The Transmigration Of Richard Brookbank part 1
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The Transmigration Of Richard Brookbank Part 3 free porn video
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"Twenty Marlboro and a box of Swan Vestas, please."
Much too posh. And they're just 'Swans', for goodness sake.
"Have you such a thing as a pocket comb?"
Still sounds like I usually send the maid out for stuff like that. Try
again.
"D'you stop anywhere near Fratton station?"
Better. Only just, though.
"How long do I have to wait at Southampton before the Newcastle train is
due to leave?"
New-carsul? I don't think so somehow.
The lift arrives at the ground floor, bringing my impromptu rehearsal to
an end. The next time I use the lilting contralto and the middle-class
suburban southern accent I seem to have inherited along with Ruth's vocal
cords I'll be talking to a real person. The masquerade will have begun in
earnest.
As the door opens I keep tight hold of my shoulder bag to stop it swinging
into my hip when I move. This is the kind of habit girls pick up when
they're still children, and here I am having to learn the tricks of the
trade one by one.
I should have told Derek where to stick that package. I really should.
I'm a girl...
Come on, concentrate.
The clock above the entrance to the concierge's office reads a few minutes
to five. If the trains aren't going to be running again until six - and it
may be another hour on top of that before they're back to normal - that
means I can take things at a steady pace and avoid making any more stupid
mistakes like the scene I created at The Hard. I've got enough on my plate
as it is without attracting unwanted attention.
I negotiate the steps leading down to the pavement carefully, treating
each one as a potential plaster cast. The rain has eased, though that
doesn't lessen the sheer magnitude of the task upon which I'm about to
embark.
Or the sneaking suspicion that Ruth's made it a little bit too easy for me
to follow her...
Focus!
You only have to walk a couple of hundred yards, then you'll have reached
the newsagent's. The bus stop is right next to it. What could be more
straightforward?
It's going to be a disaster. I fucking know it is.
After a few deep breaths I turn on my heels and begin the first stage of
my journey. Clarendon Road being one of the busier thoroughfares that
criss-cross Southsea's residential sector, the stream of headlights from
passing cars and vans is more or less constant. Each one of them seems to
be deflected right at me, as though the studs on my jacket spelled out the
phrase 'NOT REALLY A GIRL' for everyone to laugh at. Just as
disconcerting, I've lost seven or eight inches in height; everything looks
that much bigger and therefore that much more intimidating. Only the
thought of that first glorious injection of nicotine keeps me plodding on.
A woman overtakes me. Until earlier today it would have been the other way
around. What was once a rarity will now become the norm. Then I encounter
a young couple; my instinct is to step aside and let the girl pass, but
her boyfriend has already paid me that compliment. I sense their
unconscious reactions to my momentary intrusion: he wonders what it would
be like to have sex with me; she warns me off. Something else I'll have to
get used to.
But suppose a bloke makes a pass at me? I can't tell everyone who comes
out with a chat-up line to piss off and leave me alone. How do I defuse
the situation rather than make it worse? What experience can I draw on?
The tally's getting longer, Ruth. One way or another, I'm going to see
that you pay it in full.
At last I'm in sight of the Strand roundabout, from where avenues lined
with guest houses and student flats diverge with varying degrees of haste
to the sea front. The exception is Waverley Road, which heads north
towards Fratton; at the corner begins the small row of shops I'm aiming
for.
Stop at the kerb. Look right, look left, look right again. Don't forget
you're taking shorter steps, so it's going to take you half as long again
to reach the other side.
Made it!
Not far now.
Twenty Marlboro and a box of Swans, please.
Twenty Marlboro and a box of Swans, please.
Twenty Marlboro and a box of Swans, please.
Have a bit of faith in yourself, Rich. It's not as if you'll be delivering
a soliloquy from King Lear in front of the Royal Shakespeare Company.
Trying hard to ignore the relentless rise and fall of my bust, I push the
newsagent's door open. To my unbounded relief there are no other
customers. The proprietor, a stocky figure close to retirement age with
thinning white hair Brylcreemed back from his forehead, gives me a look of
less than wholehearted approval. This may be due to the fact that my wet
jeans and stringy locks suggest I've spent most of the afternoon lying in
a ditch.
"What can I do for you, miss?"
Miss?
No one came in behind me, did they?
Ah...
"Oh, right...yeah, uh...twenty, um, twenty Marlboro...and a box of
uh...that's it, a box of Swans. Please."
It's a good job I'm not in a general dealer's ordering next week's
groceries. He'd be dead and buried before I got to the end of the list.
The shopkeeper turns to the display cabinet, shaking his head.
"Sorry, I don't think I've got any left."
Shit! What now?
"Okay, let's see...uh, Winstons?"
Down there on the right. You've gone past them, you stupid old git!
Finally he places my cigarettes and matches on his pile of unsold copies
of the Portsmouth News.
"Sixty-seven, please."
I fiddle inside my bag for my purse. Just as I'm picking out the first of
the two 50p pieces I've decided to hand over, the strap slides down my
arm. Within moments I'm presented with irrefutable empirical proof that
when coins fall to the floor they will roll as far from their point of
impact as the available space allows.
At this juncture any normal girl might be expected to apologise for her
clumsiness with the assistance of a tried and trusted phrase such as 'all
fingers and thumbs'. It's a fair bet that the words 'fucking', 'bastard'
and 'nuisance' wouldn't be the first and only ones to escape from her
lips.
How many times must I have watched a woman rest her bag on the counter
while she pays for her purchases? There are reasons why they do these
things.
The transaction at an end - which is more than can be said for my
embarrassment - I lurch outside, almost ripping the packet to pieces in my
haste to tear off the cellophane wrapping and the silver foil separating
me from my first drag for more than three hours. I pull one of the
Winstons free, pop it in my mouth, strike a match, hold it to the tightly
rolled tobacco, inhale and...
"Oh my God."
The blood drains from my face as the bus shelter reels at an insane angle,
carrying the rest of the world with it. I totter into the reinforced
glass, coughing so fiercely it would come as no surprise to see my lungs
fly through the air and splatter onto the wet flagstones.
Ruth doesn't smoke. The craving must only be in my mind.
A dishevelled individual wearing an old brown raincoat leers at me as he
walks by.
"You might want to think about giving those up, love," he grins.
"Fuck off," I wheeze, sounding as healthy as an aged miner struggling to
climb a steep hill with a sack of potatoes on his back.
"Charming," the cheeky bastard chortles as he disappears around the
corner.
I toss the cigarette into the gutter, but put the rest of the pack in my
pocket. I'm determined to persevere with them, if only to make fun of Ruth
after I've talked her into swapping back and she discovers she's addicted
to the dreaded weed. When she complains I'll tell her she's lucky I didn't
have a giant penis tattooed on her chest.
After the nausea has subsided I remember that I still haven't bought a
comb. I wander up to the chemist's at the far end of the shopping parade,
and freeze as my eyes alight on the poster in the window. It shows a dark-
skinned young woman in a spotless white T-shirt and shorts heading a
football into a conveniently empty net; the legend at the bottom reads
SANITEX - BECAUSE LIFE DOESN'T STOP ONCE A MONTH.
Didn't see that one coming, did you? There's more to being female than
sitting down to piss.
How long do periods last? What are the symptoms? And what the fuck do you
actually do with a tampon?
I'm so caught up in the vision I've created of people staring and pointing
at the blood seeping through the crotch of my jeans that I fail to notice
the long, brightly lit vehicle with a destination panel on the front until
it's sped right past the bus stop.
All things taken into account, it hasn't really been my day.
I elect to walk the mile and a half to Fratton station. The rain has
stopped altogether, and the atmosphere is starting to feel less
oppressive. I'm also a lot more comfortable with these boots than I'd have
believed was possible - I've had to adopt a more inefficient gait with a
pronounced sideways element due to the motion of my hips, but I no longer
fear I'm about to topple into the gutter every time I step off the
pavement.
Which won't prevent me raiding the first shop I find tomorrow that's open
for the sale of training shoes.
The metrical click of my heels competes with the ever-present swish of
traffic as I press on into a district I recall so well from my days as an
undergraduate. To my right the building known as the Pink Pit, and the
balcony just under the roof where Nicky Benson sunbathed nude throughout
the scorching hot summer of '76, her lovely auburn tresses cropped above
her ears and combed into a boyish side parting. Further on, the square
known as Wimbledon Park, scene of my reported death after I was found
lying in a rose bush with no discernible pulse, my corpselike condition
the outcome of an ill-advised wager concerning the Empress of India and
its monthly supply of Prize Old Ale. On the other side of the road stands
the vermin-infested cesspit I inhabited once I'd broken free from the
confines of the Bembridge, subsisting for two full terms on ham and tinned
tomato sandwiches, Scotch eggs, toast toppers and Robinson's barley water.
Nicky Benson...
Three years at Portsmouth Polytechnic, and one lousy shag on a weekend
field trip to Torquay was all I could notch on the bedpost. I only got
that because the staff at the hotel, who'd thought to save money by
putting us all in double rooms, had assumed Nicky was a boy's name and saw
nothing amiss in having Benson snuggle up beneath the same set of sheets
as Brookbank. Nicky didn't mind either, not when she found out that the
alternative was sharing with Pam Wright, who according to her flatmates
farted all night like an elephant force-fed on curried sprouts if she
drank more than two halves of lager.
Naturally the other students weren't slow to take full advantage of a
situation the writers of a Brian Rix farce would have rejected as too far-
fetched, hurriedly organising a stag do and a hen party in two separate
pubs, then holding a mock ceremony back at the hotel culminating in a very
much the worse for wear Richard Arthur Brookbank exchanging slurred vows
with a similarly inebriated Nicolette Jane Benson, the latter sporting a
bath towel as a bridal veil and leaning heavily on the best man's arm
while the groom made heroic efforts to slide a curtain ring onto one of
the extra set of fingers his intended had suddenly grown.
Did our attendants overstep the mark by ensuring we collapsed on the bed
in suitable states of undress and juxtaposition to consummate our not so
holy union? In mitigation it could be argued that as they turned off the
light and crept from the room not one of them foresaw that Nicky would
guide her new 'husband' inside her and keep him there until his nuptial
duties were fulfilled - a job I'm pleased to say I carried out to our
mutual enjoyment, even though the following morning she insisted we tell
everyone we'd gone straight to sleep. Yet if I continue to look back with
some pride on the escapade that led to the loss of my virginity, it gives
me less satisfaction to acknowledge that my one and only sexual conquest
to date came about as the result of a clerical error.
Thank God and all the Saints in Heaven she can't see me now.
At Albert Road traffic lights I look straight ahead as I wait for the
signal to change. I do not permit my eyes to stray left, past the school
playground to the Volunteer Arms, where on any other Friday evening I'd be
downing a pint or six of HSB, playing a few games of darts or maybe a
round of crib, then joining in the sing-song that usually breaks out if
Gladys goes upstairs early enough. What was it last week, Pink Floyd's
'Bike', complete with duck noises? Tonight we could try--
Leave it, Rich. No one in there can help you.
I trudge on, past a characterless succession of dull red-brick houses with
rectangular bay windows fronted by concrete palisades, unkempt hedges and
old wooden gates. It comes to an end at the corner of Campbell Road, which
pulls me up with a start as I'd forgotten all about my flat. The landlord
will be calling round on Monday for the rent, and if he doesn't leave with
some promises from the Bank of England's Chief Cashier to add to his
collection there's every chance I'll be returning from my confrontation
with Ruth to find the lock changed and my possessions stuffed inside a bin
bag on the landing. If one of the other tenants lets me into the building
I can push a few fivers under the door - and while I'm there it might not
hurt to ask whether they've seen the lad from the top floor since he left
for work this morning.
"A man is following you. He's armed, and he may be under orders to kill
you."
I feel my whole body go rigid. I've heard that voice before, and not so
very long ago. I don't need to turn my head to know that it belongs to the
sentry who stopped me at Marlborough Gate.
Though it's what he said that should give me greater cause for concern.
I've been so preoccupied with not making a fool of myself I'd banished
from my mind the idea that people might be looking for me - with a view to
taking more drastic action than merely having a quiet word or two
regarding the whereabouts of their device.
Push has most definitely come to shove, Rich. Let's see exactly how good
an actor you are.
"What d'you want me to do?" I ask with as much self-control as I can
muster.
"There's a Rover outside the Lawrence pub. Nice motor, very reliable too.
Nothing wrong with the big end - if you get my drift."
A hand in the small of my back prods me forward. Without its help I
couldn't have moved from that spot if molten lava had erupted through the
pavement.
He knows who I am. He knows what happened to me.
For the second time in just four hours, everything has changed.
*
The car is parked on Clarence Esplanade facing west, about half-way
between Southsea Castle and the war memorial. Out of the left-hand window,
across four miles of black water, I can make out the cluster of lights
indicating the town of Ryde on the Isle of Wight. Ahead of me, closer at
hand but just as inaccessible, the gaudy illuminations of Clarence Pier
amusement park perform their endless choreography. On the other side of
the road lies Southsea Common, acre upon acre of unrelieved darkness.
The man behind the wheel is square-jawed and clean shaven. His heavy yet
athletic frame is clothed in a denim jacket, a red-and-black hooped rugby
shirt and brown corduroy trousers. His grey eyes are shrewd and worldly,
his mouth perpetually caught in the beginning of a sardonic grin. He has
me in his power, and he knows it; even if I managed to kick off my boots,
with this physique I wouldn't get more than a few yards before he caught
up with me.
I am trapped, I am in danger and I am helpless.
I'm a girl, and I'm just beginning to realise what that can mean.
I open my mouth to speak, but think better of it. He has asked that I
remain silent, and I have given him no reason to reiterate his request.
Until he tells me who he really is, and what he wants from me, my
questions must wait.
He finishes rifling through my purse, grunts and tosses it onto the back
seat to join my shoulder bag. I note that he hasn't pocketed any of the
money.
"I need to search you," he says. "Don't worry, I won't try and cop a feel.
I know who's in there, and it's a real turn-off."
I stiffen as his hands invade the pockets of my jeans, then explore the
inside of my jacket. When I feel them brush the sides of my breasts I have
to suppress the urge to lash out.
Things cannot get any worse.
"Not very good at this, are you?" he laughs, leaning back with only the
key to Ruth's flat to show for his efforts. "There isn't a woman alive
who'd go out and forget to take a comb. I thought she'd have trained you
better than that, to be honest."
Outrage battles my trepidation and wins a crushing victory.
"What? You think we were in it together? That I wanted to be turned
into...into a...?"
"Two thousand quid, a nice gaff and a fresh start as a juicy bit of
crumpet. Seems fairly conclusive from where I'm sitting."
"Whoa! I'm not gay!"
"I didn't say you were. Desperate, maybe. Enough to consider chancing your
arm as a lesbo. Plenty of them around, if you know where to look. Course
it wouldn't appeal to me, I don't care how much dosh she was willing to
put on the table. Then again I'm not three months behind with the rent,
and my bank manager isn't writing to me every fortnight promising he'll
take legal action if I don't pay off my overdraft by the end of the year."
"You've been reading my fucking mail?"
"There's a lot at stake. Sorry, but your privacy came very low on our list
of priorities."
I close my eyes, trying hard to collect my thoughts. Nothing about this
business adds up. What am I missing? What connections has the stress of
having been thrust into someone else's body stopped me from making?
I've been on the blower to 20 Store, Mr Brookbank, and you're free to
proceed.
"You knew I was carrying that thing," I spit at him. "You let me pick it
up and walk out with it. Why take such a risk? If you suspected I was in
league with Ruth, why didn't you switch it for a couple of burned-out
circuit boards or a few old valves? I'd still have led you to her."
"Assuming that was the object of the exercise."
The sound of pieces falling into place is loud enough to drown out the
headline act at the Reading festival.
"You wanted her to have it, didn't you? Jesus, it's so bloody obvious now
I think about it. Her real target is whoever she tries to swap with next.
That's why you allowed her to get away. Yeah, I bet you watched the whole
fucking show. So come on, who is she? Where did she steal that device
from? Who taught her how to operate it? What was it originally supposed to
be for? Infiltrate the Red Army or what?"
He chuckles softly to himself.
"You seriously think I'm going to tell you? Richard Brookbank, master box
opener of 20 Store? Do me a favour."
"Listen, it's me this has happened to, not you!" I protest. "I'm the one
who's suddenly got tits the size of melons. Don't I have the right to know
why?"
"You have the right to know precisely what I decide you need to know - and
at this particular moment in time what you need to know is that for the
last three minutes and forty-five seconds there's been a stationary S-reg
Cortina a hundred and twenty yards behind us. The driver is the man who
was tailing you. If you look round I'll break your arm."
The pressure exerted by the hand gripping my wrist leaves me in no doubt
that he means what he says.
"Okay," I sigh. "You're the boss."
"Penny's dropped, has it?" He starts the engine. "Right, let's set about
saving your worthless skin. Fasten your seat belt, 'cause this might not
be the smoothest ride you've ever had."
"Where are we going?"
"I'm taking you to a facility about fifteen miles from here. After that
you'll be someone else's problem, thank Christ."
For the next few minutes the Highway Code might never have existed: taking
Pier Road roundabout the wrong way; screeching into Kings Road against a
red light; doubling back through a maze of side streets with as much
regard for the one-way system as he has for the pedestrians shaking their
fists at the reckless young lout who thinks he's Portsmouth's answer to
James Hunt; swerving and splashing along St Andrews Road; tearing down
another street, the speedometer touching fifty...
He can handle a car, I'll give him that much.
We cross Lake Road and find ourselves in the high-rise wasteland to the
north of the city centre.
"You must have shaken him off by now," I say hopefully.
"Him, yes. But he'll have radioed ahead."
"There's only two roads off Portsea Island. Suppose they're watching them
both?"
"Only two? Are you sure about that?"
Ninety seconds and one smashed barricade later we're on the northbound
carriageway of the as yet unfinished M275. For much of its length the road
is raised above the shore of the harbour on stilts, so it feels like
crossing a very long bridge. We're cruising at a uniform speed with no
sign of pursuit, and at last I start to relax - until the Rover hits the
section still to be properly surfaced, enabling me to grasp the full
meaning of the verb 'to judder'.
The barrier on the slip road leading onto the M27 goes the way of its
counterpart. A raucous fanfare of horns and hooters greets our unexpected
entrance as we weave through the flow of vehicles rushing west towards
Fareham and Southampton.
"I hope for your sake no one took your number back there," I remark.
"It's easily changed."
The cunt's got an answer for fucking everything.
He takes the first exit we come to, turning right to head away from the
coast into what for me is uncharted territory. The darkness closes in
after the first bend, broken only by tiny pinpricks of light shining from
isolated farms and homesteads. My eyelids begin to droop as fatigue and
anxiety take their toll; I try to read the signposts we pass, but they
flash by too quickly.
"So where were you making for?" he asks me.
"Mmm...?"
"If you weren't planning to meet Ruth."
"Does that mean you believe me?"
"Look at the state you're in. Then there was your car. Nobbled, without a
shadow."
I ought to feel encouraged by this. Instead I hate his guts even more for
winding me up.
But I don't rant and rave about it. The people at the 'facility' he spoke
of might be more inclined to help me get my body back if he reports that I
was willing to co-operate with him.
"Northcroft. That's where I was going. We were both born and raised there,
otherwise we've got nothing in common at all. I know it was probably a
wild goose chase, but it was better than sitting in an empty flat waiting
for the door to burst off its hinges. Funny she should have..."
"She should have what?"
Snapper Brookbank! It is you! Don't you remember me?
"I didn't recognise her at first. She went out of her way to tell me who
she was. Why would she do that? It's almost as if she was dropping hints
on purpose so I'd go after her."
"Which it seems you did."
I don't say anything because all that will come out is the sound of a
braying donkey. A simple trick like that, and I fell for it.
We trundle through a small village, then ascend a steep hill that takes us
back into the velvet veil enshrouding the countryside.
"How much further?" I mumble.
"Not long. A mile or two at the most."
"What do I call you?"
"Cunningham. It's an alias, of course."
"Of course."
Wanker.
A crossroads. A pub with a silly name, something to do with cricket. A
narrow lane that climbs between thickly wooded slopes, their trackless
fringes picked out by the headlights. We must be approaching the summit of
the South Downs; what kind of establishment is he aiming for in such an
out-of-the-way spot as this?
Don't panic. If he was going to stove your head in and leave you by the
side of the road he'd have done it well before now.
An abrupt turn to the left. A high chain-link fence topped with rolls of
barbed wire. A gate and a sentry box. A hoarding.
HMS NEREID
MINISTRY OF DEFENCE
UNAUTHORISED ENTRY PROHIBITED
A naval institution. Talk about coming full circle.
At least I seem to have fallen in with the good guys. After all, the MoD
is a government department, run by officials accountable to elected
politicians.
Yet I've been through too much today to take anything at face value.
Cunningham pulls the Rover to a halt in front of the gate. Although it
can't be long after six, there are no signs of activity in or around the
low buildings beyond.
"Sorry about this," he says. "Has to be done, I'm afraid. We don't want
you getting all hysterical once the GABA inhibitors start to wear off."
"The gabba what?"
A sharp pain in the underside of my right wrist. The glint of a syringe.
"Oh, you fucking bastard," I cry out, but the universe is already receding
from my mind at the speed of light.
A slab of inanimate organic matter, I slump into Cunningham's arms.
Wynona
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