by P R Ellis
‘Isn’t there anything your doctors can do?’
‘Well, yes, there is.’ Jasmine explained about her forthcoming biorchidectomy. Viv’s face lost some of its colour.
‘And that’s just an out-patients job?’
‘Yes. Except I need someone to pick me up and bring me home. I won’t be able to drive for a day or two.’
‘No, I see that. So who’s collecting you?’
‘No-one.’
‘What do you mean, no-one? You said you have to be picked up from the hospital.’
‘Yes, but I haven’t got anyone.’ Suddenly the reality of the situation hit Jasmine. Ever since she’d received the letter she’d been too busy to really think about the procedure and how she’d get home.
‘My doctor, she’s a good friend, can’t. Tom’s too busy on the case and I never got round to telling Angela. I haven’t got anyone else.’ A sob forced its way up her throat.
‘I’ll do it,’ Viv said forcefully.
‘But you’re working. You hardly know me.’
‘I can take a day off, no problem. And I think how well I know you is for me to put right.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure. Now, what are the arrangements?’
Jasmine dug the letter out of her bag and showed Viv. He noted the address and times.
‘How are you getting there?’
‘Oh, I thought I’d go up by train tomorrow and stay in a cheap hotel.’
‘I could take you Monday morning. We could leave early enough.’
‘No thanks. There are things I want to do in London tomorrow before I have the operation.’ She didn’t want to tell him about the possibility of meeting Havana Goodthyme. She didn’t want anyone to know that she had traced Honey Potts – not yet anyway.
‘That’s a shame. I’m going up to Brum tomorrow to see my ma.’
‘No, that’s fine. I can get myself there, it’s just the getting back that’s the problem.’
‘Right, it’s settled. I’ll be at the hospital by midday. Now would you prefer wine?’ Viv got up and opened the cupboard.
‘Um, yes. I’m not sure rum’s my drink.’
‘An acquired taste, I know. Will red be OK?’
‘Yes, please.’
There was the click as a screw-top seal was broken, then the sound of a glug of wine being poured generously into a glass. Viv turned holding out the glass.
‘Here. Take a mouthful of that, then tell me a bit more about yourself.’
Jasmine took the glass from his hand and sipped it. The fruity flavour washed away the harsh taste of the rum.
‘You know about me.’
‘I know you are a woman and I know a little of what you are going through.’ Viv sat beside her with a re-filled rum glass.
Jasmine felt a warm glow inside her when he used the word, ‘woman’.
‘I want to know about you,’ he went on. ‘What are your likes and dislikes? What hobbies do you have?’
‘Hobbies?’
‘Yes. What do you like to do in your spare time?’
‘Spare time?’ Jasmine was stumped. What did she do with the time when she wasn’t working? ‘I’m not sure. Waste it, probably, watching TV, old films mainly.’ Jasmine took a larger mouthful of wine.
‘Oh, you like films. Me too. Go on.’
‘Well, I like to run.’ Jasmine realised that she hadn’t actually been out for a run for a week or two. She’d felt off colour, nauseous, listless – thanks to the hormones battling inside her.
‘Just jogging or are you a marathon runner?’
‘Oh, just jogging now. I used to be good when I was at school, and at university. Middle distance. Athletics seemed to be an asexual sport even though men and women compete separately. Even when you’re in a team event it’s still you as an individual competing against the rest, so there’s none of the “team bonding” that goes on in games such as football and rugby.’
‘I know what you mean. I played in a cricket team as a youngster - for my Pa, I suppose, living up to my name. I wasn’t very good, but it was fun. The banter was always good.’ He paused, ‘So, do you still compete?’
‘Oh, no. Once I joined the police force there was no time for competition training. Then getting married and starting to transition… well, running became just a way to keep fit. It’s something I can do without going to a gym and being on show.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘Apart from that, I suppose I spend a lot of my time just learning how to be a woman.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I have to make up for the time I lost, particularly as a teenager, when girls experiment with make-up and fashions and hair styles and all the other things that help turn them into the women they become.’
‘Now you mention it, I remember my little sister, Debs, when she was in her teens. She was always with her friends, swapping clothes, sharing lipsticks. She got into huge trouble when she bleached her hair. Ma made her dye it dark again.’
Jasmine laughed. ‘You see – I missed out on all that even though I’ve got a sister too, but she’s older. Angela was a great help, but I’m still catching up.’
‘How do you do that?’
‘Oh, reading magazines, looking on websites, window-shopping, reading chicklit – when I’ve got time and not feeling too tired.’
‘Well, I won’t join you in that and I’m no runner, but if you like films we can go to a movie together.’
Jasmine had a vision of sitting in a darkened cinema next to Viv, hand in hand, perhaps his hand on her knee, wandering up her thigh. She stopped herself. What was she thinking? Could Viv really be attracted to her as a woman? The image was satisfying though. It made a tingle run up her back.
‘I’d like that,’ she said.
‘Good. I’ll have a look to see what’s on later in the week when you’re up and about again.’
Viv’s words reminded Jasmine that she had the operation to face. The thought of the scalpel sent a shiver the opposite way down her spine. She took a gulp of wine then put the empty glass down on the coffee table.
‘That’ll be lovely, but I think I’d better go now. Things to do before I travel tomorrow. You know.’ She stood up pulling her dress down and smoothing it over her hips. Viv stood too.
‘I understand. Look, thanks for this evening. I’ve really enjoyed it.’ He put his hands on her shoulders.
‘Yes, me too.’
‘We’ll make a date for next week - a celebration.’
‘Um, yes.’
He leaned forward. Jasmine expected a peck on her cheek, but their mouths met. He pressed his lips against hers and she felt his tongue exploring tentatively between them. She didn’t flinch or pull back, but wondered how far he would venture. His tongue touched her lips and she felt something like an electric shock. Would he force his way into her mouth? No, his tongue withdrew and he moved away. Jasmine breathed again. She looked at him. He was smiling.
‘That was nice,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied in a whisper. She bent down to pick up her bag.
‘I’ll see you on Monday, Jasmine. Whatever time they let you go.’
‘Thank you. I really do appreciate it.’ The gratitude that Jasmine felt was overlaid by something else. Was it desire or longing to see Viv again?
‘It’s my pleasure. I hope we can find time to spend together.’
Jasmine turned towards the door. Viv leapt in front of her and held it open for her.
‘Look after yourself,’ he said as she passed by him.
‘Thanks, and you too.’
Jasmine went down the steps, out into the car park and across to her own block. She didn’t hear the door close behind her so guessed Viv had watched her departure. She didn’t want to look around to check if he was still looking. She just wanted to relish the feeling of having someone care for her.
8
SUNDAY
Jasmine heard her phone ring above the wh
irr of the air conditioning and the rattle of the wheels on the tracks. She reached down to the floor of the carriage to retrieve her bag. With her knees pressed against the seat in front it wasn’t the easiest of manoeuvres. She drew the phone out. It was still ringing and she saw it was Tom calling. At least there weren’t many people on the train to be disturbed by her conversation.
‘Hi, Jas. Where are you? It sounds noisy.’
‘I’m on the train.’
‘Train? Why?’
‘I’m heading to London. You know, my surgery tomorrow.’
There was a pause. Jasmine imagined Tom recalling what she was having done on Monday.
‘Did you get your pick-up arranged for after the, uh, operation?’
‘Yeah, all sorted, thanks.’
‘You’ve set off early. It’s only three o’clock.’
‘Yeah. I wanted to get into the hotel, get settled, prepare myself.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’
‘Look, why did you call?’ Jasmine was sure Tom hadn’t rung to see how she was.
‘I wanted to give you the news.’
‘News?’
‘Yes. The tech guys have got into Parfitt’s computer and found the website that Xristal advertised herself on. He’d deleted it, but you know they can dig out old stuff.’
‘Yes, I know. Go on. What does it show?’
‘There are pictures of her dressed in leather and some of her naked showing, well, you know what, and some of her in bondage positions.’
‘Hard core?’
‘Well, not your soft focus, glamour shots. They look as though they’re taken in her flat, not very professional, but anyone with a decent digital camera can take porn photos, can’t they?’
‘I suppose so. Anything else? Contact details?’
‘Yes, she lists the services she offers and an email address.’
‘Did Parfitt contact her?’
‘The guys haven’t found any record of an email exchange between them. Not on this computer anyway. They’re getting the email records from the ISP to see if we can make up a list of clients.’
‘Who would all be possible suspects?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Could be a long list.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps not. What Xristal was offering was pretty specialised – a she-male into BDSM. I can’t imagine there are too many blokes into that.’
‘You may be right.’ Although Jasmine secretly thought that even the oddest sexual deviation usually attracted a host of followers.
‘There’s nothing about Potts on this website. Perhaps she’ll turn up in the emails.’
‘Perhaps.’ Jasmine stopped herself from telling Tom what she had found out about Honey Potts alias Havana Goodthyme. She wanted to find her first before revealing what she had done.
‘Yeah, well, we should have the names later today or tomorrow and we can start interviewing them. I’ll let you know how things are going. Perhaps we’ll have the case sewn up before you are.’
Jasmine shivered and groaned audibly.
‘Sorry.’ Tom did sound contrite. ‘I shouldn’t have put it like that. I hope it goes well for you tomorrow.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll phone as soon as I have any more news.’
‘That’ll be great.’ Perhaps Sloane wouldn’t have any more need for her services as an advisor if one of the clients confessed. She hoped not. She wanted to be the one to catch Xristal’s killer and to find out why she was murdered.
‘Bye.’ The call ended and Jasmine dropped the phone back into her bag. She held the bag on her lap and leaned her head against the window. It wasn’t very comfortable as the carriage rocked but it was marginally better than the headrest. She thought about Xristal and imagined what the pictures of her showed. Her experience of searching through similar websites in the last few days gave her a pretty good idea. Intimate shots revealing her gender-confused, cosmetically-enhanced body. Photos and videos of her engaged in sexual acts. Why would a young person like Xristal sell her body in that way? Was it just to get the cash to pay for her cosmetic surgery or had she actually enjoyed it? How had she felt about herself if, as Jasmine suspected, she had been preparing for gender reassignment? Jasmine couldn’t answer the questions. She-males and their apparent delight in their male genitalia baffled her. Perhaps if she made contact with Honey she would provide some answers.
Getting rid of the appendage between her legs was her own top priority and, while the thought of the scalpel slicing through her skin made her tremble with fear, she was steeling herself for the next morning’s operation as a step along her path to full womanhood. The tender kiss with Viv the previous evening had enhanced her feeling of femininity. The memory of the touch of his lips and his warm, moist tongue between hers gave her a feeling that she had not felt for years – not since she and Angela had still been in love or, more accurately, in lust. What were Viv’s feelings for her? Could it be that he actually desired her despite knowing her background and her in-between status? She still wasn’t sure what he wanted. Perhaps he was just lonely, having left his home town, and her company was better than nothing. The negative thought somewhat dampened the sexual ardour she had felt. Nevertheless, she resolved to give Viv the opportunity to make his feelings clear. Whatever the outcome, she would be grateful for his willingness to meet her from the hospital.
She had woken up in the morning with the usual thoughts circulating through her mind, but feeling a lot better than she had done for days. The memory of her conversation with Viv and a renewed feeling of energy had given her the incentive to go for a run. She had taken her usual route through the houses and open ground to the canal and then out of town for a mile or two. It had been quiet as always, but being a Sunday there had been a few other runners, dog walkers, and even a couple of narrowboats cruising along the canal with engines rumbling. She had passed a couple of locks before turning and retracing her steps. No-one had taken any notice of her – a young woman in shorts and sports bra holding her (imitation) breasts firmly. Stretching her legs, sucking cool air into her lungs, her heart beating a little faster than normal – a feeling of being truly alive. She had returned hot and sweaty but exhilarated – the nausea had come a short while later.
The train pulled in to Paddington station just about on time, despite the usual Sunday engineering work. Jasmine lifted her small case down from the luggage rack. It was almost unnecessary as it only contained a few overnight essentials, but she felt it looked better than a carrier bag. She sauntered through the station and down to the Underground where she had what seemed to be an interminable wait for the Circle Line.
She got off the tube at Gloucester Road and walked through the quiet streets to a Victorian terrace which had seen better days. A phone call before she left had reserved a room for the night in the small hotel spread across two of the five storey premises. It wasn’t the plushest, cheapest or even the cleanest of hotels but having stayed once before, admittedly a few years earlier, she knew she would feel safe. It was used frequently by transgender folk making a trip to London to sample the clubs that welcomed their presence – and their cash.
An elderly woman was seated behind the reception desk reading The Sunday Mirror. She looked up and gave a smile of welcome as she pushed a registration document towards Jasmine, together with a Yale key.
‘There you are, love. That’s for your room, number seven, and the front door. Make sure you close the front door after yourself if you leave after nine p.m. We don’t want riff-raff coming in off the street.’
‘No, of course not,’ Jasmine said, signing the form. She picked up the key and her case.
‘Take care, darlin’,’ the woman said, returning to her newspaper.
‘Thanks.’ Jasmine trudged up the first flight of low-rise stairs covered in a threadbare red carpet. She found her room easily enough on the first floor. The bed, a small double, looked as though it had seen some action, and the curtains at the tall window had b
een washed so many times that the colour had almost gone. The other furnishings were dated but functional. Jasmine dropped her bag on the bed and pulled open the door to the ensuite bathroom. At least all the facilities were there – a loo, wash basin and old enamelled bath. It would do for one night, but the room was too depressing to stay in for long.
She returned to the dull, drab corridor making sure that the door to her room was locked, dropped the key into her bag and strolled out of the hotel. It was well placed for all the central London attractions but she didn’t imagine that many of the guests visited the familiar tourist haunts like the Tower, the museums or the Eye. They were most likely to have come up to town for a show or, more likely, a club – or, frequently, for the same reason as her, to visit the hospital just a short tube journey away.
It was too early for her to go to Honey Potts’ club and the nausea that came on after her run meant that she hadn’t eaten before she caught the train. She needed to find a cheap restaurant. Cheap? In London? She must be daft, she thought. She retraced her steps from the tube station and came across an Indian restaurant. It was open all day, appeared clean and bright and the prices didn’t look too extortionate. Even though it was late afternoon there were a couple of diners. She was shown to a table and settled down for her lone meal.
The boiled rice and a curry that was mostly potato left her feeling bloated, but it would be her last meal until after her operation – longer if the anaesthetic made her feel ill. Jasmine felt conspicuous as a lone diner so she didn’t linger in the restaurant. It was nearly half past six so she decided to make her way to the club where Honey performed.
She descended to the tube and after a slow journey on the District line got off at Whitechapel and emerged into a part of the city some distance from the popular tourist haunts. A few minutes’ walk took her into an area which seemed to have suffered all the agonies of post-war re-development. There were a couple of speculative new office blocks, lots of sixties flats and shops and even some gentrified mews properties. There were even some early twentieth century, brick-built business premises on narrow streets with stone kerbstones. The buildings displayed signs in languages she did not understand, advertising products and services she could not recognise. That was until she came to a large corner block with a sign above the steel door in lurid purple and pink announcing Transgression! The club that breaks the rules of gender. Boards filled in the old window frames and were covered with photographs of clubbers and performers in stylised and stereotypical female dress. There was plenty of flesh on show but nothing actually indecent. Jasmine approached the grey door. It was locked, but there was a poster stuck to it with duct tape announcing that the Open Club Night would start at nine p.m. There was still over an hour to go and it didn’t look like there were any eager punters queuing up yet. Jasmine imagined that the club probably didn’t liven up until around midnight when more upmarket clubs were either closing or charging high entrance fees.