by P R Ellis
7
LATER SATURDAY
Jasmine paused and rubbed her eyes. Floating in front of her eyes were an array of stiff cocks and huge, spheroidal breasts that she’d been peering at in the hope of seeing Honey Potts’ round face and collagen-filled lips. Hours spent flicking through endless galleries of she-male porn and contact websites had passed without success. She was getting more and more angry looking at these men pretending to be women. No, that was wrong. They couldn’t be pretending to be women with those erect penises on show. What were they? How did they think of themselves? Her anger and the prejudice she felt against those she-males living like that annoyed and disappointed her. She wanted to be liberal and accepting, but there were enough misunderstandings about transsexuals without these she-males muddying the scene with their rampant sexualities. She stretched her back making the old dining chair creak ominously.
Suddenly, there was a loud noise outside - the sound of a heavy object meeting glass. Jasmine jumped up, reached for the door knob and pulled the door open. She stepped onto the small concrete landing at the top of the steps to her flat and looked down into the car park. There was no-one there amongst the half dozen or so cars. What had made the noise? A lump of rubble lay on the tarmac beside her car.
She hurried down the steps, sensing that the noise related to her. She was right. When she reached the old Fiesta she saw a spider’s web of cracks radiating from a dent in the windscreen right in front of the driver’s seat.
‘What’s happened?’
Jasmine recognised Viv’s voice and turned to see him approaching her.
‘Someone’s decided to lob a large stone at my car,’ she said, stating the obvious.
‘Someone? Who’d want to do that? It’s not kids is it?’
No, Jasmine thought, she hadn’t had trouble from kids in all the time she had lived here although she had heard of trannies who were tormented by young people. But she could guess who had done it.
‘I think it was probably a shit called Parfitt.’
‘Who’s he? A neighbour?’ Viv looked around at the low-rise blocks of flats along the Bristol Road.
‘No. He’s someone I’ve been causing some problems for.’
‘How did he know which car was yours or even where you live?’
‘He’s seen me in the car,’ Jasmine looked at her sad, old Fiesta, ‘and he probably found out where I live from looking at those old news items from when I was briefly famous.’
‘Oh, yeah. That’s how I recognised you.’
Jasmine recalled that Parfitt’s computer had been taken away for checking. He must have borrowed one or gone to a library or somewhere. He was obviously seriously pissed off by the trouble she’d got him into. She noticed that Viv was looking at her with a concerned expression.
‘Are you feeling all right, Jasmine? You look pale. Have you eaten?’
Had she missed lunch? There were those two almost sleepless nights, she was getting nowhere in the hunt for Honey Potts and in just over a day she was going to have to face a knife – well, a scalpel. Now her car was out of action. Wasn’t that reason enough to forget to eat?
‘You haven’t, have you?’
‘Uh, no.’
‘Right, I’m taking you out this evening. I’ve just found that there’s a restaurant in Kintbridge that does really good Mexican and Caribbean food – the closest I’m going to get to home cooking. How about it?’
‘Um. I’ve got work to do and now I’ll have to get the car sorted out.’
‘Look, give me your insurance details and I’ll get your windscreen replaced. You call your friends in the police and tell them what’s happened. Then I’ll take you out for the evening to take your mind off all this.’
‘Well…’
‘I won’t take no for an answer.’
Jasmine saw the grin on Viv’s face. Perhaps it would be good to have an evening in someone’s company before she headed to London for her appointment.
‘OK. That’s very sweet of you, Viv, but I must do some more work first.’
‘Fine. Now let’s get your insurance details so we can get your car fixed.’
With Viv equipped with her documents and a call made to the police station to get a crime number, Jasmine settled back down in front of her laptop. She couldn’t face looking at more naked flesh. Her mind wandered to Viv’s invitation. Perhaps an evening out would be good for her, take her mind off the case and her impending surgery. It was very kind of him to sort out the car but, of course, she wouldn’t need it for her trip to London. She gasped as she recalled she still had no arrangements for getting home. Angela had been her last and biggest hope, but she hadn’t even managed to tell her that she was having the biorchidectomy. Neither had Angela called to find out why she had left the pub so suddenly last night.
Jasmine reached for her phone but paused. It was the weekend, Angela would probably be with Luke. What story had he told Angela about her hurried departure? What poison was he injecting into the relationship that she and Angela had shared, destroying the rapport that existed between them despite the divorce? Jasmine put the phone down, the sadness a weight on her chest. She would have to try and contact Angela when she knew she was alone, at work perhaps.
Jasmine glanced at the time on her computer screen. 17:30. Two hours till Viv said he would be calling to take her out. She must try to trace Honey before she had to call it a day. But no more she-male sites. Perhaps general trannie sites. They had gallery after gallery of photos. She started to click and search.
Time passed and she found herself on the website of a London club that did special nights for trannies, especially the younger transvestites that liked a good night out. There were pictures of performers. Could that be Honey? She looked closely. The picture showed a large, full-breasted female figure in a long, white sequinned evening dress and white feather boa. The face was heavily made up but the build and the features matched Honey Potts. The performer was named as ‘Miss Havana Goodthyme’. Jasmine felt her heart racing as she scrolled through the website. It appeared that Miss Goodthyme was a regular performer at the club particularly at weekends. Her act looked to be that of a traditional female impersonator with hints that it went beyond Danny La Rue or Lily Savage. If Honey was going to be at the club tomorrow then she could perhaps go and meet her and find out what she knew about Xristal’s death. She tapped the address into her phone and found the location on the map app. She’d travel up by train, check in to a cheap hotel not too far from the hospital, then go out to meet Honey Potts. There, she had a plan.
Excitement made her palms sweaty and her heart thump. Perhaps it was a good thing that Viv was taking her out. It would calm her down and pass some time. Time? What was it? 19:00. She jumped up – only half an hour to get herself ready. It would never be enough.
It wasn’t. She’d showered and dressed, the Zara dress again, (well, it was her best, new outfit and she loved it) but still had her face to do when the doorbell rang.
‘Give me ten minutes!’ she hollered in a most unladylike voice.
‘OK,’ came the muffled response.
Jasmine hurried to apply her foundation as smoothly as possible, then eye shadow, a No.7 shade that went with the dress, powder and lipstick. She looked at herself one last time. Why was Viv so keen to take her out? It couldn’t just be concern for her health. Was there more?
She grabbed her bag, looked inside to confirm her keys were there and hurried out of the flat pulling the door closed behind her. It was a fine, sunny evening, the air heavy with smells of grass and blossom carried by the water vapour evaporating from the morning’s drizzle. Viv was lounging against his big Audi.
‘Sorry, I’ve kept you waiting,’ Jasmine said almost tripping on her heels.
‘No worries. I expect to be kept waiting by a pretty girl.’
Jasmine felt herself flush. Pretty girl? She wasn’t sure she’d ever been called that.
She giggled in a flirtatious manner that didn’t com
e naturally. ‘Now you’re just flattering me.’
‘No, I mean it. You look great. Really pretty. Come on, get in.’ He pulled the passenger door open and held it as she bent to get in. The hem of her dress rode up her bare thigh. Jasmine was embarrassed and tugged it down as she squirmed into the passenger seat. Viv carefully closed the door and moved around the car to get in.
‘It’s not far. Just the other side of the town centre,’ he said, as he started the powerful engine. ‘I hope we can park close by.’
Jasmine found herself being driven through the familiar streets into St. Benedicts and then Viv turned into Bredon Road.
‘Perhaps we can park down here,’ he said.
‘No!’ Jasmine said, feeling an unfamiliar fear, ‘Not here. I’ve been here too often the last few days. Parfitt lives down here.’
‘The bloke that smashed your window?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps we should call on him and tell him we’re onto him?’
‘Oh, I’m onto him all right, but there’s no proof that it was him that chucked the rock at my car. I don’t want to see him again and I don’t want him seeing you.’
‘Well, OK.’ Viv turned the car and headed back to the main road. Jasmine didn’t point out where Xristal had died. Murder wasn’t an appetiser.
Jasmine directed Viv to another side road where they found a parking space and together they walked back into St. Benedicts. They stopped outside The Cancún Restaurant.
‘Been here before?’ Viv asked.
Jasmine looked at the colourful Mayan designs on the frontage and shook her head.
‘No. I didn’t even know it existed. I haven’t had many invitations to eat out since Angela and I split up.’
‘Well, I don’t know if it’s up to much but we’ll try it out.’ He held the door open for Jasmine to enter. It seemed popular enough as half of the dozen or so tables were occupied. Jasmine was relieved. With the place busy she felt less likely to stand out. A few people glanced at them as they entered, but they returned to their conversations or their food. A waiter approached them and Viv spoke briefly to him, before he escorted them to a table at the back of the restaurant.
‘Will this do for you?’ Viv asked. ‘I didn’t think you would want to be by the window.’
Jasmine was surprised. Had Viv really taken the trouble to choose a table at which she would not feel too conspicuous?
‘This is fine,’ she said, sitting in the upholstered chair. Viv sat opposite and the waiter brought menus.
Jasmine barely noticed the food. It was hot and spicy and she enjoyed it, but her attention was taken by Viv’s conversation. He told yet more stories of his mixed-race childhood in Birmingham. Even when they were about occasions when he had been bullied and threatened he managed to turn the story against his tormentors with a joke. Not one story was familiar from their previous evening eating the takeaway. It seemed Viv could talk about his life for ever, but he didn’t just talk about himself. He also asked Jasmine plenty of questions and she found herself telling him about her life with Angela, coming to the realisation that she was transsexual, the trauma of transition. She struggled to match Viv’s humour as she recounted the events leading up to her resignation from the police force – the promotion missed, being side-lined on cases and left to the tedious in-office jobs that everybody had to do but were usually shared out evenly. It sounded so trivial as she recounted it, but she remembered how over-wrought she had become, depressed and suspicious, comparing her experiences as a male and female detective. She had begun to doubt that the lawyers would ever be able to put together a case for constructive dismissal.
Viv didn’t let her become maudlin. He was off again with another anecdote that soon had her smiling. She wondered, was this what normal life was like – a man and a woman enjoying each other’s company over a tasty meal? It was the first time she had been out with someone other than Angela who treated her as a woman and not as a man in drag.
They completed the meal with coffee and Viv asked for the bill. Jasmine tried to pay her share even though she knew her bank balance was looking pretty sad, but Viv refused.
‘I’ve left all my friends and family up in the Midlands. You’re the first person I’ve got to know down here that isn’t a business contact, so please let it be a thank you for being who you are and a hope that it’s the first of many.’
Jasmine felt so happy and flattered that she couldn’t argue any further. Viv reclaimed his credit card and escorted her to the door. It was still light as they stepped onto the street and began the short walk back to the car, arm in arm.
‘Oy, you! You! The trannie!’
Jasmine spun on her high heels to see Parfitt leaning on his crutches.
‘Call yourself a private dick? Private dickless more like!’
Jasmine found herself staring open-mouthed and speechless.
‘Or are you like that dead tart? A bloke with boobs?’
Viv, released Jasmine’s arm and took a step towards Parfitt. ‘Shut it, you! You’ll need more than crutches if you carry on like that!’
Jasmine regained her voice. ‘No, Viv. It’s Parfitt. He can’t do anything.’
‘The arsehole who smashed your window?’
‘Who I suspect smashed the window…’
Parfitt swayed on his crutches just out of reach.
‘Got the cops on me, you did. I’ll make you pay for that!’
‘No you won’t, Parfitt! Not unless you want a stretch inside.’ Jasmine felt her training as a police officer start to resurface. ‘Unless it was you that killed Xristal, in which case you’ll be put away for a very long time.’
Parfitt backed away, fear creasing his face. ‘That wasn’t me. I told them that. I never went inside her place.’
He turned and limped away. Jasmine took Viv’s hand and dragged him away towards the street where his car was parked. She was conscious of passers-by looking at them - at her - with interest.
‘Let’s get away from here. I don’t like the looks I’m getting,’ she said.
‘Nor me,’ Viv replied, quickening his pace.
They reached the car and Viv drove off as soon as Jasmine was in her seat. ‘Now what was that all about?’ he asked.
Jasmine described her extended surveillance of Parfitt, resulting in getting the proof that he wasn’t as disabled as he claimed. She explained how this led to the exchange where she had discovered that he knew about Xristal.
‘Who’s Xristal?’
‘Hasn’t it been on the local news?’
‘I don’t listen to the news.’
Jasmine hadn’t had the opportunity to follow the media in the last three days either, so she had no idea how much information had been released to the press. Perhaps the circumstances of Xristal’s death had even reached the national media. Jasmine described the main facts that she knew of.
‘This is the case you’re working on now?’
‘That’s right. Sloane has taken me on as an advisor.’
‘Sloane’s the Chief Inspector that you’re accusing of discrimination?’
‘That’s right’
‘Not the most comfortable of working relationships.’
‘No. I suppose we suffer each other.’
‘But Sloane must think quite a bit of you to take you on while you are preparing this case against him.’
‘Sloane thinks I’m the only person who can explain what being transgender means.’
‘Perhaps he’s right.’
‘I don’t know. There are lots of transsexuals like me around.’
‘Not many with experience of working in the police.’
‘Well, no. I suppose not.’
Viv turned into their car park and stopped in his space.
‘Fancy a drink? We only had one glass with the meal and I’ve got a bottle of rum and some wine.’
‘Rum?’
‘Yeah. It’s a taste I learned from my pa who got it from his pa. The flavour of the Caribb
ean.’
Viv showed her into his flat. It was similar in size and layout to hers, but the furniture was newer and better and it was freshly decorated.
‘This looks a lot nicer than my place,’ Jasmine said.
‘Well it’s not my doing. It’s a furnished flat. My stuff’s in storage until I get my own place. Wine or rum?’
‘Rum and what?’
‘Oh, I drink it neat.’
‘Really? Not sure I’ve ever drunk neat rum. I’ll give it a go.’
‘Good girl!’ Viv took two small glasses and a bottle from a cupboard and placed them on a low table in front of the pale grey, leather sofa. He pulled the stopper from the bottle, poured the dark liquid into the glasses and offered one to Jasmine.
‘Here. Take a seat.’
Jasmine sat at one end of the sofa and crossed her legs. Viv sat on the other side of the sofa.
‘Cheers,’ he said, downing the drink in one gulp. Jasmine sipped hers. It was strong with a flavour she wasn’t sure she liked, but she took another sip.
‘So,’ Viv said, as if returning to an unfinished conversation, ‘you were telling me all about your, what was it, transition? It sounds like a drawn-out process. Can’t you have the sex-change op and get it over with?’
‘I wish!’ Jasmine snorted. ‘I’m with the NHS gender reassignment clinic. I’m taking the hormone tablets but it could be years before I reach the top of the list for surgery. Gender reassignment is expensive and the NHS doesn’t fund many each year. In the meantime, I have to live as a woman to stay on the programme.’
‘During which time, people like that shit Parfitt can lob insults at you.’
‘Yes, but he had a point. There are people like Xristal who are happy to alter their bodies but keep their male bits. I don’t want that and the mixture of hormones has side effects which are making me ill.’ Jasmine put the glass of rum down. She wasn’t sure the strong spirit was doing her any good.
