La Femme

by Storm Constantine

  “Come in,” she said.

  The man who walked into the room was wearing a grey suit, blue shirt and a dog collar. Madeleine didn’t recognise the vicar, but she was glad of the clerical company – if anybody could understand her predicament, it would be another priest.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “Madeleine? I’m Paul Barkely. We spoke on the phone the other day.”

  “Oh… yes. Actually, you have perfect timing. You see, ever since I went to see Reverent Staines, I… wait a moment, aren’t you supposed to be in Antigua?”

  Peter Barkely walked slowly towards her, his eyes studying her face intently – perhaps he was looking for signs of madness?

  “Reverend Staines, are you in there?” he said.

  “What? You can’t be–” but before Madeleine could finish the sentence her words were stolen from her, and the strange male voice emerged once again.

  “Yes, I’m here, Barkely. However, I don’t yet seem to have full mastery. This one still has… opinions and some semblance of control.”

  Peter Barkely sat down and removed his dog collar before undoing the top button of his shirt. Madeleine could just make out the blue-black stain of a tattoo scrolling up the base of his throat.

  “Bugger,” he said. “I told them. I said the chant wasn’t pitched right. Though, to be fair, the book that you gave us wasn’t exactly clear on the details of the ritual.”

  Madeleine found herself pouring a whisky for the rogue priest and as she handed it to him, he ran his fingers lightly over her hand. “Ah, but such smooth skin, Reverent Staines.”

  “Shut up! Quite why a woman had to be the vessel–”

  Peter Barkely held up his hand, cutting him short.

  “You’ve got your church back, haven’t you?”

  “But I don’t have full control!”

  “You will, soon. The new ritual will see to that tonight. In the meantime,” Peter Barkely stood, knocking back the whisky and re-securing his dog collar, “hang in there.”

  *

  Madeleine came to as the last rays of the sun dipped below the roof of St Mark’s. On the desk, the flashing light of the answer machine told her that she had twenty-five new messages. She wanted to call everybody back, tell them that she was still here, that what had happened was not her fault, but she realised that she did not have the time do so. Peter Barkely had said that the ritual would be completed tonight.

  There was only one thing for it. Madeleine would go over to All Saints and put a stop to this right now while she still had at least some control of her body.

  Taking down the parish directory from the shelf above her desk, she looked for the listing for Peter Barkely’s church. There was an All Fathers, but no All Saints.

  A quick Google search confirmed her fears: whoever Peter Barkely was, he was not a minister in the Church of England. She was, however, surprised to find that a search on the Reverend Grahame Staines threw up a fair amount of information. He was the author of three books – all self-published: The Hard Truth: Christ’s Words as He Actually Meant Them, Marriage: The Tenets of an Institution, and Sons of Christ – Daughters of Servitude. His views were often regarded as ‘inflammatory’ and ‘reactionary’ and one theologian even described him as a ‘good old-fashioned, hellfire and fury tub thumper; a dying breed and a remnant of an archaic and patriarchal institution’. An enterprising parishioner had even seen fit to transcribe several of his sermons, in which he spent much of his time ‘shocked’: at the moral laxity of the young, at working mothers, at immigrants and, in particular, homosexuals.

  Madeleine looked up as something black and ragged passed by the window. She could feel a presence at her back, a hand resting on her shoulder that felt like it was made of sticks. She blinked and the last of the daylight was gone, the North Star now shining like a promise at the apex of the church spire. She had a sense that silence had just returned to the room, that she had finished a conversation, though she could recall nothing of what had been spoken.

  “Right, Reverend Grahame Staines,” she said, getting to her feet, pushing the dark whispering to the back of her mind with a burst of mental determination, “that’s quite enough of that.”

  *

  Putting on make-up was something of a challenge with the revenant of a recently deceased Anglican priest standing at one’s shoulder. On several occasions Madeleine had felt the Reverend Staines trying to regain control, but she had focused her will and pushed him away. Unfortunately this hadn’t stopped him talking to her, or scowling at her in the mirror as she applied mascara.

  “And here we see the moral laxity of the modern church,” he railed. “Here we see a priest, a woman priest no less, applying paint to her face so that she looks like nothing more than a common whore.”

  “What? I’m hardly tarting myself up, Grahame. Anyway, Margaret Thatcher wore make-up. Are you about to tell me that she was a whore, too?”

  The dead vicar had nothing to say to that. Instead, he slammed the front door in her face as she went to leave the vicarage.

  Ignoring the outburst, Madeleine made her way across the road, all the while aware of a dark muttering in the back of her mind.

  The Who’d Ha Thought It was clearly the place to be on a Sunday night. Disco lights sprayed whirling rainbows against windows fogged by condensation. Pop music thudded through the walls of the pub, so loud that Madeleine could feel the vibration of it against her skin.

  “Madeleine,” one of the door staff acknowledged her with a nod as she entered the pub.

  Inside, it was busier than she had ever seen it. The tiny dance floor was packed and the queues at the bar were three deep as people drank as though tomorrow wasn’t a Monday. Tinsel brushed her head as she ducked past a low beam to find a place from which she could order a drink.

  “You would bring me here? No wonder the reputation of the church is in the pits!”

  “You’re telling me that you lived opposite a pub and never popped in for a swift pint? No wonder you’re such a joyless wa –”

  “Madeleine, what can I get you?” The barman stood before her, ignoring the shouts of frustration from some of the other booze-hungry punters.

  “Glass of red wine, please, Ted. Bit mad tonight isn’t it?”

  “Well, Christmas and all that.”

  “Ah yes. At least the meaning of Christ’s birth hasn’t been lost on this lot, eh?”

  “Well, it’s clearly been lost on you!” The dead priest tried to drive the words beyond her lips, but Madeleine covered his utterance with a fit of coughing.

  “Nasty cold you’ve got there, vicar. You should be tucked up in bed.”

  “Yes, I should be. There’s just something I need to do first.”

  Securing herself a seat, Madeleine scanned the room, looking for a likely candidate – but many of the men here were either far too young or far too drunk.

  When a well-groomed gentleman leant against the bar next to her to order a drink, Reverend Staines took control of Madeleine’s legs and she had very nearly marched all the way to the door before she managed an abrupt about-face. She noticed then that she was beginning to draw looks, and not of the sort that she had intended.

  On the dance floor in the corner, a woman threw her arms into the air, turning round and round in the circle of men who had gathered to watch her. The scene was obscured by a blast of dry ice and, as it rolled towards her, Madeleine could smell incense. The room darkened and the music slowed, becoming a low sonorous chant. At the bar, a man was using a puddle of spilled bear to sketch strange symbols onto the dark wood.

  “The ritual is coming to a head. This will all be over soon, Madeleine. All you have to do is just let go.”

  Madeleine focused her will and fought her way back into her body just in time to catch the wine glass before it hit the floor. She straightened up to see the door in front of her opening and a familiar face stepping into the fug of perspiration and alcohol.

  It was Richard, th
e man from the other night; he of the novelty jumper and the poor chat-up technique. She grabbed his arm, hoping that the sudden grave-like stench that assaulted them wasn’t coming from her.

  The colour drained from Richard’s face when he recognized her.

  “Vicar? I –”

  “Richard, I don’t have much time to explain but I need you to do something for me.”

  “Erm, listen. I’m supposed to be meeting –”

  “It’s for charity and it will only take a second.”

  Richard smiled, letting his guard down a little. “Yeah, okay.”

  Madeleine closed her eyes and leaned in close. She allowed the Reverend Staines almost all the way in then; she could feel his foul presence pouring into her like ice-cold water. Her legs were his legs, her arms were his arms, and her lips were his lips.

  And so, Madeleine used the last of her will to push those lips up against Richard’s in a warm, moist kiss, hoping that the Reverend Grahame Staines could feel everything.

  There was a bellow of appalled rage that seemed to go on forever, and then nothing.

  *

  “This is the word of God,” she said, closing the Bible before returning it to its stand. As she quickly shuffled through her sermon notes, she saw Peter Barkely enter the church and quietly slip into a far pew. There was a look of anticipation on his face, a sick kind of hope.

  She adjusted the radio mic clipped to her stole and cleared her throat.

  “‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ It’s simple, isn’t it? But so many of us seem to forget. And here, we must also remember that neighbour means everyone. Everyone.”

  Madeleine glanced up and the look of shock and disappointment on Peter Barkely’s face filled her with a triumphant joy. Getting up so abruptly that he almost tipped over the pew, he stormed from the church.

  She smiled and it took all of her will, all of her Christian resolve, not to call out after him, “And don’t let the church door hit you on the arse on the way out!”

  Valerie

  Maura McHugh

  Peter knew nothing about her was real from the first moment he spotted her hurried steps approach him in patent black stilettoes. He sat upright in his seat at reception and checked his watch: 4.18am. Slap bang in the middle of the coma hours: when the occupants of the hotel were dead to the world and the only sound was the ventilator wheeze of the lobby vending machine.

  He realised the lush platinum blond tresses were a wig, her pretty features were a silicon mask, and the hourglass figure under the scarlet wrap-around dress was likely due to a girdle and padding, yet when she stood before him, laid her warm hand upon his, and in a breathy, shaken voice said, “Please, can you help me?” he knew he would do whatever she asked.

  *

  “Oh yeah, the circus is coming to town, Petey boy,” Ron drawled as he slammed into the seat beside Peter at the weekly staff meeting. Ron had pitched his voice just loud enough so Mr Aldridge could hear him, and Peter noticed the crease of annoyance on his boss’ face. Ron nodded a defiant hello at Aldridge, and chewed his gum loudly.

  “Are we all here?” Aldridge asked, scanning the room. The staff members idling by the coffee machine shifted reluctantly, cups in hand, and slid into their seats.

  Ron winked at Peter, and lowered his voice a fraction, “Ten bucks it’s a freak show. Otherwise he’d leave it to Lucy to give us the skinny.”

  Peter nodded politely, but wished Ron would quit acting like they were buddies. If there was anyone on the staff he wished he could see less of it was Ron, yet they were always assigned shifts together.

  Aldridge cleared his throat. “Before I hand over to Lucy to go over this week’s schedule, I want to add a few words about a special group staying with us this weekend. The Aldridge Arms has always welcomed guests who represent alternative lifestyles. We’ve built a reputation for offering folks a space where they can mix with others of their mindset without condemnation or judgement. They’re customers, just like any other, except they… ah… express themselves differently.”

  Ron sorted derisively. Peter edged away from him a little to avoid the full wattage of Aldridge’s disapproval.

  “This weekend we’re hosting the…” Aldridge looked under his glasses at a sheet in his hands, “… Carnivdoll, the mid-West’s largest celebration of rubber dolls and their fetishists.” Aldridge paused. “I understand this is going to be a new concept to many of you, but to sum up, these folks like to dress up in full latex bodysuits, including masks.”

  Ron sat up in his seat, and murmured, “What the fuck?”

  “We’ve had BDSM groups stay here before, so we’ve all seen some outlandish costumes over the years. This is no different. Remember, respect and good manners are the bedrock of our business. As long as they abide by our rules and regulations, every single one of them will be met by courtesy and kindness from each member of staff.” He skewered Ron with a direct stare, “Understand?”

  Ron smirked at Aldridge while everyone else responded with a chirpy assent.

  “Now, Lucy is going to fill you in on the exact schedule of events. Plus, she’ll explain some of their lingo and terminology, and hand out written information. Please pay attention, because it’ll cut down on misunderstandings. Give them a nice Aldridge Arms welcome and we’ll have no problems.”

  Throughout the rest of the meeting Ron fidgeted as if he had a bad itch, and on the way out of the room he let loose his invective on Peter. “Aldridge has gone too far this time. Does he even consider himself a Christian?”

  “Doesn’t the bible say we shouldn’t judge –”

  “It doesn’t fucking say ‘Thou shalt dress up in rubber doll suits’!”

  Peter recoiled slightly at the language. He hadn’t been brought up to talk like that. Maybe in the bar, after a couple of beers… but not at work in the middle of the afternoon. But Ron was from the East Coast and didn’t believe in withholding his opinions.

  Ron’s cheeks reddened, “I mean… That’s some fucked up shit. What kind of pervert needs to do that?”

  Peter shrugged and glanced away, hoping his face wouldn’t reveal anything Ron could seize on.

  “Christ! And Aldridge’s preaching at us like he’s so almighty perfect. If those gimps weren’t paying top dollar Aldridge wouldn’t give them the steam from his piss!”

  Peter zoned out the ensuing complaints, but over the next week the event was all that Ron could talk about. During one night shift together he showed Peter links to online videos.

  “They call themselves maskers,” Ron said, as he dawdled by the hotel desk during the coma hours. Ron was the Night Duty Manager, so Peter had to humour him. Usually Ron goofed off, smoked cigarettes outside, or watched TV in the duty manager’s office. Peter preferred it that way. It was better to be stuck with all the work than to endure Ron’s constant patter. Peter was pretty sure Ron did some other substances occasionally, as he sometimes burst out of his office, revved up and strangely antagonistic. Yet, at will, Ron could switch on a sleazy charm and be as nice as pie to a customer. Peter had seen people fall for it again and again, and later Ron would laugh at them.

  “Here, this one explains how the dudes get into their femsuits…” Ron said, elbowing Peter. “Look, they have a pouch to tuck away their dicks!”

  Peter winced as he glanced at the silent video of a lean man demonstrating how to squeeze into a silicon bodysuit to transform himself into a rubber doll woman. Then Ron flicked onto a gallery of images and scrolled through them with his thumb, commenting on the exaggerated features of the doll faces and figures.

  The invective went on like this for days, until Thursday night when Peter got fed up with it.

  “Don’t you think you’re a little… obsessed with this stuff, Ron?” he ventured, after another ten minutes’ lecture on the costumes and habits of the fetishists.

  Ron’s face flushed. “What’re you implying?”

  “I don’t know, maybe you should call in sick thi
s weekend if these people offend you so much.”

  “And miss the show?” Ron grinned wide. “No sir. I’m expecting to be entertained every night. I’m gonna charm the tips offa these pervs.”

  He barked a laugh, and leaned in close as if he was offering Peter conspiratorial advice. “Weirdoes love it when you treat them like normal people. These guys lay out thousands for their rubber suits, so I reckon they’ll be inclined to tip a sympathetic manager.” Ron put on an expression of fake sensitivity that made Peter’s stomach roil.

  Ron tapped his cheek. “Yeah, I got my mask too.”

  He drummed both hands on the counter in anticipation. “I’m gonna have fun this weekend! I plan to take plenty of pictures on my phone. Maybe I’ll post them online afterwards. I wonder what their wives and kids’ll say when it comes out they dress up like sissies.”

  Peter suppressed a surge of fear, and said, “Well you better not let Aldridge find out, or you’ll lose your job.”

  Ron waved Peter’s warning off. “I’m not worried. I’m the master of the anonymous account.”

  Peter pinched back his disapproval, hating himself. A few minutes later Ron finally retired to his office, and the welcome comfort of the night shift quiet settled over the lobby. The glass doors and bright lights barred the enveloping darkness. In these rare moments of peace Peter relished the solitude and imagined being the captain of a dreaming ship forging through the night.

  He leaned forward in his chair to tap the desk monitor, and the fabric of his trousers rubbed against the French silk knickers he wore underneath.

  A blush rose in his cheeks, and he inadvertently looked over his shoulder to check that Ron was still in the office. As if he could see or guess what Peter wore underneath his clothes.

  Peter loved the sensation of silk against his skin. More than that he adored wearing women’s lingerie, stockings, and shoes. No one knew about this. Especially not his two football-obsessed brothers, or his friends from college. It was a secret he had guarded with diligent care, always assured of the shame it would bring should he be discovered.