This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.
This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don't read it.
Unfortunately no politicians or lawyers were injured or killed in the writing of this story, and no one else was either.
If you enjoyed it, then please Email me and tell me. If you hated it, Email me and lie.
I will always welcome contact.
AUTHOR'S HEALTH WARNING
Dear Reader,
Life can be a crock sometimes, so if it all right with you, I actually prefer happy endings. So, if you want the hero(ine) to have a really miserable time, READ SOMETHING ELSE.
But if you want to see good prevail, and end up with a soppy smile, then I have achieved what I set out to do.
Please enjoy.
Tanya
tanya_jaya@yahoo.co.uk
The legal stuff.
This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Permission is granted for it to be copied and read by individuals, and for no other purpose. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited, and may only be posted to free sites with the express permission of the author.
Monique
by Tayna J
Parts 1 - 3
Synopsis.
Seventeen-year old Matthew Thwaites is trapped snooping in his father's study when his father returns home unexpectedly with two strange men. He hides under the desk, and is horrified to see his father gunned down just inches away from him.
Given an opportunity to flee, he does so, and finds himself framed for the murder.
Alone, and powerless, he hides out at a busy airport, and his appearance is such that he is mistaken for a girl. Given an idea, he makes the most of this, and goes whole hog into the deception. He becomes Monique, his French cousin. He manages to find an ally in an officer investigating corrupt police officers, and together they try to piece together the puzzle.
He is then pitched into an international conspiracy involving terrorists, corrupt police and double agents.
But Monique is twice the person that Matthew ever was, and given the chance, she decides to take over.
It then gets even more confusing.
My thanks to Geoff for his help in proof-reading/editing. XX
Part 1.
They say that when you are terrified, your senses suddenly become heightened. Mine were, but I was shaking so much that I didn't appreciate it. I was hiding in the knee recess of my father's antique wooden desk, and shaking with fear. It was taking all my concentration to control my bladder and sphincter muscles.
It had all started at about eight, on an evening in early August, when I had been left alone in the house. As always when bored, I would enjoy going through my father's desk, just to get some idea what he did to keep us in such style. When I was young, about seven or eight, I used to imagine he was a sort of James Bond-like character, because we, as a family, were fortunate enough to go all over the world, and live in such wonderful homes, it was an easy picture to build. Now I was seventeen, I realised that perhaps he was a little shadier than the clean cut Mr Bond.
I had an elder sister, Carol, who I hadn't seen in a several years. She was 23, and had married a rich American attorney. They lived in Los Angeles. Carol was expecting their first child, and as she had a super relationship with her parents-in-law, there was little chance of seeing her this side of the birth.
Dad was not a great one for his children, as he had always appeared to be more concerned in making money. Our mother had died six years ago, and I still missed her terribly. When she died, a light in my life was extinguished, and I felt I was perpetually living in a murkier world. She had been everything that Dad wasn't. She was vivacious, gregarious, fun, and very loving. She was prone to great peaks and troughs of moods, but was always so encouraging and loving. She was French, and it often amazed us children that she had ever married Dad. He was curt, humourless, boring, and very English. Yet, repeatedly, she said only the best things about him. There was a deep mystery there, and I would have liked to get to the bottom of it.
He was always so different with her. He adored her, would have died for her, and she worshipped the ground he walked upon. When she died, a little of Dad died also. So much so, that he buried himself in his work, and we were largely ignored. I had been sent to the best schools, and was, at this time, on holiday from school. British public schools are indeed wonderful institutions if you are academically intelligent or sporty, or both. I was neither.
I wasn't a dunce, and I enjoyed sports. I was not desperately interested in at least half the subjects on offer, and neither was I sufficiently skilled in sports to be good enough to represent the school. I did find that there were an awful lot of boys like me, and I had several quite good friends, but that didn't stop me from getting screwed up. Like many teenaged boys, I was suffering from growing up, and all I wanted to do was be accepted by society, i.e., to look like Arnold Schwarzenegger, with the brains of Einstein, and have the sex appeal of Pierce Brosnan. My other problem was un-mentionable. It was deeply hidden in my subconscious.
I often wished that my mother had not died, if only to share with her my hidden and shameful secret. Nevertheless, she had died, and I had no one to talk to about it. So I buried it, and almost forgot it was there, almost.
I fell far short of all the teen ideals. I was five foot six, and with a proportionate build, except for my big bum, which made me very self conscious. They said that I looked younger than my seventeen years. My success with girls was a non-starter, and I was very aware of my failings. However, it was my slim build and small frame that had enabled me to squeeze into this tiny recess in Dad's study desk, despite my bum.
I had been watching TV in my room, and idly playing Grand Theft Auto III on my PC when I got bored. I had ordered a Pizza delivery, as Mrs Rogers, the housekeeper, had the night off. I had gone to Dad's study. I liked the challenge of picking the locks on his desk, and going through his papers. I was still none the wiser, as it was all complete gibberish to me. I had heard the front door slam, and the sound of raised voices in the hall.
"Just be quiet will you, my son is upstairs." Dad said.
The other man replied, but I did not hear what he said. The front door opened and closed again, and I heard another voice, it was quite a deep voice, male, but had a sort of whine to it. It was a London accent.
"All quiet. We won't be interrupted." this voice said.
I was already in the recess when Dad opened the study door. I had just managed to lock up the drawers, and slide out of sight before they came in. My heart was thumping so hard, I felt sure they could hear it.
"I told you. I no longer have your money. And besides, as I said, the offer was only tenuous at best." Dad said.
"No Charles. You misunderstand. The offer was taken in good faith. Our money was to secure those contracts, and we either want the cash back, or the contracts, as you promised." the first man said. Although he spoke English, he had an accent I couldn't identify.
"I promised nothing. The money was passed on to enable me to make contacts, and ease the application. Political decisions have been made out of my sphere of influence, and the contracts have been shelved." Dad said, clearly worried.
"This is not my problem. I need those contracts. You assured me they were as good as ours. I am here for those contracts, or full reimbursement of my organisation's funds. A lot of time, effort and capital has been put into this project, and we will not stand by and see it fail." The man sounded quite insistent, and there was an edge to his voice I found very threatening.
My father walked behind the desk. I saw his familiar brogues, and heard him reply.
"I don't have the money. I used it to establish the contacts, and, as I said, to ease the application. I can't get five million pounds just like that."
"This is most unfortunate. You see, I happen to know you went to Switzerland last week, and that you deposited an undisclosed sum into a certain bank there. It seems that you are playing on both sides of a very dangerous street." the man said.
Dad sat down, and I knew that if he pulled the chair up to the desk I was bound to be uncovered.
"Look, give me some time. My trip to Switzerland was unconnected, and I put none of your money in the bank. Perhaps I can get you two million in a couple of days." Dad was frightened now. I could hear his voice was shaking. I had never heard him like this.
"Charles. You have played with grown-ups for long enough to know we don't play by those silly rules. Are the contracts going to be given to us?"
"I don't know. It is out of my hands, but I doubt it."
"Do you have our money?"
"Not here."
Dad then put his hand under the desk, and I saw him press a hidden lever. A small drawer slid out a few inches, and I watched as he grasped something in his right hand, and start to remove it. It was a gun. This was exciting, and if I hadn't been quite so frightened, I would have been enjoying myself.
I will never forget what happened next.
I heard the foreign voice say, "Charles don't be juvenile, put it down."
Then there was a shout and two very loud shots. Dad slumped forward, and a dark liquid started to drip down onto the floor in front of me. My ears were ringing but I just managed to hear the next sentence.
"You fool. Why did you shoot him?" said the foreign man.
"I couldn't let him shoot first, could I?" said the whiney London voice. He had been standing behind Dad.
"He wouldn't shoot, you idiot. How the hell are we going to find the money now? We need the vault details and access card. It will be here somewhere, so we will search thoroughly, but check on the boy first. He may have heard the shots."
I heard the study door open and close. The foreigner was still here. I watched his feet as he came round the desk. He pulled my father's body off the desk, and he slumped onto the floor. I stared into his open, but unseeing eyes, and almost lost complete bladder control. I heard the man curse in a foreign language, Arabic, I think it was, and then he forced open some of Dad's drawers. I was frozen in fear as I watched his feet as he went over to the wall. He pulled back the picture of racehorses, and revealed Dad's safe.
The door opened.
"He is not anywhere in the house. I can't find him." said Whiney.
"Damn. This is messy. Right, we'll go look for him, then we sort out the safe."
"Do you know the combination?"
"I have my methods. But the police may make things difficult."
"Don't worry about that, leave the police to me. I know my blokes. They will believe what I tell them to believe, so they won't be a problem, trust me." Whiney man said. So, I now knew he was a policeman, and probably high up.
Both men left the room.
I made myself move, and squeezed out of the recess, clambered over the lifeless body that had been my father, and dashed to the wall safe. I opened it with practiced ease, and emptied the contents into Dad's soft brown leather briefcase. There was some money, and a bag of my late mother's jewellery. There were also some papers, I just took the lot, and crept past the body to the door. I was shaking with shock, but I don't know what I felt really, except a sort of numbness. I don't think I felt any sadness. We had never really liked each other that much, and I was sad about that, as I was not close to him as I had been to my mother.
I put on my leather jacket and slipped out the front door, and round the side of the house. My moped was where I left it, by the garage, with the helmet on the back. I shoved the briefcase on the clip rack on the back, and just took off.
I didn't know where I was going, and I only had the clothes I was wearing. I rode out of Ealing, where we lived, and headed west. I found myself heading towards Oxford on the A40. I didn't want to go to Oxford. I saw the signs for Heathrow, and just followed the signs. I went down through Uxbridge and West Drayton, thereby avoiding the motorways, on which the moped wasn't permitted. Somewhere my brain was telling me to find lots of people, and Heathrow was a good bet. I pulled up outside Terminal One, and lost the bike amongst lots of others.
I headed to the toilets, and locked myself in the gents. I sat there for ages, just shaking. I kept seeing my dad's dead eyes, and I began to feel sick. I threw up into the bowl, and just sat there my mind like a jelly. Eventually, I recovered enough to open the briefcase.
There were six bundles of new £50 notes. I counted them, and each bundle contained £5,000, and I sat there, stunned. The jewellery was lovely, and, I could tell, genuine. It was all that I had left of my mother who died when I was ten.
The papers meant little, but had various dates and amounts on them, similar to bank statements. There were other papers that I had neither the time nor the inclination to look at. There was a small envelope, and in the envelope was a plastic card, like a credit card, but with no details on it, except a series of numbers, and a black magnetic strip, and the small chip. On the envelope were the words Banque Helvetia, Zurich.
I knew enough to know that this was a Swiss private vault card. The conversation the men had with Dad told me that he had been to Switzerland recently, and so I decided that that is where I must go.
But how?
I had money, but no passport. I didn't know who to trust, as the police were involved in my father's murder, and I had no one to turn to. I decided that not all the police could be corrupt, and I was certain someone would listen to me.
I left the toilets, and was walking through the terminal building. I saw an armed police officer at the end of the building, and steeled myself to approach him. I was only a few yards away, when I heard the TV news on at a small boutique.
"......Police are searching for a young man wanted in connection with the brutal slaying of his father. Charles Thwaites, a prominent West London businessman was found a short time ago having been shot in his study. Initial police enquiries reveal that his seventeen year old son, Matthew, may have had an argument over drugs, and shot his father, whilst under the influence of cocaine. The officer in charge of the investigation had this to say,
The scene changed to outside my home, and a man in a suit was facing the camera.
"It appears that Mr Thwaites may have disturbed his son, or somehow returned unexpectedly. There appears evidence of an argument and a struggle. The gun is an illegal one, and we suspect that Matthew has been dealing drugs for some time. This is a particular nasty and vicious crime, and we urge people to assist with his current location."
It was Whiney man. His name was splashed across the screen - Detective Superintendent John Vine.
Then they showed a photograph of me. It was about a year old, and I had short hair then. My hair was down to my shoulders now, as it was my one attempt at declaring independence against my father. It was still identifiable as me.
Part 2.
I immediately turned about and left the terminal. I had to hide, and I had to change my appearance. I was almost crying with frustration. I couldn't believe they would have framed me with killing my Dad. I didn't know what to do.
I sat in the bus shelter at the bus station. It was very busy with people rushing, and people standing waiting. I pulled a baseball cap out of my pocket and put it on my head. I was just another traveller waiting for a connection. Then I saw two British Transport Police officers patrolling the bus station, so I moved off, and made for Terminal Three.
I sat in a restaurant, and had something to eat. I watched the TV news again, and they repeated the same footage as before, except now they added my moped number.
Time passed, and people started thinning out. By midnight, the place was almost deserted, and I watched as police officers checked there were no vagrants in the place.
I dozed off across two seats, and was shaken awake by a young female officer.
"Hello. Wake up. Why are you still here?" she asked.
I was very tired, and my hair was all over my face. I brushed it away from my face with my hand.
I thought for a moment, and then had a brain wave. My mother had been French, and I spoke fluent French.
"Je suis Française. Je ne parle pas anglais." I said. My voice was husky due to being half asleep.
"Shit. Just my luck, some French girl, and no English." the officer said.
What did she say? She called me a girl. My hair and appearance, bloody hell.
"What is your name?" she said slowly and loudly, as if I was deaf as well.
"Monique Bonnard." I said, on the spur of the moment. Bonnard was my mother's maiden name, "I lose suitcase and passport. I wait here, tomorrow, new passport. Merde. Air France to Paris." I stammered in broken English, with an outrageous French accent.
"Okay, Monique. You shouldn't really stay here, but stay near the CCTV camera. You be careful now. You understand?" she said, pointing at the CCTV camera that was staring straight at me.
"Oui, merci. Tank you." I said.
She moved off, satisfied that I wasn't a vagrant or an illegal immigrant.
I sat completely dazed by what had happened. She had thought I was female. Then it came to me, I could disguise myself as a girl, and somehow get to Switzerland. But how?
I had played a girl in a stage play at school, and figured that I could do makeup with no problem. I smiled a sad little smile, as I was now tapping into things usually kept in my deepest recess of my mind. I had always had the desire to live as a girl. But being wanted for murder had never been part of the fantasy. Now I had money to spend on clothes, but I needed some form of documentation. Still, one thing at a time. I needed not to look like me.
I moved to a more private location, and surprised myself by sleeping for several hours. The seats were no good, but I lay on the carpeted floor, with the briefcase as a pillow. As the army of cleaners moved in, I awoke and went for some breakfast. Then when the shops opened, I made a few purchases in Boots the chemist. I bought a mascara brush and eyeliner, some lipstick and eye shadow, and a hair brush. I also bought a tooth brush, tooth paste, shampoo, and ladies deodorant, and some other products for hair removal. Fortunately I was not very hairy; I hadn't started shaving yet.
I went into the ladies, found a large cubicle and spent ages shaving my legs, arms and armpits, and then in front of the mirror applied just a little make up. I knew enough not to over do it, otherwise I would look silly. I did not want to stand out, I just wanted to give the impression that I was a girl. I didn't want to make everyone look at me. I brushed out my long blonde hair, and had to admit that I looked pretty convincing.
I had on a baggy tee shirt and jeans, with trainers on my feet. My leather jacket successfully masked my figure or lack of it, but with the makeup on my face, I looked like any teenage girl.
I left the loo, and went to a small boutique, and browsed amongst the products on sale. I was totally clueless. I didn't know what size I was, and I was just about to chicken out, when I came across a multi-national chart of sizes and measurements.
I spent nearly three hundred pounds on girl's clothes, including bras and underwear. I ambled along with my purchases, and saw a nice little suitcase on wheels with a extendable handle. So, I bought that, and a ladies shoulder bag and purse too. I disappeared into the loo again, and put on the bra and panties. I pulled on the tights, and then a short black skirt and a black silk blouse. I stuffed extra tights into the bra, and packed everything else into my new suitcase, including the briefcase.
I put some money into my purse and put that and the cosmetics into my bag. I then walked out into the main open area of the ladies, and looked at my reflection. I was delighted with my new appearance. I was actually very attractive, and thanked the Lord for my bum. My legs looked good, but my bum was perfect. I then realised I was still wearing trainers, so I remedied that at the shoe shop. I bought several pairs of shoes, all with high heels, and one pair of boots.
I paid cash, and packed everything I wasn't wearing in my case. I walked slowly along the concourse, feeling like a completely different person. I had to walk slowly, as I was unused to the high heels, and I felt rather precarious. I bought a black mock pearl necklace, some bangles, and a pair of clip-on earrings. I knew that if this masquerade was going to be successful, I would have to get my ears pierced.
I bought a newspaper, and went into a coffee shop for coffee and a croissant. The whole story was splashed across the front page, and my picture was everywhere. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the counter and smiled. There was no way I could be discovered looking like this. Two police officers sauntered past, I smiled at them, and they both smiled back. This might work after all.
I was just finishing my coffee, when a middle aged business man offered to share a taxi into London with me. I sensed he was after more, and politely told him I was waiting for my boyfriend. It made me understand that there were more dangers in being a young and attractive female than I had realised.
After the sixth proposition, I got fed up, and tried to figure out what to do. I examined some of the papers I had taken from Dad's safe, and the cogs started to turn, a little. I had enough money to get to Switzerland, but without a passport I was helpless. I had read the newspaper from cover to cover, and saw one article about police corruption. I then remembered that the Metropolitan Police had a separate department that investigated corrupt officers.
I dug out my mobile and called the operator, and got put through to New Scotland Yard. I asked for the Criminal Investigation Branch, and eventually a female voice answered.
"CIB Good morning." A pleasant female voice answered.
"Hello. I want to speak to someone about a police officer who has committed murder, and is trying to frame someone for that murder." I said.
"That is a serious allegation. Can I have your name please?"
"I am Matthew Thwaites. My father was shot twice by a man called John Vine, and he is now making up lies about me killing Dad." I said.
There was a pause on the other end, and I pictured her reaction to my information.
"I will only speak to you, and not on the phone. I will call back, what is your name?" I said.
"I am DC Alison Grover, but..."
I cut her off, and moved swiftly to another location. I rang her back.
"I will meet you. Alone and unrecorded. I do not trust anyone. I have evidence. I was in the room when Vine shot him." I said.
"When and where?" she said.
"Heathrow Airport. Terminal Three arrivals. One hour, alone." I said, and cut her off.
I waited on the balcony as men in plain clothes started moving in. They could only be police officers, I thought. I counted six, but guessed there would be more. I waited as the minutes clicked by. I was just another female member of the public standing waiting for someone. I watched as a female in a grey trouser suit came in, and looked around nervously. I smiled. She was so obviously DC Grover. She was about five foot seven, about twenty six or seven, and slightly on the heavy side. She had a large bust, but a proportionate bum. Her hair was quite dark, and she had it cut short, not that she was mannish, as it was styled nicely. She struck me as being a woman who put her job first, and private life second.
I walked straight past her, conscious of my high heels making a clickety click noise on the hard floor. She glanced briefly at me, and then away. I went to the information desk, and handed over a small piece of paper, and then retired to watch the fun.
The tannoy activated.
"Would Alison Grover please attend the Information desk."
Alison turned and made for the desk. I then rang the information desk, and told the man that I wished to speak to Alison Glover.
"I am sorry there is no one by that name here."
"She is dressed in grey. You have just tannoyed her." I said.
He waved Alison forward, and she took the phone.
"Hello?"
"I said alone. I knew I could not trust you." I said, as I left the building and got onto the bus for Terminal four.
"Where are you?"
"Safe. Leave by the exit to your left and take the bus for Terminal Four, and leave the others behind." I said and cut her off again.
The bus was almost ready to leave, and she had to run. I was sitting at the back, and she stood in the middle, looking at everyone on board. I stared out of the window, acting the bored and weary traveller. I could see her reflection in the window, and felt her eyes pass right over me.
The journey took fifteen minutes, and as soon as we arrived, she was swept off by the tide of passengers. She went with them into the Terminal, and I was at the back, pulling my little case on its wheels. She pulled out her mobile and punched in some numbers. I stood close enough to hear her side of the conversation.
"He was watching. He saw the others, and we spooked him. I'm in T4 now. Get a back up car down here at once."
I smiled, and walked up to her.
"Excuse moi, Mademoiselle, parlez vous français?" I asked.
She looked at me and frowned.
"No, that is if you are asking whether I speak French?" she said.
"J'ai été demandé te donner ce. Ah, pliz, I haf bin given zees for you." I said, explaining in broken English that I had been asked to give her the piece of paper I was carrying.
She frowned and took the paper.
It said, FOLLOW THE GIRL.
I turned and walked off, and she had to run to keep up with me. I went straight into the ladies, and she had no choice but to follow. There were a few people about.
"Look. What is this who are you?" she asked as I repaired some make up in the mirror.
I waited for the place to be empty.
I placed a single piece of paper on the side.
"Matthew gives me zat to give to you. He say he has more, but he eez afraid of ze corrupt policeman. Matthew say he haz more proof in Switzerland, but haz no way to get zere." I said in broken English, with the same outrageous accent.
The paper had dates of payments made and received. There was one entry with the initials DV clearly marked thereon, for the sum of £20,000. There was another for a month later for £10,000. There was one for £1,000,000 paid to CT, my Dad. These accounts had not been my father's, but some he had obtained from somewhere else.
She looked at me, frowning.
"Just who are you?"
"I am a cousin of Matthew Thwaites. I am returning to France to go back to college. Matthew, call me, and say he eez in trouble, I like heem, so I help. Ze papers lie, he haz never taken ze drugs." I said.
"Aiding a criminal is an offence." she said.
"You are helping zat man Vine, duz zat make you guilty?" I asked.
She smiled.
"Okay, where is he?" she asked.
"He eez safe, but he will speak to only you."
"Okay, so what happens now?"
"I am to take you to heem, no calls."
I turned and walked out. I went straight through the emergency exit, and a taxi pulled onto the rank as I arrived. I waved and it came up to me. I stuck my head through the window, and said, "Oxford Street." I got in, and Alison had no choice by to follow me in. As we drove off, I noticed a car pull up outside the Terminal building, and four burly men get out and run into the terminal.
I sat back and smiled. I may have been only seventeen, but I was growing up fast.
Part 3.
I was conscious that my companion was staring at me, intently.
"Okay, just who the hell are you?" she asked.
I smiled. I had to trust someone.
"I am Matthew." I said, and smiled as her mouth opened and no sound came out. Then she nodded, slowly.
"I can see it now. No girl would sit like that with that skirt on. But I have to admit, you had me completely fooled. You are in deep shit, Matthew." she said, and I drew my knees together self-consciously.
"Tell me something I don't know. That bastard has fitted me up completely." I said, and then told her the whole story, except for the cash I had in my possession.
She nodded, and frowned.
"You've put me in a very awkward position." she said.
"And I'm not?"
She smiled again.
"Where are we going?"
"Anywhere, nowhere. I don't know. I am so frustrated, because I need to get to Switzerland to see what's in the vault. I am positive that Dad has documented everything. He was always so careful. He was a shrewd bastard, and I am sure he dabbled in dodgy deals, but he would always cover his back."
Alison thought for a moment.
"All right, look, if I help you, will you help us?"
"Of course. But I am not going to get locked up."
"If it is any consolation, we have had a suspicion about John Vine for a while, and if it helps, I actually believe you." she said, with a smile.
"You do?"
"I do. You wouldn't have called CIB if you were guilty. You'd have just run."
"Oh."
"I need to call in, okay?"
I nodded, and she took out her mobile.
"Its me. I'm fine, but we've lost him."
"No, he got some tourist to lead me a merry chase. He could be anywhere. He saw the team getting into position, and that spooked him, but I have some good evidence that Vine is dirty."
"Yes."
"I will see you back at the office later. I am going to follow up a lead."
"No, I don't need back up, and I will call you when I know more."
She turned off her phone, and opened the sliding glass partition, and spoke to the driver. Then she closed it again.
"I am taking you to my flat. You will be safe there, and I think we need to do something about your appearance."
"What's wrong with it?" I asked, slightly hurt.
"Its okay, but a bit sluttish. If you want to get picked up, that is the right way to go about it. We need to make you just blend in, not stand out like a beacon."
"Oh." I said, and smiled, remembering the six men in the airport.
We arrived at a road in Harrow Weald, and I paid the taxi driver. She took me to a ground floor flat in a nice three storey building. She opened the door, and I gratefully took off my shoes.
"How women wear these for any length of time, I will never know." I said.
She laughed.
"Okay, what do you want me to call you? I can't call you Matthew looking like that."
"Monique is fine." I said, adopting the accent again.
"Right, What other clothes have you got?" she asked, and I opened my case. We went through my complete wardrobe, and she shook her head.
"Monique, you are a plonker. These are all fine for going out clubbing, or on a date, but for daily wear, it is silly. We need to go shopping, and we have to do something about your boobs."
I looked down and saw that they were flat and lopsided.
"Oh."
She was larger that I, so her clothes were no good, but when I said I had enough cash for some more, she grinned.
"We will go shopping, but first, I need some more evidence. Do you have anything else for me?"
I shrugged, and gave her the papers from the briefcase.
"Go and put the kettle on, and make us a coffee while I look at these." she said, and I wandered into the kitchen. I felt relaxed for the first time since Dad was killed, and the weird thing was I felt perfectly natural as a girl. I found myself adopting feminine gestures and postures quite subconsciously. I knew that when my mother died, it had affected me very profoundly, and I would often wish that I had been a girl, but now, I felt strangely content with what I was.
I put the kettle on and made us both a coffee. I walked back into the sitting room and sat down. She stared at me, with a smile, shaking her head.
"Are you sure you are a boy?" she asked.
"To be honest, not really. I think I'd like to be a girl really. But beggars can't be choosers." I heard myself say.
"I wish I had your figure. It is almost perfect." she said.
"I am slightly flat on top." I said with a grin.
She smiled and shook her head, and looked back at the papers in her hand. After several minutes she looked at me.
"Do you know what these are?"
I shook my head.
"Neither do I, but I know a man who might." she said.
She stood up and finished her coffee.
"Put your shoes on again, Monique, we are going shopping, but first, lets do something about your boobs." she said. She took out the tights I had put in there. She disappeared for a couple of minutes, and returned with a box.
"Okay Monique, strip."
Once I was down to my bra and panties, she opened the box.
"And the bra."
I took it off, very aware of my flat chest.
I felt a cold liquid on my chest, and noticed she was smearing some gel across my nipples. Then she placed two very realistic breast forms over my own non-existent breasts.
She made me hold them in place as she nudged them into the correct position. We held them for ages, and I could feel the gel harden.
"Okay, let go." she said, and I did. The breasts stayed there, and looked very realistic. She took out some foundation, and rubbed it around the joins. When she had finished, they looked absolutely real. They even had large nipples.
"Fine, now we are in business." she said.
"Why have you got these?" I asked.
"I'll tell you later. It is a long story, lets say you aren't the first bloke I've come across who wanted to be a girl."
I looked at her critically, and decided that there was just no way she could ever have been a bloke. She noticed my look, and smiled.
"Not me. If that is what you were thinking."
"I didn't think so."
I put my case and everything in her spare bedroom, and we left the flat. The bus stop was a short walk away, and the next thing I knew we were getting off in a shopping area.
She took me to a tattoo parlour and sent me in to get my ears pierced, and she disappeared, telling me to wait for her outside when done.
I expected excruciating pain, but it hardly hurt at all. The funny popping noise was the worst part, when the skin was actually pierced. The girl gave me some sleepers and a simple set of studs, and told me to keep them in so the holes didn't heal up.
I left the parlour, feeling very weird with earrings in my ears. I was admiring myself in the window, when Alison came back.
"They look fine. I still can't believe what you look like." she said.
She took me into a department store, and we went straight to the ladies clothes section. We selected several dresses and skirts, with some blouses and tops, and I followed her into the changing rooms. She came into the cubicle with me.
I tried on all the clothes, and had to admit they were far more suitable than what I had chosen. Although less overtly sexy, they were elegant and felt lovely. If anything, they made me look more feminine than those I had chosen. I just adored the breasts. They felt just how I imagined the real things would feel. They jiggled and moved as I did. I couldn't stop grinning.
She told me to buy a set of false nails at the nail bar, and I found myself buying what seemed to me to be a huge amount of cosmetics. I was now wearing a very pretty cotton dress, with a pair of shoes that were actually comfortable and still made my legs and feet look sexy. I was taken to the hairdressers, and for two hours was tortured by a sadistic female wrestler.
But the finished product literally took my breath away.
My hair was originally blonde and styleless Now it had a wave to it, and had been styled and cut to accentuate the shape of the head. With very light natural highlights, it looked wonderful. Alison kept dragging me past every shop window, as I just had to stop and admire myself.
We stopped for lunch at a wine bar, and I found myself telling Alison more about the inner me, than even I knew. I poured out my soul, and began to realise that I was one screwed up kid.
We walked back to the bus stop, and popped into Woolworths, where she made me sit in a photo booth for the passport-style photos.
We took the bus back to her flat, and dropped off the packages and bags. I was feeling very tired, but she took me out again, and, after making a couple of calls, we set off in her car.
I was completely lost when she pulled up in a very seedy area.
"Hang on to your handbag, and don't stop." She said, and we walked very fast down the road. We stopped at a small Greek café, and went in.
There were three men playing cards at a table, who looked up as we came in. Two were in their twenties, and the other, in his fifties, was balding with a huge moustache.
The older man smiled at Alison.
"Ah. Ladycop. How are you, darling?" he said.
"I'm fine, Peter. We need to talk." she said.
"Okay, come in." he said, and stood up, and led us to a back room. He shut the door, and looked at me, questioningly.
"This is a friend, her name is Monique."
"Hello Monique." he said, and took my hand, and kissed it.
Alison smiled, but I stayed silent.
"So, sit down ladies. What can I do for you?" Peter asked, and we sat down.
"Monique is helping us with a corruption case, but she needs to obtain travel documents, without going through usual channels. Now, this is particularly difficult, as the target is highly placed, and we don't yet know how far his tentacles have spread. I was hoping that with your contacts, you might know some way she could obtain a passport or something like that?"
Peter stared at her, and then looked at me.
"What is in it for me?" he asked Alison.
"The going rate, plus a formal acknowledgement from us on successful completion of the case." she said, and one of his bushy eyebrows rose sharply.
"Passports are tricky, just now. What nationality?"
"French." I said, the first word I had uttered.
"Ah ha, est-ce que tu es Française?" he asked in passable French.
"Certainement. Tu parle la source français?" I said.
He smiled, and reverted to English.
"It has been a long time. I think I can get you a French Carte d' Identité. But I will need a photograph of you, and personal details."
Alison smiled, and handed over the recent photos we'd taken in Woolworths. I wrote the name Monique Bonnard, a date of birth exactly two years older that mine, making me almost twenty, and an address near some of my cousins near Lille, in France. He nodded, and looked at me.
"Five hundred pounds, up front." he said, with a slightly apologetic smile.
I counted out five hundred pounds onto the table, without changing expression. He stared at my face, and smiled.
"Ha, you are a cool one. I pity your husband."
"I am not married." I said, blushing slightly.
"Ha, you will be. The good ones always are!" he said, as my money disappeared.
"Come back tomorrow. Same time." he said.
Alison stood up, and I held out my hand.
"Merci, vous avez pu sauver ma vie." I said, thanking him for saving my life.
He went bright red, and kissed my hand again.
We left, and returned gratefully to find the car still in one piece.
Alison drove back to the flat, with an odd expression on her face.
"What?" I asked.