by Sam Short
Barney punched the code into the door lock, and pulled it open. “Come on, Sir,” he said. “Harry’s tired, he’s not in the mood for your jokes.”
Gladys allowed herself to be ushered through the door and into the corridor beyond, and frowned as Barney moved his face close to hers.
“What the hell are you playing at?” said Barney, his anger barely disguised. “That’s not how police speak to each other. Don’t say a word from this moment forward. Do you understand?”
Gladys wondered whether she should land a manly fist on Barney’s nose. Her toxic-masculinity seemed to be playing havoc with her normally mild feminine temper. No wonder men liked wrestling so much, she’d have liked nothing more than to have stripped off her jacket and shirt, ripped Barney’s clothes from his body, oiled both Barney and herself up, and grappled out their differences — right there, on the cheap carpet tiles.
Barney was stick thin, though, and he looked very weak — she’d have him in a half-nelson before he could squeal his defeat. The fight would be unfair. She took a calming breath and realigned her chakras. “Chill out, bucko. I’ve got this. No more talking. I get it. Jeez.”
“Stop speaking like that,” said Barney. “You sound like an American television detective. Inspector Jameson is quieter than that. He hardly speaks to anybody unless he has to. You’ll raise suspicions.”
A door on the left wall of the corridor creaked open, and a portly man in uniform stepped through it, peering along the corridor. “Ah, Sergeant Dobkins,” he said. “I thought I heard your voice. Step inside my office, would you? I need you to do something for me this afternoon.”
“Can it wait, Sir?” said Barney, “I need to—”
Barney’s superior shook his head. “Now, please, Sergeant. It needs to be sorted out immediately. We need to send a representative to a funeral, and with your height and good looks, you’ll do our little force proud. Step inside my office and I’ll fill you in on the details.”
“I’ll be right in, Sir,” said Barney.
“Good,” said the big man, stepping back inside his office. “I’m sure Inspector Jameson has more important things to do than talk to you in a corridor.”
Barney looked at Gladys, and spoke in a whisper. “End of the corridor, turn right, go up the stairs and turn left. His office is on the right. His name is on the door and it will be open. It always is. I’ll meet you there when I’m finished with the boss.”
Gladys gave Barney a mock salute. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll find it.”
Barney gave Gladys a concerned frown and stepped into the office, closing the door behind himself.
Gladys straightened her shirt and pulled back her shoulders, pushing her chest out. She felt like Inspector Jameson was an alpha male, and she wanted to make sure his reputation was kept fully intact. If she walked through the station like a frightened mouse, the other alpha males would turn on her, and when the Inspector came back from Scotland, he’d be shocked to find out he’d been demoted to a worthless beta.
Not on her watch. While she was borrowing the Inspector’s likeness, she was going to treat it with the upmost respect. The respect it deserved.
Gladys strolled along the corridor, but something felt wrong. She’d seen Inspector Jameson walk, and he was no stroller — he was a man who strutted. She accessed her inner soundtrack. Gladys enjoyed playing music in her mind while she walked, and The Bee Gees — Staying Alive was the perfect song to strut to.
She lifted her head high, and took long bouncing steps as she recalled Barney’s directions. She turned right at the end of the corridor, ignoring the people who were hunched over computers in the open-plan office, and bounded up the steps. She took them two at a time, mimicking the way Norman had ascended steps until the gout had began really taking its toll.
With the Bee Gees blasting in her head, Gladys reached the top of the stairs and ran a hand through her greying hair, wondering if men washed their barnets as often as women did. Now, what had Barney said? Right at the top of the stairs. Or had it been left? Gladys went left, it felt more natural, and there was an inviting aroma of coffee coming from that direction.
She peered at the name plates on the doors, looking for the correct office. None of them bore Inspector Jameson’s name, and she was about to turn around, realising she should have gone right at the top of the stairs, when she saw it — through an open doorway — ripe, full, and begging for the big hairy hand of a burly alpha male.
Gladys looked at her hand, and then she gazed at the female constable’s bottom again.
She was bending over a table in a little kitchen, speaking to three men and another woman, who sat with mugs in front of them, eating biscuits.
For a moment, Gladys wished she had been born a man. It was exhilarating to feel the male-privilege boiling her blood, and she knew she’d be a fool if she didn’t experience at least one of the things that men did on a regular basis. She wouldn’t be in Inspector Jameson’s body for long, and she was going to make the most of the temporary perks afforded her by being a man.
What was it Barney had said? Inspector Jameson didn’t have many friends in the police station? Gladys would see about that. By the time Inspector Jameson got back from Scotland, he’d be a hero among the other men. Without a shadow of a doubt — a certain inspector’s Christmas card list was about to get impressively longer.
Gladys took a deep breath and centred her masculinity, imagining the whoops and hollers she’d receive from the other men in the room when she slapped the firm rump. No, slapping didn’t feel like the correct word for what she wanted to do. Walloping was more like it.
She strutted into the room, enjoying the smell of percolated coffee, and smiling as she spotted the digestive biscuits on the counter. She liked digestives. She’d have one when she was done.
Gladys swung her arm like a pendulum, remembering to move it from the shoulder for maximum effect. The air swished as her hand sliced through it, and her palm tingled pleasantly as she made contact with the fleshy buttocks. “Fetch me some doughnuts, you fine little filly!” she bellowed.
She lifted her hand and grinned, anticipating the admiring high-fives she was about to receive from her fellow men.
Her breath left her in a gasp as the first man flew at her, knocking her against the kitchen counter as another man forced her hand up her back.
“How dare you!” yelled the female constable, balling her hand into a fist.
“Leave it, Shaz,” said the other woman, grabbing her friend’s arm as she aimed her fist at Gladys’s face. “He’s not worth getting yourself in trouble over.”
“What are you playing at?” said one of the men, staring at Gladys.
“I… I’m not sure,” said Gladys.
She wasn’t sure, but she was beginning to understand. She realised with a terrible wrenching in her gut that what she’d just done was terrible. Of course it was terrible — she’d assaulted a woman! She’d acted terribly since she’d entered the police station.
She remembered what her mother had told her when she was young. A spell cast in stress is not one to impress.
Gladys had been casting too many spells, and with concerns growing within her about Charleston’s health, her wedding, and Ethel’s murder — she was surely going to mess up sooner or later. The shape-shifting spell had not been pure. She’d been far too worried when she’d cast it. The magic was tangled — changing her personality, muddying her mind, and bringing her deep-seated beliefs bubbling to the surface.
Gladys gasped. She’d acted like the one of the things she hated the most. “Oh my goodness,” she said. “I’m a misogynist!”
The woman who’d been on the receiving end of the misogynistic attack gazed at Gladys. “That wasn’t like you, Sir,” she said. “You’re normally so kind to me. Are you okay? You said you had a bad headache yesterday. You don’t look well.”
Footsteps hurried along the hallway outside. “Inspector Jameson?” came a voice. Barney’s voice.
“In here,” said one of the men.
Barney stepped into the kitchen. “What’s happened,” he said, staring at the scene, his pupils dilated and his face white. “Why are you manhandling Inspector Jameson?”
The man holding Gladys’s arm looked at Barney. “I’ll tell you what happened. He came in here—”
“Nothing happened,” said the young woman. “It was a misunderstanding. I think he needs to sit down, Sergeant. Why don’t you take him to his office?”
“Are you sure, Sharon?” said one of the men.
“I’m sure,” said Sharon. She looked at Barney. “Nothing happened, Sergeant. The Inspector must be poorly.”
The two men reluctantly released their grip on Gladys, and Barney led her from the room.
“We need to hurry,” said Gladys. “I can’t hold the spell for much longer. I feel weak.”
“Can you open the safe?” said Barney, pulling Gladys behind him.
Gladys nodded. “I think so. That’s a simple spell. The shape-shifting spell is the one I’m struggling with.”
“You’d better hold it,” said Barney, guiding Gladys towards an office door. “Members of the public aren’t allowed up here. I’ll get in a world of trouble if you suddenly change back into yourself.”
Barney opened the door and pushed Gladys into the room. The office was small, and contained the bare minimum of furniture required for an inspector to be able to do his job properly.
A desk with a seat on either side filled most of the floor space, and a dehydrated plant stood in a corner, looking lonely and unloved. The inspector’s desk was as barren as the rest of the room, with only a computer and a pen-pot on the cheap wooden surface.
A filing cabinet filled one of the corners behind the desk, and on top of it, beneath a small pile of books, was the safe. Heavy bolts secured it to the wall, and the worn green paint around the code-dial told Gladys it was an old piece of equipment. She wondered what secrets had been hidden in it over the years, and smiled inwardly as she remembered opening the safe in her father’s study when she’d been a young girl, eager to test her blossoming magic.
She’d never told her father she’d been in his safe and discovered his secret, and she’d certainly not told her mother — who luckily for her husband, was not the sort of woman who’d have snooped through a man’s private belongings.
Gladys had known, even at that young age, that some secrets could destroy marriages, and being married to a man who was a fully paid-up member of The Wickford Fine Wine Tasting Club, was not something her beer swilling mother would have suffered for long. “Wine is for the French and the bourgeoisie,” her mother had told her, “especially red wine. Never trust a working class man who drinks it — he’ll break your heart, have teeth like coal, and empty the bank account.”
“Well,” said Barney. “Can you open it?”
Gladys brought herself back to the present and wiggled her fingers. “Of course I can,” she said. “I’ll have it open in seconds.” She stood in front of the safe and laid her hand on the cool metal surface. The spell was simple, and almost immediately after casting it, the dial span left and right — the lock clicking as the magic did its work. “There,” she said, pulling the door open. “ I told you it would be easy.”
Barney reached into the safe as Gladys sat down. She was beginning to feel a little giddy, and she knew the shape-shifting spell would not last for much longer. “Hurry,” she said. “Just find the file. I need to get out of here and have a cup of sweet tea.”
“We’re not taking the file with us,” said Barney. “He’d notice it was missing. I’ll take some photos of it with my phone.”
Gladys sighed. Her vision was becoming blurry. She needed to relieve some of the pressure on what she called her centre of magic — the tight little ball that swelled in her chest like a swallowed golf ball whenever she cast a spell. She eased back on the magic, allowing the shape-shifter spell to weaken. Not enough that someone from afar would know something peculiar was happening, but just enough to allow her own eye colour to shine through, and allow the spell to recuperate a little.
“Here it is!” said Barney, dropping a red folder on the desk. “A genuine nineteen-eighties’s police file, complete with rubber band and old paper smell.”
Gladys glanced at the folder. She could hardly make out what the black marker pen scrawled writing on the cover said, let alone the small hand writing that she squinted at as Barney opened the file.
With his phone in hand, Barney took a photograph of the first page. He took a corner of the yellowed paper between finger and thumb, and just as he was about to turn the page, the office door handle clicked, and then moved. “Somebody’s here,” he hissed. “Act casual!”
The door swung open and Sharon stepped into the office, a mug in her hand, and a look of concern on her face.
“Don’t you know how to knock?” said Barney.
“I’m sorry,” said the young constable. “I thought I’d bring the inspector a cup of tea, he looked like he needed one.” She looked at Gladys. “Are you feeling okay, Sir?”
Gladys strengthened the shape-shifter spell, the magic flowing slowly through her limbs, warming her flesh. She cleared her throat. “I’m fine, thank you, and I’m sorry about what happened in the kitchen. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It’s forgotten,” said Sharon, approaching the desk, the tea held out before her. “I knew you couldn’t have been feeling well, Sir. You’d never have done anything like that otherwise. It must be the stress of the job. Maybe you need a break — didn’t you mention something about going to Scotland?”
“Erm, yes,” said Gladys. “I’m going tomorrow. For a few days. The break will do me good.”
Sharon leaned across the desk, placing the mug in front of Gladys, who shuddered as guilt twisted her insides. She relaxed a little as she realised that the guilt was a good thing. It acted as positive reinforcement for her long held opinions on the patriarchy. It was Sharon who had been tampered with by a man — yet it was Sharon who was making tea for the male bastard who’d been guilty of the tampering.
It was a travesty and an injustice, and Gladys was happy to note that Sharon seemed to be coming to the same conclusion. Her eyes were widening with shock, and she took a quick step backwards, the mug tipping as she snatched her hand towards her open mouth.
Hot tea flowed over the folder in a mini tidal wave of brown fluid, and Sharon gasped. “I’m so sorry!” she said. “But something happened, Sir. Your eyes — they changed colour! I’m sure of it!”
Barney snatched the folder from the desk in an attempt to save it, but Gladys could see it was too late. The old paper was sodden, and Gladys doubted any amount of drying, or magical intervention, would save the information recorded on it all those years ago.
“My eyes?” said Gladys, sending a surge of magic through her body, ensuring the spell was strong.
“I don’t know, Sir,” said Sharon, shaking her head. “I could have sworn they changed colour.”
“Shock?” said Gladys. “What I did to you was awful, maybe it’s you who needs a cup of tea?”
Sharon nodded. “Of course, Sir. Eyes don’t change colour — I know that! I’m sorry about the file, I’ll print another one off for you if you like?”
Gladys didn’t bother telling the poor girl that the file was one of a kind. “It’s okay,” she said. “It wasn’t important.”
When Sharon left the room, Barney sighed. “It’s ruined,” he said, holding the dripping file over a waste paper bin.
“Just put it back in the safe,” said Gladys. “You took one photograph. That will have to do.”
“He’ll know somebody’s been in the safe,” said Barney. “We can’t put a soaking wet file in there!”
Gladys waved a hand. “There,” she said. “Now it’s not wet. I can’t do magic which will bring washed away ink back, but I can dry paper. Put it back in the safe. He’ll assume it’s faded over time, a
nd if he doesn’t — who cares? He can’t report it to anybody.”
Barney shrugged and placed the file back in the safe. He closed the door, ensuring it was locked. “Okay. Let’s get out of here,” he said, “and Gladys… what exactly did happen in the kitchen?”
Chapter Thirteen
“You slapped a young female constable’s bottom?” said Penny. “Now I’ve heard it all.”
“I’ve told the story,” said Gladys. “I won’t speak of it again. As far as I’m concerned, it’s history. Anyway, I won’t be casting any shape-shifting spells for a while. They’re tiring.”
Willow topped Gladys’s cup up with hot fresh tea, and added a splash of milk. “There you go, Granny,” she said. “One more of those and you’ll be as right as rain again.”
Gladys smiled. “Thank you, dear. Now, let’s have a look at that photo that Barney took.”
Penny placed her phone where they could all see it. Barney had sent the picture he’d taken of the file to Penny’s phone, and headed off to the funeral he’d been ordered to attend.
“Barney says there’s nothing revelatory in the photo,” said Penny. “It’s just an intro to the rest of the file.”
“Which was ruined by tea,” said Granny. She sipped her drink. “Which is such a shame. I hate to think of tea in stressful terms, it’s always been a great calming force in my life.” She picked Penny’s phone up and narrowed her eyes. “My glasses are good,” she said. “But I can’t read that. It’s far too small.”
A boat chugged by on the canal, and the bow-wave rolled into the Water Witch’s private mooring, rocking the boat gently. Gladys waited for her tea to settle in the cup before taking another sip and passing the phone to Penny. “You read it, dear.”
Penny frowned. “It’s like Barney said. It’s a cover note — just a short paragraph.” She moved the phone nearer her face. “This is a confession of sorts,” she read.
