The Haunting Of Charles Tate free porn video

The Haunting of Charles Tate. By Tanya H. A haunted house? Ghosts don't exist. Right? If you drew a triangle on a map of Lincolnshire, from Horncastle in the West, Louth in the North and Spilsby to the East you'd find at its centre an unremarkable village surrounded by the rolling, beautiful secret of the Lincolnshire Wolds. A secret? Most of the folk who visit Lincolnshire get no further than Lincoln's cathedral and castle, or they're drawn to the beaches and gaudy delights of the coastal resorts. Or they say they'd never bother, citing aged stereotypes of the whole county being flat, dull fenland. There might be no drama in the Wolds landscape, but there is a beauty and tranquility, wonderful rolling hills and I loved it. Beyond the edge of this unremarkable village, past the old quarry and the ford, among broken orchards and overgrown woods was Top Farm - the Tate place; the haunted house. If there was such a thing as ghosts that's where they'd be. Back when we were little kids, Tim and I dared each other to creep up Tate's long driveway. It had been a weekend, near Halloween - of course - and the trees' bare branches had rattled at the late autumn wind. Evening shadows were already gathering. Tim was dark, I was fair; he was stocky, but tall while I was slender and small. We'd been firm friends since my parents moved to the village when I was only five, in fact we'd been practically inseparable. Even romance hadn't come between us - the girls laughed that if you dated one you'd practically be dating the other. Which had worked out pretty well so far, excepting the month or so when we both went out with the Harrison twins; I may have snogged both of them on different evenings and still couldn't say for sure which had been officially my girlfriend. "Why does nobody do this on a bright, sunny afternoon?" I'd asked Tim as we'd stood looking at the abandoned house, tying to find the balls to enter. "We were too busy playing in the river then." Twenty minutes we lasted in the Tate place. In that time we barely got past the long hallway where mouldering leaves were heaped on a rotten carpet and blotched wallpaper sagged from weeping walls. Only a trapped bird, or a hurrying rat somewhere upstairs had spooked us - probably - but we ran and ran as hard as we could until Tim tripped and sprawled, skinning his knees and ripping his jeans. Afterwards, protected by a patch of sunshine, we laughed and laughed as the terror's aftershocks slowly faded. Thirty years to the day since Victoria Tate had gone missing, Tim and I went back along that curving driveway, now perilously overgrown, and found the house again. Having just split up with Kyla, again, Tim had become sentimental. It was our last summer before uni and the parting of the ways. Tim wanted engineering, I was for geography - I wanted to make maps and chart the world. I couldn't really imagine ever being away from him, but we'd both known that time was coming. "Thirty years dead, Toby. No gravestone, no marker to remember her with. Doesn't seem fair." "So?" "She was too hot to die young, tragic waste." I had to agree she'd been very beautiful. The picture they always showed whenever her disappearance came up showed a gorgeous blond, effervescent with delight over something the photographer hadn't captured. "Why don't you pick her some flowers!" I dripped the words with insincerity. And there were no flowers on the drive anyway. Whatever gardens and lawns the house had once enjoyed were given over to brambles and nettles. It was a warm June afternoon, but an unseasonable damp and rotten air clung under the trees. "Remember the last time we did this and you shit yourself?" "You screamed like a girl." The laughter died when we saw the house. Its tall bay windows were obscured by creepers, one of the chimneys leaned drunkenly; roof tiles were loose. The front door stood slightly open, faded paint clinging to its lines. Dark dark dark beyond. "Now what?" "In we go," said Tim, but he didn't move. "I don't believe she ran away. She must be buried nearby." "The police looked." "Not very hard." "Let's go." "Go in?" He still wasn't moving. It wasn't just that Victoria had never been found; the police investigations had never established why her mother should have killed herself a day later. Whatever Mr Tate might have known, or supposed, he'd never spoken of. Six months later a crushing heart attack took him, though he'd been fading after losing his wife and daughter. Only Charles Tate, Victoria's brother, was left - an overweight and successful solicitor in Horncastle. I got to the front door, but Tim didn't move. His head was canted, mouth set in concentration. Chill damp waited on the threshold, even the breeze stilled. "Come on." "I've got a bad feeling, Tobe." "It was your idea!" He was still muttering when he crept up behind me. "Helloooo!" I called into the house. A pigeon broke cover somewhere above, the flurry of wings startled us both. "Miss Tate, are you home?" "Twat," said Tim. As the front door was too swollen to move I edged through the gap and paused for a moment, hoping my eyes would adjust to the gloom. A heartbeat drummed loud in my ears - excitement? Anticipation? Why had I been afraid? The Tate place was nothing more than an abandoned building? "Just as we left it." Though there was more leaf rot, less wallpaper, more mould blooming and multiplying over the walls. The carpet I remembered was gone; close fitted floorboards from a century ago were bare and creaking as I shuffled in. "Would suit a DIY enthusiast." "Twat," said Tim. Heavy wooden doors, with tarnished brass knobs, stood on each side - empty sitting rooms. The desiccated remains of some bird, a crow or maybe another pigeon, were crisp by French doors leading to the jungle garden. Dead flies littered the window sills. A few more tentative paces took me to where the stairs rose up to the left, a passage went to the right - towards the kitchen. A touch to my arm made me stiffen, but it was only Tim. "Listen!" "What? Scaredy cat!" "Shut up and listen!" "That's where Diane Tate hung herself." I pointed to the half landing and its wooden balustrade. Jim Perkins, the long retired local bobby, had sat at our kitchen table one evening explaining to my Dad how he'd found her; even describing her twisted, blackened face, bulging eyes and sad pool of piss beneath her dangling feet. I'd seen a picture of her, before her suicide, and she'd been beautiful - the perfect, golden wife for a yeoman farmer. "Shut the fuck up! Can't you hear that?" "What?" "Music. From upstairs." "Music?" "Let's go, I've had enough. We'll pay our respects at the church." I could hear it now, tinny and faint, but bright and upbeat, definitely from upstairs. "Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand," I hummed, looking up the stairs. "You what?" "That song, knob. Rio, by Duran Duran." "How do you even know that!" "I'm going to have a look." "Jesus, Toby! Let's just leave it." "What? You think there's some kind of ghost up there? Playing 80's tunes!" He reddened. "Somebody's having a laugh at us," I said and placed my foot on the bottom stair. It creaked a warning. Tim said something, another warning maybe, but I was intent on that music. I needed to see the source of Rio and her dancing on the sand. Dancing on the sand; the beach spun and swirled as I danced. Satin tickled my neck and shoulders, swirled around my legs. A bonfire of driftwood sent sparks towards the stars, moonlight glittered from the wavelets hissing along the sand. The girls laughed and danced too, the boys were watching, smiling, hungry - all but one of them who wasn't touched by dancing, magic or sparks. He glared. "Who?" said Tim. I was on the half-landing, another short flight of stairs led to the landing and the bedroom doors. That music beat from one of them. "What?" "Everybody loved who?" I frowned at his distraction. "What are you talking about?" "You, you knob, just said 'Everybody loved her'. Who did everybody love?" "Victoria Tate. Duh! Come on." "Somebody didn't!" All the upstairs doors were open, fully or partially, and dim light filtered from them - a neglected light of dirty windows, ivy obscured windows; maybe boarded up, broken windows. Except one; the room with the music. Clean, modern, electric light made a bold bar across the musty landing carpet. "Somebody's here," Tim moaned. "I'm going." "Don't be daft." Curiosity gripped me, a need to know who was playing that music, how they had illuminated that room. Maybe we'd push the door open to see a middle-aged woman there; Victoria Tate come back to where she'd been a girl. More than that, amongst all the cold decay and grim waste around us a warmth touched me, beckoning from that lit room "Hello?" I pushed gently at the door. It swung open easily, like it really was a bedroom door in a lived-in house. The carpet on the other side was bright and floral, pinks and yellows; all clean. A light perfume was lovely after the decay I'd breathed in so far. A single bed stood by the window, whose glass practically sparkled it was so clear. Its duvet was flowered and turned down over crisp white sheets and pillows. More flowers, bold daisies, covered the wallpaper that could have been pasted up there only last week. Posters were tacked up - bands I didn't recognise; pouting, beautiful men and women in flamboyant costumes. Alongside Duran Duran was Bros, Spandau Ballet, Ultravox, Five Star - names I was vaguely familiar with, but who belonged to the middle-aged. A woman in a leotard and leg warmers was something called Flashdance. Old fashioned, wooden furniture stood against the walls; a wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing table - heaped with cosmetics and perfume, hair brushes and sprays. Girl's clothes littered every surface, not untidily - no scrunched up knickers kicked under the bed (like my room), just clothes hanging everywhere like some arty, retro boutique. The only thing missing was the girl herself. Duran Duran's lead singer was yelling he was Hungry Like The Wolf by now, the sounds coming from a proper vinyl record player, with a needle and everything. The colourful album cover was propped up next to the machine. "This is too much, mate. We need to get the fuck out of here," Tim groaned as he followed me in. He went to the dresser, pointed to a family grouping in a plain plastic frame; a really hot blonde with a dazzling smile - Victoria, a similar looking lad with darker hair and a dour expression - Charles, and their parents, each with a hand on their children's shoulders. "Look at the date." He waved at a calendar on the desk. Underneath a picture of an over-cute kitten it was June 1987. "That's when it happened. This is bad, Toby. Really bad." His face twisted with concern, eyes flashing between the room's contents and the door - like something horrible was gathering itself outside. I smiled, to try and calm him for I felt warmth - the reassurance of a loving smile. The fear had gone. Whatever had happened to Victoria Tate and however this restored room had come about, I knew there was no evil here. "We're safe in here." I touched his arm, to emphasise the point. "Safe from what?" "It's okay." "None of this is okay." "She was eighteen, like us, wasn't she? When she disappeared." He nodded. She'd be getting on for fifty now. A mum perhaps, maybe even a grandma. I stared at the picture, she certainly was beautiful - her shining hair caught up with a black and white polka-dot bow, face glowing, her smile enhanced by cherry-red lipstick. A black lipstick tube was prominent on the dresser near the photo. It was slightly warm when I picked it up, as though somebody had been holding it moments before. Unscrewing the lid I saw the red shade from the picture. Tim said something, but I wasn't listening - twisting the lipstick's base and entranced as the pointed tip emerged, slightly worn where she'd used it. This must have been a favourite. Perhaps she'd been wearing some when she died. Bending towards the mirror I parted my lips and smoothed them red, like I'd put on lipstick every morning for the last few years. Not bad. I rubbed them together, super slick and sensual. Pretty. Kissable. Tim stared, open mouthed. "What are you doing?" I ignored him, went to the record player and lifted the needle back the beginning - synthesiser sounds bopped from the speakers. Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand. "Toby?" Small voice. "Dance with me." When I stepped closer he froze. How had I never seen how beautiful he was? Another step. He flinched when I rested my hands on his hips. "Dance with me. Please." "Toby, what's happening?" "It's all good, I promise." A slight head shake. "How do you know?" How did I know? "Can't you feel it?" Close enough to scent his discomfort now, his beauty was speeding my pulse, quickening my breathing. Funny how you don't really see things right in front of you. How long had Tim and I been best friends? Forever. I kissed him. A gasp. He tensed. I pulled back slightly, my fresh lipstick holding us together for a split second. "It's okay." Another kiss, a press of my lips to him. His breath was fast on my face, but he didn't break the contact. All the girls I'd kissed and none of them lifted me the way kissing Tim did. When the tensions ran away from him and he settled in my arms like he belonged there, when he opened his mouth to me, I felt his own pressing arousal. Victoria's bed called; with both hands I took him there; he came passively and sat beside me. I kissed him some more, gently tweaked his bottom lip between my teeth. He gasped, then held his arms over his head so I could lift his t shirt away. "You're beautiful," I murmured, running my nail tips then my slender fingers around his stiff little nipples. "Toby?" he whispered as I stooped to kiss one. "It's really alright." "You're starting to look like her." He reached for my hair, drew a skein of it forward; in my periphery I could see how long and gleaming it was. "Your face..." "It's me, Toby," I told him, for I knew it was true. Everything was okay, it was all beautiful and I wanted him, I needed him. I just had to make love with him. His eyes were fixed on mine as I stripped away my own t shirt. For a moment I was surprised, disturbed maybe, to glance down and see how pink and aroused were my own nipples. Around their pretty points my chest was swollen, blooming and after that moment of dislocation I was okay again. Growing breasts was fine, natural; and Tim was going to love them. I kissed the palm of his hand, lifted and held it to one of my breast buds so he'd know how happy I was with what was happening. Another long, passionate kiss had us stretched out on the bed, tangled in each other. I unbelted his jeans, pushed them down and tugged them free. Then his pants dropped to the floor leaving my Tim naked and hard and mouthwateringly gorgeous. I could have caressed. massaged and loved every bit of his smooth skin for hours, until the sun set, through the night and on until the rose tints of dawn lit him for me. But I was hungrier than that and it felt the most natural thing in the world to let my hand rest on his inner thigh, then to go higher until I could cup the warm weight of his balls, then higher still until my fingers were wrapped around his hard wonder. All the breath went from him, a long luxurious exhalation, as my hand started moving up and down his length. I'd done this before, of course I had, but only with my own erection. Touching Tim was so much hotter. His eyes were tight shut, lips parted, a warm colour rising in his cheeks, his arousal filling my hand and I'd never felt better about anything before. Moving to kiss him again, my nipples brushed his chest and I made a little, surprised noise. They sat upon real breasts now; fuller, rounder - more womanly and dusted with the same freckles the summer sun had raised over my face and shoulders. Distracted from the kiss I traced twin nipple patterns on his chest, caressed his nipples with mine and finally lowered myself to brush my brand-new breasts along the twitching line of his cock. My jeans tightened over my pelvis, their pressure drew me from exploring Tim to watch the strained fabric around my hips. They would have to come off, though it was an undignified struggle to get them down - my boxers too. Below them my legs were super smooth and softer than I remembered - woman's legs - I'd lost all my hair, but for some curls around the dwindling remains of my own cock. "What's happening to you?" Tim murmured, staring as I spread my legs and showed him the tight, featureless skin that must have been my scrotum a short while ago. I drew a finger over it, so warm to the touch. "Victoria?" I shook my head. Hair tumbled around my face, I brushed it behind my ears. Sighed as my hips rounded out. "This can't be happening." "But it is. Look, I'll be ready for you soon." I straddled him, pressed my heat to him, let his cock lay long the forming lips, lifted his hands to my heavier breasts, rubbed my body along his cock. So intense, I felt like I was melting, like I needed to wet myself, like I was going to cum all over him. My cock was barely worth the title, shrinking into those developing folds. Lips! I had lips. Tim couldn't help himself, his hands took my weight, caressed my aching breasts, fingers gently pinched my wide nipples and I moaned. Then cried out as he slipped inside me. Not very far, enough to know he was inside. Another heartbeat and I was longer, wetter. Every rock of my hips made more room for him to get a little deeper. It was slow, frustratingly slow, but after a few intense minutes I laughed out loud with the sheer pleasure of looking between my legs to see he was entirely, perfectly buried inside me. And afterwards, we lay entwined in the clean perfection of her bed, his hand cupped one of my breasts and mine lay over his sleepy cock and to his breathy snores I looked at the ceiling, at the old, but bright posters and I thought of the bonfire on the beach and the dancing girls and the boys who had followed Victoria into the dunes; how she'd felt to take them one after the other, slowly and happily, on a bed of her own skirts; watched only by the moon and the stars. I stroked Tim's cock. "She misses that," I whispered to him. "Victoria?" "She's dead." "You're her." An image hit me. It punched so viciously I fell from the bed with a cry to find myself kneeling against it, breasts to the mattress, my bum facing the door. Fingers twisted in my hair and made me look around. "You slag." "Charles, no!" "I saw you. Spread you legs didn't you? For all three of them! Slag!" His face churned with anger, disgust - lust. "I know what happened now!" I shivered and shook, buried my face in my hands. Spastic flashes of hateful images and aftershocks of bitter, wounding attacks tore through me. Punches and slaps rained on me, I squealed as teeth dug into a breast. I writhed and flailed, screamed until my voice broke and my lips bled but I couldn't shift his weight, his anger. But only Tim was there, he sat beside me, arm around my shaking shoulders. Tears splashed my breasts. "It was him, her brother. He strangled her, right here. In this room." "How do you know!" Because I could feel his hands around my neck, tighter and tighter. Powered by what? Rage and jealousy. If he couldn't have her nobody could. "He raped and murdered her, in here. Thirty years ago. Today! Now!" Disengaging gently from his comfort, I stood, folded my arms across my breasts and stared from the window. Tim stood behind me, unsure what to do. Should he touch me again? Hold me? Comfort me? I wiped away the tears. No more crying. "Her Mum saw him doing it. That's why she killed herself. How awful for her. But now I know what to do." "Toby, what's happening?" "She's on Hunger Hill. He took her then, still warm, and buried her up there, under a big Beech tree. She's cold, Tim, cold and alone." "We'll tell the police." Seizing his upper arms I held him so tightly I might have bruised him. "Go and bring a car." "Mum and Dad are at work!" "Bring his camper van. Meet me at the bottom of the drive in thirty minutes. And a spade, bring a spade." "Toby, you're scaring me!" He looked it too, wide eyed and almost crying himself. "You will won't you. Half an hour." I took him close, pressed myself to him. Kissed him, poured some of my strength into him. He nodded when the kiss was done, squeezed my hands. Nodded again, pulled on his clothes with short, angry motions, watching me warily. As he scuffed on his shoes I brushed my hair with long even strokes, inclining my head so its golden mass fell clear of my shoulders. By then it was almost long enough to touch the small of my back. Uncertainty dragged at his every move as he went towards the door, I saw him in the mirror, his eyes following the line of my body, the length of my legs. "We're going to finish this," I said. "She's going to finish it, Toby." "We're doing it for her. Don't you see?" "All I can see is Victoria Tate, a dead girl haunting a dead room." "It's okay, really. I mean it. Bring the camper." "Dad will kill me." "He'll never know." That dragged out an unwilling snort. "He'll know." "Just bring it. Please." A nod. "I will, but only if you're good to Toby. Look after him, he's a mate, my best mate. Don't hurt him." "Tim! I'm fine, never better. Now go." He looked back once, from the weed ravaged driveway. I waved, still naked, though I had tied my hair back into a luxurious pony tail with a bright, polka-dotted hair band. Tim waved back, then ran, pushing at the low branches. I knew he'd return. A dab of sweet perfume behind each ear, more on my wrists. I bound my breasts with a cream bra she'd left draped over the back of a chair. My nipples showed pink through the pretty, lace cups; Tim would have liked to see me in it. There were matching panties in her underwear drawer, then I drew black, lace patterned tights over my long, smooth legs, settled their waistband and admired their look in her mirror. A sheer white blouse, covered in rows of smart black spots was gossamer over my skin before I stepped into a vivid purple, flared and layered skirt that finished just a couple of inches over my lacy knees. More cherry-red to make my lips gleam, bold blue eyeshadow and thick mascara around my eyes; then a little blush, subtle on my cheeks. How did I know how to wear makeup? I was Toby Carlton, I'd never even had a girlfriend who worn much, but I applied confidently. A fine gold chain with a dragonfly pendant would draw the eye to the V of my blouse. With deft fingers I threaded large, gold hoops through my earlobes, made my wrists clink and jangle with heavy bangles. She'd always loved to wear heels, but they wouldn't do for my plan, so I pulled on flat, brown slouch boots. With a final glance in the mirror I kissed goodbye to Victoria's room and went back into the gloom and rot digesting the rest of her house. Back into the summer sunshine, weaving through the weeds and bushes and trees choking the drive, careful of my tights and hair. The way my body moved, the lift of my hair, the sway of my breasts, was exhilarating; the swish of the skirt and its sensual touch made me wonder what I had been missing. Then I was all mission as I saw a silver VW camper edge cautiously around the bend in the tree-bound lane. I was ready. Tim had probably never been allowed to drive the VW van that was his Dad's joy. Apprehension clouded his face as he coaxed it around the bend. His eyes widened as he saw me. "Thank you," I smiled as he shuddered to a stop beside me. "I knew you wouldn't let me down." "Victoria?" "She's dead, silly." Careful to smooth my skirt under me I sat in the passenger seat, leaned across and kissed his cheek. "How do I look?" "You're her!" "I'm going to make him think I'm her." "Charles?" "Imagine his surprise when his dead sister comes to say hello." "He'll shit himself." Fifteen minutes later we were in Horncastle. As Tim clumsily parked the van, thankfully without clipping anything, I composed myself, played out the script I'd worked on during the drive. There it was, near the market place, the stately stone-built built offices of Tate, Brewer and Everard. My boot heels clicked on the gleaming floor as I made my way to the receptionist, bespectacled and fresh, behind her wide desk. Her eyebrows lifted; not old enough to know the 80s herself, she recognised my clothes were out of time. "Can I help you?" A cherry red smile. "Can I see Mr Tate please?" "Do you have an appointment?" She knew I did not. "I think he'll see me. Would you tell him Miss Victoria Tate is here." Her pretty face crunched with disbelief. "I don't think-" "Just tell him I'm here, please." "I'm-" "Charles!" "Now look here!" "Charles! Get yourself out here now, you murdering bastard!" "Well! Who do you think you are? I'll call he police. You'd better leave. I will." She lifted her phone's receiver to show her determination. "Charles. I'll count to three..." "One..." An executive, oak panelled door was heaved open angrily and there he was- Charles Andrew Tate. Murderer. Rapist. "Ellen? What on Earth..." His voice tailed away. I could have laughed. The way that high, righteous anger drained so abruptly from his face: one moment he quivered with rage and the next he was reduced to slack incomprehension. His wide, bloated body sagged. "Cancel his afternoon appointments, Ellen," I said to the receptionist. "He'll be meeting me, where he saw me last. Won't you, brother? On Hunger Hill." His mouth worked, but no noise came out. "Why don't you call the police now, Ellen?" I suggested, turned in a swirl of skirt and strode from the building with my chin up. "What happened?' Tim demanded as I climbed in beside him. "We're going to Hunger Hill. Charles is coming to see me." The hill wasn't far from the Tate place, but you wouldn't want to have to move a girl's dead weight too far, would you? Little more than a copse of beech and sycamore atop a pudding bowl hill, Hunger Hill was the perfect spot for an unmarked grave. Nobody ventured up there, but for the occasional game keeper needing to feed the pheasants. "She's up there." I pointed from the camper. "Cold in the ground where he dumped her." "How do you know?" I shook my head. There were no words to describe the feeling of the chill soil thudding onto your chest, your face, your staring eyes. Blinking back more tears I forced a smile for him. "Go home, wait for me." "Please let Toby go, when you're done, Victoria. He's a good guy." "Tim! I'm right here! But thanks, you're a good one too. The best mate I ever had." "Just let him go." His fists clenched. "I hope you find peace today." He let me kiss his cheek again, I waved as he drove away. Then I climbed over the sagging gate into the woods and watched for Charles's grey Jaguar to show. Five minutes later he came. I tossed my hair as soon as I saw him, maybe a a quarter of a mile distant, knowing he'd see the sun flash in the gold. Then I turned and headed up the hill to the spot where he'd buried his sister. There was nothing to indicate her last resting place, though the patch of ground beneath the great beech was covered only by last years golden-brown leaves and the crunch of spent beech nuts. I laid the spade on the ground and sat on a fallen log a few metres away. His crashing progress through the undergrowth announced him long before he came into view, a lumbering, fat shape struggling with the vegetation and slope. His face mottled between a strained red and dead grey, sweat ran from his scalp and his chest heaved at the still air. He must have fallen on the way up, for his suit's knees were earth stained; mud caked the edges of his opulent brogues. "You've let yourself go, brother." He moaned at the words, but when he looked he glared straight through me, shook his head, fell to his knees on the dead leaves over Victoria's grave. "I didn't mean it!" "Too late for crocodile tears, Charles." "You were... I needed... Couldn't..." Then he bared his teeth, snarled at the ground he'd covered her with. "Slag! You opened your legs for anybody who looked at you and smiled." "I was happy, I enjoyed my body." I stood, playing my part, brushed loose bark from the back of my skirt and circled him. "I loved to be loved and Ioved who I loved. Only somebody like you could twist that and make it disgusting. Admit it, Charles; this wasn't about them, this was about you - always what perfect Charles wanted - and what you shouldn't have. It was about you wanting your own sister." He glared through me again, though I was close enough for him to touch, casting his eyes around the clearing as though there was an audience and this a play. His breath came fast and hard and wet, choking and catching in his lungs. "Where are you? I saw you, at the office. But you can't be there, I buried you! I buried you, Victoria and nobody came for you. I left you here." That a spade was conveniently to hand didn't seem to worry him, he took it up and attacked the glade, sending leaves and clods flying as he hammered it again and again. Every time the blade bit the soil he cried out. The names he called poor Victoria, the accusations that flew, but all the same I heard the guilt and shame disguised by his rage and didn't care. Ruining his suit he dug on, veins rose and pulsed at his temples; sweat ran greasily from his face and balding scalp. Had I not hated him I should have warned him to slow, to take a rest, but I circled and urged him to greater efforts, to heave at the soil and roots faster and faster. When he was only a foot or so down a choked sob rose from his throat and he fell to his knees, scrabbled a moment with blistered fingers then held up a stained scrap of cloth. I couldn't help myself and touched the dotted band around my hair for he had exhumed its aged and forgotten twin. A sideways step let me see into the grave, where a browned curve was broken by a single, accusing socket. The rest of Victoria's skull was yet to be uncovered. "I knew you weren't in town, I knew I'd put you here!" he crowed, then broke down to cough and heave pitifully over Victoria's remains. "Give me that!" I snatched the damp hair band from him, squeezed it tight in my hands. Still coughing he looked up at me. His bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Victoria?" His left eye twitched. "Slag!" Grunting with the effort he reared up and dragged himself from the grave, foot on Victoria's skull as he scrabbled. One hand closed around the spade and he swung it clumsily towards me. I danced back a few steps as he struggled upright. "You have let yourself go, brother." "Come here, I'll finish you this time!" Another swing of the spade whistled past me, dirt flew, but light on my feet I teased him around the great tree. He lurched and swung for me, again and again, grunting and shouting like a man possessed until we had circled Victoria's beech twice. He tripped, stumbled and dropped heavily into the grave. Something snapped and he howled and howled, lifting his dangling right hand to show me its broken wrist. A sickly sheen coated his face which had a dishwater colour to it. More coughing, spittle flew, more groaning and then his eyes opened wide. Silence fell between us. As though it was melting the right side of his face sagged and drooped; distorting, falling out of shape. Drool and small, mumbling noises came from his slack lips. Pleading with his eyes, Charles tried to lift his arms, to make them beg for help, but he'd lost power over them and I had nothing but contempt. He toppled, the unchanged side of his face down to the broken earth, half in and half emerged from Victoria's grave. I watched, sneered, as he stared, pleading as best he could. I should have spat on his face, squatted down and pissed on him, but I threw the old hair band on him, turned my back on his distress and walked away. They buried Victoria beside her parents six weeks later. The ceremony was sunny and well attended; most of the village turned out and their numbers were swelled with well-wishers and the curious from beyond. I insisted on going. At first they refused - my new employers, but I persisted, stamped my feet, and eventually they relented. Bob and Jill came too, to watch over me. The three of us got a few curious looks, but only Tim recognised me, and he looked away with a sigh. I chose a conservatively styled, but fitted knee- length black dress, a matching jacket, sheer black tights, practical ballet flats and a wide brimmed hat above my long, thick plait. That should give you some idea of how things ended up for me. Beyond keeping Victoria's shape I was frequently dreaming of her dancing on the beach and as the priest went through the service I wept, both for her and for missing her. Her funeral had been delayed due to Lincolnshire Police's reluctance to give up her remains. I think they believed that if a team of detectives stared at them for long enough they would talk about what had happened. Which, in the circumstances, wasn't too wide of the mark. Victoria kept quiet though. That a disappearance and murder could be cleared from their cold-case files was positive, though they were probably professionally disappointed that the suspect wasn't fit to stand trial. Charles Tate would eke out the rest of his years in a care home. The specialists were fairly sure he understood where he was and what was happening around him, but the massive stroke he'd suffered exhuming his sister meant he couldn't speak, stand, walk, eat, write, control his bowels or do any of the other good stuff most of us took for granted. I felt his own broken body was a better prison for the bastard than anything the Home Office could have found for him. Adding to their difficulties, the detective's main witness had been taken away as well. In the moments after an extremely agitated Charles Tate had run from his offices in pursuit of a girl claiming to be his sister, his very good receptionist had phoned the police. With a keen eye for fashion, even down to my pendent and earrings, Ellen had provided a detailed enough description that I was picked up before I'd had chance to walk home and think of a plan. Initially I was taken in for a voluntary interview, but after an hour of sitting at Horncastle Police Station, with a good cup of tea, I was arrested on suspicion of fraud and taken to Lincoln. Apparently I was a gold-digger looking to make money out of Victoria's disappearance. This came partly from the confusion I caused when, in the face of my apparent gender, I gave them my own details. The search I had to endure before they'd let me into a cell showed I was female, but I persisted in telling them I was Toby Carlton, even when the custody sergeant got angry. I didn't like her, though everybody else was friendly enough. Before I went into the cell I had to give up my bra and tights in case I made a noose from the latter or self harmed with the former's underwiring. After a few hours, I was led to an interview room to speak with a solicitor. This was a surprising, as I hadn't asked for one. She was a very imposing lady with a stylish trouser suit and impressive heels; the rude custody sergeant was clearly scared of her. Her first question shocked me into silence. "Is Victoria Tate still communicating with you?" She followed this with the bombshell, "Tim has told me as much as he knows. He's worried about you, but I said I'd take care of you." As I was still too stunned to speak she smiled, scarily, and said, "I'm very persuasive. People open up to me. Is Victoria still speaking to you. So I shook my head. "She never spoke." "Interesting." She put her elbows on the desk and leaned forward. Her make up was immaculate and very subtle, her hair precisely parted and drawn back into a perfect plait. Another big smile. "Let's go, I have a car outside." "Where... What about the police?" "London. You're a very unique person, Toby." The custody sergeant, a pair of detectives - who'd been getting ready to interview me - and a Superintendent who'd been comprehensively outranked, had to look on as I was given my property back and led from the station to a large, silver Range Rover parked on double-yellow lines outside. Mum and Dad didn't go to Victoria's funeral. They were staying in Dorset, trying to get away from the whispers and rumours, in the village and beyond, about Victoria Tate and their Toby. Mum wouldn't accept I was him, she hysterically wouldn't accept it - which was tough for an eighteen year old in my position. My therapist and I were working through that, though she was more concerned about my relaxed attitude towards my gender change; I told her liked being female, being feminine was cool, comfortable. Most days it felt like I'd always been a girl. Tim was there though, probably still grounded for the unauthorised use of the camper van. He didn't even want to look at me, but once the casket was in the ground and the formalities were done I hurried over and took his arm before he could ignore me some more. Aside from the fact he was my best friend, the sensations as he had eased into my expanding, brand new vagina still had the power to make me shiver. "Leave me alone!" He said it quietly though, for fear of attracting more attention. People were already wondering who I was. My hair had darkened to a dirty blond, all by itself over the last few weeks, while facially I was now more Carlton than Tate. Only my memory of looking like Victoria remained, though my body was resolutely female - I'd had a period and everything! "Tim!" "You should have let him go, this... what you're doing. It's not fair. He helped you!" "Tim, it's me - Toby, it's always been me. Victoria was just..." He started to turn away, heading for the gate. "Listen, Tim! Victoria was only..." What did my new mentors call it? "An influencer, not like some waste of skin on Instagram. I'm a sensitive." Another term from my new world. He listened, reluctantly. I shrugged. "Like... you're left, I'm right handed. You get engineering and physics, I pick up things, echoes. Victoria's was just stronger than most, it was strong enough..." I indicated my body, outlined as it was by the dress. Bob and Jill, waiting discreetly by the churchyard gate, were looking a little more interested now - I was closing on Official Secrets Act territory. "Can I call you? Can we meet up sometime, please? When you go to uni?" He stared a moment. "Toby?" "Yes. Always, Toby. I don't call myself Toby any more, though. It doesn't really fit." "What then?" He was daring me to say Victoria, I could read that in the tilt of his chin. But I'd never even thought of that for a moment when I'd had to choose a new identity. "Rosalyn." I shrugged again, like I should have been embarrassed about choosing such a name for myself. "My Grandmother, Mum's Mum." Hopefully that would help the reconciliation when she calmed down. "People shortened it to Roz though, I didn't like that, so I get called Rosa lots now." "Rosa?" "Do you like it?" He nodded, uncertainly. "Can I call you?" Another cautious nod. I decided to quit while I was ahead. Striking rapidly, before he could react, I kissed his cheek turned and hurried back to my minders. Jill had the Range Rover running, Bob was holding open the door for me. Pausing at the gate I saw Tim hadn't moved. When I waved, he waved back. Jill took us off at speed; she loved driving and the big car was just the thing for her. And we had to get back to London, sharpish. The Russians were kicking off about one of their diplomats being poisoned in Mayfair and my bosses needed my help tracking down the killer.