The Nightmare Diaries

Andrea

Saturday

 

It was the middle of the night when I woke up. I fumbled for the bedside light but couldn't find it. My bedside table wasn't even there. Then I realized that I wasn't in my own home. I had a momentary panic until I remembered that I was up in Newcastle to examine one of Graham's doctoral candidates. Who but Graham would schedule an oral on a bloody Saturday. Who but his long suffering ex-supervisor would have agreed to do an oral on a Saturday. But, for the life of me, I couldn't remember anything about the journey here nor about the previous evening. I could remember was leaving my laboratory to go home and collect my bag sometime yesterday. I had a horrible premonition when I phoned for a taxi to take me to the station that this wasn't going to be a terribly good weekend and I'd toyed with the idea of canceling the trip. I couldn't remember anything else. But enough of that for now. At that precise moment my mouth was dry, my bladder was bursting and I was absolutely desperate to get to the bathroom. The first thing that seemed to go wrong was the geometry of the bloody bedroom door. It opened in totally the wrong direction and I collided with the wall twice before I realized how it worked. Then, in the hall, I had the dilemma of multiple doors. The first door I chose was a cupboard and I walked straight into a shelf full of towels. Fortunately, the second one I tried turned out to be the bathroom, although the light switch proved to be in a totally different place than I had anticipated and it took me three attempts to switch on the light. "God, I was really drunk last night" I murmured as I stood in front of the bowl and fumbled with the elasticized waistband of my pajama trousers, pulling them down to just above my knees. I emptied myself, but with the blessed relief came a slow shock; a horrible wet feeling spread over my thighs as warm liquid gushed down my legs soaking both my trousers and the floor. I tried to grasp my penis to direct the flow but my fingers came up wet and empty. Looking down I could only see only a little pubic hair and no matter how much I fumbled with my fingers there was no cock - none at all - only a little slit between my legs from which warm urine continued to dribble!

Oh, My God! My hand instinctively moved to my mouth to stifle the cry. But as I did that I felt the pressure of my elbow and upper arm against my chest. My chest? That didn't feel quite right. Then I looked down and saw two quite prominent mounds under my jacket. Forgetting my damp and clammy trouser legs I slipped my hands underneath the pajama top. Oh Shit, I felt the soft weight of two very firm and definitely female breasts in my sweaty palms. Look, I'm a mature adult male and I've definitely felt a few tits in my time. These were real breasts but touching them felt just … quite different. The feeling was intimate - a private thing - I could actually feel my own fingers caressing my own chest and that it didn't feel right. It felt nothing like the chest I have lived with for over fifty years. So, pardon me, this had to be absolute fantasy, but the strange thing was that I could actually still feel the weight and fullness of the breasts in my palms. Shit, this wasn't happening – or I must just be getting very, very fat. It's just a dream!

So, I stumbled back to the bedroom and threw myself on the bed. The room was spinning. But that was just par for the course. I really had to do something about my drinking. Fantastical things seemed to happen in my imagination when I overindulged. But, I had to admit that even allowing for the alcohol induced effect that had been one heck of an extraordinary dream.

It must have after six o'clock when I woke up again. At least a wane light was struggling to work its way through the curtains and the bloody birds were singing. My head felt funny and I could hardly focus. Shit, I though, as I fumbled for my glasses and cigarettes on the bedside table - That was a really weird dream! However I'd be better after a smoke. Then I can get back to work. After all I've got to read through the rest of that blasted thesis before the 9am meeting. However, I couldn't find my cigarettes or my glasses so I pushed my legs over the bed and staggered to the dressing table. Let's get back to reality. Hitch up your pajamas over your beer belly. Find your fucking glasses, find the bathroom, shower, have a shave, then re-read the conclusions in that bloody marginal D.Phil. thesis you'll have to examine this morning. Then I looked up and got a shock. Through a misty haze I saw a young girl – possibly the same one who had appeared in my dream last night - she couldn't be much more than sixteen or seventeen. I put my hand to my face to clear my eyes and realised that my vision was obscured by a thin film of hair. Pushing that aside, I saw the girl more clearly. She was wearing yellow cotton pajamas and was holding a tangled mop of shoulder length brown hair to one side. I felt very embarrassed. What was she doing here? Certainly Graham, my host for that night, had a daughter, but she was thirty-something, had a big nose and was married to a yacht designer in Australia. So, who was this girl? The strange thing was she moved when I moved. When I touched my face she touched her face and when she pushed her hair back I could feel my own fingers on my cheek and ears. When I stood up she stood up. I was fascinated her pajama top. It was pale yellow cotton decorated with pink hearts. The fabric was noticeably strained by her breasts. I unbuttoned my top and slid it off my shoulders and she did too, revealing a pair of pale pert breasts with amber nipples. God, these were real tits! When I dropped my pajama trousers she did the same and I saw beneath her narrow waist the firm mound of her pudenda framed with sparse dark brown hair and perfectly formed, if somewhat ample, hips. As I touched myself she touched herself and I could feel every little thing. Experimentally, I put my hand down to my crotch and the girl in the mirror did too. I watched her fingertips tentatively touch the hair of her bush and I imagined I could actually feel the touch of her fingers. It was a truly exquisite sensation. So, to preserve the feeling I slipped back into bed and tried to resume the dream. Not that I would ever tell anyone about it, but it was certainly was a dream to savor. And everything would be perfectly normal in the morning.

Well it wasn't. It definitely wasn't. The first thing I heard was a knock on the bedroom door. Then a strange woman barged straight into my room and sat down with a bump on the edge of the bed. It was bloody embarrassing. I covered my head with the eiderdown but she pulled it down and ruffled my hair.

"Good Morning, Birthday Girl!" she said "Give your Mum a big kiss and then get dressed and come downstairs!"

I can't remember if I kissed the woman. I don't think so. I seem to remember diving under the bedcovers. When she left I became concerned about the fact that I had no idea who she was. Dreams, or at least the type of dreams I have, are generally populated by people and places that are familiar. But, I rationalized, this is still a dream and since very strange things can happen in dreams I shouldn't be too concerned if things didn't make much sense. Then I uncovered my head and looked around. The pressing problem, in this particular scenario, seemed to be getting dressed. I got up, stretched, and stripped off my nightclothes. Typically, being in a dream, and I was now convinced that that was where I was, I looked everywhere but I couldn't find any of my clothes. Eventually, trying to get the world in focus, I leant forward with my hands on the dressing table and tried to remember where I'd put my bag. I couldn't help glancing in the mirror. There, in front of me, was the shy young girl from last night and she appeared very startled.

I immediately covered my crotch with my hands and then turned my head and said "Sorry!"

There was no reply, so after a few seconds I turned back to the mirror. She was still there. In the mirror. And at least, for modesty's sake, she had cupped her hands over her private parts. She wasn't the most ravishing girl I'd ever seen but she certainly wasn't too bad looking. She was young, with that slightly puffy, squeaky clean complexion of adolescence. Her face was oval with high cheekbones, a small nose and a rather generous mouth, the lips rather too full to be classically beautiful. Her eyes were brown and framed by long eyelashes which picked up the deepest tint of her tousled shoulder length hair. My gaze was instinctively drawn down towards her chest where two well formed breasts stood out proudly like dumplings.

Panic hit me. What if I was actually in a strange bedroom with this unknown teenage girl. My mind raced. After all I'm a fifty four year old academic. My last wife, bless her little cotton socks, walked out four years ago, and I didn't blame her. Shit, I was drinking all the time. Actually, working and drinking are the only two things I can do really well. What the hell was I doing in a bedroom with a naked teenage girl! I could be arrested for this. OK, slow down. Let me rephrase that. Not so much 'with a teenage girl' but rather 'as a teenage girl'. I pinched myself on the thigh. It hurt. There were big red marks on my thigh and on the thigh of the image. The hurt and confused expression on her face mirrored my feelings. Something very strange was happening here.

I was shaken abruptly from my reverie by a loud knock on the door. "Come on, Susan! For Heaven's sake hurry up! The bathroom's free. Your Gran will be here at ten and you know she doesn't like to be kept waiting."

There was a fluffy white toweling dressing gown on the floor by the door. So I put it on and slowly opened the door to see the back of my tormentor going down the stairs. She was vaguely familiar but she certainly looked nothing like Graham's wife - in fact this looked nothing like Graham's house. But my bladder was almost bursting again and I had to get to the toilet. It was easier in the light. In fact the bathroom was just across the hall. So I darted in and locked the door. This time I remembered to sit down. I must say that I found sitting down to pee just a little extraordinary. It felt like I was peeing out of my scrotum, a strange feeling - but fortunately the result was just as effective. I turned on the shower. I slipped out of the dressing gown and then slowly peeled off the pajama top and let it fall to the floor. I was fascinated by my hands. They were so small and finely made with longish nails and without a sign of liver spots or blemishes. Traces of pink nail varnish adhered to the cuticles. I cupped the breasts and squeezed them softly, feeling both their weight in my hands and the pressure of my palms on them. Such a strange feeling! It felt very weird running these hands over this strange body under a cascade of water. I took a bar of soap, worked up a lather and put myself to soaping my body. I must confess that there was an ethereal feeling involved in exploring the softness of its mounds and crevices with my fingers, rubbing soft suds over the firm breasts and watching and feeling the warm water cascade over them and pour from the erect nipples. I must admit to some exploratory touching of my anatomy lower down led to even stranger feelings – if that seems possible. Running my soapy fingers over the mound was erotic and I was staggered by the effect that just tentatively sliding the edge of a moist fingertip into the upper part of the slit had on me – it was almost like a low voltage electric shock shooting through my nether regions. God, I was actually embarrassed. You really can't put that sort of thing into words too easily.

I decided that this was certainly turning out to be the novelty dream to end all novelty dreams. A real touchy feely dream with a very narrow waist and rounded hips. Not to speak of a delightfully little tummy and, for lack of a more polite term, a pussy. As I toweled the body dry I paused and glanced up at the strange girl trying to peer from the steamy mirror. 'Nice body' I said. Caught in the act of wrapping a towel round herself, she was looking back with an shy smile.

It was easy to find my way back to the room. It had a plastic sign saying 'Susan's Room'. Closing the door I opened the curtains and took stock. In the light of day the room was an utter mess. There were posters of a teenage boy band on the walls and the floor was littered with discarded clothes. Worse of all was the dressing table which was cluttered with jars and bottles of all shapes and sizes. "Oh God!" I heard myself say, "This place is an absolute mess!" Still, I couldn't stay here all day. I'd developed the illogical idea, while in the shower, that for lack of anything more concrete, that I would find some reasonable clothes, suitable to the body I appeared to be inhabiting, get out of here, phone my office and try to find out where I was and what was happening. It took me only a few minutes to find a pair of denim jeans. They seemed at least a size too small and it took a bit of determined wiggling to get them over my hips. I pulled a heavy gray sweatshirt from a heap in one corner of the room and stuck that on. In truth I only found suitable footwear only by accident - a pair of white sneakers hit me on the head when I tried to open the wardrobe. They looked incredibly small but they fitted the feet—I mean my feet. Well, the ones that were attached to the ends of the legs I was wearing. I glanced in the mirror. The hair was a mess. Being of the fast receding hairline persuasion up this particular point, it hadn't occurred to me to do anything but towel the mass of hair dry after the shower. Now it was a tangled mass of string. I'd belatedly found out what 'A Bad Hair Day' really felt like. Rummaging on the dresser I found a hairdryer and a brush, the latter of which had what looked like tomato sauce on the handle, and set to work. It took me over ten minutes of tugging, and no little amount of frustration and pain, to get that bloody mane under some semblance of control. In the end it looked worse than when I started so I decided that it would be more sensible to tie it back out of the way, and with the aid of an elastic band I managed to get in the shape of a sort of pony tail. 'Am I ready for this?' I heard myself murmur as I crept gingerly down the stairs looking for the front door of the house.

I'd almost got my hand on the door handle when I was detected. Hearing a noise behind me I turned and was confronted by a big unshaven man in a Manchester United track suit. He was somewhere in his forties or so, unkempt and heavyset. He appeared to be tall, at least he towered over me, and although he was smiling – or at least grinning - he wasn't the sort of character I'd have chosen to have in any dream I'd designed. I gave up on the door handle and gave a little nod to be polite and acknowledge his presence. I think I murmured something like 'Good Morning', but he wasn't satisfied with that. He curled his hands round my waist, picked me up and planted an enormous kiss on my lips. His stubble rasped my face and his breath smelt rotten. There was a definite undercurrent of cigarette smoke and stale vodka. "A big kiss for the Birthday girl!" he shouted triumphantly and half carried me into a kitchen where he dumped me on a chair at the end of a wooden table. There was a banner over the table which said 'Happy Fifteenth Birthday'. Worse than that there were more people round the table. The rather stout woman who had woken me was at the other end and she wasn't smiling. In fact she looked downright annoyed. There were at least three snotty nosed boys aged from five to about ten years old scattered in some random fashion. A baby in a disgusting dirty bib sat in a high chair banging a feeding bottle up and down. Everyone else was stuffing their faces with sausages and beans. "Took yer time, Sis!" said the biggest of the kids, spitting out the words accompanied by a spray of saliva and partially masticated food. I sat down and tried not to look at anyone. After a while I started to pick at the heap on my plate. It looked revolting. Then I found I was remarkable hungry and started to spoon the disgusting stuff into my mouth washing it down with very sweet milky tea. Funny thing was, although I hated the look of it, and I've never liked sugar or milk in tea, I relished every mouthful.

However, things weren't going that well at the other end of the table. The paunchy lout was occupied eating but that woman was looking at me and her lips were pursed. Finally she spat out what she was thinking.

"Susan-Anne, Just what sort of game do you think your playing at?"

I think, on reflection, that the appropriate response would have been that I hadn't the faintest idea. It wasn't my game anyway. After all this was a dream and in dreams normal rules don't apply. I had no idea what was going on and I felt like saying just that. However I just hung my head and looked hungrily at the remnants of a revolting sausage smothered with tomato ketchup while she continued.

"You know your grandmother will be here in a few minutes. It's Saturday and you knew that she'd be taking you shopping for your birthday. And I told you last night that you had to dress up nice. Now look at you! Those old jeans, sneakers and a baggy sweater and your hair an absolute mess. Now, you just get up these stairs young lady and put on the dress I ironed for you last night with a clean pair of tights and some decent shoes. And do something with your hair!"

I kept my head down, rose to my feet and tried to shuffle backwards to the door. I didn't have a plan but retreat seemed to be the most attractive option. Preferably a retreat of several hundred kilometers. But that didn't seem possible at the moment. After all I wasn't me. I had no idea where I was so I couldn't actually go anywhere. Humility seemed to be the best bet. "Where is the dress?" I heard myself whisper.

"Hanging on the curtain rail in your room, you dozy bitch!"

I blushed; at least I think I did. At least my face suddenly felt all hot. Then I turned and ran from the room. Unbelievably, tears seemed to be trickling down my face as I climbed the stairs. The voice was following me.

"And another thing, Missy. Put on a bra! I'll not have my mother saying you're a slovenly tart!"

Her voice faded behind me as I closed the door. Dream or no dream, I felt as if I'd failed some sort of test. Still, I couldn't fight this so I'd have to be subtle and cunning. If I played along with the flow perhaps it wouldn't become any more nightmare'ish than it was so far. So where the hell was that dress. It was, of course, obvious. It was hanging on the curtain rail. But, I certainly couldn't wear it. It was a short and skimpy cotton thing - black with thousands of repetitive little white flower patterns. It was the sort of thing you see adolescent girls wear. But wait, unless that mirror is lying, I suppose that's actually what I am supposed to be.

So, I stripped off the sweatshirt and examined my boobs. I shook myself up and down slightly and they definitely wobbled. It was like having two mounds of jelly under my flesh. I guess they needed some restraint. A few minutes rummaging in a drawer was required to locate a bra. It was white with lacy edges and wire hoops and it looked a bit flimsy for the job it was required to do. And fastening it was difficult. I tried cupping it over my breasts and fastening it at the back but even with the loops over my shoulders it slipped off when I bent forward to fasten it. In the end I trapped the cups between my breasts and the dressing table and finally I got the two straps clipped together. When it was in place it cupped both breasts very snugly. It was restrictive but it was a bit more comfortable wearing it than having them wobbling about on their own. At least it didn't rub across my nipples every time I turned like the sweatshirt had. Then a pair of tights. These caused me a problem. Do tights go over or under panties? I tried to remember what Mary did, but I could only remember her wearing holdup stockings. It seemed a little more logical to put the tights over the panties, since that would place the soft cotton gusset of the pants against my genitals. So that's how I did it. Then I put on that absurdly short dress. The zip at the back gave me a bit more trouble. I couldn't seem to push it up high enough until I hit on the idea of leaning backwards and putting my hand over my shoulder. Finally, after searching for a few minutes in the bottom of the wardrobe I found two black shoes that matched. At least they didn't have really high heels – about two inches. I wobbled a little when I stood up but I reckoned could probably manage to walk in them if I was very careful and I didn't have to run for a bus or anything. When I looked in the mirror I looked almost presentable. Well, that is if you discounted my puffy eyes and the terrible mess my hair was in.

I managed to cut that dammed elastic band out off the hair with a pair of nail scissors, without cutting away too much hair in the process, but after that it was a total disaster. No matter how hard I brushed the hair just got worse. That dammed mane had a life of its own. It was so bloody frustrating. Eventually there was a knock on my door. "Come in." I said. After all it couldn't get any worse.

It was the woman. I couldn't reconcile myself to the fact that she might be related. "Susan-Anne, I thought I'd told you to get ready and look at you. No make up and your hair a mares' nest. You just make me so mad sometimes. Look, I'll do your hair if you want?"

Thank you, Sweet Providence. Perhaps there is a God after all. She might not be winning medals in the smiling department but she was really good at manipulating hair. Within minutes, with the aid of a couple of elastic bands and a handful of Kirby grips, she had rearranged that seemingly intractable mass of hair into a symmetrical style. It was drawn up at the back and finished with two loops of hair wrapped round each other in an intricate knot.

"That's a double looped fan" she said, standing back and admiring her handiwork. "Rather suits you, I think."

I decided to say something appreciative but I'm afraid I was rather too gushing in my praise "Oh thank you! It looks wonderful. How did you learn to do that?"

She looked at me rather quizzically with arched eyebrows "Susan-Anne, I am fed up with your lip! Are you on drugs or something? I'm a bloody hairdresser. I've been working as a hairstylist since before you were born!"

My mind screamed 'Bad mistake, Tom. Backtrack, backtrack'

"Sorry" I said, "I mean .. I didn't think .. er, I mean .. It's just such an unusual style!" Then I thought for moment and added, "Thank you. It's beautiful. It's really wonderful."

Well, that didn't work. If I had expected her face to break into a big smile I was to be disappointed. All she said was "Stop being sarcastic My Girl or I'll give you something to remember me by."

Then she grabbed my chin and pulled my face round towards her. We made eye contact and for a second I thought she might hit me or something but her look had softened. She shrugged. "Look we've a few minutes before your Gran gets here. Let me do something about your face."

I guess I had no real choice. She cleared a space on the dressing table and then suddenly all those little pots, bottles and brushes seemed to be employed at once. "Close your eyes." She said. I felt a soft brush on my eyelids. Then I was told to purse my lips and not to fidget. Finally it was over. I looked in the mirror. God, What a change. There was one nice looking teenage girl, not exactly the kind of girl that boys would be prepared to make fools of themselves over, but attractive nonetheless. I pinched myself again, felt the pain and saw a red mark on my arm. She definitely was me. I choked, "Thanks."

I could see that she was smiling too. Whether she was pleased by her handiwork or had decided that she wasn't annoyed at me was questionable but at least it was a smile. She shrugged "You had better hurry up." she said, "Your Gran will be waiting. You'd better go downstairs and wait at the gate."

So, I did. Go downstairs I mean. Admittedly rather tentatively. Those heels made it difficult and I had to clutch the stair rail for more than half of the journey. The woman opened the door and I lurched out. There was a smartly dressed redhead standing by the kerb. She looked to be in her early fifties. Just my type I thought. She could easily have been my ex-wife. "Oh my!" She exclaimed. "Don't you just look all grown up. Give your Gran a big cuddle!"

I had never seen the point of the hugging thing, but some of these people were definitely into tactile displays. So I gave the woman a sort of hug. I glanced back and noticed that the other woman had shut the door behind me. Even with limited understanding one could see that there was obviously not a great deal of love lost between these two.

Then 'Gran' and I were off and I was steered towards an ancient Rover three liter parked on the opposite side of the road. I had scarcely got time to hobble into the car and buckle the seat belt when 'Gran' let out the clutch and the bloody thing leapt forward like a rocket, pinning me back in the seat like a rag doll. I was trying to get my bearings and work out where we were - any clue to the town would potentially be valuable - but this crazy woman was driving like a fiend incarnate, shifting gears at breathless speed, and keeping up a blistering torrent of conversation at the same time. After a while I was so terrified that I just stopped listening, shut my eyes and braced myself for the inevitable collision that was going to blot out my short existence.

Eventually we stopped. It wasn't an easy maneuver however. The whole car seemed to pitch forward as the ghosts of some bits of metal that must at one time been attached to brake shoes ground solidly into the wheel drums. This woman was some mad bitch.

"First, the shopping!" She said as she tortured the ratchet on the handbrake.

I looked around hoping that there was some landmark by which I could identify where the hell we were. So far all I'd seen were suburban houses and fields which could have been almost anywhere in England. Well it was certainly England, definitely not Newcastle, probably the Midlands, but further than that I couldn't say. Unfortunately we now seemed to be in the car park of one of those anonymous giant out of town retail parks, what our American cousins call shopping malls. It could have been anywhere. Then I realized that my companion was no longer in the car but was standing outside making obvious signs that I should join her. So I opened the door and got out. It seems pretty obvious now to realize that I'd never got out of a car wearing a dress before. It doesn't work well if you put your legs out singly. I ended up with the skirt of that skimpy dress in a ball round my waist and as I tugged it down I became very much aware of a guy ogling me from a car parked in the next row. He was looking directly at me and flicking his tongue over his upper lips. Fortunately 'Gran' was on the other side of the car at the time and didn't see any of this. I hastily hobbled round to her side, took her arm and tried not to look back as she guided me to the entrance to the complex.

Shopping is a really strange thing. I've never much cared for the practice. I used to go into a store, find a pair of trousers, a jacket, a tie, or a shirt, pay for it and then go home. But that's not Real Shopping. Real Shopping, I found, is a totally female thing. It's a complete science in itself. Women, by the time they are fifteen, are obviously obliged to have PhD's in shopping. And that morning I was doing a crash course with a tutor who was of Nobel Laureate status in the subject.

That woman had me dancing in and out of changing rooms for hours. I didn't have much time to think. Part of my learning curve was that Susan-Anne's body was a UK size 8 with size four feet and a 32 bust with a 'B' cup. According to 'Gran' I was filling out nicely in the last department, although judging from her build and that of my 'Mum' I reckoned that the parameter in question might still have a bit of growth in hand. But so much for the numbers. Hectares of cloth were throw on and off my body. Piles of 'Smart Little Outfits, which were not exactly right' were left discarded on changing room floors. 'Not quite the right colour' blouses, skirts and slacks were pushed back into the hands of infuriated sales assistants, and 'Just a little bit tarty, Dear" underwear was returned to the stand. By the time the shopping trip was over I'd left my finger prints on every size 8 item of clothing in the entire complex and 'Gran' had spent the equivalent of the national debt for a small third world country. Eventually exhausted, and carrying a pile of carrier bags which could have given Arnold Schwarzenegger a hernia, we emerged onto an elevated veranda over the main shopping complex.

"Now" said Gran, "Pinelli's for coffee and cake."

Pinelli's was a pleasant little place. It seemed rather out of place in a shopping mall. It was reminiscent of the sort of cafe I'd normally have gone to on a lazy Sunday morning. Somewhere to slowly sip a cup of coffee, smoke a small cigar and read the Sunday Times. However on that afternoon it was crowded with women laden, as we were, with their spoils of the shopping war. The redhead was obviously well known. A waiter showed us to a table and made a great fuss of helping me. It was quite obvious that he was looking at my legs all the time and that was horrible. I pulled the seat as far under the table as possible, pulled that silly skirt down as far as it would go and crossed my legs.

"Well, Ricardo" Said Gran, "I'll have my usual – A latte and coffee cake. And, Susan-Anne here will have a special ice-cream sundae."

"Sorry" I interrupted. "But if it's all the same to you, I'd like an expresso. A double."

"Oh! We are really the grown-up girl now, are we? OK, Ricardo, Give my granddaughter an expresso if she wants it."

Well. I wanted it but I'm afraid Susan-Anne's taste buds didn't match my mindset. The stuff was almost poisonous. She'd have been much better of with an ice-cream. So, while I was playing with my toxic coffee I decided to get some information. The principal questions hadn't changed at all since I woke up as 'this girl' but judging from the blank, incredulous, 'Are you crazy?' type of reactions I'd got when I'd tried earlier to ask direct questions like 'Where are we?' I thought I'd have more luck being circumspect and acting in character.

"Look, Gran." I said, grimacing internally and watching myself in the wall mirror behind her head as I tried to act all sweet and innocent. "How far are we from Oxford?"

She looked puzzled. "About 30 miles, why do you ask?"

"Oh, I just thought I'd like to go there. You know, see the colleges and things."

"But, Susan-Anne, I took you there last month and you said it was boring and you hated it and the shops were so much better here in Birmingham."

Oh, I'd thought I'd better change track quickly. I wasn't sure what I was going to say and the words just tumbled out. "Sorry, I must have been in a bad mood. I've just been thinking that on reflection that it was actually rather nice. Actually I've been thinking about something else. What I really wanted to ask was about my Mum and Dad, and how they met, and what they do and that sort of thing." I tried to smile sweetly. I could almost hear my cheeks crack.

She was visibly taken aback and her eyes widened alarmingly. Whatever I'd said was not so good. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Susan-Anne, I thought we'd agreed never to talk about your Mum! As for that good for nothing, lowlife partner of hers, you told me he was a bastard last week and I just can't believe you are calling him 'Dad' now." She shook her head. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. I could put up with you're Mum being a single parent, I didn't like it and I really can't forgive the fact she wouldn't tell me who your real father is. I could even turn my blind eye to her drinking and drugging. But when she moved in with that slime ball and his smelly brats I couldn't stand it. That's when I decided never to talk to her again." There were tears in her eyes as she leaned forward and stroked the back of my hand. "Sorry Pet. It's nothing to do with you. Your grandmother loves you to bits."

Well, I suppose I'd asked for it. But what did I know? A lump rose in my throat and I squeezed the tearful woman's hand. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry."

She produced a tissue and wiped her eyes. "It's not your fault. You are just a victim. Have you thought about what I suggested last week? About when you're sixteen you could come and live with me."

I'm sure she was going to continue but her monologue was interrupted at that point by the arrival of two middle aged ladies who were obviously friends of hers. Pecks on the cheeks were exchanged by all parties and I thought that this might get difficult if I was supposed to know them. Fortunately we hadn't apparently met so my contribution to the ensuing conversation was restricted to 'yes's', 'no's' and 'OK's' on the few occasions when I was asked a question. These were limited to 'Did you get any nice clothes?' and 'How are you getting on at school, Dear?'. If either Mrs. Mortimer or Mrs. Stewart were interested in my opinion on the current situation in Iraq they didn't deem to canvas my opinion. After they had gathered their shopping bags and left, with the obligatory flourish of cheek kisses, Gran, whose name I had now learned was Gloria, took me to a Hugh Grant film at the cinema. The evening ended with burgers and chips at the cinema restaurant. I wanted to find out more about 'Susan-Anne' but every time I tried to phrase a suitable question she adeptly avoided answering. In the end, frustrated and a bit annoyed at being called 'Pet' and 'Sweetie', I gave up trying. The fact that she commended me on being very polite all day, that I'd been good and eaten all the burger, that thank goodness I'd given up wearing that dreadful nose stud and that my language had improved was puzzling enough. She dropped me at the end of the street where I realized that I lived. She gave me a little kiss on the forehead and said I should be good. But she didn't even attempt to get out the car. I saw the curtains twitch in the front window as I lugged the spoils of our shopping spree up the path.

The woman had obviously been drinking. "What did she say?" she demanded.

"What do you mean?"

There were tears in her eyes. "Did she talk about your Grandpa?"

"No. What about him?"

I wanted to be conciliatory. The poor woman was obviously drunk and upset. How would it feel to be hated by your own Mother. I wanted to be kind and tell her that it must have been a long time ago and people shouldn't nurture hate. But then she hit me full on the face with the palm of her hand. It stung. "You stinking little bastard!" she screamed. "You fucking little traitor bitch! I bet you both had a great time together badmouthing my Dave! I bet she told you all her sad fucking stories about my fucking Dad! That fucking bitch!"

I had no idea what to do but trying to make her sit down and have a rational discussion seemed to be a non starter so I beat a retreat upstairs with my carrier bags and closed the bedroom door. My face was stinging where she had hit me. I looked in the mirror and saw that there was a very definite red mark. I needed to think so I turned on the radio. I jumped. In that small room the blast of sound from the speaker was almost unbearable. I turned down the volume and retuned it from Pop something or other to Classic FM, sat on the bed and kicked off my shoes. Honestly, I thought, this could not all be happening. The whole thing was just insane. If I closed my eyes and opened them again I'd be back in my rooms in Oxford. So I closed my eyes and opened one slowly. It didn't work, that girl was winking at me from the mirror. She wasn't looking happy. I reached out and tried to touch her and my fingers felt the cold surface of the glass. Well, I was only checking – it was actually a mirror. It therefore followed logically that this was my reflection. I decided to take an inventory of current assets so I stripped off the dress and tried to take stock. There was really no getting away from it. I was a girl standing in front of a mirror clad only in white bra and panties. And I wasn't bad looking either. A bit thin but a nice face, pert breasts, narrow waist and well rounded hips. Just touching myself, even through my panties, sent little electrical signals through my abdomen and made me feel aroused. Here it got complex. Half my mind was that of a dirty old man thinking rather erotic thoughts but the other half was thinking 'You are stupid. Thomas J. Dingle BSc, D.Phil., F.R.S, lately Professor of Physics and Fellow of St Jude's College, Oxford, may not actually exist. He may be a construct of your imagination. This is me, Susan something or other, as I exist. Perhaps I am just an adolescent girl having a really weird day.' The alternative - that my normal paunchy, late middle aged male body had been running around a city dressed up in girls clothes all day and no one had noticed – was implausible to say the least. I couldn't cope with the dichotomy, so I put off the light, crawled into bed and tried to think. At least I knew where I was located – Birmingham, somewhere near Solihull to be more precise, and that put me only a short bus ride and a thirty minute train journey from Oxford. If I woke up as me tomorrow and left early I could be home for morning coffee. Better still I could wake up as me. But incase I didn't I'd better try to find some clothes for the morning. However well intentioned I was in pursuing these plans I'm afraid they didn't get very far. The body I was in was totally exhausted and wasn't interested in staying awake.

Sunday

Sunday arrived. I awoke with the memory of an interesting dream about a redhead called Gloria. A quick glance under the duvet assured me that the expectation of waking up in my own body in my own bed hadn't been realized. When I woke I was still in that girl's body and that body was wearing only a pair of lacy panties. The ones it had worn yesterday. The room was still the messy room I'd gone to sleep in. 'Oh, Shit.' I covered my head with the duvet and prayed that the nightmare would please go away. However, half an hour later, when I peeked out from under the covers I was still the same place and I was still in the same underwear. Reluctantly I got up, pushed a dress and miscellaneous other items off the bedside stool, sat down and tried to make sense of the thing. The phone - why didn't I think of that before. I found that dressing gown, crept downstairs and phoned my office. There was no answer. Obvious, it was Sunday. So I called my house. That was a really stupid idea – I got my own answer phone message. However that did prove that I do exist. At least I thought so.

OK. Let's apply the logic of scientific reasoning to the problem. So, the first Question is: - Who are you? Answer – I definitely think I am me but I seem to be inhabiting the body of a fifteen year old girl called Susan, or more correctly Susan-Anne. Question two:- What is the evidence for the latter? Answer - That fact is quite evident. I only have to look in the mirror and since I can still see the bruise from yesterday I am not going to try the pinching experiment again if you don't mind. Third Question - Where are you? Answer:- In a terrace house with a dysfunctional family in a suburb of Birmingham. Fourth Question - What are your plans? Answer:- None. Ok, Perhaps not none. How about get out of here, get on train, get home. Perhaps that is the secret. After all, if I had indeed woken up in Susan-Anne's house, in Susan-Anne's bed as Susan-Anne then if I were to wake up in my own house, in my own bed I might be myself again. So the first thing I need is to do is get Susan-Anne dressed, find my wallet and escape from this weird place. OK, I can manage that. One thing at a time. Once I get to my own home I can get a grasp on the situation.

Part one was relatively easy. Jeans first, sweat shirt next, then socks and sneakers. Quick correction, take off sweat shirt, fit and adjust new bra then put sweat shirt on again. Brief pause to admire profile and adjust hair in mirror. I found that a hair clip was a more satisfactory way of getting the stuff out of my eyes. I thought for a moment about applying lipstick but then decided I was becoming distracted. The next part was more frustrating. Try as I might I couldn't find my wallet. In fact I couldn't find any of my things. Neither could I find a significant amount of money. You would not believe the other things I uncovered in that bedroom. Like a used sanitary napkin soaked onto the remains of a pizza takeaway! Ugh! Raking through numerous pockets, bags and drawers yielded a total of £2.56 in change and a £10 cosmetics token. All right, I sat on the bed, turned off the radio and tried to think of another plan.

Someone knocked on the door. I couldn't remember what I said but it may have been come in. There was a small boy standing in the doorway. He looked like one of the kids from yesterday. "Just who are you?"

"I'm Daniel."

"Daniel who?"

"I didn't say knock, knock."

"Ok, Daniel. I don't have time for games. What do you want?"

"You have to get up. My Dad and your Mum went out in the van. Mattie's crying. You have to make our breakfast."

What was I expected to do? So, I took the child's hand and went downstairs. Mattie, who was obviously the baby, was crying in his cot. He was also soaking wet and the smell of shit was overpowering. It was disgusting. I managed to lift him and strip him off and clean him on the sink counter. Little Daniel supplied me with a clean diaper. Once I had the baby in his high chair and gurgling into a bottle of warm milk I made breakfast for the three little kids. Daniel, Mark and Ian. I couldn't bring myself to make sausages so I whipped up an omelet and served it with toast. I'm good at omelet's and they seemed to like it.

After feeding the boys disappeared outside with the parting shot from Daniel that 'They'd be at Auntie Maggie's'. I was left holding the baby as they say. I fed him the remains of the egg and then cleaned his face. I lifted him out of his highchair and he snuggled into my chest. Now that was a very weird feeling. When he was asleep I put him into his cot and started ferreting around the house for money. Not that I found much. My total haul was a further £1.80 in silver and coppers. My total wealth was now £4.36. Great! I guessed I'd have to hitch-hike to Oxford and if so that I'd better get going as soon as possible before all those people came back. However if I did that I'd have to leave the baby and that I couldn't bring myself to do. I could hardly take him to Oxford either. Even I couldn't leave a little baby in a house alone. If I'd know where the mysterious Aunt Maggie lived I suppose I could have dropped him off there. There was nothing for it but to wait. Once either 'Mum' or her partner came back I could escape.

I sat on a couch and flicked though channels on the TV. I don't know if I expected to find out that the rest of the world had changed, but it hadn't. People were still killing each other in Iraq, the mortgage rate had gone up and some politician was denying having had an affair. On another channel Lassie or Skippy was rescuing someone in a mineshaft. I kicked off a sneaker and poked my foot under a cushion. My toes touched something hard. Bugger me, I thought, as I pulled out a half full bottle of vodka. Well, all things considered, I certainly needed a drink. A great big drink. Straight from the bottle. However when the first shot hit my stomach the effect was catastrophic. I doubled up with pain and retched helplessly. Whatever else she was, Susan-Anne wasn't used to neat alcohol. However by the next commercial break the sickness had faded and was replaced by a warm glow from the booze. I decided not to make the same mistake twice and diluted the next one in orange juice from a carton in the fridge. Meantime the TV show finished. I metaphorically dried my eyes as Lassie, or was it Skippy, saved the children, cured cancer and brought peace to the Middle East. Gradually the commercials seemed much more attractive than the programmes. I found myself flicked from channel to channel and I found out things I'd never actually realized that I thought could be interesting. Valuable stuff about nail polish, lipstick, hair shampoo & conditioner and tampons. I certainly didn't know much about tampons. This was, I thought, gazing into the remnants of my third drink, very serious. But, stuff it, I was desperate for a piss.

The next thing I remember was lying on the bathroom floor. It was getting dark. I'd obviously been sick down my front, my panties were soaking and my jeans were round my ankles. Someone was pounding on the door. I got to my feet and clung to the towel rail while I struggled to get my jeans over my hips. I propped myself against the wall and opened the door a few inches. 'Mum' was outside and she was incoherent with rage. She screamed at me about the television blaring, the baby crying and whether I knew the trouble I was in. Personally I couldn't give a toss. I was, let's face it, drunk, and unless I was sadly wrong so was she. So when she told me to clean myself up I slammed the door shut.

Half an hour and a lot of bath later I was at least clean and functioning, if not entirely sober. The main thing was to get out of this madhouse as soon as I possibly could. So I dashed into my bedroom determined to change into clean clothes and get as far away as I could as fast as I could. Given the amount of money I had I thought that it might be possible to get a local bus out to a motorway service area and then maybe I could hitch a ride. In deciding what to wear I toyed briefly with the idea of wearing a short skirt, on the basis that that was a sure way of getting a lift, but the abrupt realization that it might be a surer way of getting me into some kind of trouble that I certainly wouldn't be able to cope with was enough to banish that thought from my mind. I settled on jeans. It only took a few minutes to lay out the things I'd need on the bed. Black jeans, underwear, a short sleeved top, short boots, socks and a black leather-look jacket. I dressed hurriedly, struggling into the jeans and boots first, then the sweatshirt. Then I combed my hair and carefully tied it back with a black elasticated fabric ring I found in the dressing table drawer and poured my meager worldly wealth into the pocket of the jacket. 'Not bad' I murmured as I eyed myself critically in the mirror, 'Not bad at all." Well, on the other hand, that top was a bit tighter and lower in the neckline than I'd thought. It certainly made the most of Susan's assets. I pouted at the mirror and the effect sent my mind somersaulting into what I can only describe as a mental 'hard on'. Wait a minute. If I had that effect on myself in private I'd probably cause a pile up if I tried it on a motorway slip road. Or get arrested for trying to pick up a kerb crawler. On second thoughts, prudence might suggest that it would be better to wear the baggy sweatshirt instead. I was just slipping it over my head, trying not to mess up my hair in the process, when I heard the door open behind me. Then a pair of enormous clammy hands closed over my breasts and a voice whispered "Guess who?" into my ear. God, it was that hairy oaf from yesterday. I tried to wriggle free but he was very powerful and he held me tight and whispered in my ear. "Just a little feel, Suzy. You wouldn't grudge your old Dad a little squeeze!" I opened my mouth to scream but he closed it with one sweaty palm, holding me tightly round the middle with his other arm. "Don't tell me you didn't like that." he whispered. "I know your just gagging for it." Then he said threateningly, "I'll pick you up as usual tomorrow and if you dare tell your Mum I'll give you a good thrashing." Then he was gone.

'Oh, Shit!' This was awful. I was shaking like a leaf. I don't remember ever being so frightened of anything so much in all my life. As soon as I recovered some semblance of control over my muscles I started piling things against the door. I only stopped trembling when I'd got the half the furniture and the bed firmly jamming it shut. Even then I shuddered involuntarily every time I heard him moving about downstairs.

Well that ended my escape plans. There was no way I was capable of leaving that room in the foreseeable future. My mind was so spaced that I couldn't even think clearly and I just rocked back and forwards on the bed holding a pillow and shivering.

I must have dozed off, I can't think how, but I was woken up by voices arguing downstairs. The woman was shouting. Thank God, at least he wouldn't try to break my door down now. Some semblance of rational thought returned. It was now quite dark so it must be after ten. There was no point in trying to get away before morning, no way was I going to take this vulnerable body out in the dark in a strange city, so I arranged everything I'd need for an quick getaway and tried to get some rest.

Monday

My plan to escape in the early hours of the morning before the household awoke was ill fated. What woke me up was the hammering on the door. She was screaming something about someone being a dozy cow and being late for school. The thought was in my mind that I never taught on Mondays when I realized where and what I was. I unblocked the door and found a bowl of cornflakes and a mug of tea lying on the carpet - both tea and cereal were sweetened with heaped spoonfuls of sugar. My mind rebelled at every spoonful but it tasted good. I realized that Susan would be better to cut down on the sugar. I'd barely finished the cereal when She shouted again.

"Susan-Anne, Julie's here! You'll be late if you don't hurry!"

I didn't have the faintest idea who or what Julie was so I thought I'd better find out. I stuck on the dressing gown, belted it very tightly, and stole a quick glance over the stair landing. Julie turned out to be a gangly adolescent chewing gum in the hallway. A second look showed she was wearing a blouse, school tie, blazer and a pleated skirt. I was just taking this in when there was another bellow from Her below.

"Susan-Anne! For God's sake hurry up! Your school clothes are in the bathroom!"

If in doubt do what you are told. So, I went into the bathroom and went into some sort of auto-mode. I peed, brushed my teeth, and dressed. I pulled on a pair of white cotton knickers and fastened up a white bra, put on a pair of blue tights, zipped up a blue skirt, buttoned up a white blouse, tied a blue and gold striped tie, and brushed brown hair. Finally I slipped on a pair of flat black shoes. A quick glance over the banister showed that the Julie girl's tie was knotted very narrowly. So undo smart Windsor knot and retie tie. Then downstairs, say 'Hi' to Julie Girl and 'Bye' to Scowling Woman, put on blue blazer, pick up schoolbag marked 'Suzy' with magic marker and very similar to that carried by Julie girl and exit front door.

Julie was tall. Well, she was a couple of inches taller than I was. She was probably all of five foot six. We wore the same school uniform but her skirt waistband was rolled up till the hem was three inches above her knees. She had thinner legs than I had. We walked for about half a mile and in that time I began to think that, while she was pleasant enough, Julie appeared to be as thick as two exceptionally short planks. As the conversation progressed further I realized that I might be being uncharitable towards timber. If she had been any denser she could have bent light. The price I paid for this information was listening to meaningless chatter which was centered on boys and girls I couldn't possibly know or characters in TV soap operas. Eventually we came to the school. I didn't know where any of the rooms were so I just tagged along beside Julie. The first lesson appeared to be English literature and the teacher was a stout woman in her mid to late forties. It didn't take my heightened sense of smell to detect that Mrs Godfrey, at least that was the name on her door, hadn't bothered to shower that morning. The class was supposed to have read Jane Austin's 'Emma' but it was very obvious, judging from the undercurrent of chatter at the back of the class, that almost none of them had even opened the book. When pressed on Emma's character Julie could only volunteer that 'She was very pretty' - a view she'd presumably derived from the dust cover of the book. Then it was my turn. I was uncomfortably conscious not only of the teacher's eyes but also of those of the boy across the aisle who was leering at me.

"So, Miss Granger. Since your friend can come up with less than nothing, perhaps you can enlighten us with your in-depth analysis of the central character?"

Shit I thought, play dumb. "Er" I said, "I don't really know. I think she wore nice dresses."

"Typical." she sneered. "Pearls before swine!"

That got to me. I hadn't read the book for twenty years but I could remember most of the story. I retorted in some anger;

"Well, if you honestly want my opinion, I think that Austin was describing the problems faced by people in her society. It's about a family and their relationships with each other and their neighbours."

That stopped him for a minute – I don't think she expected me to say anything. She was staring at me in a surprised manner and I could see she was reluctant to cut me any slack. However she finally shrugged her shoulders and turned to the rest of the class.

"Not really" she said, "Actually what the author was doing was criticizing the class ridden establishment. The great differences between rich and poor, the frivolity of English country life while the world was undergoing great social changes and the downtrodden position of women. She was an early radical feminist crying out for her readers to reform society." She glanced at me as if to say that would teach me to keep my mouth shut.

I got a bit upset by that. "No" I said "She wasn't. No way was she a feminist. She accepted her society. She just discussed the day to day problems of people ordinary living in it."

She was getting angry. Her mouth was quivering "You are missing the point entirely! You seem to think that 'Emma' is like a TV soap opera. This book is literature. It's a masterpiece of social satire. It's not an episode in Eastenders!"

Bugger it, in for a penny in for a pound. I tried to sound rational and authoritative although I was aware that the pitch of my voice was rising alarmingly. "I'm sorry but I can't agree. I bet you can't show us a single passage in the novel where any character criticizes their society. Austin accepts the status quo and restricts herself to describing the emotional problems of people living in it. The book is just like a soap - although one with superlatively drawn characters. The central character is merely a caring, rational, albeit imperfect young woman. A girl of her time"

That floored her - the supercilious, chauvinistic bitch.

"Oh…." She stammered, "Well thank you, Miss Granger. You're quite wrong of course, but I can see you've skimmed over the book. We'll discuss it again next week. But, I do believe that's the bell. Hurry along to your next class!"

Julie positively attacked me in the corridor.

"Susan! Just what was all that guff about?"

"What do you mean?"

"The stuff you said in God Awful's class. All that guff about a stupid book you told me you hadn't even read! Are you trying to be a smart arsed show-off or something?"

I gulped. I'd obviously gone a bit far. But that woman had really riled me.

"Sorry, Didn't you see? I'd memorized the bit from the back of the video box."

She was visibly relieved. "Oh, that's fine! Though for a minute I thought you might have actually read the stupid book!" then she added "I suppose that was one of the videos you nicked from Global Videos."

That took me by surprise. I was apparently a shoplifter and a dunce to boot. Judging my class by Julie's standard the additive IQ of the class was less than a that of handful of Physical Education teachers. And to read between the lines I guess I was supposed to be one of the thickest kids on the block. I should have remembered Austen's own comment, I think it was in Northanger Abbey, that; 'A woman, if she has the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.' So, for the next two lessons I kept silent. After all, I had decided that I was going to make a break for it at the lunch break.

Well that didn't happen. I managed to evade Julie in the girls' toilet and got as far as the school gates. There I was confronted by a big blonde girl with a badge saying 'Prefect'.

"Where you trying to sneak off to Granger?" she said, "You know third year's aren't allowed to leave the grounds at lunchtime."

"I have to go home, I feel sick."

"Not likely Suzy, you slag. I wouldn't believe you if you were dripping blood. You're not going anywhere without a note from the school nurse."

I toyed with the idea of pushing her out the way but she was several inches bigger than me and looked like she could handle herself. Meanwhile Julie appeared and tried to help.

"Back off Pam, Suzy's really not feeling very well!"

The blonde arched her eyebrows "And I'm supposed to believe that? You're joking! You pair of evil, rumour-spreading, little slags can fuck off and die for all I care."

I was taken aback. I think my mouth was just hanging open as Julie dragged me away. She was clutching two cans of diet Coke and she thrust one into my hands.

I was still thinking about what the blonde had said. "What's that for?" was all I could think of saying.

"For the one I got off you on Friday of course, you Dozy Git."

"No, not the Coke. I mean what she said."

This time it was Julie's turn to arch her brows. "Suzy. After what you did on the wall in the loo you can hardly blame her for being mad." She ignored my puzzled expression and went on. "This is much more important."

I repeated her words "What is much more important?"

"I need an answer. I really need to know what you think of him?"

I was mystified "What do I think of whom?"

Julie sucked noisily on her straw. Her demeanor could have been mistaken for someone thinking profound thoughts. Such was not the case.

"What do you think of Davy Brown? Are you up for it? Alex Thompson told me to tell you that Davy really fancies you. Don't you think, if it wasn't for his acne, that he could look a little bit like Matt le Blanc?"

Well if that is the only thing on her mind, forget it. Besides, who the Hell was Davy Brown? Was he the boy who sat across from me in the English class? This wasn't a line of conversation I wanted to pursue.

"I'm not interested." I said.

"Bloody Hell. And you're the one who snogged Mark Elliot all the way back from Blackpool in the bus and from what Pat Fraser in fifth year was saying to his mates about what you got up to in the back of the Odeon I can't believe you. All the stories can't be true but I know how you get when you get high and you are such a slut sometimes. Give me a break, Girlfriend!"

What could I say. My face felt red. Very red. I nibbled on the sandwich I had found in my bag and sipped the Coke. I kept my own counsel after that. Julie rabbited on about things I appear to have done recently, most of which I didn't think fifteen year girls should know anything about until, thank goodness, the bell rang.

I decided to shut up in the afternoon classes and then do a runner on the way home. I had to bite my tongue in the chemistry class when some grotesque man attempted to explain the structure of the hydrogen molecule in terms of intersecting planetary orbits. Surely everyone knows that the Bohr model was totally redundant by 1926, and to make no reference to Shroddinger's work, albeit that his treatment is strictly limited to linear combinations of idealized atomic orbitals, is so incredibly simplistic. The fellow should have been shot.

The last class was Math's where we were given a problem paper and told we could leave whenever we had finished. That was my open invitation to get away on my own. The paper consisted of silly little problems - Two absurdly simple quadratics with finite solutions and a simultaneous equation with two variables. Kindergarten stuff. God, even a remedial group of first year biology undergraduates would sneer at being asked to do something as elementary. So, it took me a couple of minutes to write out the answers, hand them to the teacher and leave the classroom.

Free at last, I ran towards the school gates. However there HE was – the slob – Susan's Dad – sitting in his van across the road. Oh Shit! The memory of last night was painfully fresh and there was no way that I was going put myself through that again. I dived back into the building and hid in the girls' toilet. When I shut the door of the cubicle I was struck by the graffiti, particularly a rather good drawing of a long haired girl sticking her tongue out provocatively. Although the face was distorted slightly to look like a 'cat woman' there was a definite likeness to that blonde prefect, Pam. However, someone had made a determined effort to erase the drawing and the legend underneath was now illegible. I couldn't help wondering if this was what Julie had referred to earlier. If so Susan had been responsible for the artwork. Perhaps she had some talents after all?

I decided to go out into the corridor and wait for Julie. And I waited, and waited. The bell rung twice for the end of classes before she appeared. She was obviously upset.

"Just where do you get off, Suzy?" she screamed, "Miss Gibson was almost drooling over the math's paper you handed in. Then she lectured the whole f'ing class for hours and gave us extra homework. Stupid Fucking Cow!"

I didn't answer. I was busy trying to pace Julie so I was out of the line-of-sight from the road. By the time we reached the school gates the van had gone. To keep her hanging around for as much time as possible I treated Julie to a milkshake at McDonalds. It cost me almost all of my cash but keeping Susan's body out of that lout's clutches seemed like the best use of the money. Frankly, I'd much rather have gone to a bar for a beer but I guess that would have been impossible anyway. I thought 'Suzy' had better apologize to her 'friend' anyway. I trotted out my rehearsed lines.

"I'm sorry, Julie. About the Maths I mean. Look, I just wrote down the first things that came into my head. I didn't know it would be right. It's just like the lottery. Sometimes you get all the numbers right. And I wanted to get out of the class early. Look, will you walk a bit with me?"

Funnily enough, Julie seemed to accept that, but it turned out that her real concern was not about the math's.

"It's Him again isn't it. I knew there was something up. That's what's bothering you. Your fucking stepdad. Dirty Old Pervert! Can't see why you don't report him to the Filth."

She noisily sucked the last dregs from her shake, reached forward and rested her hand on mine. Her voice changed "Look, come home with me tonight Suzy. My Mum won't mind. We can phone your Mum and say we have to do our homework together." She giggled, "You could always tell your Mum that you've decided to become a caring, rational girl of your time."

So that's what we did. Julie's Mum turned out to be a single parent who worked as a nurse at the local hospital. She obviously knew quite a lot about me and my family. It was she who phoned my Mum and negotiated permission for me to stay overnight. After that it would have been churlish to have tried to get away. Another night wouldn't hurt and perhaps I could borrow enough money for a train ticket in the morning. We spent a pleasant evening with a takeaway pizza watching TV. I wasn't very interested in the series of soaps on offer but I found myself drawn to examine the clothes that the female characters wore and the way they talked. I hoped that it wouldn't be the case but learning female dress and behavior patterns could become a matter of personal survival. About ten o'clock Julie and her Mum went to make tea. Thankful for the respite, I turned the TV volume down then I realized I could hear them talking about me in the kitchen.

"Julie, has that stepdad of Suzy's been interfering with her again?"

"Think so Mum. You know Suzy. She doesn't want to talk about it. Just wants it to go away. Messes her up something awful. You know she was last in the class again last term."

"Such a pity. I know that she's not exactly very bright but she can be such a nice girl when she tries. Take tonight for instance, she's just sat there as good as gold and hasn't swore or said anything dirty all evening. I wish her mother would do something."

"Do something! Suzy's Mum is terrified of that brute. Suzy says he's hit her a lot and I've seen some of the bruises. She won't go to the police unless he rapes Suzy or something. As long as he's just groping Suzy she ignores it. I think we should report him to the social. "

"Best you don't interfere. I'll try to have a word with her Mum. Now, take the tea and the chocy biscuits through and just try to forget about it for now."

I turned the TV volume back up quickly.

Tuesday

I think we got to bed just after midnight. We lay in bed with the nightlight on and talked for a bit. At least Julie talked and I listened. I did ask about the cat woman drawing in the girl's toilet and found out that Susan had indeed been responsible. When I said that I didn't think it was particularly offensive Julie burst out laughing. I asked her what the joke was.

"It's not offensive NOW you mean! But, Suzy, give me a break. Writing 'Pamela P. prefers pussy' underneath was really gross.'

I couldn't help laughing too. No wonder the girl had been so mad. Susan was a real little bitch. I lay and thought about what else she could be responsible for while Julie chatted a bit longer and then eventually fell silent.

Although Susan's young body was aching for sleep my mind was so tormented that I lay awake. I lay on my back with my hands behind my head watching my chest, encased in the pink nylon frills of the bodice of a borrowed nightgown, rise and fall with each breath and listening to Julie's soft snores from the adjacent bed as I tried to put things together. We have to face it, this Susan girl is in a real mess. Firstly she is intellectually challenged. She doesn't appear to be good at much. Well she might be good at art. Second, she appears to be bad-tempered and foulmouthed. Third, she is an abused teenager from a dysfunctional family. Fourth, she takes drugs and possibly shows nymphomaniac tendencies. Her life was a total shambles.

Of course I felt very sorry for Susan. She was one of life's unfortunates. But she wasn't really my responsibility. I'd just been thrust in her body without wanting to be there and when I left her life would be no worse than before. My responsibility was to myself, I had to get back home and into my own bed and try to wake up in my own body and resume my own life.

That decided, I got up, gathered my clothes together and, with a backward glance to check that Julie was still asleep, I tiptoed out the room. I dressed as quickly as I could in the kitchen. Julie's mum had left her bag on the counter. Although it was theft, and I'm normally an honest person, I ransacked her purse. Thank goodness she had some money. I took just enough to get me to Oxford, fifteen pounds for the train and enough change to pay a bus fare. On second thoughts I took another fiver for emergencies. I found a ballpoint and some paper and scribbled a quick note thanking her and Julie for their hospitality and adding that I was sorry and I couldn't explain the reasons but that I'd had to borrow some money from her purse and that if she got a check in repayment from someone she didn't know just to accept it. Then I let myself out into the cold dawn.

Typically, it was pissing with rain and by the time the bus came I was cold and soaked. My skirt was sodden and clinging to my equally waterlogged tights. My shoes squelched when I walked. I had misjudged the train fare too and was a few pounds short of the peak hours single fare. This meant I had to wait in the station until after ten o'clock in the morning. I had to get rid of the wet tights so I binned them in the Ladies. The 'Away Day' special fare was ridiculously cheap so I had a bit of cash in hand. I bought a buy a big mug of tea and a bacon roll and sat shivering miserably in the buffet huddled as close as I could get to a radiator. As the time passed beyond eight thirty I felt very that I must look very suspicious and conspicuous dressed in a schoolgirls uniform in a station. Certainly I drew more than a few stares from other people in the buffet, but whether those were because of my bedraggled wet-rat look or the fact that I should by rights be in school somewhere I don't know.

By the time the first train I could board arrived I'd thankfully dried out a bit. The train wasn't crowded either. I found a double seat and removed my blazer, hanging it over the armrest to let it dry out a bit further. Then I flopped back into the window side of the seat and closed my eyes. Shit, I was tired and hungry. Susan's body wasn't into sleep and food deprivation. I couldn't have drifted off for more than ten minutes but when I opened my eyes they made contact with those of a man sitting in the facing seat across the aisle. It was then I realized that I wasn't exactly modestly composed. For a start my wet blouse was plastered to my chest and was practically transparent. When I'd dozed off I'd apparently slid down in the seat a bit and my thighs were quite far apart. I was showing off more than a little of Susan's assets. As I tried to wriggle back into a sitting position his beady eyes were rapidly flicking between my tits and my thighs. He was almost drooling. I sat up and stared back aware that my face was flushed. However that didn't phase him and he continued to ogle my breasts until I put my blazer back on and hugged it tightly round me. I had half expected him to speak but he didn't say a word. Now that the peep show was over he just lifted his paper and began to read. It only came down again as the train pulled into Oxford. When I got up to go he had the cheek to ask me why I wasn't at school! I felt like asking him why he wasn't in prison but then I thought better of it.

It was still raining in Oxford and it's a fair walk to my college but I realized that that was all I could do. So I held my satchel over my head and trudged up the hill. It's not more than a mile or so really but by the time I got to High Street I was soaked again, my shoes were rubbing on my bare feet and I was limping. There was no way I could make it much further. Fortunately there is a branch of John Lewis Stores nearby so I dived into their ladies room, stripped off a bit and sat in the comparative warmth of a toilet booth for a while. The red marks on my heels were testimony to the fact that the bloody shoes were torture and it wouldn't be possible for me to walk any further. However I was in a department store, albeit with only a few pounds to my name, so I had some access to replacements if I was brazen enough. Anyway I wasn't quite myself, so to speak, and the incident on the train hadn't helped my mood. And Susan was by all accounts a 'bad girl' so I wouldn't be acting out of character. Gloria's lessons on female shopping practice were useful too. I visited the ground floor and picked up a pair of opaque thick tights, shaking the packet at the assistant and implying that I was taking them to the checkout in a different part of the store. I dived into the ladies and put them on.

Then I skipped up to the footwear department and tried on a pair of ankle boots. The next step was the tricky bit. I left my satchel on the chair and told the assistant I was going to walk over to the window at the end of the floor and show the boots to my aunt in the light. Then I sauntered off, ducked into the stairwell and did a bolt for the ground floor exit. Two minutes later I knew I was across one street, and onto the next, making my way to St Jude's.

Walter, the Senior College Porter, was standing outside the box in the college gateway. I'd always liked Walter. He was always polite and we had shared a few jokes between us, so I was quite taken aback by his manner. He was overbearing and supercilious as he held out his hand before me.

"Sorry Miss, You can't go in. This entrance is for Dons and students only."

"But I need to see Professor Dingle. It's important."

He looked me up and down. "Not a chance, Missie. Unless you have an appointment." Here he puffed out his chest. "And the Prof would have told ME if he had an appointment with someone like YOU."

I was quite taken aback by his tone. I was being referred to like something he wouldn't want to have to scrape off his shoes.

He waved his hand in the general direction of the street.

"Anyway he isn't here. He hasn't been in since Friday. Now bugger off and get back to school!"

I stepped back. Two things bored themselves into my mind. First, that he was suddenly bigger than me! Bugger, I knew he was a little man, barely more than five foot six. I couldn't believe that he had grown. My second thought was that when things returned to normal, he would never ever again get a Christmas gratuity from me. I bit back the bile in my throat and tried to sound contrite. To sound like an undergraduate.

'Look, I have to see him. Can I go up to his rooms and wait? Please Walter?"

He was surprised at me knowing his first name. Surprised and not amused. He stepped back and waved his hands rather threateningly.

"Get away with you. You, you… little troublemaker. Get lost or I'll call the police."

"You don't understand. It's a matter of life and death!" I screamed back.

Walter was purple with rage. "It will be if you don't leave immediately!" He walked towards me and my nerves, which by this time were stretched taught, snapped. I turned on my heel and fled. I could hear him mutter something like 'pretentious little slut' behind me.

I wandered down the street. I was miserable. I was wet. I was cold. I felt lost. And I was incandescent with rage. I was also trying to work out why I'd even bothered to go to the college. It hadn't been a terribly logical thing to do. It would surely be better to have gone straight home. So why hadn't I done that in the first place? That's what I had to do now, get on a bus and go home. So, although I'd resolved nothing, I had at least a plan of action.

About ten minutes later I was standing at the bus stop, minding my own business, when I noticed a woman talking to a policewoman across the road. She was vaguely familiar and was pointing in my direction and gesticulating. Bugger! It was the assistant from the shoe department in the store. The policeman started across the traffic and I looked around for somewhere to run. Just then the bus pulled up and cut him off from my view. I turned and fled down an alley. I weaved as quickly as I could through the area working a number of first right, first left turns before glancing behind me. I couldn't see anyone chasing which was just as well as I was quite out of breath. There was a coffee shop across the alley. It was crowded with undergraduates and that seemed a reasonable enough place to hide for a bit till I caught my breath and the pursuit, if indeed there was one, cooled down.

I stuck myself into a booth at the very back of the place and cuddled a hot chocolate. After ten minutes in the fuggy atmosphere my body had warmed up and my feelings of panic had cooled down, at enough to be comfortably uncomfortable, if that makes any sense. Anyway it was cozy. Looking round I realized that the place was populated by undergraduates mainly first years in their late teens. Wearing a school blazer and tie was a little out of place so I took of them both off. A couple of lanky boys I vaguely recognized as members of one of my first year tutorial groups came in and sat at an adjacent table. I overheard a few words of their conversation and it was quite easy to work out that they were chatting about my course. So of course I edged closer and strained to hear what they were saying. Suddenly one of them looked at me and I felt very embarrassed. I smiled. He smiled. Both of us looked away. When I looked back at their table they were whispering and one at a time they were stealing appraising glances in my direction. It was obvious that the subject of conversation had changed. I was just thinking about leaving when one of them got up and came over to my table.

"Look" he said, and I was suddenly conscious that his eyes were dropping towards my cleavage. "My friend and I were wondering… em. Well… We were wondering if you were on the game? And if so, would you .. em .. be up for spending a few hours with us this afternoon?"

Fucking Hell! They thought I was a prostitute! I was so taken aback I just didn't know what to say. I felt like telling them that I would report them for indecent behavior to their colleges but in the end I just mumbled 'No thanks!' with as much indignation as I could muster, picked up my blazer and ran out into the street. I heard one of them try to say 'Sorry' to my back. I was so furious I almost knocked a girl down and upset a number of cups of coffee by banging into tables on the way to the door. I promised myself that those two would be sent down as soon as I could manage it and they would never, if I could do anything about it, graduate from any established university in the United Kingdom. Then, when I slipped on my jacket, I realized that half the buttons on my shirt weren't fastened. The top of my bra, at the very least, must have been visible. Shit, that must have happened when I took off my tie. What with me leaning forward to hear their conversation it must have seemed very provocative behavior. With Susan's tits virtually sticking in their faces it was no wonder the boys had jumped to the conclusion that I was soliciting. God, it was high time this silly farce ended and I got back to being me.

The rain had stopped and to avoid any nasty encounters I took the long route home via Sandford walking along the river bank for most of the way. When I reflected on the things that had happened in Oxford that afternoon I realized that I had learned a few useful things which cheered me up a bit. I'd taken little notice at the time that my name was still on the college message board. And I should be grateful to Walter the porter, at least for confirming that I existed but that he hadn't seen me since last Friday. Similarly recognizing the two students was a bonus in a way. These facts put to rest some of my unspoken irrational dread that I might have somehow stepped out of my Universe and into some bizarre parallel or future existence. However it was still a relief when I turned into my street in the gathering dusk and saw that my house was still there. As I got closer I took great relish in observing that it had the same curtains and the same green front door and the same uncut grass lawn that it had when I last saw it. My spare backdoor key, bless its cold little brass heart, was still under the fourth brick on the path to the potting shed.

I let myself in and locked the door behind me. Saturday's mail and the Sunday paper were lying on the carpet. Everything was very ordinary and normal. I flicked on the light and looked at myself in the hallstand mirror. Well, everything except me was normal. But at least I was home and with some luck I'd revert to being me somehow. For now a drink, a bath and bed were in order. I pushed open the door to the lounge.

Bloody Hell! I'd been robbed. The place had been ransacked. Books and ornaments were strewn all over the floor. The mirror over the fireplace was smashed and so were all the framed pictures. The dining room and kitchen were no better. The fridge door was hanging off its hinges and it looked like all my crockery was in shards. I retrieved one half empty bottle of malt whisky from behind the dining room door. By the looks of it every other bottle had been drunk or smashed. It looked like the large wall mirror over the sideboard had been the target for a bottle throwing competition. What a bloody mess.

However, I wasn't prepared for what was the real shock. The final sickening horror. That was in the bedroom. The naked body of a balding, middle aged man was lying on the bloodstained bed. It was badly mutilated. Bloody scars ran over his face and upper torso. His face was twisted in agony. But worse still was the bloody mess that had been his groin. God it was awful. His penis had been hacked off and the implement that had performed the deed, the shattered top half of a vodka bottle, was still clenched in his hand. The other hand stretched out towards the remains of the mirrored doors of the wardrobe. He'd scrawled a message, a single word, in his blood on the glass. It said 'SuZy'.

I remember lifting the telephone in the hall and dialing the police. My voice seemed strangely calm.

"What is the nature of the emergency, Miss?"

"I want to report a murder."

"Speak up please. Who are you? Did you say Murder? Who's murder?"

"Yes… a murder. The murder of Professor Tom Dingle at number 16, Belford Road. And the murderer is….was.. Susan-Anne Granger."

  

  

  

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