Sarah And John - Resolution free porn video

Sarah and John - Resolution By Callie Messenger "You are three kilos over the specified limits, Miss Spencer, but I think we can waive that. Next time don't pack so much?" "Certainly." "You're in 28C, an aisle seat, and your boarding gate is number fifty-four. Enjoy your flight!" Miss Spencer headed over to the bookstore at the end of the check-in desks. "Briony, over here." She looked up to see the owner of the voice waving from the magazine racks and skipped over to her. "What have you found, Beth?" She asked the younger woman. "In-flight reading. Your spread in Playboy." "Grab it. Let's see what colour the boy at the till turns!" *** Briony Spencer turned away from Bethan at the gates. As she did so the tears stopped flowing almost instantaneously. She passed through customs without a problem as she was travelling on an Australian passport. The scanner revealed no strange metal items in her black rucksack. The duty free accepted her Amex for a couple of bottles of wine. Nothing seemed different about Miss Briony Spencer, aside from her good looks, and a sexual confidence that seemed almost palpable. As she boarded the Thai airways flight one or two young lads were praying that they were sat next to her. Special? Briony Spencer was dead. She had died of a drug overdose three years before. She wasn't homeless, sharing a room with another girl who had reported her death. Only when the police arrived it appeared that they were somehow misinformed as to the girl's identity. They filed the death as non-suspicious, drugs related, and listed the deceased as one Sarah Jackson, an English backpacker who had lost her passport and whose visa had long since expired. An unwanted druggie, with no known relatives, and a name too common for their colleagues in the UK to track down, apart from noting that no one had reported her missing. The case was closed. The new Briony Spencer advertised for a new roomie. Was it really three years now, Sarah thought to herself. For six months she'd worked for little more than room and board, with both she and her employers concerned about her lack of passport and visa. She'd worked hard, though, and they'd been supportive. Six months of enticing drunken men into a back room where they would throw dollars at her to suck them off or fuck them. With her new identity came new freedom. She took her references and moved to another club where her experience would earn her the big money. She moved onto the stage and learned to dance, though her athletic body was well capable of the moves, and she found it easy. Easier, anyway, than fucking at four in the morning. She had found that there was no humiliation to her work. When you have to do something then you have to do it. She knew girls who had children to support and no prospects for a decent job. They simply resigned themselves to prostitution and treated it as though they were answering phones or some such. Some enjoyed it, or at least they enjoyed the rewards, and like all good salespeople they put in the extra hours for the extra earnings. She herself had no option but to live off the earnings from the only operation seedy enough to accept a girl with no past and no ID. When she got her ID she still didn't get a past. She had spent all the hours she could trying to find out whether Briony Spencer had ever been married, had children, or been educated. Would there be parents looking for her? But Briony was as much a ghost as she had been. A girl who worked tricks, and stole what she could to feed her drug habit. Sarah had been educated by her, but never educated about her. She never opened up. And then she was gone. Not even a pusher had come looking for her. All Briony owned was a battered passport. The patterned pages held the only history of her life. 'Thailand 1996', 'Thailand 1997', 'Vietnam 1997', and the list went on. Either Briony had loved South-East Asia, or she was a courier. Sarah filed that little fact away and applied for a new, clean passport just as soon as she could. Sarah introduced herself as Briony to her new flatmate, Bethan. When she arrived Bethan looked to be headed the same way as Briony. She was young, Australian, a runaway from 'The Gong', a port city two hours to the South. Sarah slowly began to befriend her, not trying to turn her round but to get a handle on what she was going through. As Sarah slowly insinuated herself into the drug-using scene so Bethan realised that someone was interested in her. Had she not been using drugs, Bethan would still have had to turn tricks for food. She thought she was worthless because of it, but Sarah showed her that she was surviving, alone, and that was worth something. Bethan was strong, and seeing that Sarah wasn't a user she began to pull away from using herself. Then she began to look for alternatives to selling her body, and found a pusher who needed someone to courier locally for him. Soon she had a car, cash, and a way home if she wanted it, but she didn't. Sarah was impressed, and never put Bethan down for doing what she did. Within six months Bethan and Sarah were so tight that when offered a trip to Bangkok, the younger girl immediately invited her flatmate. Sarah thought back on Briony and Bethan. Without her, she thought, Bethan would be in the same state as Briony in less than six months. She shrugged mentally. She didn't wish the girl any ill, but all the same, she'd served her purpose. She stood at the carousel in Heathrow. She'd changed at the stopover in Singapore and was wearing a business suit under a long coat. The pilot had mentioned a temperature of four degrees in London, and she just wasn't used to that anymore. She was chatting to the elderly couple that had sat next to her since Singapore. They were heading to Cambridge but had offered to get their son to take a diversion via London. Sarah had heard all about him and his failure to find a nice girl. She helped the guy grab his cases and then waited for a grey suitcase to come round. Hers had a tiny nick on the handle. The first one round that looked like hers didn't. She loaded it onto her trolley along with a canvas holdall full of clothes. The older couple chatted to her on the way through the green channel. She waved them off with an apology as she saw a sign for 'Sarah Jackson' among the massed ranks of taxi drivers. Ironic, she thought, that it was now her alias. Twenty minutes later the heavy, black Audi was flashing towards the South of London. It was over. Not that there was ever any worry that it would go wrong. The suitcase carried twenty kilos of Heroin base. Had she been caught with it she only had to hold her nerve and explain that it wasn't her suitcase. Only a confession could trap a courier using 'the swap'. She would never have confessed to knowing that the suitcase that wasn't hers contained heroin. But even that was behind her now. In front of her was an anonymous payment of fifty thousand pounds. And then what? Sarah was home. She was wealthy. She had the names of a number of people who might be able to help her. It was time to take her life back. *** Tom looked down at the woman lying in his bed. She was asleep. Long, dark-brown hair fell over the cream satin pillowslip. Her lips were pursed as though in thought, the way she often looked when considering some minor problem. Her right hand showed from under the sheets. It was unadorned except for the nails, which were long and glistened under a clear polish. He could see the sheet move as she breathed, its fold over her chest taking the shape of the half-moon that shone through the French window. As he lay into the bed she stirred slightly. "Where were you?" She asked, her voice hoarse with tiredness. "Just a few things to wrap up, darling." He was answered with silence. She probably had not even awoken to voice her concern, and was satisfied with reassurance of his presence. He thought of running his fingers down her back, gently stroking her into awareness, but she needed her sleep, and he his. Little point to rouse her, he thought as he stared up at the moon. She was as still as the night, and as serene. There was a storm coming. *** Sarah's parents had moved. That much was obvious from the blank look on the face of the woman now staring down at her. She knew it anyway, having watched the owners enter, but now she needed this prime example of averageness to let her know where they'd moved. No doubt her IQ was spot on one hundred too, she thought, as the woman slowly realised that the suggestion of a forwarding address might not be a bad one, and tried to remember if she had one. Eventually nothing was forthcoming, and Sarah waved goodbye to her old house. It was time to research that one. Next she took a cab over to her old offices. The name was still over the door, SJ Graphics. Inside she was met by a receptionist who obviously didn't recognise her. "Who are you here to see?" She asked in a rather squeaky voice. Guessing that she, or rather no-one looking like her had been seen here in quite a while she decided to play along a little to find out what her situation was. Behind the receptionist on the wall was a board showing major names and positions. The managing director was one C. Shaw. "Caroline Shaw." "One moment please." She looked down at her screen and clicked a few keys. Then she spoke into her headset for a moment. She looked back at Sarah. "Ms. Shaw is in a meeting at the moment. If you'll give me your name I can see if she'll be free soon." Sarah headed for the door. "I'll just go wait in her office." The secretary stared after her, but Sarah was gone. Caroline stepped in through her office door. "Remembering old times, Sarah?" "Old times?" Sarah asked, comfortably relaxed in the chair behind the desk. "That used to be your seat." Caroline closed the door behind her and sat against it. "But not my chair. This is new." "Yes," Caroline stepped forward from the door, "it's mine. Come sit with me over here," she said, gesturing to a small lounge area arranged around a coffee table. "I'll send for David to bring us tea. Or you prefer coffee, don't you?" "Yes, coffee." Sarah stood up from the chair and came to sit near Caroline. When had she last been here, she wondered. How much had happened, and how much should she know. "So, Caroline, how's business?" "Drop it, Sarah. Why are you suddenly interested? What are you here for?" If she was perturbed by the hostility, Sarah didn't show it. Years of hiding her emotions meant it came as naturally to her as to a poker player. "Why should I not be interested? This is my business." "You haven't been interested for years. I haven't seen you for years, why show up now? Aren't you happy in the States?" "Why shouldn't I show up? What's happened here?" "What's happened? First you disappear to Australia, then to America, and then, without even coming here to let us know you sell the company from under us. You haven't spoken to me for three years. How about telling me what happened? Are you starting up over there? Looking to steal a few employees, or clients maybe?" Sarah had switched off at the point she discovered that her company had been sold. Her brainchild, her baby, her effort was now the playtoy probably of some millionaire start-up web designer. The person who'd taken her life had left her with nothing. She stood up and made to leave. "That's it!" Screamed Caroline. "No explanation, no nothing!" She looked back at her former junior partner and best friend. "I'll be back, Caroline. I've got something I need to take care of." *** Finding her parents proved to be more difficult than she had thought it would be. Ten million people in London meant there were a lot of Jackson's in the phone book. Neither was it easy to count the Davies's, but Linda had been listed under her maiden name of Chevissy, an altogether simpler proposition. Following up the latter lead Sarah found herself in a block of flats in Chelsea, near the Stamford Bridge ground. Linda was living in 34b. Sarah looked down the intercom board and found L. Chevissy typed next to a button. She depressed it, knowing that Linda was in having seen her enter. A young voice came through the speaker. "Who is it?" "Is your mummy in?" Asked Sarah. There were a few crackles in the speaker, then "Who is it?" This was obviously Linda's voice. "Hi, Linda? My name's Briony Spencer. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?" "I'm sorry, who is it?" "I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about your ex- husband?" "Who are you?" "I'm a private investigator. My client is a company in Sydney, Australia." "What is your company name and phone number, please?" A very canny woman, Sarah thought to herself. "We're not listed. Security reasons. My number is 07783 555005." "I'll give you a call at a more convenient time. Miss Spencer, wasn't it?" "Briony. Briony Spencer." The intercom went dead and Sarah left the foyer. *** Linda called back within two minutes. Sarah pulled out her phone and checked for a number to be sure it was Linda. "Everyman Investigations, Briony speaking." "You wanted to ask me some questions about my husband." All business. Sarah didn't recall Linda being that way. But now she was a divorced single mother. Perhaps she had grown some more backbone. "Yes, Ms. Chevissy. Could we meet?" "Is there anything I won't be able to answer over the phone?" "Well, I hope you understand, Ms. Chevissy, but we need to be sure that we are speaking to the correct Linda Chevissy. Also we would like to see any documentation that details interaction with your husband over the period since your divorce, and take copies if you will permit." "Right. I see." Sarah ploughed on. "So if I could suggest a local coffee shop, perhaps, and give you a couple of days to find anything you consider might be relevant. Say, Tuesday at ten in Grounds?" "That sounds okay." "Excellent." Sarah had the upper hand and quickly closed. "See you then." She ended the call. *** Jon was now perfectly used to being addressed as Sarah, but more used to endearments such as 'darling' or 'honey'. At one time it had been 'babe'. He had hated that. Worse was the fact that he could never express his resentment of it. He thought that it would be unnatural. Women were often addressed as 'babe' so he put up with it, even smiled as he heard it. He knew that some women did object to some methods of address, but he didn't know if he was that kind of woman. He didn't know how to be any kind of woman. For months, perhaps years, perhaps even now he was treading a minefield without a map. This morning he had put on a scoop-necked red top and a knee length tight black skirt to wear into head office. Base camp, all the consultants called it. He knew that everyone dressed more casually there, but he was slightly lost dressed down below a collared blouse. Even at home base he had tended to dress as though at a client site. Now he was in what should be more familiar territory, but he couldn't relax at all. He felt like he was running a gauntlet of eyes. All the secretaries were dressed similarly, but they were in their early twenties. He was thirty. Should he be wearing such high heels and showing cleavage? Jon wasn't used to being 'she'. He was very careful when expressing himself to use the correct pronouns, but it was rare that one had to take care in English. It was rare to talk about oneself in the third person. He described himself as a brunette, having allowed the blonde to grow out. He used hair dye, as he loved dark auburn. He used make-up. But he still dressed the person in the mirror, and then took over her body as though it was a suit of clothes. It fit well in most places, but a little tight across the chest. Now, in the office, he was well aware of his fellow, mostly male, consultants copping the odd, surreptitious eyeful of that chest. They talked to him, and with him, but he always felt that they would rather talk about him. He felt an outside pressure to hang out with the secretaries and the girls from marketing, both from those girls and the male consultants. The guys wanted to hang out with the girls, but they expected the girls to be a group. The perceived distance made Jon feel slightly disliked by the males, as though he couldn't get close to them. But though the girls were friendly, Jon felt the distance there because he wasn't one of them. He couldn't be one of them. He didn't like what they liked, or have the experiences they had. He tried, but it was another suit of clothes that just didn't quite fit. Jon only felt close to one person, and that had sometimes been a close run thing. Tom was his husband. He really felt that way, that he was married to the man. He didn't feel that Tom had married his body, or his persona, Sarah Jackson. They were married, they loved, and Jon gave everything he could to Tom. Oh, they'd had some major problems, but in getting over them Jon had realised that Tom deserved his all. Though never homosexual, Jon could not see it as anything other than love. There was no other explanation for why he did what he did for the man, for why he felt the way he felt. When he wore them for Tom, the clothes fit. *** Thomas Henderson Bridges used to be Thomas Henderson Bridges II. His father had died a year before. Tom had been close enough to his father, he supposed, but not as close as he would be to his own son. Tom's younger brother had children, a son and a daughter, but Tom's father had always wanted a grandson from Tom. He, however, had devoted his life to work, and utilised his skills and the family connections to turn their wealth into their fortune. When he had met Sarah in London she had appeared to be a woman in his own mould, carving herself a niche and expanding it through a single-minded devotion to work. As he met with her more often she seemed to show him another side of herself, a womanly side that desired affection, affection which he began to find himself willing to offer. But there was always a shadow in the background. She never gave all. Tom supposed that the effort she put into work drained her somewhat, and wondered what she would be like as a partner without the trappings of business. Then she took a long break. When she came back from Australia she was a completely different woman. She devoted herself entirely to him and his attention. She gave up her work completely. She still had her strength, a masculinity which he admired, but topped by an incredible, sometimes over the top femininity as though she'd rediscovered what it meant to be a girl. They would argue, she would shout and hold her own, then suddenly she was deference, sweetness and an incredible night. In the morning he would discover that she had won the argument. She was two people, sometimes forceful, sometimes yielding. He realised that she was learning exactly how to wrap him around her little finger, and he realised that he didn't care. If he was to become Thomas Henderson Bridges I, this was the woman he wanted to do it with. *** The original Sarah Jackson appeared to be browsing in a newsagent across the road from the caf? where she was to meet Linda. Playboy had caught her eye again. That was some shoot, she recalled. The first time it was three thousand dollars. She had accompanied Mimi, a Polynesian dancer with inflated breasts, to the girl's shoot. The photographer took a few looks at Sarah and booked her up for her own appointment. She had enjoyed it, as the crew on the shoot had been nothing but professional and complimentary. Soon she was called back by the editors to do her own centrefold as Miss October. She thought it was quite an achievement for someone just shy of thirty at the time, but then when the magazine came out she laughed at her new age of twenty- three. With the make-up piled on she did look it, and the airbrushing was superb. Almost two thirds of her large aureolae had become pink skin. Natural breast sag had been eliminated through the use of sellotape, which was invisible in the finished product. She loved the whole thing. For once it was about her, and not about someone she was forced, or pretending, to be. And, of course, it had helped business. At the club she worked at her cover joined the growing number on the wall. As an escort she suddenly was elevated to the top earning bracket, alongside a number of experienced models and the occasional actress. In terms of getting her places, Australian Playboy was a Godsend. She blinked out of her reverie as she saw Linda enter the caf?. Replacing the magazine she wasn't even browsing she made her own way across the road. Linda was already seated as she approached. "Hi, Linda?" The woman turned. "I'm Briony Spencer. May I join you?" "Sure." "My ID." Sarah showed Linda a laminated card that she'd typed up on a computer the day before. It had her photo and an official looking stamp, which was a barely readable library stamp. "Are you from Australia?" Asked Linda. "You sound Australian." "Most recently, yes." "That's where my husband disappeared, shortly after I left him. Do you know where he is?" "Not yet, no. That's what I have come to ask you about." "You remind me of someone. Have we met before?" Sarah had taken some care with her appearance. While she was certain that Linda would have forgotten the couple of times that they had met, after all, it was almost ten years now, she took no chances. She was wearing a superb black wig that had never failed her in her time as an escort, and bright blue contact lenses. The rest was expert application of make-up, of the kind that could make a black-eye look healthy, or a bruise look like blush. Facially she bore some resemblance to the Sarah that Linda knew, but little. "No," she responded mildly, "we haven't met before." She continued straight on, leaving no room for further questions. "When did you last see your husband?" "In Australia, over three years ago. He went to work on a Monday morning and I didn't wait for him to return." "Did he try to follow you?" "No, I didn't hear from him at all." "Did you send divorce papers before or after you left." "After. They were never returned. I got a court ruling in absentia resulting in a divorce and full custody." "Were you awarded any money?" "Sure. There was a small monthly alimony payment." "Where is that coming from?" "It isn't." "So you have had absolutely no contact with your husband since you left Australia?" "No contact with my husband, Ms. Spencer. I was hoping you would let me know what exactly happened to him. Why are you after him now?" "Unpaid debts, Ms. Chevissy. Would you like me to add yours to the list?" "Oh, no. I got all the satisfaction I required some time ago." Linda got up to leave. "I trust our business is complete? Good day, Ms. Spencer." As Linda walked out Sarah ordered herself a strong coffee. She had a feeling that she had just been played, and Linda knew far more than she let on. Perhaps she had been recognised, but Linda couldn't be quite sure, and so was treading warily. She pulled out her tape recorder and stopped the tape. She would have to go over the conversation quite carefully. Was there more said than met the eye? *** Sarah's parents were living in Hammersmith. She wanted to go to them, but she couldn't really imagine her parents hugging her, let alone that hug making everything feel better. She just wanted to go to them. Perhaps there was someone else who could make her feel better, but she hadn't found that person. She didn't know what her parents thought about her but assumed that Jon had somehow persuaded them that he was she and she was fine. He looked the part and knew enough about them. So even now she had to tread carefully. Did she need to know anything about the situation before she could return? Her experience with Caroline had hurt. Her best friend thought she was scum. Was she? She'd left everything behind with her heart set on some kind of cleansing. She'd been punished for it. And now she was being punished more, with her life turned against her, her friends against her, and everything she'd worked for lost. Still, she'd made a success of herself, relatively, as a stripper, prostitute, glamour model, escort and drug courier. Was it like being number one in the prison? Did it really prepare you for life on the outside, or did it only make you a better criminal? In her case, a better nemesis for her twice ex- lover. All she wanted was her life back this time, and the thief out of it. She just had to find him. Her parents seemed to live a simpler life now. Neither appeared to be working. Both appeared to have interests. Her mother was attending dancing and singing lessons. Her father was renovating a motorcycle in a lock-up a short way from the house. In a week Jon didn't show. She didn't think he could really have pulled that off, though, being in close proximity to them for more than a few hours. Even for more than a few minutes. After all, he was taller than her, and mothers noticed such things. They might take time to filter through, but it would bug them until they did. And there was the voice. He had sounded girly when she last listened to him, but he wasn't her. How did he pull that off? Still she couldn't meet them. What if she was supposed to be lost in Nepal, or was emailing them from the US everyday? She had to get into the house. Prostitutes might be illegal in some places, but that didn't mean that they suddenly discovered the skill of picking locks, like so many other criminals were supposed to. Sarah had met an armed robber and plenty of car thieves, and doubted they knew how to pick a lock. However, she had the names of people who might know people, and one Tuesday morning a gasman called to read the Jackson residence meter. On departure he got back into his gas company van and drove around the corner of the block where he stopped. He wound down his window and handed Sarah a bunch of keys freshly lifted from a hook in the hallway. He explained which hook. Sarah waited for both her parents to leave the house on regular appointments and let herself in. She needed to go no further than the mantelpiece in the front room. There, in the centre, was a wedding photo. She was wearing cream. A tight, sleeveless, shoulderless bodice that curved down into a loose, flowing skirt. Her hair was dark, held back off her face by a slim tiara, and falling down her back over her shoulders in waves. The bouquet was purple and white. Standing next to her was a man she thought she'd lost forever. Tom. Tom Bridges. Not lost, but stolen. Sarah was going to scream. She knew exactly where Jon was. She knew exactly where she had to be. *** Jon looked out over the little estate. It was cool on the balcony, and he cradled a mug of coffee for the warmth. Like many younger girls in the cold, however, he was barely dressed, with only a silk singlet and camis keeping the breeze off. He considered that it might be the extra layer of fat that made women impervious to the cool. His was thin, as he maintained his body well, but present, due to the never-ending hormones that he had to take. One side effect of not really being a woman. But one side effect of looking like one was the attention, primarily focussed on one especially unreal spot. He felt Tom's footfall behind him on the wood and then his hands came from behind to cup his breasts. Breasts on a thirty- year old that didn't droop or sag, and whose nipples were constantly erect. "I guess it is cool out here," murmured Tom as his fingers stroked those nipples. "Why don't you warm me up a little?" Purred Jon, tilting his neck for his husband to kiss. "Because, darling," Tom explained between nibbles, "I have a meeting in half-an-hour and you didn't let me get up early enough to be even excusably late." Jon turned around when Tom released her slightly. She put one hand through his robe to stroke his chest as he backed slowly toward the bedroom. When he reached the French windows he paused to look at his wife. "You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise." "Tom! You know I'm..." "Ah, Sarah," Tom interrupted, "no false modesty. You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and even you aren't allowed to say otherwise." As he closed the doors slightly behind him Jon turned back to look over the fields and woods. He was blushing like a schoolgirl. *** Sarah flew into Washington Dulles. Security on internal flights had risen considerably since the attack on the World Trade Centre, so Sarah flew international direct to her destination. That way she was assured of a known level of security. Washington is also a major hub for the drugs trade, with one of the highest levels of drug use by population within the States, and major international connections. Flights or connections from South America or South East Asia were heavily targeted by customs and DEA officials. Sarah flew a Heathrow-Washington shuttle. Landing at near enough the same time as its Paris equivalent. Busy customs officials had to take a moment off and this was their moment. Washington was not a comfort zone for Sarah. This time her contact taxi dropped her at the Plaza, a short ride from Capitol Hill. She left the suitcase in the baggage compartment, picking up instead a small canvas bag, which matched her holdall. Once ensconced in a room she began to distribute the money it contained around her bag and clothing. It was a smaller amount of money this time. One of the reasons for this was the unlicensed pistol, which also came in the bag. A snub-nosed .38, it was probably stolen, or bought, from the police. It was easy to conceal, and packed a man-stopping punch when aimed at the centre of mass. Aimed well, it could kill at forty yards. Sarah wasn't even sure she knew how to shoot it, but she was hoping she wouldn't need to. The gun wasn't her weapon of choice on this manhunt. She had taken a true risk this time. Within her own bag, hidden in two resealed bags of speciality coffee, were twelve sachets of powdered heroin. That was something that Sarah had learned how to use, though like a gun, never on herself. If her contact had known that she was carrying personal stuff, she would probably be dead now. Getting caught at customs would have been the safer option. The money was enough for her stay, and enough to get her a small car. Sarah needed to find a cheap apartment, where she wouldn't be disturbed too much. One reason for the gun. She also needed to make a phone call. *** Jon couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. He was used to being looked at, but this was something different. Ever since he and Tom had returned to the Georgetown, D.C. residence he had been feeling a little nervous. Tom had told him that there was nothing to worry about. Jon felt differently. He didn't like the city that much and knew it was dangerous. Tom was a large man, in great shape. Jon had once been in good shape for a small build, able to do reps on a sixty-five kilo bench press. Now he was in superb shape for a slender woman, confident he could take on any woman short of a WWF wrestler, but his present forty-five kilo bench press was unlikely to impress a large fifteen year old boy. And plenty of those had been indicted for rape. Now Tom was going away on business, and obligations to clients meant that Jon couldn't go with him. Was he just nervous because they had rarely been apart? He knew it was a factor. Without Tom there was no reason to be. He thought about the first years with Linda, the magical years, when they didn't need anyone but each other. This was different now. Jon not only needed no one but Tom, he couldn't live without Tom. Jon knew that he was a man in a woman's body. It was an incredible way to become such, a way he had initially welcomed, if only for the change to his life. But a man could not operate in a woman's body. He didn't enjoy women's clothing. Except for bras. Bras were the most comfortable items of clothing ever invented, if you had breasts. The rest of women's clothing was designed as accoutrements to the woman's body. Breasts themselves were adornments to be styled in a particular way. If you had small breasts you wore one fashion, large breasts another. Slim women showed their bellies, often with bejewelled navels. Women with good legs emphasised them more with heels. Men looked at women. Jon looked at women. From men, he couldn't stand the attention. It was something he couldn't get used to. Women grew up with it. He had grown up desiring it but now that he had it he couldn't stand it. If anything, he was beginning to act a little agoraphobic. He didn't want men's attention, but wherever he went it was handed to him on a plate, especially if he wore normal women's clothes, and make-up. Jon couldn't get away from make-up. All of Tom's friends' wives were plastered in it. At work he was virtually ordered to wear it, in order to maintain a professional front. Jon knew that meant that he had to impress, with whatever he could. He touched his face up in the women's toilets, one reason for all the women in a group travelling there between dessert and coffee. Where else could you maintain the look? Yet he still didn't appreciate the feel of lipstick on his lips. Nor did he appreciate making efforts to 'look beautiful' which often succeeded, leading right back to him becoming the centre of attention. Everything he had to do separated him from the men. Sometimes it could be an advantage, such as when the golf came on. Then he was happy to find women to talk with. More often he felt that his environment conspired to keep him in chains. His society-wife life meant shopping to be feminine, eating to be feminine, exercising to be feminine, acting to be feminine. At the end of the day he could unshackle the dress and heels, unlock his face, but he couldn't escape his body. Only in the dark of night did he feel free, if nothing lay over his chest, and his thoughts didn't stray to the sexual. He was damned then by his ghost of physical response. With one other person he could be himself. His husband saw past the physical. When he was allowed to, Jon corrected himself. He was smiling as he headed up the steps to the front door, all thoughts of being watched sinking away. As he put the key in the lock something small and hard poked into his back. "Don't turn. Walk straight in." Came the hoarse, accented whisper. Jon flashed through too many scenarios in his head and realised that behind him was someone with a gun who was going to get what they wanted or shoot. He turned the key and pushed open the door. "Switch off the alarm. Don't look behind you." Jon bent down to the console and heard the door close behind him. It crossed his mind to key the wrong combination, but the security firm would take about six minutes to reach the street. He would be dead and his killer would be twelve blocks away. The bleeping stopped and Jon rose without turning. "Up the stairs. Your bedroom." There was an accent in the whisper that Jon recognised, but it was overdone. His attacker was faking an Australian accent. Why? Was Jon supposed to report his hold-up was by an Australian? At least that would mean that Jon was going to live through this. He opened the door to the bedroom. "Lie down on the bed. Close your eyes before you lie on your back." This was it then. He was about to get raped. He didn't feel bad about it. He didn't feel much at all. He lay down on his back, eyes closed. Was it to be raped and shot? There was some shuffling coming from the bathroom. Jon didn't risk looking. "Drink this." He was ordered, and a hand gently lifted his head from the pillow and placed a glass to his mouth. He sucked in the liquid. It was water, with a dry, powdery mixture thick in it, causing him to cough as he tried to swallow. The hand kept the glass to his mouth and it dripped down the sides of his face. Shortly he finished the lot. Poison? Or just drugs? It didn't matter much now. "It was just sleeping pills." No accent. No hoarse whisper. "Sarah?" Queried Jon in shock. He opened his eyes to see his ex-girlfriend sitting a few feet away. His near identical twin, through her own devious methods. The reason for his physical state. And a woman whom he had condemned to a life of penniless prostitution. "What? How...?" "Stay on the bed. I still have the gun and I will use it if I have to. I don't want to kill you. The sleeping pills should take full effect in a few minutes, but I didn't give you an overdose. Just enough that you will sleep, through pretty much anything." "What do you want?" "I want my life back." "You took mine." "Yes, Jon, I did. But you managed to make it an even swap, and humiliate me into the bargain. Well, I'm just here for an even swap now. I get to be Sarah Jackson again, and you can be, well, I'm afraid I can only offer Briony Spencer." "Who?" "Don't worry, you'll like her." Jon put his hand to his head. The room was beginning to spin slightly. Sarah smiled. "Getting a little dizzy? Don't worry, I'll get you out of here before walking becomes too much of a problem." Jon shook his head as he felt the cobwebs begin to settle. "I saw Linda, you know?" Sarah continued casually. "I'll let her know where you are so that she can be sure to get all that money you owe her. She might even want to see you." "Linda?" Asked Jon with a slight slur. "Linda knows where I am." "What was that? No," Sarah replied, "She doesn't yet, but she will. You're starting to feel the drugs slowing down the higher centres of the brain. Soon you won't even know that you're still awake, and we'll walk you down to my car. Then you'll really fall asleep. The next time you see me it'll be tomorrow." "What will you do to me?" "You're coming with me to my place. There's a man coming to visit soon who's very interested in Briony Spencer. That will be you. There's a man returning here in two weeks' time who's very interested in Sarah Jackson. That will be me. Yes, you see, I know that Tom is away on business. And I am pretty certain that you know very few other people in the area unless you're at a function with Tom. Anyone who knows you will see you come in and out of the house a few times over the two weeks, of course. At least, they'll see Sarah Jackson. And your work will be receiving your resignation. I hope you don't have any friends there." Sarah waited a few moments in silence. Then she helped the slightly heavier version of herself to walk clumsily out to her car. *** Jon woke in a bare room. He was seated on a chair. His ankles were strapped to the legs and his wrists to the arms. His waist was belted also. Finally there was a collar around his neck. "Sarah?" He called, quietly at first. "Sarah?" The door opened and Sarah walked in. "Ah, the sleeping beauty wakes. I was kind of hoping you'd scream, just so you could realise how futile it is." "Where are we?" "East of the river. In a converted dockside warehouse. I think it's been converted into a hostel for the homeless, but I can't find the receptionist. I paid a little bit of cash for this apartment for a month. A lot more cash to make sure people hear that it's a bad idea to come in here. Two girls living alone? We'd be mattresses if no one were looking out for us. "Anyway, you're awake, so it's time to start turning you into Briony." Sarah walked to just in front of Jon, crouched down and took a fuel lighter out of a toilet bag. She lit it and allowed the flame to burn. She ripped open two paper sachets, and attached the needle from one to the syringe from the other. "What are you doing?" Jon asked, straining slightly at his bonds, but they allowed him no leverage to test his strength. Sarah calmly continued with her routine pulling a shiny metal spoon and plastic envelope of powder from the bag. "I'm just going to use a quarter of this," she explained, as she poured powder onto the spoon. "Then we place the spoon into the heat, but being careful not to burn it." In moments the powder liquefied. "Next we draw the liquid up into the syringe. Everything needs to be quick now, before the liquid cools. Rushing to maintain the heat, you know, chasing the dragon." She took the full syringe and tapped and squeezed out any air bubbles, shuffling towards Jon as she did. He tried to squirm, but could barely move a muscle. Sarah grabbed his foot and pushed the needle in under his big toe, firmly depressing the plunger. "What have you done to me?" Cried John. "Now," said Sarah, standing, "we don't want you in a bad state for your first hit, do we?" She slipped off her cream pullover, and Jon was surprised to see her breasts standing proud in a bright red lace bra. She shook her hair down and ran her fingers down from her neck, over her breasts to her crotch where she left one while the other rose back to her belt buckle. She smiled at Jon. "Now, Jon, let's see how much you still like girls." Her belt came undone, and she slipped her hand inside her jeans as she undid the fly. She rolled her hips and groaned a little, then looked at Jon with an embarrassed, lip-biting smile. She turned around and kept her legs straight as she slipped down her jeans, her round buttocks taking up most of Jon's vision. She glimpsed Jon through her legs, and gave him a wink. She stood up, slipped her feet out of her jeans, and then slid them back under them into her heels again. She turned back to face him in just red bra and knickers, and red stilettos. Jon was worried, intrigued, and now, getting turned on. Two primal emotions were fighting for control of his brain before the drug arrived. Fear, and lust. Only his fear had nothing to hold on to. Sarah had made no threat to hurt him. In fact, she was in front of him performing a striptease. Beautiful, busty, blonde, and bare in front of him. He watched her right hand as it slipped inside her knickers and began to move. His head began to fill with the moans of pleasure. He looked at her left hand on her breast, and finally up to her face, where she was biting her lower lip in a mock attempt to hold back the noise. She saw him and caught his eyes. She dropped her hand down towards his arm and bent towards him. She leaned on his arm and moved her face in towards his. In moments their lips met, and Jon suddenly felt an incredible lightness in his head, as though he'd been lifted out of his chair. He felt Sarah's lips melt into his and her passion flowed into the back of his mouth and down his spine to his crotch where it exploded upwards again. "Yes!" He cried out in joy. He saw Sarah dance before him, eerie patterns of hypnotic sexuality, which he drank into his arms and head and chest. They made him strong, and rich, and powerful. He felt so rich in love that he could swim in it, float in it, laugh in it. She was touching him, her fingers playing tunes on his body like a piano, rich melodies that echoed inside him, causing vibrations in his head, causing his breasts to boom out like the bass line, causing his crotch to pulse. He laughed at the beauty and sighed at the pleasure. He could move his arms, and he pulled his goddess to him, the better to taste the honey. She held his hands and pulled him up to her. The red was gone. It was all pink but for tiny roses that he reached down to kiss. Her hands lifted his hair and stroked through it like silk. They knelt together on a bed of daisies, soft earth feeling warm, and cheery, and yellow like rays of sun in the window above. Warm brushes at his clitoris made Jon feel that something was incredibly right, and his body moved to another plane. When he roused, Jon was strapped to his chair. He didn't know if he had slept or even dozed, but he hadn't been himself, and he was getting it back together. Only not quite. He felt like shit. His head didn't quite ache, but it felt vague, full of cotton wool. His mouth was dry. He was thirsty and his stomach felt strange. All in all he felt bad and he wanted someone to do something about it. He called out for Sarah. She came straight in. "I'm sorry to keep you strapped up," she said lightly, "but I haven't finished fixing the lock on your door yet. Was there something you wanted?" "A drink?" "I'll go get you a glass of water." She looked at Jon with an appearance of concern. "Are you feeling alright?" "Never better." He managed. She smiled. "I'll see if I can rustle up some food, too." *** The last few hours of the evening passed very slowly after the meal of beans on toast was spoon-fed to him. Jon finally slept for some hours on the hard wooden seat, but the hours were separated by long periods of dozing through the discomfort. The early spring sun through the skylight brought him to full wakefulness, and he realised that his bladder was very full. Since his operation he hadn't quite had the restraining ability that he once had, why he didn't know, but now it meant that he was desperate to urinate before it ended up all over his clothes. He shouted for Sarah. She took five minutes to arrive, her hair in disarray and wearing a towelling robe taken from her hotel. He quickly explained his need. She nodded and undid the belt around his waist, allowing him to move his pelvis. She then moved something under the chair, which caused a hatch to open, leaving him sitting on what could be construed as a toilet seat. She got him to lift his pelvis so that she could pull up his dress and pull down his knickers. "There's a bucket below you." She explained with a yawn. "Give me ten minutes and I'll be back with your breakfast." She came back cleaned up, but still in her robe. She didn't bring any food. With her she had the same black toilet bag of the previous evening. She belted Jon back up, his resistance causing her little concern. Then she went through the same process as the day before. "You want to get me hooked on heroin." Stated Jon as he watched her prepare. "Yes. Briony was when I met her." "Why did you put it in my toe?" "The hot needle burns, discolours the skin, causes a scar. It's very obvious. The problem is, you're a model, so you can't have any scars." "A model?" "I'll show you the pictures later. I showed them to your man. He's very impressed." "Who is my man?" "All in good time, my girl," she said, bringing the needle to his toe. *** The process slowly continued. As the days wore on Jon felt more and more ill, and Sarah allowed him to feel the discomfort, before giving him another hit to relieve the aches that were just beginning. Jon got weaker and more tired. He grew irritable and depressed. The only time he felt good was for those moments of joy shortly after the needle. But he knew that it was all intended this way. He wanted never to want the needle. But he was losing his willpower. Sometimes, in a moment of dreaming, he would look forward to his next high. In thinning moments of lucidity he would mentally kick himself. He couldn't give in. In the second week he roused in the morning to find himself free from the chair. He walked to the door, but it was locked. He could hear nothing outside. The light in the room came from the bright blue sky visible through the skylight twenty feet above. There were no windows in the walls. His bucket was in a corner of the room, with a roll of toilet roll. There was a small jerrycan, presumably containing water. A loaf of bread sat next to it, with a lump of cheese and two tomatoes. There was no knife. Next to his seat was the black toilet bag. He didn't look inside. Sarah came in late that night to find Jon curled up on the floor. She lifted him into the chair. He couldn't resist. His body was a mass of aches. He was many hours past his usual time for a hit. He barely roused as she prepared the needle and plunged it into him. Shortly the quiet groans gave way to sighs. Sometime later he slept. He was still sleeping when Sarah changed his food and water the next morning. At lunchtime she found him happily staring at the ceiling, pupils dilated and eyes completely glazed over. She allowed herself a happy smile. From then on she looked after the heroin. At first Jon simply had to ask for it and he would receive some. Always some slight amount more than the last time, but he couldn't tell. As the second week drew to a close, Jon was performing little services for his bi-daily dose. Some days the time would pass quickly as Sarah stayed in the room chatting to him about inconsequentials. Jon wouldn't have chosen her as a conversation partner, but in his empty, depressing, lucid moments he needed someone to talk to. Sarah regaled him with tales of her recent life, and, unknowingly, Jon let slip little titbits of information about his. She spent some time on his hair, bleaching it to a platinum blonde. She massaged fake tan lotion into his skin. She replaced his knickers with a collection of g- strings, and his bra with a couple of wonderbras. She wore his dress herself. She gave him a small bag for his wardrobe. In it were two barely decent miniskirts, in denim and in black leather, and a pair of cut-off jeans that were cut off so high they could pass as bikini bottoms. The only tops were scoop necked tubes that left his midriff bare. The leather jacket also only covered his chest, and the denim jacket, which covered everything, had 'pussy' embroidered on the back, in pink. There were a couple of pairs of stockings, elasticated hold-ups, and to replace his shoes there were two new pairs. One a stiletto heeled sandal in red leather, and the other white leather sandals with high heels and thick platform soles of clear plastic. Jon didn't need to ask what was in store for him. Sarah made it very clear. *** Tom looked down at the woman lying in his bed. She was asleep. Long, dark-brown hair fell over the cream satin pillowslip. He gently removed his travelling clothes and allowed them to fall into a pile at his feet. He slowly crept into the bed and under the sheets. His partner didn't rouse. With the greatest of delicacy he began to run his fingers up her back, teasing the fine hairs on her pale skin. Up and down he moved his fingers, now onto her neck, now onto her buttocks, slowly allowing her skin to become aware of his presence. He moved down to her legs, and ran his fingers up between them, not trying to pry them apart, but to make them part for him. Her right leg on top, he ran his hand down its side, and then up the front of both legs, again tempting the legs to allow his hand access without pushing too hard. The warm body made little motion. Tom continued his efforts with the patience of Job. He was sure that Sarah would welcome him with gladness, were he to wake her, but he wanted her to be putty in his hands before she even awoke. The process required a soft touch, the barest of motions, and the steady hands of a gifted artisan. It would take time, but women took time, like great wines and great works of art. In his favour he was sensually massaging the largest and most erotic organ of her body. She would feel her arousal from head to toe, fading slowly, brought back to the boil by a caress. Eventually, as he warmly stroked from her nipples down to her downy mound she rolled gently onto her back. His hand slipped between her slightly parted thighs to tickle her lower lips. Gently opening her slit he stroked a finger inside and found it damp. He didn't break his stroke. He continued to pleasure the woman in his bed finally bringing her to full wakefulness with a whimpering orgasm, the aftershocks of which seemed to continue for hours. She turned to him, still trembling slightly, put her arm over his neck and brought him in for a powerful kiss. With her other hand she took his erection and stroked it to full turgidity, finally holding it in place as she squirmed her body onto it. She grabbed his buttock and pulled, but finding the position difficult she rolled him onto his back and her on top, then proceeded to show him what a penis could experience in the folds of an expert vagina. Tom hosed Sarah's cervix with two weeks of stir crazy seed. She lay back on the bed with a huge smile. It had been wonderful for her, but she knew it had been incredible for him. She pecked him on the cheek, rolled over and fell asleep. *** "Linda, hi, it's Briony Spencer here." "Briony? The detective?" "That's correct. I've found out something about Jon Davies that your lawyer may find interesting." "Briony, I hope you don't mind, only I've got Ollie on my hands and I can't pick up a pen. I'm going to switch the ansafone to record." "Okay, listen, Jon is working in Atlantic City, apparently earning quite a large amount of money." "What's he doing?" "Well, he's...entertaining." "You've called to give me a contact address, right? Some way we can get hold of him?" "If you send notices to me I can promise that they'll reach him. It's Briony Spencer, thirteen slash sixty-four, Sixteenth Street, Atlantic City." "So what is my ex-husband doing in the entertainment business?" "He's in hospitality, escorting business clients around the casinos and nightlife, showing them a good time. That sort of thing." "Well, that sort of thing certainly doesn't sound like the Jon I used to know." "I wouldn't know, Ms. Chevissy, perhaps he's a changed man." "A completely different person. I told you that I didn't really care about the alimony, but it is good to know where I can find him if I need him." "Goodbye, Linda." Sarah slowly put the phone down. "Thank you, Sarah. Goodbye." Sarah blinked. She raised the handset back to her ear but there was only the sound of an empty line. She hadn't heard her name, had she? 'Thank you, it's alright,' perhaps? She looked around the room. Tom was out at work all day. He wouldn't even come back for lunch, so she couldn't worry about him finding out about her phone call. The cleaner was finished for the day. The maid was out shopping for the cook, and the cook wouldn't arrive until the late afternoon. Why was she nervous? Guilt? Since his first full day back Tom had been giving her strange glances, of which she was sure she caught fewer than there actually were. But he hadn't said anything. It was her voice, she was sure. She had lost it for two days, after screaming to hoarsen it. She couldn't consistently maintain the lower register that Jon used. She must have made mistakes. And she was shorter than Jon, lighter, though just as hard. Her hands and feet were smaller. Her nipples were now constantly erect following a useful little bit of copycat cosmetic surgery, but weren't her natural breasts softer than his man-made ones? Their faces were identical but for the silk-strand thin scars that he bore, though she wore contacts to turn her eyes blue, and not exactly the same blue. Her hair was the same shade of dark auburn, using the same number dye, but her roots were blonde. In short, to someone of Tom's now intimate knowledge, they were different people. Twins, identical to the casual observer, but different. Was it only a refusal to acknowledge the difference that kept Tom silent? Did he actually forget that much about his wife in two weeks? Or was he scared to raise the issue? In truth, Sarah was better prepared for being branded an impostor than she was for this interminable silence. She was better sex, a better woman, better for Tom as a wife than some adulterous female-impersonator. She was waiting to prove this. Why wasn't he giving her a chance? Was he giving her a chance? Could they get through this without the questions arising? No, they couldn't. Something was out there and she wasn't in control of it. *** "Hi, honey, come in." Linda shut the door behind Dominic as he removed his jacket in her hallway. "What's the rush, darling," he queried after the kiss of greeting. "A little bit of intrigue, dear. Come into the kitchen. Ollie's in bed. I need you to do me a favour." "I hope it involves me staying over. It is rather late." "We'll see." Linda winked at him. "You remember my ex- husband?" "Oh, gosh, yes, about two years ago, wasn't it? Came round shortly after we met. Turned out rather dishy, I seem to remember." "Now, Dominic, if you carry on like that I might forget to show you what a real woman can offer." Dominic smiled. "A woman jealous of her husband's looks?" Linda pouted slightly. "No, but jealously guarding her boyfriend's attentions." Dominic laughed as they entered the kitchen. "How could he ever have given you up, let alone gone through that?" "You don't know the whole story, Dominic. I wasn't always as perfect as I am now." Linda reached for the fridge and pulled out a half-bottle of wine. "Anyway, it turns out that my ex-husband is in a little bit of trouble." Linda pulled the stopper and poured two glasses. "And you want to help him out?" Asked Dominic, slightly disbelievingly, as he received his glass. "I just told you that you don't know the whole story. Yes, I want to help him out. He was...honest with me when we met. One day he wants, as do I, that he will become part of Ollie's life. What part we don't yet know. I don't owe him anything. If we're being cynical I owe his enemy far less, but in truth, I want to help him." She looked up at Dominic. She smiled. "It's just a tiny thing. One quick favour, a phone call?" Dominic looked down at his girlfriend of two years, the woman he was planning to propose to. He knew she wanted him to. Older than her, and wiser? But now he felt like a little child again. Something was gently squeezing her soul, near to wringing out tears, and he knew that this moment right now held nothing more important than his heartfelt acquiescence to her need. "Anything, Linda, just let me know what you want me to say." *** Tom heard the phone start ringing the moment he entered the house after work. "I've got it!" He yelled into the general silence. He answered, and confirmed that it was himself answering. He took down a number, and immediately called it from his mobile. He grunted his acknowledgement a number of times, and finally had time to thank the person on the other end before Sarah burst into the hall with a smile. He pressed a shortcut key phrase that wiped the last dialled number from the memory just as she dragged him down by the tie for a kiss. Her lips were soft, he had to admit to himself, but she kissed hard, like there was no other way. Forcefully, as though begging for passion every time they touched. "Who was that?" She asked, as they broke apart. "George, at the office. He's organising a trip." "Yeah, where to?" "Oh, boys only." Tom added, thinking that she might be enthusiastic to come. "Does he know you're happily married?" Happily wasn't the word he would have applied to the last week, Tom thought to himself, though he was sure that any outside observer would have seen no problem with it. "Of course he does," he replied, "but no woman can come between a man and his duty to the stag." "Who's getting married?" "Don. You don't know him. Anyway, we're flying out on Friday." "Friday? That's a bit short notice." "The whole thing is a bit short notice. Don thought he was going to sneakily elope to the Caribbean but George got wind of it." "Where are you going, and how long are you going to be away." Tom thought about trying to lie, but thought it best she didn't start phoning around asking questions. "Atlantic City. Where else would we take a guy to get laid on his way to the Caribbean?" "Is there any way I can persuade you not to get laid there," asked Sarah, seductively. "Not tonight, babe." Said Tom. As usual he saw no reaction to the name. "Can you bring my dinner into the study? I've got to make sure there's a load of stuff cleared up before the weekend." *** His mobile rang. Surprised, Tom momentarily forgot that it was in his jacket pocket and spent a second searching for it. Grabbing it finally he pressed the green button and put it to his ear. "Yes?" "Tom?" Came a whisper. "Sarah!" He whispered back, cupping his hand over his mouth. "Is that you?" "Tom, help me! I've stolen a phone. I'm in Atlantic City." "I know where you are, Sarah, I'm coming to get you." "I'm sorry, Tom," came the plaintive whisper, "I've really messed up." "Sarah, hang on, I'm coming to get you!" "Don't hate me, Tom, please don't hate me." He could hear his wife crying at the end of the line. "I love you, Sarah." "Help me, Tom." The call died after the last plea. Tom held the phone next to his ear for an age. *** Sarah Jackson booked herself a flight to Atlantic City. It had been too much of a coincidence. Damon J had taken the new Briony Spencer to Atlantic City. Sarah had warned him that she would try to get away, to get home, if not properly supervised. She had said that she was homesick for Australia, but if given the right incentive, would be as profitable as her portfolio suggested. The big 'H', at a hundred bucks a hit, was nothing compared to the three or four thousand bucks a night the right Atlantic City hooker could pull in. Just never give her the option to go somewhere else for it. And now Tom was off to Atlantic City. It wasn't coincidence. Someone had messed up. The least she could do was make sure that Tom was on a wild goose chase. So the flight came and went, and Sarah Jackson took a taxi to Sixteenth Street, to wait things out. *** Tom didn't fly alone. Though his friend and colleague George was not the organiser of a bucks' weekend, he was a very good friend, and a powerful political lobbyist and ally. George had suggested that his 'batman', MacIntyre, accompany Tom on his trip. MacIntyre was not just a 'batman', that being a rather poor description of his duties, both supportive and protective. However, in the sense that a 'batman' was a disciple of a superior officer, ultimately intended to follow in his footsteps, then MacIntyre was learning well. George was gay. MacIntyre wasn't. There was no way that George would ever be permitted to hand the reins of empire to his partner. Neither did he have any children. MacIntyre, Jim MacIntyre, though he was very rarely called by his first name, was straight, solid, and loyal. He was also dangerous. His father, a Glaswegian, had taught him to box at a very early age. It was the father who had put the 'a' into the Scottish 'Mc' of the surname. It helped Americans pronounce it, and it didn't hurt to be mistaken for Irish in New York. By the time Jim joined the Navy Seals he was also a champion Muay Thai kickboxer. He spent a couple of years with the SAS around the world, and then breezed entry into the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team (as far as anyone could be said to breeze entry into that institution). In all those organisations he was recognised not only for his prowess, but for his intellectual ability. Eventually he dec