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AUNT RACHEL by Selena Pride The door slammed and Jack swore. Holly had been his last resort. He had gone through his little black book from cover to cover. One by one he had put his proposal to them, and one by one they had made excuses, or promised to call back and not called, or laughed in his face. Holly was the only one who had got mad, and to be fair it might not have been the soundest of moves for him to let slip the fact that he had tried everyone else first, but it still hurt. And now he had six weeks of carefully stored-up vacation time to fill, and no-one to fill it with. It wasn't that he was unattractive, he thought furiously. As twentysomething men went, he was well above average by anyone's standards. Health excellent, job well-paid and undemanding, circumstances extremely comfortable. It wasn't that he didn't know how to show a girl a good time. So why did they keep rejecting him? He was too honest, that was it. Women wanted to be lied to, romanced, seduced with false promises and protestations. Well, Jack Farrell wasn't that kind of sleazeball. He respected women enough to be upfront with them about his feelings. Trouble was, as soon as he started getting upfront they started looking for the door. He went to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky, waved the soda syphon in front of it and put the glass to his lips, and the phone rang. Carla. It had to be Carla. Wiping the whisky spray off his face with his handkerchief, Jack grabbed the phone. "Hi, babe!" he began, and stopped dead. /Get a grip, you fool, don't sound so damn desperate./ Before he could speak again, however, an unfamiliar voice issued from the earpiece. "Is that how you always answer your telephone, John?" John dithered. "Um, uh...no, not usually. Uh, who is this?" "Not whom you were expecting, I gather." There was a hint of a smile in the voice, and Jack relaxed a little. "This is your aunt Rachel, John." "Aunt Rachel?" "I'm not surprised you don't remember. It has been all of twenty years since I saw you last. Fortunately I ran into your father with his new wife last week, and he told me where you worked." /Thanks, Dad. Thanks a bundle./ "Oh, really? How is he?" "I'd give him about six months, unless he ditches that little trophy of his. Concupiscence in older men is so unbecoming. Anyway, I do have a reason for calling. I have a favour to ask, John." "It's Jack these days, aunt." Jack hesitated. "What is it you need?" "Company, dear." There was a pause at the other end this time. "Let me explain. I live in a huge old place near High Wycombe, far too big for me to manage on my own. I have a live-in handyman who runs errands for me and a girl who helps me with the housework. Unfortunately they have just got married and left on what apparently is going to be a long honeymoon." "Married? I mean--to each other?" "That is the usual way. I gather there was some slight urgency about the matter. So I am completely alone in the house, and my employment agency has let me down. Well, as a matter of fact, gone bankrupt. I have managed to find a girl to do the housework, but this village seems utterly devoid of able-bodied young men with about six weeks to kill. So of course I thought of you." "Six weeks?" How could she know? "Your father again. He does get terribly garrulous. I blame sherry. Or whatever her name is. Anyway, dear, if you have nothing else planned, how would you feel about a short stay in the country?" Jack considered. His options were few. If he crawled back to work on Monday it would soon be all over the office that he hadn't been able to find a partner and his stock would fall through the floor. If he stayed in London he would have to more or less immure himself in his flat: there was too much chance of meeting an acquaintance if he went out. He cursed himself again for shooting off his big mouth about what a great time he and somebody were going to have in Rio, or Paris, or wherever he had decided they would go. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea at that. Country air, a little not too strenuous labour, and a fresh supply of village girls none of whom had friends who knew Jack Farrell. His spirits began to revive. "That sounds fine, Aunt Rachel," he said warmly. "I'd be happy to come down." *** Jack drove through the peaceful, sunlit countryside of Buckinghamshire, smiling approvingly at the large, expensive houses set well back from the road and secluded behind high hedges or stone walls. This was the style to which he aspired: if Aunt Rachel had done as well for herself, she was obviously a force to be reckoned with. He glanced once more at the directions taped to the sun flap. Through the village and the drive was on the left just before the bend to the right. He slowed down a little and was rewarded with a thunderous crash and a titanic kick in the small of the back. Reflex took over. He was out of the car and yelling before his conscious mind had caught up. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Look what you've done to my car! What's the matter with you? I don't believe--" At this point two things registered. One was that the actual damage to his Volvo was in fact very slight: the other car had suffered far more than a cracked tail light. The other thing was that the driver of the other car was a very pretty, and very frightened, young woman, and was currently sitting with her head bowed over the steering wheel, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Jack stopped, took a deep breath and moderated his tone. "Okay, um, look, I'm sorry I yelled, but you really shouldn't have been that close to my bumper." "I know," the girl said tearfully, looking up at him for the first time. "I'm sorry. It was entirely my fault." Jack was thoroughly disarmed. The girl was quite a looker, when you factored out the tears and shock. "Why were you that close?" "I didn't know where I was going. I'm supposed to start work today, at a place called the Grange, b-but I don't know where it is. Then I saw you heading in the same direction, and I remembered th-that there was a young m-man coming down the same day, so I th-thought you might be him and if I f-followed you--" "Hey, hey." Jack sought to stem the impending flood. "Look, don't worry about it, okay? You're right, by the way, I am him, so presumably you're..." "J-Jennie Potter." The girl took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. "You must think I'm an awful wimp." "You're as shaken up as I am. We just express it in different ways." Jack smiled. "Tell you what. This one's on me, okay? I'll cover both bills, no need to involve the insurance people." "Do you mean it?" "Sure," Jack said easily. "Now, shall we go and find my aunt?" He got back behind the wheel of the Volvo smiling. This trip was already shaping up to be well worth his while. *** The Grange was bigger than Jack had imagined, bigger than any of the houses he had passed on the way. It stood in its own grounds, square and solid, Georgian he guessed. His Volvo purred to a halt on the gravel drive, followed by Jennie's Metro. Jack opened her door and assisted her out with studied gallantry, and she smiled up at him very nicely indeed. The doorbell was of the old-fashioned pull-knob kind, and the cling-a-ling echoed somewhere in the distance. Jack exchanged rueful grimaces with Jennie, and the door opened. "John, dear!" Aunt Rachel, tall, statuesque and strong-featured, smiled and held out her arms in welcome. Jack moved forward and hugged her briefly, then stepped aside to present Jennie. "And Miss Potter, yes? Do come in, both of you. I can't tell you how much I've looked forward to having voices in the house again." "Should we sing, or just tell jokes?" John inquired. "Just ordinary conversation will be fine," Aunt Rachel replied dryly. "I wouldn't want you to strain yourself, dear." "Can I fetch your luggage?" Jack asked Jennie. "What a good idea." His aunt took charge. "Start as you mean to go on. Give him your keys, dear. In the meantime, I'll show you where the kettle and things are. I think we could all do with a cup of tea." The two women set off into the depths of the house, and Jack resigned himself to fetching and carrying. Investment, he told himself: get in good with his aunt and the girl, and who knew what returns he might reap... *** Jack stifled yet another yawn, and took a swallow of tea. The living room they were sitting in (one of three, he gathered) was full of brilliant afternoon sunlight, and the warmth and comfort of the chairs (and, so Aunt Rachel maintained, the "soft" country air) were conspiring with his travel-weariness to put him to sleep. Jennie was no better. He had seen her nod several times, her eyes drifting closed and then snapping open again. Meanwhile, Aunt Rachel plied the teapot and kept up a constant flow of inconsequential conversation only about a third of which Jack had consciously registered. "...and I've put you in the slightly smaller room, John, so that Jennie can have the wardrobe space for her clothes. I'm sure she'll want lots of pretty outfits to wear when she's not working. Women do, you know, trust me. You do trust me, don't you, John?" "Mm?" Jack opened his eyes. "'Course trust you." "Of course you do. So that anything I might suggest that you do would obviously be for the best, wouldn't it?" "Yeah." He wondered dimly what she was talking about, but thinking was just too much effort. He watched as she picked up what looked a bit like a coaster from a sideboard and put it on the low table next to the tea tray. It glittered, flashing rainbows as the sunlight caught it. Aunt Rachel smiled, and set it spinning. "Look at that," she said. "Isn't it fascinating?" Jack never knew whether he answered or not. The thing was throwing off ribbons and flashes of coloured light: it was growing bigger, or else the table and the room and everything in it was getting smaller, smaller and smaller, till it all washed silently down the hole in the middle... "Wake up, sleepyhead!" Jack jerked back to consciousness. Aunt Rachel let go of his shoulder and went to shake Jennie awake. The coaster or whatever was gone from the table, if it had ever been there. Jack glanced at his watch, felt the teapot; he could not have been asleep more than a few minutes, ten at the outside. "I blame stress," Aunt Rachel pronounced firmly. "High-powered job in the city, too much fast food and no sleep. I think it would be good for you to have a regular afternoon siesta, at least while the weather's this warm." That made sense to Jack. "Good idea, Aunt Rachel." "You too, Miss Potter. I suggest you both go to your rooms right now and have a proper sleep. You'll feel tons better for it and ready to get down to some work later on." "I feel really antisocial--" Jennie tried to stop a yawn, and failed. "I mean, we're supposed to be being company for you, and here we are flaking out." "Company doesn't always have to be conscious, my dear," Aunt Rachel replied with a smile, "and I'll feel much happier knowing that my house is in the hands of two well-rested people. Now shoo." Jack's and Jennie's rooms were adjacent, and there was even a connecting door, though in Jennie's room a huge old wardrobe blocked it. Jack stood, wobbling slightly, in the doorway while Aunt Rachel fussed with Jennie's pillow and made her comfortable. He had a strange feeling there was something he was supposed to remember, or not to remember, but all he really wanted to do was sleep. "Come along, dear," his aunt said, taking him firmly by the arm and leading him to his own room. He hardly felt his head hit the pillow, but he was aware of his aunt's hands plumping it up under him in the dim few moments before sleep claimed him. *** There were people in the walls. He was trying to hear what they were saying, but the words kept sliding past him and vanishing into the darkness behind him. He kept pressing his ear into the wall, which was smooth and warm and delightfully soft, but he still couldn't get close enough to catch the words. And then they stopped, and there was only the darkness behind him, but now it was no longer threatening, but familiar and comfortable, and he sank back into it with a sigh of relief, and almost immediately woke up. The sky outside the window was deep blue, with a few early stars winking. Jack groped for the bedside lamp, found it and switched it on, turning the blue to black. His watch showed the time as eight-forty. He had slept for more than four hours. Jack rolled off the bed and located the ensuite bathroom. He was a mess, slept-in and bleary. He got his sponge bag out of his overnight case and washed his face: that helped, but not very much. He shaved, combed his hair and changed his shirt. That was a little better again. It would have to do, anyway. When he emerged, Jennie was standing in the doorway. "I heard the water running," she said, "so I figured you were up. You were really asleep." "And you weren't?" "Well, yes," Jennie admitted, "but I woke up an hour ago. Mrs Farrell has been showing me where everything is and helping me draw up a routine. She's really organised. I wish I was that together." "Me too." Jack hesitated. "Do I look all right?" "Sure." Jennie didn't seem fazed by the question, even though Jack himself was: it wasn't something he ever remembered saying before. "I don't know if that colour shirt really suits you, but at least it's fresh." "Remind me never to go to sleep dressed again," Jack said. "So, have I missed dinner?" "Yours is keeping warm in the oven," Jennie said. "I hope you aren't too hungry." "I'm not, actually," Jack said, frowning. "Funny, I expected to be ravenous." "Country air," Jennie said, nodding wisely. "They should market it as a slimming aid. Shall we?" He took her arm and they went downstairs. The food was good and only slightly mummified, but Jack did no more than pick at the edges, and this was definitely odd. He normally ate like a man twice his size and thought nothing of it. Tonight he found the idea slightly gross, and despite the fact that his last meal had been nine hours ago he found himself feeling full after only a few mouthfuls. "Your first errand tomorrow," Aunt Rachel said, in the slightly raised voice of one who is listening to classical music on headphones and talking at the same time, "will be to replenish my larder. I've been living on it since Leslie and Donna left." "Right," Jack said, nodding vigorously to emphasise the point. "Look, I'm sorry," he said to Jennie, "and I know you cooked this with your own fair hands and all that, but I can't eat another thing." "It's okay, silly," Jennie said, laughing. "I'll know next time." Jack wanted to tell her that his appetite would certainly be back to normal by the morning, but somehow he couldn't find the words. What he said was, "I'll wash and you dry," which was something else he had never said before. "Okay," Jennie said, and two minutes later Jack was up to his elbows in the kitchen sink. /This is creepy. I don't *do* washing up. Washing up is something you get someone else to do. What's the matter with me?/ /Don't be stupid. You're putting on a show. Jennie obviously goes for this caring sensitive New Man stuff. You can phase it out gradually once you've netted her./ Slightly reassured, Jack scoured a plate till it shone. *** Jack woke the next morning feeling vastly better. Birds of some sort were singing outside the window, and the air smelled fresh and clean. The remnants of his dream shivered and blew away as he sat up and stretched. He had been convinced he would never get to sleep that night, after oversleeping so badly in the afternoon, but once he had stripped off and climbed in between the soft sheets, oblivion had washed gently over him again. It had to be the country air. Maybe he should send for a tank of monoxide, he thought. Just till he got acclimatised. He took several deep breaths, got out of bed and padded into the bathroom to wash and shave. It was while he was shaving that he suddenly stopped and wondered what the hell he was doing. He looked at the razor, at his face in the mirror, at his leg where it stood in the bath, surrounded by tufts of hair... /Ah hell. I'd look pretty silly with one shaved leg. Better do 'em both now./ He tried to think, as he changed legs and started again, what had possessed him to start in the first place, but apart from a deep conviction that shaved legs looked nicer, which he had always had, he couldn't think. Afterwards, he did his arms. The smooth feel of his skin was utterly entrancing. He sat on the lavatory seat, stroking his arms and legs, looking at his pubic hair and wondering... "Well, good morning." Jack leapt up and grabbed a towel. Jennie was standing in the bathroom doorway, smiling in a pale blue blouse and jeans. "I knocked. I called. If I'd had a small firework about me I'd have let it off. Where were you?" "I, er, uh," Jack floundered. "I, uh, shaved. My legs." "So I see," Jennie said, "and very nice too. Are you ready for breakfast?" "What do *you* think?" Jennie grinned. "Five minutes?" "Make it ten. I'm not sure what to wear." Jack shook his head. "Sorry, I'm talking nonsense. Ten minutes." In the end it was nearer fifteen. For some reason Jack just couldn't decide what to put on. Nothing looked right, and everything he tried on seemed to rub against some part of him, or felt hot and prickly. Eventually he settled for a bright red silk shirt and a pair of tennis shorts he hadn't thought he'd packed. Jennie and his aunt were finishing breakfast when he finally limped downstairs. "Ah, the sleeper awakes," Aunt Rachel said, "or tries to. Coffee?" Jack accepted a cup gratefully and gulped down half the contents. "What *are* you wearing?" Jennie demanded. "Don't be picky, dear," his aunt said. "I think it looks...quite striking." Jack felt himself blushing, and thought /What the hell??/ "However," Aunt Rachel went on, "I don't think it's precisely the look for a trip to the village. They can be a little...conservative in their outlook. Let me see if I have anything upstairs that would suit." "Sorry," Jennie said, as Aunt Rachel left the room. "No, no, it's me. I don't understand what's the matter with me. I've never shaved my legs in my life, never been fussy about clothes, and I'm fairly sure I haven't blushed since I was at school." Jack finished his coffee, and yawned. "And I keep getting so sleepy..." "Me too," Jennie said, "but I haven't noticed any of the other things you mentioned. On the other hand," she went on musingly, "it's totally unlike me to say anything rude about someone else's choice of clothes. I'm usually more tactful than that." "Maybe this place is..." Jack shook his head, trying to keep awake. "...bringing out our true natures," he finished. "Ah," Aunt Rachel said, coming through the door with a pair of jeans over her arm. "Jennie dear, I think you might begin on the washing up now." "You wash, I'll fry," Jack mumbled. "No no, John dear, you're going to the village, remember?" "Village," he said, rousing momentarily. "Yes. Aunt Rachel, I really wish you'd call me Jack. I haven't been called John for years, and I always hated it." "Well, if it comes to that," Aunt Rachel replied, "every time I hear you use the word 'Aunt' I age another ten years. I'd much prefer you just to call me Rachel. You wouldn't mind doing that for me, would you, Jacky?" "No..." Jack's head was sinking again. "Jack...not Jacky..." "I'm going to call you Jacky from now on," the voice went on. "You don't mind, do you? In fact I think you rather like being called Jacky. We'll have a bargain. You call me Rachel, and I'll call you Jacky. That's much nicer, isn't it? Much less formal. Rachel and Jacky. Jacky and Rachel." Jack let the voice wash over him. It was easier not to argue. Besides, there was nothing wrong with being called Jacky. It was perfectly natural. It sounded right somehow. He tried the name over in his head as the voice flowed soothingly on...Jacky...Jacky...Jacky...Rachel and Jacky....Jacky and Jennie... "I swear you could go to sleep in the middle of an artillery barrage," Rachel said tartly, and Jacky woke up with a start. "I'm not sure I can trust you to get as far as the village if you're that tired." "I'm not tired," Jacky said, and it was true: he felt alive, full of energy, completely refreshed. "What time is it?" "Nearly noon," Rachel said. "You'd better go this afternoon now. It's a good thing early closing isn't till tomorrow." "Early closing!" Jacky laughed. "Rachel, you really ought to get out of this backwater and come to the city sometimes. Early closing went out with the dinosaur and the hoop skirt." "Well, this village has its quota of dinosaurs," Rachel rejoined, "and come the summer fair you'll probably see a few hoop skirts as well. Everyone dresses up for the occasion. I hope you'll join in." "I might at that," Jacky said. "I'll show your dinosaurs a thing or two." "I think you probably will," said Rachel, smiling. "Let's go and see what we can scrape up for lunch." *** Jacky drove the Volvo down the narrow road toward the village, humming a tune. He felt good. Lunch had, despite Rachel's forebodings, been excellent, and the jeans she had found fitted him perfectly, like a second skin. The lack of a front zip had bothered him for a moment, but he couldn't think why. It wasn't as if he was going to want to pee up against any walls. And flares were coming back in these days, so he was even fashionable. The only problem was the damn tight pockets. He had wedged his wallet and keys in somehow, but they were digging into his flesh and driving him crazy. He reached up with his free hand and ran his fingers through his hair. It was really much shorter than he liked it. He decided not to go to that barber in the West End again. The man had obviously misunderstood his instructions. Jacky wondered how long his hair would be at the end of six weeks. He reached the village, and turned smoothly into the tiny car park. There was one space free, right at the end. He aimed for it with the confidence born of long practice, and slammed his foot on the brake just in time to avoid ramming the Audi in the next space. Somehow he had misjudged the angle. Jacky sat in the driver's seat, shaking, furious with himself, for almost half a minute before he summoned up the courage to reverse cautiously out and try again. Eventually he succeeded in parking the car and got out, hardly aware of what he was doing. Okay, the first time he had probably been thinking of something else--his hair, or some damn thing or other--but that didn't explain his inability to get it right the next time, or the time after that, or the time after that. What was the matter with him? /Calm down,/ his inner voice told him. /It's a small car park, probably a small space, and this car is way too big. You just misjudged it. Happens all the time./ He reached into his pocket for his car keys, and finally wrestled them out. The pockets in these jeans were so tight he could hardly get anything in or out. And the lumps spoiled the line of the jeans. It was no wonder he couldn't think straight. He wandered down the high (and, indeed, only) street of the village, consulting the list Rachel had given him, wondering if a village supermarket really carried the range of foodstuffs she seemed to think it did. He looked up, trying to get his bearings, and was immediately distracted by the perfect answer to his problems. There it was, in the shop window, right in front of his nose. He looked around, up and down the deserted street, and did an impromptu modern dance which resulted in his wallet being freed from its denim prison: then he walked into the shop. It took Jacky five minutes to transfer the contents of his overstuffed pockets into the cream leather handbag, and the relief was enormous. He slung the strap over his shoulder as though he had been doing it all his life, and walked out of the shop feeling much more his own person. *** "A handbag?" Rachel said, sounding not at all like Lady Bracknell. "What a sensible idea. I've always hated that habit men have of putting everything in the world into their pockets." "What about the silk scarf and the pierced ear?" Jennie queried, a little nastily. "The scarf goes with the shirt rather nicely. And lots of men are getting their ears pierced these days, even men like my nephew." "But don't you think he's changed rather drastically in just a few days?" Jennie persisted. "When I met him he was...well, normal, in a fake kind of way. I mean, I knew he was going to come on to me sooner or later, try for a quick bonk and then dump me. Only--" "Really?" Rachel said quietly. "You knew that, did you? I wonder if you would have put it to yourself like that a few days ago?" Jennie stared at her. "In the city," Rachel went on serenely, "there is constant distraction, bustle and noise, advertisement and real-life street theatre. In the city it is very easy to wear a mask, even to forget that it is a mask. The thrusting young businessman, the shy mousy girl. Here there is nothing to distract. The true self can emerge. I think you are both very lucky young people to have escaped from the prisons of your masks so soon, and I look forward to further developments." "Hello, Rachel, hello, Jennie," Jacky said as he came in. "I hope you didn't mind, Rachel, but I just had to take time out to get a few things for myself. What do you think?" "I think you look quite lovely, Jacky dear," Rachel said, "and I'm sure Jennie does too, don't you, Jennie?" "Well--yes, I suppose I do," Jennie said, answering Jacky's smile with her own. "I've made some tea," Rachel said, "and I hope you bought some biscuits." "I'll be with you as soon as I've put everything away," Jacky said. Later, over the tea, the exertions of the day caught up with Jacky and he found himself drifting off again. He smiled sleepily at Rachel, who was talking away nineteen to the dozen as usual. It was so warm, and the spinning thing was throwing off lights again, and he just... couldn't...seem...to...stay...awake.... *** He had broken free, but now it was after him. He ran endlessly across the moonlit moors, naked but for some kind of filmy robe, aware of hot breath on his neck. It was a predator, hungry, cruel, bigger and stronger than he. Sometimes it ran upright, sometimes it bounded on four hairy paws, but always it drew closer. Rachel stood on a hilltop, a burning torch in her hand. He ran on, past the hill. Closer and closer drew his pursuer. The breath sobbed in his throat, harsh with the fetor of the beast, almost close enough to touch him now. He tried to force one last effort from his pain-wracked body, and fell headlong over an upthrust tree root. He rolled over, and saw the creature clearly for the first time. Its bestial howl of triumph mingled with his own scream. It leapt-- --and Jack shuddered into wakefulness, sitting up in a bed clammy with his sweat, the pieces of his dream crumbling between the fingers of his mind. All he could recall was the fear. He shuddered again, and something felt wrong. He looked down, and swore in disbelief as he saw the sheer silk nightdress he was wearing. "What the hell's the matter with me?" he snarled. Here he was, dressing like a fairy, carrying a handbag for Christ's sake, and now this. He was no further forward with his planned seduction of the Potter girl, nor any closer to the fortune he was convinced his aunt could be persuaded to make over to him. Well, it was obvious to him that his aunt was inflicting these changes on him somehow. He searched the pillow, ripping it open with his fingernails, and triumphantly came up with a miniature tape recorder embedded in the fibres. The cassette had become dislodged from its place, which was almost certainly why he had woken as himself and not the effeminate pansy his aunt wanted to make of him. Angrily he yanked the tiny tape out of the machine and smashed it to bits with the heel of his shoe. "Jacky?" It was Rachel's--his aunt's voice. He jerked round to see her standing in the doorway, wearing a pale lilac robe very like his. "It's Jack, Rachel. Not Jacky, not John, not Josephine. I'm on to you." He should have tried to pretend, tried to brazen it out, but the thought came too late. "I don't know what sick game you're playing, but it won't work. Not any more. Now that I know, I can fight it, see? I'm not exactly without will power. You can ask any broker in the city." He was breathing hard, adrenalin coursing through his body. "Ah, you wait, you sick bitch. I'll get the police on to you. Drugs, hypnosis, subliminal tapes--did you really think you could turn me queer? Jack Farrell?" He laughed. "There's girls all over Chelsea could have told you how far you'd get with that game. No, auntie, it's all over, and now I'm calling the coppers." He reached for the phone beside the bed. "Really," Rachel said calmly, leaning against the door post. "Pumpkinhead." *** Jacky woke from a confused dream to morning light shining through the windows. He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he had been wakened at some point in the night. He thought he remembered something about a pillow fight...but that must have been a dream. His pillows were all present and correct, and there was no trace of fibre filling on the floor. What there was was Rachel, slumped in the armchair across the room and fast asleep. Jacky felt tears sting his eyes. Rachel had obviously come to sit with him when he had had his bad dream, stayed awake as long as she could watching over him...in fact, he remembered now, waking briefly and seeing her gazing fondly down at him. Rachel was so good and loving to him, and he didn't deserve such care. He crept out of bed, moving as quietly as he could, and closed the bathroom door silently. The temptation to sing in the shower was strong, but he overcame it. He shaved his face and limbs and brushed his hair, then tiptoed out into the bedroom again and found a pair of silk panties and a cotton sundress in the wardrobe. He hesitated a second before slipping the dress over his head: something didn't seem quite right, but he couldn't think what... Suddenly, without warning, things began to fall into place in Jacky's mind. Memories surfaced, facts linked themselves into chains of logic, the world turned right side up. He laughed out loud, and then caught his breath as Rachel stirred and moaned. Quickly Jacky finished dressing and left the room, heading for the kitchen. There was no sign of Jennie: the clock on the landing told him it was still early, much too early to wake everyone. Jacky made a pot of tea, poured himself a cup and sat at the kitchen table nursing it, thinking about the dream. "How do you feel?" Rachel said sleepily from the doorway. Jacky blushed. "Fine," he said, "except for the guilt and embarrassment." "Why?" Rachel said. "You had a bad dream. I came in to sit with you in case it happened again." "I shouldn't have disturbed you," Jacky said penitently. "Do you want to talk about the dream?" Rachel asked. "I--yes, I think I do." Jacky took a gulp of tea. Rachel fetched a cup and filled it for herself. "It was weird. I dreamed I was...I know this is going to sound peculiar, Rachel, but it made perfect sense at the time...I dreamed I was...a man." Rachel frowned. "But--" "Yes, I know," Jacky cut her off, "but this was different. I was everything about men that I've always hated, selfish, arrogant and convinced of my superiority...and yet I was scared, so scared that I might be losing all that--no. That you were taking it away from me." He shuddered. "It was like--like I've always imagined coming off a drug would be...the pain, the wanting...and the knowing that what I wanted was bad, was killing me...and not caring about that." His voice caught, and he looked down to hide the tears. Rachel took him in her arms, held him while he sobbed, made gentle soothing noises, and stroked his hair and face with her cool, strong fingers till he quieted. "C-can you help me, Rachel?" Jacky whispered. "Help you?" Rachel's voice was neutral: not unkind, not unloving, but neither eager nor apprehensive. "To do what?" "I...I hadn't thought about it, but...I've been that man, the man in the dream. I've been him all my life. Jack Farrell is that man." Jacky shook her head. "I'm not making any sense." "You're making perfect sense, my dear. Go on. What do you want?" "I don't want to be that man any more. Ever. I don't want to go back to his life. I don't want to be among people who expect me to behave like him. It would be too hard not to..." Jacky blinked back fresh tears, swallowed hard. "Will you let me stay with you, Rachel?" Rachel hugged him harder. "Oh, my very dear," she murmured. "You don't know how I've hoped to hear you say that." "I want to be Jacky," Jacky said into Rachel's bosom. "I want to be Jacky for ever." "Whatever it takes?" Rachel said, holding him away so that she could look into his reddened eyes. "Are you sure?" "I'm sure," Jacky said. "I don't understand, but I know that I only started to be Jacky when I came to stay with you. I've been happier here than I've ever been in my life, and I know that somehow you've done it for me. You've changed me, and the changes are all good. If there's more to come, I'm ready for it, I want it." "I didn't give you a choice," Rachel said soberly. "I tricked you into it. Drugs, hypnosis, subliminal tapes...I programmed you." "No, you didn't. You *de*programmed me. Jack was the programming, the wrongness." Jacky caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall. "Oh heavens, what do I look like? Let me up, Rachel, I need to wash my face." She went to the sink. "I don't know when it happened," he went on, moistening a piece of kitchen paper under the cold tap, "or started happening. Maybe even at school. Maybe before that. I absorbed a truckload of--of nonsense about how men were supposed to be, and I bought into the whole deal. I was *good* at it. I was proud of myself for being so hard, so cool, so macho. And all the time I think a little part of me hated myself for what I was becoming." "I made you feel that way." "No, you only gave a voice to the part of me that always felt that way. I think all men have it." Jacky turned to face Rachel. "I know right now I can't tell the difference between the feelings you implanted and my real feelings...but I remember enough about my early adult life to know that feelings like that were there, and I did everything I could to crush them and suppress them and wipe them out of my life. And I almost succeeded." "I couldn't be sure," Rachel confessed. "I couldn't be sure you had any of those feelings left. But I had to find out." "One thing I don't understand," Jacky said. "Jennie. Where does she fit in?" "Jennie is the daughter of a friend of mine," Rachel said. "She's been the victim of men...not unlike Jack Farrell...before. The friend asked me to see if I could do anything for her. I'm a sort of therapist, you see." "You're a sort of angel as far as I'm concerned," Jacky said. "Jennie is a little too far in the direction you're going...too submissive, too passive. I said I would try to bring her back this way a little. Seeing your transformation has been quite therapeutic for her. And I thought...if things worked out...she would be company for you. If you hadn't...if I had not been successful, I would have had to send you away for her sake." "Okay. Last question. Why do you do this?" Jacky checked herself out. "Better." She came and sat beside Rachel again. "I'm not complaining, far from it. I just wonder...why?" Rachel got up and went out of the room, to return a few seconds later carrying a book. Jacky took it and looked at the title. _Gender Therapy: Healing the Wound_, by Rachel S. Farrell. "Did you ever wonder what happened to your uncle Charles?" Rachel said. *** Jacqui Farrell bounced into the newsagent's shop in a bright blue sundress and strappy sandals with two- inch heels. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, bleached blonde by the summer sun. She was all smiles. "Good morning, Mr. Paterson," she said. "Morning, miss," the newsagent said. "Advertiser is it?" Jacqui took the local paper and paid for it. "You any relation of this Jack Farrell the police are looking for?" Mr. Paterson went on, pointing to the headline halfway down the front page. "I think he's a cousin or something," Jacqui said, frowning at the picture. "What's he supposed to have done?" "Disappeared, so they say. Round here somewhere. About the time you showed up." There was a twinkle in the man's eye. "Says he was on his way to stay with his aunt. That'd be Mrs Farrell up at the Grange, I guess?" "Well, yes. She's my aunt, so she must be his, I suppose." It was a game they were playing, and they both knew it. The village knew Mrs. Farrell and liked her, and now they knew Jacqui and liked *her*. The police would find little assistance with their enquiries here. "I'm sure there's no need to worry," Jacqui said firmly. "He's probably much happier where he is now. Thank you, Mr. Paterson." She left the shop and got into Jennie's car, which was waiting at the kerb. They hugged briefly, and Jennie let out the clutch. "Who's that?" she said, catching a glimpse of the picture in the paper. "Nobody I know," Jacqui said. "Let's go home." END