that I had to be moved urgently. I was given a discharge note, a prescription for some horse-strength painkillers, and advised to see my GP in a few days to check if my brains had leaked out through my cut scalp.

With the doctor out of the way, the babysitter policeman was asked to ensure nobody else came in and I got down to the business of changing Jos into Jesse. Jacinta suggested she leave, but agreed to stay on the basis that I would change my knickers in the ensuite! I pulled on my tights, denim A-line mini, ankle boots and padded bra before opening to door so we could talk.

“What’s happening today? Am I going home?”

“Some news first; you heard the bulletin about the second shooting?”

“Yeah; I’m lucky not to have beaten that guy to the morgue.”

“Actually, if you were on a slab right now, the other guy would still be alive.”

“Huh?”

I was concentrating on developing some smoky sexy eyes and didn’t understand her point.

“You can’t tell anyone yet, OK?”

“OK.”

“This morning’s guy was known as Mac the Knife; not very original. He was just a low level thug mostly enforcing debts and such like, and was supposed to keep an eye on you. Only he decided he’d like some promotion, got the gun, and decided to have a go himself. He’d have upped his status to serious gangster if he’d succeeded, but was taken out on the basis that he’d screwed up and put us all on notice that you’re a target.”

“But we know that already; why shoot him for telling us something we’re aware of? And why so quick?”

“They don’t know that we know about the contract; the guys who tell us are hardly going to let the Kingstons know that they’re touts. The failed hit would damage their credibility so they wanted news of their retribution to come out as soon as possible.”

“Does this mean that I’m in the clear?”

“Not likely! Actually, it works the other way. Having failed very publicly, the Kingstons will feel under pressure now to finish the job; show they’re in control. I’m afraid that the target on your back just got much bigger.”

I held onto the sink as my knees almost folded. I steadied myself for a minute until I was able to walk out of the ensuite and sit on the bed; Jacinta was seated in a chair, looking very relaxed. I felt very resentful; it was only a job for her, but literally life or death for me. She took a look at me and her demeanour changed. She came over to the bed, sat beside and put an arm around me.

“Look, if they’re upping their game, so will we. I’m sure the DI will have a revised security plan when we meet her today.”

“I don’t want to seem difficult about this, but it was me saved me yesterday: Your guys weren’t there. All that saved me was my Reserves training.”

I wasn’t looking at her, but could see her in the mirror through the en-suite door; she put her head down.

“Sorry, they never move that fast. All the int. said that it would be a few weeks. We couldn’t have known that Mac would go off to make a name for himself.”

Her head was still down; it was my turn to feel sorry for her. I put my arm across her shoulders:

“My turn to say sorry; I’m just edgy, maybe even scared.”

We sat for a minute.

“On the basis of me being scared, I’d feel a lot happier if I had my pistol. Did you bring it?”

She nodded.

“It’s in my car with your shotgun.”

“Can you bring it up to me here?”

“You know I’m not supposed to? Civilians aren’t allowed to carry firearms for self-defence.”

“And we both know that that’s bullshit, especially in the current circumstances. Anyway, I’m a Lieutenant in the Reserves, so I’m really not a civilian.”

We both knew that that was also bullshit: A Reserve Officer is a civilian unless performing military duties. But a fig leaf was all she needed. She nodded:

“OK, but don’t tell anyone!”

“Deal!”

She headed off to get the pistol. I got back to my makeup; I would need to get my hands on a more suitable gun.

Eventually I was ready, light blue long sleeved shirt blouse over a denim mini, ankle boots, nude tights and shoulder bag. Now to get to the car. We didn’t want the babysitter policeman to come with us; that would have totally blown my cover and, as at least a few in the hospital knew that Jacinta was police, I didn’t want to walk beside her. She described where her car was and gave me the keys. I was to walk ahead of her, taking wide turns around corners so she could keep me in view, while she walked about ten steps behind, pretending to be on her mobile. The policeman would remain visible in the corridor to pretend that I was still in the room; he would drop my bag of clothes and toiletries to Woodview station in about an hour.

“Will I pass?”

She looked at me carefully, up and down.

“Mmmm, not bad at all! Don’t be surprised if some guy tries to pick you up in the lift”.

“No, seriously?”

“I’m serious, now stop worrying and get that ass out there! And don’t take the lift; use the stairs.”

That made sense; I would have to wait for her to get into the lift with me which might have indicated that we were travelling together.

“Any guy that tries to feel me up will get some surprise!”

“Just keep both pistols holstered! Now go!”

I opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. My babysitter, despite knowing in advance that I would be coming out as a girl, was visibly surprised and couldn’t resist looking me up and down as I walked by. For my part, I couldn’t resist wagging my tail a bit as I walked out onto the main corridor. I couldn’t glance around to check; I would just have to assume that Jacinta was keeping pace with me as I tried to adjust my walking pace to a natural, visitor heading out, speed. I wasn’t raising any attention except from the odd male doctor or porter checking me out. I got to the stairs, went through the fireproof door and down one flight. I stopped, fiddling around in my bag as if for my keys or phone until the door opened again and Jacinta came through. The stairs went directly to the underground carpark, past a few landings. We met nobody; most people use the lifts to ascend. Once in the carpark I found Jacinta’s car and sat in the back. Her rear side windows were tinted darker than those in front so I would be less visible. She sat in a few moments later; I passed her the keys and we drove off.

“You certainly surprised that Armed Response guy; I had to tell him to keep it holstered as well!”

“I know girls get a lot of that sort of attention, but girls do check out men as well”.

“Not to the same extent. Anyway, you weren’t exactly trying not to be noticed, swaying that ass! Do you enjoy the attention?”

“I suppose I do, even though I can’t see myself with a man. It’s like a form of affirmation. I suppose it gets tiring after a while?”

She thought for a few moments.

“I suppose that we’re the same: We both get checked out by guys and neither of us are interested in them. Not that that would stop them trying; guys seem to think that they can convert lesbians if we would just give them the chance!”

Traffic up ahead was slowing to a halt; she pulled into a bus lane and continued past the holdup.

“Won’t that give us away? People will wonder about us using a bus lane.”

“You’d be amazed at how many people do that every day. They seem to forget about the traffic cameras.”

She passed the obstacle, a minor fender bender, and pulled back into the traffic: people honked their horns in annoyance. We continued on into the middle of town, to Independence Street police station. Jacinta pulled into the carpark but didn’t get out of the car; she just sat there, mulling something over.

“Jesse?”

“Yes?”

“It’s very important that nobody knows it’s you coming into the station. We want to keep your alter ego a secret on a need to know basis. Our guys might let it out, idle chatter and all that.”

“OK?”

“So if anyone asks, I’m going to say that you’re Jesse Clarke, we’re holding you in Woodview station, and I’ve brought you here as DI Jones wants to interview you in relation to a possible connection to another case, OK?”

“OK.”

“Stay there.”

She got out of the driver’s seat and got into the back with me and took a pair of handcuffs out of her bag.

“Lean forward, put your head on the back of the seat in front and your hands behind your back.”

“What?”

She had already attached the handcuffs to my right wrist.

“If I’m bringing you around as a prisoner, you have to be handcuffed, or it doesn’t seem real.”

I was definitely dubious about this. Of course I’d played bondage games with girlfriends but being walked around in a semi-public place in handcuffs felt a bit humiliating; and I’m one of the good guys girls.

“OK, but you’ll have to carry my bag, and don’t let anyone else lift it, it’s too heavy.”

“I’ll take your pistol and hold it in my bag; is that OK?”

I nodded and leaned forward; she reached behind my back and cuffed my left wrist. I felt strangely helpless, and no agreed safe word!

“Sit there.”

She got out, walked around the car, opened my door.

“Legs out first.”

I pivoted on the seat and got my legs out, on the ground. Naturally my skirt rode all the way up.

“I’ll fix your skirt when you stand out. Lean forward, weight on your feet, I won’t let you fall.”

She steadied me as I stood up and smoothed down my skirt. She picked up both our shoulder bags and closed the door.

“I’ll hold your elbow; if you trip and fall you’ve no way to save yourself.”

She walked me to the same door as I’d first used coming into this station. We went into a type of reception area with a public counter at one end. Some police constables were there dealing with members of the public through a series of hatches. She was allocated an interview room by what must have been the Duty Sergeant, brought me there and sat me in a chair, my arms over its back.

“I’m going to get DI Jones; won’t be long.”

“Can you take these off first?”

I pushed my hands out to indicate my handcuffs.

“When I get back; I wouldn’t leave you here, on your own, uncuffed.”

She went off to find the DI, locking the door behind her as she went. Left sitting on my own, handcuffed, and in a very short skirt, I felt very vulnerable: Even in a police station! I was glad when she returned with the DI and DS White, and removed the handcuffs. The DI got straight down to business.

“Look, I’m sorry Jesse, Jos… actually what will I call you?”

“Maybe to keep in character, we’d better stick to Jesse?”

“OK Jesse, the fact is that you’re in the shit, big time. We’ve got to hide you from everyone, friends, family, the lot. Nobody except ourselves and Witness Protection will know where you are.”

I had figured as much coming over here in the car.

“It’s impossible for anyone to hide in this country; it’s too small. Even as Jesse; the trans scene must be miniscule!”

“We know that, it has to be overseas. Not as far as for a permanent placement; we don’t know how long the threat will last.”

“Maybe when you’ve dismantled the Kingstons?”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“I presume you’ll bring me back for the trial; what then?”

“We keep the threat level under review; we’ve never lost anyone on the Witness Protection programme; we know what we’re doing.”

“Can I go to Lisbon?”

“Possibly, why?”

“Far enough away to be safe, near enough to get back easily, great location for digital nomads… I could keep working there.”

“As Jos or Jesse?”

“I’d need to run out my old clients as Jos, try to get new ones as Jesse, maybe get some work from Janet…”

“Janet cannot know where you are; she’s not your partner”.

“I’ll need some contacts back here: How else can I get work?”

The DI hesitated for a minute, then answered:

“Actually, we’ve been thinking about that. Would you be open to doing some state work? Both the military and ourselves, police that is, operate in the cyber security area; we can keep you busy and you’ve no need to get involved with the public.”

That was very interesting; these guys didn’t pay top dollar, but the work would be at the cutting edge and a few months of that would be good for both my experience and CV.

“Sounds OK, but I don’t want a big drop in earnings.”

“We’ll do our best. The Superintendent in Cyber Security will liaise with the military in relation to your security clearance and volume of work. There is a standard rate for outsourcing work, but I gather there’ll be more that you can handle. As a Reserve Officer, you already have a security clearance. It’ll have to be reviewed and upgraded if necessary”

“OK; two other things. I want you to clear my carrying a pistol with the PSP. I gather their licensing arrangements allow for that. I could use either a military USP or SIG.”

“I’ll ask Witness Protection to look into that. Who’s the PSP?”

“The police service that looks after guns out there, and polices Lisbon.”

“You’re well informed. What else?”

I didn’t tell her that I’d looked all this up before the attack outside my apartment block, thinking that I might have to move out to Lisbon at my own expense. I moved on to my final point:

“Do you send one of yours out as a liaison with the PSP, just to set this up?”

“Probably; it’s not my area. Again, one for Witness Protection. Why?”

“This might seem silly, but I know Jacinta now, and she knows Jesse. I’d feel more comfortable with her around than a stranger.”

I looked over at Jacinta; she nodded, almost imperceptibly. The DI responded:

“She’s not my division. You just happened to live in the area her division covers. And I don’t know what the attitude of the Witness Protection people will be.”

“I’ll mention it to my Chief Super; will you recommend it?”

Jacinta was looking forward to a week in the sun. The DI looked at her and nodded:

“OK. Seeing as you two get on so well, can you bring her, him, sorry, Jesse, to the temporary safe house? DS White can give you the details; he was going to do it.”

Jacinta nodded.

The DI stood up to leave, then stopped and looked at me.

“You did well to get away; stay safe!”

She headed out the door followed by DS White. Jacinta looked at the piece of paper that the DS had just given her.

“OK; we’d better get going. We’ve got to get across town.”

She went to open the door.

“Not yet; you’re forgetting something.”

“Like what?”

“I’m your prisoner, remember?”

She took her handcuffs out of her shoulder bag, and used her best American cop drama accent:

“Turn around; hands behind your back. You know the drill.”

I turned around and she handcuffed me. When she had the cuffs on she caught my hair, gently pulled my head back to her and whispered in my ear.

“OK girl! No trouble from you and we’ll get along just fine!”

We walked out to the car, Jacinta keeping a loose hold on my right arm. She opened the back door:

“OK, sit in on the seat, then swing your legs in.”

Being a good girl, I did as I was told. Naturally, twisting around into a car pulled my skirt up; she leaned in, caught the hem, and tugged it into place.

“I’ll climb in the far side and take your handcuffs off.”

She closed the door, walked around the back of the car, got in:

“OK, like before, lean forward, head on the seat back in front. Keep your hands where they are until we’re clear of the station.”

She took off the handcuffs and I leaned back while she made a bit of a show of pulling my seatbelt on in case anyone was looking. She returned my pistol to my bag and left the bag beside me.

“OK, don’t say that I knew you had the pistol if the Witness Protection people find it. That would really screw up my chances of going out to Lisbon with you, if that’s where you’re going!”

“No problem, I’ve had it with me all the time.”

She patted me on the leg, just above my knee, sat in the front and drove off. Once clear of Independence Street I took my hands from their pretend handcuffed position, checked the pistol, and pulled the bag alongside me where it would be ready to hand.

“What about my shotgun?”

Jacinta laughed.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to sneak that in.”

“Maybe I could hide it in my bra? No, seriously, I need to return it to my father.”

“I’ll arrange that; I can courier it.”

I hadn’t thought of that, but then dealers regularly courier guns and ammunition around the country.

“Where are we going?”

“Fox’s Grange; there’s a house there that was seized by Revenue as the proceeds of crime. It’s used as a temporary refuge apparently.”

She turned down a bus-only street and continued on oblivious to the furious honking of an irate bus driver.

“Do you try to irritate bus drivers on purpose?”

“If we’re being followed, they can hardly continue down this street; too obvious.”

I looked back, no car behind. It was an interesting ploy, but not one that I could emulate unless very hard pressed.

She drove quickly, dodging in and out of bus lanes, and we were in Fox’s Grange in no time. This was an upmarket area, one of the best in town, and many of the houses were quite secluded behind high, often ivy-covered walls. Eventually we turned onto a gateway and a high gate swung open. We drove into the driveway and were confronted by a second gate, not visible from the road, and waited there, in a kind of lock, until the outer gate had swung closed. I expected the inner gate to open but instead a policeman in casual jeans and shirt came through a side gate and approached the car. He spoke to Jacinta, looked at me, and reverted to her.

“We were told to expect you and a male protectee.”

“I know; she actually is a male; Jos McNamara. Ring DI Jones or DS White if you don’t believe me.”

The constable went back through the side gate leaving us sitting there. He was back in about ten minutes, approached the car, took a long look at me:

“Nice one! OK, come on in.”

He gave a wave up to a security camera and the inner gate opened. Jacinta drove in and pulled up at the front door. We both got out of the car and a middle-aged man, wearing brown cords and a slightly shabby tailored jacket emerged. He walked over to us and held out his hand:

“DS Smyth; I’m responsible for looking after you today.”

We shook hands.

“Jos, I mean Jesse, McNamara”.

“Detective Beirne, Woodview Station”

I hadn’t known Jacinta’s full name before now.

The DS brought us both inside. Surprisingly, we were met by a housekeeper, a middle aged woman, who asked of we would like to have some toasted sandwiches for lunch, which we gratefully accepted. When she had left the room, and sensing my curiosity, DS Smyth forestalled my nascent question:

“She has as high a security clearance as I have. We decided after the first few months that either we get a housekeeper, or the place will fall apart. You know what police are like when it comes to looking after their stations.”

The last statement was addressed to Jacinta; she nodded.

We got down to arrangements. Jacinta would collect a list of all that I would need from my apartment and arrange to collect it and bring it to Fox’s Grange. Essentially, this was all Jesse’s stuff, apart from what I needed to work. DS Smyth would inform his Superintendent of my preferred location; he didn’t foresee any problems with this. He would set to work in the meantime to get me a passport, driving licence, social insurance number and European Health Insurance Card in the name of Jesse Winston. In order to pass through the airport without too many problems, I would need a gender recognition certificate. I would also need to set up a bank account in Jesse’s name and transfer funds, not directly, but through a police account in order not to leave a track from Jos to Jesse. There was quite a bit to do. I would be meeting the Witness Protection Superintendent in the morning in order to formally agree the details of my protection programme.

Lunch over Jacinta headed off and DS Smyth and I continued to discuss arrangements for an hour or so before the housekeeper returned to show me to my room. This was on the upper floor, a large well-lit suite with a dayroom, a bedroom and an en-suite. It was mostly self-contained with even a small kitchenette and not visible from outside the property except by drone. Of course this meant that, other than the house garden, there was no view from the windows either. The housekeeper explained that meals were served in a downstairs dining room at 9am, 1pm and 6pm. This was a pleasant surprise; meals cooked and served to me. Very Downton Abbey!

It turned out that I was the only “guest”. That suited as I didn’t want anyone not connected with the case to know that I was going undercover as Jesse. It wouldn’t be very difficult for someone to put two and two together based on the timing of my disappearance from my apartment. I had dinner with the DS and one of the police guards; apparently the “control room” was constantly manned so whoever was on had to eat there. They were both curious about me; was this just a good disguise, or was I really trans. It was a bit tiresome, as I did not have a clear answer, and, of course, they thought that I didn’t want to answer the question. Maybe, in a way, they were right?

Jacinta turned up after dinner with a carload of Jesse’s stuff as we were having a coffee after dinner. She stuck her head into the dining room.

“Well, come on. You don’t think I’m going to carry all this myself!”

I went out to her car and grabbed an armful of bags, including the bag that I’d left at the hospital, and trudged up the stairs. She brought some more and followed me into my room.

“Your wardrobe needs a makeover!”

“I don’t disagree; but I’m hardly in a position to go shopping now, am I?”

She had a look around the suite, almost the size of a small apartment.

“Nice place.”

“Yes, not bad; I suspect I’ll be fed up of it by the time I get away. In a way, it’s more like a comfortable prison. And it’s lonely; I don’t suppose that you can arrange some conjugal visits for me?”

“Sorry; not unless you fancy some of the lads downstairs.”

“Not my type I’m afraid.”

“We never finished that conversation, remember?”

I nodded. Our conversation in the car was only this morning, but it seemed much longer ago.

“So what is your type?”

“Girls, particularly blond policewomen who like to handcuff me.”

“It was you who reminded me to do it the second time, remember?”

“Only keeping our cover story intact”.

“Of course; what else!”

“And you, what’s your type?”

“Girls, same as yours, except I’m the boss!”

“Naturally, I wouldn’t have expected it to be anything else. Like you said, if I’m a good girl, we’ll get along just fine!”

She grinned and then got serious. We both knew that our banter could not progress beyond that in the current circumstance with three of her colleagues in the house.

“I’ve asked if I could be released to Witness Protection for this assignment. My Superintendent is willing if a formal request is made. You’ll have to raise it this end.”

“I’m going to ask the Superintendent tomorrow. Will you be around for that?”

She shook her head.

“No; unless you can get me drafted in, I’m out of this from now”.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Remember, you’ve a lot of power in this situation, more than the Super would like to admit. The last thing she wants is this programme attracting any negative press so you can push her a bit. I’d better go now, before they decide that we’re too friendly!”

“But they know that you’re gay and that I’m male; how could they think that we’d be getting too friendly?”

“They don’t all know I’m gay, and anyway, look in the mirror!”

I did; and got her point.

“Don’t come downstairs with me.”

I nodded. She turned towards the door, then turned back, put her hand around my neck and kissed my forehead.

“Even if I don’t get back on this job, I’m glad I’ve met you. Stay safe.”

“Me too.”

She was gone before I could return the kiss.

I started to unpack and file my clothes away in the built in wardrobes and bathroom cabinet; there was more than enough room. I did find my bottle of Glenmorangie which I left in the locker beside the bed. I wasn’t sure if it was approved to have on site and didn’t want to get Jacinta into trouble. I finished my unpacking, set up my laptop and iPad, checked my emails, answered any that were urgent and decided to leave any further work until after I met the Superintendent tomorrow. I would need to extricate from any current jobs in good grace as I might need to rely on these for future work or references. Work sorted I texted Janet and my parents, both getting the same message:

Safe; in hiding with police escort. Will contact again when I know what’s happening.

That done, I went downstairs to the sitting room where I found the DS and one of his team doomscrolling and told them that I was turning in. I hoped that they would get the Do Not Disturb hint. That done, off to bed with three fingers of Glenmorangie, fell asleep watching Endeavour, a somewhat cerebral cop drama, feeling both safe and confined at the same time.

There was a new DS and team on the next morning when I met the Superintendent: The DS sat in on the meeting. The Super was old school, in her fifties, probably nearing the end of her career, the type that felt that the police should be in charge. In fairness, given her age, she would have joined at a time when it was a difficult job for a woman so had probably developed a rhinoceros hide along the way. She didn’t appear to be too impressed with me either! She started off on the wrong hoof, or whatever a rhinoceros has:

“OK, I’m Superintendent Campbell. We’re checking out a placement in France, probably Paris. We hope to get you out there in about a month.”

“Have you spoken to DI Jones?”

“No.”

“Has she sent you any messages about this? Email? Memo?”

“No; not that I’ve seen.”

I said nothing, just looked at her, expectantly. She looked at me for an instance, then shuffled through her papers.

“Ah, yes, here it is.”

She read through the printout of an email, presumably sent by the DI, shook her head.

“Too late for that; we’ve the wheels in motion for France already.”

“OK, we’re done here so. Can I ask to stay for a week until I make alternative arrangements?”

“What do you mean, alternative arrangements? We’ll have this set up in a matter of weeks.”

“Don’t; I won’t be going. I’ll make my own arrangements.”

“That’s simply unacceptable. Don’t you realise the danger that you’re in?”

“Yes; and the only reason I’m still in danger and not on a slab is because of my own actions and a lot of good luck.”

The DS was smirking at the Superintendent’s discomfort. I hoped she wouldn’t see him; that would get her back up even more.

“You can’t expect to be able to look after yourself in the longer term; it’s just too risky”.

“I will ask the Army to recall me to active service. If I move into an Officer’s mess on base I’ll be quite safe there, I’m sure I can work out something in relation to off-base security.”

I knew that the police, like many public servants, were territorial to an absurd level and would strongly oppose any involvement by the military on their turf.

“You can hardly go on active service dressed like that.”

This statement was accompanied by something resembling a sneer.

“Oh, I’m not so sure; the military has joined the 21st Century. And if they had a problem, I could revert to being Jos on base.”

Another dig at her barely concealed transphobia.

She picked up the email printout from DI Jones and pretended to read it again. I decided to nail my conditions down before she thought of proposing a part compromise.

“I mentioned to DI Jones that Lisbon works as it’s full of digital nomads and I can disappear there. The PSP will allow the carrying of a personal firearm for self-protection in rare circumstances; this fits the bill, particularly if you formally request it. And finally, I asked to be accompanied by Detective Beirne as I know her, trust her, and together we can appear to be friends going on a holiday.

At the end of the day, it’s my life on the line here.”

She looked from the memo to me, then back at the memo, and finally put it down.

“OK; we’ll check if we can locate you in Lisbon and whether the PSG will authorise a gun. Detective Beirne is in another division so I’ll have to request that she be released to us for this assignment.”

Victory; time to let her save face.

“Thanks very much Superintendent; I appreciate your help. I’ll feel better working with you than the military; it’s not really their turf. It’s PSP, by the way, Polícia de Segurança Pública, Public Security Police in English.

I’ve been told that I’ll be doing some Cyber Security work for the state while I’m hiding away; do you know who I’m to liaise with in that regard?”

“Not at the moment; I’ll have someone look into that”.

She picked up her papers and headed off without saying goodbye. In what looked like police protocol, the DS accompanied her to her car and waited until she had “locked out” then came back to the sitting room where we’d met, barely concealing his glee.

“Well, you’re some stroppy bitch!”

I shrugged and pouted:

“Well, a girl’s got to look after herself in this world!”

I texted Jacinta:

Looking good; expect request for assignment.

She sent me back a thumbs up.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind.

I was given a security clearance and contact points in both the military and the police Cyber Security teams, both of whom wanted first call on me: I would have to manage that situation on an ongoing basis. I had to visit both and each gave me a laptop for sole use on their network; I would now be bringing three laptops to Lisbon. If I’m a digital nomad, I’ll need a digital camel to carry all my stuff! I indicated the I needed at least two weeks to untangle myself from existing contracts before I could start working for them.

I passed most of my work to Janet and, unfortunately, could not accept her invitation to rendezvous for a “goodbye shag”. I wondered how I was going to arrange this aspect of life once I got to Portugal; I wasn’t aware of any clubs that catered specifically for TV males and female admirers. Maybe there was a trans scene? Would going to a trans club blow my cover? Time to think about that later; I might be back home soon anyway.

Jacinta called by; she had been temporarily transferred and was shortly going to Portugal with a more senior and experienced colleague to arrange matters with the PSP. In the meantime, she was going to “refresh” my wardrobe and makeup kit. She took my measurements and I had to promise to repay the state for her expenditure. She couldn’t use my “Jos” credit card as this could have been a security breach (buying women’s clothes therefore in hiding as a woman) so she would use her own, reclaim her expenses from the state, and this to be deducted from my fees for state work.

She returned mid-morning the next day, unusually wearing a dress herself, with an array of bags, most thankfully from normal, middle of the road, high street shops. I was working in my suite when she barged in:

“Honey; I’m ho-oome.”

Fortunately I wasn’t on a call! Keeping with the spirit of her greeting I responded in kind:

“OK dear, I’ll have dinner ready soon. You just help yourself to a nice gin and tonic.”

“Not bloody likely; I’d love one.”

“I suppose a glass of Glenmorangie is out of the question?”

She shook her head.

“Not working; the guys might smell it! Time to get you dressed.”

She pulled a green cotton, button up dress from a bag, unfolded it.

“This first. Look, it’s all dresses and skirts. You don’t have the hips to wear jeans or trousers.”

I pulled a face:

“You got a problem with my ass?”

She caught my hips, turned me around, looked at my rear, then gave it a slap.

“No honey; you do. You’ve got to wear full skirts, A-lines, pleats, that sort of thing. No sexy tight minis I’m afraid!”

I unbuttoned my blouse and hung it on the back of my chair. I was just about to try on the dress when she stopped me.

“Hold on.”

She rummaged about in a bag, took out a box, opened it, took out two silicone breast forms, and popped them into my bra; they were cold!

“You’ve got to lead from the front”.

I looked in the mirror. The forms were a little too big for the A cup; I mimicked a shimmy.

“Think I’ll pass in a lapdancing club?”

“Not even with the lights out.” She lifted her own boobs: “Won’t feel the same.”

“Can I check?”

She smiled:

“Not right now. We’ve work to do.”

I pulled on the dress, turned my back, slipped off my skirt and buttoned the dress up. It fitted OK, just above the knee, and the half sleeves sorted one issue; my arms were generally too long for dresses with long sleeves.

“Try these.”

She was holding out a pair of sandals, practical, heels about an inch.

“This is good for casual, around town wear. We need to get your nails done later; they don’t look right.”

I worked my way through the bags; casual dresses, one LBD, some minis and tops, some dressy sandals, one pair of court shoes, pink runners and invisible socks, sports bras and running skirts. I was dreading my bill for all this. As items were tried on, inspected and approved, Jacinta was busy hanging them in my wardrobe. Eventually we got to the last bags.

“Here, try this.”

Something black and lacy came sailing through the air; I grabbed it and held it up. A bodysuit, lots of lace, suspenders.

“Hmmm; when would I be wearing this?”

“With your LBD of course!”

As it could still be returned, I left my knickers on and tried to figure out how to get into the bodysuit.

“Bra.”

I had forgotten: Funny, I felt half-naked when I took it off. I sat on the bed, slipped my legs into the body suit, got it past my hips, up to my waist and finally managed to get it on. The straps were too short; Jacinta adjusted them to their maximum length and then they fitted OK. She popped the breast forms it; the bodysuit was underwired so they stayed in place. I looked in the mirror. The suspenders were superfluous so I checked to see if they were detachable. They were; I started to remove one.

“Not yet.”

She passed me a pair of white cotton gloves.

“So you won’t snag your stockings.”

I put on the gloves. By the time that I was finished she had opened a package and extracted a pair of stockings with a nice lace trim at the top. I was well used to putting tights on; stockings were so much easier. I fastened them to the suspenders, stood up, and looked in the mirror again. I liked what I saw. Jacinta had now retrieved a pair of black, patent sandals with two inch heels from where she had already put them away in the wardrobe. I put them on, looked again, the improvement in my stance was obvious. Next, I unzipped my new LBD which had magically appeared in front of me, stepped into it, and Jacinta zipped it up. We both looked in the mirror again, she was standing right behind me, very close, looking around me. The dress came to about four inches above my knee and was very flared; I could see it fly up dancing. That would be quite a view with stockings and suspenders. I put my hands on my hips and pushed out my right hip.

“Do you like?”

“Very nice; very sexy; I could fall for you myself.”

I turned around, slowly; she didn’t back away. I put my hands on her hips.

“Why don’t you?”

She didn’t answer, just put a hand behind my head and pulled me into a long lingering kiss. Just as we surfaced for air, I was caught by the torso, pushed back, tripped and landed on the bed with Jacinta sitting on top of me holding my shoulders. She hadn’t forgotten her unarmed combat, or whatever police call it. I reached down and caught her hips to pull her into a more comfortable, and interesting, sitting position but she bent over, kissed me again, and whispered in my ear.

“Can’t afford to be caught!”

I knew she was right. She would have been taken off the case immediately and returned to her home division. She climbed off me, straightened her dress, checked her hair and lipstick and headed for the suite door, opened it and spoke loudly.

“I’ll be back after lunch to give you a makeup lesson.”

It was nearly lunchtime already. She walked down the stairs and I could hear her talking to one of the police guards. I looked in the mirror again, twirled around, watching my dress lift to give more than just a flash of the top of my stockings and suspenders. I was beginning to emulate Narcissus; time to change into something more prosaic. Reluctantly I undressed and hung up my LBD and body suit, put my stockings and shoes away, and redressed in my normal bra, blouse and mini. After a moment’s reflection, I popped the silicone breast forms into my bra: I told myself it was to get used to wearing them.

I went downstairs to find Jacinta still there; the duty DS had invited her to stay for lunch. They had agreed to take pictures of me for my new documents once Jesse had me all made up in the afternoon. Lunch was fun. The DS didn’t know Jacinta and rather fancied his chances with her. She appeared to me to alternate from amusement to mild irritation as he flirted, testing the waters. Eventually, tiring of the game, when a suitable opportunity arose, she mentioned something about her last girlfriend being into skydiving and had once brought her for a tandem jump. Fortunately the DS didn’t try to ascertain if she was bi!

Lunch over, we returned to the suite and both rolled on the bed laughing, trying not to be heard. A quick kiss and Jacinta got to work, having first asked… more like ordered… me to wear my bodysuit. She professed herself to be an amateur but did a good job, maybe a bit overdone as for a night out. All made up, I slipped into my LBD and we headed downstairs for the photos. The DS had a camera and blank background screen already set up; this wasn’t their first time taking pictures for new documents. He mainly ignored Jacinta and gave me the head to toe lookover before gesturing for me to pose in front of the screen. I couldn’t resist doing a quick, skirt-flipping turn; if he was going to undress me with a look, I might as well give him a flash. I was finding it strange that guys who knew that I wasn’t a girl would still check me out. Photos over, I decided to go back to my suite to do some work and excused myself on this basis. Jacinta was having none of it:

“Just clean off the make up and I’ll talk you through doing it yourself.”

“Yes Ma’am”.

The DS, who like all the team was aware of my facing down Superintendent Rhinoceros, looked on curiously: How come Jacinta could boss me, a stroppy bitch in their reckoning, around like this.

I went upstairs, hung up my dress, and cleaned off the makeup, first eye makeup remover, then cleanser, finally rose-water, then sat down at the vanity mirror. I rang my finger along my forehead; need to moisturise again. I had just finished this when Jacinta came back into the room, wheeled my office chair into the room and sat behind me on the left side. As I suspected, she was a demanding teacher. Eventually I got my face on, only because I decided to bite my tongue a few times: She’ll definitely be the dom. I picked up a cleanser pad and she reached out and caught my arm:

“Can I take a picture first?”

“No problem, I’ll get my dress.”

“Not yet; first like you are.”

“OK, is that a police ‘phone?”

“Yes; why?”

“If you take my picture with that, and it’s being backed up to a server or is ever checked, you could be in trouble. It’s both a bit risqué, and risky in that it might be viewed by your people as a security breach. Use my phone and I can transfer the pictures to you some time.”

I gave her the phone and posed in my lace body suit, suspenders and stockings. Enjoying the process, I did a number of coquettish poses, then slipped on the dress and repeated the process. I was rewarded with another long kiss; this time it was me who broke it off. With the DS no longer her fan, I didn’t want to give him a chance to cause her any problems. She would call by tomorrow, early, with her iPad before flying out to Lisbon and I could transfer the pictures to her by airdrop.

The same DS was still on duty when she called in at 07:30 so we could not spend too much time together. A quick transfer of the pictures, a quick kiss, and she was off to Lisbon for two weeks to make the necessary arrangements and secure accommodation. When she came back, we would expect a quick turnaround, then we’d be off to Lisbon together. I was already looking forward to that!

The next two weeks dragged…really dragged. I spent most of the time on my own as my desire and ability to interact with my guards was limited. Did I say guards? It felt more and more like a prison, comfortable, but still confining. I wasn’t even interested in trying to engage with the female police members; I must be losing my touch! Actually, it was probably more that I was fed up trying to explain my position to each individual who arrived on site. There was somewhere in the order of 12-15 police force members rotating through the job, each of whom seemed to be curious as to whether I was trans or just well disguised. They didn’t seem to be the most nuanced lot and again, like the initial security team that I’d met on arrival, couldn’t seem to take my indefinite answers at face value.

I made a point of getting up, dressed, and fully made up each day before appearing for breakfast. This was increasingly more than just practice; I was getting more and more comfortable in the role of Jesse as the two weeks passed to the point of starting to feel irritation when some of the more recalcitrant cops called me “Jos”. I fairly quickly declared myself as “available” for State Cyber Security work as my own work quickly wound down. I was surprised how quickly that happened.

I secured a P228 from the Military and some range time on a military range, but masquerading as a police force member with some of my protection detail. I was hoping that nobody would recognise me, although there was little chance of that. Apparently I needed the specific gun in order to get a licence under the tight Portugal system. I would need to return my S&W Victory, still hidden from my security detail, to my shooting range for storage when Jacinta returned.

Then came the various ID’s: Passport, Driving Licence, Bank Cards, European Health Insurance Card, Gender Identity Card. I was now Jesse legally, but still Jos: I would have to check with the state solicitor whether I would be giving evidence as Jos or Jesse. Adopting another identity brings unexpected problems, let alone changing gender. All my old documents were taken by the police who would store them pending my reversion to my old identity; they explained that this was necessary as their discovery in my possession would compromise my position. It also meant that I could not, for instance, travel to the US as I could be accused of misrepresenting my gender if I used Jesse’s passport. I would have to settle for staying in Europe for the moment.

Jacinta called and texted from time to time; she seemed to be enjoying Lisbon! She had secured accommodation by the end of the first week and my firearms permit shortly after. She seemed to be having fun; she also had scouted some venues for clubbing and some good venues for eating in the general vicinity of my new accommodation. Whereas I was now anxious to get going, I was also conscious that I was leaving my parents with them having no information of my whereabouts. And they knew nothing about Jesse. Thankfully facetiming meant nothing to them; we’d get by on voice calls. And Janet; whereas we were never an item, we had been good friends and partners of a sort since college. Now it seemed that we were to have our longest break yet.

Eventually Jacinta arrived back, landed in my room unannounced carrying a large Samsonite case:

“OK girl; get packing.”

“Now that’s some way to greet your devoted admirer, waiting patiently here for you as you swanned around Lisbon enjoying the sun, wine and women.”

She closed the door, put down the case, and came over to where I was still sitting at my work-desk. I went to get up but she put a hand on my shoulder, pushed me back into the seat, straddled me and sat down on my knees.

“I’ll have you know that I was very busy, and I only sampled the local wine and women on a purely professional level, to ensure your comfort and safety!”

She caught my head and kissed me, a nice long, tongue-probing kiss. We broke off:

“And were the local women tasty?”

“Very; you’ll find out yourself. Now, time to get to work.”

“I’ll need more than one case; you can’t expect to send a girl away indefinitely with just the single case!”

“Relax babe; I’ve another in the car. I’ll get it now.”

“When are we off?”

“Tomorrow; 13:10 flight.”

“Wow; that’s fast. I’ve stuff in Janet’s, and I need to get rid of my S&W.”

“You haven’t told Janet that you’re disappearing as Jesse?”

Her voice was a little sharp, disapproving. I shook my head.

“Good; what’s there will have to stay, otherwise she might figure it out. Gimme the pistol.”

I got the S&W Victory and unloaded the magazines. That done, I stripped down the two magazines and replaced the restrictors. Jacinta was looking at me curiously.

“Making them civvy legal; can’t have magazines holding more than five rounds.”

“I never knew that.”

“I suppose you don’t need to; the firearms licensing officers know.”

She took the pistol, magazines, and box of rounds, hid them in her bag, and disappeared. She was back in a few minutes with the second case.

“OK; I’m off now: Need to repack. And get rid of your peashooter.”

I handed her a typed address on an A4 sheet.

“Thanks; here’s the range address.”

She reached out to take the piece of paper and suddenly grabbed my wrist, twisted my arm and knocked me to the floor. She knelt down behind me, still holding my arm behind my back, reached her other arm over my shoulder and down the front of my blouse and bra, then whispered in my ear.

“You need to learn to be more careful. There’s lots of bad girls out there waiting to take advantage of sweet innocent little things like you!”

I leaned back and gave a soft stage moan, enjoying her nuzzling my ear and neck:

“Sounds like heaven!”

“See you here for breakfast at nine.”

She stood up, released my arm and helped me to my feet. A quick hug and kiss, and she was gone. I did realise one thing; I had let girls “overpower” and pin me down before. I wasn’t letting Jacinta; she was probably almost as strong as me, but also had a range of techniques to use. It probably reflected the difference in the unarmed combat I’d learned in the military, and her police training. Military unarmed combat is about how to kill or seriously injure; police learn how to restrain and pin. I was finding her ability, and willingness, to dominate to be almost erotic… actually, delete almost!

Concentrate! Concentrate! Time to pack.

I decided to pack all my laptops, power leads and a powerstrip. The local airport had recently eliminated the requirement to unpack electronics and liquids, but I didn’t know if that expended to three laptops, an iPad, charging pack and ‘phone. Anyway, it would weigh far too much. I decided to leave my toiletries until after my morning shower. I would travel in my green cotton dress and sandals; it should be warm when we landed in Lisbon. I folded almost all the rest of my clothes, packing what I could with the electronics and leaving the rest in a neat pile on a chair ready to pack on top of my toiletries. Then I realised that I did not have a weighing scales; I texted Jacinta.

Need weighing scales for Luggage. What about Jesse phone?

I had just realised that Jesse would need a separate mobile phone. The answer came back:

Will bring scales. Have to buy Jesse phone in Lisbon.

I noticed that she didn’t say who’ll pay for it! I had hoped the State might pick up the bill.

Packing organised if not exactly finished, I headed downstairs to try to be sociable before dinner. My current protection squad consisted of a DS, a female and a male constable. The DS and the policewoman, Annette, were in the sitting room when I entered.

“I hear you’re off tomorrow?”

“Yes; thanks for looking after me while I was here.”

“No problem; it was all good overtime!”

“So what happens when there’s no one here to mind?”

“Not much; the housekeepers are the only permanent staff. We use it for visiting police force members when we’re not baby-sitting a witness, but they don’t need the same security.”

“Well, glad I could make some money for you.”

“Just think of us when you’re sunning yourself in Lisbon!”

The housekeeper announced that dinner was ready so we repaired to the dining room.

“So what happens when it’s safe for you to come out of the programme?”

Annette didn’t elaborate on her question. I guessed what she meant, but decided to play dumb.

“I don’t know; I thought that you’d be telling me?”

“No, I don’t mean operationally. About this… your dress…disguise…being a woman.”

“Oh; do you mean to ask if I’m trans?”

“I guess so.”

“I don’t know; what do you think?”

“How could I know? It’s just… you do it…do it so well.”

“I suppose I should say thanks. But if I did say ‘thanks’, you’d know from my voice that I wasn’t a cis woman.”

That didn’t make sense… I was just having a bit of fun. Annette was getting red; the DS was enjoying the show.

“OK, but I suppose you can work on the voice?”

“Probably; I need to work on something between soft and husky. Voice excepted, what would you prefer me to be; trans or just disguised?”

As Annette pondered her answer, the DS chimed in:

“She’d need to give you a trial run in both modes to decide!”

Sounded good to me:

“That sounds like a plan.”

“Oh; very smart!”

Annette had tired of the sparring. The conversation moved on and the rest of the evening passed relatively smoothly. I didn’t have any work to do and didn’t fancy staring at the walls so, unusually, I stayed with them chatting for an hour or so before taking my leave at 8pm.

“See you guys in the morning; Jacinta will be here for breakfast at nine.”

“G’dnite.”

I headed upstairs, hung up my skirt and blouse, and took off my makeup. I had just dressed in a black satin nightie when there was a soft knock on the door. I opened it to find Annette leaning casually against the wall outside the door.

“You’ve got time for that trial run?”

I opened the door fully, stood back, and she stepped into my room.

“I’ll check my calendar, but what about your DS?”

“He’s happily married, and I don’t think he’s your type.”

“In that case, I think my calendar’s free.”

“I’m due to take over the cameras at ten; until then I can do close protection.”

I caught the buckle on the belt of her jeans and pulled her over to me.

“I think that just about gives us enough time for that trial run…”

**********************************************************

I was up early and had showered, dressed, packed and was fully made up by the time Jacinta arrived at 08:40. I heard her chatting to the DS and Annette for a few minutes then she came bounding up the stairs, carrying a portable luggage scale. It was a matter of only a few minutes to transfer some stuff from the heavier case so that both came in around 19.5kgs. I picked up one to carry downstairs; Jacinta picked up the other one.

“Jacinta; thanks, but I don’t expect you to carry my case.”

She put down the case, came over to me, put her hand around my waist from behind as I dropped my case, caught my hair with her other hand and pulled my head back. She seemed to like to do that.

“Just thought you might be tired after your trial runs last night!”

I reached my hands back, caught her tail, and pulled her closer.

“Just getting back into practice for tonight.”

“Oh, I’ll be much more demanding!”

She let go my hair, gave me a slap on the ass, and we carried the cases downstairs. The male PC and the DS joined Jacinta and me for breakfast; Annette’s turn to be on the cameras. As well as keeping to a schedule for this role, I had noticed that the constables alternated for every second meal. Made sense, and I wasn’t entirely displeased not to be sitting with both Annette and Jacinta at the same time. Breakfast over, I did stick my head into the security room to say goodbye.

We were dropped to the airport by the DS; Jacinta would pick up her car at the house on her return. I was surprised when the car bypassed the normal terminal entrance and drove into a small, secluded parking space. We got out, collected our cases from the boot and stepped into what I realised was a private departures and arrivals area for VIPs. We were given a small room with some lounger chairs, coffee tables and a small conference table with chairs. There was a flask of coffee, teabags and water, a drinks tray and some snacks. So this was a small taste of how the other half live; to mangle mathematics, a very small half! Unfortunately the whiskey was of indifferent quality, blends rather than single malts, so we both settled for G&T’s, but not before we’d packed our pistols into our hold luggage and checked our cases through the private luggage system. For the next few hours we would have to put our trust in Airport Security as we couldn’t access them again until we retrieved our luggage in Lisbon. It was my first time unarmed in around a month; not a nice feeling. We settled down to wait; a car would bring us directly to the steps of the aircraft about fifteen minutes before the flight.

“Did you set all that up with Annette?”

She gave a slightly mischievous grin.

“Now why would I do that?”

“OK; put it another way. When and why did she tell you?”

“Are you sure you weren’t in a police force? Military Investigations?”

“No; why?

“You seem to have a knack for questioning.”

“Nice deflection; now back to my question.”

Jacinta was still grinning; enjoying herself immensely.

“Well, she was asking me about you yesterday, so I told her that she had all night to find out for herself. I guess she did!”

“And the DS? Were you not afraid he’d report her?”

“No; he was there when I challenged her. He’s sound. Anyway, you can’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“Warned me?”

“About all those bad girls waiting to take advantage of you!”

“You little minx!”

“More leopard than minx; you’ll find out!”

I had no doubt about that.

The car arrived and we had to pass through the private security scanners before going airside and being driven to the ‘plane. Most of the passengers were already embarked and the driver stopped behind the tail of the aircraft so that we would not raise too much attention with our unorthodox arrival. We boarded and settled into our seats. Jacinta was in the aisle seat and I was stuck in the middle; I hate the middle seat. There was a middle aged man in the window seat who was doing his best to appear nonchalant as he swivelled his eyes around to check us out. I decided to ignore him for the time being at least.

He was still at it about an hour into our three hour flight; I whispered into Jacinta’s ear:

“My next door neighbour’s eyes are out on stalks.”

She nodded imperceptibly, then reached her hand over to caress my knee. Taking my cue from her, I reciprocated. Old swivel eyes beside me could hardly drag his eyes away. She glided her hand up my thigh under my dress and we kept up this play for a few minutes before both getting a fit of the giggles, which put paid to our activities.

We eventually landed in Humberto Delgado airport and deplaned via an airbridge. In order to avoid being too obvious, we were not met at the airbridge but proceeded to the passport control area. There was a massive queue of Brits; BREXIT had ended their facility to travel to and from EU countries without border controls. We headed for a door at the side of the hall where an airport employee and a lady in a business suit were waiting. We were quickly ushered through the door and Jacinta and the suit lady exchanged ceremonial air-kiss greetings when the door was closed. She was introduced to me as Isabel, an Intendente in the PSP, the Civil Police. This was the first time I’d heard this term: It was a rank just below Superintendente, logically enough. We were ushered into a side room and she took our passports, disappeared for a few minutes, then returned and gave them back, immigration formalities completed. She accompanied us as we collected our cases from the carousel, brought them back to the room and retrieved our pistols. She had indifferent English so our conversation was necessarily limited; in fairness, neither of us spoke a word of Portuguese so we could hardly complain. I was impressed by her demeanour. Despite knowing my situation, and my voice was still a giveaway even had she not, she simply dealt with me as Jesse. We spoke briefly; she confirmed that Jacinta had the numbers to call in an emergency, the location of our accommodation, and offered us a lift there. She also provided me with a resident’s card and a licence for my pistol. As a visiting member of a “friendly “ police force, Jacinta didn’t need one of these.

We were dropped off at an oldish looking apartment block in the Principe Real locality. The lift, evidently a retrofit, was too small to take more than one person and one case at a time so Jacinta went first with one of my cases, sent the lift back down and I brought the remaining case along with her small case to the top floor. One of the two doors on the landing was open so, assuming this to be my place, I went in to find Jacinta already running the tap in the kitchen to clear out any stagnant water. Relieved that I hadn’t inadvertently invaded the premises of an unsuspecting neighbour, I closed the door and took a look around at my new abode. It was much more modern than the exterior façade suggested, had reverse cycle air conditioning, essential in Lisbon, a bathroom, bedroom, living room and another room which might pass for an elf’s bedroom, more likely a storeroom. Overall the place was too small to swing a cat, even if swinging cats to test room sizes wasn’t already outlawed by the EU Directive on Cats.

“Well, how’d I do?”

Having long since learned the benefits of economy, most of all with the truth, I responded judiciously.

“Great; I love it!”

“Lisbon is expensive and we wanted to put you in town among the younger set so you’d blend in. We wanted a top floor, no easy access from the roof or adjoining balconies, and here we are.”

“What’s the neighbourhood like? I’ll have to do the grand tour soon to see what’s around.”

“All in good time. It’s an old part of the city, significant population of younger people, digital nomads like you, gays, cool.”

“Looks like I’ll fit right in!”

“I’ll show you around.”

It took all of five paces or so to inspect the apartment. Two features stood out: The front door had been replaced with a high tech security door which could probably withstand a charging bull elephant, and I had a screen view of the landing outside.

“That’s probably in breach of Data Protection legislation as the camera is hidden in your external light, so don’t let your neighbours see the screen.”

“OK.”

We moved about two paces.

“The bedroom”.

“I’d never have guessed!”

“Smart arse!”

Out of habit I pressed on the mattress on the heavy, wooden frame bed: It felt nice and firm. I didn’t have time to straighten up before I was propelled onto the bed on my face and Jacinta was sitting on top of me. She moved around a bit as she hitched up her skirt to get her legs fully down on each side.

“Now, let’s see if I can remember what I was intending to do to you once we got here.”

She remembered.

*****************************

“OK, let’s get dressed. Time for dinner.”

It was rather late by my standards, I was more an early bird diner. But when in Rome… or rather in Lisbon… follow the local customs, one of which is to dine very late. I rolled off the bed and headed for the shower. Jacinta called in after me.

“I’ll take your LBD out and hang it up for you”.

I gathered we were going somewhere nice: Not knowing the area I was content to just drift along. By the time I’d finished my shower and makeup, she had caught up with me, being much more practiced in the art of makeup. She was in a silver, seiquined, shift dress; suggesting that our night out was not going to end with dinner.

“We’ve a bit to walk, not your highest heels.”

I settled for dressy, black, kitten heeled sandals. Then I ran into a problem; with just a small dress purse, I couldn’t carry my P228. Neither could Jacinta carry her pistol. This wasn’t such a big deal as we had hardly been followed to Lisbon already, but was something that I’d have to consider in the future. For tonight, we left the two pistols in the safe and headed off on foot. This was an old part of town and I had to be very careful not to fall off my heels on the cobbled lane just outside our apartment building. It made progress very slow so she linked me. The night was warm, comfortably warm in early summer, as opposed to the real heat that I would experience in the coming months.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re booked into a restaurant in Barrio Alto, then on to Purex Club.”

“You don’t waste time!”

“Remember, unlike you, I’ve only two weeks left here. You’ve probably got a year at least until the trial of the shooter, and probably a lot longer after that.”

We dined in a very nice Indian restaurant and headed on to the club. As I suspected, it was a gay venue which seemed to be quite cosy and upmarket. At 10:30pm, we were relatively early and perched at a small table near the bar sampling the cocktails for which the venue is famous and watching the couples, almost all same sex, as they filtered in. As the place filled up, “perches” disappeared and eventually two girls, standing right beside us, asked if they could leave their drinks on our table. We started chatting, they were locals, sharing an apartment in the locality, college friends now working in the city. I thought of Janet; I guessed their circumstance was probably similar to ours. Eventually, cocktails finished, Jacinta suggested we make our way to the now-busy dance floor and we offered them our seats.

They were still there when we returned some ten or fifteen minutes later an offered to relinquish the seats to us. We declined, and we got to chatting. Like most younger college-educated denizens of Lisbon, they had good English; I would have to learn some Portuguese soon. We shared names, they were Lorena and Adelaida. Inevitably, once we got to talking, and once they felt that it would not be rude to mention it; the expected question:

“I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind me asking… your voice… are you Trans?”

This was a dilemma for a number of reasons. In the first place, I wasn’t sure. Secondly, I could hardly tell them that I was on the run from some bad guys and had just drifted into being Jesse. I tried to be as indefinite as I could:

“I guess so.”

Fortunately they didn’t seem to mind and managed to discover that I was a semi-permanent resident, and Jacinta was out for a short break and staying with me, before joining us on the dance floor. It seemed almost natural for Jacinta and I to accept their invitation back to their shared apartment and we ended up paired off with them, as opposed to each other, as we made our way, carefully, back to their place. They opened a bottle of wine and we rather flopped down in their living area on a rug and the one, two-seater couch. I’m not sure how they made their selection between us but in reasonable short order Jacinta and Lorena were paired off while Adelaida was engaging me in a manner which made it clear, should I have been in any doubt, where this was going. I had one obvious concern which I voiced when she surfaced for air following a nice, long, introductory kiss.

“Adeleida, you know I’m trans, OK?”

“Mmmmm…”

She was only half paying attention as she lifted my shoulder to get access to the zipper on the back of my dress.

“It’s just that I haven’t had any work done… I’m still fully male under the dress…”

She had the zipper down by now and was working the dress off my shoulder, showing my lacy bodysuit.

“I suppose we’ll just have to work with what we have for now.”

Jacinta and Lorena had already departed for the bedroom; Adelaida and I would have to make do with the rug on the floor!

*******************************

Jacinta and I left at first light, passing on the offer of a coffee but exchanging ‘phone numbers with our two new friends, and walked back to our apartment. It wasn’t a long walk, but every early morning delivery driver and commuter seemed to take a second look at the two of us, obviously heading home after a good night. Unlike when Janet and I had walked to the police station on Independence Street what seemed like an age ago, nobody commented even though we were walking arm in arm. Lisbon seemed more accepting and maybe a little more civilised in that respect than home.

There was a small coffee shop at the corner of the street where our apartment was located, just opening, so we stopped in for a superb coffee and an indifferent croissant. I was curious.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask; I mightn’t answer.”

“Both you and Adelaida are gay, right?”

“Stop! Hold the press! Jacinta Beirne is a Lesbian!”

“No; please, I’m being serious here.”

“OK… go ahead.”

“So, how come you’re both interested in shagging me? Am I missing something? Are you both Bi?”

“You’re very black and white; aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“Sexuality is at least 50 shades of grey. I wouldn’t describe myself as Bi… the question is really about your gender.”

“I’ve no interest in men; only girls. Remember our discussion back at home?”

“The question was about gender; not sexuality. You’re not exactly a standard male, are you?”

I didn’t know whether to be hurt, offended, or simply curious. I didn’t answer, and Jacinta continued on.

“You’re not just in disguise, are you? You are taking to being female as if it’s right for you, almost as if it’s what you are.”

She paused to let this sink in.

“You don’t have to answer me now. Assuming reincarnation exists, would you prefer to come back as a girl?”

Winter had not been pleasant. I had expected the hot Summer, then the warm Autumn, not the miserable, wet, stormy, Winter. The Azores High had decided to move South dragging down the Jet Stream and giving us the succession of winds and weather fronts from the West that is normally experienced in the climatically challenged islands anchored off the Northwest corner of Europe. Up there we know how to deal with it; our houses are better, roads are designed to carry water away quickly from the surface, our shops even carry a better range of Winter clothing. Lisbon was different and I rarely experienced such a miserable few months in my quarter-century as a living organism on the surface of the third planet from the Sun.

And I was lonely, cut off from the friends that I had built up in the latter few years of that same quarter-century. I worked hard at the language, which is renowned for being particularly difficult, but of necessity my facility was still limited after only nine months. This was no great issue with the group of friends that I met through Adelaida and Lorena; they all spoke good English, so good in fact that it inhibited my learning Portuguese. Nor was it an issue in going out as virtually all front-of -house hospitality staff also spoke English. It was a barrier at the shooting club that I joined, as was my uncertain gender. All my documentation and my presentation said female; my voice, especially when struggling in a foreign (to me) language, said male.

And the legal situation was changing. Since 2018, a medical report was not required to register a change of gender. A bill now working its way through the Portuguese legislative system would reinstate this requirement. Parallel legislation would prevent under eighteens from taking puberty blockers or legally changing their gender. Whereas probably none of this would directly impact me, it all contributed to a feeling that a backlash was in the making and I had perhaps not chosen my location well.

But my biggest problem was uncertainty. I had never answered Jacinta’s question about my gender, and the more I considered the matter, the less able I was becoming to give a coherent answer. I was still confused about the difference between sexuality and gender, but was coming to the view that my place was with Jacinta, Adelaida, Lorena and the rest of their Sapphic sisters. I was increasingly coming to feel that I was a woman, not simply acting the part, and had no desire to return to being a full-time male. One significant drawback to my current situation was that my target market for partners had dwindled to what appeared to me to be the very small number of women who were prepared to “date” a pre-op trans-woman.

Counselling and the medical profession were of limited assistance in resolving my uncertainty. The counsellor simply returned the problem to me; at the end of the day, it would be what I really wanted to do. The medics were happy enough to prescribe hormones but did warn me that this would have deleterious effects on my ability to raise the flag. Torn between two desires, I floundered and flopped around, and avoided making a decision.

Christmas was the nadir: Fortunately it is not such a big deal in Portugal as in the Anglo Saxon world and I ended up having Christmas lunch in a restaurant with Lorena and some of her friends who did not feel they would be welcomed at home, or simply preferred to spend the low-key holiday with likeminded friends. Before going out, I had a lachrymal telephone conversation with my parents & had to remind myself that, in many ways, this situation was harder on them than on me. At least lunch was good: I avoided the cod, dearly beloved by the Portuguese, settled for duck, drank too much wine, before we all retired to one of the girl’s apartments. The following day was Friday and, unbelievably for me, they were all working, so we ended up walking each other home around midnight. I ended up staying with Lorena and heading back to my apartment as she was heading off to work. I was glad that I didn’t spend the night alone.

Then Jacinta called on 29th December. This had to be important; most routine work would be deferred to the New Year.

“Hi, how are you?”

“Good, and you?”

“Good; we have a date.”

I suspected that she wasn’t telling me that we were going out to dinner or the movies.

“What date?”

“Trial date for the shooter.”

“When?”

“March, 19th. Criminal Courts.”

“So, when do you bring me home?”

“Not sure yet. In the meantime, I’m planning to come out to visit you. I’ve been moved to the Witness Protection team and we normally visit once or twice a year.”

“OK; will look forward to that. When?”

“Tomorrow; can I stay with you?”

“Of course. How come so soon?”

“Ground handling strike New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day!”

We chatted for a few more minutes and then rang off. Her sudden decision to visit didn’t seem warranted so I reckoned that either she had to make sure to visit me before the end of the year to fill some nearly neglected Department quota, or she was at a loose end and had decided to have a holiday at the expense of the State. Either way, I didn’t mind; she knew that there was only one bed in my apartment.

*************************************

Jacinta arrived at the apartment at around 5PM, looking tense, parked her wheeliebag in the corridor and flopped down on the couch: I reckoned that she had had a bad trip. We were almost a matching pair; both in denim minis, opaque blue tights, just different tops. I joined her with two glasses of Glenmorangie.

“OK; what’s the real story?”

“Other than that I wanted to see how my favourite protectee is doing? Aren’t you pleased to see me.”

“Of course I am… any time; but it’s all very sudden.”

“Well… I do have some news as well.”

“Go on, tell me.”

“Well, the case against the shooter is open and shut; we could do without your evidence.”

“It doesn’t much matter; that’s not why they’re after me. But why bring me back so? It’s very expensive if I’m not needed, not that I don’t want some time at home.”

“The Defence might call you anyway, just to cast doubt, just to get you to say that you don’t recognise the defendant. But that’s not why we want you back.”

“I’m waiting; if you don’t tell me I won’t refill that glass.”

She had already demolished most of her whiskey.

“Well, you know we’ve arrested a lot of the Kingston gang over the last year.”

“Yes; I've been following the news on that… actually with more than just a passing interest.”

“They have very few guys left who could carry out a hit, and we’ve most of them under surveillance.”

“What’s all this got to do with me? Are you telling me that it’s safe to come home?”

I refilled her glass and topped up mine. I sat down on the arm of the couch.

“No, but that’s the point. If you were at home, one of the immediate family would probably try to… eh… try to …”

“Kill me? Is that what you’re dancing around?”

She nodded.

“Because they are on the ropes, and need to try to reestablish credibility, they might try. And they would likely have to do it themselves; we’ve really thinned them out.”

“Are you seriously asking that I go back as a target so that your lot can catch them trying to get me?”

She nodded again.

“Look, it’s not my idea, way above my pay grade. You don’t have to… it’s just they thought, you being a Reserve officer and all, that you might be prepared to… eh … help.”

I said nothing for a few minutes; she knew that I was thinking and left me at it. Eventually I broke the silence:

“I might agree, but I’ll need to sleep on it.”

“Who said that I was going to let you get any sleep?”

She leaned back her head; some of the tension was gone from her face.

“You were worried how this conversation would go?”

“Yeah; ever since I heard the plan.”

“Why’d you have to tell me? Surely the genius who thought it up should have come out here him or herself.”

“Then you’d have to talk to the invisible man, or woman. Unless it’s wildly successful in which case it’ll have been the idea of at least a Chief Superintendent!”

I went around the back of the couch and started to give her a neck rub. She was a bundle of knots. After a few minutes she opened her blouse to let me get further down her back. Naturally I opened her bra…

*****************************

We woke late the next morning; we had no pressing engagements and had gotten to sleep rather late. I stayed in my nightdress as I prepared breakfast while Jacinta had her shower. Eventually we both sat down to pancakes with maple syrup, bacon and a pot of coffee. I reckoned we’d need it. Breakfast finished, we got down to business.

“How would all this work? I presume I’ll have to revert to being Jos?”

“Yes; the Kingstons have no knowledge of Jesse.”

“None that we’re aware of at least.”

“Well, we know that they have a contract on Jos, with no mention of Jesse.”

“OK, I go back home. What then?”

“We challenge them.”

“ÒK, we all line up, at the Joust and I hit the Boss with an armoured gauntlet across the face!”

“Exactly! Alternatively, as there is no joust scheduled for the next few centuries, we might simply tell the press that you’re back. We’ll explain that we’ve degraded the Kingston organisation so badly that you’re no longer in any real danger.”

“That’ll get right up their noses!”

“Either they move on you, or they’re toast. They can’t operate without the element of fear.”

“So Jos comes home, moves into his old apartment, it’s all set up with buffalo-proof doors, cameras and bullet-proof glass, and you tail him in his armoured car whenever he goes out. Won’t the Kingstons see the tail?”

Jacinta didn’t answer; she was looking at me, half smiling, half curious.

“You know you’ve talked about Jos in the third person… like he’s someone else? Are you really Jesse now?”

My turn to pause.

“I don’t know, seriously, I don’t. I’ve been living with the same question for months now… tried counselling, visited a doctor who deals with Trans. To put it crudely, I need to either pee or get off the porcelain. In fairness, you did see it coming.”

“OK, maybe we deal with the Kingston problem now, then we can talk about Jesse and Jos afterwards?”

“Suits me.”

“Right, Jos goes back to his apartment; cameras, yes; buffalo-proof door, yes; windows, no, you’re not overlooked; car, we’ve no access to that type of kit. You’ll have a bullet proof vest and close protection at all times.”

“Close protection will be obvious!?”

“Not if it’s your new partner.”

“Partner? Girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

I was hoping that this question was superfluous. She looked a bit nervous.

“You OK with me doing that?”

“What do you think! Of course I’m more than happy with that. But won’t you be known to the Kingstons?”

“Not really. Before you turned up they had no profile in my division area; more Inner and North City types. They are no more likely to know me than any other detective in the force. Most importantly, no pictures of me were published after the car park incident.”

“Internal leaks? Your colleagues will recognise you.”

“We’re putting about a casual story internally that you and I hooked up when you were in protection, and I’ve now left the force under a bit of a cloud and am working with you in cybersecurity.”

“At least it has the virtue of being partially true. Why you? I thought that they would have tried to pass this to Armed Response.”

Jacinta laughed.

“Well, they had to try to persuade you to cooperate, and given that you’d demanded that I be involved in your Protection arrangements, they figured that I was best placed for the job. I was even sent on a close protection course.”

I poured some fresh coffee; if I keep drinking it at this rate I won’t sleep for a week.

“If I’m officially back, I will have to visit my family. Would that put them in danger?”

“Same as before, there’s no track record of these guys going after family members, partners, friends. They have occasionally mistaken friends for accomplices, but that’s hardly likely to apply to you.”

“Two more questions: First, what happens if they simply ignore me?”

“Well, that’ll prove the case in relation to it’s being safe for you to return. If there’s no hit, it’s probably only a matter of time until they either leave the country or get hit themselves.”

That sounded eminently logical; I had probably foreseen the answer.

“Last question for now; what happens if they try and fail? How can you be sure that you’ll have enough evidence to put them away?

“I don’t know; I’m not included at that level.”

Again, I had expected this, but was not prepared to live with that situation if I was to play ball. Time to take a break:It’s good to refresh the mind when grappling with problems.

“Fancy a walk? There’s a nice walk along the river close by.”

“I will need to get back to the Superintendent sometime.”

“Tell him or her that I’m very nervous and thinking about it. I’ll have a lot of conditions if I do agree.”

“It’s a he; I’ll call him while you’re getting ready.”

I was still in my nightdress, the same black satin nightie that I’d been wearing when Annette called to my room back in the safe house.

“Just add that you were working on me most of the night and that you’ll send him the overtime bill!”

“I’ll wait until I’ve it all consolidated; should be a good paycheque!”

I slipped off for my shower. Shaving was getting easier as I had managed to work an almost weekly electrolysis session into my routine. This hadn’t been easy as I had to attend each session with two days beard growth which required my remaining in purdah for the two days and sneaking out of my apartment re-disguised as a male. It was worth it, whatever my eventual decision would be. This time I shaved carefully, showered, and spent some time over my makeup. Besides feeling good when well turned out, I was also conscious of maintaining an illusion when with Jacinta. Eventually, all made up, I opted for a tan tunic-dress worn over a green blouse, opaque tights and brown, kitten-heeled, ankle-boots. This height heel worked well for me, not so high as to make me too tall, not so low as to leave me flat-footed. The day was warm enough; in case it rained I put my lightweight waterproof jacket into a small rucksack along with a bottle of water, my phone and wallet, and carried my SIG in a small Delsey bag worn across my right shoulder. Jacinta didn’t have much gear with her so came in her denim mini and her normal shoulder bag.

It didn’t take us long to reach the river and stroll along on our outbound leg. We knew that we could not talk business out-and-about like we were and there was an elephant walking with us that needed some attention. Jacinta broke the ice asking for news of her friends:

“Any word from Lorena and Adelaida?”

“I see them from time to time; actually spent Christmas day with Lorena and some of her friends.”

She didn’t ask where I had stayed that night, not that that would be a problem.

“And is Jos ever around?”

“Only when I sneak him out to go to electrolysis.”

“Electrolysis?”

“Yes; I’m getting rid of my beard. Takes forever”

“Painful?”

“A bit.”

We strode along in silence for a while longer. Unusually for this winter, the weather was warm and calm; Lisbon at its best.

“Will you miss Jesse when you go back?”

“I’ll bring her with me, or maybe Jesse will go home disguised as Jos.”

“Are you really Jesse now?”

“I think so, but it would be very difficult to be her full-time back home.”

“What’s the most difficult part?”

“Parents; I’m their only child. They would be so disappointed, both with me and for their no-longer-possible grandchildren.”

“You know the grandchildren issue can be gotten around?”

“Technically, yes. But there’s also the issue of needing a woman to make it all happen!”

“A female partner perhaps?”

“Maybe; all very theoretical at the moment.”

We walked along, closely, like partners or lovers. A light breeze was blowing along the river, some small clouds floating overhead.

“Beside the parents, what other problems would Jesse have?”

“Besides the usual prejudices you mean?”

“It’s not really an issue now for us LGBTQIABCXYZ folks; it’s not like twenty years ago.”

“Probably right for everyone except Trans folks.”

“Gender recognition is simple enough now.”

“Legally, yes. But look what’s happening here. There is a new requirement for medical confirmation for instance. There could be a backlash at home yet. And there’s a part of the feminist movement that’s completely anti-trans. But that’s not my main issue.”

“OK, tell me… or maybe I can guess.”

“Go on so, guess.”

“You like girls, not like the macho types, building up a body count. You like to hang out with girls, be with girls, sleep with girls. Have you any really close male friends?”

“Not really.”

“Female?”

“Yes.”

“Can I diagnose you?”

“Yes; but I think I know the answer.”

“Lesbian?”

“Exactly!”

“Just in case you hadn’t noticed, girls can have a lot of fun with girls. You don’t need to hang on to it.”

We walked on for a while and passed a small café that I liked.

“Fancy a hot chocolate or something? If I’ve any more coffee I’ll be wired.”

We got two chocolate quente sem natas (hot chocolate without cream) and sat outside watching the world go by. Actually there was not a lot of walkers around. Two men, tourists not locals, sat down outside the café as well so we couldn’t really discuss anything serious. We made some small-talk as we enjoyed our hot chocolate, then, quite out of the blue, Jacinta leaned over and gave me a deep kiss. As she was surfacing she whispered into my ear:

“Those two guys keep starting at us; hopefully they won’t feel the need to try to chat up two lesbians!”

I had my back to them and couldn’t turn around to check them out. We stayed for another few minutes then got up to resume our walk.

“Did we put them off?”

“Nope; stayed focussed on us all the time. Creeps!”

I leaned on her shoulder and pretended to adjust my boot, taking the opportunity to glance behind.

“Even creepier; they’re following us.”

We walked along, checking billboards and posters, pretending to take pictures, all to give us a chance to keep track of our pursuers. They weren’t getting closer, just maintaining their distance.

“What the f*** are they up to? I made sure I wasn’t followed from the airport to your place.”

“Nobody would have known to follow you from the airport anyway; you’re not associated with my case and only your lot would have known that you were coming here.”

“Maybe they’re just creeps.”

“Will we check? I could call the PSP.”

I had an emergency number to call as part of the Protection arrangement.

“Let’s check first; this way.”

Jacinta turned suddenly away from the river and started to walk towards the city; I followed suit. We checked behind us; nobody following.

“Are we getting paranoid?”

She thought for a moment about my question:

“Maybe a little bit of paranoia will come in useful when we get back home.”

We made our way back to the river walk and retraced our way back towards my apartment. When we turned into the city again we doubled back twice in the streets to ensure we weren’t being followed and finally returned to the apartment. Breakfast had been rather late and long so we decided to skip lunch and go out early for dinner. As it was New Year’s Eve, most places would be fully booked, but I was relying on the Portuguese habit of eating late and getting in before the main rush. Eventually I got a place on the strict understanding that we would have vacated the table by 7:30pm.

I texted Adelaida and Lorena,

Jacinta in town for a few days if it suits to meet up

Then we got back down to business.

“OK; here’s what you tell your Superintendent. I’ll do it on the following conditions: First; we’re both to be brought into the intelligence loop. I’m not going to be the bait unless I know whether it’s a wolf or a hyena that’s after me. You need the same information to do your job as well.”

“OK; they won’t like that but we’ll see.”

In reality I actually expected the police to lie about this point and assure me that we would get all the information, but only give as little as they thought that they would get away with.

“Secondly, I want to be activated in the military. It gets around the issue of my being armed, gives me a salary, and means a payout for my family if this goes pear-shaped. I know the military will have no issue with this.”

“OK.”

“Thirdly, I will start to rebuild my client base, so I will only do half-time working for the state in return for my military salary. It’s not a great deal for me but I’ll see how it goes.”

As an IT contractor serving private sector clients I had been earning at least three times a Lieutenant’s salary, but the military and police experience would pay dividends when normal business fully resumed and I wanted to stay current in this area.

“And finally, we need to develop an understanding on how long the close protection arrangement is retained and what the criteria are for termination.”

“How about until I get fed up living with you?”

“Hmm, that could work either way!”

A text had come in from Adelaida:

How about dinner and a club tomorrow night?

I showed the text to Jacinta before replying with a thumbs up; we could work out the details later.

“Are you going to contact your Superintendent?”

“At this time on New Year’s Eve?”

“Sorry; forgot the day.”

“You did notice the fireworks display being prepared at Praça do Comércio? We did walk right past it!”

I could only shake my head; truth was I was a bit distracted. Maybe more than a bit; was I mad agreeing to be the bait in an operation which could prove to be dangerous, possibly fatal?

The restaurant was nearby which was fortunate as we would be coming back to the apartment for a few hours before making our way back to the river for the fireworks display. I opted for steak, Portuguese style, Jacinta had slow-cooked lamb. She made the better choice. We had a bottle of Ribera del Duero; good wine is very reasonably priced in Portugal and we reckoned the more of it we drank, the more we saved. As usual we skipped dessert and were comfortably finished by 7:30. Back in our apartment by 7:45pm, we had some time to kill before heading back out at 10:30pm for the fireworks. Jacinta decided to pass the time by showing me some of her skills in detaining and restraining suspects, telling me that my repertoire of neck jabs, eye pokes, groin kicking and shin-scraping didn’t meet the police definition of minimum force.

We almost missed the official fireworks.

“Looks like your neighbour got lucky last night.”

It was 5:30am and Jacinta was sitting at the dining table scrolling through last night’s video recordings from the CCTV, one of her daily jobs; she paused the video to take a look.

“Hmmm; and she’s hot.”

“Let me see.”

I fount this hard to believe.  Whereas Tom was a nice guy, and very bright, he was not exactly a babe magnet.  Shy and awkward around women, he rarely seemed to bring one back to his apartment.

“OK, but don’t start getting any ideas!”

“Nor you!”

Jacinta was right, the girl was hot, if a bit tarty.  A standard bottled blond, she was pushing the limits at the upper and lower end of her scant apparel.  Maybe she was an escort or a working girl?  I turned to Jacinta:

“Can you have her checked out?”

“I would anyway, we check out most of the new faces we see in the block, and this one is on our floor.  Why, are you concerned?”

“I’ve never seen Tom pull someone like that; it’s just not him.”

She took some stills from the video and emailed them to whoever looks up strange hot blonds in the police establishment.

“Fancy some porridge?”

I had just gotten up and needed to eat something before settling down to work.  I had adapted my day to match her habits developed over some years of working from a police station; a light breakfast and an early lunch, or brunch, whatever one wants to call it.

“As long as you promise not to dress; I like you in that nightdress.”

I was wearing a blue, slip-type nightdress, short, with a small slit and lace trim.  Jacinta hadn’t dressed yet either.  I measures the oatmeal into a pyrex jug, added light milk and popped it into the microwave while I got some bowls, spoons and honey ready.  The microwave pinged just as I had the water and coffee added into the coffee maker; I stirred the porridge and put it back in for round two.  I’d have to watch it this time; it had a habit of expanding out of the jug if I wasn’t careful.

Porridge eaten, we sat on the couch with our coffee and iPads to plan the week.  Now that we were settled into a routine, this was useful both for us and it also enabled the police to plan back-up surveillance if resources were available when we were going out.  This was only guaranteed for our four gym nights in the week.  These were done, deliberately, as a matter of routine.  The Kingstons, or anyone interested in delivering on the contract, could identify this routine relatively easily and would hopefully walk into a trap if they made a move to take advantage of this apparent breach of security.  Jacinta and I had solved the problem of bring our pistols into the gym by each carrying a small draw string, duffle-type bag, which apparently carried our water, weights gloves, mobile ‘phones, etc.

Client meetings were relatively rare and were always carried out late morning, or early afternoon.  This was both to ensure that we were not driving in heavy traffic and it suited our domestic routine.  Jacinta attended as my “apprentice”, a former public servant who had changed career and was now starting a new career in cyber security.  It suited her personally as well; she seemed to enjoy working with me on my private business but, ironically, did not have security clearance to help me on my military projects!

This week would be straightforward enough; two client meetings and one visit to the Military Cyber Security establishment.  Then domestic issues:

“Shopping Thursday, 12pm?”

What I’d just proposed was almost becoming another routine.  Jacinta shook her head:

“Can’t be guaranteed cover, and we’ve done that the last two Thursdays.”

“Can’t we just change location?  Go to a different shopping centre?”

“No; we might be followed.  If they’ve picked up the routine, they might opt to tail us there and get us a traffic lights.  That’s what I’d do.”

“Jacinta?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not tempted to try and deliver on the contract yourself?”

“I’ve thought about it; money’s not bad.”

She rolled on top of me on the couch and we got into a very pleasurable wrestling match.  Later on, lying together in bed, I whispered in her ear…

“We never finished planning the week!”

“After we shower.”

When we sat down again, with fresh coffees, I picked up my iPad and opened the calendar.

“I need to visit my parents soon.”

“This weekend OK?”

“Yeah, we could go to the range and continue on from there.  Do another practice on the way back?”

One of our allowable expenditures was training ammunition, not an inconsiderable benefit when it was possible to expend a few hundred rounds each over two days.  This was OK for 0.22LR ammunition, the 9mm for our SIG’s was very expensive.

“OK; I’ll be on show!  Will I get the thumbs up?”

We had joked about the reception Jacinta would receive.  My mother tended to see each girl that I’d brought to visit them as a potential daughter-in-law.

“Hmmmm, not sure.  Once a copper, always a copper….”

“If they ever find out that you actually brought a serving policewoman into their house, you’re probably toast!”

“Well, you know us country folks; a still in every barn.”

Our week was now full, and we still hadn’t bought food.  We settled on a stop on our way back from a client meeting on Wednesday.  We would eat out that evening and not drive back home until after the rush hour.

We had pretty much finished our shopping on Wednesday evening and were packing the boot of Jacinta’s car when her ‘phone rang.  She left me to finish and took the call.  I finished packing the groceries away and waited for her.

“From Europol, Russian, mob connections, arrived in the country last week.”

She didn’t need to explain that she was talking about Tom’s new girlfriend.  She had featured on our cameras  for three nights in a row now.  I felt really sorry for him:

“Ah!  And he thinks she likes him. Poor Tom.”

“F*** Tom; if she’s looking to collect on the contract she’s already got access to our floor.”

“I presume she’s looking after the f***ing piece so we needn’t worry about that.”

“Don’t be such a bloody smartarse; this isn’t funny.”

“No; but now that we know what she might be up to, it could be useful.  We know, but she doesn’t know we know.  We need to talk to your Department of Funny Tricks.”

“Bugs?”

“Yes; both ways.  Can your guys detect a bug placed against the adjoining wall of our apartment?”

“Don’t know; will have to ask them.”

“Actually, if she is bugging us, she already knows that we’re suspicious of her.  If she sticks around, it probably means that she hasn’t overheard us, yet!  Probably no point in bugging Tom’s place; she’ll hardly discuss her business with him!”

Jacinta demurred.

“No; but if she’s there when he’s out, we might want to listen to her ‘phone calls.”

“Just as long as we don’t have to listen to them making out.  Can you set up a meeting with your team?”

“And this started off as an easy week!”

“Let’s go eat.”

********************************************
The technical people had our apartment swept by Thursday afternoon, and a funny funnel-shaped apparatus installed in the back of one of our kitchen presses, the wide end pressed against the wall separating our apartment from Tom’s.  They could not guarantee that there wasn’t a similar arrangement on the other side of the wall, but thought it unlikely; Tom would notice it!  We should not hold any sensitive conversations in the living area as this was where the two apartments shared a common wall.  It did mean that we had to spend more time in the bedroom.

Friday passed uneventfully and Saturday morning rolled around.  Instead of just rolling around in the bed for a while, we had to roll out to get a slot at the range.  I had to remove my earrings and hope that my parents would not notice the piercings under my hair; it also helped to ensure my ear defenders didn’t hurt.  I also removed even the clear nail varnish from my nails; that would cause greater consternation than the earrings if detected.  Jacinta was amused:

“Hope I don’t call you Jesse by mistake!”

“You do than and I’ll spank you!”

“Sounds nice; dare you try though!”

I filed that one in my mind for later.  Eventually, fully de-feminised, on the outside at least, we headed off with the boot full of pistols, ammunition, overnight cases, ear defenders, safety glasses, wellington boots, and probably a kitchen sink if we searched hard enough.

This was my first reappearance at the range in around nine months, so I was greeted effusively by the owners and my fellow shooters but eventually we managed to take our place on the shooting line.  Our Walker PPKs, mine secured immediately on returning from Lisbon, caused great hilarity with us being called James and Jill Bond, until we started to shoot them.  The accuracy was spectacular considering that the barrels were only about three inches long.  As Jacinta/Jill remarked to one of the leading jokers:

“It’s not the length; it’s how you use it!”,

to which a woman further down the line remarked,

“Not sure about that, Honey!”

Further ribaldry ensued, quickly silenced when we swapped our Walters for our SIGs; centrefire pistol licences are as rare as hens’ teeth.  This time all the slagging was about the excess sound of our “cannons”.

Eventually we left the line, cleaned our pistols, reloaded them and tucked the SIGs away in our shoulder holsters.  We replaced our ammo; we didn’t want to have excess direct contact with the police just to replace ammo.

There was occasional police surveillance of our apartment which would continue in our absence. Having informed Supt. Smyth-With-a-Y where we would be overnighting, and as countryside camouflage is way outside the skill set of police forces, he had reluctantly agreed to my suggestion that the military provide surveillance using the personnel currently on a Sniper training course. Besides providing security, it served as a live exercise and the personnel involved would receive a security duty allowance.  We agreed that we would keep an active lookout and, if we spotted any of the surveillance team, we were to provide feedback. We also did some standard anti-pursuit stuff on the way to my parents’ farm; it would be better if they were not associated directly with me, although the relationship was easy to discover on open sources.

We pulled into the farmyard to receive the usual enthusiastic greeting from the dogs.  Well, I did at least; I had to go around to the driver’s door to ensure Jacinta didn’t receive more than a friendly lick.  I introduced the dogs to her and they took my word that she was not on the menu.  Grumpy dogs were essential: In an otherwise idyllic location, the very remoteness left the farm vulnerable to machinery theft. It would be fun if someone tried their luck tonight!

Dogs sorted, my normally undemonstrative parents had arrived out to greet us.  They both hugged me and, somewhat unsure, shook hands with Jacinta.  Even in jeans, boots, a polo neck jumper and a sheepskin coat, she looked great.  As we were coming, lunch, normally taken around 1pm, had been deferred until our arrival so we left our gear in the car, washed up before dropping our coats in the guest bedroom with our SIGs and slipped our Walter’s into our jeans under our shirts.

Conversation was a bit difficult at first. As well as this being my return from nine months of absence, and with a background of past and possible future danger, there was also the presence of my “new girlfriend.” They understood that I couldn’t divulge where I had been in hiding on the basis that others might use the same place: I didn’t tell them that I might have to use it myself. Things picked up after dinner when Jacinta asked if she could see the farm, truthfully saying that she had never been around one before. There wasn’t much happening as calving and milking had yet to start, but my father was delighted to bring her around while I helped my mother clear up after dinner.

“You’ve known her a while so?

Maybe I should have gone on the farm tour; the interrogation had started.

“From soon after the trouble started; she was my contact point both before and after I went away.”

“She must have visited you out there so?”

“Yes, quite a bit. That’s how we started dating.”

“And you say she’s left the police now. Why did she do that?”

“They didn’t approve of her seeing someone she was protecting.”

“It must be serious so; her giving up her job for you.”

Good job Jacinta and I had foreseen this line of questioning and had agreed our story.

“She was thinking about leaving anyway, go to college and get into IT work.”

“Handy so you can give her some experience.”

I was tempted to remark that we were giving each other experiences, but thought that would not be appreciated. We tidied up and I got our bags from the car. On the pretext of having a look around the land I walked around the outside of the farmyard, trying to spot our surveillance; I couldn’t, even though I had a good idea of where I would locate myself if in the same role.

Things became more relaxed as the evening progressed; my father and Jacinta appeared to have gotten on well. Unexpectedly two cousins called in after dark, having heard that I would be there and not having seen me for almost a year. Jacinta slipped out to text our surveillance that these were “friendlies” and we ended up having a game of one-hundred-and-ten before they departed and we all turned in.

“Are all your family practiced in interrogation?”

It was the first time that Jacinta and I had a chance to talk since her farm tour.

“You’re lucky, my father is a pussycat compared to my mother!”

“You got the same?

“Of course; good job we’d sorted out our story.”

We refrained from any nocturnal exercise; somehow it wouldn’t have felt right!

The following morning, before breakfast, I volunteered to take some hay to the cattle. The grass hadn’t really started to grow yet but the ground was hard enough to let them out around the land. Feeding involved picking up a roller bale of hay on a front lifter and driving it to whatever feeder the cows had decided to wait at that morning. Jacinta hopped into the cab beside me and we trundled off carefully as the front load can cause uncomfortable pitching if driven too fast over rough ground. Two of the dogs, Satan and Lucifer, ran along beside us. The cows had decided on a nearby feeder so we had a short drive. I climbed down to break up the bale in the feeder with a pitchfork and was helping Jacinta climb down when I noticed that the dogs were on alert, hair up on the back of their necks, fixated on a small copse of hawthorn bushes on a nearby hillock. They were doing their “let me tear their legs off” low growls; any encouragement and they’d be off. We had no leads with us so all we could do was catch their collars, walk them to the copse and introduce them to our surveillance. The two lads were dreadfully embarrassed, but it was a good lesson. A good canine nose can defeat most camouflage, no matter how skilful. Hoping we hadn’t been seen we broke up the bale for the cows, strictly enjoined the dogs not to tell my parents, and Jacinta drove the tractor back to the farmyard.

We showered, and had a light breakfast of porridge and some fruit . My parents were going to church; we turned down their invitation to attend with then on the grounds that I wanted to keep a low profile. Jacinta and I offered to cleanup after breakfast and to get lunch in order to let them get away early. As soon as they were gone, I cooked up some sausages as quickly as possible, made sausage sandwiches, and brought them to our guardians with a flask of tea. Rather than break their cover again, I walked around the back of the copse, left the bag with the food on a rock and walked away, speaking softly into the air:

“Leave the flask back on the same rock; I’ll pick it up later.”

A voice from the copse, equally softly, responded:

“Thanks Sir, will do.”

By the time I was back in the kitchen Jacinta had everything cleaned up. I turned on the oven and dressed a half leg of lamb with garlic and dried rosemary, added half a bottle of white wine to the roasting tray, covered it with aluminium foil and slipped it into the oven to cook slowly over the next four hours.

“White wine with lamb?”

“I know, but it gives a lighter flavour if you’re eating early. Don’t worry, we’ll open a bottle of red for the meal!”

No time like the present. I opened a nice bottle of Douro which I had brought with me to give it time to breath. Then we set to chopping vegetables to roast later, tossed them with some Italian herb and oil and left them to marinade until we ready to put them in the oven.

“Well, how would you like living on a farm?”

I was wondering what Jacinta had thought of her experience.

“For all the good bits, being your own boss, out in the air, it’s very isolated, and likely very hard work.”

“Once milking starts, it’s unrelenting. No paid holidays, weekends, or eight hour days; that’s why I’m into computers.”

“But, not to be nosey, won’t you inherit this place?”

“I don’t think I want to.”

Church for country folk can also be a social occasion and it was almost lunchtime by the time my parents were back. Jacinta and I let them sit back with a sherry for my mother and a can of draft Guinness for my father while we finished preparing the meal, and then called them to the table. This was a much more relaxed meal; as well as having their apéritif and a glass of wine, my parents were more accustomed to Jacinta, even if she couldn’t yet tell a cow from a bull.

 I wondered if there were bulls who would have preferred to be cows!

After lunch, on a pretext of going for a walk before our drive home, I collected the flask and sneaked it back into its place following a wash. It was then time for us to push off and we departed to a chorus of “goodbyes” and “ come back soons”.

“What did you think?”

I was wondering what Jacinta thought of our weekend.

“They’re going to be upset.”

I wasn’t sure with what: Jesse turning up; Jacinta still being in the police; finding out that Jacinta and I were only in a relationship of convenience, someone taking a shot at us, all of the above? Without clarifying I responded:

“Yep, they are.”

As Jacinta was driving, I texted our surveillance team; they could pull out at their own discretion.

Being now too late for a second session on the range, we drove directly home.

********************************************

“That’s interesting; Nadya is suggesting that they invite us out.”

Jacinta had managed to pass the job of listening to our neighbours’ conversations to Supt. Smyth-With-A-Y’s team on the basis that, as we might actually meet them, she should not be in a position where she could inadvertently let slip something that she should not have known.  She received a daily update; anything urgent would be communicated immediately by ‘phone or text.

“What’s her reason, or excuse?”

“Get to know the neighbours; Tom hasn’t really met me; she hasn’t met you.”

“Did Tom agree?”

“Of course; he would agree with anything she asked.”

“What’s your team saying?  Do we accept the invitation when it comes?”

“It’s possibly, even probably, setting up the hit.”

“And still nothing from the surveillance?”

“Not a word.”

This was bad news; the police believed that the Kingstons had not discovered their surveillance, as they continued to discuss low level criminal matters. They just said nothing about me.  I wasn’t so sure; they might have discovered the surveillance and were engaged in an elaborate deception arrangement to pretend that they hadn’t.  On the other hand, this could be a Russian gang freelancing just for the reward.  It’s one of the problems with partial intelligence; you can read almost anything you want into it!  With this level of uncertainty, accepting an invitation that might be a setup seemed, on the surface, mad.  On the other hand, if there were shooters in town, would it not be better to engage them when we expected them to make an attempt as opposed to simply waiting for them to take a shot sometime, somewhere. 

Jacinta was looking at me; she knew my thinking face and waited for me to answer.

“If your people are up for it, we should accept.”

“You sure?”

“Yep; it’s too dangerous just to leave them out there looking for me.”

**********************************

The invitation arrived two days later in Tom’s usual method of communication, a note pushed under my door.  He had my ‘phone number and email address; I never understood why he choose to communicate in this way.  To try and break the habit, I responded by text.  To pick ground of our own choosing, I nominated a location and suggested that it not be on a weekend as it would be easier to get a table.  Tom responded by text after an hour or so and nominated the following Thursday, two days away.

That evening we met with the Superintendent and some of his team. We had some planning to do.

 

“She hasn’t said anything interesting on her mobile since we started listening in. Why would she try to use it at the most critical juncture in the operation?”

The Technical Sergeant had a point. Either Nadya was totally innocent of being involved in nefarious activity, or she and her compatriots were real professionals.

“Well, if I can give her sufficient reason to need to contact her friends, she might just be tempted to break the rules. And we don’t want that; we need her to bring your guys to them.”

“OK, we can block her mobile.”

Supt. Smyth leaned back in his chair.

“And just what reason are you going to give to make her need to contact the shooters?”

************************************

“Tom is going to fall over when you turn up like that.”

“As long as he doesn’t fall for me.”

“Not likely with Nadya around.”

Jacinta and I were getting ready in the safe house for our night out with Tom and Nadya. We had turned down his suggestion that we take a taxi from the apartment block with him on the basis that we would be coming from a friend’s house. Unsurprisingly, to us at least, Nadya was also travelling directly there.

Jacinta was wearing a blue dress which went really well with her blond hair. I had an almost-to-the-knee A-line green dress and a dark green jacket. As a compromise between style and functionality, we were both wearing kitten heels and our Walters were hidden in our clutch bags. Dangler earrings and discreet makeup completed the look. It was nice to be going out as Jesse again. Jacinta slipped her hand under my skirt and up along my thigh; I playfully slapped it away.

“All that’s for the celebration after.”

She did a pretend pout:

“I wonder what Nadya will wear?”

“I’d say she’ll be toned down; she won’t want to be noticed.”

The taxi driver was almost too dishevelled to be believable. About thirty, stubbled, wearing a casual jacket over torn jeans, I wouldn’t have gotten into his cab had I not known that he was one of Supt. Smyth’s team.

“Where to?” he joked in a broad Fordtown accent.

“Piss off.”

Jacinta’s nerves were showing; he changed tone immediately.

“Look, we’ll be all over the place. You’ll be OK.”

“Sorry; pre-show nerves; thanks.”

I reached over and took her hand. I was probably even more nervous, just better at hiding it.

We arrived early in order to get the best seats around the table where we could watch the room and the doors. The booking was in Jacinta’s name; had Jos made the booking we would be doing Hamlet without the prince. The place was already reasonably full of couples and foursomes; this was costing the police department a fortune as we knew that eight of the diners were Jacinta’s colleagues. They even had bottles of wine on the tables; a room full of abstainers would not look right.

We were shown to the table, deliberately chosen to allow us both to sit with our backs half against the wall and with a view of both the entrance and the kitchen door. The corridor leading to the toilets was out of our field of vision, but was covered by one of the other tables. We ordered Erdinger Zeros; pretend to get tipsy, stay real sober.

Tom arrived before Nadya and was shown to the table. Jacinta stood up and introduced herself as Jos’ girlfriend. He shook her hand and looked uncomprehendingly at me. I stood up, extended my hand;

“Hi Tom, I’m your neighbour, Jesse.”

He shook my hand and stayed standing, staring. I gestured to him to sit down; he just sat, tried to speak, failed, tried again, failed again.

“I’ll explain when Nadya gets here, otherwise I’ll have to go over it all again. Great idea to meet like this; yours or hers?”

I needed to get him talking; the poor man was still in shock.

“Her’s.”

We needed to get beyond monosyllabic.

“Where did you guys meet?”

He explained that they’d met at a club; they’d started chatting at the bar when her date had stood her up. Apparently she had had to leave Russia when some of her friends had been arrested for anti-war agitation and was looking for a role in marketing. He became animated when he talked about her; poor guy was going to get some surprise.

Nadya arrived and was shown to the table. As expected, she was toned down, in a simple black calve-length dress. Tom stood up and kissed her before introducing first Jacinta, then me…

“… and this is our neighbour…”

“For tonight, Jesse.”

I stood up and shook her proffered hand. I looked straight into her eyes and smiled; her mouth smiled in return, her eyes did not. We sat down.

“Now you’re both here, time for an explanation. Nadya, I don’t know if Tom told you that I had a run in with some bad guys? (she nodded). Well, we think that that’s all over now, but I do this as a disguise when we’re letting our hair down, just in case.”

“Why you think it all over now?”

“It’s like this Nadya, the bad guys (I lowered my voice), the Kingstons, (back to normal tone) are too broke to pay for a hit and most of their heavies are locked up.”

“How you know they no money?”

I loved her accent and slightly imperfect English; in another world Jacinta and I could have had fun with her.

“Apparently a Balkan gang offered to do the job but wanted money up front. They couldn’t deliver.”

A complete lie, of course, but she wouldn’t know that.

“You very brave. You like dress as girl?”

“Except when guys try to pick me up; Jesse is strictly lesbian.”

She looked at Jacinta.

“And you no mind?”

Jacinta smiled:

“Oh, I can be lesbian as well.”

Tom was getting red. He was rescued by the waiter arriving with menus and the usual spiel about tonight’s specials. We listened and spent a few minutes perusing the menu before resuming our conversation. This time we stayed away from our sexual preferences and quizzed Nadya a bit about her anti-war activities. She was vague, explaining that it would be dangerous for her to say too much as some of her friends had not gotten out yet.

The waiter returned and we put in our orders, both Jacinta and I opting for fish, Tom for steak and Nadya for slow-cooked lamb shank. Tom ordered a bottle of red; we explained that, as we’d been drinking already in our friends’ house, we would just have a glass of white wine each. It would be too risky to abstain fully; Tom was aware of my partiality to a good bottle and we wanted everything to look as normal as possible.

Orders in, Nadya excused herself and went to the ladies. A female diner from one of the other tables followed her in. We chatted with Tom, mainly about his work as an on-site engineer for a housing construction company. Not great at small talk, he needed to be focussed on something that genuinely interested him in order to become animated. Nadya returned from the ladies’ room, sat down and casually asked Tom:

“You have phone signal?”

He looked at his phone, shook his head. We checked ours; no signal either.

The waiter returned with the wine: I asked him about the signal.

“Apparently a network problem Ma’am, the whole locality is down.”

Unfortunately, it had been necessary to block all ‘phones: To just block Nadya would have been too obvious. I turned to Jacinta:

“How will we get our taxi back?”

“The restaurant will have a landline.”

“Yeah, but if he’s in this area, he won’t have a mobile signal either.”

“Hopefully they’ll fix it before we finish.”

Our chatter had two purposes; to appear mildly concerned about the outage and to let Nadya know, if she hadn’t already realised it, that her accomplices were also incommunicado if they were in the area. Our meals arrived and conversation slowed for a minute as we savoured the food, then Tom, more at ease now with some wine taken, broke the silence.

“Still shooting, Jos, I mean Jesse?”

“Don’t worry about the name Tom, and yes, I still shoot a bit.”

“What you shoot?”

I hadn’t expected Nadya to display an obvious interest in firearms.

“Smith & Wesson Victory mostly, I’ve tried others and might change it later this year?”

“No, I mean you shoot animals?”

Either I had genuinely misunderstood her or she had reconsidered and decided not to display any knowledge of guns.

“No, not animals, targets only. I like animals alive.”

The conversation moved on and by the time our main courses were finished Jacinta and Nadya were talking about the best hairdressers and beauty salons in Fordtown. Then Nadya caught Tom’s arm.

“Sorry Tom, must go. Expecting call, need signal. You stay. See you later in apartment?”

Tom looked surprised, but nodded. She kissed him and left quickly. Behind her back, one of the female diners reached into her handbag, fiddled around for a minute, then put it back on the floor.

We stayed for another half an hour as the place slowly emptied then, deserts finished, I looked over at our sole remaining guardian table and noticed a brown leather handbag left on the table itself. It looked incongruous, a clutch bag maybe, not a big bag like that. Time to go. We paid, Tom insisted on sharing the cost, and stood up to leave. I checked my ‘phone; signal back, so I called our driver. As we were going to the same apartment block, naturally Tom was invited to share the ride. As we were walking to the door, the male diner got up from the guardian table and approached Tom.

“Tom, isn’t it?”

Tom, taken unawares, nodded. Jacinta interjected.

“Tom, we’ll get the taxi and hold it until you come out.”

Before Tom had time to demur, the man caught his arm.

“You’re the engineer on the South Bank project? I’m with the QS team…”

We disappeared out of earshot leaving Tom to be temporarily detained by the undercover policeman, stepped out the door, turned right and walked about ten paces. There were very few people in view. A car door opened, a man stepped out and faced us, raised a revolver and fired twice. Jacinta gave a very realistic scream as I fell to the ground, then she dropped down beside me and broke a sachet of fake blood against the front of my dress. Tom and the “QS” came running out; the “QS” pulled Tom back while his “wife” said “I’m a doctor” and knelt beside me.

“Call an ambulance, quick!”

Jacinta was very convincing. The “Doctor” responded:

“No time, we’ll use that taxi.”

It’s very hard to play almost dead when being lifted into the back of the taxi; there’s a tendency to try to help but I managed to pull it off. Jacinta, apparently with blood all over her hands, was in the front while the “Doctor” was in the back with me.

“You go home; I’ll see you there”,

she shouted to her “husband” as the taxi screeched off…

Of course, as witnesses, nobody could go home.

**********************************************************

“One person has died following what police believe to have been a gangland shooting in Fordtown last night. The victim was rushed to Fordtown General Hospital but was pronounced dead on arrival. Police have not released the victim’s name for operational reasons but relatives have been informed.”

The hospital part had been the most difficult to organise as I had to lie still while I was rushed in, seen by a doctor, pronounced dead, covered over and removed immediately to the state forensic lab. Only the doctor was officially in on the ruse but I suspected that the senior casualty nurse and maybe others had also been briefed by him.

Jacinta, as would be expected, was driven immediately to my parents’ house (after she had cleaned off the blood!), to tell them that I was OK, but they were not to tell anyone as an operation was ongoing. This would look like her calling to announce my demise in the unlikely event that the house was being watched. We met up in the safe house when she returned.

“How’d it go?”

“They’ll kill you for real when they see you again.”

“Yeah, it must be a shock for them to find out that the hunt was still going on.”

“That, but more importantly, you brought a real, serving, policewoman into their house.”

“But you never found the still.”

“They were curious though.”

“About what?”

“That we were sleeping together; was that more than just work. Of course I said “yes”.

I went to give her a hug; she pushed me back.

“Not with that bloody dress on!”

As the blood had dried, and I was thinking of going to bed to catch some sleep, I hadn’t changed.

“Any word from the Superintendent?”

“Nadya’s playing ball, or should I say Katerina. She doesn’t fancy doing ten years here for conspiracy, then being extradited to whoever looks for her next. Funny, when she does her time, she’ll have to go into witness protection.”

“And the hit squad?”

“Two. Staring at the wall, not a word.”

“Ex-military or intelligence so?”

“Probably, we don’t even know who they are yet. It doesn’t matter; Katerina is the contact with the Kingstons. She has already confessed to that, and will cooperate with getting them to meet her to handover the cash.”

“Cash? Not Crypto?”

“They said that they were best able to provide Euro. Probably because they can’t provide either; they’re lucky that we’ve got the Away Team locked up.”

“When? Are you in on that part of the operation?”

“Soon, a day or two, and no, I’m out other than babysitting you.”

It was now almost midday and we hadn’t slept in over thirty hours. We fell into bed, and were quickly asleep.

*****************************************************

The next two days were an anti-climax. Adrenaline is a potent drug and I’d definitely OD’ed over the past year, and especially the last three days. I woke on the first day at about 6pm after around 6 hours sleep; Jacinta was still asleep and I just wrapped myself around her and lay there until she was awake. Eventually we got up, dressed and wandered downstairs to look for some food. The housekeeper had finished for the day so one of the security team headed off to the local Indian takeaway. He returned with the food and some cans of beer; normally alcohol was not a feature of the establishment but he figured we needed a few. We stayed up and chatted with the guys on duty until about 12 midnight, went back to bed and slept again until morning. We woke early, feeling much better and much more attentive to each other before eventually joining the team for breakfast. They had already changed over and Annette was on the incoming team. As Jacinta and I were now openly together she gave us a coquettish little smile and asked how we’d slept.

Time was dragging. I didn’t have either my mobile or my iPad so I couldn’t do any work or even idle browsing. To have used either could have betrayed the fact that Katerina’s assertion that it was me who was dead was not exactly true. Not having the money, the Kingstons refused to pay, saying that they wanted to see me buried first. Me not being partial to this, the police decided to proceed on the evidence they had to hand, which was substantial.

*****************************************

“Police have arrested the Kingston Brothers, George and David, on serious charges including attempted murder. It is believed that they were involved in an attempted assassination of a witness last Thursday but that this assassination was foiled and an elaborate sting operation subsequently netted the two notorious crime lords. Police sources have refused to confirm or deny these reports saying only that they have arrested two men in their forties on serious charges and they are expected to appear in the Fordtown Criminal Courts later today.”

“Will we go?”

I wanted to look at these two scumbags who had caused me so much trouble for nearly a year. Jacinta shook her head.

“Too provocative; anyway, the press would have a field day. And Katrina would definitely recognise Jesse and maybe try to say something to us.”

“Let’s go home so.”

We got into Jacinta’s car and she drove back to my apartment. We were silent for a while, both conscious that this was the end of an era. Eventually, she remarked;

“I reckon they’ll be taking this car back soon. It’s too grand for a mere Detective Constable.”

“And I suppose they’ll be taking my Detective Constable away soon as well, given that I’m no longer the quarry in the Kingstons’ hunt.”

“’Suppose so; I’ll probably hear tomorrow.”

“Jacinta?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to stay?”

She turned the car off the main throughfare into a small housing estate and pulled over. She reached over and enveloped me in a hug.

“Yes.”

We held on to each other for a few minutes until a car beeped its horn; we were blocking the relatively narrow laneway. She extricated herself and drove away.

We eventually arrived at our apartment block and drove into the garage. Tom’s truck was parked in its usual space, right beside my own space. We took our bags and pressed the lift button. Eventually the doors opened and Tom walked out; he looked at me, blanched, rolled his eyes and I just dropped my bag in time to catch him before he fell.

“He’s fallen for me; I have that effect on men.”

“Shit; no one’s told him you’re still alive!”

We lowered him to the ground and he slowly came around. It was like when he’d first met Jesse, trying to speak, but words failing him.

“Sorry Tom, it was all a ruse. The Kingstons had to believe I was dead.”

“You knew about Nadya?”

I nodded.

“Her name’s Katerina. She’ll be appearing in court today with the Kingstons. She’ll get off light; turned state’s evidence.”

This would come out in court today anyway so no point in not telling him. He made to get up so we helped him to his feet.

“Some bitch; she really fooled me!”

“Come on, we’ll bring you back up to your apartment; you’re not safe to drive now for an hour or so.”

***************************************

I texted Janet:

Fox, 2; Hounds, 0. Hunt terminated on basis of abandonment of traditional outcome.

She texted back:

Can I call over this evening, catch up?

I showed this to Jacinta; she nodded. I texted back:

We’d love that; we’ll get dinner. See you then.

I thought it a diplomatic way to let her know that Jacinta was still there; she probably knew that anyway from a previous conversation.

I called home. My father was on the tractor; I could hear the loud ticking over of the engine when he answered.

“Are you OK? Was that piece in the news this morning about you?”

“I’m OK and yes, it was about me. Where are you?”

“I’m at the bottom end; one of the cows calved early and I’m bringing the calf back with me in the transport box. The mother is following on. Here, can’t you hear her?”

He knocked off the tractor and yes, the cow was mooing urgently and the calf was bleating back.

“You best get going; call me when you’re in the house.”

He called back in about half an hour; cows and calves cannot be rushed. I had just taken a large lasagne that I’d cooked the previous week from the freezer and was defrosting it in the microwave; not ideal but it would work. Jacinta was squashing some garlic to prepare some garlic bread. She had already opened a nice Italian red.

My mother was with him.

“Are you sure all this is over now? You thought that before when you came back.”

“Yes, I’m sure. They’ve caught the ringleaders so the whole gang will fall apart now. We’ll call down this coming weekend if that’s OK?”

“Of course it’s OK; any time.”

“I’ll need to catch up on some work for the next few days so I’ll leave it until then. We’ll be there around 12 mid-day.”

“You’re not going shooting first so?”

“No, we’ll come directly down. We’ll show you some of how I stayed hidden when I was away; wouldn’t be suitable for the range.”

“Grand so; we’ll see you then.”

I rang off; Jacinta looked at me:

“You’re not?”

I nodded.

“Best start to let them know now. It’s going to come out in court anyway.”

She leaned her head against me.

“Let’s hope it goes well. There’s the dogs, and the shotguns…”

“Just don’t let slip that you’re mainly lesbian, or they’ll think that you’re the cause!”

Janet arrived at the station just before 6:45pm. I had walked to meet her train, just 4 minutes away on foot. This was my first time walking anywhere unescorted since I’d arrived back from Lisbon; it felt strange and I instinctively kept my hand on my SIG buried in my coat pocket. I did remember to let go of it to receive the hug and kiss I received when she saw me at the station. She held on to my left arm as we strolled back to the apartment.

“You sure Jacinta’s OK with me calling around?”

“Of course; we’ve all got pasts and sometimes presents as well.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t mind me; Jacinta is not likely to get jealous of you if that’s what you mean. She may even be attracted to you.”

“Oh!”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

We arrived at the apartment and Jacinta greeted Janet with a hug, so the evening started off on a positive note. Janet did notice me taking the SIG from my coat and slipping it into the holster attached to the underside of the table.

“Still not over?”

“Habit at this stage. I suppose we’ll wind down slowly. Anyway, Jacinta’s still in the business of catching crooks so she’ll stay armed. You still shooting the S&W?”

“Yeah, I mostly keep it at the range now.”

When I was holding onto Janet’s pistol for her, she had a key to my apartment. That arrangement would not work now and she didn’t expect it to be continued.

We enjoyed the meal and shared some of the facts around what I was beginning to call the Fordtown Hunt. Janet knew that I’d lived as Jesse when away; I had facetimed her occasionally. We told her that we knew that the hunt was still on when I’d returned.

“So that’s why you told me to stay away?”

“Yes; it would have been too dangerous.”

With the court case months away, we could not tell her much about my apparent death and the denouement of the operation but promised to give her chapter and verse once the case was over. The last train was at 11.10pm and this time we both walked her to the station; she kissed us both goodbye.

“She is nice”, Jacinta remarked as we strolled back. “You’ve a good eye for women.”

I gave her a slap on the backside.

“Definitely!”

**********************************

The rest of the week was hectic as I tried frantically to catch up with work and Jacinta prepared to revert to normal work with the Witness Protection team. Although not as convenient as her former home station, that work was generally routine and predictable with only occasional future travel to set up a refuge or visit a protectee to be anticipated. She had to give back her Audi and revert to a standard unmarked car. It mightn’t be for long; she was considering leaving the police and retraining in Cyber Security.

Saturday morning arrived and I was almost floated from the bed by the butterflies in my stomach. After our standard light breakfast we showered and I shaved my legs particularly carefully. My face was not too bad; a few more electrolysis sessions would see my beard gone completely, if painfully. Jacinta towel dried my hair and worked some Moroccan Curl through it to leave a cascade of curls falling over my shoulders. I carefully did my eyes, eyeliner, eye shadow, some concealer underneath the eyes to hide the dark circles which had not yet faded. Day cream, foundation, lip pencil and lipstick finished what was supposed to be an understated but sophisticated look. I wore my dangler earrings; they made me feel more feminine as I felt them move around. Time to get dressed. Jacinta fastened up my longline bra and tweaked my nipples before popping in two breast forms. I donned cotton gloves to pull up my heavy blue tights; I had put on my nails last night and wanted to protect them as much as the tights. I put on my brown, kitten-heeled ankle boots before standing up and slipping on a cream blouse, relatively plain except for a long, pointed collar and three-button cuffs. Finally I buttoned up a sleeveless denim dress, length between mid-thigh and the knee, made sure the blouse collar came out over its plain V-neck, put on my necklace, and looked in the mirror. It took a bit of work, but Jesse was looking well today.

Jacinta was in her farm uniform, long boots, tight jeans, a cream polo-neck and a suede waistcoat matching her boots. Our colour schemes were very close, almost a matching pair. We even both had over-the-shoulder bags, fortunately not too similar; we didn’t feel safe without our SIGs yet. We looked at each other; I took a deep breath:

“OK, time to go.”

We picked up our overnight bags and coats; Jacinta would drive as I hadn’t gotten around to buying a car yet. Out of habit, or caution, she did some anti-pursuit manoeuvres but we spotted nothing of concern and were pulling into the farmyard by 11:45. The dogs formed up to receive us; they didn’t know this car.

“Will I chance it? Will they remember me?”

Jacinta was rightly nervous.

“Open the door slightly and call them.”

She partially opened the door:

“Satan, Lucifier, Macki, good dogs, I hope.”

Like soldiers dropping their rifles from the challenge position, the three dogs relaxed and came to her door, tails wagging. She opened the door fully to give each a rub.

“Who’s Macki?”

“Machiavelli, but that was too long for calling him.”

I had climbed out to be greeted in turn by three slobbery jaws and tongues before the dogs turned to do what dogs generally do, sniff the car, pee on the wheels, come back for another rub, the usual dog stuff. My parents appeared at the door; they must have been looking out the window and wondering where I was. Leaving our stuff in the car, except for our shoulder- bags, we both walked towards the house. Jacinta spoke first:

“Hi, we’re just spending some time with the reception committee.”

My turn.

“Hi Ma, Hi Da.”

They both looked very confused.

“Remember, I did say that I’d show you how I managed to hide away….”

“Jesus Jos, is that you?”

My father sounded incredulous.

“Yep, me, though I don’t use the Jesus part normally.”

“Come in, come in, quick.”

My mother couldn’t get me into the house fast enough.

“It’s OK, the dogs recognised me immediately. They’re not bothered.”

My mother disappeared into the house, my father stepped aside to let us in. Out of habit I stepped back to let Jacinta in before me.

“Don’t do that, it blows your cover…. a man thing.”

I went in first and she followed.

My mother was very obviously busying herself in the kitchen; Jacinta sat down to chat with my father and I went to help my mother. She was cooking beef sirloin with roast potatoes and vegetables. The meat was resting so I poured some juices from the roasting tray into a separator jug and put it standing on an ice block while I measured out some Bisto and opened a bottle of red wine, a nice Spanish Rioja. I noticed that Jacinta and my father were pouring cans of draught Guinness into pint glasses; she wasn’t normally a Guiness drinker, but had figured that this was the only beer in the house.

“Hi, Jacinta, can you pour one for me and a sweet sherry?”

My mother didn’t object so I thought she was persuadable. I poured out four glasses of wine, from a height to aerate it as the bottle was being opened late, and kept some for the gravy. The fat was now separating from the meat juices so I could pour off the juices, mix the Bisto, add the wine and start to slowly heat the mix to make the gravy. Eventually my mother spoke:

“Did you really dress like that when you were away?”

“Yes, I lived as a girl for the whole time. And it was an important part of how we trapped the Kingstons.”

“I don’t know how you ever got involved with that lot: There’s been nothing but trouble since.”

“Well, if I’d known what would happen, I’d probably never have tripped the gunman when he shot that witness. I didn’t even know that someone had been shot.”

“Well, now that we’ve seen you, are you going to change before dinner?”

“Well, other than this dress, I’ve only my work clothes for feeding the cattle tomorrow.”

I was mimicking her speech pattern, not out of malice; I was trying to establish some rapport. We had a strict rule that work clothes could not be worn into the kitchen: Farming is a healthy life, but bugs and bacteria abound in the farm environment.

“Huh, stir a bit faster; that gravy will go lumpy.”

Progress; she was talking about something else. Jacinta brought the sherry into the cooking area; my mother took it from her and took a sip. Another good sign; she would not have accepted the sherry if she wasn’t mellowing.

Everything was ready and she started to carve the meat and put it on a well-warmed platter. I poured hot gravy over this and put it on the table. While I was pouring the rest of the gravy into a sauce boat my mother had the roast potatoes and vegetables tipped into a warm bowl and on the table. I took the four plates from the oven and we were ready to go. It was a meal we could serve up in seconds in our sleep.

We all sat at the table and tucked in; saying grace was not in out tradition, even though my parents were churchgoing folk. My father was already relaxed; he liked Jacinta and she knew how to manage him. My mother was thawing, though dinner did have its moments.

“And Jacinta, what did you think when you met him all dressed up?”

This wasn’t the time to stand on ceremony about pronouns!

“It was good to have a girlfriend to wander around town with. Jesse and I had a great time.”

“Jesse?”

“I couldn’t use Jos now, could I?”

My mother hadn’t expected that answer and Jacinta had very skilfully introduced my girl-name.

My father hadn’t spoken for a few minutes and I looked over at him. He was looking at me, not staring, almost in a daze.

“Hi Da, you OK?”

He shook his head, waking from his reverie.

“Sorry; I was just thinking that you look like your mother when we met. Over thirty years ago now, you know.”

My mother looked at me, at him, reached over and took his hand:

“She does, you know.”

As the car turned off the lane leading to Niamh’s house, and onto the road towards ours, I saw the security light outside our house come on. My heart sank: This could only mean one thing; my father had just driven or walked into the farmyard. For some reason, this was a much more troubling prospect than been seen by my mother wearing one of the Twins cheerleading skirts. She had, presumably been given an explanation by Niamh so would have expected to find me dressed like this when she called to collect me.

“Does he know?”

The “he” in my question was obviously my father. Having no brothers and with my elder sister attending boarding school there was no one else that would be expected to be around to set off the security light.

“No, I haven’t spoken to him since I heard from Niamh. He was in the machine shed.”

My fears confirmed by my mother’s answer, I could only await his reaction with mounting apprehension. Not being a natural mechanic, he tended to get a bit tetchy when he was working on the machinery. Most local farmers did a lot of the maintenance themselves as going to a garage or getting a specialist mechanic would have been too expensive.

The car pulled into the farmyard; the security light was still on. I undid the seatbelt, grabbed my bag with my wet clothes and tried to speak to my mother as if all was normal.

“OK, I’ll go and get changed.”

“First you get those wet clothes into the washing machine! A rinse and spin will do.”

I didn’t argue even though this would have meant my staying in the skirt and subject to my father’s probable disapproving eye for longer. Maybe he’s gone back into the machine shed? I opened the door and tried to get out without flashing my underwear…

“Knees together and swing your both legs out at the same time. Remember that next time!”

Again, that ghost of a smile as my mother watched me trying to climb awkwardly out. What did she mean by next time? Maybe Niamh had told her about the planned girl group? Not possible; Niamh hadn’t been aware of this herself until she had joined us after study and must have made the ‘phone call before that. I filed this in my mind as something to resolve another time and swung my two legs out, smoothed down my skirt and stood up. Just then my father walked out of the house and back towards the machinery shed carrying an insulated mug of tea: He was planning to spend a few more hours working on the tractor, or whatever; never a good sign. He looked at me, stopped, looked at my mother, then back at me, started to speak and then stopped. My mother must have put her finger to her lips behind my back.

“OK, get those clothes into the washing machine and put on some milk for the cocoa.”

My mother and I had a habit of drinking slightly sweetened cocoa at night, neither of us liking the overly sweet drinking chocolate available in the supermarket. I headed into the house, past my father, trying to walk normally and aware of his eyes following me. Once inside, I quickly put my wet clothes into the washing machine, stuffed my shoes with newspaper and left them in the drying room. This room had been added during a recent renovation of our now somewhat rambling house in order that wet coats, boots, waterproofs etc., could be taken off and left to dry before anyone got into the kitchen. Anyone familiar with West of Ireland weather will know the advantage of this facility. My mother came in from the machinery shed, where she must have been telling my father the background to my arriving home dressed as an American female cheerleader, just as I had finished sorting my clothes and shoes and was heading to my room to change.

“Come on, slowcoach!” she said as she hung the car keys on the keyboard. “Let’s have our cocoa. Your father won’t be in for a while.”

I assumed this to mean that she wanted me to start preparing the cocoa before I changed so I turned back from the door, got two mugs, measured the milk into a saucepan and started to heat it while I mixed the cocoa and sugar into a smooth paste in each mug. She busied herself setting the table and soaking porridge for breakfast the following morning. These days she would probably be regarded as belonging to the “slow food” tribe. Prepared or instant foods, frozen peas excepted, rarely crossed our threshold. I was happy to stay in the skirt now that she had seen me in it and my father wasn’t in the room beside me. Cocoa prepared, we sat at the kitchen bar on two high stools.

“Remember, knees together”, she reminded me.

I tugged at the hem of my skirt and complied.

We chatted for a while, school stuff mostly.

“The girls are thinking of doing a girl band act for the Christmas concert”, I eventually said, delicately broaching the subject.

“Oh, that sounds good, whose idea was that?”

“It kinda just emerged… we were talking about doing something for Christmas and that was where we left it.”

I let that sink in. My mother must have sensed that I had more to say.

“And what would you be doing?”

“They want me to join them. I suppose most groups have 4 or even 5 girls.”

My mother never mentioned the obvious; I wasn’t a girl!

“What did you say?”

“That there’s only 3 girls, but they thought I could fill in to make up the numbers.”

“And what do you think of that?”

How do I answer this question? How do I get to where I want to be, without making it obvious that I desperately wanted to be a part of this, dress as a girl, hang out with the girls even more than heretofore, be like a girl?

“I suppose they’re my friends; I don’t want to let them down.”

Sometimes I even surprise myself by coming up with plausible answers to difficult questions!

“And what about the rest of the school? Especially the lads. What would they say?”

My mother had identified one of my two big concerns: I decided to name the other.

“More importantly, what would Dad say?”

“I don’t know”, she mused thoughtfully. “Anyway, it’s time for bed”.

We put the cups into the dishwasher and I headed off, reluctantly taking off and folding my skirt and top. My mother waited up; she normally did when my father was working late. He’d usually arrive in covered in grease and nursing a cut hand from a spanner slip, or some similar injury. He was great with the animals; the machinery frustrated him. Later that night I caught pieces of conversation as they talked, mostly his voice which carried further…

“I don’t know… I wouldn’t want him to be seen as a Nancy-boy…”

******************************************************************************************************************************************************

School passed off as normal the next day. Ciara’s mother drove us there and my mother picked us up at 4pm. Nobody mentioned the events of the evening before; in fact in school we never spoke of our study arrangement directly. None of us were really sure how this had come about but it was probably to avoid being seen as “swots”, an illogical fear as most of the townies were participating in the School Study Club. My mother dropped the twins off first and Ciara and I left our schoolbags in the old barn. She dropped Ciara off next, then on to our house, the furthest into the valley. I had a quick snack, changed into shorts and started off for Niamh’s house, carrying a waterproof jacket this time along with my jeans. My mother stopped me at the door and handed me a plastic shopping bag. I glanced inside; the skirt, top and underwear were neatly folded and smelled very faintly of fabric conditioner. My mother had laundered them sometime during the day. The shoes were also in the bag, wrapped in another bag.

Arriving at the barn at 5:25pm, the twins, Ciara and Niamh were already there, messing around with the DVD player. The Black Valley broadband was somewhat erratic and could not be relied on for streaming. Niamh had managed to get some DVD’s of some girl groups so the idea was that we would watch the DVD, miming along trying to follow the dance moves and develop a routine from this. I handed Niamh the bag with the clothes and thanked her. She took the bag and left it down on the study table. The Twins were wearing their cheerleading outfits; Ciara was in shorts.

We started off with the Spice Girls “Who do you think you are?” performed live. This was probably too ambitious as a start point. We found it hard to make any sense out of the choreography and, after about 15 Minutes, Niamh called a halt.

“This isn’t working girls; let’s try something else.”

I didn’t mind being referred to as one of the girls, in fact I was delighted. I rationalised this to myself as, being a prospective member of a putative girl group, it made sense. Niamh went to search through the pile of music DVD’s that she had obviously acquired from a charity shop, then stopped, picked up the bag of clothes she had left on the table and handed it to me.

“Let’s start by getting the look right first; you get changed. Saoirse, can you get a skirt for Ciara?”

I pretended to hesitate, then the three of us headed into the house. Saoirse and Ciara disappeared into the girls’ room and I headed for the bathroom to change. At least I’d have my own dry clothes to go home in tonight. Back out in the barn, Niamh had selected “Walk like an Egyptian” by the Bangles, not a live performance, more like an official video. The Bangles were a “real” band, their live performances were basically standing up and singing as they played their own instruments. The video was better to work from as, unencumbered by instruments, there was enough movement to give a semblance of a show. This attempt went much better and after about 20 minutes, Niamh, who had clearly taken over as leader, music director and choreographer, called a halt. It was now 6:15pm and we were late starting study. Aoife suggested that we do one more session at our break. Everybody agreed, and it seemed almost natural that we stay in our practice clothes at least until that session ended.

Breaktime came, some quick toilet breaks and, instead of practicing a dance routine, Niamh began by checking our voices. Fortunately, my voice hadn’t broken and I would easily manage two scales. The twins likewise had good singing voices; Ciara struggled but was, by Niamh’s definition, passable. Niamh then proposed that, instead of just miming, we should try to sing to a backing track. This would make for a much more authentic show, but would be much more difficult to perform. We agreed to give it a try. We did another hour’s study, then one more session of routine practice, and it was time to change back into my own clothes and head home. Niamh headed up to her studio to smoke her nightly herbal cigarette. I presumed that these cigarettes were hard to buy in the shop as Niamh rolled her own, somewhat crudely having to twist the ends to keep the herbal stuff from falling out. I thought to tell her some time of a box one of my English uncles had when here on holidays. There were compartments for the tobacco and paper. To make the cigarette, the paper was put into a slot, filled with tobacco and the lid closed: A passable cigarette appeared out of the slot at the top of the box.

Ciara’s mother drove us home the following day. She followed the normal practice, first Niamh’s house where she would drop off the twins and our schoolbags, then drop me at my house and finally back to her own. As we were turning into the laneway leading to Niamh’s house, we had to wait as another car was coming out. As it passed by, I recognised the car and driver as being our local Garda (police) Sergeant. He was wearing a civilian jacket over his Garda shirt, not unusual for him. We arrived at the house and got out to drop off our schoolbags in the barn. When we climbed back into the car we had to wait for a while as Ciara’s mother chatted to Niamh, then we drove off towards my house.

“I wonder what the Skip was doing in Niamh’s house”, Ciara mused. The Sergeant was known as the “Skipper”, “Skip” for short. This had been the naming practice for years and probably arose from the more junior Guards (police constables) giving that name to their local boss.

“He was just doing a crime prevention call”, Ciara’s mother replied.

I reckoned he must have called to all the houses; he would hardly just pick one out. We got to my house and I got out of the car. My mother and Ciara’s had a quiet quick word before the car drove off again.

“What did the “Skip” say?” I asked as I was having my pre-study snack, warm potato cakes.

My mother hesitated just for a minute.

“Eh, not much, we should have the key-box in a less obvious place and the shotgun should be locked up in a gun safe.”

I changed and headed off to study. Ciara and the Twins were there, no sign of Niamh. Ciara was wearing the same skirt that Saoirse had lent her yesterday. Aoife just handed me a bag with “my” skirt and top, told me to get changed as quickly as possible so as not to delay practice. This was becoming normal, and I wasn’t at all perturbed. I didn’t even feel the need to feign reluctance.

We practiced the routine for “Walk like an Egyptian” and got down to study on time. Niamh appeared at the break and handed out sheets with the song words printed. She played the DVD and we all sang along as best we could, our voices masked by the vocals on the tape. Niamh seemed preoccupied, a little “ratty” (short-tempered), unusually for her. We did the routine again after study, Niamh was there but didn’t go for her usual herbal cigarette afterwards. I changed and headed home.

The tractor and all the rest of the machinery must have been ok as my father joined my mother and me for cocoa and scones before I headed off to bed.

As I was going to sleep, I heard his voice…

“She’s lucky to have gotten away with a warning… you can get in trouble for using that stuff…”

I had no idea what he was talking about, maybe someone using marked agricultural diesel in their car?

“Shssss…”. My mother wanted him to keep his voice down so that I could go to sleep.

**************************************************************************************************************************************

Question: How can you tell that it’s summer in Ireland?

Answer: The rain gets warmer.

Winter was closing in. This is not the continental winter of long, dry cold spells punctuated by occasional snow. It was an Irish winter, lots of rain, sometimes warmer, sometimes colder. Farm work was reducing to a routine of care and maintenance. The milking, reduced to once a day in October, now ceased as the grass growth lessened into November. Dairy in Ireland is a seasonal business. Our grass-fed cattle give the best butter in the world, but grass feeding is only possible when the grass is growing and the land is dry enough to bear the weight of large animals standing on relatively small hooves. Even then, the milk at the start and the end of the season is generally used for the production of butter for the food industry, not the table.

Our routine changed. It was agreed that, coming from school, we would all be dropped off at the barn as opposed to going home first. My mother and Ciara’s would provide our pre-study snack on a loose, mutually agreed roster. It was felt that as Niamh was providing the location, cutlery and tableware, as well as looking after the washing up, she would have contributed more than enough. It worked out a little differently as we students quickly took on the job of clearing up and filling the dishwasher after we had eaten, and Niamh occasionally cooked. The arrangement worked exceptionally well as it meant that we were generally able to start practice at 5pm. It also worked academically; all four of us did very well in the midterm examinations and there was some muttering amongst our classmates about the Black Valley Brainboxs. As we tended to hang out together, we had developed a reputation of being a bit cliquish and I occasionally drew some flak for hanging out with the girls as opposed to playing soccer in the school yard.

We were also getting good at what had become, by now, a very sophisticated Karaoke act. Niamh had sourced a 4 microphone system with external sound connectivity, on Amazon. We had mostly moved off our original preferred groups keeping only “Who do you think you are?” from the Spice Girls and “The Song of the Underground” from Girls Aloud. We concentrated on some earlier groups: The Bangles gave us “Walk like an Egyptian” and “Walking Down Your Street”; from Banarama we picked “Really Saying Something” and their cover of the Doobies “Long Train Running”. We would probably only have time for two or three numbers for the actual concert. We each learned to lead on at least one number; I had two, “Walking Down Your Street” and “Really Saying Something". My voice was probably the strongest and I was a little disconcerted when Niamh remarked on the Castratos having the best voices in the 16th & 17th Centuries.

By the third week of November, we had four songs and routines picked for the concert and were well on our way to perfecting them. There would be various acts from four of the years; the state exam years, 3rd and 6th were not expected, or even allowed, to participate. It was decided that my mother and Ciara’s would negotiate our slot with the organising committee; for some reason Niamh was not regarded as being as influential with the school staff. Before doing this, they were to come over and see our act.

Thus it came to pass that, at 5pm on a wet and windy Wednesday evening in this third week of November, all three mothers came to see us perform. The twins, a year older and much more advanced than Ciara and me, as well as being natural show-offs, were at their very best. Ciara carried her lead number off adequately. I was a disaster! I had grown quite accustomed to dressing as and playing a girl’s role with my three classmates and Niamh. To have to do it in front of the other two mothers was somewhere between embarrassing and terrifying. What would they think? They knew I was a boy! This last point was not entirely logical as so did everybody else, but I did not see it that way at the time. My moves were wooden, I struggled to stay on key, I kept tugging at the hem of my skirt as I was overcome by a new, though overwhelming, belief that it was far too short.

The girls tried to console me, saying that I had just had an off-day, as the mothers conferred. Conference finished, the adults, in their infinite wisdom, diagnosed a severe case of double stage-fright brought on by my first time performing before an audience, albeit very small, and appearing in public masquerading as a girl. A remedy was proposed. We needed stage outfits and these were most likely to be sourced in Galway, a small city about an hour’s drive away, or if not there, Dublin. Niamh would bring the four girls to Galway on Saturday. Yes, four GIRLS. I was to be dressed, made up and coiffed as a 13 year old girl in order to get used to being seen as one in public. The Twins looked at each other and grinned; they were going to enjoy this! Despite my abject failure to perform adequately at the demonstration, I was both excited and nervous about the prospect of appearing in public, really in public, as a girl.

An additional remedy was also proposed. A dress rehearsal before an audience of neighbours, and whatever relatives could be drafted in from around the county, would be held on the evening of 7th December.

My mother drove me home. I was feeling very deflated about my performance, and, simultaneously, both excited and terrified at the prospect of a shopping day in Galway the following Saturday, dressed as a girl. My biggest concern was leaving our house; I didn’t know how my father would react. I contemplated getting dressed in Niamh’s house. At least all the other participants were now used to seeing me in a skirt and girl’s top. In Galway, no one would know me. Right now, I wanted just to go to bed and let sleep sort out my combination of despondency, excitement and trepidation.

“Not so fast”, my mother responded when I mentioned that I would skip the nightly cocoa and retire.

She went into my sister’s room, rummaged around for a bit and returned with a button up denim mini, a polo neck jumper and some heavy blue tights.

“Here, try these on”, she said, handing them to me.

I took the clothes to my bedroom and changed, hoping that my father was busy outside. Once dressed, and wearing my own slippers, I went back to the kitchen. My mother wasn’t there so I busied myself making cocoa and toasting scones, my earlier decision to retire early and skip this nightly ritual now forgotten.

My mother arrived in, obviously having been out in the machine shed briefing my father.

“Mix another mug, he’ll be in soon.”

My face must have betrayed my discomfort as she quickly added:

“It’s ok, he knows.”

“What did he say?”, I enquired nervously.

“Not much, you know your father.”

“How’s he getting on out there?” If the job was going badly I was afraid that he might be tetchy.

“He’s fine; just finished cleaning the shotgun.”

Obviously the shotgun had seen use earlier that day. My father, a former Army Reservist, always cleaned it after use. I bent down to get another mug from the kitchen press.

“Not like that! You’ve just flashed your underwear to whoever is behind you.”

The denim mini was A line, or slightly flared, not straight. It was very easy to wear, but had one big disadvantage as I had just found out.

“When you need to bend, do it with your legs”, my mother advised.

My blank expression elicited further explanation.

“Like you’re doing a deep curtesy.”

I was still lost; my blank expression hadn’t changed.

“Bring one knee down towards the other heel, like this.”

She demonstrated: I copied and managed not to fall over.

“Good; remember that.”

I mixed the third mug of cocoa while my mother toasted an additional scone. We had just about finished when my father came in, open shotgun across his arm. He looked at me, said nothing, than continued to my parents bedroom where the shotgun resided in the corner of a wardrobe, despite the Garda (police) advice that it be locked away in a gun safe. He came back into the kitchen and, as there were only two high stools at the breakfast bar, we all sat around the table with our cocoa and scones.

I was glad that my skirt and legs were safely tucked away under the table. We all munched away in silence for a minute or so.

“Don’t worry about the rehearsal,” he eventually said. “What’s the point in having one except to see what can go wrong! That way you know what you have to do to get it right.”

It was definitely a good job that I wasn’t sitting on a high stool; I would have fallen off!

“Just remember once you’ve decided to do something, stick out your chin and do it right!”

“Thanks Dad, “I responded.

“Can you get some blackcurrant jam from the fridge? “, My mother asked.

She never had blackcurrant jam with her scones so I assumed she was just getting me to walk around to get used to moving in the skirt in front of my father. I got up carefully, walk to the fridge, fortunately an eyelevel unit, got the jam and a clean spoon and returned to the table. My parents have switched to talking about business. My mother, who did the accounts and managed the finances, was visiting her tax accountant on Friday in Baile Na hAbhann, directly translated as River Town, but Anglicised as Ballyhowan, the closest regional centre. My father announced that he would not be going: the weather promised fine and he wanted to use the good day and work on some fencing. Eventually I excuse myself and headed off to bed, hanging the skirt and polo neck up in my wardrobe and dropping the tights over the skirt hanger.

Thursday passed by as normal and I absolutely blitzed our practice session. It was chalk and cheese compare to my performance the previous evening. I arrived home and responded “it went well” to my mothers raised quizzical eyebrow. As I was heading off to bed my mother told me to tell the teacher that I will be picked up from school at 12 pm on Friday for “a medical appointment “.

“What medical appointment?”, I responded. “I thought that you were going to see the tax woman?”

“We’re going shopping” she responded. “Just don’t say that to anyone!”

“Do I tell the girls that practice is off?”

With the long dark evenings closing in, we were now doing study and practice on Friday nights and over both weekend days as well. I didn’t mind missing school; I definitely didn’t want to miss practice.

“No, I’ll have you back in time for that”.

As a good attender and with good grades, no remarks were passed by the teachers on my proposed absence. The Twins enquired if I was all right; I assured them that all was ok and that I’d see them for study. Duly picked up from school, my mother, unusually, told me to get in the back of the car, a rather venerable Volvo estate. A cardboard box on the seat beside me contained the polo neck, tights and skirt along with a pair of my sister’s Sketchers, a casual walking shoe, although rather fashionable, along with her light blue “puffer jacket”. My mother told me to get changed.

“I can’t go around Ballyhowan wearing these”.

“Why not? All your friends are at school. I’m leaving you off at the beautician’s while I go to the tax accountant. They know what to expect and that you’re doing this for a concert. They’ll get you all made up and your hair done for tomorrow.”

“But won’t they talk and spoil the act?”

“Well, they promised not to say anything so we’ll just have to trust them.”

“But won’t everything be rubbed off by tomorrow?”

“Yes, we’ll take it all off tonight, but once they’ve got a plan ready for makeup and hair, I can redo it in the morning.”

I let all this sink in as I changed. The shoes were a bit loose, but a pair of “invisible” girl’s trainer socks sorted that out. The car was warm so I left the jacket off until I had to get out.

“Brush your hair a bit.” My mother was looking at me in the car mirror.

“Look at the road; you’re making me nervous.” I was always a nervous passenger. “Anyway, I have no brush.”

“I suppose you’re going to be a Ban Garda (female police constable) when you grow up.” My mother knew that I was a nervous passenger and this conversation had happened before. Only this time she had said Ban Garda! It was an old term, only used by older people who remembered a time when Ban Gardaí (plural) were regarded as ancillary to “real policemen”. Why had she said that? Maybe because I’m dressed as a girl? Anyway, I didn’t mind.

“Reach forward and you’ll find a brush in my bag” she continued.

Her bag was on the passenger seat; I leaned over the seat, found a brush, and set to work. This wasn’t easy as my hair was quite long and something between curly and wavy. I usually wore it in a ponytail. It wasn’t red per se but definitely on that spectrum, though somewhat bleached from last summer’s sun.

“Now clean the hairs off your jumper.”

She was watching me again. I decided to say nothing although I thought that the road should demand her full attention!

We parked in the bank carpark in the centre of Ballyhowan. Nobody would be too put out by her using this free parking space as it wasn’t very busy, and anyway, she was a customer. As we were getting out of the car, in my case carefully, my mother asked me to hold out my right wrist. She put a spray of her perfume on it and told me to rub my wrists together. I had often seen her do this so I spread the perfume over my wrists and dried them off behind my ears, as was her habit. I realised that she was looking at me, but she said nothing.

“Remember, keep your knees together when sitting and be careful bending down,” she reminded me as we walked the short distance to the beautician’s.

I was barely able to hear her. I tried not to look at the passers by, imagining each in turn turning around behind me to laugh at the boy dressed as a girl. It was terrifying. No exhilaration, just pure fear of discovery, of ridicule, maybe worse? I might as well have had a big sign on my back saying “Boy”! I was relieved to be brought into the reception area of the beautician’s. For the town that it was in, this was quite a large affair, combining a hairdressers and beauticians, a one-stop-shop. I was handed over to a woman named Mable. Like all the rest of the women working here she appeared quite old to me; at least in her mid 20’s, maybe even 30’s! They all looked glamorous, albeit overly made up and coiffed.

My mother headed off, and Mable took charge of me. The first problem was the polo neck jumper; I would have to take it off. My mother must have been in a hurry or she would have thought of that. Jumper off, I was hoping that my T-shirt didn’t look too masculine: I supposed one white crew neck T-shirt looks much the same as another. I was handed something that looked like a hospital gown and slipped this on. The gown fastened at the back; Mable tied this up for me.

Sitting in a chair before a mirror, Mable and another girl looked at my hair, pulling it this way and that for a few minutes before deciding what to do. Decision made, I was led to a basin for a wash and shampoo. I was a little perturbed that nobody had asked my opinion, however having my hair washed was a luxury and I nearly dozed off as my head was gently massaged. Eventually, hair barely towel dried, I was led back to the mirror seat and Mable started to work. She explained that this time, she was only going to take some of the weight from around the back and sides, and layer it down, so that my hair would look less unruly when not in a ponytail. I wouldn’t even notice it when she was finished. The logical part of my brain wondered what the point was in cutting my hair in a way that no one would notice, but I felt too intimidated to ask.

Cutting finished, some Moroccan Curl added, my hair was blow dried. Mable explained that normally it was better to let the hair dry naturally but today was just too cold to be going out with a wet head. I did notice the difference: instead of flaring out from my head in a confusion of curls and waves, my hair now fell down towards my shoulders, still curly, but not looking like the wild mop it had heretofore resembled.

Hair completed, I was handed over to the makeup team. Another discussion and Louise set to work. First she used a hair band to pull my hair back and started by rubbing some cream into my face. She spent what seemed like an inordinate amount of time on my eyes, then back to my face again with an assortment of creams and brushes. I noticed that she was making notes as she worked. I had to purse my lips as she used first a pencil, then some colour and finally gloss, and warned me not to lick my lips! Eventually, she turned my swivel chair back towards the mirror. I must have jumped in the chair as she laughed at my reaction. A girl, maybe 14-15, was looking back at me.

“You like?” Louise’s face appeared in the mirror over my shoulder. I was afraid to talk as my voice might break; I just nodded. Louise handed me a tissue.

“Dab your eyes gently; don’t ruin all my good work!”

Either Louise had noticed that I was starting to well up, or maybe she was used to this reaction from young girls when first given a makeover. Wait a minute; I’m not a girl. I’m just pretending to be one for a show. That’s all!

Next my nails. “They should match your lipstick, honey”, Louise explained as she glued a set of long pink, slightly sparkling nails over my own. The glue was giving me a slight headache and I wondered how I would ever get the nails off. Looking back into the mirror, Louise held a pair of hoop earrings to my earlobes.

“Like these?”

“Won’t work”, I responded. “My ears aren’t pierced.”

“Not yet”, Louise responded. She headed off to the reception desk and I could see her on the telephone. She came back.

“Not this time; it could be a problem in school.”

I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed.

Apparently I was now finished as I was brought back to reception to wait for my mother. She arrived quite quickly, came in the door, looked at me and turned quickly away. She must have had something in her eye as she dabbed it with a tissue before going to the reception desk. She spoke for a few minutes with both Mabel and Louise before picking up a large brown paper bag, paid the receptionist and came over to where I was sitting.

“All right young lady; let’s go shopping.”

I presumed that my mother was just teasing me and followed her out into the street.

“Nobody will know unless you tell them.” Having noticed my previous trepidation about being on the street in public, my mother’s reassurance, although welcome, was not required. I was now convinced that nobody would recognise the teenage girl that I had just seen in the mirror, let alone know that she was not what she appeared. Our first stop was at an accessory shop where my mother picked out a set of small clip on earrings.

“Would you consider getting her ears pierced?” The shop assistant asked as my mother paid for the earrings and proceeded to clip them to my earlobes. “Lots of girls her age are getting it done now.”

The piercing was free so the shop assistant wasn’t trying to make a sale. My mother demurred, saying that she would think about it. We walked directly to a clothes shop and to a rack where my mother selected a tan/fawn heavy long sleeved button up cordoroy tunic-dress. She had clearly done a check on the shop beforehand. She held the dress up to me and told me to look in the mirror. The colour matched my hair almost precisely and I was sent to the ladies fitting rooms to try it on. Fortunately the fitting rooms were divided into cubicles. The dress fitted well enough although I felt it to be a bit short: I could fold my hand around the hem. Emerging from the fitting room, I was inspected by my mother and a shop assistant who had joined her. The inspection proves satisfactory and the shop assistant guided us to the hosiery area where two matching pairs of heavy brown tights were added to the basket that the assistant had magically produced. To the assistant’s disappointment, my mother did not accept her recommendation in relation to a winter coat saying that I already had a suitable one at home. I guessed that she was referring to a brown woollen coat that my sister had bought the previous year.

Changed back into my blue mini and polo neck, our next stop was a shoe shop to try on a pair of brown, kitten heeled, ankle boots. Finally, we headed back to the car and my mother drove back to the Black Valley. As we would be passing through Ballymore, I sat in the back where the tinted windows would keep me concealed from prying eyes. We arrived at Niamh’s house just in time for the pre-study snack and I was deposited outside the barn with my school bag. My mother drove back to our house with the purchases.

I opened the door of the barn and stepped into the warmth of the stove. Niamh, Ciara and the Twins were having soup and ham rolls at the table.

“Hi, sorry I’m late…”

I didn’t finish my explanation. Four pairs of eyes were just staring at me and I suddenly remembered that I was made up and dressed as a girl. Incredibly, I had simply forgotten, fixated on the prospect of a practice session, then study. Saoirse was the first to break the spell, jumping up from the table with a kind of squeal of delight and smothering me in a big hug. Aoife quickly followed and even Ciara, much less demonstrative than the twins, came over and embraced me. I was dragged to the table and quizzed on the day’s events as I, not having eaten since morning, tried to answer while tucking into my soup and roll. They loved the hair, loved the makeup, who did it?, what shade was that on my eyes?, the nails are fantastic!, all in an excited babble of loud voices. Eventually Niamh called the room to order and we finished our food and cleared the table for study. It was now 5:30pm and we decided to study first, finish early, then do a longer practice session at the end.

The questioning continued at our break and I gave the girls an outline of the day’s events. They all promised not to tell anyone at school that I did not have a medical appointment and the chatter turned to plans for tomorrow, Saturday, shopping in Galway. Then back to work, finish study at 8:30pm, quickly change into our practice gear, fire up the sound system and go through our six routines.

It was never so easy. Maybe for the first time I felt really a part of the group, not just an imposter masquerading to make up the numbers. I would probably never match the Twins bravura performance, but I was enjoying putting on a show, albeit with no audience. I had forgotten that I wasn’t a girl… no…not quite correct… at that moment I WAS a girl. Maybe my enthusiasm was being felt by the rest of the girls, but we all felt that, if we kept up that standard, we had nailed it. We all had a big group hug when we finished. I was becoming more and more aware that the girls, in particular the Twins who were a year older than Ciara and me, were developing as teenage girls do and was caught between a wish that I would follow the same route, and a reticence to be seen to be taking advantage of my position as an honorary girl. The Twins obviously accepted me as such. Ciara and I had grown up together so the leap was much greater for her.

Practice finished, it was time to change and walk home. Oops, I only had the denim mini, polo neck, tights, sketchers, and puffer-jacket. And I was all dolled up like a girl. What the heck… I changed and headed off on the 15 minute walk. It was not raining, though cool. I felt light headed, feeling the slight breeze around my legs, enjoying the ease of walking in a skirt, feeling as happy as I had ever been. I wasn’t even worried about meeting my father!

I arrived at our house; my mother and father were sitting in the kitchen, cocoa and scones ready just to toast and heat the milk.

“I thought that you might call for a lift?” my mother remarked as I came in.

“Didn’t need one, thanks, it’s a nice evening, a bit cool,” I responded as I put the milk saucepan on the gas hob. My mother toasted and buttered the scones and my father read the Farmers Journal. We had our supper and I excused myself to head for bed…

“Not so fast; you’ve got to take off all that warpaint.” My mother was rehearsing an old joke whereby we referred to makeup as warpaint. She handed me a bottle of cleanser, a makeup removal pad and a small clear bottle of eye cleaner. I was to smear the cleanser all over my face, wet the makeup pad, put eye cleaner on it, clean off my eye makeup first, then my face. I nodded and repaired to the bathroom. Job completed and fangs polished, I headed to my room.

“We’re up early in the morning; I have to redo that makeup!” my mother called as I walked down the hallway.

I hung up my skirt, jumper, tights and coat beside the new cord dress that was already hanging in my closet.

My parents continued talking… as usual my father’s voice carried more than hers…

“… if you hadn’t told me I wouldn’t have recognised her… I mean him… she looks just like a girl… HE looks just like a girl…”

**************************************************

I woke early on Saturday, excited and terrified by the thoughts of the coming day. Probably more excited than terrified, yesterday’s excursion having done much to allay my fears. I checked the time; 5am. Still time for another snooze. I turned over, snuggled further into the duvet, closed my eyes, and stayed fully awake. After about 10 minutes or so, I decided I might as well get up and start to get ready. I wandered to the bathroom and was just about to step into the shower when I saw a small box on the shower tray with a note.

Wear this in the shower.

I looked at the box; it was branded Western Lodge Hotel Group. My parents were from a generation that did not believe in leaving unused toiletries in a hotel when they were leaving and had picked this up some time in the past, near or distant I could not possibly know. I opened the box to discover a shower cap. Not having ever used one of these before, I was struggling to tuck my hair inside its elastic rim when there was a soft knock on the bathroom door. I was still wearing my dressing gown so opened the door to find my mother ready to help me with my unaccustomed headpiece, as well as ensure I actually wore it.

“We heard you getting up; we would have been up soon anyway.”

She fixed the cap on my head, instructed me NOT to let the water spray above my neck, and to call her when I was dried off and ready. I could hear my father shuffling about in the kitchen; he had taken on the role as breakfast maker for the day… not unusual in our house. I showered quickly, dried off, got back into my pyjamas and dressing gown and announced myself as ready. My mother accompanied me into my room, told me to put on one pair of the brown tights she had purchased yesterday and pointing at the bed, said,

“Wear these instead of your own.”

I looked at the bed whereon lay a black plain pair of knickers and an ivory cami-top, both obtained from my sister’s room.

“Can’t I just wear my own?”

“These are better; your t-shirts will all show under the brown dress, and you’ll probably be changing with the girls so the knickers will be more concealing.”

That was true; my cotton underwear tended to get loose with the enhanced possibility of things falling out.

“Come back to the bathroom when you’re dressed. Don’t put on the dress yet, we don’t want it covered in hair, makeup or breakfast before you get out the door, do we?”

I nodded, she left, I got dressed. The knickers and tights were not a problem but I managed to get the cami on backwards before I eventually got myself sorted. The cami felt strange against my skin, not particularly soft as it was a silk-effect material, but quite sensuous. I admired myself momentarily in the mirror before dragging my dressing gown on and heading towards the bathroom. The smell of a fried breakfast in preparation permeated the hallway.

My mother had brought in two chairs from the kitchen and sat me on one while she sat on the other beside a box with an assortment of tubes and jars, itself standing on the footstool that we all used to reach things in the higher shelves of the bathroom cabinet. The room was arctic; she had opened the window to disperse the steam. Seeing me shiver, she closed the window and pulled a cord to start the small, wall-mounted blow heater which supplemented the radiators. A stream of heated air quickly brought the temperature to acceptable.

I was seated on one chair, she on the other, facing me. She started by pushing the elastic band of the shower cap, which I was still wearing not having been told to remove it, up into my hairline and rubbing cream into my face. Working from the notes which I had seen Louise making out, she then started working on my eyes, drawing, painting, brushing and, like Louise, taking a lot of time, before she moved onto my face. That was quicker, more cream, then light brown stuff, both well worked in and then my face dried off by her pressing some soft tissue against it.

“Just press, never rub”, she said. “This gets rid of any blobs of make-up that you haven’t fully rubbed in.”

“Eggs ready!”, my father’s voice floated up the hall.

We knew better than to delay; cooked eggs just don’t keep. We headed to the kitchen, shower cap forgotten and still on my head, to sit down to a veritable morning feast. My father, who liked to cook, had prepared a breakfast of sausage, rasher, mushroom, tomato and scrambled eggs, to be consumed along with my mother’s home-made brown bread, potato cakes, and tea from a large, ceramic teapot that had graced our table for as long as I could remember. Tea bags, ubiquitous elsewhere, rarely crossed out threshold. We even had an assortment of tea “balls” or strainers for occasions where only a single mug was required.

As usual, most of breakfast was consumed with little conversation. At this early hour, we tended to listen to BBC Radio 4 or World Service, only switching to the main Irish channel, RTE, for the Irish weather forecast and national news. This wasn’t unusual amongst farming families and both Ciara and I had been surprised to learn that Niamh and the Twins did not, at least initially, do likewise. Eventually, Irish weather forecast digested along with breakfast, the radio was turned off.

“What time is Niamh here?” my father enquired.

“About 8,” my mother responded. “She’ll call here first then pick up Ciara.”

I looked at the clock; 7:10am.

“I’d better get moving so” I remarked and started to clear off the table. In slack times on the farm, such as now when we were well into winter, the general understanding was that whoever cooked did not clean up, so I expected that my mother and I would be responsible on this occasion.

“No, leave that, we’ve still got work to do on you!”

My mother and father had the morning planned out. I was sent to wash my teeth with a warning not to mess up the paint job on my face, then back to the chair to have my lips done and my hair, finally released from the shower-cap, fluffed up by hand and sprayed. Clip-on earrings attached, I was told to look at myself in the mirror. This time I was prepared so I managed a nonchalant “Thanks Mum, nobody will recognise me now!”. I was trying to present my reaction as an appreciation for a good disguise job, which in a way it was, rather than as a transformation into someone that I was increasingly at home with. My mother went to her own room and returned with her perfume. Same procedure, a spray on the wrist, rub them together, then dry behind the ears. I was far too young for such an expensive perfume.

I headed to my bedroom, took off my dressing gown and donned the tan tunic-dress and brown ankle boots. The dress took time to button up, the buttons being, for me, on the “wrong” side. Again, a sneaky look into my mirror…

“Yes, you look quite the young lady.”

My mother had caught me admiring myself. She handed me my sister’s brown coat which came down to my knees and was a little loose on the shoulders.

“You won’t need it in the car”.

I took the coat off and was handed a small brown shoulder bag, again purloined from my sister’s room. My mother took me through its contents: tissues, an inhaler (I was/am mildly asthmatic), cash in an internal zippered section, mainly in €5 notes, some coins in a separate zippered section, and a very small transparent zippered plastic bag with lip pencil, lipstick and lip gloss, and a small, airline-style, travel spray bottle with some of her perfume.

“The Twins will help you redo your lipstick after you eat, and take it easy on the perfume; just reapply after lunch.”

She showed me how to wear the bag across my body instead of just hanging off a shoulder in case some “knacker” tried to snatch it.

“They’re on the way.”

My father had seen the lights of Niamh’s Landcruiser coming down the hill from her house to the road… ETA approx five minutes.

I slung the bag across my body as shown by my mother and gathered the coat into my left arm. My father gently lifted the coat from my arm and put some banknotes into an inside pocket and zipped it up. He returned the coat to me.

“Never keep all your money together,” he warned. “If the knackers grab your bag, they should never get more than half!”

“Thanks Dad.”

“And don’t come home with any boyfriends; you’re far too young for that!”

“Stop teasing him!”

My mother didn’t clarify whether she thought he was teasing me on the grounds of my youth, or gender!

The Landcruiser pulled into our driveway and came to a shuddering stop; Niamh was a terrible driver. I walked carefully, never having worn anything other than flat shoes before, out the door of our house and joined the Twins, both in the back seat. They must have shared our opinion of their mother’s driving. My mother spoke to Niamh briefly and gave her an envelope which she slipped into her bag on the seat beside her. We drove off to Ciara’s house and, having no choice, Ciara occupied the front seat, clipped on her seat belt and crossed herself. This was not entirely unusual; many country people performed this religion inspired act at the start of any journey, more now as a habit than from any deep religious devotion.

“Come on Ciara, she’s not that bad”.

Aoife was using Ciara’s apparent request to the Divinity for a safe passage as an opportunity to tease her mother. Ignoring the banter, Ciara twisted around in the seat, looked at me and said:

“So, what do we call our new girlfriend? You never introduced yourself last night!”

As the Landcruiser snaked down the road leading from the Black Valley to the main road to Ballymore, with three girls looking expectantly into my face, and Niamh listening as she drove, I gave myself a new name, my new name.

“What about Aisling?”

“That’s a lovely name” Niamh responded from the driver’s seat. “What does it mean?”

The Twins, though technically exempt from having to study Irish on the grounds of not having studied it in Primary School, had both opted to learn the language; Niamh herself was working her way through a CD course. They still weren’t as fluent as Ciara and I, and it was Ciara who responded.

“It means a Dream.”

“That’s lovely”. The Twins had given another unnerving demonstration of their ability to say the same thing at the same time, as if controlled by a single mind.

“Why Aisling?”, Niamh asked as she slowed down before turning onto the main road.

“I just thought of it now”, I lied. Truth told, I had thought of the name last night.

Yes this was a dream, in a number of ways. Certainly, a dream as in the experience of a sense of unreality: Am I dreaming?

Possibly more accurately for me, it was also a dream in the sense of my being in the process of achieving something that I really longed to get, in the same way as an athlete dreams of winning a gold medal. I had no idea where this dream had originated, what it meant or where it would lead, but it was a part of who I was becoming.

“Just now, hmmm”, Niamh responded thoughtfully. “Nice name. Just remember it when one of us calls you!”

We were living at that time at the tail end (pun intended) of our Celtic Tiger years, though none of us knew it at the time, and the investment in roads had paid off. We quickly joined the main Galway Road near an airport that everyone had thought of as an old priest’s folly until it succeeded as a business venture, and were driving into Galway around 9:15am, in light Saturday morning traffic. Niamh was to drop us at a shopping centre, visit her art dealer, and collect us by 11:30am. The back of the Landcruiser was packed with paintings. We were to look and NOT buy. We would check out the town centre when she returned, then lunch, then down to serious shopping!

Niamh pulled into the shopping centre carpark, occupying two car spaces, and turfed us all out. I remembered to grab my coat as Saoirse playfully pushed me out the door. The Landcruiser drove off and I momentarily froze: Panic had returned. Saoirse took my bag from across my shoulder, Aoife and Ciara helped me on with my coat, Saoirse returned my bag to its rightful place and the Twins, taking an arm each, got me walking towards the shops. Once underway, Saoirse continued to link me and Aoife linked Ciara as we wandered into the shopping centre. I needed the link; I was still learning how to walk in the kitten heels.

Shopping with the girls was a new experience: For me, this had always been a utilitarian affair, even yesterday’s foray to Ballyhowan with my mother. Something needed, go to shop, select, fit, purchase, job done! Now, we flitted from shop to shop, looking, admiring, visualising, holding dresses on hangers in front of ourselves as we looked in the mirror. We decided that we needed matching, though not necessarily identical, outfits. Mini-skirts or mini-dresses were taken as a given. Having practiced in these, we would all, me included, have felt it impossible to envisage a different style of dress. Some outfits were selected as possibles; I asked if we should make notes so that we would remember these.

“We’ll remember!”

The Twins, in unison again.

As we wandered around my eye was drawn to a mannequin dressed in a white tight mini skirt and a small, white bolero style jacket worn over a salmon-pink sweetheart top.

“Are we doing the Egyptian song?” I asked, meaning “Walk like an Egyptian” by the Bangles.

“Not sure”, Ciara responded. “Why?”

“That outfit would be perfect for it. Remember the pictures in our Geography book? All the men are wearing white minis.”

“The lads would love to see us wearing that! You’re getting good at this Aisling”.

The Twins had drifted up behind us; I think it was Aoife who had spoken.

I blushed under my make-up.

“I just thought it fitted in with the song, that’s all.”

Eventually, that shopping centre checked out, we decided to get a coke in a small corner snack bar and wait for Niamh. First, the bathroom. Again, it was Saoirse who grabbed my arm when I turned towards the wrong door and we all trooped into the Ladies. Business done, quietly in my case at least, make-up examined, lips touched up, mine by Saoirse who appeared to have adopted me for this trip, and off to the snack-bar.

I offered to get the cokes while the girls grabbed a booth and carried the four bottles and glasses on a tray to the table. Aoife got out of her seat to let me move inside her. I thought that it would have made more sense for her to slide in and leave me on the outside, but I didn’t mention this and just slid in myself, remembering to smooth down the back of my dress as I sat down. The three girls were a little giggly and eventually I asked what was going on. Saoirse, sitting opposite me, winked and indicated to her left, my right, with a slight inclination of her head and swivel of her eyes. I looked across at the table opposite us, occupied by three lads who looked to be just a little older that the Twins. Their full attention was being given to Aoife’s legs, which she had crossed outside the table support which would otherwise have hidden them. I grinned, pretending to understand the joke, but in reality I was mystified. I fully understood that the lads would look at her legs: I didn’t understand why she would make a point of displaying them. I had a lot to learn about girls.

Cokes finished, we headed out to the carpark to wait for Niamh, much to the lads’ disappointment I’m sure. Niamh arrived on time, and did her usual crash landing in the Landcruiser, picking us up on a double yellow line. All the artwork was now cleared from the back so presumably had met with the approval of the dealer. We drove to the centre of town, parked in a school carpark opened on weekends to supplement the school’s income, and headed towards Shop Street for another round of checking out the stores. As there was a lot of ground to cover, we split into two groups, Saoirse with me, Aoife with Ciara, and Niamh flitting between the two teams. We had an agreed time and rendezvous and eventually all joined up again at the corner of Eglington Street. There was one in-town shopping arcade left to check before we all sat down for a pizza in Milano’s.

Decision time was upon us. As we tucked into our pizza and cokes, we discussed the merits of the various outfits that we had seen that morning. My suggestion of the white mini and bolero jacket found some favour but was eventually overtaken by a dress, or rather a series of dresses, which Ciara and Aoife had found on their side of Shop Street. These were mid-thigh, half sleeved, flared dresses, V-necked at front and back, and in a variety of colours. This would enable us to have stage outfits that would be matching, but different.

We headed off to inspect, and were delighted with the find. It only remained to pick out who would wear what colour. I was quickly nominated for Electric Green; by common consent it went best with my vulpine coloured hair. Ciara got Lipstick Red, Aoife Electric Blue, and Saoirse Sunburst Yellow. The dresses were very short and were paired with matching “Bridget Jones” big knickers as they were practically guaranteed to flip up. The shop assistant, mentally adding up the commission, was all over us. Sizes selected, we were practically carried to the changing room…

Oooops… this was a modern girls’ changing room… all in together, no cubicles. We all had to undress and don our new dresses together. The Twins quickly stripped down to their bras and tights-over-panties while I tried to look away. Ciara was somewhere beyond them changing while she faced the wall. I went to do the same and felt a tap on my shoulder. Saoirse whispered in my ear:

“It’s OK; they don’t bite!”

I looked around; she was standing beside me, still in her bra, holding her dress.

“Huh?” I wasn’t sure what she meant.

She draped the dress over her left arm, caught both her boobs in her hands, over her bra, slightly lifted them.

“These, they won’t bite you. You’ll have to get used to changing with us.”

She was whispering as there were some other, older, girls, in the changing room but they paid no attention to us. She winked at me and stepped back to slip on her dress. I unbuttoned my cord dress, somewhat clumsily as unused to the opposite side buttons, slipped it off and hung it up. Saoirse, already dressed, helped me into my “Showdress” and zipped it up the back. My cami showed slightly at the front as the V-neck went down just a little bit too far but the straps didn’t show, nor did the back.

All attired, we stepped out to be inspected. Niamh smiled. The dresses were as good as bought. Ciara was given a smaller size to try on and we all milled around as she went back into the changing room.

“Those dark tights really kill that dress”.

Niamh was looking at my brown knitted tights. The Twins were wearing Nude tights, the cold being kept at bay by knee boots.

The Shop Assistant’s eyes lit up with Euro signs. While we were changing Niamh had briefly told her that we were picking out stage outfits, and, even with the 25% discount that Niamh had pretty much insisted on, she was going to do well out of us today.

“They’ll need a few pairs each, nude, sheen?”

It was half a question, half a suggestion. Niamh and the shop assistant went over to the hosiery area and started to go through the sample bundles attached to each row. Ciara came back out; the dress fitted this time but, as she was also wearing dark tights and I had to agree with Niamh’s assessment as to the unsuitability of these. The Twins drifted over to the hosiery area to add their input to the discussions between Niamh and the shop assistant. I remembered that there was money in my coat pocket and went back into the changing room, retrieved the cash and put it into my bag which I, like the other three girls, had kept with me.

When I got back out, it became apparent that the decision was to go with nude tights, three pairs each, as opposed to trying to match the individual dresses. It had also been decided to go for brown, mid-heeled court shoes, the Twins preference for higher shoes being overruled on the grounds that both Ciara and I would likely fall over if we tried to wear them! Before going over to the shoe section of the store, Ciara and I were instructed to change our heavy tights for nude ones as this would impact both the fitting and appearance of any shoes that we would be trying on. Saoirse came to help me, taking a pair of white cotton gloves from her bag. She opened the packaging on the tights for me while I put on the gloves, took off my warm heavy tights and put them into my coat pocket. She showed me how to scrunch up each leg in turn to get into the tights easily and work them up my legs gently so as not to snag or ladder them. I had already worked out how best to don tights; the gloves were a useful innovation for me. I hesitated when it came to the top and I had to lift the skirt of my dress to pull the tights over my knickers. Saoirse leaned over and whispered in my ear:

“We’ll just get used to this; it’s not like we’re not wearing something!”

I pulled up the dress and the tights. We exited the changing room, still holding onto our bags, to be sent back in along with Aoife. Niamh had decided that we should be wearing the matching knickers when trying on the shoes, as some accidental “flashing” was inevitable. Again, I had a moment of panic before I realised that the girls were pulling these on over their tights. I had wondered what the point of these knickers was if worn under tights; now I understood.

The sales assistant handed us over to the “shoe lady”: Tan shoes with an ankle strap, were fairly quickly selected. Niamh and the shoe lady agreed that we were less likely to accidentally step out of these on stage. There only remained the fitting: Ciara, and more especially me, had some difficulty with the height as we walked around to test the fit but we managed well enough. The Twins flounced and pirouetted as if on the catwalk.

Shoes bought, and just as we were about to repair to the changing room to get back into our own clothes and pack away our purchases, Niamh was approached by the manager and a woman carrying a professional looking camera. He introduced her as the proprietor of the camera shop next door and he had taken the liberty, with Niamh’s permission of course, of asking her to get some pictures of the four of us wearing the kaleidoscope of matching dresses. The Twins beamed in anticipation. Niamh moved away slightly with the manager and photographer and engaged in some discussion; Aoife and Saoirse took the opportunity to start to rehearse Ciara and I in poses. Eventually Niamh came back to us and said that she had agreed to let the pictures be taken for use in the shop and in the local newspaper only. In return, she got a further 25% discount, meaning that we were getting the entire outfits at half-price.

The photographer busied herself with setting up the camera and a light while Niamh brought us all into the changing room for some hair fluffing and touching up of make-up. The Twins had to change into new tights to match those that Ciara and I were wearing. I had to exchange my cami, which showed at the front of my dress, for a bra that the shop assistant brought into the changing room. Apparently it was needed to "fill out" the front of the dress.

Eventually, ready or not, we all traipsed out of the changing room and engaged in a bit of a game with the photographer as she moved us around to get what for her was the best colour pattern. Eventually, happy with the result, she asked us for a pose. Aoife took over and, along with Niamh, got us individually into a semblance of a pose before resuming her own place in the line-up. Ciara had to hold her hands in a way to hide her nails; she was the only one not to have them done and I felt rather sorry for her. Some shots taken, a different location, a different pose, repeat, … the whole process took over an hour and it was closing time by the time we’d finished. I was exhausted, Ciara likewise, the Twins energised! We all went back to the dressing room while Niamh paid for the purchases. Our stage dresses were carefully folded, shoes returned to boxes, tights changed and we were ready for home.

We carried our boxes to the Landcruiser and lurched away. I sat in the front this time; it was only fair to Ciara but I missed being in the back with the rest of the girls. We had one last stop, at a small Middle Eastern shop in a rather decrepit mini mall on the outskirts of town, where I picked up the assortment of teas which my mother blended together to make our unique home brew. Back on the road, we chatted for a while, before all drifting off to sleep… except Niamh, of course!

I awoke to the crunch of tyres on gravel which signified that we had arrived at Ciara’s house. We agreed to meet for a dress rehearsal the following morning at 10am in the barn. Ciara thanked Niamh and disappeared into her house. I was dropped off next, thanked Niamh, collected my boxes of tea and got out. It was cold after the warmth of the car and I was glad to get into the coziness of our kitchen.

My parents were both there, part chatting, part watching television: My mother turned down the sound when I came in. I deposited my load of tea on the kitchen table and headed to my bedroom to change my ankle boots for the slippers that we normally wore inside, and hang up my coat. I never thought to change out of the dress; it just seemed normal now. My mother kicked off the inquisition.

“How did you get on?”

I gave a reasonable account of the day, not mentioning of course the little episode when Aoife was teasing the boys with her legs. My mother was disappointed that I had not brought my dress in so that she could see it; we had agreed that the stage outfits should stay in Niamh’s house where they would be available for a dress rehearsal. My father’s eyebrow lifted when I described the photo shoot, but he nodded in apparent approval when he heard that Niamh had secured a 50% discount.

I was nodding off so we had our cocoa and scones and I headed off to bed.

I dreamed that I heard my father and mother talking…

“What will we say if someone sees whatever picture was taken of him?”

“It’s OK”, my mother responded. “No-one will recognize him… if they do we’ll say it’s his cousin from Knocknacarrig. After the concert we can say that it was just part of the act...”

I was up first the following morning, Sunday. There was now less than four weeks to go to the concert date, Saturday 18th December; our end of term exams were starting on 13th December and we had a family and relatives preview for the evening of Tuesday, 7th December. And today we had a dress rehearsal. All in all, it was going to be a busy run up to Christmas. I wasn’t looking forward to Christmas; its arrival would mean the end of the road for Aisling and I was becoming very enamoured by her. I tried to put these thoughts aside and live in the moment, but they nevertheless intruded from time to time.

There was a note on the kitchen table saying Pancake Mix in Fridge so I turned on the oven, put a large serving plate in, retrieved the batter from the fridge and started to cook pancakes. It actually takes quite some time as each individual pancake requires two minutes, and it took me most of half-an-hour to have twenty-four pancakes prepared and covered in a warm oven. I could hear movement meaning that my parents were up so I called “breakfast ready” up the hallway. By the time I had made a pot of tea they were both in the kitchen and we were sitting down by 8am to pancakes with maple syrup, lemon and caster sugar and, my own favourite, banana with nutty chocolate sauce.

“So, what’s happening today?” my mother eventually asked, looking at me.

“Dress rehearsal and study”.

“Dress rehearsal?”

“Yes; we want to be sure that everything works OK for the show so we’ll have time to fix it if it doesn’t”

“So that means that you’ll be wearing the clothes you bought yesterday?”

“Yes; just for today’s practice. We don’t want them damaged or dirtied before the show.”

“Well, we might drop over to have a look.”

My mother was looking at my father as she spoke. He nodded; no point in wasting words when a non-verbal indication will suffice!

I wasn’t sure that I was overjoyed by this; I would have preferred a dress rehearsal without an audience.

Yesterday’s ridge of high pressure had been rudely elbowed aside by a warm front and it was raining again today. Not hard, but persistent, wetting, and, despite the name of the front, cold. My mother offered to drive me over to Niamh’s house for 10am, an offer I gratefully accepted. Then…

“Go, get ready and I’ll do your makeup before we go.”

My father looked up, almost a little sharply, in my mother’s direction.

“It’s a dress rehearsal! He’ll have to look the part or it will look silly!”

My mother had noticed my father’s reaction and had moved to forestall any objection. He responded with another, almost imperceptible, nod.

“Wear the tan dress” my mother called as I disappeared up the hall.

I hadn’t counted on getting a make-up job and was now pushed for time. I skipped the shower and settled for a quick wash, did my teeth, and returned to my bedroom. The cami that I had worn the previous day was lying on the bed, along with a fresh pair of black knickers and my second pair of heavy brown tights. I dressed quickly, substituting the dress with my dressing gown and called “I’m ready”.

My mother had two chairs in the bathroom, like before, and set to work. Either she skipped some bits or she was getting used to this as I was all painted up much quicker than the previous day. Again, a quick look in the mirror. Forgot the earrings! My mother sent me to get them and clipped them in in the hall. I put on the brown dress and boots and wore my own long waterproof coat instead of my sister’s brown woollen one and was ready to go by 09:50. No perfume this time: I, and my clothes, still smelled a little of it from yesterday.

We arrived at Niamh’s house and my mother told me to stay in the car while she went in and spoke to Niamh. She was back out in a few minutes; she would help me get dressed in the barn and let Niamh know when I was ready. I supposed that it made sense; the bathroom was OK to change in normal times, but not when dressing up in fancy dresses, tights and heels. If Ciara was changing in the Twins bedroom it would be mayhem, but I missed the camaraderie of getting ready with the rest of the girls in the shop changing room. It’s funny how quickly I had normalized that experience.

I headed into the barn; the stove had the place well heated already and I thought that I detected, for the first time in a few weeks, the smell of Niamh’s herbal cigarettes wafting down from the studio above. My mother, carrying a hanger covered with a transparent plastic bag like a suit comes from the cleaners, and a shopping bag, appeared to notice it too when she came in. She gave a quick sniff, but said nothing. I sat in a chair and she took a pair of tights out of the bag. I slipped off my shoes, removed my brown tights and donned the proffered white gloves. Saoirse must have given them to her? Getting the sheer tights on was easy and my mother looked away diplomatically, searching around in the bag as I pulled them up. She pulled out the big matching knickers and again looked away as I pulled them on, then sat down and put on the dress shoes. I found the ankle strap hard to tie with the gloves on and finally thought to take them off! Then I had to take off my dress and cami. I had turned my back towards my mother while I did this and draped them over the chair. I hand appeared over my shoulder; I expected it to be the dress. It wasn’t; it was the bra that I had worn in the shop for the photoshoot. Niamh must have bought it along with the other clothes. I turned red with embarrassment.

“Do I have to wear that?”

“Yes; it fills out the shape of the dress. Don’t worry: Noone will see it!”

I slipped my arms through the bra straps, though not without some fiddling around to get it lined up, and my mother fastened it at the back. Finally she handed me the dress, already unzipped down the back. I was fumbling around trying to get into it, Saoirse had helped me in the shop changing room.

“Be careful: Don’t get makeup on it!”

My mother took the dress from me.

“Hold your hands up.”

I held my arms straight up over my head and my mother draped the dress over me, pulled it a little this way and that, then zipped up the back.

“Here, let me see you.”

I turned around. My mother looked, then looked away quickly and began folding up my brown dress, cami and tights. This finished, she looked back and spent a minute looking at me, fixing my hair, reclipping my earrings, and generally fussing. She looked outside, it was still raining, more drizzling now.

“I’ll let Niamh know you’re ready, then I’ll go and get your father. No point you getting wet”

“Actually I’m going to go to the bathroom before we start.”

I went to pick up my waterproof jacket. It was no more than 10 steps from door to door but there was no point in getting the dress, and me, wet.

“Don’t! The Velcro will rip your tights.”

The waterproof was fastened with both a zipper and Velcro on the stormflap. My mother went out to our car and returned with a large umbrella.

“Use this; you tell Niamh I’m gone.”

“Thanks”.

I opened the umbrella, manoeuvred it carefully out the door on its side, popped it upright and walked, a little unsteadily in my new heels, to the house. I remembered to reverse in the door and close the umbrella before I brought it inside: Niamh was a little superstitious and most people of that ilk tend not to like umbrellas being opened inside. I stood the umbrella in the hall stand. I called up the hall to Niamh:

“I’m ready; my mother is going to collect my father”.

“OK.”

I headed for the bathroom. Business complete and front paws washed, I emerged to find Ciara, all dressed and ready, at the door looking at the rain.

“Here, we’ll both go under this.”

I opened the umbrella outside the door, stepped out as I tilted it upright, and held it as Ciara joined me. She linked me to the barn door, being almost as unsteady as myself in her heels. I held the umbrella as she went in the barn door and followed her in. Both our shoes were wet so I changed back into my brown boots and went back to the house. The Twins were now ready.

“Don’t wear the shoes; they’ll get wet.”

The Twins went to change into runners while I collected some kitchen towel from the kitchen; where else? I walked each of the Twins in turn to the Barn, linking them more for my benefit than theirs, while they carried their shoes in their free hand.. Niamh appeared in a hooded waterproof and followed us out.

Ciara had already fired up the sound system. I dried her shoes off, then my own show shoes, and changed back into them. For good measure, I dried off my brown boots as well.

We first decided on a running order: Who do you think you are?; Hazy Shade of Winter (Bangles Version); Long Train Running; Walk Like an Egyptian; Song of The Underground; Really Saying Something. We had dropped the Bangles’ Walking Down Your Street, which I led, in favour of their version of Hazy Shade of Winter, on which I would also lead. Niamh busied herself with setting up the running order while we started to rehearse tunelessly, and in my case, totteringly. We had decided that, when the curtain went up,we would start with our backs to the audience, microphones in our right hands, a problem for Ciara as she was left-handed (ciotóg in Irish). Then we would whirl around together, going towards our right, as the music started. It took me a few attempts to do this without losing my balance, but I was getting there. What I did notice was that, when we twirled, the skirts of our dresses floated up almost to our waists: Those big knickers were needed!

“That will get some whistles, girls”, said Niamh. “Don’t let it put you off!”

We kept working away. Moving from song to song also needed some rehearsal. We didn’t want the lead singer for any particular number to be on either end, so after the first song, I had to change places with Saoirse so that I moved from the extreme right, to second from the right. Ciara would have to do the same with Aoife on the other side. We decided that, rather than just two girls exchanging places, whenever an exchange was required, both the left and right pair would switch. This meant that the Twins, taller and frankly better looking that Ciara and me, would either be in the centre together, or on the wings. Again, this would be done with a twirl; same result with the dresses.

The crunching of tyres on gravel announced the arrival of one, no two, cars. Either they had liaised, or had the same idea; both sets of parents had arrived for the dress rehearsal. They came in, standing close to the door.

“OK girls, lets get ready and see how far we can go with this.”

Niamh intended us to go through the full show, non-stop, to see how we would get on. We had already done this in practice, not in a dress rehearsal with a small audience. We lined up, backs to the small audience; Niamh started the music; we twirled around.

“Jesus Christ!”

My father’s exclamation completely unnerved me and, whereas the music and the other three girls continued on, I stopped, dismayed at his reaction.

Niamh stopped the music.

“Like I said, no matter what the reaction, you just keep on with the show! Let’s start again.”

She didn’t look at my father, just set about resetting the machine. I looked down towards my parents; my father was looking rather sheepish and my mother was whispering in his ear.

“Sorry; wasn’t expecting that,” he eventually said.

“No harm done”, Niamh was being diplomatic. “The girls need to be ready to deal with any reaction from the audience when they are performing, especially at the start of the show”.

My mother looked up at me, nodded and winked. I looked at my father; another almost imperceptible nod. As we were turning around to get ready for a restart, Saoirse reached over and gave me a quick arm-over-shoulder hug. Music starts, twirl turn, go for it, we got through the full show.

“OK; let's take a break. We’ll do it again in fifteen minutes, then back to study.”

Niamh and the two mothers drifted towards the stove; the two fathers were looking at the study table and examining that end of the room.

“They’re going to do a stage for the rehearsal on the 7th”, my mother explained to Niamh. “Otherwise, half the group won’t even see the girls perform.”

“They’ll need a name.” Ciara’s mother had just raised something that we hadn’t even considered: What would we call our group?

“How about The Black Valley Girls?” We had joined our three mothers and Ciara had made the first suggestion.

“Sounds OK.” My mother was happy enough to go along with the suggestion, partly, I guessed, as a diplomatic gesture to Ciara’s mother.

Niamh shook her head.

“Won’t work.”

“Why not? I think it sounds good.” Ciara’s mother liked her daughter’s suggestion as well.

Niamh lowered her voice so the two fathers wouldn’t hear.

“It’ll get shortened to the BV Girls, then lengthened to the Beaver Girls.”

Both Ciara’s mother and mine nodded gravely. The Twins tittered; Ciara turned beetroot red. I couldn’t imagine why an aquatic mammal, no longer found in Ireland, should cause such a reaction, so I just kept quiet.

“How about Cailíní Ghleann Dhubh?” Aoife suggested. It was a direct translation into Irish of Ciara’s suggestion.

Everybody nodded.

“Maybe Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh?” Saoirse had expanded the name to something like Black Valley Singing Girls.

We had a brief discussion. It was not good Irish, but the alliteration of the first two words overrode the grammatical deficiencies and we were happy to run with the name.

“What about Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh?” Ciara’s mother called over to the two fathers, deep in a conversation about woodwork by this time as they planned a temporary stage.

“Ceart go leor.” Ciara’s father responded. It meant “OK”.

My father looked up and nodded. He was taciturn in both languages!

We got ready and did the show again; no interjections this time and it all went well.

The girls disappeared into the house to change. The two fathers were again engrossed in planning the stage so Niamh pointed up to her studio, meaning that I could change up there. I took the bag containing my clothes from my mother and headed up to the studio while Ciara’s mother and mine accepted Niamh’s invitation to go into the house for a coffee.

The studio was bright and airy, with a great view of the lake which curved around the hill on which Niamh’s house sat. It was full of half-finished paintings and smelled more than faintly of Niamh’s herbal cigarettes. I started to change, unzipping my dress and carefully placing it over the back of a chair. I couldn’t manage to unhook the bra so left it on and slipped the cami on over it. I put on the white gloves and, as I set to work to carefully remove my dress knickers and tights, I realised that I could hear my and Ciara’s father talking downstairs. Engrossed in their planning, they didn’t realise that I was in the studio overhead.

“You got a bit of a fright!” Ciara’s father, like everybody, had noticed my father’s reaction.

“You can say that again! I knew that he was filling in for a girl’s spot; I just didn’t imagine how it would look.”

“You’re OK, he’ll get away with it. He looks the part.”

“That’s what I’m worried about; he looks too much the part!”

“It’s only a show; it’ll be over at Christmas then they’re all back to study.”

“Maybe he’s spending too much time around girls. He’s beginning to act like one.”

“That’ll pass when he’s a bit older.”

“Hope so…”

The voices faded as the men joined the women for coffee. I sat for a while; upset, but not entirely surprised at what I’d just heard. I knew that I wasn’t like the other lads in school. I had no interest in the UK football teams they constantly blabbered on about, the school Gaelic football team whose members felt that they were the top dogs in the school, regardless of academic ability, the handball players who spent every possible moment in the ball alley. I was comfortable around the girls in a way I simply wasn’t with the lads. Other than my performance in the show, I wasn’t aware that this was noticeable to my father. Maybe he was just referring to my current, temporary, situation? I couldn’t be sure.

But I knew, deep down, that I was not a girl, not really. I was getting a chance to pretend that I was, and that’s as far as it would go. So let’s go as far as I can, for as long as I can, then probably just get down to being a boy. Just keep going, just keep pretending that this is just a Show I’m doing. Pretend that I’m pretending that I’m a girl; let nobody know that that is not the real pretence…

“Aisling, have you gone to sleep or what?”

Saoirse had been sent to find me; I had drifted off, lost in thought, and had not fully finished changing. At least I had my tan dress on. Strange that she called me by my chosen girl-name.

“Sorry; I was thinking about the act”.

In a way, that was true.

I pulled on my tights, stepped into my brown boots and followed Saoirse down the stairs. Everybody was in the kitchen, the mothers finishing their coffee, the fathers still talking carpentry, the rest of the girls getting ready to resume study in the Barn. I joined them; we would do two hours than all back to our respective houses for Sunday Lunch. It was still raining when study finished and I was glad when Ciara’s father arrived in their car to drop me home before bringing Ciara back to their own house.

I arrived home with a few minutes to spare, went in the back door and dropped my coat in the wet-room. I went through the kitchen to my room and changed from my tan dress into jeans and a jumper. I had briefly felt OK wearing the dress in my father’s presence, but having overheard him in the Barn, it didn’t feel right, I didn’t feel comfortable. I went back to the kitchen where dinner was nearly ready and got the warm plates from the oven while my father stirred a saucepan of gravy. My mother was just finishing slicing beef sirloin with an electric knife. She laid it out on a platter, my father spooned some now-ready gravy over it, and it was placed in the centre of the table. I retrieved a platter of roast potatoes and vegetables from the oven, placed these on the table and we were all ready to go.

Unlike breakfast, lunch was normally a chatty affair in our house, but today I didn’t much feel like talking.

“Are you not going back to study later?”, my mother eventually asked, trying to bring me into the conversation.

“Yes, we are starting again at 4PM. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that you changed; you’ll have to change back again if you’re doing any more practice, that’s all.”

“I’ll just go over in my jeans; I can change over there is we’re doing another practice”.

“You need to get used to walking in heels so you’ll need to wear your new boots. They would look unusual with the jeans?”

“I’ll see if it’s raining when I’m leaving.” I didn’t want to continue the discussion in front of my father, now that I knew how he really felt.

“If it’s raining, I’ll drive you over. I can pick up Ciara too.”

Conversation turned to school and the upcoming end of term exams. I professed myself happy enough with my preparation; my father wondered if practice for the show was taking up study time.

“No, we make sure we do three hours study at least, every weekday. Practice is on top of that.”

“Well, it’ll be over by Christmas so you’ll have no distractions next term.”

I nodded; pretend you’re on the same page… don’t let anyone know…

Of course it was still raining at 4PM so my mother rang Ciaia’s house to say that she would pick her up for study. She turned to me:

“Well, go on, get changed. Don’t keep them waiting! Wear the blue mini and your brown boots.”

I changed in my bedroom. My father was reading some Department of Agriculture forms at the kitchen table and I had to slink past to pick up my waterproof coat in the wet-room and went out the back door. I sat in the car waiting for my mother; she was right behind me. She started the car and drove away, much slower than usual.

“All right; what’s wrong?”

I suppose there had been no mistaking my bad humour.

“Dad’s not happy; is he?”

My end question was purely rhetorical.

“He’ll be OK; he just got a surprise when he saw the act. I suppose the Twins picked those dresses?”

“Ciara and Aoife spotted them first; then we all agreed that they would do. What’s wrong with them anyway?”

“Nothing’s wrong with them; maybe we weren’t expecting anything that… that dramatic.”

We were at Ciara’s house by now. My mother gave a dainty toot on the car horn then blasted up the demister to clear the windscreen. Ciara came out on her own, climbed into the back seat and we headed off to Niamh’s house. Ciara and I went directly into the Barn; the Twins were already there. I noticed that my mother hadn’t driven away so presumed that she had called in to Niamh.

We had to complete a French essay for school tomorrow. We started off by rehearsing a lot of descriptive phrases, the weather, the house, the road, all of which helped to bulk up the content and could be included in a myriad of essays, then we got down to writing.

We finished study at 7pm and were getting ready for one final practice session of the day when Niamh appeared. We all had to get our dress shoes and do the rehearsal in them. That meant changing tights and Saoirse again gave me her white cotton gloves to ensure the sheer tights did not snag in my false nails. I had forgotten these! Once ready, we tried a few alternative openings for the show: Whirling around in turn as opposed to together; left and right pairs whirling inwards simultaneously; starting facing the audience. It was all good practice, but in the end we reverted to keeping to our original plan. It did help me get used to wearing the heels however, by the time we had run through our repertoire, my feet hurt.

By the time we were ready to go the rain had stopped, but the roads were very wet and my mother picked us up, as usual dropping Ciara off first and then going to our house. My shoulders were tense as I hung my coat in the wet-room; could I get in and changed before I met my father? No chance! He was in the kitchen as I came in, just taking a bread pudding from the oven.

“Thought this would be a change from the usual.”

Almost immediately I recognised it as a kind of peace offering; he knew that this was a favourite of mine. My shoulders relaxed:

“I’ll just go and wash my hands.”

We all sat at the kitchen table enjoying bread pudding and custard. Conversation was light, no inquisitions in relation to exam preparation this time. My mother mentioned that my sister would be home from Boarding School for the relatives preview on 7th December. She had not been at home for the mid-term break as Transition Year (TY) in her school were on a trip to Rome. Given that there was little, if any, academic aspect to TY, my parents had arranged to collect her on Saturday and return her to the school on the Wednesday morning. I was looking forward to that. My mother also mentioned that Ciara’s mother was coming on the morning school run in our car. Apparently they had arranged to meet the Head of TY in our school, one of whose jobs was to set the running order for the Christmas Concert.

Eventually I was ready for bed. This time I remembered to remove my make-up. As I was busy doing this, I noticed my nails. I stuck my head sheepishly back into the kitchen:

“How do I get these nails off?”

“Try a claw hammer!”

My father’s attempt at humour was appreciated; a claw hammer has a fork on the head for removing nails, mostly from timber.

“Stop that you! Here, I’ll give you a hand.”

My mother followed me into the bathroom and eventually my nails were returned to their original state, albeit looking a bit battered!

Head on the pillow, I drifted off…

“He does seem in better form now…”

“Yeah, he must have heard us talking in the Barn; we never knew he was upstairs…”

The following morning my mother first picked up the Twins and all our schoolbags from Niamh’s house, then on to Ciara’s. Ciara squeezed in the back while her mother sat in the front passenger seat. As we were about to pull off, Aoife remarked that Ciara didn’t have a seat belt on; there were only three belts in the back of the car. Saoirse unclipped herself from the middle seat belt, yielding it to Ciara, unclipped my belt, snuggled in beside me, and clipped us both into the one belt.

“Sorted!” she announced and my mother pulled off again.

We arrived at the school, dropped our French essays into the box left beside reception, and headed off to class. The mothers went to meet the Transition Year head; we would find out what they had managed to negotiate for our part of the show when we got home later that day.

French Class was first after lunch. The teacher, Mr. Dunleavy, whom we called Mon Sewer in a disparaging play on the French word for “Mister”, was middle-aged, red-faced, and not very good at teaching. He shuffled in with the bundle of essays and sat down at the front of the class.

“Can the Glandoo students please stand up?”

Glandoo, an anglicisation of the Irish form of the name, was how the Black Valley was mostly called in Ballymore. We were sitting close together, not sharing desks; we tried to avoid this because of our reputation of being a bit cliquish. We slowly stood up, not sure what Mon Sewer was about.

“Well, tell me, which of you wrote the essay for the others to copy?”

We looked at each other; we had prepared collaboratively and had written the essays sitting in the one room, but we had not copied.

“We each wrote our own.” Aoife was the first to respond.

We all nodded.

“I’ll ask you again, who wrote the essay and who copied it?”

Saoirse responded next.

“Like Aoife said, we each wrote our own.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Mon Sewer thought he was being firm, but had just made an error.

“Given that you have decided to call us liars in front of the class, I think you should call the Principal.” I couldn’t believe that I’d just said that.

Mon Sewer turned a deeper shade of red. The rest of the class was beginning to shift uneasily. This form of aggression between students and teachers was just not normal in our school.

“Sit down, we’ll see about this later.”

Nobody moved to sit. Aoife inclined her head slightly towards the door. Leaving our books on our desks, we walked out of the classroom. Mon Sewer said nothing; none of us looked at him. Outside on the corridor, Ciara, probably as upset as me at what we had just done, asked:

“What now?”

“We’re going to the Principal, before he does.”

Aoife was the ringleader and was pushing this. In fairness, she had a point; the first person to get their story out sets the scene for any adjudicator. We headed towards the Principal’s office. The School Secretary’s office was beside his and she acted as a kind of unofficial gate keeper.

“We would like to speak to Mr O’Dwyer; is he in?”

This was unusual; an unannounced delegation never sought to see The Madra. This unflattering nickname, a mixture of the English definitive article and the Irish word for dog was how he was universally known throughout Ballymore. A local from a farming background, he had returned to teach in this school immediately on receiving his H.Dip. in Education and had stayed there all his career, eventually making it to Principal almost by dint of longevity. A gruff man, it was rumoured that he had smiled twice in his life, once on getting the teaching job back in this his hometown, and the second time when his now wife of thirty years said “Yes.”

Sensing something was afoot, the Secretary knocked on his door, went in and reemerged in a few minutes:

“He’ll see you now.”

We shuffled in. Not invited to sit, we stood before his desk.

“Well?”

He looked at us expectantly.

I thought that I had better start this on a polite note as I was afraid that the Twins might launch into a tirade.

“We’re sorry to disturb you Sir, but we have just had a difficult discussion with Mr. Dunleavy. He accused us of copying our essays in front of the full class.”

“And I suppose that you’re going to tell me that you didn’t?”

“No Sir, we each wrote our own.”

Ciara had finally found her voice; the Twins, still in their first year in the Irish school system, were holding fire, despite having started the war!

“Then why did Mr. Dunleavy think that you had copied from someone, or each other?”

“We can’t speak for him, Sir”

Aoife had joined the discussion; cleverly declining to speculate.

“And if I were to tell you that this is not the first time that this issue has been discussed, what would you say?”

I had half expected this and was prepared. We all knew that our essays must be similar as we had prepared together, we did this all the time, for History and English as well as French.

“We haven’t discussed this with anyone else; we don’t copy.”

This was looking too planned as we were taking turns answering; this last response had been from Saoirse.

The Madra sighed, leaned back in his desk, and looked at us.

“I didn’t say that it was discussed with you; it has been discussed in the staffroom. Your English and History Essays have also been remarkable similar. How can you explain that?”

I thought that I’d better come in again. I had figured in my mind where I wanted this conversation to go and didn’t want anyone else in the group to bring it in a different direction.

“Well, you do know we study together, Sir, and that might mean that we approach our work in the same way. We help each other, but we don’t copy. We couldn’t have copied from each other in our mid-terms, could we?”

We had all done well in our mid-term examinations, conducted in a supervised environment in classrooms.

“What do you mean, study together?”

We had not told the rest of the class about our study arrangements, nor the teachers. Aoife responded:

“We have our own study club, Sir. We all work together under my mother’s studio after school. The School Study Club starts too late for us.”

“Ah, I see. How long have you been doing this?”

“Since almost the start of the year.”

“OK, so what happened today?”

Aoife recounted the story of our incident with Mon Sewer, almost calling him by that name but recovering quickly and changing it mid-word to Monsieur Dunleavy.

“So why did you leave class? You could have brought this up later with Mr. Dunleavy.”

Saoirse responded, picking her argument carefully. It was like she had tuned into my thinking.

“He chose to call us liars in front of the whole class. If we had accepted that then, everybody would have believed him, and we would be known as cheats and liars throughout the whole school. If he had approached us privately, none of this would have happened.”

The Madra ruminated.

“Go back to your next class when French is finished; we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

We shuffled out, none of us happy with the situation that developed, and headed back towards our own classroom. In our school, the teachers moved from classroom to classroom, a much more efficient arrangement than moving all the students. A small number of students, mainly in the senior years, moved for specific subjects. The corridor quickly filled up with fast-moving teachers and some senior students and we just about made it to our classroom before the Maths teacher arrived. Thankfully we didn’t meet Mon Sewer on the corridor. We resumed our seats and our classmates didn’t have time to question us until Maths class was over. Then there was a barrage of questions shouted in our direction.

Aoife stood up and gestured for silence; the hubbub died down. Her words were well chosen:

“We’re sorry for the unpleasantness. The matter is with the Principal and we can’t discuss it any further until we have his response.”

“Discuss what?”

The Civics teacher had just arrived to take this final class of the day.

“I’m sorry Miss, it was a class issue. I’d prefer not to make it public.”

Aoife had handled that well; it would, of course become public as soon as school was finished for the day, but we would not be responsible for broadcasting it. The Civics teacher, a youngish lady and new to the school, smiled and shrugged:

“Whatever.”

She had a way of relating to us that the older teachers could not.

Class finished, we walked together to the gate, avoiding discussions with the other students as the word of the Battle of Mon Sewer V. The Glandoo Gang spread like wildfire. My mother picked us up, I climbed into the front seat, the girls into the back.

“OK; what’s happened?”

It was obvious that we were a very subdued gang. I related the story.

“So, you’ll be talking to The Madra tomorrow?”

I did mention that everybody called him The Madra!

“Yes; that’s what he said.”

“Don’t worry girls; this will be sorted!”

Was my mother talking to Aoife, Saoirse and Ciara, or was she including me?

“By the way, don’t you want to hear when you’re singing?”

Truth be told, this had disappeared from our minds.

“When?”

The words practically fell from all our mouths at the same time.

“Actually, Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh have two slots, just before the half time break, and just before the end.”

“Huh?”

“We explained that you’re a very lively act, lots of energy. So rather than a long show, you’re getting two wrap up slots, to end the halves on a high note.”

“So we’re not actually in the competition?”

Aoife was articulation what we were all feeling; we were an interval act only.

“Competition?”

Clearly the adults hadn’t got their brief right. The successful act went through to the Réaltaí Scoile, School Stars, competition, first at County level, then Provincial, then National.

“Girls, we did well to get you two slots. Just enjoy the performance; a karaoke act is not going to get to the finals!”

We had to agree. We knew that Transition and 5th Year were putting on some serious plays by Ibsen and Brecht, so our relatively frivolous interval act had no hope of progressing. First (us) and Second Year acts were effectively regarded as being in training for a possible future role. Nevertheless, we now had a problem; we had planned to do four songs, one each. With two slots, we could probably fit in six numbers; our entire repertoire!

We arrived at Niamh’s house and had our pre-study snack of real Oxtail Soup with Salad Rolls and got down to preparation. As usual, we would start off with a practice session so I changed in the bathroom while the (other?) three girls got dressed in the Twins bedroom. We split our repertoire into two and practiced two sessions of three songs each. We also varied the start. The first time we all opened facing away from the audience and twirled around together, the second time we did it individually. At least we had practiced this before. Ciara was operating the karaoke machine; there was no sign of Niamh. We also added two new songs, and started to practice them, both from ABBA, Mamma Mia and Voulez Vous. We were now confident in our ability to get these right in the time available. As we were getting down to study, opening practice complete, we heard the sound of tyres on gravel; my mother and Niamh had returned; we heard later this was from a “war” conference in Ciara’s house. The Ghleann Dhubh girls would have some heavy calibre support tomorrow.

Niamh and Ciara’s mother joined us for the last practice session after we finished study, Niamh again insisting on us wearing our show shoes. Then Ciara’s mother drove Ciara and I home. Though my parents did their best to calm me down, I was very worried about school the next day. It wasn’t in our nature to get engaged in a war with the teachers, even Mon Sewer, and I wasn’t at all confident that The Madra would be reasonable in his decision. It is much easier to be brave when there’s other people around, all in the same boat. Now I felt that I was very much on my own and envied the Twins. They always had company! Eventually I went to bed, almost exhausted from worry, and drifted into a fitful sleep…

“I suppose that they wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for the Twins…”

“Yeah… they’re a bit headstrong, like their mother…”
**************************

Dawn arrived, well more correctly, it was eventually time to get up as the sun wouldn’t rise until almost 08:30. I didn’t much feel like eating, had some porridge and my mother packed a buttered scone as a mid-morning snack, feeling that I would need it by then. She drove, us four in the back again and Ciara’s mother in the front passenger seat. We were warned not to discuss the War with anyone; we had already agreed this amongst ourselves. The two mothers went in search of the Principal, something he was doubtless expecting.

Co-incidentally, the first two classes were English and History, both of which had been mentioned by The Madra in the course of our discussion yesterday. At the end of third class, Science, just before our short morning break, the teacher quietly told us to go to the Principal’s office. So off we trooped, the Twins seeming rather nonchalant, Ciara and I less so. This time there were some chairs and The Madra asked us to sit down.

“Right, I accept that you weren’t copying from each other. But in the circumstances, would you think that it was not unreasonable for Mr Dunleavy to think that you did? Your essays contained a lot of similar phrases, and you all chose to spend quite a lot of time describing the weather, the surroundings, the clothes?”

Aoife, the natural leader, responded first.

“Thank you. And I personally accept that Mr Dunleavy could have formed a suspicion, but our protest was about being accused publicly, then being told that we were not believed.”

We all nodded. A sense of relief had swept over me on hearing The Madra’s first words, and it was now a matter of getting to some form of agreement to bring the matter to a mutually acceptable conclusion. Even at that age, I realised that Mon Sewer could not be publicly humiliated; he would be unable to retain control of any class if that were to happen. I chimed in…

“Sir, given that this was already discussed in the staffroom, and nobody spoke to us before Mr Dunleavy made a public accusation, maybe the fault is not only his?”

The Madra nodded. To give him credit, he accepted an implicit criticism of himself in good grace.

“That’s true; but how does this help to fix French class?”

“Maybe Sir, if you were to visit French class as it starts and explain that the Teachers did not know that we were studying together, but NOT copying, we could say that we should have told you that we had a Study Group going?”

Aoife wasn’t impressed.

“What have we to apologise for? We did nothing wrong!”

“Maybe if we’d said that at the outset that we prepared together, it wouldn’t have gotten as bad as it did.”

The Madra kept quiet, seeing that Saoirse’s reply to her twin sister was moving this towards a satisfactory conclusion. Ciara, probably reflecting a discussion with her own parents, summed up the reality of the situation succinctly:

“After all, we have to work together for the next six years. I can speak for us if you prefer Aoife?”

Ciara’s question to Aoife reflected the fact that we all regarded her as the leader, even her twin sister deferred to her.

“Thanks Ciara, I’ll do it.”

Aoife also regarded herself as the leader and was taking responsibility for “her” team!

The Madra and Aoife exchanged a few more words, refining the terms of the proposed treaty, but they all washed over me. I was so relieved that I could have cried; it was literally like a heavy weight had been lifted off my shoulders. We eventually were sent off to class, late, but the teacher simply accepted our apologies as we joined class midway through.

Next class was French; there was an air of expectation amongst the class but nobody got to question us as the Principal and Mon Sewer entered almost immediately on the other teacher’s departure. The inter class hubbub had barely started to rise when it immediately died down. The Madra, in as pleasant a voice as he could muster, was the first to speak.

“I understand that there was a misunderstanding in class yesterday. We weren’t aware that the Ghleann Dhubh girls… and one boy of course… had a Study Group of their own and prepared collaboratively. That meant that their essays had some similarity, but we are happy to confirm that they definitely were not copied.”

I noticed that the Madra, being completely immersed in the Irish language, had used the proper Irish words for the Black Valley as opposed to the common anglicisation “Glandoo”. I also noticed that either he had initially forgotten about me, or had subliminally classed me as a girl before correcting his “mistake”. I didn’t take any offence.

Aoife was on her feet.

“Go raibh maith agat, a Mháistir.”

“Thank you, Sir.” It was customary to use Irish for simple expressions such as Thank You, Excuse Me, etc. when addressing teachers, and often informally amongst students as well. She continued:

“The misunderstanding would not have occurred if we let you know of our studying arrangements. We didn’t foresee any issues arising so didn’t think to mention it.”

“Well, it’s all resolved now?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The Madra nodded and was exiting the door when Mon Sewer added his peace offering.

“On that basis, they were all very good essays. Well done.”

Aoife had already resumed her seat so we all murmured our thanks; class resumed as normal.

We got questioned at lunch break, naturally, but we stuck to the story. It had been a misunderstanding, all cleared up now, nothing to see here, move on! What did result, although not immediately apparent, was that the perception of the Glandoo Girls (and boy) as being cliquish was reinforced and we’d developed a reputation as not a gang to be trifled with. We were also becoming known simply as the Glandoo Girls; it was meant to be unkind to me as I was already known for not participating in the schoolyard soccer games or the Gaelic football team. I was privately quite happy with the name; my father would be less so if he found out. I hoped that Ciara would not mention it at home; her father would be sure to share the problem with mine.

That evening, Tuesday, as we got ready for our pre-study session, we decided that we were in danger of over-practicing and that we would do an exercise class, cheerleading of course, before study, and a practice session afterwards. We had just finished this and were getting down to our books when Niamh appeared. Apparently, the mothers had decided that, as we were doing two, well-separated, sessions at the concert, we should change between them so we would need a second outfit. We quickly decided that we would get the white mini, white bolero jacket and salmon/pink sweetheart tops that we had spotted in the first shopping centre that we visited. Niamh would drive us again; another opportunity for her to bring some paintings to her dealer.

The week flew by; we did our exercise classes and practice sessions each day. On Thursday evening, as she drove us from school, my mother announced that she would be bringing us all to Ballyhowan immediately after school on Friday to have our nails done. This seemed a bit extravagant. We could just have done a paint job; mine were now growing just long enough to look well when varnished, but still short enough not to be immediately noticeable in school. This was a delicate balancing act for sure! Then a problem came to mind; I obviously would be wearing my normal school uniform, as would the girls. Problem was, mine was a boy’s: I couldn’t get my nails done in that!

“No problem; I’ll bring your tan dress and you can change into that.”

My mother’s solution had a flaw.

“Where will I change?”

“In the car, like last time!”

Saoirse, seeing my discomfort, giggled:

“Don’t worry; we won’t look.”

The following morning, my mother gave me a pair of black knickers and brown tights.

“Wear these under your trousers; it’ll make it easier to change in the car.”

The brown tights wouldn’t match the blue school uniform trousers, so I pulled my own socks over them. It made my shoes a bit tight, but bearable. I felt good at school that day, wearing the knickers and tights, even if hidden under a boy’s trousers. I was also warm; tights under trousers worked well on a cold day!

My mother picked us up as promised at 4pm. Aoife had to take my usual place in the front seat while I changed in the back. This was easier that I had feared with my tights, always the most difficult, already on. I had my own long waterproof coat which wasn’t ideal but my mother did not want any glue or varnish to find its way onto my sister’s good brown woollen coat. Anyway, sometimes girls will wear boy’s coats, or so I consoled myself. Traffic was light; my mother double-parked outside the beautician’s shop and turfed us all out before driving off to park the car. We were expected, and, two at a time, were “fitted” with matching sets of long nails, like before, pink and slightly sparkling.

Niamh picked me up last the next morning so I ended up in the front seat of her Landcruiser. As before the back was completely packed with pictures in a variety of sizes. She got to the shopping centre in Galway and, knowing what we were looking for, we got down to the business of fitting on the outfits. This time I had worn nude tights under my brown ones so it was just a matter of pulling off the brown tights in the changing room. I hadn’t wanted my father to see me wearing the nude tights leaving the house; I thought that it would look too “girly”. In retrospect, this made very little sense; how does a boy dressed almost convincingly as a girl, NOT already look girly? Even worse, my mother had stitched “chicken fillets” into the bra that I was wearing under my camisole top, to give me “more shape”!

Niamh stayed with us as we got ourselves fitted out, looking through the shoe section of the shop. Eventually, ably assisted by her daughters, she had picked out white, high-heeled ankle boots, with heels slightly higher that our other show shoes. They looked thrashy, but worked well enough for our purpose. Then, just as I thought we were finished, Aoife decided that the nude tights that we were all wearing were not optimal and went hunting through the tights section. This was a down-market cheap shop so no shop assistants were hovering, or even available, but she eventually found a shade that she said matched the salmon/pink tops we were wearing under our little bolero jackets. We all had to try these on as well.

We packed up all our purchases and Niamh paid. No discount this time; the store specialized in selling cheap, almost disposable, clothing at rock bottom prices and was not in the business of negotiating. Take it, or leave it. We all traipsed out of the shop, stowed our purchases in the Landcruiser, and went back to the small corner snack bar where Aoife had enthralled the lads last week with her legs. Sadly, they weren’t here this time so we had our cokes without entertainment and left.

I, and presumably the girls, had expected that Niamh would now dispose of her paintings and head home. She parked in the same school carpark as the previous week, close enough to her art dealer in any event, paid the fee, declined our offer to carry the paintings and led us to a hairdressers, just a little way up Shop Street, near the store where we had bought our initial show outfits. She then disappeared, presumably to sell her artwork. Again, like the salon in Ballyhowan, this hair appointment was obviously pre-arranged as we were quickly seated, washed and blow dried. From there, and again clearly by prior arrangement, we were passed to the beauticians next door, our make up removed, and redone, this time quite heavily. The beauticians were conferring, working to a plan, but wouldn’t tell us.

“You’ll see, my dear”, was all the response that I could get.

Eventually, Niamh returned and we were all ready. She had a brief discussion with the manager of the beauticians, and we all headed off. I didn’t see her pay; maybe she had pre-paid? We turned to go back to the Landcruiser before being corrected and we ended up in the store where we bought our matching dresses et al last week. And there we were, in person, but also on a life-sized picture above the area where last weeks dresses were on display. There was a camera, lights and backing screen set up in a corner of the store and suddenly the penny, or rather the Euro cent, dropped. Apparently our modelling debut had been a success, the picture had proved to be very popular, and we were to do some more.

“You could have told us!”

The Twins could even talk to their mother in perfect unison!

Niamh smiled:

“I didn’t want you to be nervous.”

“Us, nervous?”

Niamh was probably thinking about Ciara and me; the Twins were in their element.

We had a lady assigned to look after us, probably an assistant manager, and the photographer was the same lady as last week. The manager came, spoke briefly to Niamh, then left about his business. The next two hours were a frenzy of changing, posing, being photographed, changing again, repeat. It was hard work, and I absolutely loved it. It felt like I got to wear almost every item in the early teen girl section of the shop. I quickly lost any inhibitions and just imagined myself as a girl, delighting in dressing and looking, at least moderately, pretty. The problems of last week, in particular the incident with Mon Sewer, seemed a world away. The shop was open for business and shoppers stopped as they wandered around to look at the scene; it didn’t bother me. Some of them noticed that we were the girls in the big picture, looking up at it, then at us and moving on to do whatever they had come to do in the first place.

I realised, at some point, that I didn’t mind having an audience.

Eventually, it was all over. Exhausted, we changed back into our own clothes and prepared to leave. My eye was taken by a girl’s coat, fawn coloured, double breasted, long, warm. I went over to look at it, feel its texture, admire the oversized cuffs on the sleeves.

“Try it on”.

Saoirse was beside me. She held my own coat while I slipped the coat on. Just a little big.

“You’ll grow into it.”

Saoirse was echoing a phrase common amongst older folks when buying for us kids.

But I knew that I wouldn’t. In just a few weeks this adventure would be over. There was no point in buying a relatively expensive coat for that length of time, and I knew that I wouldn’t have the girl-time left to “grow into it.” I looked at Saoirse, smiled and shook my head. Back to reality, I felt a little sad; maybe not just a little. I hung the coat back on the hanger, slipped my own back on, hitched the strap of my bag across my chest in case a knacker tried to grab it, and moved over to where Ciara and Aoife were standing near the door, waiting for Niamh to finish her conversation with the manager. He had a brown envelope in his hand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Saoirse pick up the coat and go over to Niamh. The fawn colour would look lovely with her hair.
****************************************************

We all crowded into a high street Pizzaria, got a booth by the window, and set about deciding what we would have. This was rather a treat for us; there were no good pizza places in either Ballymore or Ballyhowan. And this was our second Saturday in a row; good job we had resumed the Cheerleading exercises! The place was bright, a bit garish and one wall was covered with pictures of minor and major local celebrities who, at some stage, had graced the establishment with their presence. Niamh had a piece of paper, literally the back of an envelope, and she was doing some calculations; the girls were still excited, coming down from their high on the photo shoot, and I was recovering, slowly, from the “Down” that had hit when I’d decided against buying the coat. Eventually we got our orders in to a rather harried waitress who had probably put up with more gangs of young teenagers that day than she would care to count. Shop Street on Saturday could be like that.

Eventually Niamh called us all to order.

“Girls, I’ve just being doing the figures and you’ve now covered all the costs of your costumes, makeovers and the Karaoke set and with some left over.”

It somewhat washed over us. Teenagers often don’t have a great understanding of money. And in fairness, the show outfits that we had bought today were cheap; last weeks purchases had been at half price from the last, our initial, modelling job. I had no idea what the Karaoke machine had cost.

“Don’t forget your diesel for our two drives here.”

Being from a farm, I knew that fuel was an expensive input, and road diesel even more so. Niamh demurred:

“I’d have been coming here anyway with some paintings.”

“You could have fitted in all the paintings on one run if we weren’t with you.”

Like me, Ciara knew about the cost of fuel. Niamh reflected for a few seconds; she didn’t want to appear to be avaricious.

“OK, one trip is fair.

I’m going to put cash into envelopes for your mothers to repay what they have already contributed and I’ll hold the rest as a fund for any more expenses.”

“Actually…”

Saoirse was a bit hesitant. Niamh looked at her expectantly…

“Go on…”

“Aisling’s new coat is an expense; we can’t have her going around in a boy’s jacket, and everybody in the school will recognise it, and she’s already had to buy clothes just to be here, and …”

Saoirse’s words had come out in an uncharacteristic jumble and she lost track of her arguments in the middle of her sentence. She was sitting beside me, so I had to turn right around to look at her. Normally quick enough to catch the drift of a conversation, this time I was a bit slow:

“I thought you got it for you. It’ll look lovely… just your colour!”

She reached over and gave me a big hug.

“You can lend it to me sometimes!”

I was getting a bit teary; Aoife chipped in:

“Yeah, you definitely have to have a coat. It’ll likely be either pissing, freezing, or both on the day of the concert!”

“Language Aoife; a young lady doesn’t talk like that!”

“Sorry, Mother!”

Aoife’s expression didn’t look in the least contrite. She had used the expression for effect; it wasn’t her usual style of speech.

“And less of the ‘Mother’!”

Niamh preferred everybody to use her name.

I extricated myself gently from Saoirse’s hug, hoping that I hadn’t left any make-up on her dress. Niamh handed me a tissue:

“Just dab gently; there’s a lot of makeup on those eyes.”

I dabbed my eyes, sniffed, dabbed my nose:

“Thanks girls.”

“No; we should be thanking you. A four-girl band is much better than only three of us.”

I guess the Twins and Ciara just didn’t know that they were doing me a favour, not the other way around.

We reverted to some inconsequential chatter and Niamh resumed her calculations on the envelope. That done, she pulled a packet of long envelopes from her bag, obviously just bought at a stationery shop, and started counting money from the brown envelope, that she had received from the shop manager, into three envelopes on which she had written Twins, Ciara, Aisling. She was doing this on the seat between herself and Aoife, so it would not be visible in the pizzeria. We were in a window booth and I noticed a man, outside, apparently reading the menu, posted at the door. He looked in his mid-twenties, shabby to rough, neither clean shaven nor bearded, not at all like the clientele in this place. Either his left eye didn’t align with his right, or he was actually watching Niamh out of the corner of his eye. I looked at him, he spotted me looking, looked back to the menu, then walked off.

“There was a man looking at you.”

Niamh looked up.

“Where?”

“Outside; he saw you counting the money.”

Niamh scooped up all the notes, envelopes and her calculation sheet.

“Better do this later.”

It was late in the day and shops were closing. Service was very slow but eventually our waitress returned with our drinks. She actually smiled.

“You’re the girls on the poster in the store?”

“Oh my; we’re famous!”

The Twins flashed their bright smiles; Ciara and I nodded. The waitress served our drinks and promised that our pizzas were nearly ready. She returned a minute later accompanied by a young, tall man, carrying an old-fashioned, even then, instamatic camera.

“This is George, our manager.”

George smiled, holding the camera up.

“Can I take your picture for our wall?”

This was a bit of a surprise, we weren’t exactly known for anything other than being the occasionally stroppy Glandoo Girls, and that only in Ballymore.

Niamh looked at him, quizzically.

“All the teenagers in town know them by now”, George explained. “The picture will appeal to them, and will last just about as long as the poster in the store!”

Knowing Niamh, I had expected her to ask for free pizzas in return; she didn’t.

“Is that OK, girls?”

We nodded, rather pleased with our newfound celebrity status, even if only temporary. Niamh gathered up all our coats and bags, playfully pushed Aoife out of the booth so she could get out herself, and stood behind George. She and her girls often interacted like sisters, not mother and daughters. A few people were watching from other booths; we arranged ourselves around the booth table.

“At least we’re all made up for a picture.”

Ciara reminded us, what we had mostly forgotten, that we were still heavily painted up from the modelling job.

It was now darkening rapidly outside and George had to drop a window blind or the picture would also contain his own reflection.

“Big smiles!”

We posed, George took the picture, waited for it to develop, declared himself satisfied, waved it a bit to dry it off and showed it to us. It looked OK, nothing spectacular, but all right for his collection. He asked Aoife, now on the inside by the window where Niamh had been sitting to open the blind.

“I’ll put this up when it’s dry”.

George headed off holding the photograph carefully by one corner. Niamh dumped our coats and bags on the seat and excused herself while she headed off to the ladies’ room with her own coat and bag. Our pizzas arrived while she was gone; no matter she didn’t take long. She sat at the edge of the booth, a pile of bags between her and Aoife while Ciara, Saoirse and I occupied the other bench. With the blind open, we could look out at the passers by in the street; they could look in at us. Young lads sometimes returned for a second pass; Aoife was doing her leg display trick again!

Eventually, meal finished, it was time to go. Niamh went to the counter to pay the bill as we all got up, pulled on our coats, bags across our chests, and got ready to go. Ciara stopped me as I went to pull on my waterproof coat; Saoirse took the new fawn coat out of its shopping bag and she and Aoife held it as I slipped it on in the very narrow confines of the pizzeria. Niamh joined us, her bag hanging on one shoulder, and we spilled out into the street. We turned left, towards the car park. I looked around and thought I spotted the man I’d seen looking at Niamh as she counted the money. He was with two young teenage lads. There were very few people around by now, except for a relatively large gang of “crusties” drifting, apparently aimlessly down the street. These latter were a type of hippy who made their living selling various forms of what was essentially rubbish, but which they classed as art, in a small market close by. They were harmless; often very nice, people who had abandoned the mainstream.

I walked alongside Niamh as we formed a loose gaggle strolling down Shop Street.

“That man, he was across the street.”

“Was he with two lads?”

How did she know this?

“Yes.”

I pretended to look in the window of a Jeans shop.

“The lads are following us. The man is a long way back.”

“Tell the girls.”

I knew that Niamh wanted me to use Irish; feral street kids were unlikely to understand it. Her own Irish wasn’t yet good enough. I spoke loudly enough for all the girls to hear me.

“Tá beirt gadai in aice linn.” (There are two thieves beside/close to us).

I’ve always regarded it as slightly ironic that one letter separates the Irish words for thieves and police. The gaggle tightened. Niamh stopped to look in another shop window. We were nearly at the end of Shop Street. There was only ourselves, the probable thieves, and the clutter of “crusties” around. They drifted over towards us.

“Hi Niamh.”

One of the crusties, long hair and beard plaited with beads, dressed in what looked like a collection of cast-off Indian clothes from an old western movie, didn’t look directly at Niamh as he looked in the same shop window.

“Hi Man. Those two lads; they’re going to go for my bag.”

The two feral lads were looking in another window; not very convincing as it was the blacked-out window of a shop undergoing renovation.

“Yep, thought so; stay safe.”

“Thanks Man.”

“OK girls, nice and slow towards the car.”

We gathered protectively around Niamh, who didn’t seem the least bit concerned, and shuffled off towards the car. We rounded a corner, twenty yards to the gate of the school where our car was parked.

“Now fast; don’t run”.

We moved. I glanced behind, no sign of the feral lads. We got to the school gate. There was a young man there, probably a school caretaker or even a teacher doing voluntary work to boost the school’s income with parking charges. We stopped.

“Did a man come in here, a bit rough, not shaven, long grey coat, no hat?”

The young man looked up:

“Not in the last 10 minutes; you OK?”

Niamh nodded.

“Close Encounters of the Handbag Snatching Kind”.

He looked concerned.

“Where’s your car?”

“Round the back.”

“I’ll walk you there; nobody coming in now anyway.”

People paid a flat rate on entry. With the carpark due to close shortly, there would be no more custom today. We walked to the car and got in. Aoife volunteered for the front seat this time. Niamh thanked the attendant who waited until we were all in, doors locked and lurching off towards the gate. We kept our bags on the floor of the car, even though there was little real danger now, and drove away in the almost non-existent traffic. We were all on an adrenaline high.

“What just happened?”

We were halfway to Tuam by the time we’d recovered and Aoife, alongside Niamh in the front, articulated what was on all our minds.

“We’ve got to thank Aisling; she saw the bad guy first and told me. Then we both saw him outside the pizzeria.”

“But you hadn’t seen him the first time; how did you know that was him?”

“Elementary, my dear Aisling;” Niamh was obviously watching Sherlock Holmes on TV. “He was with two lads, too young to be his brothers and too old to be his sons. And they were all watching the door. I was suspicious of them, and you confirmed it.”

“But the crusty; where did he come from; how do you know him?”

Aoife was still trying to get the picture.

“Oh, Man? I sent him a message. The manager fellow, George, owed us for the picture so I asked him to send one of his kitchen cleaners down with a note. Everybody knows Man.”

“Is that his name?”

Ciara was incredulous, as were we all.

“That’s how he’s known. Apparently he calls everyone “Man”, so that’s what he’s called.”

“I suppose his wife’s called Woman, and you still haven’t told us how you know him?”

Aoife wanted the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

“His woman’s called Rachel; she’s American, he’s English, and I met him in the art dealer’s. He’s a painter, not bad, but he’ll only do what he needs to keep going.”

“What’ll the crusties have done to the two knackers?”

I was curious to find out. In Ballymore, the ‘knackers’ would have probably needed hospitalisation if caught.

“Not much; they’re all very peaceable people. Just told them that we were their friends and to leave us alone. With that gang of them there, that would have been enough.

And look girls, don’t call them crusties. They’re just different.”

Actually, the name ‘crusty’, unlike ‘knacker’, didn’t really have a pejorative connotation. Niamh wasn’t familiar enough with Irish local slang to have worked this out yet.

“Niamh…”

I still had one unanswered question.

“Yes…”

“You didn’t sling your bag across your shoulder like us, and you even knew that the knackers were after it?”

“There was nothing in it, all in my inside coat pocket.

“But why make it easy for them to get away with the bag, even if empty?”

“If they’d pulled the bag from across my shoulder, chances are I’d be knocked over and hurt. They thought they knew for sure that there was money in the bag, so they would have risked it. Normally they won’t bother going for a secure bag, so wear yours like you do. Got that, girls?”

We all answered yes.

“I don’t think I’ll tell my mother.”

“Me neither”, I responded to Ciara’s statement. “She’d never let me go to Galway again!”

Saoirse, sitting on the opposite side of me to Ciara, caught my arm and half pulled me over to her.

“Well, we can’t have that. Girls do have to have their shopping trips, you know!”

I gave her arm a squeeze; in the darkness of the car I was glad that she couldn’t see my eyes.
********************************

Tempus fugit…

It was now Saturday, 4th December.

As promised, my sister had returned from Boarding School for a few days. Four years older than me, my parents had chosen boarding for her as she would otherwise have been the only Ghleann Dhubh student attending Ballymore Secondary. She was more than happy with the arrangement as boarding gave her access to a range of activities not available to the current batch of Ghleann Dhubh girls (and boy). Having just completed her Junior Certificate last year, this year she was in Transition Year, a mainly non-academic year. Luckily for us, she was working backstage at her own schools much more elaborate equivalent of our Christmas show and had picked up some experience.

And she wasn’t particularly surprised when, on her first day home, her kid brother, wearing her denim mini and polo-neck jumper, headed off after breakfast to the Study Club in Niamh’s: My mother had kept her up to date with developments. She probably found it interesting to have a temporary little sister and insisted on doing a full make-up job on me before I left. Despite the age difference, little wasn’t an accurate description of my size relative to hers. She took after my father’s family, relatively short and dark haired; I resembled my mother’s side, taller, pale skinned and with hair of varying shades of red. Given the effects of human sexual dimorphism on size, my parents were of approximately equal height, something of which I think my father was always rather conscious. My sister was smaller than average for her age and, as I was on the tall side, she was only a little taller than me. Soon, I was told, I would be shooting up past her!

She drove me over to study in my mother’s car, not strictly legal as she only had a Learner’s Permit, but we never took much heed of such trifles in the Black Valley. She watched, with some fascination as, before study, we did our initial cheerleading session and then headed off as we got down to work. We had end of term exams coming up, and limited study time this weekend.

There was a “continuity” or planning session that morning in the town hall, a local recreation facility as opposed to an official building as the name would imply in many jurisdictions. This was to give the organisers or leaders of the various acts an opportunity to see how the stage was to be arranged, how the various acts would occupy and vacate it, how the sound system would operate, lighting, and other essential arrangements to keep the evening from degenerating into a total amateur shambles. The nominal leaders of the acts and the backstage teams were generally students, in practice “guided” by teachers and sometimes parents, and all were expected to attend at some stage during the morning.

The three mothers, along with my sister, went along. My mother drove, towing a well-scrubbed cattle trailer with the Volvo. Niamh’s Landcruiser was a better towing vehicle, but nobody was comfortable with the thoughts of her towing a trailer; her driving was an adventure in itself. They had a chance to scope out the amount of stage that we would have. Not much as it turned out. In order to ensure that we could start quickly after the curtain came down on the previous performance, we would be performing on a narrow strip at the front of the stage, between the main and an inner curtain. When the main curtain closed on the previous act, both times an abridged play, these acts would ensure that they all moved behind the inner curtain which would be drawn across the stage and in front of which we would take position. We would have about five feet, about a metre and a half of depth and as much width as we needed to use, and not a lot of time.

They also borrowed enough chairs from the hall for our own private concert on the evening of Tuesday, 7th December, stacked these in the trailer and reversed the trailer into our hayshed to keep everything dry until needed.

That evening, still Saturday, we all gathered in the barn, mothers, fathers, my sister and Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh to plan arrangements for Tuesday night. Whereas this wasn’t a dress rehearsal, we had to wear our show footwear as our only big remaining concern was that Ciara or I would topple off our shoes during the performance. Using masking tape, my sister marked off our performance area on the floor and we went through both routines. Not wearing a “floaty” dress, I felt a bit more comfortable with my father being there. Routines finished, staying more or less, in the marked off area, we called a halt for the night

The Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh had to study in Niamh’s kitchen the next day, Sunday, as the two fathers, Ciara’s and mine, used our study table, some sheets of plywood and 4x2 timbers to make a stage. Farmers are generally very resourceful, and this was finished by Sunday early afternoon. As we were occupying her kitchen, Niamh and the Twins joined us in our house for roast leg of lamb. As we had had neither a cheerleading nor show practice, I was dressed in my jeans and jumper. I felt strange; by this stage I was normally either in either a cheerleading skirt, blue mini or tan dress when with the (rest of) the girls. Lunch over, we were hunted back to Niamh’s kitchen to resume study. These end of term exams were serious as we needed to do well to stay in the higher, or “honours” class. And stay together.

As we were about to leave, Aoife, alpha female as always, looked at me.

“Aren’t we doing a rehearsal after study?”

I nodded.

“Well, get changed. You can’t come like that!”

I headed off to change into my denim mini. I was delighted that she had noticed as, my father being around, I was feeling slightly self-conscious about changing without a prompt.

We studied while my sister and the adults finished off the stage by tacking some material to the front to disguise the construction, to the probable disappointment of our fathers who were rather proud of their design. Time came to do a test run and a problem arose immediately. We performers couldn’t get onto the stage safely in our high heels using the foldable metal steps that Niamh used to reach higher shelves in her studio. It was thought to be inappropriate that we go up in our feet and then put our shoes on, so my sister went on the stage first to take on the job of steadying us as Ciara’s mother handed us on the steps. A little undignified, but it would work. Other than that, the stage worked out fine, though I was conscious that those in the front row, which would be very close to the stage, would be looking right up our dresses.

So were the mothers when we came to do the dress rehearsal after study on Monday. We started off in our dresses, climbed on stage, with assistance, started facing away from the audience like we would do in our main show, twirled around and started into Who Do You Think You Are?. Other than my clip-on earrings flying off, I thought it went fine. We went through our first act then stopped to change for the second session. As it was raining, we all had to change in the studio upstairs; I was well used to changing with the girls by now. We clip-clopped carefully down the stairs and were told that we would be doing all this particular show in our white minis and bolero jackets. The venue was “too intimate” for the dresses, but they would be fine for the town hall where the front row seats were much further back

“Whatever about the odd flash, you can’t have the front rows looking up your dresses for the full show”, was Niamh’s summary.

The following day was Tuesday, 7th December, the day before what the Dubs (to us country dwellers, these were unfortunate Irish people who had or happened to live in Dublin) called Farmers’ Shopping Day. This was based on a past practice which saw country people descend on Dublin and provincial centres for their pre-Christmas shopping on what was a Catholic religious holiday, 8th December, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Although religious observance was no longer strong, some schools, traditionally having freedom over their opening days within an obligation to open for a minimum number, chose to take this day off. Ours had been one of these, although 2004 was to be the last year as the Department of Education pursued a standardisation policy across the country. This free day was the reason why this preview show, initially conceived as a way to get us prepared to perform in front of an audience, was happening on 7th December: We would have the following day off as a late night was expected. After all, you can’t drag all your cousins in from around the county without providing some beers and nibbles!

Ciara’s mother picked us up from school and dropped us all off at our respective houses. Our schoolbags were secured in Niamh’s studio, locked in case wandering cousins might mess with the artwork. We had decided that we would use it as a dressing room as well. At our house, my mother had prepared trays of sandwiches, mainly ham and cheese along with some egg salad: She knew her clientele. She wrapped these in foil and put them into the back of the Volvo, along with some “slabs” of beer and headed off to help Niamh prepare.

“Well, come on, get dressed, it’ll take time to get you ready!”

My sister’s none to gentle direction confirmed that it would be her, not my mother, doing my warpaint. I wore my tan dress as, being button up, I would not have to pull it over my head as I would have to do if I wore the denim skirt and polo neck jumper. To save time changing, I wore the tights that Aoife had selected for the white mini outfits under my brown tights. All dressed except for the actual dress, I put on my dressing gown and my sister trowelled on the make-up. She was doing this for the stage and, like for the photo shoot, subtly was not the objective.

The party was meant to start at 7pm, with the actual show to run at 8pm. My mother arrived back to our house at 6:30pm, changed and had my sister and myself back at Niamh’s by 6.55pm. There was quite a spread laid out on the edge of the stage. Alongside my mother’s sandwiches, Ciara’s mother had brought cocktail sausages, kept warm in electric pans, and Niamh had prepared some hors d’oeuvres. Beers and soft drinks sat on ice and there was even a few bottles of Vinho Verde with plastic wine glasses for the ladies who might prefer something other than beer. Us performers got to have some food in Niamh’s kitchen and, as the main bathroom was to be used by the guests, we were to use the ensuite in the Twins bedroom. Once we’d finished our food and washed our teeth, my sister fussed around again with my lipstick before declaring herself satisfied. She also helped the Twins and Ciara to lay their makeup on a bit heavier; nobody had thought to brief them on doing stage, as opposed to standard, warpaint.

Now, 7:30pm, my sister was going to join her cousins at the party. Us performers had to exit the house, go through the end of our usual study room and climb the stairs to Niamh’s studio to get dressed. We didn’t want to get involved in the party before the show as this would be too much of a distraction and would not have been practicable for me, for obvious reasons.

There was a mix of two families present, Ciara’s and mine. Niamh’s ancestors had left in the 1950’s and her cousins were all in the US; she had some distant relatives in the County, but did not know them well enough to involve them in this gathering. I had to pass by this group, dressed as a girl in a tan dress whilst wearing stage make up, and not get noticed. And I got away with it, partially because we simply sneaked in and crept up the stairs; partially because each family might suppose that I was from the other family; partially because people only see what they expect to see; partially because the few lads that did look up concentrated on the Twins. We opened the studio door, slipped in, and locked the door behind us. I was ready and dressed first; wearing the show tights under my brown ones was a real time saver. We all had a sense of anticipation, but following the photoshoots, had a sense of performing, at least for a camera, if not an audience. My main worry was what would happen when they realised who I was; some natural reaction was inevitable.

Ciara’s mother was selected to do the introduction. She climbed on the stage at 7:45pm and called the room to order using one of our microphones. Directly overhead, we could hear her as if we were in the room.

She started by introducing herself; half the room need not necessarily have known her before tonight, though some of these actually did. Next she introduced my mother, Niamh, and the two fathers, being careful to give them credit for the stage construction in record time. She thanked all the attendees for coming, asked them all to pitch in to clear the food from the front of the stage, set out chairs, get themselves sorted i.e., go to the bathroom if required, grab a drink and be seated by 8pm. There followed a general hubbub, then a scraping of chairs on the floor, popping of cans of beer and fizzy, a loud whine of feedback from the microphone, then Ciara’s mother’s voice again.

“Thanks again for coming tonight, for what is to be the very first performance of our new Black Valley girl group, Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh.

This group has been put together for the Ballymore School Concert, or maybe Variety Show is a better name. Niamh’s twins, Saoirse and Aoife, and my daughter Ciara wanted to have a four-girl lineup, and have conscripted the fourth member, stage name Aisling, in a very innovative solution to the fact that there are only three Black Valley girls actually attending the school.

So, siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins, everyone, please put your hands together and welcome Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh.”

Niamh started some introductory music, my mother turned down the main lights, my sister climbed on stage to hand us up and Ciara’s mother took her place beside the steps to likewise assist. We clattered down the stairs from the studio in the order we would stand on stage, Ciara, Aoife, Saoirse and finally me. We made our way in line along the wall, were helped on stage, took the microphones that my sister handed to each of us, and took position facing away from the audience. Nobody had had a chance to see our faces yet. With the introductory music playing, we had decided not to stand still as we lined up, just moving our tails and shoulders a little to the beat as we waited for the intro to cut directly to the music for Who Do You Think You Are?

Cue the music, we twirl about and start into our act…. my earring flew off again, ignore it, just keep going…

There was a fresh round of applause as we started, which we just sang through. We were well into this first number when I began to hear the odd voice, faint against the music.

“That’s him.”

“No, it can’t be!”

“It is, I tell you!”

Facing the audience, I could not really see who was talking as they were in relative darkness, but I could sense that word was spreading. It didn’t bother me. Suddenly, as everybody became aware, as if on cue, the audience burst into another round of applause. We kept singing through, almost consummate professionals by this stage.

We did three numbers, Who do you think you are?, Hazy Shade of Winter & Long Train Running in one segment before stopping. We were trying to keep as close as possible to the format for the main gig. We took a step back as Ciara’s mother climbed back up on stage during the applause.

“Well, are they good, or what?”

Another round of applause, some of the cousins chirping in with exclamations such as “Brilliant”, “We love them”, “More!”

“And there will be more, but first, I think you’ve all figured who Aisling is? Give her a…”

Ciara’s mother didn’t have to finish that request before it was drowned out by another round of applause.

“Take a bow Aisling”.

I stepped one step forward, took a deep bow, and resumed my place. Ciara’s mother vacated the stage; we all turned our backs to the audience and Niamh starts the intro music for Walk Like an Egyptian. Twirl around again, one at a time this time. This was a fun number and we were dressed for the part. More importantly, we were really enjoying ourselves. We did three numbers again, Walk Like an Egyptian, Song of The Underground & Really Saying Something before stopping, taking a bow, all on a high and wishing that we had a dozen numbers left. But we had only two for our inevitable encore. These were our ABBA songs, Mamma Mia and Voulez Vous?; we were doing the extended the version of the latter. Of course, someone’s young cousin had to shout out Oui! in the middle of that one, but this was to be expected.

And then it was over.

It was a short show, but the audience had been forewarned of this and were happy. The evening was also a convivial meeting of relatives before Christmas. We scurried up stairs to change, as fast as our heels would allow, with the intention of circulating amongst our relatives for an hour or so. We reckoned that our white outfits would not survive a social engarement. I had a self-conscious twinge as I realise that I would be joining the party in a tan dress… what the hell…I’m staying in character!

Ciara and I were conscious that these were our relatives, so we were determined not to let Aoife and Saoirse feel left out. Not a chance! They were quickly surrounded by cousins from both families, predominantly young lads, vying for their attention. I was mobbed by the girls, mostly intrigued at how I had managed to transform into a girl. I avoided replying in detail, just that my sister and mother had done the make-up jobs. Saoirse eventually extricated herself from the group of lads and joined the girls group. Aoife stayed with the lads, apparently revelling in the attention of the group, and particularly one of Ciara’s cousins.

Eventually the party broke up around 11pm as the designated drivers herded their charges into the cars cluttering up Niamh’s driveway. We performers had to go back to the studio and carefully pack away our show gear. Our father drove home; he rarely drank more than a can or two. I fell asleep in the car in the 5 minutes it took to get to our house. My sister shook me awake, I stumbled in, heading directly for bed.

“Not so fast; that makeup will ruin your skin, to say nothing about the pillowcase!”
*********************************************************

The sun was warm, even at 10AM. I collected the oars of the rowing boat from the machinery shed where we kept two pairs hung carefully on the wall. This was my first time using the boat this year, the first time I had felt able to bring it out. I walked the 200 yards to the lake and waded in. The boat, fastened by its painter to a post on the shore, was deliberately left some way out to stop the cows causing damage by scratching themselves against it. Even out there it wasn’t quite safe now; the last week had been a scorcher and the cows were regularly found standing in water up to their knees, presumably to cool off. I started to bail the boat with the canvas bucket that we kept tied to a seat for that purpose. Canvas was less damaging to the interior wood and paint than either plastic or metal, and easier to fill. The floorboards had been floating within the boat and I carefully laid these on the bank to dry off whilst I bailed, gently lifting the bucket with my left hand, still nursing my, now hopefully mended, right ribs.

It didn’t take long as most of the water had evaporated over the last week. If I wasn’t actually taking it out, I would probably be putting water into the boat to stop the timbers cracking in the heat. Eventually, I put the floorboards back in place, untied the painter, climbed in and carefully dragged the very wet sandbag that acted as bow ballast to the centre of the boat, thus raising the bow. I punted off with an oar, pushing the boat through the bullrushes that lined the shallow shore into the deeper waters beyond. Once free, I slipped the oars into the rowlocks, swung the boat around, and pulled off gently, testing how much pressure I could exert without straining my right ribcage. Actually, quite a lot as it turned out; I must be almost completely healed.

I rowed slowly, away from the shore, making my way around the hill and headland on which Niamh’s house sat. I could see the studio clearly and as I got around the headland, the back windows of the house itself. Niamh and the Twins had returned yesterday from a six-week holiday in the US; my mother had picked them up in the airport in Niamh’s Landcruiser. We had looked after their house whilst they were away and I would call over tomorrow; they would be resting today after a long flight and road trip from Dublin. I rounded the headland, out of sight of my own house, and shipped the oars. The sun was beating down, its intensity increased by the surrounding water: It must be at least 22 or even 23 Degrees Celsius!

The floorboards were already dry so I took off my t-shirt and shorts and lay them carefully across a seat. There was still some water under the floorboards and I didn’t want to have to go home in wet clothes. The shorts were my sister’s, passed on to me as she grew out of them. They were all the feminine attire that I got to wear these days, and these only around the farm as they were far too short to be worn by a boy anywhere else. I lay down on my back along the length of the boat under the seats, manoeuvred myself until my face was shaded fully by a seat, and closed my eyes. The water was gently lapping against the sides; slap, slap, glug, slap; I drifted off, not to sleep, but to dreaming of the year just passed, well almost just passed. It was now August, one month to go and we would be back in school for Year 2.

We had almost peaked too soon for the Christmas School Show so after the relatives’ concert on the 7th December, we got back down to study once the fathers had restored the Barn to its usual state. We still did our exercise routine every day, but only practiced our act every second day. Our exams were over 4 days, 16th, 17th, 20th, & 21st. 22nd December was the last day of school and the show would start at 5PM on 23rd. Although not an official Public Holiday, most people would be taking 24th December, Christmas Eve, off. We were happy enough with the exams, even French. We thought it unlikely that Mon Sewer would try to get us back for our little rebellion earlier in the term as his marking was potentially subject to scrutiny by other French teachers or even The Madra should we have a problem.

We did practise on the evening of the 21st, quite a bit. We did a dress rehearsal and decided to change the opening pose of our second act. Niamh had suggested that the outfits that we would be wearing, our white skirts, did not lend themselves to our “twirl around” start and that to do this twice was a bit repetitious. We decided to stand, facing sideways to the audience, in “Egyptian” poses as the curtain went up to the opening music of Walk Like An Egyptian, and do a less dramatic half turn to face the audience as we started to sing.

School finished at lunchtime the following day. Apparently, if a school stayed open for a number of hours in a day, the Department of Education counted that as a full day and virtually every school in the country used this loophole to give a half-day on the last day of term. My mother collected me separately whilst Niamh picked up the rest of the girls; I was to go to Ballyhowan for some “final work”. Whatever it was to be, I was rather looking forward to it. I changed in the car again and we arrived at the Beauty Salon where I was re-equipped with talons, the same long, pink and sparkling false nails as previously, before they set about my hair. This time a small trolley was parked just behind my chair while a young hairdresser started to slide what looked like pieces of plastic onto my hair, pulling strands through, before painting them with some rather foul-smelling stuff: Apparently I was getting “highlights”. Then, just as I thought all was finished, I had a gun put to my head, or rather a piercing gun to my ear. Ouch! Ear two; Ouch again! I wonder is this what calves feel when the farmers punch their ears to attach the mandatory yellow tags? Instead of yellow tags I was given small gold-coloured earrings. I looked at myself in the mirror and positively purred, silently of course. I was back at the barn in time for a practice session and the first five minutes were taken up by the girls admiring my new hair, nails and earrings. We did another dress rehearsal before Ciara’s mother dropped me at our house.

The Christmas tree was just about finished and my father was fiddling with the lights. He didn’t notice me at first as I made four mugs of cocoa to have with some panettone. He took a second glance as four of us sat down; my sister had arrived home that day. He said nothing.

On being informed that we had an early start and a long day tomorrow, I decided to call it a night. My sister retired early too as she was also going to be busy tomorrow. Apparently, she would get extra “credits” for her Transition Year (TY) report by being our “manager” for the show. Nobody minded that the credits meant nothing in relation to formal results, nor that she wouldn’t really be our manager. Transition Year teachers have to have some way to justify their year!

It took me a while to go to sleep…

“Won’t he have problems going back to school with the ears pierced and blond hair?”

“He had to have the ears pierced; the clip-ons won’t stay on. The school will all know by then anyway. And the ears will close up in a few weeks and the hair will eventually go back to its normal colour…”

*******************************
The next day was manic!

We had to be in the town hall by 08:30 to see the stage and our own position on it, how we would get on, how we would come off, and when. This was arranged by my sister with the Ballymore TY teacher via her own TY teacher. She was to collect the key from the local filling station and return it when she was finished. Maybe she was earning her credits; the whole purpose of this early morning foray was to keep me from prying eyes. We were not able to check out where we would be changing in the adjacent school; the various acts had been allocated different classrooms as preparation rooms, some segregated by sex if actual changing was required. We had been allocated one room at the back of the school. We did see, thankfully, that a tent corridor had been constructed from the school door to the hall stage door. These were large, military frame tents, courtesy of and erected by the local Reserve unit, so we would have plenty of room.

Then off to Ballyhowan, my mother and sister up front in the Volvo, us four in the back, Saoirse and I sharing a seatbelt. I wasn’t complaining. Back into the Beauty Salon for some hair washing and setting, make up jobs and talon fitting for the other three girls. While this was going on, my sister went to a costume jewellery store and returned with a selection of “danglers”. Everybody, including the Beauty Salon staff, debated which were the best and, decision made, she headed off to get four sets and return the samples. Eventually, all warpaint and primping finished, earrings fitted, we headed back to Ciara’s house where a cauldron of curry and a mountain of rice required demolishing. It being Christmas, the adults, my sister included though not quite an adult, had a beer.

One final rehearsal, in high shoes but not dressed, and Niamh headed off with Ciara’s mother to get the karaoke machine wired into the hall sound system. Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh had to do a final tooth wash and start getting ready. We were to dress in our various coloured dresses, tights, et al. We would don warm opaque tights over our nude tights and wear our normal shoes and coats. We each had a large headscarf to drape over our heads if required to hold our hairdos in place. That way there would be less changing for the first interval act. We each had a bag with our second act outfits, both sets of shoes, spare tights and white gloves. My sister checked each bag meticulously. My mother drove us to the school and parked in the school yard, now operating as a parking lot for the show.

Now for the first test, getting into our allocated classroom without being recognised. Actually, it was easy; nobody heeded us and barely glanced as we made our way into the school, down a corridor filled with muppets and actors in varied costumes. We got to the room, rearranged it to our liking, laid out our second act costumes along with the shoes and spare tights for our first act, on tables under my sister’s fussy management. She herself occupied two desks with a load of makeup and some bottles of water. Satisfied, we headed off to the town hall, my sister locking and retaining the room key.

Nerves make me want to pee… even now. I turned towards the toilets to be grabbed by Aoife who steered me to the Girls’ Room. This was tricky, she came in with me to deflect any trouble, waited until I was finished and accompanied me out. I kept my scarf pulled forward and got out unscathed. We headed down the tent corridor towards the stage door. There a covered fire escape led up to a gallery above the main auditorium where the performers could watch parts of the show without disturbing the audience. We got seats at the back; everyone would be facing away from us once seated. We had left it as late as we could and the lights soon dimmed. There was no introduction…the Muppet Show music started and the curtain went up. The second years were in fine form….

It's time to put on music
It's time to light the lights
It's time to meet the Muppets on the Muppet Show tonight.

It's time to put on makeup
….

They sang the full song and even had the two grumpy old guys at the corner…

One more short light act was followed with the main event for part one of the show, an abridged play by the 5th Years. This meant we had a planned-for 45 minutes. It might be shorter; sometimes nervous actors rush their lines so we had to be ready to be on stage in 30 minutes. We slid out of our seats and made out way to the balcony fire escape door, now guarded by a PE Teacher. She opened it and we crept downstairs, then through the tent tunnel to the school, and all went to the Girls’ Room… very important before going on stage! This time I felt more comfortable with the whole gang around me. My sister was in our dressing room ahead of us, handing us each a pair of white gloves as we doffed our coats and scarves. We removed our warmer tights, slipped on our show shoes and, hey presto!, we’re ready. Not quite: My sister had us redo our makeup, particularly our lipstick.

Next big test: Make our way to backstage without me being recognised, no coats or scarves this time. We headed off, attracting more attention this time in our mix of brilliantly coloured dresses, makeup, heels and hair. I did attract some attention, curious looks, who’s that with the Twins & Ciara? We just smiled and minced our way through the tent tunnel to the backstage entrance. Once in, we moved towards the sound desk where Niamh was standing alongside the students and teacher running this aspect of the show. She passed us our four mics, turned off, and waited with us. We continued to get attention, more for the shortness of our dresses than curiosity about me, and the Twins were the centre of attention. Suited me; I made sure not to catch anyone’s eye.

The stage manager held up an open hand, fingers spread, five minutes. Then, applause for the previous act and we’re on. Sound system connected to Niamh’s machine, mics on, tap each in turn to check working, then climb on stage and wait. We could hear the compere talking; he had had to fill the time until the stage manager indicated ready. Then…

“And now, before we get to the interval, we have a treat for you, our brand-new Girl Band, Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh”.

The music starts, the curtain raises, and we’re off. Twirl around, dresses float up, expected whistles, cheers, ignore them, keep going. No earrings flying off this time. Everything goes like clockwork, lateral switches to keep the lead singer off the flanks get more whistles and cheers and, quite quickly, we’re finished. Deep bow; the curtain falls to a good round of applause. Adrenaline rush over, we exit the stage quickly and start to make our way out of the backstage area.

Third big test: The last act before us has vacated the backstage but the next act, another light contribution, this time from our own year, is making its way in to get ready to come on in 15 minutes. The backstage crew are still there and, with the lights full on, I felt like a rabbit in the headlights. Our own classmates naturally recognized Ciara and the Twins, but not me. They were more than curious but we just smiled acknowledgement of the raft of congratulations on our performance and made our way out through the tent tunnel to our dressing room. Niamh had headphones on resetting her machine for our next performance. She would not leave the kit unattended to prevent accidental interference. My sister had the room open and noticed that we were each still holding our mics in our hand so she collected these to bring back to Niamh. We had forgotten to organize this in all our preperation..

Left alone in the room, we started to change when there was a gentle knock on the door. We got ourselves somewhat sorted.

“Who’s there?”

“Ms Jones; can I come in?”

Ms Jones was our popular young Civics teacher.

“Come in.”

Aoife had taken over again, naturally.

Ms Jones came in, wearing jeans and a jumper, not at all like we knew her from class where she dressed much more formally, as did all the other teachers. She was every bit as friendly as we knew her to be.

“Girls, sorry to disturb you. There’s been a bit of a…, I won’t say complaint…, more a question raised.”

We looked expectantly.

“You see, all performers have to be from the school. I know Aoife and Saoirse and Ciara are, but, I’m sorry, you’re not.”

She was looking directly at me, not unkindly.

“Actually, I am from the school Miss. You have four Ghleann Dhubh students in your class.”

She wasn’t slow, but it still took time for my answer to sink in. Her eyes opened wide before a big smile covered her face.

“You’re not…?”

I nodded as the Twins and Ciara broke into whoops of delight.

“We did it; no, you did it, Aisling!”

“Aisling?”

Ms Jones was curious.

“My stage name for the night.”

She sat on a desk and we chatted away for a while. Our act was great, but how did we get it together? How did we pick the songs? How did the girls persuade me to join in? Then, more seriously, how would we handle the “issue”.

“Well Miss, I thought that I would be recognised in any event, so maybe we should just tell them?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes; they’ll eventually work it out. My sister’s even our manager.”

My sister had returned by now; manager or not, Aoife was now the boss. She quickly agreed with Ms Jones that at the end of our next act, the compere would mention that some questions had arisen and ask her to name her team. We got changed, makeup touched up again, usual visit to the Girls’ Room and back to the backstage area. This time I was more confident as we manoeuvred through the oversized backstage crew to get to Niamh, calling people by name as I wormed past them.

“Excuse me, George” and “Can I get past, Fergal?”, all in a whisper of course.

The five-minute signal; it was nearly time to go on again. Line up, wait for applause to start, mic’s on, tap check, climb on stage, “Egyptian” pose.

The compere is announcing our second appearance.

“Who’s the ringer?”

A shout from the auditorium; a “ringer” is someone, usually very good, smuggled onto a team that s/he’s not entitled to play for.

“All members of Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh are students at the school, and we’ll introduce each of them at the end.”

The compere, a teacher from the school, should have been a lawyer; that was a neat answer, skirting the fact that not all members were girls!

“And now, our last act, and for the second time, Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh”.

Music starts and curtain raises; we swing into it. The “Egyptian” song was fun to perform and like at the relatives’ concert, we were now flying. We got through our numbers without any problems, and I enjoyed every minute of the performance, my last public performance as a girl. We finished and took our bow.

“And now Aoife, can you tell us all about Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh?”

“Go raibh maith agat a mháistir. (Thank you Sir)

We decided to form a Girl Group in Ghleann Dhubh so Ciara, (Ciara steps forward and takes a bow), my sister Saoirse (Saoirse likewise takes a bow) and myself, Aoife, got together to make it happen…

Only we wanted a fourth member; it makes for a better show, so we persuaded our fourth member, stage name for tonight, Aisling, (I step forward, bow & step back), the fourth Ghleann Dhubh student in the school, better known to you as…”

Her voice was drowned out by a chorus of applause, whistling, cheering and general pandemonium. Aoife beckons me out to take a further bow, then we all bow together and get ready to leave the stage.

“Can you hold on a minute girls?”

The compere had been talking to another teacher just at the corner of the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the judges have asked for another five minutes.”

He looked over at Aoife, she nodded and disappeared into the wings. She came back in a few seconds, nodded to the compere again, and whispered “ABBA” to us.

“So, our superlative and surprising group will do another few numbers for us… Ladies and Gentlemen, for the third time, seo libh (here are) Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh.

We did our two ABBA numbers. The extended version of Voulez Vous gives plenty of time to the judges and, as we were finishing, the compere was back on stage.

“Aren’t they great?”

Another round of applause during which he turned around, clapping, and said,

“Stay put girls”.

This was a little concerning as we had no more numbers to do. We waited while the compere invited The Madra on stage to say a few words; thankfully he kept them short. Then the chair of the judges, a mixed panel of 6th year prefects and teachers, climbed on stage and droned on a bit about how hard it was to pick from two such fine plays as put on by Transition and Fifth Years, and the great Muppet act by the Second Years, and all the other acts but finally confirming the Transition Year’s play as the winner. Not surprised, we all clapped as the Student and Teacher leads climbed on stage to accept a small plaque marking their triumph.

Now it was time for the compere to say the final words and send us home, but instead the judge continued on…

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have one other award, of a sort, to make. We are allowed to put forward a nomination to the County Schools Musical Competition where we think that an act has particular merit. It is a separate competition from Réaltaí Scoile with its own selection process. Only ten acts from the County go through to the final which will be held in Ballyhowan at Easter and our nomination, if accepted, will join this competition at semifinal stage.

This year, we are delighted to nominate Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh.”

Having been asked to stay on stage, we had begun to suspect the reason during the judge’s introduction, but confirmation still elicited some joyful hugging amongst the four Ghleann Dhubh girls. Amidst the applause, as the curtain was descending, was I dreaming, or did I hear my father moan…

“Jesus, not again!”

*****************************************

Christmas came and went, as it always does, full more of promise than fulfilment. December 26th, (St.) Stephen’s Day in Ireland, dawned clear and bright. The traditional Christmas Day family lockdown was lifted and we were all free to set forth the to harass our relatives and neighbours. As they were new to the area with few, if any, close local relatives, my sister and I headed over to Niamh’s house. With Niamh and the Twins in tow, we then all headed for Ciara’s house for an hour or so of general merriment before returning to Niamh’s where our parents were to join us in due course. Aoife tarried somewhat longer in Ciara’s; on our way back to Niamh’s, we joked that the arrival of one of Ciara’s cousins, whom she had met at the family concert, has absolutely nothing to do with her reluctance to leave. Eventually, seeing a cousins’ car heading for our house, we scarpered back, bringing Niamh and Saoirse with us, to our own house for some more chat and socialising. All that was missing was a visit from the Wren Boys, but in a townland of four houses this would have been quite a stretch. This was an old tradition, somewhat modified and revived in modern times, where groups of lads and young unmarried men would dress up in straw disguises and go from house to house in a village, singing, playing traditional music and generally clowning around, being rewarded with a drink, or some food for their entertainment.

But the tradition did come up for discussion as Niamh and Saoirse were not familiar with it. Eventually my sister printed off the lyrics of a Chieftains’ song. The Chieftains were probably Ireland’s premier traditional and folk music group.

The wren, oh the wren; he's the king of all birds,
On St. Stephen's Day he got caught in the furze,
So it's up with the kettle and it's down with the pan,
Won't you give us a penny for to bury the wren?

Well it's Christmas time; that's why we're here,
Please be good enough to give us an ear,
For we'll sing and we'll dance if you give us a chance,
And we won't be comin' back for another whole year!

We'll play Kerry polkas; they're real hot stuff,
We'll play the Mason's Apron and the Pinch of Snuff,
Jon Maroney's jig and the Donegal reel,
Music made to put a spring in your heel!

If there's a drink in the house, would it make itself known,
Before I sing a song called "The Banks of the Lowne",
And I'll drink with you with occasion in it,
For me poor dry throat and I'll sing like a linnet!

Oh please give us something for the little bird's wake,
A big lump of pudding or some Christmas cake,
A fist full o' goose and a hot cup o' tay,
And then we'll all be goin' on our way!

The wren, oh the wren; he's the king of all birds,
On St. Stephen's Day he got caught in the furze,
So it's up with the kettle and it's down with the pan,
Won't you give us a penny for to bury the wren?

Eventually, the adults having had a glass or two, and us younger folks being always up for some fun, practiced the song, strolled over to Ciara’s house, formed up outside, and, lyrics in hand, sung it for them. Although invited in, we declined as, with that house already full of Ciara’s relatives, there wouldn’t have been room for us all. We headed back chez nous, joined by Aoife and her now very definite boyfriend! Eventually, as it became dark, quite early at this time of year, the cousins departed all the houses and the population of Ghleann Dhubh eventually ended up in Niamh’s barn, our study room, for a karaoke session. It was a Stephen’s Day as it should be, spent having fun with neighbours and relatives.

The following Monday and Tuesday were displaced Public Holidays, the 25th & 26th having been weekend days. That didn’t much matter on farms where routine winter work continued as normal. Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh now had a new task; get some more material together for a competition of which we knew very little. We agreed to resume our evening routine, exercise, practice and, unbelievably, study. That left the day’s free for family. For me this was slightly tense as my father felt aggrieved that this “ridiculous playacting” was continuing past it’s scheduled end point. My mother and sister felt that I had to play it out and not let down the girls.

We added some more songs to our repertoire, both to have a better show, and to keep us from getting bored: Tina Turner, more ABBA, Carly Simon, Blondie, Bonnie Tyler, Cher, Dixie Chicks, & Everything But The Girl. We also needed some more country numbers; Pussycat’s Mississippi, Shania Twain’s Man, I feel like a Woman (I should have led on that, but we decided to play it a bit safe) and two from Trisha Yearwood, She’s in Love with the Boy, & An American Girl. New Year’s Eve & Day passed by little noticed; neither were much observed in Ghleann Dhubh.

Then it was time to go back to school. This would be my first day back after having put on a show as a girl. I still had highlights and had to wear “sleepers” to keep my ear piercings open. There was some good-natured banter in class; nobody would overstep the mark with the four of us present. But, first break, first day, a second-year footballer twice my size cornered me with a few of his mates in tow.

“Hi Sugar; can I have a kiss, or maybe a BJ”?

His mates laughed uproariously at this high humour. I waited for the ruckus to die down so that I could be heard.

“I’m sorry Gerry; I didn’t realise that you were gay. Even if I was, you’re not my type.”

His mates found this funny too…

“He got you there!”

Football Gerry, being cerebrally challenged, had no adequate response and decided to resort to tactic number two, punching me in the face. He was restrained by one of his mates.

“Look, a bit of slagging is one thing; no bullying!”

I suppose the restrainer didn’t count verbal abuse as bullying, but at least he did draw a line somewhere.

The Twins must have told Niamh as she showed up at our study the next day in a sports top and leggings just as we were about to start our exercise session.

“OK Girls, time to do a few lessons on how to look after yourself.”

We looked on as she continued…

“The first thing is RUN! People who attack you are mostly stronger, so just get out of there. Get among other people, into a shop, wherever you can find.

The second thing is to SCREAM! Someone might hear you and come to help. And the attacker might just be afraid of that too and run away himself.

What I’m going to show you is for the last resort. You won’t be able to win, but you might just cause him enough injury to help you escape.”

It did strike me that I was being shown how a girl might defend herself from my own gender. I felt a bit ashamed to be a male and wondered if girls lived in perpetual fear of being attacked.

Niamh, I learned later, like her now deceased husband, had spent some time in the US Reserves before quitting when the Twins arrived. She was rusty, but had some useful tips, like raking your heel down the shin onto the foot of someone who grabs you from behind, poking eyes as opposed to uselessly flailing fists at someone’s face, punching in the throat as opposed to the chin, heel of hand into nose, groin kicks, elbow jabs… and a few other little tricks. We did a bit of roleplay; we were very mismatched in terms of strength and size. I was the same size but much stronger than Ciara. The Twins were evenly matched and stronger than me. Niamh had to pitch in herself to give the Twins some practice with dealing with a stronger opponent. At the end of what was just a demo, we all agreed that it was worthwhile learning, and we would do some practice once a week in lieu of a cheerleading session.

My father seemed pleased that I was doing something “manly” like self-defence; I suppose he just missed the point.

****************************************

Eventually, the school heard back from the County Schools Musical Competition; the judging panel wanted to see us perform to see whether we would make the grade. We didn’t want our fathers to have to go to the trouble of rebuilding the stage, and mine might not have been enthusiastic about that task in any event, so it was agreed that we would do a show in the town hall featuring almost our entire repertoire and lasting an hour, at 5pm on Thursday, 27th January. This would give time for us to get ready after school, and still finish the show in time for any of the students who cared to attend to be on time for study in the School Study Club. The Parish Priest grumbled a bit about having to heat the hall; he had been at the School Concert and didn’t approve of our act, too much leg and knickers, and particularly as one of the girls was a boy. The Madra persuaded him by announcing that the show was to raise money for the school football teams, boys and girls, was open to the town, and would have an admission fee, all without consulting us! We had just needed the stage to do a private show for the judging panel.

We suddenly had an organisation to back us as Transition Year took over the running of the event, leaving us to concentrate on the show itself. The football teams sold tickets all over the town and to all their relatives, ensuring a full audience. We enlisted the two first-year classes to put on two five-minute interval comedy sketches as we developed three singing sessions of about 15 minutes each. We would start with some slower, ballad-type numbers, then a session combining all our country music, and finish with our most upbeat numbers. We would change outfits each time, backstage as there was no time to do it anywhere else, and a quick trip to Ballyhowan secured four matching denim minis and as close to country-style shirt blouses as we could find.

For something put together in a hurry, the show was a resounding success and quite a bit of money was raised. No-one offered to cover our expenses so we didn’t ask. We would have to wait a few weeks for the results from the judges.

Niamh solved the expenses problem: We headed off to Galway to model the Department Stores “Spring Collection”. No drama this time and we had our meal in Eyre House, somewhat more upmarket than the pizzeria.

Notoriety was beginning to develop on two fronts. There had been some queries in Galway in relation to the teen models and word had also seeped out to schools in towns adjacent to Ballymore that there was a girl group which included a boy. Nobody put the two together, yet. Galway was at least an hour’s drive away from Ballymore and, being a different county, was not involved in our County Schools Musical Competition.

Finally we heard that we were in the Semi-Finals, ours to be held in Ballyhowan on Thursday, 17th February. We would be on stage for three songs and we decided to go upbeat. As half the acts would go through to the final, we were hopeful.

And we aced it again; through to the final. There was one less than edifying incident when the representative of one of the Ballyhowan schools which had been knocked out objected to our going through on the basis that Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh were not a girl band as stated, but had one boy included. The chair of the judging panel probable erred in responding that, even in Ballyhowan, it was now 2005, not 1905. Rather annoyed, the objector remarked that at least there were three girls in the group, and only one, not four, Transvestites. This earned him another sharp rebuke.

We got some feedback from the judges at the semifinal. Our act was good, but we needed to vary the songs to be in with a chance in the finals. We decided to do Missing by Everything But The Girl, Mississippi by Pussycat and Voulez Vous by ABBA. We kept up our normal routine, our only concession being to get off school early to get dolled up in the Beauty Salon in Ballyhowan before the Finals on Wednesday, 16th March. It had to be before Holy Week; there was still some residual church influence in the schools.

All tarted up, coats over our dresses, leggings over our tights, my mother drove us to the hall where the Finals would be held. Niamh was already there, with other “sound” teams, setting up our machine. We went over to her.

“OK, I just need to go out and get the mics for a test.”

“I’ll get them.”

Niamh handed me her keys; I preferred to be doing something rather than standing around. I went out to the car park; it wasn’t quite dark yet. There were a few lads in one corner of the carpark, no one else around. I walked towards the Landcruiser.

“Here, that must be him! That’s the fucking Tranny!”

No 1 Defence, run.

I turned around intending to sprint for the door; I was cut off.

No 2 Defence, scream.

“Back off!!!”

Black Out.

****************************************

Noise; lots of it. I’m cold: I must have shivered as someone wrapped a warm blanket around me. Drift away again…

Noise again, light… My mother’s voice:

“I think he’s coming around.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Male, foreign, heavily accented.

“Ah; you back to us, yes?”

“Grunt”

“Whatyouname?”

“Huh?”

“He’s asking you for your name.”

Mother’s voice again.

“Name… Aisling…”

“It’s his stage name…”

Opening eyes, lights on ceiling, a man standing over me, white coat, stethoscope.

He waits a few minutes. Holds up his hand, fingers spread

“How many finger?”

“Four.”

“Four; you sure?”

“And a thumb.”

A big grin.

“I think you back for sure; you mother here.”

He pulled back and my mother’s face appeared, drawn. She smiled.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital, A&E.”

“What happened?”

“Someone hit you.”

“I’m all sore!”

“I know; I’ll see if they can give you something more to help.”

She returned with a nurse and the Doctor. They spoke for a few minutes then the nurse fiddled with the drip hanging over my bed.

“We’ve upped the dose; let’s see how he gets on.”

I must have slept again, probably not for long. My mother was still there when I woke again. I tried to move; there was a stabbing pain in my side and it felt like the football team was practicing on my head. She motioned me to stay still.

“Your ribs are broken, four of them. And you were concussed. Something hit your head.”

“Where? When?”

“Ballyhowan Hall; do you remember going to the carpark?”

“Not yet.”

“Were you at school today?”

“Off early, hair, talons, make up.”

She smiled, looking relieved.

“Hurts to think, later?”

“OK, you rest.”

I drifted off again…

“…they’re going to move him to ICU. This place is too full … they want to monitor him for 24 hours after being kicked in the head.”

My mother’s voice. I opened my eyes; she was talking to my father. I smiled. Talkative as ever, he just rubbed my hand…

Soon the bed starts moving. I’m just looking up, ceiling lights and doorways pass by. We come to a quiet space. My father is with me; my mother has gone away for a while. Different doctors and nurses come by to check me; mostly I sleep…

“… displaced rib fracture in two ribs…will need surgery to stabilise these. The other ribs will heal normally in time.”

A doctor was talking to my father beside my bed.

“So, when can you do this surgery?”

“Actually, we can’t do it here. He’ll be going to Galway later today; surgery probably tomorrow, it’s up to them. Someone can ride in the ambulance with him.”

It was the worst trip of my life. Ambulances are not very comfortable and, strangely, no place to be if you’re not feeling well. Moving without visual reference is the easiest way I know to get car-sick so I arrived in Galway with a sore head, sore ribs, and nauseated. My mother and a paramedic were in the back with me, but there was little conversation; I noticed that at one stage she had fallen asleep. She must have been exhausted.

It turned out that I was now known in Galway. Word of the assault had reached the media and photographs of Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh taken during our concerts had been circulated, and correlated with the advertising pictures in the store. The local press in both counties had run with the story as a case of transphobia, which it was, except that I wasn’t officially trans., I was just doing an act. This added to the trauma for my parents, caused confusion in the school, gained kudos for the Department store for their “progressive and inclusive approach to advertising” despite their not being aware of my official, if not true, gender, and got me into a private room as the hospital authorities decided to play it safe and not assign me to either sex.

It didn’t speed up treatment: I was injured late on 16th March; the following day was a Public Holiday; a lot of staff had created an extra-long weekend by taking leave on 18th March the day I arrived in the hospital. I was finally operated on on 21st March. I suppose, this being the vernal equinox, the celestial alignment was at least favourable. Actually, that year the vernal equinox was scheduled for the previous day, but that being Sunday, the equinox had to be postponed until the hospital consultants, senior doctors, were ready.

Surgery was followed by a few hours in ICU, then back to my private ward. My mother and sister alternated staying locally in a B&B; my father visited each time he switched them over. Niamh and the rest of Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh came on the 4th day. They felt sorry for me, a few tears and sniffles; I felt sorry for them as they had pulled out of the performance and missed their chance to shine. We all felt that this was the end of an era; it was unlikely that Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh, at least in its original lineup, would ever perform again.

The following day the “Skip” visited me accompanied by a Garda (police constable) from Ballyhowan. My mother was expecting him; I don’t think he could talk to me without her present. He was only there himself as the Ballyhowan Gardai (police, plural) thought that his presence would make it easier for me to talk to them. I couldn’t remember much, but thought that I had recognised the lad who cut off my retreat as having been with the group whose teacher had complained about the transvestite at the semi-finals. Pressed gently by the Ballyhowan Garda, I had to tell her that I couldn’t be sure. Other than that, I’d really seen nothing.

Discharged after a week, I insisted on returning to school when it reopened for the last term on April 4th. My parents weren’t happy as I wasn’t really recovered, but, with our singing group likely ended, I was determined to finish the year and not have to repeat and be separated from my friends. There was some surprise when I extracted myself slowly from the front of the Volvo outside the school. Saoirse and Aoife were carrying my schoolbag between them, as well as their own, when Footballer Gerry, last term’s bully, relieved them of it and accompanied me to class, deposited it beside my desk, nodded acknowledgement to my thanks, and headed off to his own classroom without saying a word.

That term was hard. As well as being sore, I found that at first I couldn’t concentrate for more than about half-a-class so I was not really keeping up with the curriculum. Study was also difficult and I would work for a while, them put down my head on the desk and snooze. I was given plenty of leeway by everyone and at least got all the notes. I planned to make up for any deficit over the summer. On the social side, everybody tiptoed around me. Half the school believed that I was trans, as reported in the papers, the other half weren’t sure. I was hanging out with the girls, not just Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh, but the rest of the girls as well, more than ever: Many of the lads were afraid to be seen to be too friendly with me in case they were deemed trans also, or possibly they believed that they might be infected with the trans virus. The main exceptions to this were the footballers and handballers; they probably felt immune from both the virus and the suspicion of their fellow students.

We had eight weeks before the exams and I continued to improve. The exams took one week and I felt that I had achieved the minimum standard necessary to stay in the Honours Class.

School ended on 4th June; I had been dreading Summer. The Twins and Niamh were going to the States for a long holiday and I would miss them. My sister would be home which was a bonus, and Ciara would be around, but even though I had grown up in her company, it just wasn’t the same without our relatively new friends. I also had more surgery to face, to remove the plates which had aligned my ribs whilst they healed. One thing for sure; I wasn’t going near the hay. Where possible we saved hay for the cows as silage is neither pleasant smelling nor environmentally friendly but it wasn’t always easy to save hay if the weather didn’t cooperate.

I settled down to a routine as best I could. As we would be taking care of Niamh’s house while she was away, I would continue to study each morning in her Barn. Ciara, on hearing this, decided that, whenever not otherwise engaged, she would join me. Walking there and back was good exercise and I would extend my walking each afternoon to try and recover my fitness. First surgery: I was being admitted to hospital in Galway on 14th June for what should be a relatively short stay. It suited me to get it out of the way early so that I would have the rest of the summer to recover. As Niamh & the Twins would be gone when I left, I said “goodbye” the day before. Saoirse walked me to the end of her drive and gave me a kiss on the forehead as I left; it seemed very sweet.

Surgery over, back to routine. Study, exercise, and cooking as between milking and hay, the farm was very busy in high summer which meant that my mother and sister were mostly working outside. My sister had also acquired a boyfriend who kept her occupied in the evenings, somewhat to my parents’ concern. Our remote location was no deterrent as, although just going into Leaving Certificate year, he had “wheels”, an old diesel Peugeot 205XRAD acquired from his father, owner of the filling station and attached small garage in Ballymore. Apparently they had met when she collected the keys of the town hall there back in December.

I found that keeping busy was best, otherwise there would have been too much time to think. I knew that things would start to happen soon, if they hadn’t started already, like fuzz growing on my face, getting taller, getting spots, becoming a male teenager. It couldn’t be helped, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. Even if Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh reformed, I wouldn’t be able to pass visually as a girl, and my voice would soon be too deep. And being a part of Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh had made me happy; happier than I’d ever been before; I was sad it was all over. This sadness permeated my whole existence: I felt that I was closing in on myself, or more that life was closing in on me.

So, as soon as I felt that I could manage it, I took the boat out for a gentle trip around the lake. It was my preferred method of relaxation and my mother was happy; it would help build up my strength if I got back to rowing.

********************************************************

The boat floated gently across the lake; it was hard to tell if the wind was increasing or decreasing... slap, slop, glop, slap…. The water lapped gently against the sides, mesmerizing, calming. The lake always had this effect on me; it suspended reality for a while. I imagined myself floating in an ether, three dimensional, there was no depth perception looking directly up to the blue of the sky. Maybe I can stay here forever?

The boat rocked, suddenly, dramatically. What the f***? There’s nothing out here to hit. I jerked upright, hit my head on the bottom of the seat and fell back again. Up again, carefully this time. The boat has developed a significant list to the right, starboard. Instinctively I counterbalance, leaning to port and scanned the starboard gunwale. There’s a hand, then a face, grinning from ear to ear.

“Saoirse, You’re not allowed to drown me, I think it’s illegal!”

“Sea monster or Mermaid?”

“Mermaid, definitely, but can you move to the stern?”

Blank look…

“The back, back there!”

Face and hand disappear, then two hands reappear at the stern, then the face again.

“Missed you!”

And I had.

“Me too! Can I climb in?”

“Hold on.”

I climbed towards the bow to counterbalance the weight on the stern.

“OK, now’s good.”

She heaved herself out of the water, leaned her waist over the stern, and toppled forward into the boat. I watched mesmerised. She was topless, wearing only her knickers. She looked at me and smiled.

“They don’t bite, promise!”

I collected myself and tried to look at her face.

“I thought you would all be sleeping?”

“Slept on the ‘plane. Anyway, it’s a shame to waste a good day now that we’re back here. How’ve you been?”

“OK; you?”

“OK; you’ve been sunbathing?”

“Kinda; just lying in the boat; thinking, drifting, you know?”

“Can I join you?”

“Need to ask?”

That grin again. She stretches out along the floorboards, and beckons me to lie alongside. Trying not to step on her, I manage without overturning the boat.

“Where’s Aoife?”

“Ciara’s.”

“Ah! Boyfriend?”

“Yep; trying to rekindle old flames.”

“Not so old, surely?”

“Not sure; lots happen in summer.”

I suspected she was talking about Aoife’s holidays; Aoife liked having boys around.

“And did you get a boyfriend over there?”

“Me? No…”

It sounded unfinished; I waited. We drifted for a while; I could tell that she wanted to talk: I waited.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean something important, just for you?”

I thought it must be serious.

“Saoirse, promise. Nothing to no one”.

Plain, if ungrammatical and logically incorrect.

“I don’t think I’m interested in boys.”

“OK.”

“No, I don’t think you get me; I don’t… like… boys”

Ooops, where does that leave me?

“Are you telling me that you’re a …”

I was afraid to say the word in case I upset her.

“Lesbian? I think so, I don’t know yet. Niamh says I’m very young to know for sure.”

“You told Niamh?”

“Of course I did; she’s my mother!”

“Sorry, I just wish I could talk to someone like that”.

Slap, slurp, glop, glop.

The boat floated on; we drifted on, side by side, I had to ask…

“Saoirse?”

“Yes?”

“You know the way you said you don’t like boys?”

“Yes; and it doesn’t apply to you, if that’s what you’re going to ask!”

My question answered, we drifted on. She found my hand and squeezed it.

“It was what you were going to ask? You DO know you didn’t need to?”

“I think I knew… but it’s all new to me… and I didn’t want to presume after what you’d said…”

“You’re different… I don’t see you as…”

She stopped, uncertain…

“A boy? Is that what you were going to say?”

“Yes; touché.”

We drifted some more…

“Saoirse; can I tell you something?”

“Yes, but I think I know”.

“That I don’t think I’m a boy either?”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me, yes. Maybe the rest of the girls as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you noticed how we talk? We say “girls” when we’re talking about us as a group.”

“I thought you were just doing that because I was playing a girl’s role?”

“Even in school, as a group we’re called the Glandoo Girls by the others. And there was all that stuff in the paper about you being trans.”

“So they wouldn’t be surprised…”

Saoirse finished my sentence.

“… if you turned up as a girl? I don’t think so.”

“Have you noticed something about this conversation?”

“Quite a few things, but I think you mean that we kinda know what the other is going to say?”

“There we go again! We’re not even brother and sister, much less twins!”

“I’m glad you’re not my brother.”

“I’m glad you’re not my sister!”

We drifted on some more, just lying together. The situation was complicated enough for older kids, even adults.

“Saoirse, Aoife’s your twin, and she likes boys?”

“We wondered about that too, Niamh and me. Apparently being Twins doesn’t mean that we’ll both be the same… that way.”

We were now half twisted towards each other; the bottom of an 18 Foot boat is narrow, even for two kids. And a bit hard after a while. I was glad that I’d worn swim shorts under my own shorts; it concealed my appreciation.

I stuck my head up to see where the boat was now. We had drifted into shallow water close to where a pier jutted out to collect the water supply for Ballymore. Gravity brought it to a filter station and reservoir about two miles away and then on to Ballymore. I extricated myself from under the seats and got the oars to pull us back out into the middle of the lake. Saoirse got up, much more elegantly, sat on the thwart beside me, and took one.

“Not afraid you’ll be seen?”

“Only our house overlooks the lake.”

“Does that mean that Niamh …”

“… thinks you’re a girl as well? I guess so; we never talked about it.”

We were finishing each other’s sentences again. Niamh might be less perturbed at seeing her daughter topless in the company of someone she thought of as a girl. But given that she liked girls, and I was still anatomically a boy… too complicated… just forget about it!

We brought the boat into the middle of the lake and slid back under the seats again.

“You know it can’t work for me?”

Some silence.

“Go on.”

“Well, whatever I think that I want to be, I’m male. And soon I’ll be big, spotty and hairy like the third-years.”

Everything is relative of course; the third-years were certainly bigger, definitely more spotty as puberty hit, and many sporting fuzzy chins until they learned to use a razor.

Saoirse didn’t answer directly.

“You haven’t told your mother?”

“God! No! She’d go through the roof, and if she didn’t my father would! They’re not like Niamh.”

“Would you have told me…

“… if you hadn’t told me?”

We were finishing each other’s sentences again.

“I’m not sure. It might have come up if we tried to restart Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh. I won’t be able to play the role soon, even if it’s not really a role.”

We lapsed into silence again, enjoying the stillness, punctuated only by the irregular slap, slop, glug, of wavelets hitting the boat.

“You know, you don’t have to end up going all male and hairy?”

“Huh?”

“Have you ever heard of puberty blockers?”

“No, never.”

“Apparently they can slow down puberty, so you wouldn’t get big and hairy.”

“How did you hear about them?”

“When we started to research being… you know, lesbian… we came across other stuff as well. I just know they exist, not much more. I think you have to go to a shrink and a doctor to get them.”

“A shrink? Am I classed as being a bit mad?”

“No, it’s just they need to sign off that you’re really wanting to be a girl, permanent like. At least in the States; don’t know about here.”

The thought was nice; something to stop me growing up as a male; reality intrudes.

“Doesn’t matter anyway; I wouldn’t be let take them.”

“How’d you know?”

“Even if I did tell them, they wouldn’t want me going to a shrink or taking puberty stoppers.”

“Blockers! If you don’t tell them, you definitely won’t get to do any of this: And you’ll never know for sure: And you can’t wait too long.”

“I’m just afraid of what they’ll think about me after, and then I’d be in an even worse place.”

More drifting…

“You know I envy you, a lot?”

Saoirse didn’t answer, just snuggled into me a bit more.

“I mean, whatever you decide to do, to be, you have the body you want to have. I don’t; I wish I had a body like yours.”

She put an arm around me and hugged me. I was old enough to appreciate being hugged by a beautiful topless girl.

“I know; so do I.”

********************************************

It was starting to get late; still warm, but the sun was losing its power. We headed back to where Saoirse had left her clothes and grounded the boat at the bow so that she could get ashore dry. She had to climb past me to get from the stern to the bow and I couldn’t resist putting an arm around her hips and giving her a kiss on the belly. She kissed my head and hopped over the bow. I watched as she got dressed and moved to the stern to raise the bow as she pushed the boat off.

“See you tomorrow?”

That grin again.

“Yes; we’ve to plan for next year.”

We didn’t really have to plan anything; it was just a good excuse to call over and spend some time. I got dressed and rowed slowly around the headland and back to our mooring. I sat on the gunwale and slopped some water into the boat with the bucket. The planks would need it if tomorrow was as warm. As I dropped the oars back into the machinery shed I could hear the milking going on in the adjacent milking parlour; it must be near finished by now. I would soon have to pitch in to help with that, it wasn’t heavy work and I was now almost fully recovered. In the meantime, I headed into the house. Someone had blind baked a quiche base so I busied myself softening some onions, adding garlic, red and green peppers, then preparing the egg mixture and waiting for the milking to be finished. The quiche would be ready by the time everybody’d washed up and changed.

I was trying to decide; who do I tell first, how do I tell them, what will they think of me, will I be stopped studying with the girls, will they tell me that I’m too young to know? But I was coming to a decision: The sooner I told them, the sooner life would restart.

Speaking of restarts, I got up early next morning dressed in my work clothes and headed out to the milking parlour. In high summer, we started around 7am, aiming to be finished by 9am. I was the first out, so I opened the gate and the cows filed in obediently. They tend to be very co-operative about this and are not slow in reminding us if, for some reason, we’re late starting! My father arrived next, then my mother and my sister, last out, went back to sort the house and get breakfast. I think she would have preferred milking! It was good to be back at work on the farm again, even though I had only a few weeks left before I returned to school. By then the rhythm of the farm would start to slow, the milking would gradually reduce to once a day before the cows were finally dried off for winter. But that was in the future. Today, milking finished, we headed into the house to shower and have breakfast. After breakfast I helped for a while as my father started the servicing of the hay-making machinery which would not be used again until next summer. Most of the machines got a power wash before being left out in the sun to dry off. The weather was still settled, warm, hazy and not much in the way of wind. We would take them in before milking started that evening when they would be thoroughly dry and ready to be greased, oiled and sharpened as required.

In the meantime, I was free for a few hours so I took the oars again, this time taking a towel, and rowed around to where I’d dropped Saoirse off the day before. Grounding the boat, I brought the painter ashore and tied it around a rock. With no tides on a lake and little wind, the grounded boat wasn’t going anywhere. I climbed the hill through the field leading towards Niamh’s house; all the windows were open to take advantage of whatever wind there was. I was waved in by Niamh who saw me approaching and spent a few minutes in polite conversation about their holiday and my recovery before I asked if anyone would like to go with me to a shallow bathing spot across the lake. Aoife declined, but Saoirse headed off to get her swimsuit and returned in a sundress carrying a bag out of which peeked some bikini strings and a towel.

We rowed together across the lake, silently at first, before I mentioned the elephant, not in the room of course, but sitting at the transom.

“I’m going to tell them; I just need to decide how…”

There was no need to elaborate on who or what I was talking about.

“Together?”

“No, probably my mother first. If she goes ballistic, I’ll know not to push it any further.”

“What about your sister?”

“I thought about that; not fair on her.”

“I suppose not.”

Row a bit more…

“How did you tell Niamh?”

“Just told her that I didn’t like boys.”

“Did you tell Aoife first?”

“Kinda. She wanted us to pick up two lads she fancied in a mall… just for a coke or whatever… I said no. She told me that she didn’t think I liked boys… so I told her.”

We grounded the boat at a small beach of rough sand. There were some shrub trees close by so I tied the painter to one of these: They also kept the place somewhat secluded. I slipped off my shorts and t-shirt; I already had my swimming trunks on. Saoirse likewise had her bikini bottoms on under her sundress, and didn’t bother with the top. We slid into the water together; even now, at high summer, it was cold. We swam around a bit, me parallel to the shore, Saoirse unconcernedly heading well out; she was a much stronger swimmer than I was. Eventually we hauled ourselves out and shared my towel as we lay in the sun to dry off.

“I’ll tell her in the car… that way she won’t be able to strangle me right away!”

“No! But if she pulls up suddenly you’d better be ready to run!”

Gallows humour helps.

“Seriously though, it’s easier to talk to her in the car. We don’t have to look at each other that way.”

“You’re really planning on doing this soon?”

“She’s going to Ballyhowan tomorrow to lodge a milk check with the bank. I need some school shirts so I’ll ask to go along.”

“Hmmm, don’t buy too many.”

“Huh?”

“You might need blouses!”

“Stop that you!”

A few minutes play-wrestling established that she was still stronger than me as she pinned me to the ground, slid on top of me, and kissed me.

We lay together on the towel some more.

“I’ve got to go back; I’ve to help my father bring in some machines.”

“Can I help?”

“Yeah, come on. You’ll have to change.”

“Two minutes.”

Saoirse got up, dusted herself down with her own towel and slipped on her sundress before slipping off her bikini bottoms and drying her tail under her dress.

“Don’t want to get my dress wet.”

She wrapped the bottoms in the towel, threw it into the bag and climbed into the boat while I stood in the water holding the gunwale to steady it. We rowed across the lake again and beached the boat. I was going to wait with it.

“No, come on up with me.”

I pulled my shorts on over my swimming trunks, put on my t-shirt, and we climbed the hill to Niamh’s house.

“We’re going to put some machinery away”, she announced as we arrived in the kitchen.

“OK; try not to get too dirty!”

Niamh, as always, appeared to be totally unconcerned. Her now 14-year-old city-bred daughter was heading off to work with farm machinery with a 13-year-old.

“Oh, that bikini top dried reeaaal quick.”

Aoife had just fished Saoirse’s top out of her beach bag.

I turned a darker shade of purple, Niamh snorted as she tried to supress a laugh, Saoirse stuck out her tongue at Aoife and headed off to change. She was back, in the promised two minutes, in denim shorts and a t-shirt. We looked like a matching pair. We quickly pulled the boat back to its normal mooring and carried an oar each to the machinery shed.

There was no sign of my father so I started up the smaller of our two tractors, an ancient Massey Ferguson good for tight spaces and soft ground, but not up to the work now required of the much bigger Ford. Picking up machinery with a tractor is a bit of an art which I hadn’t much mastered so I had Saoirse stand well to the side to tell me when the machinery lug was correctly aligned with the aperture on the tractor lifting arm. Once one was aligned, handbrake on, engine off, into gear, connect. The rest was easy after that as the other side could be aligned by moving the tractor backwards or forwards by the smallest amounts. I lifted the first machine, a rotary mower and dropped it into the machinery shed in its normal spot. Again, handbrake on, engine off, into gear, disconnect. When I was finished I noticed that my father was watching.

“You two OK to finish this?”

We both nodded.

“When you’re finished, take the tractor into the bottom field and let Saoirse have a go.”

“OK.”

We did the same with the hay turner and the third machine, a “square” baler, was a towed machine which I had to reverse into the shed. It took a few attempts, but we eventually got it in place and disconnected. That done, Saoirse climbed into the cab beside me and we headed for the designated field. The cab was tight with the door closed, but we didn’t mind! Old tractors are very easy to drive, just don’t expect power steering. It took only a few minutes to change places, explain the few controls, and Saoirse was driving around the field, with me in the cab beside her. We didn’t spend long, just enough for her to get a sense of the machine, then we changed back again and put the tractor back in the shed. I was going to change for milking, she was going back home, she gave me a quick kiss before heading off.

My sister and mother were smiling mysteriously when I came into the kitchen.

I did the milking that night and the following morning. Then, as we were finishing breakfast, I threw in the ball to start the big game.

“You’re still going to Ballyhowan today?”

“Yes; wanna come? I thought you might be busy.”

My sister gave a little snigger. Whatever did my mother mean?

“Yeah, I need some school shirts. Just two.”

**********************************************

“Hurry up, I’m ready to go.”

Why did I need to pee again? After all, I had nothing to be nervous about; I was just going to divulge a secret to my mother that could mean the end of all the things that I most enjoyed about last year: Cheerleading practice, Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh, dressing, being one of the girls. What could possibly go wrong?

The Volvo pulled out of the driveway; I waited until we were well on our way so my mother wouldn’t be tempted to turn back. Past Ballymore, now on the Ballyhowan Road.

“Mom, I have something to tell you.”

“If it’s about you and Saoirse, I’d have to be blind not to notice!”

“No Mon, it’s not about Saoirse.”

“Good: I’m telling you that girl is far too advanced for you.”

“Mom, it’s not about Saoirse. Anyway, we’re just good friends.”

“OK, so all girls kiss you on the lips when you’re saying goodbye?”

“Please, it’s not about Saoirse; it’s about me.”

“OKkkkkkkk; you’d better tell me so.”

“Promise you won’t be mad?”

“Now what have you done?”

“I’ve done nothing…. It’s who I am…”

“Siiiiighhhhh …. Would I be able to guess?”

“Maybe… it was in the papers…”

“You’d better say it so… just so we’re sure we’re talking about the same thing…”

“I think I’m a girl… I know I’m a girl… I just want to become one…”

Long silence… followed by an even longer one…

“So, when did you decide this?”

“I didn’t decide; I just came to know.”

“OK, when did you come to “know” this?”

“Over the last year… and before that…”

“So, it was all this dressing up with the girls. Your father was right.”

Ouch! That hurt.

“No, but it helped me make up my mind… to know what was wrong…”

“What do you mean, “what was wrong”?"

“I never wanted to grow up to become a boy, I didn’t know what I wanted: Now I’ve found out”.

“But you always have been a boy, it’s not like you’re suddenly becoming one!”

“Yes, but you know everything changes over the next few years. We did all that in school. I don’t want to grow like that… I don’t want to be like that!”

“But that’s how all boys grow up; it’s not something to be afraid of.”

“I know it’s how boys grow up; I’m just not a boy. I know it!”

“But you are a boy; there’s nothing you can do about that!”

“Well… there is… I could start taking puberty stoppers… I mean blockers… then I wouldn’t have to grow up like that.”

“Hmmm, and where did you hear about those?”

Time to lie a little; if I tell the truth then Saoirse gets put in the frame as the instigator.

“I looked it up on the school computer; there was all this talk when I was attacked, and I wanted to see what it was all about.”

“And they’ll let you look at that kind of thing at school!?”

Part exclamation; part question.

“Well, after what happened, they weren’t going to stop me.”

I was now skating on thin ice; if my mother complained to the school, could they check back to see what I’d accessed? Fortunately, she moved on.

“And you nearly got yourself killed that time in Ballyhowan. Do you know how lucky you were? Do you know how upset we all were? And now you’re talking about going back doing the same thing again! How long will it be until something else happens?”

“I know all that. I’m sorry; do you think that I’d be talking about this if it wasn’t important? It’s not just something that I want to do; it’s who I am.”

We drove along in silence for a while, getting into the traffic and the town.

“I’ll drop you outside the shop; we’ll meet in Carmel’s Cakes at 11:30.”

“OK.”

She pulled up on a double yellow line and I got out quickly before a Garda appeared or the cars behind started to honk their horns. She pulled off and I went into the shop. I got a shop assistant to measure my neck and arms to get the right size shirt; I was conscious that I had already started to grow taller, catching up with the Twins soon I guessed. Shirts bought, I gazed longingly at the short blue tartan-pattern kilt-skirts that our girls wore, sometimes very short. I would have loved to have been trying one of them on, going to school in one… ah well; will probably never happen.

I had plenty of time, so I strolled out into the streets to make my way to Carmel’s Cakes, intending to amble along and take in the buzz of the high street. I had only gone a few yards when I realised that the last time that I’d been alone in this town I ended up in A&E. A combination of panic and paranoia crept in and I felt that everybody would recognise me from the pictures of Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh that had been published after the attack. I scanned the street ahead of me looking for groups of lads that might pose a threat. I stopped frequently to look in shop windows, in reality to check that nobody was creeping up behind me. I got to the coffee shop ten minutes early and slipped into a seat at a vacant table, telling the waitress that I was waiting for my mother to come before ordering. She left to deal with more immediate prospects; had she recognised me? Would she be telling people who I was? I resisted the temptation to wait outside; there were more dangers out there.

By the time my mother arrived I was thoroughly uncomfortable and I suspect a bit white-faced as she looked at me and asked if I was OK. I nodded and muttered something about it being a stressful day; she probably assumed this to be on account of the earlier conversation. She sat down at the table and looked at the menu.

“The usual?”

I nodded. I always had lemon cheesecake, fresh cream and a cappuccino; a creature of habit. She always had an americano and lemon drizzle cake. She ordered from the waitress who smiled and displayed no indications of malevolent intent. Maybe she was a good actress?

“So, what’ll we do now?”

“Tell Dad, and I’ll need to go to a doctor.”

“Don’t tell him for a day or two. I need to think about how best to do that… And what’s this about a doctor?”

“Well, if I’m to start on the (whispered) puberty stoppers, I need a doctor to sign off.”

“Don’t start getting ahead of yourself; your father and I haven’t even discussed this yet.”

I was happy to let it sit there as I had succeeded in getting my agenda on the table. The waitress arrived back with our coffee and cakes and we took time out of discussing my future to enjoy the immediate treat.

“Have you told Saoirse about all this?”

Again, I couldn’t admit that I’d told her before my parents!

“Not yet, but I will soon.”

“And what do you think she’ll say?”

“She probably won’t be surprised. I think most of the girls in the class would guess, even if they don’t know what to call me.”

I had deliberately opened this out from Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh to take the heat off my three immediate friends.

Most of the journey home was in silence, not a sulky silence, just thoughtful. I was keenly aware that I’d given my mother a real headache and that she’d probably elect to tell my father herself. I got dropped off at the laneway leading to Niamh’s house: I wanted to tell Saoirse that I would be busy that afternoon but free the next day if she wanted to have a boat trip or swim. I arrived at their house as they were finishing lunch and declined the offer of a coffee on the basis that I’d just had one in Ballyhowan.

“So what are you doing this afternoon?”

Niamh was always curious to know what was happening on the farms. As a non-farmer, she probably felt that she should learn something about her neighbours’ work.

“I need to grease and oil the hay machinery so that it doesn’t seize up over the winter.”

“And you know how to do all that?”

“Kinda; I’ll use the manuals to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

Niamh looked impressed.

“Can I come with you?”

I’d been hoping that Saoirse might ask that.

“It’s very messy work; you’d ruin your clothes and hair.”

“I could read the manual for you.”

Niamh and Aoife were smiling; reluctance feigned, time to accept the offer.

“OK, that’d be good.”

Saoirse disappeared and came back in jeans with two scarves. She folded one diagonally. Then added a second fold along the diagonal and wrapped it around her head and covered all her hair. She handed me the other.

“Here; your hair is almost as long as mine”.

“You can put it on me before we start.”

She guessed that I didn’t want to arrive at the house in the scarf following the morning discussion, so she held on to it. Niamh was going painting and Aoife was to start practicing on a second hand guitar that the Twins had bought to see if they had an aptitude for playing. They had some starter DVDs which they intended to use before thinking about lessons; I’d have done it the other way around. We headed off.

“How’d it go?”

“I’m still alive; could have gone better, or worse.”

I recounted the conversation with my mother.

“And by the way, I’ve only told you just now.”

“OK, but why?”

“’Cause I don’t want them to think that you were part of my decision; it would be an easy out for them to say that this was all your doing and that I should stay away from you.”

“Oh!... thanks, I wouldn’t want that. Was I part of your decision?”.

I reached out and caught her hand.

“Nor me; I wouldn’t want that either. And yes, I don’t think I’d have been able to make the decision without you.”

We arrived at our house to find my mother, father and sister having a cup of tea at the kitchen table.

“Saoirse is going to help me with the hay machines.”

“Not in that top she’s not. Get her one of your old shirts.”

My mother had visions of Saoirse ruining her nice blouse playing around with grease guns. I didn’t bother to explain that she would just be reading the manuals. We went to my room and got her an old shirt. She changed beside me as I also got into working jeans and shirt and we arrived back in the kitchen together to raised eyebrows from my mother and sister. They hadn’t expected us to change together. My father appeared oblivious to the point. I got the manuals from the farm office, which was really an annex to the kitchen and mainly my mother’s domain, and we headed for the machinery shed. Saoirse took the second scarf from her jeans pocket and tied it around my hair. We resembled mildly observant religious women from any one of a number of faiths.

First thing first; light gloves to keep the grease and oil off our hands but still enable sufficient dexterity to work.

Next, spray WD40 onto the nuts which held the cutting disks onto the rotary mower. These disks would be brought back to the dealer to be sharpened each year and the nuts tended to be hard to loosen. My father said many a “prayer” each year when at this job, and doubtless would do the same this year. The WD40 would help.

Then we started to work our way through the manuals. Saoirse’s job was to make sure I didn’t miss any of the greasing nipples.

“Nipples? Is that what they’re really called?”

It only dawned on me then…

“Yes… are you being funny?”

“No… just didn’t know that you’re an expert on nipples.”

I waved the grease gun at her.

“Stop that you… or I might end up greasing …”

Of course I didn’t dare. Despite our growing intimacy, I tended to let her do the “driving”.

We worked away for almost two hours and got through the job in good order. Moving parts that didn’t have a greasing point were given a brushing with oil to prevent rust; each machine tended to have a different manufacturer specification for grease, so we had a separate grease gun for each machine which had to be refilled once used. I was a mess; there wasn’t a bit of grease on Saoirse!

We were finishing up.

“What’s the problem with the nuts you sprayed at the start?”

“They tend to jam up solid and are very hard to get loose: That’s the socket wrench my father uses there. It’s one of those jobs that just has to be done.”

I was pointing at a wrench on the wall. My father was meticulous about his tools; a place for everything, and everything in its place!

“Handle’s too short”.

“Huh?”

“Physics class, lever and all that?”

“Yes, but he has to be in very close to hold the socket on the nut. Even if the handle was long, he couldn’t use the length. Anyway, they don’t come with long handles.”

“Hmmm, there’s a long handle.”

Saoirse was eying up a large nailbar, about a metre in length, hanging in its place on the wall.

We used three hose clips, evenly spaced on the wrench handle, to attach the wrench to the nailbar. I removed the split pin that acted as a safety clip for the nut and inserted an oversized screwdriver, again kept on the wall with the wrench especially for this job, into the hole designed to stop the disk spinning, held the socket on the nut and Saoirse pushed the end of the nailbar with her hands. Not a budge.

“Try the rubber mallet, not too hard.”

Some gentle taps and the nut moved. We only needed about a quarter turn to ensure it was free. If we loosened it too much the cutting disk would fall on the ground either taking my arm with it or, even worse, getting blunted on the concrete floor. I replaced the split pin and we spent a half an hour loosening all the other nuts. Job finished, time for milking soon and Saoirse had to go home. We left the nailbar and the wrench coupled together beside the machine so that I could help my father when he was ready to remove the cutting disks fully. I was too dirty to give her a hug, so she kissed me and headed off. She forgot that she was wearing my shirt.

I had to get washed before milking; grease and oil would ruin the milk and the milking machinery, to say nothing about possibly upsetting the dignity of the cows by appearing in their presence looking like a grease monkey. I did leave the scarf on my head; I thought it looked well and would keep my hair clean at the milking. My parents had already started when I joined them in the milking parlour. My father hadn’t expected to see me.

“You finished the machines already?”

“Yeah, got the nuts loosened on the mower as well.”

“You what?”

“It’s OK, just loosened. Split pins are back in until you’re ready to take the disks off.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah; Saoirse put a lever on the wrench.”

He went next door to the machinery shed to see for himself. He came back in, shaking his head.

“That girl will make a great farmer’s wife some day!”

My mother slightly, almost imperceptibly, rolled her eyes.

After milking and breakfast the next morning, my father and I had the disks off in about an hour, packed carefully in the small trailer, separated by lengths of 4x2 timbers to stop them getting damaged by hitting off each other, and he was ready to be on his way to the dealer’s. I declined his offer to go along on the basis that I was going out on the lake for a row around and a swim. My mother called him back:
“Can you wait for about ten minutes; I’ll go along with you”.

It was very unlike her to just go along for the ride.

**************************************************

I pulled the boat up on what I was now starting to call Saoirse’s beach and tied the painter to its usual rock. I had intended to wait there for her, but Aoife appeared at the gable of her house and waved me to come up. Niamh was in the studio and Saoirse was committing crimes against melody with the guitar; I couldn’t figure how Niamh was able to work. I watched for a while as the Twins tried to figure out the essence of guitars and declined their offer to contribute to the cacophony; they were going to have to get lessons!

Eventually they called a halt and Saoirse and I headed off. The day was warm but humid; half the sky was obscured by cumulus clouds and a shower was likely but not inevitable. We both had light waterproofs and the boat had a cover which we could pull back from the bow to shelter almost half its length if required.

“I think she’s going to tell him today; they both headed off in the car together.”

There was no need to explain the context!

“That’s sooner than you’d expected?”

“Yeah, she’s probably taking advantage of him being in a particularly good mood. He was real impressed with you; said you’d make a great farmer’s wife some day!”

We got into the boat, Saoirse at the stern to lift the bow, and I punted off.

“Did he really say that?”

She was pensive; maybe I shouldn’t have said it?

“Sorry… he meant it to be positive… very positive.”

We shared a thwart and rowed away slowly.

“I know he did; it’s just that people have an expectation of what we’ll be… what we’ll become. Back in the States I’d be expected to be a cheerleader and humping some footballer. Here I’ll be a great farmer’s wife.”

We normally didn’t use this kind of language between us; it made me a bit uncomfortable.

“You know that it’s only a figure of speech here? It’s not meant literally. We speak the same language, kinda, but use it differently.”

She stopped rowing and put an arm around me. I had to stop too or we’d just go in a circle.

“I know that. I’m not giving out to you, but it’s going to be a hard year for both of us. You more than me, I know, but people will turn on me as well. Especially the lads: First they’ll say I’m no fun; then I’m a frigid bitch; then they’ll figure it out and I’ll be the Black Valley Dyke. Not to my face of course, or to yours, but behind my back when they realise that they won’t be getting a leg over.”

In one way my mother was right; she was much more advanced than me. I hadn’t gotten around to her level of understanding of what we both were facing yet and her frank language was difficult for me to easily absorb. She leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“Sorry; there’s me nattering on, it’s a much bigger day for you. If your mother is telling your father, this afternoon is going to be interesting!”.

We rowed away again, together. Eventually I broke the silence.

“If he reacts bad, there could be trouble.”

“You know you won’t be on your own?”

“Huh?”

“If it really gets bad, come over to us.”

“Thanks, but that puts you all in the frame.”

“Maybe; nothing we can’t manage. Should I tell Niamh?”

“She doesn’t know already?”

“I haven’t spoken to her, if that’s what you mean. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t know, or at least suspect.”

“Don’t tell her yet, officially like. It’s better to keep it quiet until I see how things go at home.”

“OK”.

We were arriving at “our” beach. Knowing the drill, Saoirse moved to the stern and I grounded the bow. I had no sooner moved a ballast sandbag to the bow when large drops of rain started to splatter around, and on, us. I grabbed the canopy at the bow and pulled it back amidships. Saoirse grabbed her bag and hopped forward. By the time I’d secured the canopy, she had spread a yoga mat on the floorboards and was lying back in a parody of a model’s pose, one leg straight, one knee raised, chest pushed forward, and a come-and-get-me look on her face. I slid in beside her; she immediately rolled on top of me and started a deep, long kiss. She pulled back, took off her top and bra, and leaned forward again, holding my arms by the wrists above my head, and draping her boobs over my face.

“Now, let’s see what you’ve learned about nipples!”

I think I passed the exam…

**************************************************

All too soon, it was time to go. With my parents away, and my sister gone off with her XRAD-driving boyfriend, I’d need to start the milking. It was hard to move from a place of the most perfect peace and contentment to the real world where I I feared that I might end up being shredded in a few hours’ time. We slipped into the lake for a swim and to wash each other off; I’d have to wear long sleeves for a while until the marks on my wrists, where she’d tied them with the painter, disappeared. We walked ashore, dried each other off and got dressed. We rowed back to Saoirse’s beach.

“Does it change your mind, about wanting to be a girl?”

“No, I still want to be a girl. But I don’t think I want to be with boys, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Maybe we’re both lesbians!”

I had to laugh at her comment. I was a frustrated lesbian in a male body; let’s not make it simple!

“And you; do you still think that you don’t like boys?”

She thought for a minute…

“No, I mean yes, I don’t like boys. I wouldn’t have done that with anyone else… like I said before… to me you’re a girl…”

“Just with an unusual configuration…”

“We’ll work around that when we need to… ”

I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, but I was sure that she’d show me.

**************************************************

I had the cows in and had just started to wash the first batch of udders with warm water when I heard the crunching of tyres on the gravel as the Volvo arrived back. After a while my father arrived out, changed for milking. He glanced around, nodded, looked at the machine and waited. Milking in our configuration was a batch business; once the cows are hooked up, it was a matter of waiting until the job is done, then start on the next batch.

“You haven’t worn your scarf; I thought you were keeping that hair clean?”

I recognise this as a way of introducing the Elephant.

“Saoirse only gave me one and I’ve washed it. The cap will have to do.”

“Your mother told me…. “

“I thought so when you both headed off. I would have, maybe should have, done it myself.”

“Probably better she did… “

“Probably… sorry…it’s how I am… I know I’m causing a lot of trouble for both of you… “

“A lot more for yourself, you know that?”

“Yeah; not like I didn’t get a preview.”

“It’s the hardest part for your mother and me; you know that don’t you?”

“I know that… sorry…”

“Don’t keep saying sorry; we need to move on now…”

“Move on?”

“We called by the Doctor, it’s why we’re so late. You will need to see a Clinical Psychologist in Galway. Before you do that, say nothing to no one! You might change your mind.”

Batch 1 was finished. Unclip the machines from the udders, second batch in, warm water wash, clip up, start all over again.

I wasn’t going to either correct his double negative or assert that my mind was made up. The door was open; don’t push too hard.

“OK, I’ll say nothing. But I’ve told Saoirse… “

“And she’s OK with this?”

“She’s not surprised; probably no one will be in school.”

“Will she keep it quite?”

“Of course; she’s my friend!”

“Friend? OK. Look, nothing will happen before school starts so you’re going back like last year. If you want to do that girl group stuff again, that’s OK, but say nothing until we know where this is going, OK?”

“Promise Dad, nothing!”

**************************************************

Star Anise, our history teacher, had spent the last class talking about the Celtic Fringe, not a hair style, rather how the Celtic peoples, now the Irish, Welsh, Scots, Bretons and probably Galatians had been pushed to the fringes of Europe first by Romans and subsequently by Germanic tribes such as the Angles, Saxons, Jutes and Franks. It was his misfortune that he’d developed the habit of announcing the start of his class with the Irish words for History Now, that is Stair Anois, hence his nickname. Now, in classic teaching style, he was rehearsing his previous class through a Q&A session.

“OK, so what can someone tell me about Offa’s Dyke?”

“Sir!”

One of our class funny lads had his hand up.

“Right Frank, you tell us.”

“Well Sir, Offa was a Saxon Chief, and Offa’s Dyke was his Lesbian daughter”

There was some laughing amongst his cohort. Saoirse was in the seat ahead of me; I saw her back stiffen. So did the girls on either side of her, as did Aoife, who was sitting in the same row beside me.

“Frank, sometimes they’re laughing at you, not with you. You don’t have to play the class clown to amuse them.”

Star Anise went to move on.

“Sir!”

Saoirse was on her feet. So this was it; she had told the other three Ghleann Dhubh girls how she would use a suitable opportunity to out herself, rather than let people figure it out for themselves.

“Saoirse?”

“Sir, Frank’s comment was in contravention of the school policy on diversity and inclusion. Personally I find it particularly offensive and think he should apologize for it.”

Star Anise understood immediately that this was a form of announcement.

“Thanks for bringing this to my attention Saoirse; you’re right. Frank, stand up and apologize to the class.”

Frank stood up and apologised to the class. Only the very slow would not realise that Saoirse had just outed herself. Frank came over immediately after class and apologised personally to her. Most of the class tried to act cool as if the revelation was nothing remarkable. Saoirse and I walked around the school yard, arm in arm, at lunchtime. The class, and school, regarded us as an item; hard to know what they’d make of us now. Aoife and Ciara diplomatically stayed a bit behind us.

“Best to come out that way; at least I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

“I wonder what they’ll say when I come out.”

“They’ll know why we’re still together, and they’ll rename our girl group.”

We were performing again at the Christmas show and in the County Schools Musical Competition.

“Go on Saoirse, what’ll they call us?”

“Cailíní Ait Ghleann Dhubh”.

We both broke out in peals of laughter in the middle of the school yard. Ciara and Aoife, discreetly shadowing us, thought it now safe to join. They didn’t fully get my situation, but a lesbian and an apparent boy pretending to be a girl fitted the new Irish name and they joined in the hilarity. OK, it didn’t mean exactly the “Queer Girls Of Glendoo” but Ait was the word we tended to use for “Gay”. (It actually means strange.)

**************************************************

The Madra (Dog) O’Dwyer, the School Headmaster, issued the following announcement by email just before we were scheduled to return to school after the Christmas break.

Dear Parents and Students,

I wish to announce that the student that you have heretofore known as Vernon O’Dell will be attending school in the coming term as Ms Aisling O’Dell.

On behalf of the Board of Management and the Staff I would like to formally welcome Aisling to our school. We have all previously become acquainted with her as a member Cailíní Canadh Ghleann Dhubh.

We know that you all will also welcome Aisling and do your utmost to ensure she feels at home.

Your attention is drawn to the School Policy on Diversity and Inclusion.

Any queries relating to this announcement should be addressed directly to me.

**************************************************

Life quickly settled into a routine. We generally picked up guests in the afternoon from a morning flight, or occasionally from a private aircraft. We all mustered to greet them and take their luggage, all delivered from the airport by limousine. Onboarding was a key point for Maria, Lisa and me. George did the initial greeting, then Maria took over, whilst Lisa and I kept the champagne and canapes going. The cabins had been prepared by the “shore crew”, down to the champagne minis in the bar, chocolates on the table and towels in the “heads”. All guest cabins were en-suite.

Our first batch of guests were the senior executive team of a UK corporation, on a “team building” exercise. This designation effectively allowed the corporation to indulge its senior executives whilst avoiding benefit-in-kind tax. As I discovered, these were amongst our most difficult trips. Basically, the executives, exclusively male, started drinking at lunchtime and were, as we described them, “moldy” by dinner time. Lisa and I had to do the dinner service and I saw what Lisa had been talking about when she first saw my fake authentic Greek tunic.

Hands would appear from nowhere and slide along her legs, reaching up towards the top; she had a practiced turn which moved her away from the interloper without it appearing that she had avoided the grope. Her face never betrayed annoyance; she would turn towards the miscreant, smile sweetly and say, “Can I get you another drink, Sir?” I was astonished at her aplomb; a real professional.

It was hard work; at sea, Lisa and I handled the guest cabins and the guest areas such as the lounge and dining area. Depending on the guests, one of us could be up until 3 or 4AM, and the other up at 5AM to get breakfast. Maria helped out, particularly at dinner. Most dinners were “formal”. We dressed up in faux classical Greek dress and served the guests with food arriving up from “Chef” in the Galley. Maria generally did the wines and the bar, preparing drinks which we served, generally supervising, and keeping herself away from wandering hands.

As the guys had more drink, the less discerning they became and I had to learn to copy Lisa’s maneuvers as hands slipped up my legs. It became even more of an issue for me when we had mixed groups on board. Whether to match their menfolk’s groping of the female crew, or to express their own inner desires, the women were fascinated by my tunic and frequently slipped their hands up my legs, until I turned, smiled and said, “Another drink, Ladies?”. Generally, I took the late shift with the male groups and Lisa did the mornings. Most groups were mixed and we shared these. We never had an all female group; sign of the times back then, and maybe even now.

I didn’t mind the work, I even enjoyed it. Sharing a cabin with Lisa was bringing me to a place that I I didn’t really know existed, and I drifted easily along.

Shortly after I had started, I came into our cabin to find Lisa painting her nails. She had done her toenails and left hand already and was just starting on her right hand.

“Just in time,” she said, “you can do this for me”.

“I’ll try, but you seem to have done OK so far?”

“I’m no good using my left hand; it’ll take me ages.”

I enjoyed taking her hand and she showed me how to ensure that I didn’t have too much nail polish on the brush and how to spread it evenly on her nails. I then dried it off with the hairdryer which she had already used on her completed nails.

“Thanks, let me do yours.”

The thought delighted me, but I saw a practical problem.

“I can’t go around with pink nails,” I said.

“No, no, I’ll do them in clear varnish,” Lisa replied. “It won’t be noticeable.”

And so it all started… first clear nail varnish, then BB cream – to smooth out my complexion and protect my face from the sun – and muted eye shadow so that my eye lids would not stand out as white in a now lightly browned face. Lisa was clearly enjoying the process and, whilst feigning reluctance, I was happy to go along.

Maria noticed, but didn’t comment. She probably assessed that it was not likely to cause problems for the guests; the men probably wouldn’t notice and the women wouldn’t mind. George, our skipper, who shared an en-suite crew cabin with Maria, said nothing, likely having been briefed by her. Jorge and Dimitri, our two deck crew, both studying to become skippers themselves, were curious more than anything else, particularly as it was obvious that I was wearing a nightdress under my robe when I visited the heads. Chef, who shared with Greg, never commented on anything, and never spoke unless it was for a purpose.

Greg, our engineer, had started his working life as an Artificer in the Royal Navy and had recently retired as a senior Petty Officer. Recently divorced, he had moved to the Mediterranean to start a new life in sunnier climes. The Royal Navy, as indeed all Navies at the time, was definitely homophobic. He had already mistaken me for a girl when we first met, and viewed my changing appearance with some misgivings.

“You sure you’re not a girl?” he said one day as we both sat at the crew dining table.

“I think Lisa is trying to make us into a matching pair,” I replied. “I’m only around for a few weeks anyway...”

I didn’t finish my last comment, leaving it ambiguous. It could have meant that I’ll be done using makeup and wearing nighties soon, or I’ll be leaving the crew soon so he didn't have to worry.

“She’s a nice girl, but be careful,” Greg said.

I had no idea what he meant, but didn’t push the point

Lisa and I had both turned in one night when, unusually, she started talking to me from her upper bunk. She asked me about my school and my life there then asked…

“Have you a girlfriend back in Ireland?

I wasn’t expecting that; heretofore we had not really delved into each other’s private lives.

“No,” I replied, “all boys school… a bit hard to have one… how about you?”

It seemed right that the question be reciprocated.

“A girlfriend?”

“No, no… I meant a boyfriend!”

A few seconds of silence…

“Actually girlfriend would be correct, and I don’t”, Lisa said, a little softly and hesitantly.

Now I knew why she had started the conversation. She had been building up to telling me.

“Not a problem for me in case you’re worried about that,” I said. “Do the other crew know?” Actually I was rather taken aback but my debating experience helped me to hide it.

“Maria does; I told her one day when she saw George being a little too friendly with me,” Lisa replied. “I didn’t want her to see me as a threat. I think Greg knows now. He tried it on with me when he started last year and I told him that I wasn’t interested… and he’s quite friendly with George.”

The clear implication was that Maria had told George, who had told Greg. Maybe that’s what Greg meant when he told me to be careful. In a way I was very disappointed as I rather fancied Lisa – who wouldn’t. And it might explain why she was intent on making me as feminine as she, and I, could easily get away with. I had never knowingly met a Lesbian before; I thought it most appropriate to do so in Greece – after all the word lesbian derives from the name of a Greek island, Lesbos.

At the end of my third week we were docking for 3 days in Athens. The yacht was getting its electricity generator replaced. Greg would remain to supervise the work. Chef would visit his family and George, Jorge and Dimitri were doing a “Loran C” course ashore. This was a new navigation system that had recently been installed and would operate alongside the Decca… belt and braces. Following this we were to take the yacht, without guests, to Heraklion in Crete where we would pick up the owner and his family for a two week cruise to Paphos in Cyprus, then to Alexandria and back to Heraklion. I was due to leave the yacht after one further short cruise with paying guests from Heraklion to Athens. I was not looking forward to leaving as I had grown attached to the lifestyle, and to Lisa.

As there would be a lot of noise, coming and going and general mayhem, Maria, Lisa and I were to stay in a local hotel, the same one that George, Jorge and Dimitri were using for their course. We went ashore and kept the same sharing arrangements, George and Maria, Jorge and Dimitri, Lisa and I.

We all breakfasted together the first morning. I was now back in “civvies”, the shorts and t-shirt that I had brought from Ireland. When the three sailors headed off for their course, Maria and Lisa said that they were going for a girls day out.

“See you at dinner, so”, I said, a little disappointed to be left alone.

“Oh no, you’re coming along,” said Lisa, then to Maria,

“See you in the lobby in an hour”.

Lisa and I went back to our room and, as we went inside, ran her hand over my cheeks and chin…

“Shave again!”, more a command than a request.

I looked a little blank so she said…

“Girls day out, so you’re coming as a girl!”

“Does Maria know?”

“Of course, she’s the boss!”

I was over the moon, even though it was sunny morning with no moon around! I shaved very carefully, redid my underarms and legs standing in the bath, and came out. Lisa was standing half into or half out of a short blue dress with thin shoulder straps.

“My bra straps are too obvious”, she said, unhooked and discarded the bra, slipped back into the dress, turned her back to me and said,

“Zip me up”.

I obliged, she looked into the mirror, lifted and sorted her boobs and said,

“I think that’s fine.”

I couldn’t talk, she had unselfconsciously flashed her boobs at me, and I was mesmerized.

She caught my look…

“Oops… never mind, time to work on you; put these on.”

She pointed to my bed at a red dress and bra. I took off my shirt and fumbled with the bra…

“Here, let me close that.”

I slipped on the dress and Lisa zipped me up. Unlike her spaghetti straps, mine had a v neck and loose short sleeves, really just cap sleeves. The dress was loose below a high waist and flared nicely, hiding my male hips. I slid my shorts off under the dress.

“How’d you get the fit?” I asked.

“Remember Maria has your measurements from when she got your uniform”.

Lisa started to work on my face, cream, bb cream, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick. She fluffed out my hair and sprayed if to keep the style. It took some time until she declared that “that’ll do” and stood back to admire her handiwork. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a reasonable imitation of a woman; I would pass if not scrutinized too closely. Lisa reached over my shoulders and slipped some bra inserts inside my bra brushing her hands off my nipples.

“If you do that I’ll forget that you’re a lesbian”.

My voice had returned.

She laughed,

“I might forget that you’re a man… look in the mirror!”

The ensemble was completed with a pair of the white flat shoes that we wore on board.

“We’ll get you some nice sandals, until then these’ll have to do”.

We stepped out into the corridor and Lisa closed the door behind us. I hesitated, I was terrified, I was thrilled, I was giddy. Lisa slipped her arm through mine and guided me to the lobby. Maria looked at me, smiled, took my other arm and said,

“Let’s go girls”.

The opening of the Shania Twain song, Feel Like A Woman, always reminds me of that moment. It was appropriate in so many ways and I remembered that scene through some very dark days that were to come.

I had a great day. The girls first steered me to a cheap shop where I was provided with some flimsy faux gold sandals and a matching shoulder bag. I was about to discard my slip-ons when Maria said,

“You’ll probably need those later”,

so I slipped them into my bag.

In guy mode, I would probably been bored as the girls appeared to drift aimlessly from shop to shop, not buying much, until we fetched up at a small café for lunch. I slipped off my sandals, rubbed my feet, and put my slip-ons back on. The girls grinned.

“You’ll get used to it.”

We had a nice, leisurely lunch, a luxury seldom enjoyed on the yacht. A bit more shopping saw me end up with some costume jewelry clip-ons, necklace and bangles. We were due to meet the guys at 7:30pm for dinner and were on our way back to the hotel for a glass of wine when we passed a hairdresser/beauticians close by. Maria and Lisa looked at it, looked at me, looked at each other and nodded. Maria went in, Lisa and I waited outside.

“What are you two planning?” I asked, trying to sound suspicious. I guessed what was afoot.

“Don’t tell me that you haven’t enjoyed being a woman today”, Lisa said.

“OK, but I’ve got to get changed before we meet the guys”.

“No, I think we’ll go out as three couples.”

“But I can’t… “

“Why not? They’ve already seen you in makeup, a tunic and a nightdress. Besides, it’ll be fun!”

Maria came out, gave us a thumbs up, and they both propelled me into the shop. I was seated in a chair before a mirror. The hairdresser spoke no English so Lisa and Maria discussed their preferences in English, and then Maria spoke to the hairdresser in Greek. No one consulted me!

The girls left for their glass of wine and I was left at the mercy of the beautician/hairdresser. My hair is a variety of red/brown with a tendency towards being unruly. The hairdresser washed and towel dried it, then proceeded to thin it out and layer it down around my head. Finally she worked on the front giving me a longish fringe before passing me to a colleague who proceeded to give me some highlights. I’d long since ceased to be worried; I just relaxed and went along for the ride. Then a third lady cleaned off all my makeup and proceeded to redo it. When she was almost finished, I recognized Maria’s voice behind me; they were back. Some more chatting in Greek, the make-up lady finished and I was looking into the mirror at a young woman. The makeup was good, but it was really the haircut that made the difference, clearly feminine, framing my face and softening its contours.

A face appeared on either shoulder, Lisa and Maria had joined me in the mirror, Maria smiling, Lisa grinning from ear to ear. They were also all glammed up, we were going directly to the restaurant. My transformation finished, I stood up and reached for my bag and wallet to pay. Maria caught my hand, this was the first time that she’d ever touched me, shook her head and said that it was on the Yacht’s expenses account. I slipped my sandals back on, received a good brush down from the beautician, and we all headed off to dinner.

“Hi Maria, Lisa, where’s Jim?”

George, always the consummate gentleman rose to greet us as we entered the restaurant. He looked at me, smiled and said,

“Hi, I’m George, this is Jorge and Dimitri”,

before turning back to Maria to ascertain Jim’s, my, whereabouts.

“George, Dimitri, Jorge, this is Jasmine. She’s replacing Jim this evening”.

Looks of confusion, then slow recognition as Dimitri pushed my chair in and I smoothed my dress under me.

Maria was helped to her seat by George whilst Lisa playfully bumped Jorge over one place with her hips to make the table a circle of boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, apparent girl!

Dimitri looked sideways and said lowly,

“I would never have guessed that you weren’t a girl”.

Jorge, on my other side, nodded, his eyes like two saucers.

“We asked Jasmine to join us so that we would have a nice, balanced boy/girl group for dinner…”

And then, we carried on pretty much as normal. I kept my voice low and soft, and Maria and Lisa covered all questions in relation to my transformation on the basis that it was a prank. Dinner finished, we wandered slowly back to our hotel, George linked Maria, Jorge linked Lisa, and Dimitri linked me, most considerately.

We arrived back to the hotel and split up, Dimitri and Jorge relinquishing our arms, and Lisa and I went into our own room and closed the door. We both kicked off our shoes, Lisa turned her back to me and asked me to unzip her. I slid her zip all the way down and she slipped the dress off and turned towards me. I couldn’t help but look at her boobs.

“Given that you’re a girl tonight, maybe we…”

She moved closer, and I moved towards her. I put my hands on her shoulders and drew her in. My own bra was getting in the way of my fully appreciating her embrace, but she was already unzipping my dress and I felt her undo the clasp of my bra. She slid my dress and bra forward off my shoulders, stepped back to let them both fall to the ground and moved in close again…

I started to pull on my shorts next morning. We were a little late getting up; not surprising. I had planned to have breakfast before my shower.

“No way, I want to spend the day with the girl I slept with last night”, Lisa was just dragging herself out of bed.

I shaved, carefully, despite being late as I could not risk a cut! My beard was very light in colour and density and I could have delayed shaving in male mode, but definitely not as a girl!

Lisa was already dressed when I finished shaving; like me she was planning to shower later. She helped me into my bra and dress, sat me down and quickly applied some makeup and combed my hair. The new cut made it much easier to handle.

The rest of the gang were already having breakfast when we got to the dining room; they had occupied a table for 6 and kept some seats for us. Maria looked at us and smiled; there’s something about the way a couple act that makes it clear that they are more than friends and she had picked up on this immediately. The guys seemed a little surprised that I was still dressed as a girl; was this not dragging our “prank” out a bit? They had to leave after about 10 minutes as their course was starting, leaving Lisa, Maria and myself at the table. We couldn’t laze around as we had booked a guide to take us on a walking tour; he was due to meet us at the hotel at 10am. We finished breakfast and went back to our rooms to get ready. I stepped into the shower, had just got the water right, when Lisa stepped in beside me.

“Save water, shower with a friend”, she said, quoting what had become a type of catchphrase in the UK and Ireland at the time. I can’t recall its’ origin.

We quickly got ready, Lisa sorting out my makeup and hair. Back down in the lobby just before 10am, Maria was already chatting with the guide and introduced us as Lisa and Jasmine. We headed off, me wearing my onboard shoes (which I couldn’t wear again on the yacht) with my sandals in my bag. We did the classical sites, which I had already visited with the Greek class, but enjoyed all the more now as a girl, walking around with girls. My voice was my main problem; I had to work to try to keep it soft. We stopped for a coffee mid-way and Lisa had to divert me when I inadvertently started towards the men’s toilet!

The tour finished and the guide joined us for a late lunch at 2pm. We finished at 3pm, said goodbye to the guide, who kissed all 3 of us on the cheek, and headed back towards the shopping streets. Maria went to split off,

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds to wander around alone”.

Both Lisa and I spoke together and persuaded her to stay with us. She wasn’t displeased, her offer had been more out of politeness. She did note that we hadn’t denied being “lovebirds”; it was obvious as we had linked each other on the tour. Girls can do this as friends without causing comment, and only Maria and Lisa knew that I wasn’t a girl… or was I.

I have since heard a joke about the difference between a transvestite and a transgirl; the punch line is “about two years”. I had moved from a desire to wear skirts to being really comfortable passing as a girl in the space of 3 weeks. When I left home, I would never have thought that in about five weeks I would be walking about in a dress with two pretty girl friends. Neither did I think that I would be sleeping with a self-declared lesbian. I was never a macho type. Other than swimming and some track work, I had avoided the tougher sports at school and was much happier playing table tennis or chess than Gaelic football, which was a form of religion in our school. I was never attracted to men; I adored girls, even as I envied them their pretty dresses and skirts. Was I a lesbian? Ireland was just beginning to emerge from the dark ages of Catholic church domination, even repression, but, having attended a Catholic boarding school, I still believed that homosexuality was a deviance. Never having heard to transvestitism, I guessed that it was also a deviance but of a lesser kind. I was very confused.

My clip-on earrings kept slipping off, so I removed them and put them in my bag. The girls noticed and steered me into a jeweler’s shop. About 20 minutes later I emerged with newly pierced ears and two small gold earrings, a present from Lisa. I had very little money as I had not yet been paid other than a “per-diem” allowance. Our meals and the hotel were directly paid by the Yacht charter business.

The team was due to have dinner in a rather up-market restaurant. Both Maria and Lisa had dresses in the hotel suitable for this environment; I only had my sundress which would not have been suitable, even if I hadn’t worn it around now for the better part of two days in a very warm climate. Neither had I any suitable male clothes, as I had only travelled with shorts and t-shirts. I suggested that I give it a miss, have a pizza, and meet them back in the hotel for a drink. The girls weren’t happy, but it seemed to be the obvious solution. Then, as we passed the window of a ladies boutique, Maria stopped, looked in the window, and called us back. A mannequin was outfitted in a light grey, silk-effect, A-line or flared dress, knee length, with sleeves. A high figure of drachma was crossed out by marker and half the amount written alongside. I can’t remember the figures, as the drachma exchange rate was a bit absurd. Maria was looking in her bag; I could see that she was counting her money. She started to lead us in when I stopped her.

“Maria, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, I don’t have the money and you can’t be paying”.

“I’ll add the dress to the Yacht’s wardrobe”.

I looked blankly at her.

“We have some dresses on board to lend to guests; some girls use them from time to time, and I need to add a bigger sized one anyway”.

In we went, and the dress was available in the larger size. That’s why it was on sale; the tourist season was ending and most Greek ladies are more petit than Northern Europeans. It was new for me to go into the ladies changing room, Lisa came in with me, something that guys would never do. She helped me out of my sundress, straightened my bra and pulled the grey dress over my head. There was a zipper on the side which she closed for me. We went out and looked in the mirror with Maria and the boutique owner. Other than being a bit flat up top, the dress fitted well, the flare again disguising my lack of hips. The boutique owner wandered off and returned with a heavily padded bra. Lisa took it from her, propelled me back into the changing room, helped me out of the dress and the bra that I was wearing, and into the new one. I resisted the temptation to start anything with her in case my appreciation of her charms became obvious when we went back out!

We bought the dress and the bra, added a pair of tights and left. The girls decided that my cheap gold sandals would be OK with the dress, they were still new and I had not really worn them much. Shopping finished, we strolled back to the hotel. The guys were to meet us there and we would all walk together to the restaurant. We went to our rooms, showered, changes and Lisa did my makeup. This time, she talked me through it; she obviously thought that this was a skill that I needed to develop, but there was no time to let me practice. I also received a lesson in putting on tights, Lisa had brought a pair of white cotton gloves along and put these on to pull on her tights.

“Less chance of snagging them with your nails”.

I followed suit, albeit rather clumsily, and eventually got the tights on and straight. It felt good but, given the heat, I would have preferred stockings! Both dressed, we looked in the mirror together, both beaming. Lisa had a small cassette type camera with which she took an unaimed picture of the mirror. We wouldn’t find out how it came out until Lisa got the film developed when the 24 shots had all been used. We had about 5 minutes and I turned to kiss Lisa. She stopped me; we would ruin our lipstick!

Again, stepping out of the bedroom and closing the door behind me gave me a kind of thrill, a combination of excitement, anxiety and ecstasy. The anxiety was dampened because I was with Lisa, meeting a group who now knew me and apparently accepted me in my new persona. I have occasionally wondered how it must be for other transgirls, who have to dress without female help, and go out alone for a first time, some time. In retrospect, I had it easy. We met the gang in the bar, Maria was already there with George and possibly had told them what to expect as no one passed comment. Dimitri even said, pleasantly,

“Hi Jasmine, nice to see you again.”

We went to the restaurant and again I practiced keeping my voice soft, and eating slowly, taking smaller amounts on my fork and generally trying to be ladylike. I took it easy on the wine; I couldn’t afford to get tipsy and anyway, I had to ensure that I was in good shape for when we got back to the hotel later that night. After the main course, Lisa excused herself to go to the ladies’ room and nodded to me to go with her. She had serious empathy and realized that I would not have felt comfortable to go on my own in a crowded establishment where there would be other women present. We went in, occupied a stall each and I was most careful not to make noise; it would be a dead giveaway. Lisa waited for me, we washed our hands and she touched up my and her lipsticks and we rejoined the gang.

George had a somewhat serious look on his face as we returned. The three sailors were discussing the weather forecast for our trip to Heraklion, Maria was listening intently. The forecast, George explained, was marginal. We would not do the trip if we had guests on board as it was likely to be a rough ride, Force 7 on the starboard bow for much of the trip. Maybe the forecast would change in the intervening day, we still had one day left in port, but that could also be for the worse. Maria decided that we would go back on board the following day and stow everything in anticipation of heavy weather. The sailors still had a half day of their course to go but would join us from midday on.

Decision made, we ordered dessert and coffee and, as tomorrow would be a working day, headed back to the hotel for a reasonably early night.

“Do try to get a good night’s sleep”, Maria joked as we all split up to go to our rooms.

Lisa and I postponed the sleep bit for a while and afterwards, lying snuggled against her back with my arm around her, I said…

“I’m very confused Lisa. I don’t think that I’ve ever been happier than these last few weeks, and these last two days especially… I’ve really enjoyed being a girl with you and Maria… and here we are together… and you’re lesbian… what am I?”

She turned around so that we were lying face to face, smiled and said,

“You’re like me; you’re a lesbian too!”

And that is almost exactly what I was thinking. I wanted this life to continue indefinitely, but I was scheduled to return to Ireland in three weeks to take up a college place. This would be the safe, predictable, boring and correct thing to do. If I left, would I ever see Lisa again? Travel back then was much more expensive and difficult than now, so probably not. Also, there was simply no way to pursue this “lifestyle” in Ireland. If a “scene” existed, it could only be in Dublin and I had applied for college in Galway, a very nice, provincial city, but small and rather conservative.

We were up early the following morning and Lisa insisted that I wear my sundress back to the boat. What the hell, everybody except Greg and Chef had already seen me, and we both wanted to continue the illusion for as long as possible. We finished breakfast, returned to our rooms, packed and met Maria in the lobby where she checked us all out with a company credit card. Lisa drove the runabout, a Renault 4, back to the marina; Maria didn’t particularly like to drive and I was not comfortable with driving on the “wrong” side of the road. We parked up and went on board. I met some workmen as I headed to our cabin but didn’t see Greg; he was probably up to his ears in bits of generator or something in the engine room. We changed into t-shirts and shorts and set about methodically stowing everything that we thought could move. This was easier than it sounds; boats are generally designed for this and items such as glasses and cups slot into special slots in drawers to keep them safe. To be sure, we wrapped every item in a sheet of kitchen paper to soften any impact and reduce movement. Plates were interleaved with kitchen paper, drawers were locked, vases removed from tables… the list goes on. Maria both worked and supervised, a case of all hands on deck!

Chef hadn’t arrived back yet so Lisa took the car and got pizza for lunch for the 4 crew on board, Greg and us three “girls”. We were tucking in at the crew table in the galley when Greg joined us. He was a little hassled as he had to complete the generator job, secure the engine room and check the bilge pumps before we sailed. He did notice my nail varnish, red to match my sundress, and my makeup. He also noticed that Lisa and I were now apparently closer that heretofore… on leaving to go back to work he just said,

“See you girls later.”

I didn’t mind; I rather liked being called a girl not, even if a little sarcastically.

The sailors arrived back soon after we had finished lunch, they had lunched at the hotel and quickly started to check and stow everything on deck. By 6pm we were all finished, and Chef had just arrived back. We were going ashore for a meal at a local restaurant when George called us all to the bridge for a briefing. In turn Maria, Greg, Jorge and Dimitri confirmed that they were happy that their respective areas were rigged for heavy weather. Chef would do his area after dinner ashore, and food thereafter would be fairly basic, sandwiches, soup, coffee, and some cereal, yogurt and fruit for breakfast.

George explained the cast-off procedure. Because of the work on the generator, we were alongside the pontoon as opposed to the usual stern-to practice in the Mediterranean. This was a problem as the wind was blowing us onto the pontoon, and George reckoned that it would be too strong for the trusters alone to deal with. The plan was to cast off, leaving a strong line from our bow, back to the pontoon approximately midship. This was called a “spring”. The port engine would go ahead, the starboard engine astern, to push the bow against the pontoon and the stern would move out, with the stern truster helping out. Once the stern was well out, both engines would go astern for a few seconds to bring the yacht into clear water, then the starboard engine would go ahead to pivot the boat to port before it headed out from the marina. Immediately both the engines went astern, it would be possible to cast off the spring which would be recovered by marina staff; George didn’t want it being pulled into a maneuvering boat in case it fouled the propellors. We were each given a role; mine was at the stern with a hand-held radio to call out the distance remaining as the boat went astern and look out for hazards generally. I would also cast off the stern line, to be collected by the shore crew, on George’s radio command.

George then continued with the safety briefing. Life jackets were to be worn at all times except in our cabins. Movement around was to be limited and, once underway, nobody was to go on deck without George’s permission or without a lifeline. We had an option of being on the bridge, there was plenty of room as guests were often to be found there when underway, or being in our cabins. The bridge would give us some visibility which was a partial antidote to sea sickness, however our cabins were lower down and amidships, so we would experience less motion. Maria passed out some sea-sickness tablets which we should take immediately on waking as they took some time to become effective.

Briefing complete, we headed off for dinner, a quiet affair, and quickly off to bed. Lisa slid in beside me on the lower bunk and we eventually went to sleep. We woke at 4:30am, took our sea-sickness tablets, quickly completed our ablutions, had a quiet breakfast, got our life jackets and got ready for the off. For the first time we were wearing “foulies”, waterproof gear, as the wind was already quite strong. The engines were already running, and shore power and water were being disconnected as I made my way aft. I was nervous as I didn’t want to mess up my simple tasks in this very difficult maneuver. The radio crackled…

“Stand by on the lines”.

There were two men on the pontoon. One walked to the line from our bow to the midship’s point on the pontoon, gave a thumbs up, and resumed his place at the bow line. The wind was slightly astern so the bow line went first.

“Cast off forward”.

“Forward line clear”.

“Cast off stern”.

I undid the line from the cleat and slipped it through the cutout in the side, the shoreman quickly pulled it in. I pressed the button (PTT) on the radio.

“Stern line clear”.

The engines rumbled and the stern moved out, water swirling around us.

“Going astern”.

The boat moved backwards, with a distinctive drift of the stern back towards the pontoon.

"Cast off spring."

"Spring clear."

I pressed the PTT,

“Thirty meters, twenty meters, ten meters”.

The engine rumbles grew louder and the water foamed at our stern. At the stern, it looked to me that the stern was moving back onto the pontoon, but I knew from our briefing that the starboard engine was now going ahead and the bow was swinging out. Then we were going forward, faster than normal as going slow would mean greater wind drift in proportion to our forward movement.

“Deck crew, well done, let’s get you inside and the hatch secured”.

I went up to the bridge to return the radio to its charging station, Lisa arrived in from her position on the bow where she had been helping to recover and stow the fenders. George took a quick look over his shoulder,

“Well done girls”

before quickly turning back to the helm. It looked like I was now being viewed as a girl, even though Greg, who was standing at the throttles having operated them during the maneuver, shook his head slightly but said nothing. Soon the rest of the deck crew were in, handing in radios, removing their foulies and getting back into their lifejackets. The bridge was warm, it wasn’t raining yet and visibility was good. We sat on the high guest bench at the rear of the bridge and watched as George steered the yacht out the gap in the breakwater with its red and green navigation lights. Outside the sea was much more lively and we pitched and rolled as George and Greg worked to find the right speed and trim tab position to give us the best ride. Lisa and I were, naturally, sitting close together, but I resisted any temptation to put my arm over her shoulder. Nobody had said it but instinctively we knew that we needed to keep our relationship inside our cabin or off the yacht.

Sea sickness pills can cause some people to feel drowsy, especially if not actively employed, and I decided to go below and lie down in our cabin. When Lisa said that she would do the same; Maria playfully rolled her eyes and we both headed below. The sensation in the cabin was different, the motion definitely less but with no visual references. We both slid out of our clothes, which we left on the top bunk in case we needed to dress in a hurry and wedged ourselves together in the bottom bunk. It would have been difficult to get up to much given the motion of the boat and we both fell asleep. We both got up at different times to use the heads and agreed that this was quite a difficult job in a rough sea. It wasn’t a storm; George explained later that it was at the higher end of Force 7, almost a gale, whereas a storm is defined as Force 10.

The distance from Athens to Heraklion is about 180 nautical miles, at an economical cruising speed of 9 knots about 20 hours. This trip took 30 hours. Lisa and I spent most of the time together in our cabin, and talked a lot about our lives to date. Mine was pretty straightforward; hers more complicated. Lisa’s father worked in the City, which I learned meant that he worked in Finance and they were quite well off. She went to a private school, did her A levels, and was to go to University. But she hadn’t been happy at school; she felt that she didn’t fit in and wanted to take some time off before going to college. Her parents agreed that she could travel with a girl friend and defer university for a year; they didn’t realize that girl friend meant girlfriend. By the time they arrived in Greece, having “done" Spain and Italy, that relationship was strained. When Lisa secured a short term job on the Yacht, her now-ex-girlfriend went back to the UK. That should have been that, but the disgruntled ex-partner told her parents about the relationship, probably in an attempt to shock them. Her parents spoke to, or rather accosted, Lisa’s parents on the basis that their perverted daughter (Lisa) had corrupted their precious petal. A telegram, a difficult telephone conversation, and a stern and unkind letter from her parents convinced Lisa that the parental relationship was broken and she stayed in Greece and with the Yacht.

“They had been delighted that I was travelling with a girl and so worried that I’d get pregnant or run off with a man. Now they’d probably be delighted to know that I’m sleeping with one… or at least someone who normally presents as one!”

“I don’t think that they’d be very happy with me, especially if I turned up in the sundress… way too short!”

“You’d be ok in the grey dress; it looks elegant on you.”

We lapsed into silence for a while. The boat pitched, rocked and rolled…

“I don’t want to go back home”, I finally said.

“How would it work?” Lisa responded. “I don’t want you to go home either, but how long can you keep up switching between being a boy and a girl?”

“I don’t know; it’s all new to me, remember?”

“You know”, Lisa said, “I felt that you were different when we met. I wondered what you’d be like as a girl…”

“So you started to turn me into one…” I interrupted softly.

“Not like you objected!” Lisa retorted playfully. “Seriously, I felt that you weren’t like other lads, more like a girl than any other boy I’d met. And that’s why we’ve ended up together.”

“I think that you know yourself better than I know me”, I responded. “Three weeks ago I was a reasonably normal male, hiding a secret desire to wear skirts. Now I’m happy to be seen and treated as a girl… albeit a lesbian.”

“So you’re not going to let Greg or Dimitri shift you?” Lisa altered between playfulness and seriousness. Actually we both did; it was a way to handle a serious conversation and not get in too deep.

“Not my type,” I answered. “Seriously… I find the thought …”

“And do you think the same about two girls together…. about me?

“To me, that’s completely different… girls have such lovely bodies… who wouldn’t want to play with them, feel them, hug them, kiss them, be one of them…”. I was nibbling her neck and ear as I talked, or rather murmured.

Lisa reached a hand back and rubbed my leg… “You know, I think you really are a lesbian…”

The yacht’s motion started to ease as we proceeded south, coming into the shelter of the Crete coast. We got up and dressed, donned our lifejackets and made our way up to the bridge. All was quiet. George was asleep on the guest bench at the rear of the bridge, his head on Maria’s lap. Her head was tilted to the side, somewhat asleep as well. Jorge was helming, Dimitri and Greg were nowhere to be seen. We crept to Jorge so as not to wake Maria or George; he whispered that the others were in their bunks. Dimitri was due on the helm in an hour or so. The lifejacket-at-all times order was now rescinded inside the yacht, but the no-going-on-deck order persisted. Dawn was breaking, the sun low on the horizon on our port bow, so we must have turned more towards the East than our initial course. I offered to go below to get coffee and a sandwich for Jorge; he nodded gratefully.

I was back up on the bridge in less than 5 minutes with an enclosed “stay warm” mug of what we called “café-au-lait” back then, and a ham and cheese sandwich: I knew that Jorge liked milky coffee in the morning. Holding the helm, Jorge tried to catch the sandwich, so I offered to take the helm for him. He must have been a bit jaded for he agreed. I had to hold the course on 130 Degrees on the compass. This isn’t as easy as it sounds as the corrections are counter-intuitive, but I was making a good attempt at it when we both realized that George was standing behind us. Poor Jorge got a fright and went to take the helm back, but George motioned to him to relax and have his coffee, leaving me at the helm, albeit with George in arms reach. Apparently he had woken up, Maria indicated for silence and pointed to me. Lisa was too far away to warn me and Maria had put her finger to her lips in any event. Watching me helm for a few minutes, George started to coach me on my tendency to overcorrect and asked where I had learned.

“Just watching you guys.”

“Seriously, you haven’t done this before?”

“No, first time.”

“I think I’ll add your girls to the bridge watch”, George joked, looking at Maria, who responded that we had enough to do without doing his work as well. I picked on the reference to “your girls”; I was getting very comfortable with being seen like that.

Jorge had now finished his breakfast and offered to take the helm back. George told him to get some sleep; we’d be Ok until Dimitri’s shift started. Apparently, George had helmed for the first 6 hours or so then established a shift of 2 hours on, 4 hours off, with Greg, Dimitri and Jorge. As skipper, he had to stay on the bridge in the heavy weather, but could take a nap on the bench. Maria had stayed with him; they both looked wrecked. Lisa offered to go below to get breakfast for them both; George accepted the offer and, gently caressing Maria’s head, suggested that she go below to eat and turn in. She nodded wearily, caught his hand momentarily, then moved away slowly, unsure of her footing on the still moving deck. Other than when I first met them, and they didn’t mean me to notice, this was the first time I’d seen them publicly show affection on board.

I stayed helming when Lisa returned with George’s breakfast, black coffee this time, and he leaned against the helm console and ate.

“Of course, there’s no reason why a girl can’t be a skipper” he mused, half to himself.

“What owner would hire us?” Lisa asked.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he replied.

Apart from the fact that he was still referring to me as a girl, this conversation also reflected well on George. At that time, most men, and Greek men particularly, had views on what a woman’s role should be, and that did not involve skippering yachts. He was obviously well ahead in the enlightenment stakes.

“Of course it’s probably easier for you” he said, turning to me, “depending on which side of the fence that you land”.

It didn’t shock me… he had pretty well summed up my dilemma. Lisa looked over at me… time to lighten the mood again…

“You must be Spartan”, I said.

He looked puzzled…

“Famous for being laconic, summing things up in the shortest way possible and not wasting words”, I elaborated.

“You know your Greek”, he laughed.

Dimitri came up on the bridge and I gratefully relinquished the helm. My short stint, and in a lively sea, had required a fair bit of concentration and Lisa and I needed to get back to our own work.

We worked our way methodically through the boat “reception” areas, then on to the guest cabins, or “Staterooms”. Again, I’ve no idea why they’re called that. There was no apparent damage and anything that had drifted out of place was quickly sorted. The sea state continued to moderate and was no more than Force 4 as we approached Heraklion. We woke Maria in time for us all to get to our berthing stations and George moored us without any problems in the Venetian Harbour. Local contractors arrived fairly quickly to give the boat a complete washdown; we were totally encrusted with salt.

Maria briefed us on the owner’s group, and on his particular tastes. He was Greek, about 60, divorced and remarried. His current wife was American, about 40, they had one 7-year-old child. His son from his first marriage, early 30s, was joining him, with his wife, no children. The last person joining was his daughter Sophie from his first marriage. She was 28, recently divorced, and travelling on her own. Aristotle, the owner, had made his money in the tourist trade and owned a string of hotels across Greece, mainly on the Islands. As he was Greek, we would not be doing the faux Greek costumes at dinner. Shorts were not regarded as suitable for formal service with the owner on board so this would be handled by Maria and Lisa wearing their uniform white skirts. I was relegated to cabin duty and working with Chef during dinner… if he let me into the galley!

The Yacht was shipshape by about 3pm, the Owner and his party were due to be on board by 5pm, with dinner at 7. George had to hold on until the owner arrived, greet him, and get to bed! Aristotle and his party arrived around 5:20pm and the reception team lined up at the stern. I was not included – shorts again! Lisa told me the story afterwards, somewhat in awe of Aristotle. He arrived on first, greeted George with a handshake, and then greeted both Maria and Lisa by name and with a kiss on either cheek. He had only met Lisa once before but remembered her all the same. Like a number of self-made individuals, and many politicians, he was a real people person.

He turned to Maria after he had greeted Lisa and said,

“You’re short a girl?”

“We have a temporary stewardes… steward on board. He’s very good but doesn’t have a formal uniform so he’s not doing front-of-house”.

Aristotle continued moving forward as the rest of the party came on board, heading for the door leading to the companionway to the crew quarters.

“I must say “Hello” to Chef; I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”

It turned out that Aristotle and Chef were from the same village, their families being friends. Aristotle considered family and friendship more important than position and status, and that it was appropriate for him to go to the galley to greet Chef.

And that’s how I met Aristotle; I was in the galley arranging canapes on the service lift that Maria and Lisa would serve. He bounced into the kitchen, all 5 foot 6 inches of him, and hugged Chef. For the first time I learned that Chef’s name was Nicholas. They chatted in Greek for a minute or so and then Aristotle saw me. He came over and reached out his hand…

At this stage, I had reverted to my Reserve Defense Forces experience and was standing at what the Army calls “attention”. I was way underage to join, but in those days, that wasn’t a problem.

I shook his hand and introduced myself as Jim. He studied me a little… taking in a girl’s haircut, BB cream and eyeshadow… he had a way of focusing all his attention on the person that he was interacting with that was almost unnerving.

“So, you’re the new steward?”

“Yes, sir, just filling in before going to college.”

“Have you enjoyed your time here?”

“Absolutely sir, I’ve loved the experience and have really been helped out by all the crew, especially by Purser (Maria’s official title) and the other stewardess, Lisa.”

“Other stewardess? Hmmmmm… nice to meet you”. He turned away to leave…

“And you, sir,”

And I gave a small curtsy. Automatic, I don’t know why, I don’t know how I knew how to do it. I must have picked it up from the TV series “Upstairs Downstairs” which had run on Irish TV a few years beforehand.

The canapes went up in the service lift, more ice for the champagne, and things quieted down for a while.

Maria came flying down the companionway, went into the store locker where she kept the purser’s supplies, pulled out one of Anna’s skirts, checked it for wrinkles or marks, threw it at me and said,

“You’re back on front of house, Change into a fresh t-shirt”.

“Huh?”

“Aristotle asked me about you. When I explained your story, he laughed and said he couldn’t tell whether you were a boy or girl, and you didn’t seem to know either, so you should do front-of-house in a skirt”

This was to be a third new experience for me. I had started as a male in a costume dress or tunic, presenting as a male. Then I presented as a female, wearing a dress and pretending to be a girl. Now I would be presenting as something in-between, male, but dressed and made-up as a girl. This was going to be interesting.

The family glanced at me a little curiously at the dinner service. Maria had overheard some conversation that, as I was sleeping with Lisa who preferred girls, that this was a Corporal Klinger type ruse on my part to get into her bed… actually not a bad idea had I thought of it in the beginning. Otherwise things progressed as normal without any hands slipping up our skirts. This was a family group and all were impeccably behaved, with the slight exception of Sophie, who drank too much wine and got a little tipsy. Dinner completed; the group were all turned in by 11:30pm as we were starting early the following day. Lisa and I quickly cleaned the dining areas and headed for our cabin to get some sleep. As this was an owner’s cruise, we were working together both early and late shifts; everything had to be perfect.

About 12:30, just as I had finished washing my teeth, the phone buzzed in the cabin. This was an extension installed just before this trip and calls were diverted to here when the galley was unmanned. This was to ensure constant availability for the owner’s party. Lisa was in bed already, so I answered. It was Sophie, asking for come champagne to be brought to her cabin; she was still partying. I slipped my skirt and t-shirt back on, got a half-sized bottle from the cooler in the galley, climbed the companionway, put the bottle on a linen covered tray along with a glass and an ice-bucket, walked to Sophie’s cabin and knocked very gently on the door.

“Come in.”

I entered, Sophie was not visible, but her voice floated out from the en-suite heads.

“Can you open it and put it on the table?”

I opened the bottle carefully so as not to have champagne spraying all over the cabin and was just putting the bottle into the ice bucket when I felt a tug on the hem of my skirt. I half turned and then looked away again; Sophie was standing right beside me wearing only satin or silk French knickers. From my quick glance, I could see that her face was flushed.

“Will that be all Ma’am?” I asked. It wasn’t unusual to have women sunbathing topless on the upper deck, but I wasn’t happy to be in the cabin of the owner’s daughter in this circumstance.

“Shy, aren’t we? I bet the other stewardess doesn’t think you’re shy!”

Sophie had now pressed up against my back and reached her hands under my t-shirt. She started to gently rub my nipples.

“Ma’am, I don’t think that this is a good idea, and like you said, I have a girlfriend on board.”

One hand reached down to slip up the front of my skirt; it was becoming obvious that, despite my dilemma, I was appreciating her attention.

“Hmmm, you’re not all shy… I’m sure your girlfriend won’t mind sharing you with me for a while.”

“Please Ma’am, I’ll lose my job and girlfriend.”

“Don’t you find me attractive?”

She was now inside my panties and edging them down. I knew that she was high and that I would be the biggest loser if this continued. I turned to face her, thus extracting her hand from under my skirt and caught her gently and firmly around the waist, hugging her closely which would keep her hands from my front at least. Her eyes were somewhat glazed over; I reckoned that she had taken something else as well as the drink.

“Yes, Ma’am, I think that you’re beautiful, and you know that I like you. In the morning you’ll know that I was right not to stay.”

Her eyes welled up and she turned away and sat on the bed…

“I won’t be this lonely in the morning…”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am…”

I edged out the door, closed it gently, tiptoed down the companionway and into our cabin. I sat on the edge of the lower bunk, shaking. Lisa was half asleep.

“Well, you took your time. Are you sure that it was only champagne that she wanted?”

She reached out a hand and put it on my leg.

“You’re shaking; what happened? Are you OK?”

“She didn’t only want champagne; you’re doing any late service for Sophie in future.”

I told Lisa the story.

“What happens if she says that you molested her?”

“Why would she say that?”

“Trust me on this; we’re calling Maria.”

Lisa went and roused Maria. George heard her knock, heard her whispered conversation with Maria and said,

“I’m coming too!”

We met around the crew table in the galley. Both George and Maria had notebooks and made me repeat the story in forensic detail whilst they both wrote it down. I felt really uncomfortable relating, especially in front of Lisa, how a woman had molested me. After about two hours we all turned in, though I got little sleep. Lisa lay behind me and hugged me all night; I was conscious to try not to move so that she could get some rest.

Four hours later Maria knocked and opened the door when I answered. She and Lisa were to do breakfast and I was to stay away until they had “scouted the area”. Obviously someone besides me watched war or cowboy movies! The group arrived individually, Sophie last. Lisa told me later that she looked a bit the worse for wear, but not wrecked. She had an envelope in her hand, one of those from the staterooms usually used by paying guests to write letters to their friend on yacht stationery to show that they had been on board. She was also last to leave and, when Maria was out of earshot spoke to Lisa.

“Where’s Jim today?”

“He had to help Chef; we have a small problem in the galley.”

“Give him this”.

Sophie passed the envelope to Lisa who took it and came directly to our cabin. I opened the envelope; on the boat stationery, two words were written, “Sorry”, and under that “Thanks”. I got dressed, Lisa briefed me on her cover story, and I followed her up to clear up the breakfast area… normal service had resumed. I tucked the envelope into the waistband of my skirt under my t-shirt – no pockets - and quietly showed it to Maria and then George.

I guessed that Sophie would be feeling foolish when we first met, so I put on my best “front-of-house” smile when she was on her way to the bridge to watch the departure.

“Good morning, Ma’am”.

A wry smile…

“Good morning, Jim”.

The rest of the trip to Paphos and the voyage to Alexandria was fairly uneventful. There was no crew shore leave in Paphos but we were to have an opportunity to go ashore in Alexandria. We arrived in the Eastern harbour around mid-day, even this late in the year it was very warm. We picked up a swinging mooring and launched the dingy at the stern. This was a fairly large, fast RIB, but could only be operated at limited speed because of the number of boats in the harbour. An official launch came alongside for some paperwork, although an agent had already completed most of this in advance of our arrival, including paying the necessary “administration fees” to ensure a hassle-free process. A security boat also arrived; it was to stay beside us for the duration of our stay. Aristotle had chosen the eastern harbour, instead of the marina’s further West, as it was right in town instead of being 100kms out. This meant that we needed our own security as the yacht could be very easily boarded if not guarded. The group were to go ashore for a 3-day tour, staying in hotels for two days before returning to stay on board for another two days in Alexandria. Aristotle was interested in breaking into the local hotel market and was combining business with pleasure.

Almost immediately on the owner’s group’s departure, a fuel boat came alongside to fill our tanks. All of our fenders had to be deployed to keep this workboat away from our pristine hull; then we had to scrub the fenders! That done, time for shore leave. A member of the sailing crew and a member of the cabin crew had to be onboard at all times. Chef had no intention of going ashore; he never did unless he had to. We picked cards, highest to go ashore first, lowest to go the second day. I was going ashore with Greg and Dimitri, Day 2 would be Maria, Lisa and Jorge. George would stay on board; it would not be wise for the skipper to be absent should anything occur.

I dressed in the gear that I had brought out to Greece initially. Egypt was and still is a very intolerant society where what they see as sexual deviance is concerned and I was now doing my best to look male! Earrings out, no make-up, hair in ponytail, baseball cap to hide my fringe. Greg was the guide; he was well used to the Middle East from his Royal Navy days, but not with Alexandria itself as the Royal Navy hadn’t been there for some time.

We headed for the Souk. This was like nothing I had experienced to date; a riot of colour, smells and noise. We were accosted on all sides with people trying to sell us everything from leather goods to “Rolex” watches to “ancient” swords. Greg and Dimitri had gotten into a haggle with a merchant over a brace of reasonably genuine looking percussion cap muzzle loading pistols when a colourful stall caught my eye. I wandered over.

The stall was selling harem and belly-dancing costumes; a harem set was pinned on a cardboard cutout of an old Hollywood starlet, probably from the 40s judging by her hairstyle. I looked at the set intently. It was made from a blue, chiffon type material, gaudily edged with gold trim. The short top had a halter neck and was tied with a bow in the front. Some gold trim was sewn in the strategic places to hide the nipples. The bottom appeared to be two triangular pieces of material tied around the cardboard cutouts waist. They came down the legs on the outside and were fastened at the aankle, leaving the inside leg open. The two triangles overlapped in the strategic areas in the front and rear. The effect was incredibly sexy, and I pictured myself, or Lisa, or both of us in that set.

“For your girl, yes?”

An Arab man in traditional dress was looking intently at me.

“Yes, she would look great in it”,

I was only half lying…

“I have more, come, come I show you”.

He headed through the stall into a packed room full of boxes and some more cutouts. I followed him in, wondering how I would manage to buy two costumes, in different sizes, without him becoming suspicious.

“This very good…”

He was holding up another cutout, this time with a belly dancing costume.

It was dark inside, so I had to move closer to get a good look. A hand with a cloth came from behind my head and was jammed over my mouth and nose and I was grabbed around the arms and torso. I tried to move, but there was a funny smell…

I was sitting in a bright room overlooking the sea. It was already warm, thought not yet hot. I felt confused, happy, sad, and a bit afraid. A knock on the door and a lady walked in. She came over to me, I stood up and we shook hands. She was somewhere between 35 and 40 , friendly, wearing a dark skirt, white blouse, medium heels and carrying a briefcase.

“Hi, I’m Helen, mind if I sit down?”

“Of course, sorry, please do sit.”

She sat in an armchair on my right. I turned towards her.

“What do I call you?

“Jim, Jasmine, as you prefer”.

“I think Jasmine will be best – I think that’s where your mind is now.”

I was wearing a mid-length light blue dress with heels. Jasmine did seem more appropriate.

“Are you the shrink?”

“I’m a clinical psychologist, but you can call me a shrink if you prefer. I’m not a doctor, I’m just here to help you deal with what’s happened before you step back into the world again.”

“Lisa called it decompression, your word I’m assuming?”

“Yes; you’ve been through things most people will never experience. Sometimes that can continue to hurt, not just you, but those around you, especially those closest to you. I might be able to help you deal with that.”

“Is that why I can’t call home?”

“It’s not can’t. You can walk out right now and call whoever you want. But we’ve seen this before, know what might help. Will you let me help?”

“Then how come you let Lisa meet me? Were you not concerned about her?”

“You needed to meet someone that you could trust; anyway, we couldn’t have stopped her!”

“If I’m like you say, I don’t want to hurt her.”

“She’s hurt already, but not something you’ve done.”

I shifted uncomfortably. I thought could manage my own pain, but could not countenance her being hurt. I looked expectantly at Helen.

“You weren’t targeted randomly…”

“What’s that got to do with Lisa?”

“Just bear with me; I’ll explain. Do you remember the security boat that came alongside in Alexandria?”

I nodded.

“We can’t prove it, but we think that one of the crew fingered you”,

We both understood that fingered in this case meant identified…

“Have you ever heard of mukhannathun?”

I shook my head.

“Homosexuality in Egypt, and a lot of countries in the Middle East is illegal. Being transgender is not, and sex change is regarded by some as a cure for homosexuality. I know that makes no sense to us, but it’s where thinking is here.
But of course, there are men who want to use what we call rent boys. Mukhannathun are regarded as not being really male. The concept is hard to define but seems to encompass someone whose neither sex or is in the process of changing from one sex to another. Having sex with them is arguably not homosexuality.”

The penny dropped. I had been fingered because I was seen as intersex, or some variant thereof. Lisa was blaming herself for setting me on that road.

“But it’s not Lisa’s fault; I was always able to stop her dressing me, I just didn’t want to!”

“Probably only you can tell her that. I know that she has looked after you since yesterday, and will be staying with you while you’re here, but she needs some looking after too.”

“How do I do that?”

“Maybe you can start by telling me what happened?”

She had picked up a writing pad.

“Do I get to see your notes?”

I wasn’t challenging, more curious.

“If you want, when they’re typed up… I use Pitman Shorthand”

I nodded, but no words came. I didn’t know where to start. I was looking at the floor, nodding as I tried to find where, how, to get into this… Helen spoke first…

“Dimitri and Greg searched around for you for about an hour, but nobody apparently had seen you. Eventually they ran back to the harbour, got dropped out to the yacht and told George. He contacted the boss of the security company that was guarding the Yacht who contacted the police”

“Given that they had fingered me, that probably didn’t help?”

“We think that the owner was OK, just one bad staff member… anyway, you were probably followed to the souk and that’s where we lost you…

“I remember going into the stall with the harem and belly dancing gear… next thing I remember is waking up with an enormous headache…. I couldn’t move…it took some time to get some idea of where I was. I was lying on something scratchy, like a blanket, on something hard. Actually it was the floor. I couldn’t move my arms, eventually I realized that they were tied behind my back. My wrists hurt and I figured out that my ankles were tied to my wrists… hog tied as Americans would say. I couldn’t open my eyes, a blindfold, and there was something soft stuffed in my mouth.

I must have groaned or made a noise. Someone shook me. I tried to grunt into my gag, then it was being removed. A voice in my ear….

“Shhhhhssssss”

I grunted once, hoping that he would read this as assent to a clear instruction to keep quite. The gag came off and I felt the nozzle of a waterbottle rubbing against my lips. I opened them and a hand cradled my head as I sucked in water. I was given small amounts at a time, regularly, until eventually I said quietly,

“OK”

The gag was not replaced. I lay still, my head throbbing, listening to low, incomprehensible talk.

I felt someone untying the rope tying my legs to my wrists and then my legs were untied. My wrists throbbed as the pressure was released. They were still tied behind my back but at least were not being pulled by my legs anymore. I was pulled to my feet and held upright until I was able to stand. Something was wrapped around the back of my neck and I was led forward slowly, guided through some turns and then stopped. I felt someone tying rope around each ankle, but my legs were not tied close together so I could stand and move a little. Whatever was around my neck was removed and then my blindfold pulled off.

For a moment I couldn’t see, then my eyes adjusted slowly to the light. I was standing facing a sink and mirror. Instead of my own shorts and t-shirt, I was wearing the harem set that I had first admired at the stall! I had to hold onto the sink to stop from falling… WTF is the modern abbreviation for what I was thinking. Sometimes the mind is overwhelmed by the amount of information it has to process and freezes, like a modern computer screen: That’s where I was at right then. I looked around; there was an eastern toilet to my right, beyond that a shower with a curtain.

Still holding onto the sink, I looked to my left. A man was standing in the bathroom doorway, dressed in local dress, about 45, holding a leather belt in his hand. That’s what must have been around my neck. Some rope and cloth were lying on the floor just outside the doorway. He had a beard and was making no attempt to hide his face. He pointed to the sink. There was a disposable razor and some shaving cream lying on it; I looked back him and he pantomimed shaving. I started, then he caught my arm to stop me and opened the bow of the top that I was wearing and took it off me. He then pantomimed shaving under his arms. I did this every second day anyway but complied with what he wanted. I knew that, with my legs fettered, he could easily overpower me if I tried to fight, and I also knew that he wasn’t alone from having heard voices earlier.

I finished shaving and he indicated that he wanted me to turn my back to him. I pointed to the toilet; he nodded, and I shuffled over. The harem pants that I was wearing was open on the inside from ankle to ankle, so I did not have to try to take it off, but I felt very self-conscious peeing in front of him. I finished and washed my hands. He again indicated that I turn my back to him. He caught my left arm and tied a rope around my wrist, then the other wrist. This time it wasn’t too tight, just firm. Then he fitted the harem top on me, slipping the halter-neck over my head and tying the bow in front by putting his arms around me. This brought him really close to me, too close, and I could tell that he was enjoying himself. My blindfold was put back on and I was led, slowly as the fetter was still on my ankles, to somewhere else. I had no sense of where I was being led. I felt a chair being pushed into the back of my knees and I sat down. I was bent forward and my arms pulled over the back of the chair and tied to some part of it. Without removing the fetter my ankles were tied to the chair legs.

I must have been sitting like this for about 10 minutes when I heard the door open and close. Something was plonked down close to me with a slight thump. My blindfold was removed, but I could not see by whom as they were standing behind me. I felt softer hands, clearly a woman’s, gather my hair, pulling it back from my face and tying it in a pony-tail. She put one hand behind my neck and pulled my head gently backwards by my pony-tail until my face was tilted up at a slight angle. There was a bit of fiddling around my back and I realized that she had tied whatever she used to make my pony-tail to the back of the chair to keep my head tilted. She moved around the chair and I could see, from the corner of my eye, that there was a small table beside me with a container of something on it. Her eyes were somewhat expressionless; her face looked hard and worn. I found it hard to tell her age, maybe 50. She rubbed her hands along my face, then started to rub some cream into it. She was doing my makeup!

This went on for a long time, over an hour. She spent longest on my eyes, then eyebrows, face and lips. She fiddled around with my ears, discovered the piercings, and attached a pair of long, gold coloured, rather boxy earrings. She looked at my nose and I was afraid that she was going to pierce it but she left it alone, much to my relief. Then she untied the cord, or whatever, leading to my ponytail, loosened out my hair and started to brush it. She took two pieces from in front, just above my ears, brought these to the back and fastened them in place with a hair slide. She stood back to admire her handiwork, then, almost as an afterthought, she picked up a mirror from the table and brought it in front of my face so that I could see myself.

I had worn make up before, but this was a bit of a shock. Eyeliner had been applied with a very heavy hand, and I had bright blue eyeshadow to match my top. My lipstick seemed gaudy and my face was several shades browner than Lisa had ever done it. The makeup was faded down my neck so that there was no visible line between it and my own rather pale skin. Looking pleased with her work, she picked up her makeup box, patted me on the shoulder and left the room. She didn’t replace my blindfold; that would have ruined the makeup!

Almost immediately two men came into the room, the guy who had watched my shave, and a younger man, about 30. They had some tools and proceeded to screw a metal ring with a screw tail into one of the wooden beams that held up the ceiling. They used a hand drill to make an initial hole, then screwed the ring into place using an iron bar pushed through it. I guessed that holding me was a unique event, otherwise they would have this in place as a fixture. Satisfied with their handiwork, they turned to me. They lifted the chair and placed it just under the ceiling ring. My hands were untied, brought to my front and retied. A loop was tied into the free ends of the rope tying my hands and a longer rope was run through this and up through the ceiling ring. The younger man pulled the end of this rope, pulling my arms upwards. The older man untied the ropes tying my ankles to the chair and removed the fetter. The younger man then pulled his rope tighter and I was hauled to my feet, arms overhead, hands almost touching the ceiling bean and ring, just a foot away. He tied this rope off to the loop and left the free end dangle down behind my back. The older man left the room and came back with a thin plank, about 4 foot long. Using his drill, he bored two holes, one at either end, and carried the plank around behind me. He pushed a loop of rope through one of the holes and tied it around my right ankle. He then did the same to my left ankle, pulling my legs apart. This had the added effect of reducing my height slightly and I was trying to stand on my toes to take the pressure off my wrists. They saw this and slackened the rope going through the ring to let me down a little.

Looking at me, the older man said something to his mate in Arabic; they both laughed then the younger man, who was standing behind me, caught me around the waist and slipped a hand up under my top, then up under my harem pants. Again I could feel that he was enjoying this. The older man said something, again they both laughed and his friend let me go, giving me a good slap on the ass as he walked away. I was feeling very humiliated, scared and helpless; I was struggling not to cry.

The younger man had left the room, now he returned with an instamatic camera. The makeup and harem set now made some sense. A desk lamp was put on the table and turned towards me to improve the lighting. The younger man proceeded to take some pictures of my face, then full length. As I couldn’t turn and the light was fixed, the older man would lift me and push the plank around to change my direction for side and rear shots. I thought that they had finished, then another conversation in Arabic. My hands were released from the ceiling ring, then retied behind my back. Then they were refastened to the rope going through the ceiling ring and pulled upwards. This hurt, and forced my shoulders down. I made a sound, half protest, half whimper of pain, and received a few sharp slaps on the ass. I gritted my teeth to keep quiet. The two men then lifted the table around in front of me, the table lamp was now on the floor. They pushed the table into me so that I was now bent over it at about 45 degrees. The rope was tightened more, forcing me lower until I was almost bent flat on the table, my legs held apart by the makeshift spreader bar. Some more pictures were taken from behind me, then the rope pulling my arms up was released and I fell onto the table. Instead of pulling me up, the younger man held me down from behind with one hand and proceeded to rub up against my rear. The older man spoke a little sharply to him and he pulled back. They pushed the chair in behind me again, caught me by the arms and mostly slid me off the table onto the chair. The older man used the long rope to lash me to the chair and I was left alone again

I heard the men speak to the woman as they left and her voice responding. I heard her come into the room. There was a younger woman with her, probably late teens. She seemed embarrassed, hesitant. They started to clean the makeup off my face. Eventually, job completed, they left. The younger woman came back into the room after some time had passed. She had a plate of rolled pittas, with some filling. She left the plate on the table, came back with another chair, sat opposite me, took one of the rolls and started to feed me. Her eyes were gentle, kind, troubled. I ate slowly, this was my first food since I was captured; I had no idea how long ago that was. I soon could hear from the voices outside that the men had returned and was glad that it was the girl who was feeding me. When the food was finished, she gave me some water to drink, then gently cleaned my lips with a tissue and stood up to leave. I looked at her, nodded and whispered “thanks”. I don’t know if she understood the word, but the meaning was plain enough: She hesitated, nodded back, and left.”

All this had tumbled out, sometimes in a torrent, sometimes slowly as I looked for how to express something without being too explicit… and suddenly I stopped. I was thinking about the young Arab woman. After a few minutes silence, Helen’s voice cut in, she wanted to keep me talking.

“How long were you kept in that first place?”

“Two days. I was fed twice a day, left mostly by myself. It was the hardest part, both physically and mentally. I was still in shock, and was soon aching pretty much all over from being left tied up. The only times I was untied was to use the bathroom. I had to shave each day, face, legs, armpits… at least I got to shower. The worst was the fear, boredom, when the mind is unoccupied it can go to some very dark places. I tried to focus on Lisa, our time out in Athens, working on the Yacht. Fear kept coming back no matter how hard I tried…”

“How did you leave there?”

“The morning of the third day… I had finished washing, had been fed, when there was a bit of commotion. I had been left lying on the blanket on the floor when the two men came in, obviously in a hurry, and hauled me onto the chair. Same as before, the older woman did my makeup, this time with some help from the younger one. When they were finished the men came back, tied my hands in front and pulled me up using the ceiling ring again. The spreader bar was put on my legs and the women pulled my clothes a bit to get them to fall as best they could. They all went out and I was left alone for a few minutes, then the older man came back in with another man, mid 40’s, local dress, expensive watch, jewellery, carrying a leather satchel.

The new man, who I would eventually get used to calling “Mastar”, came over to me slowly, walked around me, then started to feel my legs, rub his hands along my belly and back, inside my top and then under my harem pants. He even caught my jaw and pulled my mouth open to look at my teeth! He stood back and the two men started talking, probably haggling. This went on for some time, rising to a crescendo, then falling back to a quieter tone. As the talk died down Mastar said something to the older man who nodded. He came over to me, released the rope holding my arms up and tied my hands behind my back again. I was again hauled up with my arms behind me, pushing my head and shoulders down. Mastar was looking in the satchel which he had left on the floor. He stood up, pulling on a surgical-type glove…”

I had stopped talking again, remembering the sheer terror and humiliation that I had been feeling at this point. Helen let me be silent for a few minutes…

“He checked my out and said something to the older man. He went back to his satchel, put his glove into a plastic bag, took out a bottle of what I assume was some form of disinfectant and rubbed it into his hands. I remember that he was moving quite slowly, he seemed relaxed! He carried the bag over towards me, put it on the ground and started pulling out a set of shackles. I was still bent over with my arms pulled up behind me. He put one shackle on my ankle, the second wouldn’t reach my other ankle as the spreader bar/board was too wide. The older man was behind me untying my legs from the spreader and pushed my right leg inwards, to be grabbed and shackled by Mastar. I was struggling to keep my balance, my arms and shoulders taking all the pressure; they both grabbed me and steadied me. Mastar then fixed and locked a steel collar around my neck, this was joined to the shackles by a chain. There was another chain dangling from the collar, apparently going nowhere. He took his time, even gently pulling my hair outside the collar. He reached into his bag again and brought out what looked like a metal figure 8, with a hinge at one end and a lock at the other. He moved behind me and I could feel this being fitted to my wrists above where the rope was tying them together. He gave me a slap on the ass, then held me steady while the rope was loosened, and I was able to straighten up.

As Mastar was back searching through his leather bag, it was clear that he was a professional at this. He had all the gear and his laid back approach indicated that this was nothing new to him. He stood up this time with some cloths. I was blindfolded, then my nose was pinched closed. When I opened my mouth to breath, a gag was quickly slipped in and tightened behind my head. Something material was pulled over my head then down over my body. I was led along, I had no idea where, slowly as I had only about two foot of chain between the shackles. I heard a car boot being opened and I was suddenly lifted and left down, obviously into the boot. It was closed, not slammed, then I heard the car door close and the engine start.”

“I think we need to leave it there for today”,

Helen interrupted, unusually. I looked at her and she nodded down towards my hands. I was digging them into the arms of the armchair that I was sitting in, the backs of my hands were white. She passed me a tissue; I was covered in sweat. I wiped my face.

“I know this is very hard now, but it will be worse if you bottle it up. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time, OK?!

I nodded. She got up and opened to door and called out,

“Hi Lisa, I’m off now”.

I heard a brief murmur of conversation, then Lisa came into the room. She sat quietly opposite me for a few minutes then said.

“Maybe you would like to take a shower and change?”

My dress was soaked with sweat, I nodded, she reached out a hand to help me up and walked me to the bedroom. She helped me out of my dress and started the shower. I stepped in and slid the curtain over and started to wash; the curtain opened slightly and Lisa slipped in beside me.

“Remember? Save water, shower with a friend”.

She washed me, taking some time to feel around my body. We were both a bit self-conscious; this was going to take a bit of time.

Shower over, we sat on a couch overlooking the sea and chatted a bit. Lisa told me afterwards that she had been briefed on bringing me up-to-date on what had happened when I disappeared. The police were, as expected, useless and disinterested. They were even less interested when they saw the only recent photo of me; the one Lisa took in the mirror when I was made up as a girl. Aristotle, on the other hand, was furious. He saw the kidnapping of one of his staff as a personal affront and immediately contacted his Head of Security, a former member of the Greek intelligence community. He wasn’t in a position to do much, except to identify a local retired intelligence officer, now freelancing. This man’s name was never divulged to us. His first move was to keep this out of the papers and media. If it became a major media issue, things in Egypt might get too hot and I’d be moved to the Gulf. Let it die down. Aristotle’s Head of Security was dispatched to Ireland to brief my family and persuade them likewise to keep a lid on the story, not an easy task, but he succeeded and thereafter served as liaison between my family and the attempts to find me. He was just flying back now, having confirmed that I was safe, being looked after, needed some time and would be in contact as soon as possible.

The basic premise of the search was that word about me would surface in the appropriate community in about three months. It would be hard to keep this quite amongst the fraternity who were involved in the scene. The Local Agent would maintain a listening watch through his network. The yacht was delayed for a few days in Alexandria but eventually sailed back to Heraklion. There was a lot of self-recrimination on board. Lisa, and to a much lesser extent, Maria felt guilty about their role in my apparent transformation, while Greg and Dimitri felt directly responsible for losing me.

“It was thinking of you that kept me going”, I said. “Our time in Athens in particular, but all of the three or four weeks before I was kidnapped were the best days of my life”.

Lisa looked down, looked sad.

“But it’s my fault that you were taken; I was pushing you down a road that led to this.”

“Were you pushing or was I pulling? You can’t be responsible for me turning into the person I want to be. Remember you told me twice that you thought that I was a lesbian? Well I am, now more than ever….

And neither of us could possibly have foreseen the kidnapping. Wrong place, wrong time, shit happens…

Neither of us can go forward blaming ourselves for this; what sort of a life would we have together?”

That slipped out… bad timing as there was a lot to sort out…. and I had no idea if Lisa saw a long term future for us. That dream had kept me going for 4 long months when I could have easily turned to despair, but it was my dream, not necessarily hers.

“Life together?

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve spent the last 4 months dreaming about a future with you. It kept me going.”

“But you don’t have to dream now; you’re safe, you’ll be back with your family soon.”

“It’s still a dream for me; but no pressure! You’ll have your own dreams.”

“And if our dreams coincide?”

“I have been changed; I’m not the same person that shared a cabin with you on the yacht”.

“More than a cabin, if I recall correctly.”

She slid over on the couch and nestled into me.

“We don’t have to solve anything now… let’s just keep dreaming”.

“Sometimes, when you’re surrounded by problems, all you can do is concentrate on the most immediate one, in this case, nausea. Lying in the trunk of a moving car, completely unable to move my arms and with precious little ability to move anything else, covered in something like a bag, all I could do was think of not being sick. Being sick into a gag could choke me. The journey seemed as long as the rest of my life to date, but just pure misery. Eventually the car bumped and stopped, banging of doors, sound of boot being opened, hands pulling at the “bag” covering me, my gag was loosened and I could feel a nozzle from a water bottle rubbing against my lips. I drank a little, then gasped,

“Please, sick, please, sick.”

A kind of grunt, I was being lifted out of the boot and my feet placed on the ground. I had no shoes, the ground was rough, gravel. Some hands steadied me until I was able to balance, not easy when blindfolded and shackled. I was led by the collar, just a few paces, turned to my right and pushed backwards. I could feel that I was into the open door of a car. A hand pushed my head down gently, like in the American cop movies, and I was sitting on the seat, feet outside. I had developed sufficient awareness of my placing that I was able to lift my legs and pull them into the car.

“Quiet, yes?”

Either that or the gag again; I nodded,

“Quiet yes, thanks Sir.”

In school we had called this “sucking up to”. I saw no disadvantage in playing that role now. Self-respect is a flexible concept.

The car moved off again, me sitting in what was obviously the back seat. The drive was more tolerable now and with my fears of choking myself allayed, my mind was crowded with fear of what was happening and to come. I struggled to think of good things, Lisa, our time out in Athens, “Lets go girls”. Pain kept intruding; the handcuffs were rigid and soon my wrists began to ache. I also had to keep leaning forward to stop them digging into the small of my back; they were too rigid to let me move my arms to the side. Eventually I found some comfort with my head leaning on the back of the passenger seat ahead of me; in those days there were no head rests. Strangely, in this position, every so often I felt the driver’s hand reaching back to stroke my head. I resisted the temptation to say “Woof, Woof”, but it did make me feel like a dog.

The car had slowed down, there was a lot of honking of horns, we were going around corners, stopping suddenly, moving off again. Eventually things quietened down a bit, but we were moving forward slowly, in low gear, weaving, then we stopped. Some banging of car doors, I could feel the door beside me open, my legs were lifted and pulled outside, some pulling at the “bag” or whatever covered me, then I was slowly being dragged out of the car by my collar. There was quite a lot of street noise around me; surely this can’t be happening in public. Led along slowly, I had to learn stepping short. If I didn’t, my leg was suddenly stopped by the shackle which hurt my ankles. A short walk later, I was stopped, a door creaked, I was led inside. I knew this because it was cool; outside was very hot. The door shut, the “bag” was pulled from over me, part relief from the heat, part realization that I was now displayed in a harem costume. The blindfold was pulled up off my head. The usual blinking around trying to get my bearings.

I was standing in a small, poorly lit area, carpets on the floor, tapestries hanging around. Mastar was standing beside me, holding a black loose long garment in his hands, like that worn by Afghan women. Obviously this was the “bag” that I had been wearing. He took the loose chain end and now led me at a bit of a distance, into the room, then behind a tapestry, and to an old door bolted top and bottom, Mastar opened the bolts and lead me in. He turned on a light, there were no windows. We were in a relatively large room. On one side there was a large table, almost the size of a billiards table, made of dark wood, a few chairs, something like a large A frame leaning up against a wall in one corner, two old looking doors with two large bolts on top and bottom, both open. My eyes caught some metal rings screwed into the ceiling beams. Shit!

Mastar led me through one of the doors into a small room. Again, there was no window. There was one small table against a wall, a mirror on the wall above it, a kip mat rolled up in one corner with some bedspreads or blankets folded beside that. In one corner, a shower, eastern toilet and washbasin with a surrounding curtain, pulled back. I did notice that the light switch was inside the door; at least I would have control of my own light!

The loose end of the “surplus” chain attached to my collar was then attached with a padlock to another chain, in turn attached to a ring on a bar which ran the full length of the room. I could move around; I hoped I could lie down. Mastar stood behind me and pulled me back, into him. His hands came around to my front; some rubbing inside my top, under my harem pants, nibbling of my ear and neck. He stepped back, fiddled with my handcuffs and I felt my hands being released. It was such a relief to be able to bring my hands to my front; I rubbed my wrists, then the front of my shoulders. Mastar started to massage my shoulders; I just relaxed into it, take relief from wherever it comes. Then a slap on the ass and he left; both bolts on my cell door were shot home, then I heard the bolts on the outer door being closed as well.

I looked around my new home. Strangely, my first concern was to ensure that I could lie down. I rolled out the kip mat, threw a bedspread, or whatever, over this and lay down. I had a foot to spare; OK, I can sleep. The sink taps worked, the shower water worked, the toilet worked, there were some large towels. I was conscious that I had been wearing the same, probably polyester, harem set for a few days and felt that it was now quite dirty. I took it off, threw it into the sink, wrapped myself in a towel and washed it with the soap on the sink. I hung it in the shower to dry. Now that I had nothing to do, I started to feel the collar around my neck, dragging me down. I sat on the table in my towel, holding the chain to my shackles with my hands to get some relief. Eventually, feeling really weary, I lay down, thought of Lisa and sobbed. I was at a low ebb; I thought things couldn’t get lower; naive, wasn’t I?”

“Not really,” Helen answered. “you had no reference points, no way of knowing how things would go. Was this the first time you really cried?”

“I think so…I’m sorry, I’m a bit confused…”

“No problem… whenever you’re ready…”

Helen had arrived this morning as expected. Lisa said that she’d meet her first and bring her to me. As the door opened in the room where I was sitting I heard Lisa’s voice…

“Whatever, take it easy on her…”

Now Helen and I were alone… I’m struggling with memories…

“A long time later, I’ve no idea of time, a young woman came into the room. She had a tray which she left on the table. She took something from the tray and came over to me… she had two small blue pills in her hand. I looked at them, at her, she nodded and gave me a glass of water. WTF… they would be forced down my mouth in any event… I took them. She was about 19/20, I couldn’t guess what race, maybe Greek or Turkish, pretty. She was wearing a kaftan type dress. I saw bruises on her ankles; she probably had recently been shackled herself. She reached out a hand to help me up, I took it, got up, chains clanking as I steadied myself. She gestured to the tray… some plates of food on it. There was no chair; I pantomimed sitting, she shook her head. I knew that there were chairs in the outer room, I just wasn’t allowed to have one. She glanced over at my clothes hanging in the shower to dry and left the room. I washed my hands and started to eat, slowly. I reckoned that I had plenty of time, and the boredom of having nothing to do was very wearing.

The girl returned after about half an hour with some clothes, a long, brightly coloured, sarong-type wrap skirt and a short top. She helped me to put on the top. It was laced in front with two lace holes each side and about a hand width gap between the edges when closed. I remember thinking that it would have looked good on a woman with nice boobs, and somewhat regretting that I didn’t have any. I then thought that this was a strange thought to be having in the circumstances. She demonstrated how to wrap and fasten the skirt and left again. I took off my towel, put on the skirt and got back to being bored again.

A long time later, the door opened again, Mastar this time. He had a chair which he proceeded to sit on, leaving me sitting on my kip mat on the ground. He reached down and put a loop in the chain between my collar and shackles using a small padlock. Now I couldn’t stand.

“Mastar”,

pointing to himself. Then pointing to me,

“Xania”.

I said nothing, “Mastar” sounded too close to “Master” in English and I had two names of my own, one given by my parents, the other by Lisa and Maria. I wanted to hold on to my own identity, I felt that it was all I had left now. Again, pointing at himself, then me,

“Mastar, Xania”.

He put a foot on the shackle chain, close to the shackle. This was pushing the shackle down into my ankle; it hurt. I decided to play stupid.

“Mastar,” pointing to me, “Xania”, pointing to him.

He shook his head, again pointing to himself and then me.

“Mastar, Xania”.

Now I got really stupid,

“You Tarzan, me Jane”.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face; I expected to be punched. I wasn’t. He reached into the pocket of his robe and took out something that looked like a small policeman’s baton It was about a foot long, about two fingers wide, one end was a handle, the other had a leather cover. He was moving in a slow, maddening way, I couldn’t tell if this was just his way or if he realized that anticipation can be as bad, or worse, than actual punishment. He took off the cover and turned a switch at the end of the handle. He held up one finger to me, then reached down, grabbed the chain of my shackle where his foot was resting, and quickly pulled my leg up, tipping me backwards against the wall. He waited until I had recovered and could watch him, then touched the baton off the sole of my foot. I convulsed as an electric shock ran up my leg and gave an involuntary yelp of pain. He got up, went out, came back with a long strip of material and the rigid handcuffs. He grabbed one wrist and twisted my arm, pushing my body down, then grabbed the other wrist and did the same. I felt the handcuffs being fitted and locked, awkwardly my palms were facing outward. Pinched nose and the gag was forced into my mouth when I went to breath. He pulled me into an upright sitting position against the wall, watching him, I could feel myself shaking. Again, pointing,

“Mastar, Xania”.

I still hadn’t learned, I shook my head, expecting the baton to be applied again. Nothing happened, he reached into his pocket, slowly, and took out a condom. He showed it to me, then tipped it off the business end of the baton. He didn’t rush, he had to give me time to realize the implications of his gestures.

“Mastar, Xania”.

I knew that I was beaten. I nodded. He took off the gag and looked at me, pointing to himself.

“Mastar”,

I answered. That word was easy to remember and pronounce. He pointed to me, I tried to remember the pronunciation,

“Xan…, Xan…,”

“Xania”.

He knew I was trying and needed to hear my new name again.

“Xania”, I repeated.

He nodded and left the room, leaving me handcuffed and hunched over because of the shortened chain. Again, the slow insidious cramping and just constant pain from the way I was tied up was as bad as the electric shock, just not as intense. I needed to reevaluate, I couldn’t win by resisting, I would just be beaten into submission. I had to play a long game, keep as well as I could, look around for whatever opportunities would arise to alleviate my situation, maybe even escape… no, don’t get your hopes up I told myself… just be patient. In the meantime, just pain…

He came back into the room after what seemed like an eternity and pulled me back up into the sitting position. I had been kneeling with my head on the ground to try and get some relief from the way I was tied. He pointed to himself,

“Mastar”, I responded. Then he pointed to me.

“Xania” I answered to his unspoken command.

He nodded then reached into his pocket and took out what looked like a small metal cross. What didn’t he have down his robe! He reached in and pulled me back into the kneeling position and unlocked my hands. The “cross” was some kind of multi-key. Again, the relief of being able to move my shoulders. He then unlocked the padlock shortening my chain and helped me to my feet. I eventually got to stand steady as the pain began to subside; now time to show that I’d learned my lesson. I turned towards him and, in so far as my shackles would allow, I curtsied, slowly. He looked surprised, then the ghost of a smile. Using his multikey, he unlocked one chain from my collar, leaving the collar on my neck, still connected to the metal bar across the roof. Then he removed my shackles, pushed them under the table and shuffled out… more bolts slammed shut. I consoled myself that Round 1 was a draw. I had been forced to acknowledge my new name and his mastery, but I had been rewarded by having most of my chains removed. Lesson learned.

Boredom again. I still ached a bit and my foot was sore from the electric baton so I couldn’t even pace. I wondered why I was kidnapped and by now had deduced that it definitely wasn’t ransom, why give me a new name. It seemed like I was to be held as a slave, but for what purpose? I had some suspicions but pushed these aside. I had determined to deal with things as they arise, not spend my time imagining torments in the future.

Eventually the same girl came back, more food and a large bottle of water. This time she was dressed in a very revealing, blue, belly-dancing outfit and her face was heavily made up. Her hands were painted with some blue designs, henna I learned later. The “skirt” of her outfit hung down to the ground at the front and back, but without sides other than a thin belt, hung low, well below her waist. There was some Arabic writing tattooed on the outside of her upper legs, reaching up from midway above her knees almost to her hips.
I guessed that she was about to start work.
I pointed to the clothes I was wearing and said,

“Thanks”.

She looked and said,

“Thanks, Shukran”

“Thanks, Shukran”

Shukran must mean Thanks. I had had my first Arabic lesson. I pointed to myself,

“Xania”

She repeated my name then pointed to herself,

“Mayda”

I repeated her name, and she pointed to the Arabic writing on her thighs, first one, then the other, and repeated.

“Mayda”.

She smiled and left.

My suspicions as to why I was kidnapped were being confirmed. Again, I tried to push these aside. I ate the food, slowly. It kept me occupied for some time at least. I guessed that it was night-time; Mayda had been going to work in what was mainly a night-time pursuit. I wasn’t really tired, probably pumped up with adrenaline, but eventually I turned out the light and tried to go to sleep. I slept fitfully, drifting off sometimes, lying awake at others. I could just about hear some noise, like a party or the sounds of a bar, but I wasn’t sure. I might just have been imagining it. I lay there, I kept telling myself not to let go, stay alive, stay well… eventually I drifted off to sleep.

I don’t know how long I slept. I heard the sounds of the outer door bolts being opened, but nobody came in. I could hear some taking, sounds like furniture being pulled around. It must be morning, but no sign of any breakfast arriving so maybe very early? My cell door opened suddenly and two heavy-set men that I’d never seen before virtually burst in, grabbed me by an arm each, unlocked the chain from my collar, and frog-marched me into the outer room. I had almost no time to take in the scene, at least two other men, a flash of colour that was a woman, something like a big old radio set on the table. I was propelled over to large A frame in the corner. Up close, it was like an overgrown artists easel, with a series of what I took to be peg holes running all the way along the heavy timber legs. I was held facing this while the woman came over and undid my top.

“If you just f***ing ask, I’ll do it myself”,

I blurted out before both arms being twisted reminded me to shut up. The top was pulled back over my shoulders and the two goons holding me slipped it down my arms and off. I was pivoted around to face the room and my arms were pulled above my head and fastened with cord to the A frame, first at my wrists and then at my elbows. I saw the size of the arms of the two goons; they were as big as my legs! Arms pinned, they grabbed an ankle each, pulled my legs apart and tied my ankles to the A frame. My sarong was pulled off, and my knees were tied off to the frame. This had the effect of twisting my legs outward, uncomfortably. While they were at my legs, the woman had come in behind me and tied a blindfold over my eyes. She put what felt like a smooth block of timber across the back of my neck and adjusted it to lie just at the base of my skull, probably held in place someway using the holes in the frame. Something with a material feel was brought across the front of my neck, behind the crossing timber, up and wrapped around my mouth as both a restraint and gag…”

“Need a break?”

Helen was watching me gripping the chair again. This time I was dressed less formally, a cotton vest top over a sports bra and a denim mini. My supply of dresses was limited and the previous day had alerted me that these sessions were akin to a workout. I was reliving the terror of that particular day, probably the worst day of my captivity. When I felt the cloth go around my neck I thought that I was about to be strangled. I waited a few minutes, composed myself, and said,

“No, let’s do this.”

“OK, whenever you’re ready…”

“Actually, that was the worst. I wasn’t strangled, I was still alive, there was still hope. I felt a stab in my ass, probably a needle. Then I felt a flat board being slid in behind my ass, another type of crossing timber… after that, it’s a blur.

I woke up flat on my back, looking up at the ceiling. I guessed, from the size of the ceiling that I was still in the outer room. I couldn’t move and spent the next few minutes trying to figure out why. I couldn’t be sure what part of me hurt the most, face, abdomen, nipples, and probably the worst, I felt like I had just been kicked in the groin. As consciousness returned and I could move my head to look around, I realized that I was tied down on the large table, arms spread out so that my hands were floating in thin air, and my left arm was attached to a drip. I drifted in and out of consciousness for some time, then became aware that Mayda was standing over me. She rubbed my forehead gently and, when sure I was awake, brought a water-bottle nozzle to my lips. I took a little and stopped as a wave of nausea spread over me. I could see her take the top off the bottle, wet her fingers, and rub them on my lips.

“Shukran”,

- thanks – I managed to croak. A small smile…

“Ahalan, was ahalan”

I later learned that this meant, effectively, “you’re welcome”. Mayda went over to the door and pressed something. Eventually the door opened and Mastar came in. He looked at the drip bag, it was about a quarter full. He grunted, directed Mayda out of the room, and left himself. She came back later, in her dancing clothes, to check on me; it must be near night again. She checked the drip bag, this time it was empty, and left. Shortly afterwards some man that I hadn’t seen before came in and changed the drip bag. He also brought the sort of bottle given to bed ridden patients in the hospital to pee which was a welcome relief. I’m guessing that he was a nurse. Some time later Mayda came in, offered me some water which I could now take, and left. She must have been going off-shift.

I must have spent the night strapped immobile to the table. The door opened in the morning and one of the goons came in. He must have spent 10 minutes untying me from the table. I went to get up when he just put a hand on my chest to stop me, then lifted me up and carried me into the cell. He had already left a chair in there, draped with a towel, and placed me into it very gently. I jumped a little when I sat, my groin was still sore. I was sitting in front of the mirror, I could see a ring in my left nostril and in both my nipples. My face looked a bit red. I looked down and saw another ring in my bellybutton. There was Arabic writing on the outside of both my upper legs, I guessed it must read “Xania”. I gingerly felt around my very tender groin, then stood up shakily to look at myself in the mirror. There were stitches in my scrotum but, as far as I could tell, nothing else there.”

“How did that make you feel?”

Helen was trying to keep me going. I had stopped talking and was reliving that experience.

“What do you expect me to say? Devastated? Despairing? Angry?”

“I don’t know what to expect, I’ve never met this situation before”.

“A lot of thoughts came together. I could never have sex with a woman again; would Lisa ever have me back if I survived? Lisa is a lesbian so maybe…; it was all a jumble. But no black despair, in a way, I now knew which direction I had to go if I ever got back to the world. Before this I wasn’t sure”

“What direction is that?”

“Sex change (the term GRS didn’t exist then), I can’t, or I don’t, want to continue on as a man. I feel that I’m basically a girl and I want to live my life as one.”

“I’ll be blunt, OK? Just because you’ve been castrated doesn’t mean that your only option is to get a sex change”.

“That’s not the reason, although there is some truth in what you just said. I’ve been struggling with this since before I left Ireland. I’ve always envied girls, their beauty, softness, sheer sensuality. I know now that I’ve never been comfortable as a man. I did not know how to express this before, nor even how to think it. Now that I’m halfway to being a girl I don’t want to stop. And now I don’t have the one big impediment that I had to proceeding before; I can’t sleep with girls anymore.”

“You’re probably more that half-way, and I wouldn’t rule out sleeping with girls…

“Ah yes, the blue pills; can you prescribe?”

“Sorry, I’m not a doctor, but I’ll talk to one.”

“Thanks”.

We finished for the day. I was in much better condition than the day before, so Lisa and I walked down a steep path to the beach before dinner. We were staying in a luxury villa attached to one of Aristotle’s hotels. He had made this available from when he knew that I had been found, even before the rescue had happened. We could walk to the nearby hotel for dinner, or have it delivered to us. A housekeeper called each day and brought food for breakfast and lunch, as well as cleaning the place up. We strolled along the beach, our arms around each other, she waited for me to talk.

“You remember that I said I wasn’t the same person that you last met on the yacht? I meant that just about in every way.”

“I know that. Remember I showered and slept with you, I could hardly miss it. I’d put your boobs at about mid-teens.”

We had stopped walking and were face to face. She slid a hand under my top, under my sports bra, and rubbed my developing breast.

“It’s not just that, we, I, can’t have sex like before.”

“I know that too. I was warned to expect this from before you were rescued.”

We walked a little more. Lisa’s turn to speak.

“You know, when we first met, I felt that you were as much a girl as a boy, apart from the obvious of course. You didn’t act like a boy, feel like a boy, to me. Remember I got you to put on a skirt, day 1?”

I nodded,

“You just slipped it on. When you were wearing the tunic, you were even more like a girl, even dealing with wandering hands the same way as a girl would…”

“I was learning from you”, I interrupted. “I was enjoying my time, feeling like a girl, and regretting that I only had 6 weeks or so to go”.

“I was growing more attached to you the more I saw you as feminine, to when I had a chance to really see you as a girl in Athens, it just seemed right that you were my girlfriend, maybe a little different…”

“Probably at the time, more than a little different?”

“OK, with your own built in sex toy!”

We had always used a little levity to deal with serious matters.

“I’ve told Helen that I want to change sex.”

“I kinda guessed you would; you know you haven’t looked for any male clothes or been anything other than a girl since we came here?”

“I guess not; I haven’t felt like anything except a girl. Theres going to be a lot to do. I’ve asked Helen about getting a prescription for hormones as a start. I don’t know how much surgery will cost or how to even arrange it. In the meantime, I’ll need to figure out how to get the money, what to do about college, how to tell my family…”.

“And I need to teach you about how we girls do things!”

We were late getting up the next morning. Lisa met Helen in her dressing gown and showed her to the lounge whilst I speed-dressed, no need for shaving any more. I slowed down to make a dignified entry into the lounge, Helen was sitting on her usual armchair and rose to greet me.

“Sorry I’m late, slept in…”

“Looks like you both did… all OK?”

“Yes, great… definitely, great…”

“I’ve something for you, things are a little more relaxed here than in the UK.”

“Ireland actually, but no problem, just because we speak English we’re often mistaken for Brits.”

“Sorry, Ireland. One a day; how many were you on?

She handed me a small flat box. Inside was the disk with the daily little blue pill. They looked just like the hormone pills that I had been given in captivity.

“Four a day at first, then two after I was beginning to show their impact”.

“If they’re the same strength, that was a massive overdose! And an excessive dose doesn’t speed anything up. I’ve promised the Doctor that you’ll call when you pass through Athens for a full physical. Here’s the address.”

She passed me an A5 sheet of paper with the name, address and telephone number neatly typed. Athens seemed like a thousand miles away, but I would have to go through it in any event when leaving Greece.

“How’d you get these? The doctor is in Athens?”

“We spoke on the telephone and he faxed the prescription.”

“Thanks, I feel that it’s important not to break the continuity.”

“Do these still fit in with your current situation?” She meant the pills…

“Huh?”

“You and Lisa; it seems like you’re getting back to where you were at!”

“Yes, but we’ve a lot to learn again. We can never really get back to where we were at. And I need to get a job and get some money together for surgery.”

“Don’t rush anything; this is a bad time to make decisions….Come in…”

Lisa had knocked on the door and came in with a tray; coffee, breakfast rolls of cured meat and soft cheese. This was our missed breakfast. She had brought a roll for Helen as well. Lisa joined us and chatted a bit; it was clear that she knew more about the search for me than Helen. She was being briefed as it progressed, as, to a more censored extent, were my family. They were not aware of my dalliance with femininity and Aristotle, having discussed this with Lisa, directed that they be led to believe that my kidnapping had been an error and I had been mistaken for a relative of his, to be ransomed in due course.

“You know the first clue to your whereabouts was the electrolysis.”

“How’s that?”,

Helen asked before I had time to process Lisa’s statement. Lisa and I had not gotten around to the details of my rescue yet.

“The Local Agent was expecting that an electrolysis machine might be needed and kept an eye on sales, basically paying staff in the sales outlets for information. There’s a limited number of distributors and any sale outside the normal beauty business, or very rich community was suspect. One machine was bought by a youngish woman within days of your disappearance. She didn’t appear to be very well off and didn’t specify a business on the receipt, which she would have done if she was buying for a legitimate business. The salesman, our informant, offered to carry the equipment to the car, and noted the number. It took a bit of digging apparently but eventually he traced the purchase as most likely being for the place you were held.”

Lisa found it hard to say in front of Helen and I that I was actually being held in a brothel. She continued,

“That wasn’t conclusive, there was a chance that the girls were using it themselves, but unlikely as it’s an expensive piece of kit.”

“So the thousands of pinpricks I got from that machine were worth it”,

I joked, remembering many days of work by a series of amateur depiliators. We had finished our impromptu breakfast, and Lisa took the tray and excused herself.

“Who operated the machine?”

Helen was leading me gently into the story again…

“I reckon all the girls working there had a go, some were better than others and a lot of the less skilled ones dropped out. The skill might be eyesight and a steady hand.

Things actually started to look up after the first day when I had the “surgery”. I was pretty much left alone for a day, apart from being given food, water, painkillers, and two blue pills with both my two daily meals. The following day, after I had breakfast, I was conscious that I hadn’t shaved and pantomimed shaving to ask for a razor. I didn’t get one but later, two girls came into the cell and beckoned me to go with them. The outer room was locked, so I couldn’t escape in any event. What I thought was a big radio was on the table and they indicated that I was to lie with my head close to it. There was some discussion between them while I was trying to figure out what was going on, then one started to rub my face, or so I thought. The first pinprick was a bit of a shock, then it kept happening. Actually this was their second time using the machine; they had practiced on me when I was sedated. After a while, two more girls came in and took over. I caught a glimpse of “Goon” when the door opened so a run for it was out of the question. Apart from the annoying pinpricks, the experience wasn’t too unpleasant. The girls were chatting away as they worked, occasionally addressing incomprehensible words to me to which I tried to respond, but there’s a limit to the ability to use sign language when lying on your back on a table! Still, human interaction is preferable to virtually solitary confinement, and the company of pretty women is always welcome, even if we can’t talk to each other.

Eventually the girls stopped working on my face and I was given a tube of cream to rub into it. Some hand signals indicated that they would be back tomorrow. I wasn’t locked into my cell so, apart from using the toilet, I stayed on the outer room, pacing about. I tried to avoid seeing the big A frame that I had been tied to, and of course it popped into view every time I turned.

After a short interval, a woman came into the room, burdened with a big “gettoblaster”, and an armful of clothes. She was in a belly dancing kit, but surely it was far too early for her to be going to work. I took the big gettoblaster from her and she indicated with her head that I should put it on the table. Its amazing how well humans can communicate without speaking. She shook out the clothes and held a belly dancer’s skirt, or whatever it’s called, up against me. The first one was too small, she tried another. It would have to do. She gestured that I should put it on. I retreated into my cell to change in some privacy. I took a minute to figure out how the skirt fastened before taking off my sarong and putting it on. Like the other outfits I’d seen the girls wearing, this had two large gaps exposing my legs right up to the low waistbelt. I felt very naked and vulnerable and very self-conscious as I emerged from the cell. I kept expecting the skirt to fall off, I didn’t have the hips to hold it up. I pantomimed this to the dancer who fiddled about with waistband for a bit, then seemed to indicate that she was happy with the outcome. Wish I was! She held up some tops before deciding that my own crop top was ok. She pointed at my chest, lifted her own boobs and shook her head. The meaning was abundantly clear.

She plugged in the gettoblaster, put a cassette tape into it and pressed play. As the music played, she started to dance. She made it look so easy, sensual, hypnotic, a combination of arm and hip movements which blended together perfectly. She stopped the tape; I smiled and nodded to indicate appreciation. I was afraid to clap; I’m not sure why now as my clapping would not have been any louder than the music. The dancer then, without the music, started to do a circular motion with her hips. She indicated that I was to do the same. It looked easy; it wasn’t. I tried a few times, then she stopped me and repeated the exercise, this time holding her palm flat against her stomach. I copied; it gave me a reference point for holding my midriff still, while moving my hips. I was getting it. She had me practice that for quite a while, reversing the motion every so often. Then she demonstrated a figure of 8 movement, doing it first one way, then in the opposite direction. I managed to follow and she kept me doing this for quite a while. She seemed pleased with her success to date. Then she demonstrated how to drop one hip, keeping the other at the same height, more practice, both hips, I was flagging. This was an intense workout. Next, lift one hip, then the other. More practice, I was jaded, time to stop.

She lifted the gettoblaster, carried it into my cell and plugged it in. She pressed play, then did all the actions again, in time with the music, scrolled the tape back to the start, pointed to the tape deck, rotated her hips and pointed to me. I was to practice! I pantomimed writing, so I could make a note of each movement. She nodded, indicated tomorrow, and left, locking the cell door behind her. Interesting how a hand moved forward in an upwards then downwards curve is so easily understood as “tomorrow” or “next time”.

And I did practice; it gave me something to focus on, and expend energy in some way other than fretting. I was working away with the music playing when Mayda came with my food. She was wearing her own dancing set, going to work again. She put the tray on the table and indicated to me to continue, joined me for a few movements, smiled and left. I ate, slowly as usual, then noticed something about the gettoblaster. It had a multiband radio, including Long Wave. I extended the aerial, moved the band selector to the LW position, made sure the volume was down and started to search by rotating the selection knob. I eventually found the BBC World Service; I was back in the World again, even if only in a small, surreptitious way. I listened for a while, then carefully folded down the aerial, moved the selection knob back to roughly where it had been, changed the band selector back to MW, where it had been, and drifted off to sleep.

The days continued roughly on this pattern. A selection of girls attacked my face each morning, giving me a break when it became obvious that my skin needed to recover. Then, to my initial considerable embarrassment, they started to work on my groin area. I got a fright when one of the girls casually opened my sarong skirt one day and just started to work down there. I had to remind myself that they weren’t exactly unfamiliar with the male, or in my case ex-male, anatomy. My dance instructress was called Mariyam, who seemed to be late 20’s, maybe 30, older than the other girls. She seemed reasonable pleased with my progress. Working with her, I was picking up the names of body parts such as hip, foot, leg, etc. as well as the names of the dance movements. I was working hard at the dance and was getting quite good at it. It was keeping me fit, filling in time, and giving me something to focus on.

Mayda normally brought me my meals and we mostly got a few minutes when she taught me some Arabic, or danced with me before going to work. I’m not sure how this arrangement came to be, maybe she asked to keep this role, maybe she was just appointed by whoever ran the place on a day-to-day basis. One thing I noticed, she never left before watching me take my two blue pills with my morning and evening meals. For a long time, I didn’t know what these pills were, I thought maybe tranquilizers. Then after about 4 weeks, I began to notice that my nipples had become much more sensitive and there was what I can only describe as hard areas, almost lumps, under them. These continued to develop very slowly until, by the time of my rescue, I had two distinct, though very small, mounds on my chest. This doesn’t particularly trouble me; I was slowly deciding that when, and never “if”, I rejoined the world, I don’t want to continue to live as a male. I tried to envisage how I could live as a female; staying in Ireland is out of the question as society is fairly intolerant of “deviance”.”

I was drifting between my tenses, trying to describe feelings which I had when captive, many of which were still unresolved. Yes, I was free now, I had made up my mind what I was going to do, but I still had no idea how to do it.

“Do you see yourself as deviant?”

As I had paused to consider the mountain facing me and still to be climbed, Helen had picked up on my last word.

“No, I’m not a deviant, but everyone at home will think that I am. They’ll try to say that I was obviously traumatized by what has happened to me and have become a bit unhinged, or something like that. It would give them a way to rationalize something that would be a disgrace on the family if there weren’t an external driver. They’ll probably even believe that themselves.”

“You’ve been thinking this through.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think!”

“How did you keep track of time?

“The days had a routine like I was saying, there was no difference apparent to me for weekends – do they even have weekends in Egypt? I kept track of the weeks through the radio, I listened in late at night, and very carefully returned the knobs to their original place, or something near it. Did you ever listen to the BBC World Service?”

Helen shook her head.

“They have a signature tune called “Lillibulero”. They probably don’t know that it’s an anti-Irish rant from the late 1600’s. Rant or not, I listened to that tune very low, every night. It was my connection to the world. Maybe Mastar didn’t care that I could listen to radio but, in his place, I wouldn’t have let me. Maybe they didn’t know about the World Service? I suppose I’ll never know the answer.”

“And they never caught you?”

“Never.

After a few weeks, I was beginning to feel the stress of never seeing daylight. I got my meaning across to both Mayda and Mariyam one day. It obviously worked as the following morning one of the “Goons” came into my cell and indicated for me to follow him. We climbed up a good few flights of narrow stairs, and came, through a heavy door, out onto the roof. There were some metal chairs and tables with a few of the girls lazing around. The roof was screened from view by a sort of sackcloth screening. I was brought over to a chair and table. There was a chain padlocked to the table and the other end was padlocked to the ring on my collar. The Goon put his finger to his lips to indicate silence and left. I put my face up to the sun and closed my eyes to luxuriate in it. After a few minutes, I heard a scraping of chairs as the four or five girls already on the roof got up and carried their chairs over to where I was. Again, indicating for silence, they started to introduce themselves. I reciprocated and the low murmur of whispered conversation resumed, with occasional attempts to include me through a combination of sign language and my pigeon Arabic. I was very grateful for the gesture, very happy with their company, and more than a little fascinated as two of the girls had their tops off and were completely unselfconscious about it. I tried not to stare! After about an hour or so they started to drift off and the Goon collected and returned me to the outer locked room. Soon the “electrolysis team” arrived and back to normal service.

The roof became a regular part of my routine and was very welcome for two reasons; I was getting sun, for sure and that lifted my spirits. Probably more important was the company. The girls always sat with me and tried to include me in their world. Now I didn’t feel so alone. I wasn’t sure how many, if any, of the girls were there entirely voluntarily but they seemed to be getting on with whatever life had thrown them. Maybe that’s how to survive? One day I noticed that one of the “roof regulars” had been missing for a few days and asked about her. Eventually I understood that she had been bought by a client. My initial reaction was something between confusion and shock, but the girls assured me that this was “jayid”, good. I surmise that one way out of this life for the girls was to develop a relationship of some sort with a client and for him to buy her from Mastar. I’m not sure it could be described as buying her freedom.”

“Probably no woman is entirely free in that society?”

I wasn’t quite sure where Helen was going with that half question, half statement. I let it rest.

“It might seem strange for me to be saying this, but after the first few days of terror, with a fair bit of pain thrown it, life was becoming tolerable. There was the worry of what was to come when my training, grooming, whatever, was finished but I tried to ignore that. By the end of the second month the hair on my face, and other places, was very much lighter. I was given a razor for my legs and underarms and warned not to use it on my face. The dancing was fairly intense, and my Arabic was starting to improve. I missed having a textbook, but I couldn’t read the script even if I had been given one.

Mastar rarely appeared for the first two months after the initial days. In the third month he started to take more of an interest in both my appearance and dancing. He came in towards the end of a dance class one day and watched me perform or train. When the class was over he dismissed Mariyam, then told me to take my top off. I was now getting a bit self-conscious about showing my chest; I didn’t have boobs in any meaningful sense, but it was obvious that something was developing. I was told to put my hands on my head; he came around behind me, reached his hands around my sides, and started to play with my nipples. I was afraid at first that he would pull the rings but he was reasonably gentle and the odd approving grunt seemed to indicate that he was pleased with my reaction. My nipples had become incredibly sensitive and, try as I might, I couldn’t contain the odd gasp as he continued to play with me. He was pressed up against me and I was afraid that he was about to push this a bit further: It certainly felt as if he wanted to and I was acutely conscious that all I was wearing was a belly dancing skirt, not much in the way of a barrier!

But he didn’t. He took his hands away from my nipples and sort of lifted my hands off my head to indicate that I could take them down. He caught my shoulders and turned me towards my cell door and gave me his usual slap on the ass, all of which I took as a command to go into the cell. My top was still on the table in the outer room, but I didn’t dare turn around to get it. I hoped it would still be there in the morning or that Mayda would bring it to me when she came with my evening meal. I took off my belly dancing skirt, hung it on a hanger on a peg on the wall and changed into my harem pants set. That, with my sarong and top, and the belly dancing skirt were all the clothes that I possessed.

My regime changed again that evening. Mayda came as usual but brought no food. I took the two tablets that she proffered. She handed me my top, which I hung up, then she told me to follow her. We hadn’t got to sentences, but we were able to converse in a limited way with individual and short combinations of words. We left the outer room and I glanced towards the door; it was closed, and I presume locked. I wasn’t sure if I was being tested and there was no point in making a break for it without being reasonably sure of success; that would put my ingratiation back by months, perhaps permanently. We headed up stairs to what was a room just under the roof, spanning at least half of the entire building. Inside was a riot of colour, individual carpets lay on the floor around the walls, tapestries and mirrors adorned the walls, a few stools and small cabinets were scattered among the carpets. There was a large low table in the center of the room with serving plates of food, some jugs, cups, napkins and no cutlery, around which about 15 girls were seated on the floor, picking things from the various plates and obviously having their evening meal. All the girls that I knew so far were there except Mariyam, along with a few that I hadn’t met yet.

Mayda pushed in amongst the girls, made a place for me and asked me to sit. I indicated that I would like to wash my hands so she brought me to a large washroom with an array of sinks and mirrors. Hands washed, we returned to the table and I squatted amongst the girls and started to eat, using only my right hand. To use a left hand is considered unclean as it was supposed to be used for personal hygiene. I ate slowly; I had developed this habit over the previous months and tried to keep up with the conversation going on around. Again, the girls were kind and considerate to me, although our ability to interact was necessarily limited by language. With the food mostly gone the girls started to drift away from the table, mostly starting to do their makeup and changing into their dancing costumes. Some cleared off the table and left everything on a table outside the door, to be collected by the male waiting staff. I learned later that generally only Mastar was allowed into this space, though sometimes the Goons could come in if there was trouble. I was no longer regarded as male, not even by myself.

As there were girls changing all around me, I indicated to Mayda that I should leave. She shook her head, and brought me with her when she was doing her own makeup. It dawned on me that this was a further stage of training. Unselfconsciously, she had me help her to get into her dancing set, ornate necklaces, bangles, and little cymbals attached to her fingers. I noticed that many of the girls were quite, how do I say, close, to each other during the dressing process but wasn’t sure if this meant a relationship or was just the way girls in this situation behaved. Like a lot of the girls, once finished, Mayda did a little dance routine to check that everything was ok, a sort of test run. Then she brought me back down the stairs and locked me into my cell.”

“That was quite an eventful day”,

Helen had let me talk on for quite a while uninterrupted.

“Obviously Mastar, or whoever, had decided that you were sufficiently compliant to be integrated with the rest of the girls?”

I noted that she was also including me as a girl.

“Yes, and I had worked hard at that. I think the timing also coincided with the electrolysis, my dancing progress and the hormones all coming to a certain point together. I think Mastar’s little mauling session was essentially to check my physical reactions and compliance. When I was first captured, I would have tried to fight if my hands weren’t always handcuffed; this time I didn’t, very deliberately.”

“Ok, that’ll do us for today. I’ve brought these for you, remember you asked for a copy of my notes.”

She handed me an A4 envelope.

“Can I show these to Lisa?”

“Yes, particularly as I’m around again tomorrow. Remember how hard it was for you to tell me some of these things? It’ll be even harder on her to read them, but better she finds out now so that you’re keeping nothing buried inside that you feel you can’t tell her.

I’m bringing Theodore, Aristotle’s Head of Security with me tomorrow. He can let you know how the rescue side was working. See you tomorrow.”

It was well before dinner time so I sat alone in the room reading through Helen’s notes. They were neatly typed out, using blue carbon paper as was usual at the time. Eventually Lisa came in and sat silently opposite me; she would do this when she wanted to talk, but didn’t want to interrupt my thoughts. Eventually I spoke,

“These are Helen’s notes, would you like to read them?”

“Should I? Aren’t they private?”

“Not private from you, but not easy reading”.

She knew that she should read the notes, otherwise I wouldn’t have offered them to her. She started to read; I watched her from the corner of my eye and saw her start to stiffen in her chair. She continued to read, I heard a sob, then she put down the paper and started to cry. I held her and whispered.

“Sorry, it’s just important that you know all this…”

I must have held her for 10 minutes before she slowly regained her composure.

“It’s me who should be sorry, you had to go through this, I’m only reading it!”

“It’s harder for you now. I know all what’s happened; I’ve had months to deal with it. You’re really just seeing it for the first time. You don’t have to finish this today.”

“No, I’ll read it.”

Lisa read the notes, sometimes putting them down, then forcing herself to continue. When she was finished, I put the notes back into the envelope and we locked them in the villa safe. Dinner was brought from the hotel, but it was a very quiet affair. I held her in my arms all night hoping that I’d done the right thing showing her these notes. Was I being selfish, sharing a trauma that she needn’t know about? Logic said that it was the right thing to do, but logic doesn’t always feel right at the time.

I got up early the next morning and prepared breakfast. I was just getting a tray ready for Lisa when she appeared so we sat together at the breakfast bar.

“Sorry about last night, it was just such a shock to see the detail…”

“No need to feel sorry; I hope that I did the right thing showing it to you.

I want to get some time alone with Theodore this morning when they come. Can you keep Helen out of my hair?”

It was as transparent as a pane of glass but it gave me a chance to offer Lisa the morning counselling session; she accepted the offer,

“Yeah, sure!”.

When Helen and Theodore arrived we both met them at the door. Unlike Lisa, I hadn’t met Theodore before. Lisa brought Helen into the lounge and I steered Theodore to an outside patio. When we sat down, I noticed him looking at the tattoos on my legs, visible when my denim mini rode up.

“Apparently they spell a name given to me, Xania, although I don’t read Arabic”.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare”.

“That’s all right, I’ll put it down to professional curiosity”.

“I gather Lisa has brought you up to date to where we tracked the building after getting a car number?”

“Yes, sounds like a smart bit of work by the Local Agent. Am I going to meet him?”

“Sorry, No, I’m the only one who actually knows who he is. It’s for his safety, you understand?”

“I understand, just I’d like to thank him some day.”

“I’ll pass it on and maybe he will meet you some day.

The story is that, once we had identified the building and were about 55% sure that’s where you were being held, we needed to get someone in there, someone not known. We used a Lebanese freelancer, posing as a businessman looking for opportunities in Egypt, as the man to send in. It wasn’t hard to arrange as that type of establishment always has a passing trade. As a foreign businessman travelling alone, he also had a cover for frequent visits.”

“Nice work if you can get it; I met him of course in the rescue, but he had been well known to us all before. The girls noticed that he often came, generally alone, western light grey or light blue suits. Talkative and always tipped well.”

“Did they ever suspect anything?”

“No, they just thought of him as a good patron, a regular who treated them well. He made his way around the girls so some suspected that he might be looking for a woman to buy.”

“Good to know; he might be useful in a similar role again. Anyway, eventually he picked up, from little things the girls said, that there was a new entertainer to come on stream soon, but he probably wouldn’t be interested. That was a clue in itself; an entertainer that he would not be interested in. This surveillance lasted for a good few weeks, though we had to pull him out twice to pretend he had gone on business trips to make his cover more believable. Then one day, he saw you dancing”.

“Yes, after I was brought to the girls’ room to eat, do make up etc., things started to move along. I started to be trained in makeup and eventually Mariyam brought in two new dancing kits for me. These were probably adapted ‘specially for me. There was more “tail” to the skirts, probably to disguise my lack of hips. What appeared to be a decorative rope belt or cord around my waist was actually attached to the skirt belt at the front and back to stop the skirts slipping down on my hips. There were padded tops as well to improve the appearance of my shimmy. Then I was told that I would be joining the “floor show”, though now yet available for “private entertainment”. The metal collar was unlocked from my neck, leaving an obvious mark. This was to be covered by a decorative collar when I was dressed. I was decked out in an array of bracelets and ankle bracelets, bigger earrings and belly ring to replace the small holding rings there since I was pierced.

Mariyam and Mayda brought me to the floor during the day to show me the layout. There was a small dance floor, surrounded by curtained off semicircular benches with a small table in the center. Even though I would not be doing this at first, I was shown how to push the table into the center of the couch, or to the side depending on the number of men in the booth to make room for some private entertainment. All the booths were open to the front for a full view of the stage, but a curtain could be pulled across when required.

Entertainment in the booths was limited to some topless dancing and general foreplay, culminating in oral sex. Should a client want more from his chosen girl, there were rooms on a type of balcony over the booths. These were dominated by a large four-poster bed and there was a small toilet and washbasin en-suite. These rooms probably had been bigger once, but were modified to accommodate the ensuite, thus losing about a quarter of their size. The client did not engage the girls directly but through a functionary who ascertained the clients wishes and chosen girl, called the girl from the dance floor and instructed her accordingly.

I was mildly surprised to be told that there was no alcohol. Refreshments consisted of Turkish coffee, water, sharbat, local sweets and hubbly bubbly pipes, or hookahs. Service was by exclusively young men in white Egyptian robes, a red sash and a fez. No women were involved in the service. The Goons were dressed in a kind of sleeveless tunic top and baggy trousers. They were the bouncers, and were, by and large, a fairly intimidating crew.

I was to be started on a slow night, Monday. Things generally heated up quite a bit on Thursday, and Friday nights, tapering off on Saturday, going quite again by Sunday. The basic idea was to generate interest during the week and get word out to the weekend clients that there was a new “mukhannathun” available and effectively run an auction on Thursday night and the same, but with an expected lower return, on Friday as I would no longer be fully “new”.

I ate with the girls as usual on Monday but had butterflies, stage-fright, so took little actual food. I got a bit of good-natured ribbing from the girls then Mayda and I helped each other dress. This was the first time that I had changed in this room and was very self-conscious. Once dressed, we did a little routine to check out our gear and warm up a little. Because of the size of the floor, only half the dancers went out first; the rest waiting in a small area hidden from the stage by hanging tapestries. After a time, the dancers on the floor would either be engaged by a client and replaced, or, if not engaged, rested and replaced. I was out with the first batch.

I wished that I could close my eyes but I would have bumped into the other dancers and spoiled the show. I tried to concentrate only on the dancers, the stage and the music and block out the booths and their occupants. Eventually I started to relax into the dance, my stress dropped and my dance became more fluid and, hopefully, graceful. After about 15 minutes I was taken off, rested and did four more stints before being packed off to my cell by a Goon. I was tired out by the experience and a bit emotionally drawn, and having undressed and taken off my makeup, I slept without listening to the World Service for the first time.”

“You started Monday? We had you picked up by Tuesday.”

Theodore seemed pleased at the success of this aspect of the surveillance.

“Monday, yes, but what if I had been started when your Lebanese agent was pulled out? I would have been “used goods” by the time you had found me. Sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I’m just thinking how close this ran”.

“We had to take the chance. If our agent’s story was not believed, both of you could have lost out. We even had him visit various Ministries to enquire about import permits and suchlike in case his background was checked. We don’t think that Mastar, as you call him, was able to operate at that level. It was more in his line to keep the local police on the payroll and arrange freebies for them from time to time. That’s why we couldn’t go to the police once we had found you; you might have simply disappeared.

We knew that we couldn’t use the Lebanese agent to extract you but once the positive ID was made, we had a second stage ready. Our man this time was a former Omani security agent who was to claim to be a purchasing agent for an unnamed Gulf state person of importance and some wealth. We had to be a bit careful here as we were using Aristotle’s money. The story was that he was a sometime business contact of the Lebanese agent. He had been contacted as soon as the Lebanese agent had seen you and realized his possible interest. He had flown in immediately as his client was most interested in “fresh” company. Actually, some of this is true as he waited in Oman until called and then did fly in, all part of the cover story. He was able to be at the auction by Thursday. He arrived, was introduced by the Lebanese agent, and was fully accepted as genuine, having been introduced by a well-known regular client!”

I picked up the story from my perspective for a bit.

“That was a pressure day for me; I was almost sick with worry, fear, whatever. The girls had tried to get me to smoke a little weed in the runup, to try to get me to relax. Actually it wasn’t much used in the girls’ room, more as a medicine than to get high. I did the dances on the floor each night as practice and the girls showed me how to slip condoms out of little hidden pockets in the waistband of their skirts. We each had four hidden away that way.

By Thursday it was too late to smoke some weed as it might make me sick, and I was sorry that I hadn’t taken their earlier advice. I didn’t eat anything, got dressed with Mayda and down to the waiting room. This time I wasn’t on the floor initially, the old show trick of building up anticipation. Eventually I was sent out and tried hard to concentrate on the dance, trying to forget that I was actually being sold, or at least rented out, as I rather mechanically went through the routine. I noticed Mastar going to booths, then moving along to others. I tried to blank it out… impossible…

It was almost a relief to be called off the dancefloor and led to a booth by Mastar. One man, whom I hadn’t seen before, was getting up from his seat and picking up an old, slightly worn leather bag, a bit like what doctors use. I recognized the Lebanese business man and we exchanged smiles before Mastar and the new man led me up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms. I tried to smile and act as if this was normal; inside I was frankly terrified. I was surprised to be directed to sit on the bed and the two men continued talking. I was called up by Mastar after some time and got what I can only describe as a thorough physical by the new man. I’m going to call him the Omani, OK?

After a bit more haggling they appeared to have made a deal. My Arabic could only pick up snatches but apparently the Omani wanted to take me away now and pay later; Mastar wanted his money before I left; the Omani didn’t want to leave me alone now in case I was “used” while he was away. After a bit of haggling, it was agreed that the Lebanese agent would remain with me in my cell while the Omani got the money.”

“That was actually a bit of theatre”, Theodore butted in. “We thought that the Omani could not go in with the money as no one in his apparent situation would do that. They would simply be robbed and disappeared.”

“I was brought back to my cell and Mastar and the Omani waited with me until the Lebanese agent arrived, escorted by one of the Goons. There was a slight delay as he was being entertained by one of the girls while the haggling went on over me! Master and the Omani left; I virtually collapsed into the chair as the enormity of what had happened sunk in. Instead of staying here, with a group of girls that I had grown to be part of, I was to be brought off somewhere where I would probably disappear. It was a good job that I hadn’t eaten or I would have been sick. I rested my head on the table and started to sob; I wouldn’t even get to say goodbye to my friends. Seeing my distress the Lebanese man came over from the corner where he was standing and said softly,

“Good man, won’t beat, good life”.

“He shouldn’t have done that”, Theodore said. “It was foolish to divulge anything to you, even that, until you were safely away.”

“I suppose he felt sorry for me. Anyway, after a while, Mastar came back with his bag of tricks, handcuffs, gag and big Afghan dress. He handcuffed my hands behind me with normal handcuffs, not the rigid ones he used before, gagged me and dropped the big Afghan dress over my head, no shackles, collar or blindfold this time. Mastar and the Lebanese man brought me to a car, a big old Mercedes, and I was put in the back with the Lebanese man. A Goon came out pulling a robe over his normal attire and sat in the front, Mastar drove.

We stopped in front of a mosque in a quiet area and waited. A white Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up and the Omani got out. He appeared unhappy about the presence of the Goon and ostentatiously took a pistol from the pocket of his robe and replaced it again. I recognized it as a Browning Automatic from my time in the Reserves. Point made, he put a cheap briefcase on the ground in front of Mastar who picked it up, put it on the bonnet of the Mercedes and checked it. He seemed satisfied and nodded to the Lebanese man who walked me to the back door of the Toyota. There was another bit of farce as the Omani put a second set of handcuffs on me, got the key of the original set from Mastar, took them off me and handed them to the Goon.

The Lebanese man helped me gently into the rear seat of the Land Cruiser and climbed in beside me. The car moved off slowly, finding its way out of the built-up area, and onto a highway. No one spoke, then as we gathered speed on the highway, the Omani spoke, in flawless English,

“Jasmine, Jim, you’re safe now. We’re taking you home.”

“Jasmine, Jim, you’re safe now. We’re taking you home.”

The Omani had repeated the words, maybe expecting me to answer. I was still absorbing what he had said and, in any event, could not answer as I was still gagged. There was a quick conversation in Arabic which I found almost impossible to follow as it seemed quite different to that spoken by the girls at the brothel. The Omani passed the handcuff key back to the Lebanese man and he unlocked my hands. I had to pull my arms inside the big Afghan dress in order to move them up inside and pull the gag from my mouth. My first attempt to speak came out as a croak as my mouth was dry from being gagged, then I managed to speak.

"Who are you?"

"Just friends sent to find you."

"Who sent you?"

I was confused, afraid to be hopeful, suspicious, even paranoid. Could this be real? Could it be a trick? Why bother trying to trick me given that I was in their control, even with the handcuffs removed?

"We can't tell you much. We'll stop shortly at a house and change cars. Then we're driving to Alexandria and smuggling you onto a ship for Crete. We can't get you out past immigration as that would cause too many problems... like who are you, and who are we!"

I was starting to feel more relaxed, prepared to hope. The car drove on, turned off the highway and eventually stopped at a house in what appeared to be an affluent area. The houses were all individual units, with walls and gates. Once inside the gate closed behind the car and we pulled up at the front door. We went inside and the Lebanese man showed me where the bathroom was located. When I came out he was just leaving and I had time only for a hurried "thank you". He left in the Land Cruiser and we got into a dark coloured Mercedes and left shortly afterwards, me in the back.

"We're going to a linen supplier, and you'll be brought on board a cargo ship in a linen trolley. Stay hidden until you are contacted by Yiannis. He is the radio officer and will have arranged to hide you in one of the cabins used by occasional passengers".

The Omani was briefing me as we drove sedately along... no point in bringing our car to the attention of the police.

"What about the rest of the crew? Does the Captain know?"

"What you don't know, you can't say! You have to trust me on this." Obviously, things were being handled on a need to know basis!

We got to a small building in a commercial area, stopped and waited. A large van pulled alongside, and a man hopped out and, without speaking, opened one of the back doors. The Omani beckoned me to move and we got out of the car quickly and climbed into the back of the van. Inside were about six large basket-type wheeled trollies and it all smelled of cheap detergent. I climbed into one of baskets, as indicated by the driver and lay down on some laundry that was already there. He quickly covered me with some more and I heard some indistinct talk. Then I heard the Omani speaking in English.

"Just stay quiet, you'll be wheeled onto the ship and met as I described. Good luck!"

"Thanks" was about all I got to say before I heard the door closing and the van moved off.

The journey did not take long. I felt the van pull up, the trolley being wheeled down a ramp, across some ground and up a long incline. The smell of the detergent was overpowering and I had to stifle the urge to cough. Eventually the trolly stopped moving and footsteps faded away.

After about five minutes or so, time is impossible to tell in that circumstance, I heard some faint footsteps and someone climbing on the trolley. The covering laundry was pulled aside and I found myself looking at a middle-aged man with a moustache. He put his finger to his lips, whispered "Yiannis", and beckoned for me to follow him. I climbed out of the trolly and noticed that he was looking curiously at my legs and feet as I was clambering out. I looked down to see that I was showing a lot of bare leg and that my dancing skirt was visible under my Afghan dress as I got out. It looked all very confusing. He recovered his composure and again putting his finger to his lips, he beckoned me to follow. We went down a short corridor and climbed up one flight of metal stairs before arriving at a door which Yiannis unlocked. We stepped into a tiny cabin with two bunk beds, a small desk/dressing table with a mirror and a really narrow door leading to a toilet with a miniature washbasin. No shower. Yiannis opened a small locker and showed me a bottle of water along with a bag containing what appeared to be some bread rolls, cheese, cured meats, etc. Again, putting his finger to his lips, Yiannis left, and I noticed that he locked the door as he left.

Left alone, I was still trying to process what had happened. It could only be a few hours ago since I was being brought to the dance floor back in the brothel. Now I was either free, or in deeper trouble. What if the ship was not going to Crete? Was it going to the Gulf via Suez? Don’t be silly! Yiannis was definitely Greek, anyway, there must be easier ways to bring me to the Gulf if that was the plan.

It was very warm in the cabin; after all, a ship is just a big metal box and there did not appear to be any air-conditioning. I took off the big Afghan dress and lay down on the lower bunk. Then I realised that I did not have any clothes other than that dress and the dancing costume that I was still wearing. I kept the big dress ready to pull over me should Yiannis return. I tried to stop my mind racing and realised that I was very unlikely to see any of the girls, especially Mayda, again. I felt lonely: I had grown accustomed to their company.

I started to think of the future. I knew that I could not go back to living as a man. I didn’t want to, and couldn’t in any event having lost a rather essential attribute of maleness! But I couldn’t live in Ireland as a girl. 1980’s Ireland was very conservative, even homophobic. Maybe I could stay in Greece? I was getting to know the language and maybe could find work on yachts. Maybe Lisa or Maria could help me find work? How could I tell my family? Eventually I drifted off into a fitful sleep. When I woke up I could tell that the ship was underway.

Without daylight, time is very hard to track. I know now that the journey took two days. Yiannis called in three or four times with food and water, otherwise I was totally alone. To keep myself occupied, I danced to music playing in my head. It also tired me out and helped me to sleep. Dance, eat, sleep, fret, dance…. After what seemed like an incredibly long time, the ships motion and engine sounds changed and eventually ceased. I guessed that we had docked. Waiting now got even harder and I could feel my heard pounding. Then footsteps, a key in the door, I stood up, the door opened. Lisa!

I couldn’t speak. Lisa recovered before me and wrapped her arms around me. We stayed together in an embrace, both crying, hugging, neither able to speak. Yiannis coughed to get our attention; I hadn’t even seen him.

“Five minutes!”

“Give us ten”, Lisa answered. Yiannis nodded, closed the door and left. Lisa had a small bag with some clothes. I changed quickly, conscious that she was looking at me. She had been told to expect a different me, but seeing how I had changed was clearly still somewhat of a shock to her. I didn’t even think it strange that she had brought a denim mini, trainers and a vest top for me to wear. We didn’t have time to talk before Yannis returned. We bundled up the clothes that I had been wearing into the bag that Lisa had bought and followed him off the ship. We got into a small red Renault 5 that was parked on the quay and Lisa drove out through the security barrier. The guard simply lifted the barrier as we approached and lowered it behind us.

“Why didn’t he stop us?” I asked.

“Aristotle has everything sorted” Lisa responded.

“He organised to buy me out?”

“Yes; he was very upset when you disappeared and his Head of Security has been working to find you and get you back ever since”

Strangely, we didn’t talk much on the journey. We were probably both overwhelmed and later I learned that Lisa had been briefed not to question me. We drove through the grounds of a resort and arrived at a rather nice villa overlooking the sea. Lisa parked the car and looked over at me.

“One of Aristotle’s resorts; we have this place to ourselves for a few days. Well, not quite to ourselves. We have a visitor tomorrow.”

“Who’s that?”

“She’s a shrink from Athens. She’s coming to help you get your head together after all that’s happened.”

“I don’t need a shrink; I haven’t lost my marbles…” the irony of what I’d just said dawned on me…

Lisa took my hand…

“She’s some kind of trauma specialist… she said that you needed to “decompress”…. maybe give her a chance and see if she’s any good?”

Lisa could always convince me…

“Is there a ‘phone here? I need to call my parents.”

“They’ve been told that you’re safe and will be in contact in a few days. You need time to decide what to tell them.”

“Huh?”

“They’ve been told that you were kidnapped for ransom… that you were mistaken as being a family member and that Aristotle was working to get you back. You can decide how much you will tell them when you’ve a chance to think it over… the shrink should help…”

We went inside. The place was not opulent, but was comfortable. Lisa brought me to a bedroom with an ensuite. She opened a closet; all my stuff from the boat was hanging neatly on the rails. There was also a few dresses, skirts and tops that I hadn’t seen before.

“I wasn’t sure what you would need”, Lisa was looking at me a little anxiously.

“That’s perfect”.

Again, we just fell into a hug, like when we’d met on the boat.

“I thought that I might never see you again” Lisa eventually whispered in my ear.

“Thinking of you kept me going!” I whispered back

Eventually Lisa left me to have a shower and dinner was brought over from the resort hotel. The wine knocked me out and I headed off to bed quite early. Lisa hesitated at the bedroom door. I took her hand and she relaxed, leaning her head against me.

“I wasn’t sure…”

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Following the meeting with Theodore, Helen had one final meeting with Lisa and me together. The purpose was to talk about how and what I would tell my family and how I planned to live going forward. It was obvious that Lisa was going to be part of my immediate future, hence her inclusion. I knew that I would never be comfortable discussing the details of my captivity with my family but I would need to let them know that I was not going to be able to go back to my former life. It was now well into November and I had missed my college place for this year, which gave me a year to sort out my family and life. Lisa’s place on the yacht had been taken up by a Greek lady who normally worked in one of Aristotle’s resorts. When the resort reopened for Easter she would return to her normal job and Lisa had the option of returning to the yacht. This gave her a few months of freedom as well.

I didn’t want to revert to living as a male. My experiences over the last five months had changed me forever, maybe even liberated me, but a transgender life was a very daunting prospect, especially in 1980’s Ireland. Actually, I judged that it would be impossible there and I would at least need to move to London. I had the option of going to college there, working part-time, or staying in Greece or somewhere in the Mediterranean working to get the money to complete my transition. I barely knew of the possibility of GRS (we called it a sex-change back then) and Helen was able to illuminate me somewhat in this regard.

Eventually a plan developed. Lisa would travel back to Ireland with me and we would first talk to my sister who was working in Dublin. We would get my parents to meet me in Dublin; I did not want to have to stay in our house down country if the meeting did not go well. We would decide when to introduce Lisa to my parents after we spoke to my sister. We would have time to check out the possibility of college places in London and decide on our immediate futures before Lisa was due back on the yacht, if that’s what she decided to do. Helen summed up at the end, as if summing up a business meeting, listing action points, decisions to be made, and timeframes. She reminded me that I was to call to the doctor in Athens on my way back to Ireland, left us the only copy of her notes, hugged us both and left.

Lisa left me alone as I called my parents’ house. My mother answered, I could barely speak, she cried. I worked through the conversation points Helen had left me, I was safe, I am being well looked after, I am coming home soon, no point in anyone flying out to meet me as I’m starting for home soon, etc. Eventually, when the phone call ended I felt terrible. My mother thought that the problems were over; I feared that, from her perspective, they were probably just beginning.

Like when stressed on the ship, I started to dance, to music in my head. After a few minutes I realised that Lisa was watching me. I stopped, a little embarrassed…

“Don’t stop; it’s lovely…”

“Sorry, I can’t keep going… my “head music” has stopped…”

“Can you teach me?”

“Of course, but I’ll need a music tape and a getto blaster!”

Lisa made arrangements to fly to Athens and booked accommodation there for a week. We would have a few jobs to do there, and I was in no rush back to a meeting that I was somewhat dreading. As this was an internal flight, we would not need passports, therefore I would travel as a girl. We had both forgotten about airport security which involved a “booth” pat down in Greece at that time. I got through it by millimetres as the Greek security lady ran her hands up my inside thigh under my skirt but didn’t discover anything, or at least ignored it if she did. The flight was uneventful and we arrived at our modest hotel to find a message from Sophie, Aristotle’s daughter: Could we meet her for dinner that night? We had no other plans so Lisa called from our bedroom phone to make the arrangements.

We strolled to the restaurant which was only about a kilometre’s walk from our hotel, arm in arm, but attracting no attention. Of course not; girls do this! But if it had been two lads in Dublin it would be quite a different story. I was still learning how to behave as a girl; whereas I had started off five months ago, most of the intervening period had been spent in captivity, so my learning was necessarily limited.

Sophie greeted us warmly when we arrived, and immediately corrected me when I called her “Ma’am”. We talked a little about what had happened, without going into details, and then Sophie turned the conversation to the future. She wondered whether I would ever regret my decision to live as a girl, what would my family say? We talked a little about the decision we would have to make (decision making had now become “We”) and our timeline, then Sophie dropped a bombshell. If I was still convinced about my future at the end of January, she would fund GRS (to use the modern parlance) in Singapore. Lisa and I were speechless. I tried to blurt out a thanks but she leaned forward, laid a hand on mine, told me that I had been very good to her when she had been in a bad place on the Yacht, and that it was the least she could do. Besides, what’s the use in having money if one can’t spend it to make people happy?

Sophie left shortly afterwards and Lisa and I walked back to the hotel. Life was looking up.

The following day we visited a travel agent to book a flight back to Ireland. Then we contacted the Yacht’s shore office to collect my salary for my month on board. They paid me from when I arrived on board to the day we were scheduled to leave Athens, and my completion bonus – Aristotle’s orders they said. And the Yacht was in Piraeus… could they make an arrangement for us to visit?

The following morning I visited the doctor in Athens that had supplied Helen with the prescription. Lisa dropped me off and we arranged for her to pick me up at noon, then we would head to the Yacht to say Hello and Goodbye to our friends and erstwhile sailing companions. The visit to the doctor went well. He did a battery of tests, mainly to see how my body was tolerating the lack of testosterone and my regime of oestrogen. He surprised me by remarking that “they” had done a very “neat job” in removing my testicles and examined my booblets a little more than I was comfortable with. Other than slightly elevated blood-pressure, whether caused by the oestrogen or by recent stresses, I was fine. He advised me to keep a good eye on my blood pressure and to visit a doctor in Ireland(!). He also gave me a prescription for a year’s supply of oestrogen and recommended the pharmacy two doors away. I dropped the prescription there and arranged to collect the drugs in two days.

Lisa picked me up and we headed to the Yacht. I felt a pang of regret that I had to leave it as I walked up the stern gangplank, then I was mobbed, kissed, hugged, cried over, and eventually brought to the bridge. Chef came up from the galley with some canapes and even he kissed me on both cheeks. Then after the initial excitement, there was not a lot to say. They would never understand what I had gone through and I would not want to have to tell them. So we chatted about what visitors they had had on board, they recounted anecdotes of guests making fools of themselves and eventually it was time to leave. We said our good byes to everyone in turn, genuinely sad at leaving. George was the last person I spoke to.

“Maybe you would be interested in training as a Skipper some day? You picked things up fast and helmed well on a bad day.”

“Thanks, but is the world ready for a female skipper?”

“Why not? I hear they even let you girls vote now!” He kissed me on the cheek and Lisa and I headed down the gangplank.

“That was interesting. Would you do it?” Lisa had overheard my conversation with George.

“I’d love to, but I’m not sure how it would work out. It’s an option at least.”

We drove back to the hotel, Lisa parked the hire car and took a big box from the boot. She was grinning from ear to ear… she had bought a getto blaster.

“And I got some tapes… so now you have to teach me”

*********************************************************************************************************************************

“I want to leave a letter for Aristotle.”

We were taking a break. Lisa needed it. Dancing, and the exercises needed to underpin it, was actually quite hard work in the early stages. It would take a lot of practice for her to get the fluidity and grace that the best dancers possessed. Eventually, I was sure, she would overtake me, as her hips were better suited to dancing than mine would ever be. I had developed some weight on my tail, but hips are defined by bone structure.

“If you want to write it, we can drop it off at the shore office. They will forward it to him.”

“OK, back to work!”

We did another 30 minutes, then called it a day. Having eaten canapes on the Yacht, we both had a light dinner and slipped into bed. The following morning I wrote my letter and we dropped it off at the shore office. We had a few more lazy days around Athens, then got ready for the flight to Ireland.

And it took some time! I now had to try to make myself look male, as defined by my passport. No makeup, hair in a ponytail. Rings off nipples, ears, bellybutton, fingers. My male clothes which I had brought from Ireland in Summer felt strange, and would not be suited for an Irish November. Not wanting to spend money on male clothes, we went to an Army surplus store and bought a quilted jacket. I carried my girl clothes in my carry-on bag and two very big cases went into the hold (no real weight restrictions back then!). The idea was to pass through immigration as a male, and change in the restrooms whilst waiting for the bags to come through. I was booked into the hotel as Jasmine and needed to arrive as her, actually as me.

It all went fine, albeit I felt that I was now passing myself off as someone that I wasn’t. We arrived at the hotel, frozen and wet and went straight into bed to warm each other up. We had eaten on the ‘plane (yes – they fed you on the flight then as well) so braved the elements only to pick up some fish and chips for supper. The following morning I called my sister before she went to work. I had intended to meet her after work but she wouldn’t wait. She called in sick and came immediately to the hotel.

We had decided to meet her in the lobby and were sitting there when she arrived. She looked around, and not seeing me, sat down to wait. Lisa went over…

“Excuse me, you’re waiting for Jim?”

“Yes”, she looked puzzled. Who was this girl with an English accent?

“Can I introduce to Jasmine?”, Lisa motioned for my sister to follow her.

I stood up. She didn’t recognise me at first, long hair cut as a girl’s, make up, earrings, light blue turtleneck jumper, blue denim mini, heavy blue tights and long brown boots. Politely she held out her hand then slowly recognition dawned. She hugged me then sat down in an armchair beside us, waiting for an explanation.

I explained that I hadn’t been kidnapped for ransom, but had been rescued before any real harm befell me. I didn’t dwell on it too much as I simply wasn’t comfortable sharing too much detail with her. I did explain that I could not go back to being a man. She didn’t understand so Lisa leaned over and whispered in her ear. She looked shocked, then puzzled again as she looked first at me, then Lisa.

“Yes, I’m her girlfriend” Lisa said. “We were a couple on the Yacht before she was kidnapped and now we’re back together again”.

She didn’t quite understand as the concept of Lesbianism was alien to the general Irish culture at the time. It’s not that they didn’t exist, but much like my initial supressed desire to wear skirts, the majority simply supressed their desires and conformed. I learned later that my sister was more comfortable with me being with a girl rather than with a man.

We had lunch in the hotel. For many, if not most, of the population, this was the main meal of the day and often referred to as “dinner”. We shared a bottle of a sweetish German white wine, if anything worse than the meal. Ireland in the early 1980’s was not known for its cuisine. With the weather foul outside, we headed for the hotel bar and nursed glasses of Guiness. Again, women did not drink pints back then. We agreed that my sister would tell my parents what to expect otherwise there was no way to tell how they would react. In the meantime, I was not to call them.

Still off sick (no Doctor’s certificate needed for the first three days) my sister headed home on the train intending to overnight and return the following day with my parents. We all met the following day in the hotel. This time we had hired a small meeting room in order to have a bit more privacy; we had learned from meeting my sister that the lobby was not a good idea! The meeting was awkward. They were relieved that I was safe, and now had some idea what from. They were also unhappy that their son was now becoming another daughter. They were very fearful for my safety and future.

Lisa had stayed away for the first hour. I called our room and she joined us. It helped that my parents both seemed to like her. We talked about the future. I couldn’t go home; I would simply not be accepted, and probably not safe. Lisa couldn’t go home either; she had not repaired the relationship with her own parents yet. We couldn’t really afford to stay living in hotels, either in Ireland or London. Our general plan was to try to rent in London, posing as cousins (our different accents precluded our posing as sisters) and get some work to tide us over. We would need to spend some time in Ireland as I had some matters to sort out such as college grants.

We had lunch/dinner in the hotel, skipped the wine as it would seem rather extravagant to my parents and was not worth drinking in any event. My parents drove off shortly after lunch, dropping my sister back to her flat, and we agreed to meet the following Sunday for lunch at my parents’ house. They would pick me up from the train one stop away from my hometown so as not to be recognised. I was relieved that our meeting had gone as well as it could have. Lisa was thoughtful; she was thinking about her own difficulties with her parents… maybe time to try to resolve these?

Life was going to be rather complicated in our new world.

“I’ll need to get a new passport when we get to London”.

Lisa and I were walking around Stephen’s Green in Dublin. It was cold and dry, a pleasant enough day for the time of year.

“Why’s that? Can you not get it while you’re here?”

“No, I would need to get the local police to sign the application. In London I have more options. I’ll start working on it tomorrow; I’ll need to get some other documents first.”

We left the Green and walked along a pedestrianised shopping street. We were minding our cash and this was our main form of recreation while we were staying in Dublin. The shops were closing down and some commercial vans were moving slowly amongst the thinning crowd of pedestrians. We strolled down a side street to avoid these and I noticed a sign saying Restaurant Baalbek. Arabic writing on the sign presumably said the same and was there for effect as there were very few Arabic speakers in Dublin at the time.

One thing that I had picked up during my involuntary sojourn in Egypt was a liking for Arabic food so we went in to make a booking. The place was very quiet, with few diners. Would there be a table available for 7PM? No problem. The owner was short and balding with good, though accented English. Two younger men were waiting on the handful of diners; there were no female staff visible. I thanked the owner in Arabic…

“Shocraes, hagablic al-saha sabaa.”

“Ah, where did you learn Arabic? You sound like an Egyptian.”

“Actually, you’re right; I learned some in Egypt.”

“What were you doing there?”

What do I say? When dissembling I always prefer to stay as close to the truth as possible; it’s easier to remember what you’ve said.

“I was learning to dance.”

“Dance?”

“Yes, Egyptian style belly dance; I think that I will be able to make some money teaching it over here.”

“And you dance as well?” The owner was now looking at Lisa.

“I’m just learning” Lisa responded.

“But she’s good!” I interjected. The owner’s interest seemed more than just passing and the seeds of an idea were already forming in my mind. I continued…

“Do you have dancers here? I would have thought that that would attract the crowd?”

“No, there are no dancers that we know of in Dublin. On the weekends we would not have room as trade is good, but it is a bit slack during the week as you can see.”

We headed back to our guest house, showered and changed for dinner. We had moved out of the hotel to save money and had negotiated a good rate for an extended stay. Dinner was excellent and, as we were finishing the owner came and sat at our table. He introduced himself as Sameed. The other two waiters were his sons; his wife, daughter and uncle ran the kitchen.

“What brought you to Dublin?” Lisa asked.

“We left Lebanon because of the war. There were Irish soldiers there with the UN and we liked them so we thought that Ireland would be a good country to move to. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation earlier. A dancer could improve business during the week; would you be interested in trying this out?”

If Sameed hadn’t asked, I would have raised this subject myself.

“If we could come to a satisfactory arrangement, yes, I would give it a try.”

We arranged to return the next day before the restaurant opened to discuss the details and for me to give a demonstration of the show. Sameed would not accept payment for our meal and we walked slowly back to our guest house.

“That was a surprise; are you comfortable doing this?” Lisa was worried that this was too close to my Egyptian experience.

“Yes, I actually like to dance; it makes me feel very feminine, almost erotic! And a restaurant is a safe environment so I’ll be fine. I’ll need you there with the gettoblaster or whatever we use for the music. If you had an outfit you could even dance?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

The next day was busy. I phoned my old school and asked for contact details for my Greek teacher. He had now retired from teaching on age grounds and, despite there being no shortage of priests in Ireland at the time, assisted in a parish from time to time as was the general practice for retired priest-teachers. Having got his number, I called him and arranged to meet Saturday mid-morning. When he heard that I was coming by train, he offered to meet me at the station, an offer I gratefully accepted.

Next, Lisa and I made our way to the restaurant, burdened with the gettoblaster, a bag with the dancing costume that I had been wearing when rescued, and some cassette tapes. Sameed tut-tutted when we arrived… he should have collected us at the guest house. The first problem was where to change. The only solution was the Ladies room. This was fine while the restaurant was closed, but would be more difficult when the place was busy. Leaving the two sons, Haasim and Hamees, to sort out the sound system, Lisa and I went to the Ladies room where I changed. I had been careful to try on the outfit the previous night when we came back from dinner but now, getting ready to wear it in front of strangers, all men at the moment, I felt a thrill of nervous anticipation. I wasn’t attracted to men and at the time would not have contemplated having a physical relationship with one, but I did enjoy being the object of their admiration, even lust, as long as that was where it stopped.

Once dressed, we rejoined the men in the dining area. As expected, they looked at me with more than just casual interest and I guessed that Haasim and Hamees had designs on both myself and Lisa; they would have been rather taken aback had they known what was under my dancing skirt! A quick conversation saw one table being removed and we agreed that we would start the music before I “appeared”. The only way I could make an entrance was to emerge from the small corridor that led to the Ladies and Gents rooms. This was already partially separated from the dining room by a heavy tapestry which was ideal for the purpose. We discussed how the show would proceed from a slow start to a very vigorous finale, taking 15 minutes. This would be repeated three times, with different music, with 30 minutes separating the performances. For the rehearsal, the music would have to be selected from tapes. The lads had connected the gettoblaster to the restaurant’s sound system alongside their own tape player so that Lisa could have one track ready on one machine while the previous track was playing on the other machine. For a performance we would need the full track on one tape, with a second tape running in parallel as a backup.

All this in place, Lisa started the tape and I started to dance. I felt good! Maybe I’m a born show off but I loved the attention. I knew that at least 3 pairs of eyes were fixated on me, and when I saw Lisa’s face, that made 4 pairs. Then I noticed that the 3 kitchen staff had come out to watch as well. When the dance stopped, I received a resounding round of applause and Sameed risked his wife’s ire by catching my hand, pulling me into an embrace and kissing me on the cheek. He pulled at my skirt to read the name tattooed to my thigh… Xania.

So we sat down to do business. We would be picked up each night from the guest house and driven to the restaurant. This enabled me to dress in the guest house, come into the restaurant through the service entrance directly into the kitchen and slip into the corridor just before the show. Once finished, Lisa and I would have dinner on the restaurant after I had changed out of my dancing outfit – It’s easier to get out of the gear than into it! We would, in addition, be paid £10 per night, directly from the till. This was a good deal for us as 4 nights work almost covered the cost of our accommodation for the week.

The following day was Friday and it was agreed that I would start on Monday as Friday, Saturday and Sunday were busy nights. Hassim had taken some photographs during the rehearsal and he would have some posters made up to advertise the show; I would be billed as Xania, the name tattooed on my thighs. Lisa and I treated ourselves to a better than usual night out, joined by my sister and her boyfriend, and the following day, Saturday, I walked to the station and took a train to meet my old Greek teacher.

I had given this meeting a lot of thought. Instead of my usual denim mini, I was wearing a long patterned brown skirt, heavy tights, long brown boots, brown polo-neck sweater and had even bought a long coat, hat and gloves. The train pulled into the station and as I walked out, I could see Fr. Tom’s car parked near the entrance, in a No Parking zone! Noone would dare give a priest a parking ticket! His eyes were searching the crowd for a young man… I knocked on the front passenger window, he looked over, I opened the door…

“Hi Fr. Tom, may I get in?”

Confusion on his face…

“Sorry! I’m waiting to collect…

“Jim”, I finished his sentence for him.

“Yes, Jim. How did you know? Who are you?”

“Father, I owe you an explanation; I used to be Jim.”

“But…But…But…”

“Father, can we walk around the school garden and I’ll tell you what happened?”

I had picked this walk as I knew he liked it and would feel safe there. The students were at study so we would not meet anyone before 2pm. As we drove, and then walked, I gave him an edited version of my story. I described being kidnapped and what had happened subsequently, and being rescued before “real harm” befell me. I omitted to tell him that I was already dressing as a girl when I was kidnapped, and that this was the probable reason why I was targeted. Was this dishonest? Yes, and I felt bad about it, but to divulge this would have lost his sympathy.

“So you see Father, having been mostly turned into a girl, I can’t go back to living as a man.”

“It’s an almost unbelievable story, how can these things happen these days?”

“Father, I can show you my slave name tattooed to my thighs if you don’t believe me?”

“Oh No, I believe you!” I knew that a priest would not go as far as examining a girl’s thighs!

“So why tell me? What can I do for you?” He was shocked, yes, but still shrewd enough to know that I had a reason for telling him.

“Father, I need a Baptismal Certificate, showing my name as Jasmine.”

“Why?”

“Father, I probably shouldn’t tell you”.

He thought for a while… “Leave it with me… let’s meet same time next week. I’ll pick you up at the station. In the meantime, I want you to promise that you’ll never tell anyone that you have spoken to me.”

“Yes Father, but they know at the school that I looked for your number.”

“They’ll hardly remember that… and if they do, we talked about your college placing next year”.

“Yes Father”.

He drove me back to the station and I caught a train to Dublin. Lisa met me at the station.

“How did that go?”

“About as good as I could hope.”

We spent Sunday working hard on both my show and getting the tapes formatted into one. We were picked up on Monday as arranged albeit my dress leaving the guest house left the manager reaching for his heart medication. Sameed was happy, bookings were already up following the publication of the posters. I saw them for the first time and realised that Haasim was a talented photographer. He used a long exposure on his SLR camera to give the shadow of movement thus creating a picture of great energy. I would have something to live up to!

Cue the music, emerge, dance… their eyes are boring into me, men and women… the men want to lay me…. the women want to be me… it’s intoxicating… I’m feeling great… at one with the music…almost a trance…

This isn’t work I think to myself as I take my first break, and I’m being paid for it! Two more sessions and I’m in the Ladies to change… Lisa follows me in… she pins me to the wall and kisses me deeply, her tongue probing around in my mouth…

“Wait ‘till I get you home!” she pants into my ear…

Things kept getting better all week and it was clear that the show was packing ‘em in. Sameed was delighted and, being a shrewd businessman, paid us an extra £20 on Thursday. We arranged to meet my sister and her boyfriend again for dinner on Friday.

“Nice posters!” He had obviously seen them.

“Thanks, but it’s hard work”.

“Just as long as it doesn’t get home”, my sister was nervous.

“Noone will recognise me. You only did because you know my backstory”.

“Hope so…”

Saturday morning I’m on the train to meet Fr. Tom. He picks me up at the station and we drive to the cathedral. We sit at the back and he passed me a large brown envelope. I open it and pull out six baptismal certificates, all in the name of Jasmine, and stamped with my local parish stamp.

“You’ll likely need more than one” he whispered.

There was more… I also had six certificates from the local convent girls school listing my leaving certificate results all in the name of Jasmine. I hadn’t even considered these.

“Don’t ask. If anyone rings the convent school, your records are there.”

“Father, I don’t know what to say!”

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s not going to be an easy life and I wish you well. Keep in touch and I’m happy to help out where I can.”

I held his hand, something a boy would never have done…

“Thanks Father.”

On Monday I took the train again to the County town and called to the County Registrar’s office. I had my short form birth certificate which I had received at the same time as I had ordered a long form birth certificate to get my passport. In those pre internet days, coordination between offices was weak and I knew that they would not know that I had already received a passport on the basis of the long form certificate already issued. I was back in my denim mini, this time with sheer tights, heels, a white blouse and had gone heavy on the make-up.

The bored clerk oozed officialdom when it came to my turn at the hatch….

“HI, I got this birth certificate last year but never really looked at it until now… there’s a mistake somewhere…” I pushed the short form certificate through the hatch where it was reluctantly viewed by Ms Officialdom.

“What’s wrong with it?” I seriously hadn’t expected that level of stupidity. I was presenting as a girl and had just showed her a male birth certificate.

“Wrong name, wrong sex… here’s my baptismal certificate.”

She looked at the documents blankly… nothing much happening upstairs…

“Same parents, same address, baptism 2 weeks after birth” I offered helpfully…

“Wait here…”

Having clearly lost the ability to think, Ms Officialdom had to consult her superiors.

I sat back on the waiting chairs, the resentment of the others in the queue obvious. I was causing a problem and delaying them. Eventually the hatch door opened and the face of a middle-aged man appeared. I stood up and he said, pleasantly,

“Won’t you come through?” opening a door beside the hatch.

I beamed my most pleasant smile and came into the holy of holies … I followed him into his office passing Ms Officialdom as she resumed her role as terroriser of the public.

“Please, have a seat.”

I sat, hitching up my skirt and crossing my legs in front of him. He couldn’t help but stare.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Only that my birth cert says that I’m a boy… obviously I’m not…”

I had let my shoe slip off my foot and was now dangling it on my toe.

“Obviously!” He looked at the birth certificate, then at the baptismal certificate, noted the parents’ names and address and proceeded to search in a large book which was on the desk. Records were physically entered in this. He looked at the record and then back to me. I smiled sweetly… lay it on!

“There appears to be a clerical error in the register”, he said. “It’s generally not a problem to correct clerical errors but I will need the approval of the Superintendent Registrar”.

“Will that take long?”

“Normally a few weeks. Is there any particular urgency?”

“I will need to apply for a passport as I have a job offer in Greece working on a yacht.”

That would have sounded impressive back then, and believable, as the Irish economy had tanked in the early 80s and emigration was rife.

“When do you start?”

“February, and I’m told that the passport office is slow.”

“I’ll see what I can do; call me next week and I’ll let you know how I’m getting on.” I was fiddling with the end of a necklace that I was wearing both for effect and to distract from the residual mark that the collar that was locked on my neck for most of my time in captivity had left. I was drawing his attention to my open necked blouse and what he would have expected to find inside it.

“Is it OK if I call in? I’ll be in town anyway and it’s often easier to talk in person.” This was a lie of course but I guessed that he would appreciate another visit. His face brightened a little.

“Yes, that would be fine.”

The rest of the week went well and trade at the restaurant was, if anything, better than the week before. Again, we met my sister and her boyfriend for dinner on Friday and agrees to go to lunch at my parents’ house with them on Sunday. He would drive us in his new Toyota Corolla, of which he was most proud. It all went well, no one slipped up and mentioned my new dancing gig and we left my parents believing that Lisa and I were doing some waitressing work to supplement our savings.

On Monday morning I again took a train to the County town and called into the registrar’s office. I had bought a small tester bottle of expensive perfume which I applied on the train. Ms Officialdom was determined to ignore me but I popped up to her hatch immediately she had finished dealing with a customer, or supplicant as she would have seen them, and asked to see the manager. He came out quite quickly and I brushed off him – just a little – as he ushered me into his office. Good news, he had called the Superintendent Registrar given the urgency of my situation and had received permission to amend the register and issue me with my birth certificates. Unfortunately, he could not waive the fee; the County was rather strict in this regard. I assured him that this was no problem and he personally filled out two long form and two short form certificates. I handed him the money and he put the certificates into an envelope and came around from behind his desk to give them to me. I stood up, let him come very close, took the envelope. He extended his hand to shake hands, and held mine for a few seconds as he wished me well in Greece. I smiled and slipped out the door. Actually I felt sorry for him, trapped in a boring job in a boring office with Ms Officialdom as his co-worker, but mission accomplished… I now had a certificate to say that I was a girl!

Things were going well in Dublin, but I now needed to move to London. From there I could apply at the Embassy for a passport with greater leeway as to who could countersign the paperwork. We told Sameed that we would be quitting at the end of the week and he was most disconsolate. He persuaded us to do one more week and we were happy to oblige him. He also gave us a reference in Arabic in the event that we wanted to look for work in any of the Lebanese restaurants or Arabic-themed clubs there. The Christmas season was coming soon and he could expect a pickup in business on that account in any event.

In London we initially stayed with a schoolfriend of Lisa’s for a few days while we sorted out accommodation. We wanted to stay close to Lisa’s home for a number of reasons, most importantly from my perspective was the fact that she knew the local Vicar whom I hoped would, after he got to know me, sign my passport application. From Lisa’s perspective, he might be able to arrange a family rapprochement. It was also close enough to the college that we both hoped to attend if we managed to get our finances in order. Again, we opted to find a guest house and negotiate a longer-term rate. Then we went to church.

The Vicar recognised Lisa who introduced me as a friend. He nodded and explained that Lisa’s mother had told him of the disagreement between her and her father, and the reason behind it. The “friend” bit could be dropped! When Lisa explained that she was hoping to meet her mother and subsequently her father, the Vicar suggested that it would be a good idea that I not to be involved at least for the first meetings. That was agreed and the Vicar undertook to talk to her mother when she was next in church; she was a regular church goer.

While we waited we contacted the Yacht office in Piraeus by fax and asked them to send me an offer letter for a job starting in February, stressing that it was critical that I be available not later than the 1st of that month. They faxed the letter next day to a business bureau. Armed with the letter and my new birth certificate, I made my way to the Embassy and explained to an official that I had just received this job offer but had no passport. They were sympathetic, gave me the forms to complete and promised to do all they could to expedite the process. I completed the form and Lisa asked the Vicar to countersign, which he did readily on the evidence of my birth and baptismal certificates and my association with Lisa. I returned to the Embassy with the forms the following day.

Time to look for work… there were quite a number of Arabic themed clubs in London at the time and a few restaurants. Armed with Sameed’s reference we quickly got an audition and jobs in a club. Lisa was by this stage a competent though basic dancer, but her looks carried her through. We explained that Lisa’s outfit had been lost with her bag on a flight and were referred to a number of shops where we could get a suitable costume: We had a very pleasant day turning her into an oriental temptress. The work was harder than in Dublin as we had to conform to the requirements of the club in relation to music, dances performed and timing but the money was adequate, there was a dressing room and, most importantly, we were driven home each night by taxi. We worked six nights a week; we could have done seven, but decided that we needed at least one day off.

The vicar was as good as his word and fairly quickly reverted with news that Lisa’s mother would meet her at the church. I walked with her until the church was in sight, then disappeared, sorry that I could not support her more at this time. I met her afterwards and she was mildly optimistic. Yes, she was in a relationship. Yes, it was with a woman. No, it wasn’t a passing phase. She outlined her general intention to return to London at the start of the next academic year. She would like to be on good terms with her parents but did not think that she could return to live at home. In any event, she planned to live on campus. Yes, it would be with her girlfriend. Her girlfriend was Irish and intending to do a degree in languages and business. Yes, she would be prepared to meet her father but not at home the first time.

The busy party season in the run up to Christmas kept us in work and money. We would need to keep working until the end of January at least. I had to research the possibilities of a GRS procedure in Singapore; Lisa needed to find time to work things through with her parents. We both needed to arrange our college places for the next academic year. The first meeting between Lisa and her father had been difficult but both she and he had decided to make it work. We were surprised when, after two more meetings, he suggested that we all meet for dinner at a nearby restaurant, Lisa, her mother and father and me. This actually caused a problem as we had to quickly decide how much of my recent background I could divulge. We decided to mention only that I worked on the Yacht, which was where they knew we’d met. We could not mention the kidnapping as to have done so would have suggested a worse situation than actually happened to me; a CIS girl would have been put to work straight away, even while she was learning to be part of the show. The dinner went as well as it could, we were all polite and guarded. As we were getting ready to leave, Lisa’s mother casually asked if we would be going to Church before Christmas lunch, which she was planning to have at 2pm, as usual. Would that be OK for us? Lisa got a bit choked up so I answered for her.

“Yes, we’ll be at Church. What time is the service?”

“11am. Have you me the Vicar?”

“Yes, he helped me with my passport application when I arrived. I had managed to lose my original one”.

I had no idea what the Vicar had said to Lisa’s mother and I needed to explain why I needed a passport; I had already been to Greece, and therefore had had one. Lisa had recovered by this stage and gave her mother a hug leaving. Her father then gave her a hug, a little awkwardly, but still a hug.

“Goodbye dear,” her mother said to me as they left. “See you Christmas Day”.

The Church service on Christmas day was more elaborate than I was used to in Ireland and we spent the rest of the day with her parents. It was a pleasant day, and our mutual wariness was starting to thaw, but I did take care not to overdo it on the wine in order to keep track of my story. I generally kept to the facts, changing only my school and substituting the Girl Guides for my underage time in the Reserve Defence Forces. The family was very well off as Lisa’s father was involved in fund management in the City. We took a break to listen to the Queen’s speech, quite a novelty for an Irish girl as we had never heard of it, let alone heard it. When we got back to our own guest house I used the pay phone in the lobby to call home and assure my family that all was well and that we hadn’t spent the day huddled in some basement flat relying on a candle to keep warm! My family tended to worry more than was necessary therefore I had no intention of telling them about my going to Singapore until the operation was complete.

As we shook off the Christmas season we both got back to work and to planning for the year ahead. We both visited the college we hoped to attend to introduce ourselves and discuss how we could progress our application as we intended to be working in Greece until the term started in October. The admissions officer we spoke to was friendly and understanding and organised that we leave our applications with him. He would include them in the admissions process for the coming academic year when it was opened. He also gave us a telephone number to call in August, and assured us that, with our grades, admission was reasonably assured.

The Embassy rang in the second week of January and asked me to call in to pick up my passport. They had really pulled out all the stops for me and it transpired that an Embassy official had called to the Passport Office in Dublin when in Ireland on Christmas leave and had picked it up personally for me. Wow…

I called the number that Sophie had left with me the day after I received my new passport, spoke to a member of her house staff and left a message. A call was arranged for the end of that week and I confirmed that I was planning to proceed with surgery and had a tentative appointment and flights booked for the second week of February. She asked if Lisa was travelling with me and said that she would have funds transferred the following week. I thanked her, which she brushed aside, and asked that we call on her when we got to Athens on our way back.

The pace now became a bit frenetic. We had to keep working right up to the second last day before as we did not want to abuse Sophie’s generosity. We travelled economy class to Singapore with British Airways. The journey was long and tedious. As we had a stop over in Abu Dhabi, not exactly famous for its tolerance of gay or trans people, I wasn’t sure whether to travel on my new or old passport, which I still retained. I had told Lisa’s parents that it was lost, but not the Embassy or Passport Office as, in those pre-computerised days, they would never have connected Jasmine, the new applicant, to Jim, who already had a passport. Had the question arisen, I would have said that we were twins! In the end, we decided that I would travel on my new passport and try not to disembark in Abu Dhabi. That, as it turned out, didn’t work as they asked us all to disembark in order to clean the aeroplane but, as we only went into a transit lounge, we did not come into contact with officialdom.

Singapore struck me as orderly, clean, controlled. Our luggage was delivered directly to the hotel, probably to give border security time to search it. Signs in the airport warned us that the penalty for drug smuggling was Death! Even as a good, law-abiding citizen I felt nervous going through immigration and customs. The immigration officer asked the purpose of my visit and appeared to give an understanding nod when I said that I was in Singapore for a medical procedure and that Lisa, next in line, was accompanying me. He waved me through and barely glanced at Lisa’s passport. Our hotel was adequate and we ate there that night as we were too tired to find somewhere else.

We had a day before my first appointment at the clinic and we did the tourist thing; a bus tour of Singapore and a visit to Raffles. The following day we took a taxi to the clinic and checked in at reception. After a short time, we were ushered into a private office to meet a doctor who would review my situation. He was unhappy about my age. Apparently I should have been over 21 to be able to proceed without parental consent: I was still only 18. He relented a little when I told him that this wasn’t the case in Ireland where I was already regarded as an adult and that I was already a good way along the road to transition. I did not tell him about the coercive elements of my story; that would have raised unnecessary complications, but did explain that I was on hormones and had had an orchiectomy. I also explained that I was making my living now as a belly dancer from which statement he drew the intended inference about my femininity. Eventually it was agreed that the operation would proceed subject to a preoperative physical. He suggested that Lisa call back in an hour or so and that I would meet her in reception.

I got the usual battery of tests including a physical exam. Unlike the Greek doctor, this doctor was not impressed by the orchiectomy and asked me where it was done. I told him in Greece, as I thought that Egypt would have raised difficult questions. He checked if I was still taking the hormones and I was able to tell him that I had read the literature and had stopped on 1st January. Eventually he confirmed that the operation could go ahead. I would have to pay in advance of course and accommodation could be provided on site for Lisa if she wanted to be with me after the procedure. I was to expect to stay in hospital for 5 days and then could return to an adjacent hotel where the clinic had a preferential rate. Its proximity to the clinic would be useful in the event of complications. The procedure would be carried out 3 days from then.

I met Lisa in reception and, from my grin, she knew immediately that things had gone well. We settled down to make the arrangements both to do the bank transfer, confirm the date that we would check out of our current hotel and make a booking with the one close to the clinic. The night before the procedure was difficult as I couldn’t eat and had to drink enormous quantities of foul liquid to prepare myself… the less about that, the better! Of course, once prepped, nerves set in and I would dearly have loved a beer of a glass of wine, but no chance. We got a taxi to the clinic the following day, Lisa stayed with me as I checked in, then returned to the hotel to pack and make arrangements to move accommodation. I had wanted to do most of this the night before, but she vetoed the idea on the basis that she wanted to have something other than fretting to occupy the time when I was undergoing the surgery. Then I was into the process at the clinic, shower, put on a hospital gown and slippers, then wait as another series of tests were carried out. The anaesthetist appeared, asked me some questions about allergies; a technician botched putting a needle in my left arm and the anaesthetist had to return to do it, I was starting to feel cold and must have shivered as someone covered me with a light blanket. I got wheeled from a prep room to the grand stage, I looked up at lights, the surgeon introduced himself, a bit of burning in my arm… someone shook me awake, I murmured and dropped off again…

… I was lying on a bed, looking up at the ceiling, I wasn’t cold anymore. A nurse was checking a machine beside the bed; when she saw me awake, kind of awake really, she wheeled a table over beside me and held up a covered cup with a straw so I could see where I could get some water. No pain; this wouldn’t be so bad. I drifted off again.

Pain!! Like on one of the few times when I was persuaded to play Gaelic football, 4th Years against Leaving Certs. I was in goals for the 4th Years, caught a lobbing ball which would probably have bounced into the goal and received a knee in the groin from a Leaving Cert lad. I was being carried off. I must have made a noise; Lisa spoke and held my hand. A nurse came and fiddled with the needle in my left arm and the pain eventually subsided. I looked at Lisa and smiled…

After the first day recovery came reasonably quickly. Lisa was with me most of the time except when the nurses came to change my dressings. On my last day, I was examined by the surgeon who pronounced himself happy and then instructed on dilation by a senior nurse. I had to demonstrate that I could do it, and then I was cleared for discharge. We walked slowly, in 90% humidity, to the adjacent hotel; Lisa had already checked us in and set up the room. Though not strictly necessary, we had opted to remain there for three weeks. We had to stay somewhere, Singapore was relatively inexpensive, so why not stay close to the clinic?

Eventually it was time to leave, a final visit to the clinic, all ok and off to the airport. I was careful not to overexert so Lisa had to do all the heavy lifting. We flew to Athens via Frankfurt, this time without the Abu Dhabi stop. We passed through a transit lounge but were screened when boarding the Athens leg. I was nervous as I had to carry a dilator in my hand luggage and really did not want to have to explain it, but it wasn’t an issue as my bag passed through a scanner and wasn’t searched.

Athens held many happy memories and I was looking forward to spending some time there. Dancing wasn’t really on until my recovery had progressed, although I practiced within my limits. Lisa and I developed a little routine where we did a coordinated dance, doing precisely the same moves at the same time, and added some embellishments, not fully in keeping with traditional Egyptian dance, but good for a show. We met Sophie and were both a little surprised to hear that she hadn’t a new man in her life and did not intend to have one. She even professed herself as envious of our situation! She brought us to her house on two occasions for what was essentially a girls’ night in with a sleepover. She questioned us a lot about our lifestyle experiences: We were both on the edge of respectability for the time, two apparent lesbians, and me being trans. We suspected where she was coming from and were not surprised to meet another woman at the house on a third and final visit before we went back to work, whom Sophie introduced as her “friend”. Not knowing where she was at with her family, we resolved to say nothing about it.

We also visited the Yacht office. We had both been promised a working berth for the new season starting on 1st April. There was little activity over the winter and hostess service was generally performed by Maria with waitresses from the resorts who were essentially unemployed during the winter period. The boat was to be ready for its first trip starting Saturday, 2nd April so we joined the week before and settled back into what had become a familiar routine. As space was short in the crew quarters, we intended to leave most of our gear at the yacht office, including the ghettoblaster which had travelled with us halfway around the world by now. In those days, it was generally Ok to carry quite a bit of weight, even on economy tickets and our worldly possessions now fitted into 4 suitcases! Maria was with us as we went to drop off our surplus kit and remarked on the gettoblaster.

“Did you seriously drag that all the way to and from Singapore? Whatever for?”

“Don’t scoff! This helped us make money along the way.”

“Huh?”

“Dancing; we were in a restaurant in Dublin and a club in London.”

“What sort of dancing?” Maria, like the rest of the boat crew only had sketchy details of my time in Egypt.

“Belly dancing, I learned it in Egypt. Our outfits are in the case as well; we might be able to make some money dancing during college term in London”.

We showed Maria our outfits and tapes… she was thinking…

“I wonder... would you be able to bring these with you? We can find somewhere to store the case.”

“We’d never have time to practice or do a show”, Lisa said. “You know how busy it can be on board.”

“But just in case”, Maria persisted. “We could do something on the pay if that was the issue?”

“We’ll bring the gear”, Lisa said.

“And its not about pay”, I added. “We’re well looked after and it’s only a matter of how to fit in with all that goes on already.”

We started off in April with the management team of a UK corporation on a “Team Building and Strategy Development Seminar”. At least, that was what it would be reported as to the Board, Shareholders’, Inland Revenue, and Wives. In reality, it was a boozy holiday at the shareholders expense where “what goes on seminar, stays on seminar”. We did a good trade in this type of event, distasteful as they were, and we had to put up with a fair amount of boorish behaviour. The participants typically started drinking at lunchtime and got steadily worse throughout the day so that service after dinner became a nightmare of groping hands and lecherous comments. We just managed it, but there was no way that Maria could contemplate Lisa and I putting on a belly dance show with that lot, regardless as to whether we had time or not. Eventually we came to a modus operandi; when docked at a location where Maria could “borrow” staff from one of Aristotle’s resorts, and the guests on board were civilised, we would be withdrawn from service and would put on a surprise show. It always went down quite well and the female guests didn’t appear to resent their men ogling us as we performed. Generally there was surprise that two placid stewardesses would appear as belly-dancers, and be back serving breakfast the following morning. Jorge and Dimitr who were both still with the boat, seemed to love the performance, Chef said nothing as usual and Greg, our engineer, seemed to resent us a little. George, our skipper, couldn’t show too much appreciation as Maria might not like seeing her man getting too appreciative of our charms.

Life quickly becomes a routine. No matter how exotic a situation appears to be, one simply gets used to it. The summer did give me the time to adjust fully to being a girl and I was surprised that my previous life was fading fast from my memory. It wasn’t all good… I would dream of visiting home and the dream would turn into a nightmare as I would be accosted by former neighbours and friends who appeared in my dream to be insanely angry at my transformation. I would wake up in a sweat, and Lisa would calm me down… but it kept reoccurring… Eventually, I told myself that I would have to go back in reality and face down whatever was haunting me. Once that decision was made, the dreams faded but never fully disappeared. Here on the Yacht, I could adjust in a nice, protected cocoon, amongst people who only knew me as initially androgenous, and now transitioned fully to being a girl. When I returned to England, it would be much the same; my social circle would only know me as a girl and we could control what we divulged. But Ireland would be different…

The owner’s family did two cruises. The first time Aristotle came on board I was waiting in the greeting team. He grabbed me, hugged and kissed me and I thanked him in person for having gone to a huge amount of trouble and expense to rescue me. Sophie joined the second cruise and, as she came on board, was introducing her “friend” to the crew. When she got to Lisa and me, she simply remarked that we already knew her “girlfriend”. Maria and George both looked at us a little quizzically. When Maria “casually” asked me about this later I replied that it was up to Sophie to share her own personal matters and, even if I knew, it was not my place to divulge. On both occasions when the family was on board Lisa and I put on a show which they appeared to enjoy and they followed up with some Greek dancing to music which was played on the Yacht’s entertainment system. Aristotle dragged George, Maria and Dimitri into this and sent me down below to fetch Chef. We ended up with every Greek on board dancing to the music of Mikis Theodorakis! I rather felt the second time that with Sophie and her girlfriend, Lisa and me, the island of Lesbos was well represented. I also developed a view that Greece had like Ireland, little real social stratification: I still hold to that view, but other than personal experience have no empirical evidence to support it.

With all that was happening, I never really got a chance to explore the possibility of skippering a yacht; there simply wasn’t the time. In any event, I wanted to give college a try, so did Lisa, and we wanted to be together. The summer flew by and soon we had to depart the lands of endless sunshine to our own lands of rainy skies and gales, to paraphrase Roger Whitteker’s 1971 hit, “The Last Farewell”. This would probably be our last summer on the Yacht as we would not finish college until June, by which time the season in the Mediterranean would be well under way and crew already hired.

We got back to London in time for college and moved into a room together on campus. The accommodation was segregated between men and women which suited us, although our new friends quickly determined that we were a couple. Nobody seemed to care. I was doing business and languages, Lisa marketing and languages. My two languages were Arabic and Greek; Lisa did Greek and Italian. We quickly decided that if we returned full time to club dancing, our studies would suffer so we worked our way through the restaurants and eventually secured a Friday, Saturday, Sunday gig at a rather nice, somewhat upmarket Lebanese place. As this would still leave us short of cash (we didn’t want to burn through our summer savings too quickly) we also put up simple posters in the girls’ restrooms and accommodation blocks advertising classes in “Exotic Oriental Dance”, ladies only, 50 pence per person per night, classes one hour. College rooms could be booked for free so we had no overheads. The first night, only 12 girls showed up, until we eventually got to about 30 participants doing classes Tuesday and Thursday and, as the numbers grew bigger, we organised a second group for Monday and Wednesday. Normally both Lisa and I tried to be present, but one or other of us could be away occasionally. We kept everything low key but inevitably some lads noticed a group of women coming and going and we got the occasional bit of slagging about being a “coven” (of witches), or a bunch of “laser beams” (lesbians).

The classes were held in a small room used occasionally for plays. It was accessed directly from a path and we had to open and lock up, returning the key to the Porter’s lodge when finished. It suited us fine as it had toilets and was large enough to allow us to form a circle. Normally the participants dressed in the usual girls’ gym attire at the time, leotards, tights, leggings etc. We encouraged them to drape a shawl or similar around their hips as this gave a better sense of the dance movements. Lisa and I both acquired second belly dance kits as we found it better that at least one of us was fully kitted out to demonstrate the moves and we needed to keep our good ones for the restaurant. We would generally get dressed in our room, except for the skirt and would slip that on in the adjacent ladies’ room before and after a class. We would just cover up with a coat or shirt, depending on the weather. This usually meant that we arrived and left before and after the participants, not a problem when we were together…. and when the evenings were bright…

But, of course, evenings get dark in London in the winter and a tendency developed for the girls to meet outside the college restaurant and head off together to the class. They also left in a group and Lisa and I decided to ask the college for a better venue, in a more peopled area, with better lighting. Eventually we sourced a room beside the gym complex: We would move to that in December when some redecoration was completed. In the meantime, we made do with what we had. One evening in November, Lisa was unwell so I took the class on my own. As the participants headed off immediately I was alone locking up. As there was now no one in the room, I locked the Yale lock on the door, slipped out of my dancing skirt, pulled on my ubiquitous denim mini and boots, put on my coat, buttoned it up as it was raining, gathered up my stuff, got the keys, opened the door, turned out the lights, turned to pull the door after me… and was propelled back into the room by something that felt like a freight train.

I pitched forward onto the floor, dropped my bag, and before I had time to turn a body had landed on top of me. A hand grabbed my mouth… I remember that it was sweaty, a knee was in my back, and the other hand was trying to pull my coat off. The attacker couldn’t, as it was buttoned. He sat on my ass, leaning forward, still holding my mouth and whispered into my ear.

“Be a good girl and you won’t get hurt”.

No point in trying to fight from this position; I did my most scared whimper and nodded into his hand.

“Good girl.”

He grabbed one shoulder and twisted me around so that he was now sitting on my belly. I had twisted on top of my left arm so it was also trapped between his legs. He had moved his left hand very quickly and clapped it over my mouth again; his other hand was on my neck. I gave another little scared whimper; he seemed to like that. My right arm was still free and I kept it very still; don’t draw attention to it. With one hand still on my mouth, he started to unbutton my coat. It was a long, double-breasted coat and I knew that it would not be easy for him to get it off while sitting on me. He opened a few buttons and slipped his hand under it; he seemed surprised to find a bare torso with what must have felt like an elaborate, bra-style top. He pulled at the top, trying to slide his hand in from the bottom, but couldn’t. The top was made to stay on during the course of some vigorous movement and stayed firmly in place. He changed tack and pulled my coat down off one shoulder. If he did that on the other shoulder I was in real trouble as that would have pinned both my arms… as if I wasn’t in enough trouble already. He didn’t, and went to pull the strap of my top off my shoulder. I didn’t struggle; it would only have provoked him to pin me tighter. He worked the strap off my shoulder and exposed my left breast which he started to massage with his right hand. He tweaked my nipple and I made an appreciative little grunt into his hand.

“You like that?”

“Mmmmm…”

“You are a horny bitch, aren’t you?”

“Mmmmm…”

I arched my back pushing my breast into his hand, he rubbed harder, actually hurting me but I now started a little moan. He was sure that he had me. He reached his hand behind my back to open my bra top strap. I pushed my back up as if to help him, but his hand on my mouth was pinning me down. He lifted his hand to let me up a little, leaned forward to get his right hand behind my back and put his left hand on the ground to steady himself.

Now I had him. I rammed my right thumb into his eye. A big heave of my back and he was off me. I scrambled to my feet, much quicker than he could recover. I hopped quickly to the side where he could not really see me to grab my leg and kicked him in the side of the head. He was still between me and the door so I moved around behind him. He was trying to stagger to his feet and I aimed my next kick at the base of his spine. He fell forward again and I ran for the door. I was halfway to the Porters lodge when I realised that he wasn’t following me, and that my left breast was still out. I pulled my top and coat up and started to think…

If I reported this attack to the police, my back story was sure to come out. If that story became known I would likely be thrown out of the girls’ dorm, if not the college, and the tabloids would have a field day. My story would break back home; most of the tabloids had an “Oirish” edition and my family would bear the brunt of this. I turned away from the path to the Porter’s lodge and headed for the dorm. Lisa was very upset when she saw me and heard what had happened. But we couldn’t take time to have a good hug and cry. I changed my top, got my coat on again, and we headed over to the library. I saw two lads from my business classes and asked them to walk us back to the venue. I explained that I had heard a noise when I was locking up and had become scared and ran away.

“Girls; you’re such scaredy-cats” they joked and willingly came along.

We got to the room, the door was open and the light was still off. One of the guys went in and turned on the light. My bag was still on the floor, its contents spilled all over the place, along with the room keys… and a button from my coat.

I started to gather my things up, but one of the lads picked up the button, looked at me and said,

“Are you sure you only heard something?”

I shook my head; Lida put an arm around me.

“Are you hurt?”

“No; I managed to fight him off!”

“Have you told the police, the porters?”

“No, I can’t, I don’t want any trouble”. They interpreted this as me not wanting to draw attention to myself and Lisa as a couple.

“Would you recognise him?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure, right now he has a sore left eye, a bad headache and a very sore back.”

“You did well; are you sure that you don’t want to report this?”

“Absolutely; We don’t need the hassle. Can you keep it quiet? If word gets out, and back to the creep if he’s on campus, he might try something else nasty.”

The lads looked at each other and nodded; “Okay.”

Lisa and I finished collecting my things. The guys looked at my costume skirt as I stuffed it into the bag.

“Are you guys doing a play? We thought this was a gym class.”

“Actually it’s a dancing class; the skirt is part of the costume.”

The lads walked us back to the student bar where we had a beer, then they walked us to the dorm. Lisa and I sat and opened a bottle of wine. After a while Lisa spoke:

“You did do well; I wonder how I would have managed?”

“We’re both very fit with strong bodies from the dancing, but that’s probably the only similarity”, I replied. “On the plus side for you, you’d probably be more wary and not get taken by surprise as easily as I was. On the downside, I went through male puberty and have an edge over you in strength even if I have been on hormones for over a year.”

“I thought that we were pretty equal by now”, Lisa interjected. “I’ve managed to pin you down a few times when we’re playing!”

I didn’t want to tell her that that was only because I let her! I continued,

“There are two other important differences. I have some unarmed combat training from the Reserves, simple stuff, but effective. And, I’ve learned from Egypt when not to fight; it doesn’t mean just give in, but let them think you have and wait, wait to take advantage of any break…”

I stopped… thinking back… remembering holding despair at bay with memories of Lisa and Athens, and the BBC World Service. I hadn’t really let this get to me since I was rescued. Even the decompression sessions with Helen hadn’t really gotten to me. Now, I blamed myself; how could I be so fu**ing stupid as to let myself get surprised again! I could have been killed! It was just luck that I had escaped!

Is there such a thing as delayed shock? I had managed to fight off the attack and hadn’t lost my head; now I was crumbling. Lisa put her arms around me, I lay with my head on her lap, and just cried. We didn’t finish the wine; no telling where that would have brought me. Eventually she dragged me into bed and I went to sleep with her arm around me. I woke up, she wasn’t there, I was back in Egypt, it had all been a dream, I must have cried out, she had only gone to the toilet, she held me again…

I was OK in the morning, went to my lectures and vetoed Lisa’s suggestion to cancel dance classes that evening. I met the lads at class who sat next to me and just chatted, no overt shows of concern. Dance class went on as usual that evening and even though not fully recovered, Lisa came to the class with me. The class ran as usual and, as we were locking up, a voice called out,

“Hi Lisa, Jasmine, it’s only us.”

The two lads had come to see us safe home and did this for the rest of the week until we moved venue. There was no ulterior motive, they knew that we were not interested in boyfriends, they were just good guys. We stayed friendly for the rest of our time in college.

No more dramatics that year. We moved to our new venue for the dance class and continued to the end of term. We were very busy in the run up to Christmas as party season meant lunch as well as evening gigs at the restaurant. We kept some time for ourselves and went to the Carols in St Martin in the Fields on the Saturday before Christmas. We spent Christmas day again with Lisa’s family and, when I called home, I was aware that it was over a year since I had met any of my family members. More dancing work in the New Year party season then back to college. Actually we had not physically left as the dorms remained open over Christmas even if most of the campus facilities were not available.

Lisa and I organised a ladies self-defence class immediately after our dance classes on Mondays and Tuesdays. These were run mainly on a non-profit basis with just a small cash reserve to cover eventualities. We sourced instructors from women in the Military Police and the Army generally. By modern day standards, these classes were fairly amateurish, but we did impart a modicum of knowledge on how a girl can take steps to avoid getting into trouble, and how to escape if attacked.

The year moved on and, as the final term, confusingly to my mind labelled the Easter Term, was approaching, we decided to quit our extra-curricular activities and focus on study for the last six weeks. We wound up our classes; that wasn’t a problem as all the participants were in the same boat as us and we assured them that we would recommence in the next academic year. We also let the restaurant know that we would have to quit. They did ask us to come back for one private gig in May when the restaurant was booked for a private party by a relative of some minor Gulf potentate and we were happy to accommodate this request.

We studied hard, breaking only for the May gig. This was a bit unusual, there were some people drinking, but many were not. Hubbly-bubbly pipes reminded me of Egypt, as did the guests, albeit they were in Western attire, and there were ladies present. As the manager was flapping about in a minor panic when we were leaving, we said that we would call back the next day to be paid. When we arrived, we were invited into his office and to take a seat. This was unusual as normally we were just handed our envelopes and left. The manager appeared nervous, ill at ease. He gave us our envelopes and I got up to leave.

“Please wait, I have a proposition from … for… his Excellency”. He probably did not mean to use the word “proposition”, or maybe it was subliminal. I sat back down..

“Proposition?”

“Yes, his Excellency liked you very much. I told him that you are in school and working hard because your examinations are soon and he is asking of you could work for him for the Summer. He will pay very good money!”

For school read college. The subtleties can easily be lost in translation.

“Work?”

“Yes, he has a Yacht where he entertains his guests. In Winter he keeps it in the Gulf but in Summer he moves it through Suez to the Mediterranean. He would like you to entertain… to dance… for his guests… and of course when he is on board himself.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so…”, I didn’t like the sound of this gig very much.

“Hang on”, Lisa interjected. “How much?”

“I don’t know exactly but he is very rich, and his guests will give good presents. I can get his agent to talk to you if you’re interested”.

“OK, do that”, Lisa didn’t seem to be understanding the offer…

We took our money and walked back to the dorm.

“Lisa, do you know what we were being offered?” I was trying not to be too direct.

“A dancing gig for a rich guy with good pay!”

“Dancing, and Entertainment. Why would we be getting presents from his guests?”

“What are you saying?”

“Look at how nervous the manager was; he knows that this isn’t just a dancing gig. We’re being offered a summer job as harem girls, or prostitutes or whatever!”

“Oh….”

“I wonder how much they were prepared to pay us”.

Lisa and I were having breakfast in the college restaurant.

“I’ve no idea”, I replied. “It’s probably good money; these guys don’t seem to have any regard to cost… you little Jezebel! You’re not thinking of going with it?”

“No, no, I was just wondering…”

“Well, you can find out if you want: Remember you have agreed to speak to His Most Excellent Excellency’s agent?”

“Oh, yes, I had forgotten about that…”, Lisa paused. I knew how she spoke when she was going to broach a subject and wasn’t sure how I’d react.

“I know you’ve history here… but would you do it?” I knew from the question that she was serious, so I paused and thought…

“Remember that story of the guy, George Bernard Shaw or Oscar Wilde or somebody, who asked a woman if she’d go to bed with him for a million pounds?”

“I know the story… ‘we’re only negotiating the price’ is the punch line.”

I lowered my voice… “Well, I suppose that’s where I’m at. Remember I lived with working girls for over 3 months. They weren’t ogresses, or even immoral. They were in a situation and doing what they had to do to survive. Remember that most of them were there voluntarily, at least in some sense.”

“Anyway”, I continued, “I don’t think that I want to have sex with men. I’m not even sure that I could.”

“Lie back and think of England, or in you’re case, Ireland”, Lisa joked.

“You wouldn’t get away with that. From what I’ve seen and heard from the girls, courtesans have to be very proactive. The worst thing was if the man couldn’t perform; he’d say that the girl didn’t do her job well enough! She might even get a spanking!”

“Did they do that?”

“Only ritually, to make the man feel better. It didn’t really hurt too much; Mastar could not afford to have his livelihood marked or damaged.”

“Do you ever think of the girls?”

“Survivors guilt I suppose. Mayda had clearly been brought there by force, I saw shackle marks on her ankles, and I often wonder how she got on. She was very pretty so she was likely bought out by some rich guy who just wanted a young woman”.

“Were you fond of her?”

Careful how I answer this!

“Of course, she was like a sister to me! She looked after me as best she could in the circumstances.”

Right answer; Lisa looked a bit relieved.

“But back to the issue; I don’t fancy sleeping with men! I’ve never done it, never thought of it, and am only attracted to girls, or at least one in particular”.

Lisa grinned at my recovery… only attracted to her… and responded,

“You’re describing me as well there you know!”

“Not quite, you slept with me when I was a boy”.

“As I recall, you had, at least temporarily, become a girl at that stage, with one important addition!”

“But when you were growing up”, I answered, “before you knew for sure, did you ever fancy boys?”

“Did you see ‘Gone with the Wind’?”

“Yes”.

“When we saw that, and Clark Gable was kissing Vivien Leigh, all my friends wanted to be Vivien Leigh. I wanted to be kissing Vivien Leigh! I knew then that I was different, but I didn’t dare to tell anyone at the time.”

A bit of a pause in our conversation…

“So, what’ll we do about His Most Randy Excellency’s agent?”, I asked eventually.

“I thought that you were completely against this; you didn’t even want to hear the restaurant manager out?”.

“Let’s say I’m getting more curious”. Actually at this stage I wasn’t sure how I felt.

“Will we hear him out?”, Lisa was obviously curious too

“OK, let’s do that. In the meantime, let’s get some work done!”.

And back to the library for more tedium. I’ve always wondered why exams are held in Summer, when study robs us of time in the sun enjoying both the warmth and bonhomie that sunny weather generates in the cold islands off the Northwest coast of Europe. But, we were both serious students and determined to get the best results we could.

After a few days, a note on the dorm notice board gave us a number to call and we arranged to meet the agent in a London hotel. We decided to make this a day of rest from study and to have lunch in town. We got dolled up for the day. Lisa had a little strappy mini sundress; I still did not have the boobs (only ‘A’ cup at this stage) for strappy dresses so settled for a flared, cap sleeved, button up minidress. I was still conscious that my hip to waist ratio was not that of a typical girl and always tried to go for skirts and dresses which disguised this. The weather was too warm for tights and a little fake tan was needed to take the white look off both of us! I simply ignored people when they stared at the tattoos on my legs.

We met at 11am in a comfortable meeting room with a sofa, coffee table and armchairs. I had been rather expecting a heavy-set swarthy Arabic gentleman and was rather surprised to be greeted by a young, debonair, slight, fair-haired English ‘chap’ who had an almost stereotypical Eton/Oxbridge accent. We introduced ourselves and all sat down, Lisa and I at either end of the sofa, Jeremy, as was his name, opposite us on an armchair. He poured coffee, sat back, looked openly at my legs for a minute.

“Xania?”

So he read Arabic; of course he would!

“My stage name”.

“And you had that tattooed on your legs? Hmmm… Never mind. Can I ask, what experience you girls have?”

We described our dancing careers to date…

“And where did you learn to dance?”

“I learned in Egypt and taught Lisa, then we started the classes… to keep us in money in college.”

“Learned in Egypt…hmmm… tell me, have you girls any experience of being ‘entertainers’?”

“No; we’ve been strictly dancers”.

“So why are you interested in broadening your careers?”

Euphemisms preserve dignity.

“Because we were invited to meet you and told that we could retire on the takings of one season.”

I was smiling as I said it and he reciprocated. He had a lovely open face and smiled easily. Both of us were beginning to warm to him.

“Maybe you’ll need to do two seasons to get to retire. Can I ask if you girls currently have any serious boyfriends?”

“No, neither of us…”

“Have had?”

“If you’re asking us if we’re virgins, no. If we were, our expectations would be even higher!”

“You like to be direct!”

“Only when I think that the man I’m talking to won’t mind. Can I ask you a question? Who are we likely to be asked to entertain?”

He explained that the job generally involved entertaining groups of both Gulf and European men who joined the yacht, or rather SuperYacht, for varying periods, coming and going, staying in port or cruising to no very fixed timetable. The general age profile was thirties to fifties; the Prince himself was in his mid-fifties. Sometimes the men were accompanied, more often by mistresses than wives. Prince was a somewhat inaccurate title but worked well enough in the West for someone who had been the son and was now the brother of a Sheik. There would be two other ‘hostesses’ on board, separate from the normal stewards who looked after standard service. They were unlikely to be belly-dancers and most likely French.

“So how is pay calculated?” Lisa asked.

Jeremy named a monthly figure, over four times what we could expect to make after graduation. At this rate, twelve weeks work would see us right for the year!

“And, of course, it’s tax free. The SuperYacht is registered in the Gulf to technically you’re on Gulf terms”.

“What if we want to leave the SuperYacht?” Lisa was beginning to nail down the details.

“Just walk ashore when you’re in port, although you won’t get paid other that the per-diem allowance that you’ve already received and will have to make your own way home.”

“This type work isn’t always safe for girls; how do we know that we won’t end up in a harem back in the Gulf?”

“This isn’t a Beirut club back in the 70’s”, Jeremy responded looking at Lisa, then continued, looking at me, “or in Egypt in the 80’s. I’ve placed girls on this Superyacht for the last 3 years, mostly students like you. They just fly home rich and go back to college at the end of their gig. Normally I select the girls myself; the Prince liked you both as dancing girls so I don’t get to do much research this year”.

“I suppose the research is very hard work”, Lisa was now flirting with him.

“It has its compensations.”

“At least you know how good the girls are when you hire them!”. Where was she going with this?

“Yes; it’s important to be sure I only send the best entertainers to the SuperYacht. So when you girls have decided… we can do some practicals…”

“Maybe we should do the practicals after lunch, so no one is disappointed later on”.

“A splendid idea; why don’t we dine here and take it from there.”

We headed for the dining room and, on the way, I excused myself to ‘powder my nose’. Lisa came with me.

“What are you up to?” I asked, rather abruptly, when we got into the ladies’ room.

“You like him, don’t you? We both do, so if we can’t manage to shag him, we won’t be very good entertainers!”

She caught my head in her hands and leaned her head against mine.

“We can walk away right now, no harm done, if you’re not Ok with this?”

“No; let’s do it!”

Jeremy was an excellent host and we had a great lunch, sharing an good bottle of Chablis. He linked us both as we retired upstairs to his room, opened the door, and ushered us both in. Lisa went in first, then I was guided in by a hand on my ass. Jeremy had ordered a bottle of champagne with three glasses which was duly delivered and we all had a little sip. Jeremy took off his suit jacket and loosened his tie and, as he was doing this, Lisa slid in behind me, hugged me from behind, and started to massage my boobs. Jeremy sat on the bed, slipped off his shoes, and sat back to enjoy the spectacle. I went to turn around to Lisa but she held me facing Jeremy then started to unbutton the top buttons of my dress and slipped her hands in, under my bra, and continued to gently massage for a minute or so. I was definitely getting warmed up and had reached my hands back on both sides to catch her by the hips and then around to hold her ass. Jeremy was getting visibly moved and was undressing as Lisa continued to unbutton the rest of my dress and slide it off my shoulders. I took my hands off her hips and she moved back a little to let the dress fall to the floor. As it did, Lisa caught it with her foot and flicked it towards Jeremy who caught it, buried his face in it to get my smell, then dropped it on the back of a chair beside the bed. Lisa waited until he was looking back at me, then slipped my bra straps off my shoulders, gently pulled down the cups of my bra, and went back to playing with my nipples.

At this stage, Jeremy was stripped to his shorts and came in front of me, pressing into me and reached behind my back to open my bra strap. He removed the bra, again buried his face in it and dropped it on top of my dress. He held me tightly up against him, his hands on my ass. Lisa’s hands were gone and my boobs were pressing into his chest. I saw her dress and bra sail through the air and onto the chair – good throw.

Lisa must have indicated to Jeremy from behind me as I was suddenly, I won’t say dragged, but rather deposited on the bed, the wrong way around with my head at the foot. I guessed why when Jeremy caught both my arms and passed them to Lisa who pinned them down on the bed whilst she bent over me and started to lick my left nipple. Of course, that put her breast right in my face, so I could reciprocate. Jeremy’s mouth was on my other breast with my legs wrapped around his torso. It was like pure unadulterated pleasure, almost pain. Jeremy pulled back, pulled off my knickers and started to rub himself against me, then in, I lifted my ass up to get the angle right, my legs still wrapped around him…

So what was so special about this penetration? After all, I did it every day to myself with a dilator, or Lisa played with me with a toy. It’s texture, smell, context, the feeling that the man doing this to you is getting almost as much pleasure as you… I had to take my mouth off Lisa’s boob as I was afraid that I might accidentally bite her… I was obviously making too much noise as she stuffed a bra into my mouth… and then it’s all over… I’m still moaning a little… Jeremy is panting… he climbs off to clean up in the bathroom… Lisa takes the bra out of my mouth and looks right into my face… we’re both upside down to each other… looks right into my eyes and winks, then starts to lick my mouth…

Jeremy comes out of the bathroom to take in his second Lesbian show of the day… eventually I pull away and head to the bathroom to clean up. When I come out, Jeremy is lying on his back on the bed and Lisa is straddling him. I climb up behind Lisa and reach my hands around her to work on her boobs… her turn to get a hot and bothered…

As we’re getting dressed to leave, and Jeremy is lying back on the bed, he asks if we can do a private, paid, show for himself and the Prince’s son, who lives in London part time, the following Thursday night. This is putting us under pressure as we really need to study, but we agree on the basis of no more entertaining work until we’ve finished our exams. We agree that we’ll bring the music on tape, he’ll arrange the player, we could get changed in the suite, we’ll be picked up and returned back to the college the following morning, we’ll be paid in cash before we leave.

“How was that for you?” Lisa was having a bit of fun asking me the reputed typical male post-coital question as we strolled back towards the college.

“Smart ass!, about the same as for you, albeit I got the first pick of the cherry. He was probably a bit worn out when he got around to you! Seriously though, it was a clever way of introducing me to how to have sex with a guy.”

“Are you still a lesbian or has he converted you?” Lisa must have been feeling vulnerable.

I slipped an arm around her waist. “You won’t get rid of me that easily! Again, being serious, I now know that I can tolerate guys, but only for business. I’m sticking with girls; one in particular. How about you?”

“I’m with you on that!”

And back to study. We had to quit at lunchtime on Thursday to get ready for that night’s gig. We did our make-up and actually got fully dressed in the dorm, then took off our gear and put it on our bags. That way we wouldn’t forget anything. Lisa went to put in the high-cut thong knickers that we both wore dancing. I looked at her and shook my head; she threw them in anyway and I followed suit. They weren’t exactly a weight to carry. We had already sewn small pockets into our skirt waistbands for condoms, like we did in Egypt. We weren’t sure if we would be allowed to use them, Lisa would use a diaphragm just in case.

I was nervous, but excited, the type of excitement that comes from knowing that one is going to do something illicit. Eventually it was time to go and meet the car just off campus. It was there, waiting, a large green Jaguar. The driver scrutinised us in the mirror; doubtless he had picked up a lot of girls in similar circumstances. He dropped us off and we followed our instructions to go to a specific room on the seventh floor. We got our first surprise; this was not the suite itself, it was a security room for the suite. The two close-cropped security men reminded me of the goons in the brothel. They went through our bags, taking care to ostentatiously examine our knickers, condoms and Lisa’s diaphragm box. Then it was our turn: We had to take off our dresses and bras and were given the option of taking off our knickers or being patted. We both opted to take them off. We had to lean our hands against the wall and lift our feet to show that there was nothing taped to the soles of our feet and they even ruffled through our hair to see if we had anything hidden there. Eventually we were allowed to dress and were escorted to the suite itself. A maid answered the door and escorted us to a small room with a table, some chairs, and a hanging rail.

“Assholes!”, Lisa hissed when we were on our own. She was seething at the treatment we had received from the security men.

“We’ve got to get used to this”, I cautioned. “We’re only hookers to them. At least they didn’t get the rubber gloves out! Like you advised me; just stand there and think of England!”

“OK…”, she was calming down…

We got into our dancing gear and waited… the maid came and asked us for the music tape. We heard our music start, volume was adjusted, then a pause. Rewinding the tape… then the intro music started and the maid returned and indicated that it was time to go. This wasn’t ideal, as we had had no opportunity to get our bearings. Oh, well, just get on with it. We followed the maid into a large room with a dining table. Jeremy and his friend had obviously just finished dinner and were having their coffee and brandy. The music was playing, volume was ok, there was plenty of room so on with the show. We had decided to include our non-traditional element in the show; it involved us scooping our hair back over our heads, turning our backs, or rather backsides, towards the audience and doing a rapid hip movement. Nowadays, it would be regarded as a vigorous form of twerking. Turn around, back to traditional movements, music gets rapid, then slows down again. Jeremy and his friend had now turned their chairs out from the table, towards us, both looking pleased with themselves. The friend raised his right hand and waved me in with slow movements of his fingers. I move close, he indicates closer, I’m right in front of him now, still moving with the now sedate music. He indicates closer again, my legs are now either side of his, almost straddling him. My skirt had a long panel down the front with slits either side up to the waist band. It gave plenty of leg exposure when dancing, but hid the vital areas. To get in that close, I had to scoop up the panel and drop it to the side over his legs, like I’d seen the girls doing back in the brothel. I was still reasonably covered from the front and anyway, was almost too close for him to get an eyeful. He slid his hands inside the slits and pulled me in more, fondling my ass. I had not worn the knickers; would have been pointless. The top I was wearing opened at the front, like a little bolero jacket, closed with a bow. He took one hand off my ass and opened to bow, I slid the top down my arms and threw it away on the floor. He pulled me in, kissed both my boobs, then caught my waist and gently pushed me away. I backed off, caught up with the music, and now danced topless. His eyes never left me, I did the coy look bit, catching his eye, and smiling. Lisa joined me, also topless; Jeremy had been looking after her as his friend was stripping me. We did our twerking routine again, back to traditional, vigorous, slow down, all determined by the music. I’m beckoned in again, this time, as I drape my skirt panel over his leg, he catches the waistband of my skirt and pulls me down on him. Time to get down to business, he’s kissing my boobs and I wrap my arms loosely around his head and start to lick his ear. His hands are back under my skirt, wandering around, this time everywhere. Eventually, he takes my hand, pushes me off, gets up, and leads me towards a door. Into a palatial bedroom. I start to undress him, plenty of rubbing his body in the process.

We’re on the bed before I remove my skirt. Partial nudity is often more sexually alluring than being fully naked. He’s lying back on the bed, I’m straddling him. I have taken a condom out of my skirt and go to slip it on him. He shakes his head; we’re going bareback. Halfway through, he pulls me down, rolls on top of me and we finish it off like good missionaries. I slide out of the bed to the bathroom to clean up. As I come back to the bed he’s lying there, just looking at me. I’m still wearing all my jewellery, heavy necklace like a collar with a lot of beads hanging in a “V” between my boobs, matching dangling earrings, rings, belly ring. I’ve left the nipple rings out; too much opportunity to get hurt unless your partner is real careful. I’m conscious of my small boobs and narrow hips, but otherwise I’m feeling really good. I’m enjoying watching him looking at me; it excites me to feel that he wants me. We’ve barely spoken to each other.

He gets out, goes to the bathroom; now my turn to lie in the bed. I don’t get turned on looking at him. I’m just acting, faking it, and hopefully doing a good job of it. He comes out of the bathroom, doesn’t come directly to the bed, goes to a closet, turns around. He’s holding a wrapped narrow red rope in his left hand, about as thick as my little finger. He beckons me over to him; I climb out of the bed, a little nervous, and come to him.

He stands me in front of a large mirror, turns me to look into it, and stands behind me. He raises my arms and puts my hands on top of my head. He brings the doubled-up rope around my body, under my arms, above my boobs. He holds this behind my back, uses his other hand to bring my hands down, one at a time. He brings the rope around me again, this time over the top of my arms. I feel him fiddling with the rope behind my back, then he brings it back around the opposite direction, this time under my boobs. More fiddling at my back, then he brings the rope over one shoulder and under the ropes going above and below by boobs. He loops this around these ropes again and pulls this loop tight, pulling the ropes together and squeezing my boobs. He’s very gentle, I’m relaxing and starting to enjoy this. He brings the rope back up over the opposite shoulder and I feel more fiddling around my back. Then he splits the doubled-up rope , pokes one end under my arm, and loops it around the ropes going above and below my boobs, tightens this loop, again further squeezing them, and ties off the loose end. He does the same with the other side and stands behind me again. My arms are pinned to my sides above my elbows, free below that. My boobs are being squeezed on either side, not painful, but quite emphasised. My nipples are hard; I’m into this. He reaches around from behind and starts to play with them; I can tell he’s getting ready for Round 2.

He brings me back to the bed, I’m lying on my back, he’s kneeling, my legs are around him, and he keeps massaging me. I’m starting to get noisy again; he seems to like that. He’s taking his time, enjoying seeing me squirm, and eventually he slides down on top of me and brings the matter to a finale. By this stage, I’m almost whimpering… He leaves me on the bed and goes away to clean up again. I’m still tied up, even though my hands are free I cannot reach the knots. He comes out of the bathroom and half lifted me out of the bed. He doesn’t untie me so I wander into the bathroom and use the bidet. I can just about manage to dry myself off… again he’s looking at me as I approach. I turn my back to him, expecting that he’ll untie me, but he just pulls me down on the bed beside him and keeps me tied up for the night. I don’t mind.

I wake before him and slide out of the bed to go to the bathroom. It’s a bit tricky with my arms pinned to my sides, but I manage. I walk back to the bed; I can tell from chinks of light coming in past the curtain that the sun is well up. He wakes up as I climb onto the bed, kneel on it and shuffle over beside him. He steadies me as I climb on top and sit on him, then holds me as I rise a little on my knees to let him get busy…

Eventually it’s time to surface from the bedroom. He unties me and I slip my skirt on. Breakfast has been pre-ordered for 8am, this time for four people. The maids have already been in and Lisa and my discarded tops are missing. I feel a bit self-conscious as I walk across the room, topless, hoping that no one walks in, but I get to our dressing room to find our tops on the hanging rail with our other clothes. Lisa comes in as I’m about to put on my bra and sees the rope marks around my body.

“Ch****, are you OK?”

“Yes, and I have spent the night tied up, before you ask… and it wasn’t rough… and I’m fine”.

We all have breakfast together. Jeremy was talkative, his friend not so much. I don’t think we exchanged more than a few words in all our time together. They both kissed us both goodbye as the car was announced to collect us. Jeremy gave us two envelopes outside the door, patted us both on the ass and said goodbye again. We didn’t speak much in the car; the driver was all ears and we had no intention of giving him an audio show. He dropped us off with a smirk. We dropped our gear off in the dorm and headed for the college restaurant to compare notes. Lisa had had an energetic if conventional night; she was still concerned about the rope marks. Given that I had been tied up for real and for an extended period when I was kidnapped, how come I hadn’t ‘freaked’ when I was tied up again.

“I don’t know; I was nervous at first, but he was very gentle. When I was kidnapped, it was rough, different. Then the men just grabbed and forced me into shackles or whatever. When I was tied with rope just after I was actually grabbed,I could barely move and it really hurt. This was just different and because you and Jeremy were nearby, I didn’t feel threatened.”

“Hmmm, I’ll have to practice that with you”. Lisa was imagining new bedroom games.

“Maybe I’ll introduce you to it. Who knows, you might turn out to be a real rope bunny”.

Time for all that later. Now we had to study, then the exams. When the exams were almost over, Jeremy made contact. We met him just outside the campus as we could not afford to take time off from college and he passed us an envelope. Inside was some cash and air tickets; we were to join the SuperYacht in Cannes.

Exams over, we had a few frantic days in London buying up what we thought that we would need for the Summer. This included one more dancing costume each. We asked the shop owner where we could get these adjusted, and had both bra tops cut down to only a support under the breasts. Our short experience of topless dancing had led Lisa to the realisation that she needed support so as not to have to either hold her boobs when dancing, or have them each do an independent dance of their own. I needed some lift and had “chicken fillets” sewn into mine, inside the inner lining so that they would not be visible if, or rather when, I would take it off.

Eventually, we found ourselves at the marina, staring at what looked like a small ocean liner compared to Aristotle’s yacht. We approached the security man standing at the foot of the gangplank and informed him that we were joining the yacht. He had obviously been told to expect us; he just nodded and spoke in French into a Motorola hand-held radio that he carried. We waited; eventually a man dressed in a khaki military style shirt and similar slacks came down the gangplank. He checked our passports looked at us and nodded. We both had two suitcases; Jeremy had informed us that space would not be an issue to the same extent as on Aristotle’s yacht and it was important that we had a reasonable range of gear to wear onboard. Danny, as he later introduced himself, just picked up two of these, said “follow me”, and bounded back up the gangplank. We struggled after him with our single case each.

Jeremy had told us back in London that the on-board security were ex-British Army. I had expected that we would meet two goons similar to those in the UK, short-haired ex-para types with a bad attitude to women. Danny seemed quite a gentleman. He led us to a door on the lower deck, close to the gangplank, marked SECURITY NO ENTRY, punched in a code, stood back to let us in, then followed. I hadn’t managed to see the code as he covered the panel with his body as he was entering it. We went into a small cabin. There was another man inside, similarly dressed, sitting at a table and cleaning a rifle which I recognised as an SLR, basically an FN rifle without an automatic function, as used by the British Army at the time. We waited as he quickly reassembled the rifle, opened a cabinet and put the rifle away. I saw at least one other SLR and two unmistakable Bren guns; quite a lot of firepower. He introduced himself as Clive.

“OK girls, we want you to stand over here while we look through your cases.”

Clive indicated a place just inside the door. We backed up against the door and he reached over and locked it. I thought that rather pointless as a security code was needed to open the door from the outside. They each took a case lifted them up onto the table and started to go through them. They were thorough, obviously practised, and professional, no waving of our underwear, sneering at our condoms or examining my dilators! They did one case each, then the other, with the occasional question or remark put to us. They even returned everything tidily into our cases; I went to step forward to help, but Danny just held up a hand for me to remain where I was standing.

Cases searched, they turned to us. I had warned Lisa; no matter what, don’t fight with the Security. We need them to be on our side as much as possible and I remembered her resentment of our treatment by the two goons in London. Before being asked, I reached my hands up as if to unbutton my dress, paused and gave that open-eyed, head-tilted, questioning look. Danny nodded. If you’re going to do it, do it right, I thought to myself. I unbuttoned my dress, and threw it over to him. He grinned, and draped it over his arm. I unhooked my bra, swung it around over my head, and did the same. I turned my rear to them, and inched my knickers down, swinging my tail from side to side, slipped them off over each foot in turn, then turned around and threw them to Danny as well. I then stood in my high heeled sandals, legs slightly apart, one knee slightly bent, hip pushed out to the side with one hand on it, and reached over to unzip Lisa’s dress with the other hand. She took my cue, and slid the dress down slowly, took one foot out, and, using her other foot, kicked the dress into the air over to Clive. She also threw over her bra, and used her toe again to flick her knickers over to him. She mirrored my stance. The two lads went through our clothes to see that there was nothing sewn into them. Clive pantomimed lifting breasts and we both did this, the idea was to see if we had anything taped into the fold just under them. For me, this was hardly necessary as my boobs were still small. For Lisa, definitely necessary, and I suppose it would have seemed ungentlemanly to have asked only her!

I had hoped that that would be the end if it, maybe a foot and hair check, and was a bit unhappy when Clive opened a drawer on the table, took out a box, and pulled out surgical-type gloves. He passed the box over to Danny. They pulled the gloves on and left a small jar of what I guessed was Vaseline on the table. Danny beckoned me over to the table and I kept up the act. I kind of sashayed over, stood facing the table as indicated and cooperated when he gently pushed my back for me to bend over. Now face-down on the table, he put a hand on the inside of my knee and a foot inside my foot and pushed my leg out. I did the same with the other leg without being asked. I tried not to jump when he put one hand on the small of my back, his other hand between my legs, then, after a few seconds, inserted what I guessed was two fingers. The Vaseline worked as he didn’t hurt me, but I did let out an involuntary grunt as he rotated his fingers inside me. Fingers out slowly, hand still on my back, then into my ass, then out slowly again. He caught my arm to help me up from the table and brought me to face the door. As I was moving over, Clive was bringing Lisa to the table; I was hoping that she’d behave! I couldn’t see her being searched, just hear the odd grunt like I had made. Danny had me stand with palms on the door while he lifted each foot, took off my sandals, examined them, then the soles of my feet, even between my toes. I then had to stand in my feet as he went through my hair and eventually, and I guessed a bit reluctantly, he stood back and nodded.

“OK”

“You sure?” I asked, little coy look again, head slightly down and to the side, eyes looking up into his face. I made no move to get dressed.

“Unfortunately, yes!” He had a pleasant smile.

I didn’t get dressed until Clive had finished searching Lisa, and didn’t rush the process even then. Knickers on, then sandals, stand up, dress my hair a little as it was all tousled after being searched, only then put on my bra and dress.

“Come on; we’ll bring you to your cabin.”

The two lads picked up our suitcases and we followed them out of the security room, and down one flight into the hull section. I had expected to keep going down, but we were led through the guest area, past the staterooms, to a door at the very end. The smallest of the staterooms had been converted into a cabin for the boat’s entertainers as it both ensured that we would be close to the guest staterooms and we didn’t occupy crew quarters which were needed for the sailing and normal service personnel.

“Here we are; the crew call this the Birdcage.” Clive wasn’t being overly tactful. He knocked on the door and went in without waiting for a reply. A girl with long black hair was sitting at a vanity unit, her back to the door. She was only wearing silk, or silk-effect French knickers. She turned around without making any attempt to cover up.

“Ah! Our new roommates”. She had addressed the comment to another girl, lying in one of two smallish double beds in the cabin. Her accent was very French, very sexy!

“We’ll leave you to look after them”, Danny said. The two lads deposited our cases on the floor and headed off.

“I am Annette, this is Angeline”. The sitting girl was indicating to her companion in the bed.

“Lisa”, “Jasmine”. Introductions over, we looked around: There were only two beds, Angeline was in one, the other had clearly been slept in.

“We share when we’re all here”. Annette had spotted us looking around. “We’re not often all here together. Here, you have space to hang your clothes and the steward will take your cases when you’re ready.” She opened the sliding door of a wardrobe,

“Can we share together?”, Lisa asked, pointing from me to her. “We’re old friends.”

“No problem; I’ll sleep with Angeline.”

“We need to clean up.” I was looking at a door which I guessed led to an ensuite.

“Ah! They’ve been searching you. They like to do that to new girls.” Annette indicated the door that I was looking at. We went in together, used the bidet in turn, washed our hands, sorted our hair.

We started to unpack. Annette and Angeline were fascinated by our dancing costumes, including our thong knickers, not so with the rest of our underwear and clothes. They would bring us shopping tomorrow.

We were discovering that we occupied a somewhat intermediate position on the boat. We were not regarded as stewardesses, and could order food and general service from them. The housekeeping staff looked after our room. We didn’t eat with the crew; when not eating with the guests we ordered food be brought to our stateroom by the stewards. There were no stewardesses, all stewards, the housekeeping staff were all female. There was a Purser, with whom we would liaise, but he did not direct us. Two other girls had left the boat a few days before; they had been engaged on a short term gig while we finished our exams.

We four girls ate together that evening on the SuperYacht. Annette and Angeline had been with the boat since it was brought into the Mediterranean in April. They were on their second year doing a summer season. With almost six months of pay and presents, they had taken the winter off and had travelled to Australia and New Zealand. They weren’t sure of plans for the coming winter. We were all within a year or so in age and they were surprised to hear that we were in college. As both Lisa and I had studied French in school, we conversed in a mix of French and English which suited me fine as now I was getting some practice in a fifth language, along with Greek, Arabic, English and Irish. Eventually we had our dinner service cleared away and got ready for bed. Neither Lisa and I were entirely comfortable at first with them using the loo while we were washing out teeth or removing our makeup, but at least we had two, presumably originally “his and her”, washbasins. We’d just have to get used to it!

Shopping the next day was an eye, and wallet, opener. Cannes was incredibly expensive, but neither Annette nor Angeline appeared to see the prices as they looked at more “suitable” clothing for hostesses. The dresses were mostly short, smart and sexy, but we also ended up with a “smart tart” dress each. They majored on lingerie, open breasted bras, French knickers, suspender belts, and nightwear. Bikinis as well, although they joked that we wouldn’t need the tops! By the time we had finished, we had knocked a large hole in the initial funds that Jeremy had supplied.

Back on board, we settled into a routine. Even sex-work can become routine, but just don’t let the client/guest feel that. There were no specific schedules or change-over dates. People came and went constantly, joining the SuperYacht here, leaving it there, maybe rejoining somewhere else. The sailing plan appeared to be random and we only tended to know where we were going after we had put to sea. We travelled mostly along the coasts of France and Italy and wandered around the Greek islands and coast. We even ended up in Tunis once. The coasts of Lebanon and Israel were strictly avoided, as was the coast of Libya.

The Purser let us know who was coming and going. When a new guest joined, assuming that it was an unaccompanied man, one of the hostesses would meet him as he boarded and escort him to his state room, show him around, ask if he would like to shower, or have a drink, or whatever. If he opted for a shower, we would start to help him undress and take it from there. Generally the one hostess tried to stay with the guest when he was on board; otherwise it could get too complicated if all the other hostesses were busy. Sometimes the guests voluntarily exchanged us.

It could be more tricky if a man came on board with a partner, almost exclusively Mistresses. We would meet them as they came on board as usual, escort them to the stateroom, show them around and ask the woman if there was anything else that they wanted. It wasn’t always “No” although few were as direct as the woman who said,

“Honey, can you sort him out for a few days; I’m on my period”!

We worked the dancing bit in, generally before dinner, without letting the guests know what was about to happen. Lisa and I would excuse ourselves, get changed in the Birdcage, and either Annette or Angeline would put the music on low on the entertainment system, and slowly increase the volume until Lisa and I would suddenly dance into the lounge and start our routine. It was invariably well received. If we had an allocated partner, we would end up by dropping into his lap, normally to his great delight. We would generally stay in our dancing gear for dinner, but if we had worn our open-breasted dancing tops, we changed these before eating. Whether to wear them or not for the dance depended on the tone of the evening to date; some evenings were more eventful than others. We would try to escape from our charges for breakfast, not always possible, and eat together in the birdcage. There was a lot of lounging around the pool, almost invariably topless, which didn’t really suit my white skin and reddish hair, but judicious use of sunblock prevented any sunburn.

The Prince’s son, whom I had ‘met’ in London came on board. This time looking after him fell to Lisa who showed up with rope marks at the pool each morning while he was on board. I slightly envied her; I had enjoyed that session and, though some of the guests liked to ‘pin down’ their hostess, none had gone down the bondage route with me so far. Also, the Princling – as Lisa and I dubbed him – was younger than our usual fare, a considerable number of whom were old enough to be our fathers! They could be hard work and we developed Oscar-level acting skills, but the good point was that they were most likely to fall asleep after Round 1.

The ‘presents’ were good, mostly cash, sometimes jewellery – real stuff. We each had a small safe with a combination lock built into one of the closets in the Birdcage. As hostesses, we rarely left the SuperYacht unless brought out by a guest. Sometimes, maybe even mostly, this was more for our older guests to display us as their property in restaurants along the seafront, beach or marina. Maybe they thought that it made them look good; I thought that it made them look like what they often were, sad old lechers. Who cares as long as the presents are good!

And the Prince came on board in Greece; I remembered his face vaguely from the time that we danced for him in the private gig at the restaurant in London. The flurry of attention to prepare for his visit was astonishing, as was the fawning attention he received once on board. All the hostesses were present to meet him, Lisa and I in our dancing gear, Annette and Angeline wore long, sarong-type skirts with cropped tops, such as an Indian woman would wear under a sari. He looked us over rather as one would examine a harem; which of us would he choose! He stayed for about two weeks; Lisa and I did our routine each night before dinner. We had plenty of time to prepare as all hostesses were reserved for him when he was on board and he chose a different one each night. This was an easier time for us girls as the ones not selected would be able to retire to the Birdcage and have a good night’s sleep.

We were sailing along one day during the Prince’s sojourn between the islands of Paros and Naxos. Lisa and I were “off duty” and idly sitting by the pool, watching the coast slip by when I spotted a familiar looking yacht cruising on a similar course, but much slower than ours. I slipped up to the bridge, borrowed a set of binoculars, came back down to Lisa, focussed the glasses… yes, it was, as I had guessed, Aristotle’s yacht. I passed the glasses to Lisa, she looked and smiled. We kept an eye on the yacht as we outstripped it and, as we passed, I could clearly recognise George in the bridge. We resisted the urge to wave. We had no idea how the Prince might react if he saw us, and, to be honest, we didn’t really want our erstwhile friends to know how we were passing the summer.

The Prince left the Yacht at Heraklion, one of his flunkies having delivered four nice envelopes to the Birdcage on the morning of his departure. Seeing Heraklion again brought back happy memories for both of us. Actually cruising these waters had evoked a series of happy memories but now, with the Prince gone, normal service had to be resumed and we became busy again. Regardless of being busy, I, and at my instigation Lisa, always had a beaming smile for our two Security men. We, and they, were strictly forbidden to ‘get together’ and we all valued our earnings, it didn’t stop me coming very close or brushing off them as we passed by. They gave us early information about the next destination, generally knowing before most of the crew as they would have to organise additional security when we arrived. I had kind of resolved to give them a ‘going away’ present if possible when we left the SuperYacht and intended to broach the matter with Lisa. I felt it would be important to keep them on side as they could protect us if required. Not that I felt that we would need protection; this SuperYacht dwarfed Aristotle’s and we rarely left it.

We left Heraklion heading East for Rhodes. The next morning, when I looked out the porthole of the stateroom that I had ‘entertained’ in that night and my charge lay snoring off the champagne that he had imbibed the night before, I was a bit puzzled. The stateroom was on the port side and I could see the sun was coming up. I kissed my sleeping beauty and said that I’d see him at the pool, slid into my dress, and knocked gently on the door of the security cabin. Danny opened the door.

“Good morning Doll”.

“Good morning Ken”. Whenever he called me Doll, I called him Ken, as in Ken and Barbie. “Are we still going to Rhodes?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The sun is in the wrong place!”

“You’re on the ball this morning!” he laughed. “Actually no, we’ve been asked to divert to Alexandria, then Suez and back to… Hey! Are you …?”

He told me afterwards that he had caught me just before my head hit the deck.

I came to lying on a bed in a small, very neat, cabin. Danny was dabbing my forehead with a wet towel.

“Hi Doll, you gave me a bit of a fright there!”

“Where am I?”

“Lying on my bed”

The security men each had a small cabin off the security office.

“Not my preferred way to end up in your bed!”

I was beginning to recover.

Danny grinned, reached out a hand and helped me sit up.

“Are you ok? You just fainted as we were talking”…

“Sorry, you just gave me a fright!”

“Me? What did I do?”

“Not you. What you said. Alexandria; I can’t go to Alexandria.”

“Why? What’s the problem? You’re hardly wanted by the police there?”

“No, it’s not that, at least I don’t think so. Look, I was there before; I was kidnapped there, held for almost 4 months. I can’t go there again”.

Danny was silent; there was a soft knock on the outer door. Danny went and opened it to admit Lisa. Obviously he had sent for her. He brought her into the cabin; she looked quizzically at me sitting on his bed.

“No; I didn’t get lucky. We’re heading for Alexandria.”

“Shit!”

“My thoughts entirely! Danny, I can’t leave the boat in Egypt.”

The voyage had been intended to end in Rhodes and we were intended to disembark there to fly back to the UK.

“Tell me what happened”.

I told him my story. He listened silently, only visibly reacting slightly on hearing that I’d actually been kidnapped as a male.

“OK, I get that you would be scared of going ashore, but there is no reason to expect that anyone is looking for you. After all, you were bought out of captivity; it’s not like you escaped” he eventually said.

“Scared is enough for me! If our cruise ends in Alexandria, I would have to fly out of Egypt. I’m not doing that!”

“If you don’t fly from Egypt, you’ll have to stay until Muscat. That’s going through Suez, stopping at Sharm el Sheikh and then a long haul down the Red Sea, past the Horn of Africa to Muscat, with maybe a stop in Salalah if we need fuel. That’s two weeks and through dangerous waters. There are both Somali and Yemeni pirates in this area so we’ll be travelling as fast as reasonable for the fuel load with a constant watch. And it’ll take at least two weeks. There’ll be no guests on board so I presume you girls won’t get paid”.

“I don’t care about being paid. We can help you with the watches.”

I hadn’t consulted Lisa on any of this, but she raised no objection. We were due to resume in college and this would probably delay us.

“Sorry Doll, if I was taking extra security on board, they would be army guys.”

“We don’t have to shoot to watch out, and I can shoot the Bren, SLR, and BAP.”

BAP is army shorthand for Browning Automatic Pistol, ubiquitous in Western armies at the time. SLR was the British Army self- loading rifle, identical to the FN used in Ireland but without the automatic function. The Bren gun had been originally produced for the old WW2 British .303 round and was still used in this calibre in the Irish reserves; the British had converted it to the NATO 7.62mm.

Danny looked sceptical.

“Where did you learn that?”

“FCA, the Irish version of your Territorials”.

Danny said nothing but went over to the drawers under the cabinet where I had already seen the Brens and SLRs stored. He fiddled around with his back to me, turned around suddenly and dropped a BAP on the table.

“OK, show me”.

The pistol had a magazine in it. This to me was bad practice as a gun should be visibly demonstrated as unloaded when passed between people in this circumstance. I picked the pistol up, pointed it into the corner away from everyone, dropped out the magazine, locked back the action and showed Danny and Lisa the empty chamber.

Danny just nodded; Lisa asked what she was supposed to see.

“That the gun is not loaded; look here, no bullet”.

I stick my finger into the breech end of the barrel to show her where to look.

“You always do this when you pick up a gun; I think Danny was giving me a little test”.

He nodded.

I field stripped the BAP on the table, reassembled it, checked it worked, then pulled back the slide, locked it open and passed it back to Danny.

“Can you do that with the SLR and Bren?”

“SLR, yes, but I’d be a lot slower with the Bren”.

“What about this?”

He opened the next drawer down and took out a Stirling Sub Machine gun. I shook my head.

“We used the Gustav SMG”

“Not much difference”, Danny shrugged

“We need to get back to the Birdcage”, Lisa was watching the time. We needed to get breakfast, shower, change, and appear at the pool at 11am.

“Before you go, where were you held in Alexandria?”

“Actually it was Cairo, the place was called “Ali’s Coffee House”… I don’t know the street name”.

I had never thought to ask where I was being held. It seemed irrelevant at the time, and I suppose no one would have told me anyway!

“Why do you ask?”

“I might just have it checked out… routine really. My Cairo contacts wouldn’t find it too much of a burden to have to go there on expenses!”

“There was one girl, Mayda, who looked after me. I’m sure she was kidnapped too; I saw marks on her ankles”.

“Did she not tell you?”

“We never talked about our stories; we weren’t allowed and all that mattered was the present and the future. Who had been bought out, who had several visits from the one man and might be bought by him, that kind of thing”.

“What about Mayda?”

“Just how she’s doing… she’s very pretty so probably has been bought out by now…”

“We’ve really got to go”, Lisa was now getting anxious.

We headed back to the Birdcage, quickly showered and changed and ate a light breakfast. Annette and Angeline were both there, discussing where they would go this year; they were leaving the boat in Alexandria. We arrived at the pool in reasonable time and slipped back into our familiar routine. After lunch, Danny called me over the intercom to go to the security cabin. There was some joking about me being in trouble now as I got my bikini top back on and slipped on a short, white A-line miniskirt.

As I was making my way to the security cabin, another announcement, by Clive this time, said that there would be some test firing of weapons at the stern of the boat in preparation for going through the Red Sea. Danny met me at the security cabin door and we headed off to the stern. Plastic canisters from the galley were lined up to be the targets; environmental awareness was less developed in the 1980s! We could hear some chatter on the pool deck above as some of the guests came to look at the practice. Danny handed me a BAP and a magazine; I faced aft, loaded, and put a round up the breech. He then threw a canister over the stern. My first shots were bad, then, although the target was receding, I began to hit it as I steadied up and remembered my training. When I had emptied the magazine I got a round of applause from the pool deck. As the target was now too far away for a pistol, Danny handed me an SLR. I dropped to one knee, steadied the rifle on the rail, and started to get hits after about three rounds. Another round of applause!

When the rifle magazine was empty, Danny showed me how to hold the Sterling, load and unload the magazine. After a few minutes, when I was comfortable, he handed me a full magazine. I loaded and waited as he threw the next target overboard. I started to fire very short bursts with the Sterling, often just two rounds, tapping and releasing the trigger rapidly, and soon the target was full of holes and sinking.

“Nice technique for the ranges but you might need to be a bit more generous with the lead if someone’s firing back”.

Clive had arrived with a Bren gun which he proceeded to attach to the railing. The spectators had apparently bored of the spectacle and had gone back to lazing around the pool. He gestured to me to take the gun. I checked the breech and adjusted the sights to 200m. It could have been yards, it didn’t really matter. Clive passed me a full magazine. This was different to what I had used before; a straight magazine with 7.62mm rounds, not the curved .303 inch magazine that I had used before. Other than that, no real user difference. Danny threw another target… I let it drift astern, then demolished it on my first burst of about 4-5 rounds.

“Ok, you can shoot: Just remember it’s very different when the target shoots back! You’d better get back to your charges or they’ll start to miss you.”

Danny seemed happy enough with my shooting and I now expected that he was going to keep us on until Muscat, otherwise why bother?

There was some good-natured joking when I arrived back at the pool deck and I was temporarily renamed Annie, as in Annie Oakley. The rest of the day passed as normal and the following morning the SuperYacht was moored in the Eastern Harbour at Alexandria, the same harbour as Aristotle’s yacht had moored a lifetime ago. I had expected this; this boat could not get into the marinas further West. The official boat was already alongside and some additional security personnel had already boarded.

“You know we suspect that it was one of our local security men who set me up to be abducted?” I remarked to Danny who was leaning on a rail looking at the shore.

“Not one of these guys”, he remarked. “They’re military police unofficially rented from the army.”

Somewhat reassured, I headed back to the Birdcage. Annette and Angeline were packing up; they would be leaving as soon as the last guests had departed. When the boat came alongside to pick up the guests we dutifully kissed them goodbye and looked forward to meeting them again next year! That done, Annette & Angeline left shortly afterwards in a service boat and Lisa and I had the Birdcage all to ourselves. It actually felt lonely without their constant chatter.

We wandered down to the security cabin to try to find Danny and confirm plans for the next weeks. All we knew at this stage was that our jobs had now finished but we didn’t want to leave the boat here. We found him in the cabin talking to one of the security contractors; he waved us in. The Egyptian security guard looked us up and down as he was leaving. With all the locals around, we had worn our most modest dresses, but these still pushed the local boundaries: We should get some more appropriate attire, but couldn’t go ashore to buy any.

“You’re ok to stay on board to Muscat; no pay, but no charge for food or accommodation either.” He grinned when he included the latter part.

“Thanks Ken, I really needed to hear that!”

“Your friend Mayda”, he continued. “She’s still there.”

“Still there?”

I was very surprised. The turnover of the girls, especially girls as pretty as Mayda, was high as they were bought out as companions or even wives by clients.

“She’s a Syrian Kurd, kidnapped by some Bedu militia and sold on. Kurds have a reputation as being troublesome and of not making compliant wives. Looks like she’s there for the long haul.”

This was devastating news for me. I had always believed, or hoped, that she would have secured as happy a situation as possible in the circumstance.

“Sorry…sorry”

Lisa and Danny said it almost simultaneously: My face obviously betrayed my emotions.

I turned to leave, then a thought…

“Can I buy her? How much would it cost?”

“I’ll give you my money as well.”

This was very generous of Lisa; we had taken the jobs to set us up in London. My giving away my money was bad enough but Lisa would making a great sacrifice as now all our fairly substantial summer earnings could be gone.

Danny frowned.

“I don’t know how much it would cost; I’m not much in favour of giving money to scumbags!”

“Maybe we don’t actually have to pay…”. I was developing a plan as I spoke. “I was handed over in some quiet place in Cairo. If your friends could agree a price with an offsite handover, we meet them with guns and simply take her.”

Danny looked surprised.

“That’s the kind of thing I’m supposed to suggest! What would you do with the sellers?”

“Maybe cut his balls off? I’d happily shoot him but I guess that’s illegal.”

“Just to be clear… no unnecessary violence, no matter what your history is with this man. We could maybe get away with stealing, or rather rescuing, a slave, but anything more would draw attention and compromise all of us, this boat and our employer.

Anyway, if you were to dispose of him, what happens the rest of the girls? They’re out on the streets. Believe me, no matter what their situation is now, that’s their worst option”.

I knew he was right.

“You’re not thinking of actually doing this?

Lisa had turned white.

“Do what?”

Clive had just walked in.

“We’re going to steal a girl. Or, to be exact, I am.”

“Haven’t we enough with these two?”

Clive was unperturbed with Danny’s statement. Obviously these two had some history of unusual activities.

“What do you mean, just you?”

I was not happy with his suggestion that I would not be in on the act.

“You’ll need help; there were two of them when I was sold”.

“No f***ing way you’re doing this!”

Lisa was beginning to panic: She never used profanity. Clive put his arms around her and began to rock her gently.

“I know that you can shoot, but you’ve never shot anyone?”

Danny asked that in a way which led me to believe that he had. I shook my head.

“Ever shot at anyone? Ever been shot at?”

Again I shook my head.

“You said yourself that there would be no unnecessary violence, so we’re mainly acting. That’s what I’ve been doing for the past three months.”

I was determined to be in on this.

“Acting? Is that what you call it?”

Clive’s wit was beginning to grate!

“Besides, how do you know if you’ve the right girl? Maybe they recycle the names? And I want to be there! I want to see his face when we do this! I’ve earned it!

“Shsssss…”

Danny put a finger to his lips… my voice had been rising. He caught be at the hips and gently pushed me down onto a chair.

“This is just madness… yesterday you fainted at the thought of even docking here… now you’re wanting to go ashore and do…this…”

Lisa was finding it hard to describe the planned escapade… was it theft, a rescue, a kidnapping?

“Yesterday I wasn’t thinking of going ashore with a gun and guarded by a spook!”

“We prefer Intelligence Officer” Danny grinned, thus inadvertently divulging his previous occupation. I had guessed as much. He and Clive were obviously ex military and, almost certainly, officers. The British army had, and probably still has, somewhat of a class divide between officers and soldiers.

“You may have a point”, he continued. “Although no matter what, we’ll probably have to go through with the job once it starts. Assuming it is the right girl, you can keep her calm as we’re getting her back on board, and, if I turn up with a woman in tow, they’ll let their guard down… no one would be mad enough to get involved in this with a woman…”

“They don’t know some of the women we’ve worked with!”

Clive was still in fine form. Clearly neither he nor Danny were in the least bit concerned with the situation. He was still holding Lisa, who started to sob…

“Please don’t do this, let the lads take care of it… they know what they’re doing.”

I stood up and kissed her tears away.

“I’ll be ok… Danny will see to that.”

“Can you take Lisa for a walk?”

Danny wanted to get down to business.

**********************************.***.*****.***********

We were sitting in an old Peugeot 405 parked along the side of a quiet square. The run up to this point had been hectic as we only had two days in Alexandria before the SuperYacht sailed. Only Clive, Danny, Lisa and I were aware of the job in hand; the Greek skipper (are all Yacht skippers Greek?) had been kept in the dark as he would have vetoed the idea. I had funded the job with £1,000 from my earnings to pay some local associates of Danny; he didn’t want to be seen to use any of his employer’s funds, as it would amount to embezzlement, and I had to backpay him for the initial recce! Lisa was still unhappy, but reconciled to my going.

The story and plan were fairly simple. A local associate of Danny would agree a price for Mayda, on behalf of a procurer for a private collection, subject to a final check over at the handover. The handover would be off site in order not to alert local police of the presence of this procurer who believed that Mastar’s place was under at least sporadic police surveillance. This was believable as it was probably true. The location would be remote in order to be able to spot the arrival of any unwanted attention.

“Charlie, Oscar, Delta, Figures Bravo, Papa.”

The rather bulky HF radio crackled into life. The message indicated that Mastar had left the brothel, with Mayda, and one other person… obviously one of the Goons… same as when I had been sold. It also indicated that the sender was in loose pursuit of Mastar. There was no need for a close pursuit as they knew already where he was going. Danny shut down the radio and hefted it into the boot. It was impossible to hide in the car and it’s constant hissing and squeaking would betray its presence if left on.

He sat back into the drivers’ seat.

“Remember, move fast when you have to, and don’t get between me and them.”

He was only nervous because I was a rookie. I squeezed his knee…

“Don’t worry Ken, I’ll be careful.”

I was wearing a long brown shapeless dress, like that worn by local observant women. I had a large white scarf or veil around my head and across my mouth and nose. This was uncommon at the time in Cairo, but sometimes seen. My relatively white hands and feet had been overpainted with tan and then decorated with henna by Lisa. After some discussion, I had been given a Walter PPK as the Browning Pistol showed up as a weight in the pocket of my dress. Danny had his Browning in a concealed shoulder holster; in his supposed line of work it wouldn’t cause much comment even if noticed.

An old Mercedes pulled slowly into the square. Everyone in Cairo seems to drive these. Danny got out and stood beside the Peugeot. The Mercedes stopped about three car lengths away. Mastar got out of the driver’s seat and stood looking at Danny. I had to struggle to retain my composure; even in this situation I realised that I was still terrified of him.

Deep breaths, calm down, don’t blow this.

Mastar looked at the Peugeot; I was visible inside. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his robe; I had never seen him stand with his hands in his pockets in this way. He spoke in Arabic.

“You’re not alone; who’s that.”

“A woman, to check the girl”.

“Let me see her.”

I didn’t move. Danny and I had agreed that I would only react to his instructions. Danny turned to the car and said, abruptly, in Arabic.

“Woman, get out.”

I got out and moved to the front of the Peugeot, eyes and head slightly down. Mastar looked at me, grunted, looked back at Danny.

“The money.”

“First we see the girl.”

Mastar looked back towards the Mercedes and beckoned with his left hand. He was right-handed, and his right hand was still in his pocket. A goon stepped out and dragged a figure from the back seat. She was covered completely in a big Afghan dress, similar to the one I was hidden in when brought out to be sold. I recognised the goon. We called him Abdul Ali, probably not his real name. He wasn’t the worst of the goons; slightly human, he had occasionally mentioned that he was saving to send his two sons to college so that they wouldn’t have to work in a brothel like him. He brought the girl forward slowly. She was taking very short steps and I guessed that she was shackled. Even Mastar must be nervous of the reputation of the Kurds!
The goon stopped beside Mastar with the girl.

“Come on woman, be quick!”

Danny was enjoying bossing me about; we had agreed that he would treat me as a lower form of life in keeping with our roles. I came forward and lifted the big dress off the girl; it was Mayda. Her eyes looked scared; she couldn’t talk as she was gagged. She was wearing a dancing costume, her hands were handcuffed behind her back and she had shackles on her feet. I started a pretence of an inspection, opened her top to look at her breasts, pulled her skirt aside to look at her legs. Behind Mastar and Abdul Ali, and across the square, I saw a dim red light flash three times; the backup was in place. These were the two locals who had followed Mastar and were now in place both as backup, in case things turned nasty, and to see that we weren’t disturbed.

I turned to Danny.

“The keys”

I pointed to Mayda’s handcuffs and shackles as if I wanted to undo them before continuing my check. Mastar didn’t wait for Danny to repeat my request. He pulled some keys from his left pocked and held them up.

“When I get my money.”

Danny nodded.

“Come on woman, help me with the seat.”

Before hurrying over, I caught Mayda and swept her legs to the side and left her sitting on her Afghan dress. This was to get her below the line of fire should any shooting start.

“If she falls and gets marked I’ll be blamed”,

I said to Danny as I moved to the right-hand side of the car, leaving Danny on the left, where Mastar, Abdul Ali and Mayda were standing, or, in the latter case, sitting. We both opened the rear door as if getting ready to lift the seat, the inference being that that’s where the money was.

“I think he has a gun, right pocket” I whispered as we fumbled a bit, then on Danny’s “now” we both picked up a Sterling SMG from the back floor and swung to confront Mastar and Abdul Ali, cocking the guns at the same time. This was deliberate; we could have left the guns cocked and on “safe”, but cocking a gun tends to frighten the opposition. To add to the apparent menace, both Sterlings were fitted with silencers which made them look bigger and more intimidating.

Abdul Ali jumped before he recovered his wits and stood still, facing Danny, trembling. I was leaning my Sterling on the roof of the car, watching Mastar. He didn’t move, but kept his right hand in his robe pocket.

“Take your hand out of your pocket… it better come out empty or I’ll blow your ugly head off!”

Danny’s voice was growling, menacing and frightening. I had never seen this side of him. Mastar slowly took his hand out of his pocket and raised them as Danny gestured with the SMG. I collected some cable ties from the back seat and moved around behind Mastar and Abdul Ali.

“Abdul Ali, you son of a rabid bitch. Do what your told and you’ll live to see your two sons finish college.”

The fact that I knew so much about him would serve to further undermine his confidence. He practically whimpered.

“Please, I am only a servant. Don’t shoot me. I won’t cause any trouble.”

“I know that; it’s only a concern for you if you live or die, it’s all the same to me. Put your legs together!”

I couldn’t emulate Danny’s growl, so I adopted a sweet, menacing tone. Abdul Ali stood with his feet together and, with my Sterling on my lap, I knelt behind him and cabletied his ankles together. This was the most dangerous part of the job; had he turned on me, Danny would have had to shoot him and likely Mastar. Luckily, his cowardice served him well. I was tempted to push him off balance onto his face, but couldn’t bring myself to do it; he really wasn’t the worst of the Goons. I cabletied his hands behind his back and left him standing precariously; one move and he’d likely smash his face on the ground as he fell over.

Abdul Ali now hors de combat, I looked at Mayda; she was looking up at me quite wide-eyed. I gave her a thumbs up, hoping she’d remember a gesture I’d often used with her to indicate that I was OK. I couldn’t tell if she recognised it from her reaction. I moved behind Mastar and cabletied his feet, then his hands, leaving him standing as well. From behind, I put my hand into his right pocket, felt the handle of a gun, and pulled out a well preserved old British Army Webley. I broke it open; five rounds with one chamber empty. Very sensible to leave an empty chamber under the hammer in a gun this old. I tipped the rounds out into my palm silently and slipped them into my pocket. I dipped into his left pocket and took out the keys. I snapped the revolver shut and walked around partly in front of Mastar, but not blocking Danny’s line of fire, even though the danger now was minimal. I slipped the revolver into my pocket and held the Sterling in one hand. With my other hand I slowly and deliberately opened my veil and pulled it off my head. Mayda recognised me first; I heard something between a grunt and a squeal into her gag. Then Mastar’s eyes widened as he slowly remembered me… after all I was only another girl, or whatever I was at the time, to him.

I turned to Danny, took out and waved the Webley. Unlike Mastar, Danny had seen me unload it.

“I think I’ll shoot his balls off first?”

“Whatever you think he deserves.”

I aimed the revolver at Mastar’s groin; his composure started to crack.

“Please, by all that’s holy, I swear I’ll compensate you… please don’t hurt me… please don’t kill me….”

He was whimpering… and my fear had gone. He was now just another coward.

“Say your prayers, or whatever you do before you die.”

I was beginning to enjoy this.

“Please..please…don’t…”

I raised the Webley to his groin…

“One, two, three…”

I pulled the trigger and the hammer fell on an empty chamber…

“Shit… bad ammo… I guess I’ll just have to do a head shot…”

A dark blotches appeared on the front of his robe… he had pissed himself. He was whimpering and crying…

“Please…please…”

I lifted the revolver to his face; he still hadn’t realised that it was unloaded.

“Please…please…”

I pulled the trigger… another click… he moaned…

I went around behind him and tipped him on his face; it made a satisfying thud as it hit the ground!

I went over to Mayda and undid her ankle shackles. As agreed with Danny in the planning, I left her gag and handcuffs in place until we got into the car. We simply didn’t know how she’d react and didn’t want to have to try to subdue her if she tried to run away, grab a gun, or something similar.

I slid into the back with Mayda; Danny drove. His shoulders were shaking…

“You OK Ken?”

“Just remind me to never get on your bad side, Doll”, he laughed.

I turned to Mayda and pulled the gag out of her mouth. I remembered how I had felt after being gagged and first offered her a sip of water. She drank, and coughed as some water got caught in her throat.

“Xania, you came back for me!”

“You’re safe now Mayda. We’ll look after you”.

Now wasn’t the time to try to get into nuances. I hadn’t actually come back for her; I had just ended up in Alexandria by chance and Danny had organised the rescue. I got her handcuffs off and we just lay in one another’s arms in the back seat of the Peugeot.

“Will you be able to go home?”

Danny was talking to Mayda in Arabic from the front seat as he drove. She didn’t answer for a few moments, then said, sadly;

“No, I have been dishonoured. My family cannot accept me back.”

Danny switched to English and spoke to me.

“That really means that they would kill her; it’s called an honour killing. We’ll have to get her into the UK.”

The journey back to Alexandria continued interminably involving a switch of cars and clothing for all of us. Mayda and I both wore dresses which I had brought from the SuperYacht. She was uncomfortable with the dress but relented when I explained that she was to look like an Alexandrian hooker. The local security men would see her being brought on board as quite normal whereas they would remember a girl in a dancing costume. They already would have seen me, guessed my role on board, and assumed that I had simply picked up another girl for the party.

Danny and Clive had a quick exchange on the small Motorola VHF sets that they normally carried when we arrived on the quay. We boarded a service boat and took care to approach the SuperYacht slowly and from astern. Clive met us at the bathing platform and Danny handed up the heavy HF radio, now innocuously concealed in what looked like an accordion case, and another case with all the guns. I passed up a bag with our spare clothing, including Mayda’s dancing costume. Clive helped first me, then Mayda on board; the local security guards looked us over, and grinned broadly.

“I see that you’ll be having a pleasant voyage”, one offered as we led Mayda along a companionway to the guest deck. Clive was in front keeping an eye out for normal crew members, but, apart from a bridge watch, all were turned in in anticipation of an early departure. We moved silently to the Birdcage, opened the door, and slid in.

Lisa was sitting up in bed, reading. Silent in response to Clive’s finger to his lips, she jumped up and threw her arms around me and held on as if she’d never let me go. Eventually she released me and I held her hand and introduced her to Mayda as my friend. We’d work on the girlfriend bit later! Mayda didn’t really know how to react and smiled nervously: Lisa went over and kissed her on both cheeks and gave her a small hug. I assumed that communication was going to be a problem as Lisa had no Arabic, and Mayda had no English. Somewhat to my surprise, she responded in good French when Lisa tried that language; I had forgotten that Syria had been a French “Mandate”, actually a form of colony, from the end of the Ottoman Empire to shortly after the Second World War and some French influence remained. At least we had a working language as Lisa and I both had school French and some practice with our previous two companions.

Clive had slipped out. Now he returned with some food that he had picked up from the galley and headed off again. Mayda, Lisa and I sat around for a while nibbling at the food. I noticed that Mayda avoided the ham, and declined our offer of a glass of wine. Neither had been available in the brothel when we were held there together and I hadn’t realised that she was, at least, mildly observant. Eventually we slipped off to bed, Lisa and I together, Mayda in the second bed. We were careful not to “do” anything as we didn’t want to make her uncomfortable on her first night of freedom in over two years.

***********************

The boat was rocking gently when we awoke late the next morning. Mayda also slept late; that was the usual routine for the girls in the brothel, for obvious reasons. As I stepped out of the en-suite “heads” after my shower, I noticed Mayda looking at me.

“You’re a girl now? How? Why?”

Mayda had only known me as a kind of involuntary hermaphrodite, a mukhannathun, and the concept of GRS would have been unknown in her world.

I explained that I could never really be a man again, and now preferred to be a girl. A doctor had “sorted things out”. She was astonished that I preferred to live as a woman, in her world a second-class person. Somewhat tongue in cheek, I explained that this wasn’t how things worked in our world, but that a woman still wasn’t always fully regarded as a man’s equal. It was all a bit nuanced, but we would have time to sort it out. Lisa also explained that she and I were “together” before I was kidnapped and had remained together since my rescue. Mayda’s religion and world view would have seen Lesbianism as a sin, but brothel life had tempered this view. Also the fact that we had started off as a (somewhat) heterosexual couple somewhat alleviated the seriousness of our current transgressions!

“Please forgive me if I seem difficult, ungrateful. I am grateful; just your world is so different”, she eventually said as we finished the breakfast that had been sent up.

Getting dressed raised another issue. We simply did not have any dresses which the now-free Mayda was comfortable to be seen wearing. Rather naively I had expected that her previous incarceration would have removed any inhibitions on dress, but not so. She had a view of what would be appropriate for a free woman to wear and was not sure that we were actually fully free given our apparel. We explained that we used our looks and men’s desire to make our way in the world. She would be free to make her own way and live whatever life she might choose. She looked somewhat dubious.

Danny called in. The skipper was furious; our actions had compromised the boat and the owner! He would be taking the matter up when he reached port. Clearly he could not raise the issue over the radio, or even telephone, as this risked monitoring by the authorities in Egypt but trouble loomed when we got into the Gulf proper!

“Do you think it would help if I talked to him?”, I asked. Talk was a euphemism.

Danny winced; he had had an expectation of my exclusive attention for the rest of the trip once we got Mayda sorted out. Clive had similar designs on Lisa. Danny had spoken in English, for Lisa’s benefit, and I translated for Mayda.

“Why would he listen to you, a woman, if he does not listen to a man?”, she asked.

“Remember what I was saying about how a woman can get on in our world?”

“You mean that you have to have sex with him to stop him causing trouble over me?”

“Maybe.”

Mayda looked unhappy.

“It is not right that you should have to do this for me. I’ll talk to him.”

There did appear to be a contradiction in Mayda’s mindset; this was the woman who didn’t want to wear a short tight dress.

“Maybe we’re not a free in your world as you think?”, she added.

Lisa and I were both silent; she had a point.

“You can’t go to the Skipper; he’ll likely blow a gasket.”

I translated Danny’s colloquialism for Mayda and added that we had rescued her from prostitution and didn’t want to see her coerced back into the role.

“But you are prepared to do it!”, she retorted.

“Yes, because I don’t see it the same way as you. For me it’s not a problem; you see things differently, you are a more honourable person!”

This conversation was getting uncomfortable. The inference from what I had just said painted Lisa and myself as two whores.

“These were choices we made”, Lisa eventually said. “Maybe not the most honourable, but some good has come as you are now free”.

Mayda’s eyes started to mist over.

“I’m sorry, I do not mean to offend. You’ve all done so much for me and I don’t understand your world yet.” She brightened up a bit. “But I did enjoy seeing you make Mastar wet himself like a young boy!”

Danny and I both laughed, Mayda joined in, Lisa gave me a raised eyebrow query. Danny spotted this and realising that we hadn’t gotten around to telling her the story, explained my terrorising Mastar. We all had a second laugh.

“I’ve just remembered, I still have the revolver. Can I keep it?”

“Not on board, but I’ll give it back to you when you’re leaving the boat in Muscat. Remember that you’ll have to report it to the police in the UK and get a licence when you arrive. The embassy in Muscat might be able to give you a kind of transit letter.”

I passed him the revolver which I fished out of our still unpacked bag of spare clothes. He started to leave but Mayda interrupted.

“Please sit.”

Danny sat down on our bed.

“Xania, sorry I mean Jasmine, will bring me to the Skipper and explain our story. I’ll thank him for carrying me on his boat and explain that I wish to make sure that he is rewarded for his generous act. That is how it will happen!”

She was quite forceful and adamant. She took her dancing costume from the bag of clothes, shook it out and went into the heads to change.

“See what they say about Kurds?”, Danny whispered to Lisa and me. “I’ll leave you girls to it.”

Mayda came back into the cabin in her costume and started to retrieve her jewellery from the bag of clothes. I helped her dress her hair and noticed Lisa watching us in the mirror. Lisa always had an eye for a pretty girl, and I guessed that she rather fancied Mayda. Fortunately, Mayda didn’t appear to notice.

I dressed in one of my dresses, white, tight, with a slit up the right leg. I picked this one as it fully displayed my tattoo. Paired with white heels, I was doing the smart tart bit: Beside me, Mayda looked incredibly exotic and desirable. We headed for the Skipper’s day cabin. I knocked, and entered when called. He looked up and scowled.

Speaking in Arabic which he had to understand given his position, I introduced Mayda and, showing both our tattoos, explained how we were once captives together. I explained that Mayda wished to thank him for his generosity. His scowl was abating as we both smiled. Mayda took over and graciously, and unmistakably, made it clear what was on offer. She twirled around…

“Of course, if you don’t like me…”

“I like you …”,

he interrupted, beckoning her to come over to his side of the desk. I slipped out the door. That was a clever approach I thought. Basically, she had said, in the sweetest way possible, if you’re man enough, you’ll take me up on my offer.

The voyage settled back to its usual routine. By evening we were alongside in the rather uninviting city of Port Said, waiting to start the passage through the Suez canal the next day.

Lisa, Mayda and I met up in the Birdcage the following morning. With all guests now off the SuperYacht, Danny, Clive and the Skipper had helped themselves to the guest staterooms. Only a skeleton domestic staff remained on board; the rest, including the Purser had been sent on ahead on a domestic flight. They would be sent on leave for a few weeks until the boat recommenced sailing with guests in the Gulf and beyond. We had a leisurely breakfast; our charges, unlike normal guests, had busy workdays, so we, in contrast, would have plenty leisure time.

We briefly observed the start of our Suez trip. The commercial shipping had to wait while a number of naval vessels, from an assortment of nations, first passed, then we were off. The journey would take a day, with a further day to get to Sharm El Sheik where we would top up on fuel. Then we would cruise directly to Muscat, with an option of picking up additional fuel if required in Salalah. This would take us seven days, assuming no problems. Speed would be generally limited to 15 knots to give the best cruising range, although this could be increased to over 20kts if required.

Lisa and I faxed the college to secure dorm accommodation and arrange a late start. We also sought a placement for Mayda whom we described as a refugee seeking a temporary position as a language coach. This was cheeky as we had no entry papers for her yet and we compounded this by also seeking accommodation for her on campus! We passed the time by starting to teach Mayda English, and rehearsing our dance routine for our part-time jobs which we hoped to resume for the college year.

Mayda was clearly getting more used to our world as she didn’t show any surprise on learning that we were dancers, as well as students, in the UK. She pitched in and helped us develop our routines, and then started to dance along with us. We hoped to resume our dance classes as well and offered to cut her in as an instructress/demonstrator and she was happy to accept.

In this type of environment, it is best to develop a routine and we disciplined ourselves to follow a pattern of an hour’s English class, an hour of dancing practice, a break of 30 minutes, and start over again. We generally started at 11am and stopped around 5pm when we would have dinner with the Skipper, Danny and Clive and retire to our respective staterooms. Initially the only interruption was an almost daily security drill conducted by Danny and Clive, and involving everyone on board.

The security arrangements involved the engineering staff securing themselves in the engine spaces and sealing off the doors. The deck crew manned a number of high-powered hoses on either side of the main deck with a retreat route to the crew quarters where they could also seal themselves in. The SuperYacht’s No 2 (XO in their parlance) would directly lead this team. The main point of resistance was the bridge. This could not be easily sealed off, although all external doors across the boat would be locked and all external companionways retracted to make access to the upper decks more difficult. The Skipper and the No 3 would be on the bridge along with Clive and Danny. Us “Birdcagers” would also locate ourselves there, supposedly as extra eyes, but more likely just because the guys wanted us to be there! The two Bren guns were mounted on the open bridge extensions on port and starboard; the two SLR’s were left beside them, along with ammunition. The Sterlings were left unloaded in the centre-rear of the bridge with magazines ready alongside. Clive and Danny took to wearing their shoulder holsters around the boat; in the heat I imagined these to be quite uncomfortable. This was all very dramatic and a bit scary, but we understood the need for drills and reckoned that a boat of this size would be safe.

As we progressed South, security picked up and, as we approached the Bab al-Mandab Strait, either Danny of Clive were constantly on the bridge. Lisa and I started to stand watch with our own companion; at least we got to go to bed with them that way. Our initial routine now went out the window, or rather the porthole! On watch we tended to switch sides every 30 minutes or so, partly to alleviate boredom, although one patch of sea looks much the same as the other. Radio and radar were monitored, mostly by the navigation personnel, but we would occasionally look at the screen. We were happy to pass a UK frigate as we transited the Strait into the Gulf of Aden and we started to relax a little as we turned East towards the Arabian Sea.

Danny and I relieved Lisa and Clive on the bridge at 4am. The Skipper and Mayda were already two hours into his navigation watch and were due off at 6am. We staggered the change of helm and security watch on the bridge to avoid everyone changing over at the same time. The sea was quiet, traffic light and only one unidentified vessel heading slowly towards us at the limit of our radar range. This wasn’t unusual. Nor was it unusual that the vessel turned about 30 degrees to starboard as the range closed and then resumed a reciprocal course about half a nautical mile off our port side. That looked like a standard anti-collision manoeuvre. What was unusual was that its speed decreased to about 5 knots, as judged by the radar. We turned to starboard to widen the range to a nautical mile and resumed our course. Danny was standing on the port bridge extension watching the ship through binoculars. It kept course; probably just a smuggler or maybe an innocent freighter timing his arrival at his next port.. I was on the starboard bridge extension looking from the bow, where the sky was beginning to lighten, to the stern where it was still pitch black. Mayda, who had been looking at the radar alongside the Skipper who was helming, wandered over to me, stepped outside into the cooler air, stretched and yawned.

Moving the binoculars from the dark astern to the light ahead was not optimal for good observation. Almost aligned with the bow, I thought I saw a shadow. I looked away, looked back, still there… was there a second? Was it a swell? Maybe the remnants of the wake of the other ship? I looked away again, then looked back, not at the shape, just a bit away. The eyes work better that way. The two shadows were still there and we had closed fast on them. Just as I was about to call Danny over, the shadows suddenly developed white tails and moved rapidly towards us, now about 30 degrees off our starboard bow.

In situations like now unfolded, it often takes much longer to recount the story than the duration of the actual event. I shouted “Bandits, starboard bow” as I grabbed and cocked the Bren. Our bow started to turn to port as the Skipper reacted instantly to my call but I still barely had time to aim and fire at the closest shadow. I gave it what I hoped was half a magazine in short bursts and was just about to turn to the second shadow when I realised that ejected empty cases from an SLR were hitting me in the face. It must be Danny; he sure could move fast!. I emptied the Bren into the second shadow, removed the magazine and someone slapped another one on. I divided this one between the two shadows again; we could now make out that they were “Gemini” type rubber boats, almost undetectable by radar. I stopped again for a second reload when Danny put a hand on my shoulder.

“Enough… they’ve had it.”

I looked back. He was standing behind me with another magazine in his hand. The rifle was being fired by Mayda! He slapped the magazine onto the Bren; Mayda was reloading the rifle.

“Just keep an eye; fire if you see movement.”

He ran back quickly to the port side and swept the Bren fore and aft… no targets there. The ship he had been watching, probably a mother ship, had picked up speed, turned away from us and was jetting out great plumes of black diesel smoke as it powered away. We could have caught it easily, but that wasn’t our job and the legalities of firing on an escaping ship were tricky.

Clive and Lisa burst into the bridge, breathless, and obviously just dressed. Once the firing had started, both the Engineering and deck crews would have gone directly to lockdown; no point in playing around with hoses at that stage. The Skipper had picked up speed and was weaving towards the East. The shot-up dinghies were disappearing in our wake.

“Think we’re OK; bandits approached starboard bow but were shot up by the girls. You take Starboard; Lisa, here with me.”

Danny’s concise summary told Clive all he needed to know to join the party. He came over to our position and I made to relinquish the Bren to him. He shook his head and scanned the sea looking for any more threats. I could hear the Skipper on the radio reporting a pirate attack, the location, the current course of the mother ship, and the likelihood of bandit casualties in the water. A US warship responded and, shortly afterwards, reported helicopters on the way. They were over us in about 40 minutes, circled us for a minute and headed off, presumably in pursuit of the mother ship.

We started to relax. The crew were called from lockdown and we started to unload the guns, clear them and put on fresh magazines. A crewman came up with a brush and started to sweep up the cartridge cases. I looked at Mayda.

“Your face is a mess, sorry about that,” she said, and started to gently wipe the black marks left behind by her ejected rounds. I had at least one into my left eye and anticipated a shiner.

“Where did you learn to use a rifle?”

“Kurdish women fight along with the men; we have to.”

I found this hard to reconcile with the idea that some Kurdish men at the time would kill a female relative who had “dishonoured” the family, but then again, we had plenty of contradictions in our own society in the 80’s.

Two more, larger helicopters were overhead about 20 minutes later. One continued past us to the scene of the incident; the other circled. A voice came over the VHF asking if we could use some additional security while we sorted ourselves out and got a rest, and if an officer could come on board to get the details of the incident. The Skipper agreed to both the offer and the request and the helicopter approached from astern. It was far too big to land on our small helipad at the stern and hovered while six men were winched down. Four were marines, with rifles and combat kit, two were Navy officers. Danny met the boarding party on the aft deck. The four marines settled down around the pool area, somewhat in awe of the luxury of their surroundings. Danny brought the officers to the bridge.

Introductions were made all around and the older officer, a Lieutenant Commander, started to get details from the Skipper and Danny. Clive and Lisa slipped off; they weren’t directly involved and couldn’t contribute to the report. The younger officer, a Sub Lieutenant was busy making notes and trying not to be seen staring at Mayda and me. Mayda was wearing a dress, but, given the heat, I was only wearing a bikini top and white miniskirt, both a little marked now from the ejected rounds.

Much to the SubLt’s delight, Danny called us both to the Starboard bridge extension and asked me to continue the report from my perspective. When I got to the part about opening fire with the Bren the LtCdr’s jaw visibly dropped.

“You’re shitting me!”

Danny answered.

“No; only the two girls fired. By the time I got over to this side it was clear that the situation was in hand and I had better return to the Port side to secure it.”

The LtCdr decided that our names were worth adding to the report. I wasn’t very happy about that as that would mean that the biggest Navy in the world had a record of me being on board this SuperYacht so I gave a false second name. Danny said nothing, just raised an eyebrow. I found out later that Mayda also used a false name and, as I was translating from her French, asked me to say that she was Egyptian. The story all recorded, we all headed off to get some sleep leaving the marines to guard the boat and the two Navy officers on the bridge with the boat’s No 3 helming.

A few hours later, Danny asked the Skipper, Clive, Lisa, Mayda and me to have a quick meeting in the guest dining room along with the two Navy officers. They reckoned that we were lucky the encounter happened at dawn and that we were heading East, otherwise we might never have seen the two rubber boats approach. They guessed that we were picked up on radar and the dinghies dropped off before we were properly identified as a Yacht. Even seeing what we were, the bandits, or pirates, would never have expected to be faced with our firepower which could only be carried on a boat with a semi-official status. We were surprised to discover that they hadn’t found anything incriminating on the mother ship. Its skipper claimed to know nothing of the dinghies and had made off when he heard the gunfire as he wanted to save his ship from whatever was happening. He even had some cargo, a manifest and a destination port congruent with his course, so he had to be let proceed! Some bodies and debris had been recovered near the reported site of the incident.

A helicopter returned and picked up the naval party. As he was leaving the Sub Lieutenant said goodbye to Mayda in fluent French and winked; he had heard her say “tell him I’m Egyptian” to me, but apparently hadn’t told his boss! As the heli pulled away, I put my arm around Mayda’s waist.

“See what I mean about how we can get on in our world?”.

*********************************************************

The rest of the trip was quiet and, at Danny’s suggestion we resumed our routine of English classes and dance practice. Getting back to a normal routine helps recover from trauma. I suspect that Mayda had fewer problems than me; at least she didn’t show or say that she had any and I suspected that this wasn’t the first time that she had seen a gunfight. Life was tough in the Kurdish lands which spanned Turkey, Syria and Iraq. Danny, of course, just did this kind of thing for a living. For me it was different. In the first place, there is a huge rush of adrenaline followed by a low; this is just a standard physiological reaction. Then there’s the “what-if” internal debate; I had very nearly missed seeing the bandits, we could have been boarded, and it would have been my fault! Then there was the realisation that I had shot some people. Ok, bad people, but I took very little satisfaction from that. I suppose soldiers deal with these issues all the time; I wasn’t cut out to be a soldier, even though our own mini army was now recruiting women! So, I dealt with this much like the kidnapping; push it to the back of your mind and keep busy! If you’re lucky, it fades with time.

It seemed like no time had passed until we arrived in Muscat. Now we had to leave our cocoon and venture back into the World. There was no problem with Lisa and me as our papers were in order; Mayda would not be allowed to land until we got papers for her; the Embassy would not issue papers until she applied there. In the end, Clive persuaded two consular officials to come on board to interview her, lured as much by the promise of a good meal and plenty of wine as by a sense of duty. It was agreed that Clive, Danny, Lisa, Mayda and I would be at the party. Clive was organising the meeting, Danny, Mayda and I were direct protagonists in the events leading to Mayda requiring asylum, and Lisa was there to ensure that Mayda ended up in the UK and not in Ireland. As I wasn’t a UK citizen, albeit entitled to live there due to a bilateral arrangement between our two countries, it might have been an easy “out” for the British Embassy to tell Mayda to apply for asylum in Ireland.

Clive went ashore and purchased some more demure clothing, mainly Indian in style for Lisa and me, local for Mayda. We had to be careful not to openly divulge our real role on the SuperYacht, not that the Embassy people wouldn’t know. The Embassy guys were in their 30’s, Public School, Oxbridge types. They were urbane, affable and inquisitive. They went through our stories before sitting down to the meal and we had a two-hour grilling, mostly individually. Our stories matched, of course, as they were true. Lisa and I were interviewed together as to how Mayda would be looked after in the UK and we mentioned a combination of her being a language teacher in college, and a dance instructress in our classes. Eventually the two had a private conference and agreed that Mayda would be given temporary travel papers to enter the UK pending a final decision by the Home Office, the UK branch of Government responsible for immigration.

We settled down to a convivial meal. We kept the wine flowing and eventually the officials were quite “merry”. This was another new experience for Mayda, as seeing people drinking, especially getting mildly drunk, was not part of her life so far. She was more amused than anything else seeing these two powerful officials, capable of deciding her fate, descend to behaving like boys. As inhibitions dropped, and knowing that we were dancers, they asked if we would give them a demonstration. We agreed; it was easier than sitting and talking rubbish with them. We slipped off, got changed, returned and did a few of the routines that we had practiced during the voyage. Eventually Clive drove them back to their residence, having extracted a promise of a letter to cover my souvenir revolver and that they would be at the airport as we boarded our flight for London in two days’ time to smooth over any issues with Mayda’s papers.

And now we had to leave the SuperYacht. Danny, Clive and the Skipper were sorry to see us go; I wonder why?! They tried to extract a promise of a return next year; we declined to promise, but didn’t rule it out. In reality, we felt that we were closing this chapter in our life, probably for good, but didn’t want to make a definite decision at this time. We were alongside in Muscat and we booked into the Intercontinental as the boat was due to sail for its home base in the Gulf. The lads came to kiss us goodbye and carry our bags down to the taxi. Danny gave me a small box, the revolver, and warned me not to try to carry it in my cabin bag! Then he took two envelopes from his pocket: One each for Mayda and me.

“From the owner… just a token to recognise your service in the Battle of the Gulf of Aden…probably the Order of the Great Falcon or something like that… second class of course for women!”

He gave me a slap on the ass and headed off. We opened the envelopes in the car; they were stuffed with US$100 bills. I had almost doubled my earnings for the summer! Mayda now had a cash stake to give her a new start in life. We spent the next day touring Muscat. It was a lovely city, with some of the nicest people that I have ever met, anywhere in the world. We packed for the flight, got a taxi to the airport in good time and met the Embassy guys. Mayda had no problem boarding; apparently airport staff were used to the concept of temporary travel documents as visitors occasionally lose passports. The flight was long for me as I’m a bit tall for economy seats and we were all a bit keyed up about getting through immigration in London. We were careful not to take too many of the complimentary drinks (served even in Economy class back then!) as we needed clear heads in Arrivals.

It turned out not to be too bad. Lisa and I stuck close to Mayda when she was asked to go to an office for an interview. The immigration clerks just recorded her details, confirmed where she would be staying in London, and gave her a Home Office telephone number and address to contact. We met Lisa’s parents and spent the first few nights in their house then moved into the college accommodation. As a non-student, Mayda couldn’t stay in the student accommodation, but the college had provided a room from the limited supply of staff accommodation available. It turned out that she could not be placed on the payroll until her position was regularised, a detail which neither the college nor us had foreseen so she simply worked as a language assistant without pay, a fact which did her reputation no harm in the college.

We resumed the dancing classes, now with a very exotic demonstrator/instructor! Mayda was loosening up as she got used to London life and even tasted some of the champagne we ordered when her permanent residency was approved. We also resumed the ladies’ self-defence classes, and broadened this out to become an exercise and self-defence class. Eventually we had to limit the numbers as our business was getting in the way of our studies. We had to limit our personal restaurant dancing work as we were earning enough money running classes and needed the time for study Instead, we started to function as an agency to place some of our better dancers in these jobs: Another income stream.

Jeremy contacted Lisa and me again: Could we dance for a visiting potentate? Good money for a weekend’s work! We declined. Truth be told, we weren’t really comfortable recalling our work on the SuperYacht. It seemed like we had pushed the boundaries until we had passed our comfort zone and we didn’t want to return to that world. It would also undermine our life together. We wanted to make our relationship work and lesbian life in the early 80’s was complicated enough without adding in heterosexual sex work. Despite our dalliances with Danny and Clive, which were more in the way of tactical alliances, we realised that we were both committed to a lesbian lifestyle. A gay friend later described himself to me as 90% gay, 10% straight, meaning that he occasionally would fancy a girl but mostly he fancied guys. That, in reverse, probably described Lisa as well, and, to a lesser extent, me.

Mayda soared in London. Intelligent and tough, she was doing well in college. She gradually became more comfortable with Western ways and eventually commenced a relationship with an English lecturer. She opted to keep the name Mayda and an assumed surname; she wanted, indeed needed, to disappear from her family and the Kurdish community in general. Like us, she worked hard in our extra-curricular businesses, without the exam pressures which Lisa and I had for her first year in London.

By the end of this second academic year, Lisa and I had a dilemma. Our captive clientele was now dispersed until the commencement of the next academic year and we either had to suspend our activities or get a new client base. The college facilities would remain available to us at a modest cost so we advertised, mainly by leaflet drop, but also in the beauty salons and hairdressers in the local area. This worked and we had a reasonable business going after only a month and then we had to make a further decision about continuing this business as college recommenced.

The next year was hectic. Mayda moved fulltime into our external business and we rented a room from the college to accommodate this. As we were attending a business school, and the business had commenced on campus, the college was accommodating and regarded our business activities as a form of thesis. We struggled through the year and barely scraped through our end of year exams. I took the following year off college to devote to the business along with Mayda; Lisa completed her studies. The following year I resumed and completed college with Lisa now working full time in the business. This had the added advantage in allowing us to retain our association with the college and conduct classes for students in free college facilities in the evenings.

Eventually when I had completed my degree we had to move off the campus, but rented a premises close by. This enabled us to keep our college clientele and we continued to advertise through college clubs and societies. The business prospered and we opened a second “Ladies Gym” close to another London college the following year. Mayda got married and stayed with the business until her second child was born. We have remained good friends down through the years and she named her two girls after us.

We grew the business for two decades, then realised that we were working our lives away. We sold the business, over 20 gyms by now, and retired to live on our own Nordhavn 60 motor yacht, cruising mainly in the Mediterranean.

As we’d say in Irish… Sin e Roth Mór an tSaol

Roughly translated… Life has come full circle.
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