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Where It Ends. By Tanya H. "When did this start?" Sonia asks, affecting the expression of one who has just popped a sweet in her mouth and found it to be a chunk of raw onion. Donna wonders how to answer that? When did it start? Where does anything start, for every beginning must have something before it? How about twenty four hours ago? There's Donna walking home through the night, night into morning really - the witching hour has gone in a thud of music, bright cocktails and wild dancing. Rhythms still move her hips, even as she hurries - keen to get home before the burning in her feet forces off her heels and spoils her slinky tights on rough pavements. Even on this brink of discomfort she moves like ballet, head high, glossed lips still parted with the breathlessness of true, unencumbered dancing, a sweet and sour memory of cocktails still delicate on her tongue. She hums to herself, a favourite tune, one that had seen her with arms lifted and swaying energetically in time with her friends. All is well, the night into morning brimming with joy and fulfilment of a long month's waiting for it to come around. An electric blue dress shapes her lean, runner's body, baring both her defined arms and elegant calves. Chestnut hair bounces in a high ponytail down her neck, large gold hoops swing from her ears, her high-cheekbones are softened by just enough make-up, her brown eyes enhanced with darkened and lengthened lashes and bold, autumn shades. Just closer to 30 than 20 she's beautiful, but rarely feels it - only on these nights of freedom and dancing. Not far now, to Chip's flat; her refuge on these weekends. Chip had to go home early, a blooming migraine behind her eyes, but left Donna with the promise of coffee or hot chocolate when she lets herself in, then a no- questions-asked breakfast as morning matures towards midday. Here a city suburb lays quietly, under a midnight blue sky and warm stars, almost lost to the upglow of a million streetlamps. To her left is the park, where she and Chip will sometimes go on the Sunday morning after to feed the ducks, eat ice-cream or doughnuts and just be for a few hours more. To the right, shuttered shops; off licences, convenience stores, a bookmakers and an Indian restaurant she's visited with Chip and the others once or twice. Just ahead, breaching the no parking lines on her side of the street sits a small, dark hatchback - its engine ticking as it cools - beside a gated entrance to the park. Otherwise the street's empty and quiet, but for the click click click of her heels and the sudden, outraged cat wowl from a garden opposite. The noise lifts a smile, for she loves and misses cats in her life; Sonia claims an allergy. Then... another noise. Over the wall, in the park. A whimper? Pleasure? Certainly the park's shrubberies, benches and secluded spots are heaven for quick, giggled, fumbled meetings. Or pain. Glass smashes, in the park, startling her - her heels' cadence falters as she looks, but whatever might be happening is obscured by the tall, Victorian wall bounding the green space. A bottle breaking? Not unusual - the kids love dark places like that. Then a high pitched, woman's moan. Still could be kids; illicit drinking and fumbled sex, everyone's been there - right? Clothing tears. Hatchback, bottle, tearing, moan. A practical girl, Donna carries a slim, but powerful torch in her handbag which is itself secured to her with a deceptively tough strap. Tip-toeing silently now, almost holding her breath, she eases through that pedestrian gate into the park, takes her bearings on where the noises had been and shines her torch that way. Two faces shine out from the darkness. One lolls stupidly in an aurora of dark blonde hair, her brow marked by a glistening graze that trickles red down her cheek. Her half-closed eyes couldn't care less about Donna's torch or intrusion; drink or drugs maybe, but she's way out of it. The other face, narrow eyed in angry surprise, glares into the light - teeth bared. Kneeling between the girl's white thighs, bared where he tore her long, narrow dress, his intent juts and twitches ready to be forced into his victim. "Fuck off!" He doesn't recognise Donna though, doesn't understand she's not to be cowed and intimidated, drugged and raped. Heart racing, buzzing with a mixture of anger and fear, still dazzling him with the torch she frees her phone, hand trembling ever so slightly, backing slowly towards the gate measuring distance, cover, escape. "Police please," softly spoken. The rapist, for that's what she believes him to be, uncoils from his victim - moves forward at a crouching walk. "It's not what it looks like, darling," he says, a soft wheedling voice. "Me and the missus is just having a bit of fun, bit of role play. Aint that right, baby?" He casts the last words over his shoulder, but the girl on the floor sprawls so far out of herself she doesn't even trouble herself to close her legs. "Police, what's your emergency?" "I'm in Tennyson Park, by the Golders Street entrance. I've found the rapist you've been looking for. He's got a girl here, he was about to rape her." "You meddling fucking bitch." The operator wants more, but Donna backs away faster now, awkward on her stilettos and knowing she'll have to ditch their glittery beauty in a moment. "Get yourself safe, help's coming," says the operator calmly, but Donna goes beyond calm as the bastard closes her down. How many women so far? Three, four? There will be more, broken women staring out from the dark without the courage to get help or tell their story. "He's driving a blue VW Polo," she says and passes its registration. Only ten metres separate her from the rapist now. "I'll find you and fuck you inside out." "Will you?" she says, forgetting to make her voice soft as her throat fills with burning anger. "Will you now? Why don't you come and try?" With the police operator still talking Donna drops her phone back into her bag and fastens it, fixing the creature stalking her with her eyes. She slips off her shoes and places them carefully by the path feeling the pavement's gritty firmness through her tights, but she's not preparing to run. Clenching her fists she's losing control of herself; her awareness narrows to the bastard walking towards her, chuckling wetly to himself, calmly fastening his trousers, but still not recognising Donna won't be his prey. That's how little he sees women. She wants a piece of him - she wants this nameless woman still sprawled in the dark to be the last. Red mist boils at the edge of her vision as she backs onto the street, where the lights and the silent shops offer some protection. "Get out of my fucking way, slag." He dashes for her, but his eyes flick towards the car. Hand in his pocket he makes the central locking bleep and the hazard light flash orange. Donna steps back until he's pulled open the driver's door, then she springs - grabbing his swinging open jacket at the coller, hauling it down his back. He shouts more abuse as the jacket tangles his arms. Donna screams, makes her voice into a screech of pain and terror. "Get off me, you dirty bastard. Help! Help!" She's tugged the jacket down to his wrists now, grunting with the effort, swinging him off balance. A silvery bunch of keys glints in the streetlamps as they tumble from a pocket and tinkle into the gutter shadowed under the car. Sirens sound; blue light cavalry. Desperation brings growls from the man, he barges hard against her chest and she falls with a cough, banging her skull on the park wall, becoming a sprawled undignified tangle of legs, arms and his jacket. "Fuck's sake!" he snatches the jacket, one of her nails tears, but she locks herself to it. A wash of aftershave and onion sweat engulfs her as he swoops for a punch, she rocks clear, scrabbling back, fighting for the jacket and against the pain in her head. Blue flashes reflect from the windows at the bottom end of the street, high revving diesel engines protest. "Fuck it! I'll find you, find you and cut you and fuck you, bitch." Then he runs, without his coat, without his car and most importantly his victim while Donna huffs a big sigh and pushes to her feet, unconsciously tugging her dress back down to cover her knickers, wincing to feel the blood trickling from her scalp and the long, ugly ladder in her tights. The first patrol car screeches to a dramatic stop beside her when she waves it down and coppers tumble out - a man and a woman. "That way," Donna points. "Seconds ago." "What's he look like, duck?" says the man, light on his feet. His colleague passes information into her radio as Donna tells them what she can, stressing she's not the victim. Another patrol car rushes past, the female officer runs too, thanking Donna, her plait streaming behind her. "I got you his coat, his car," says Donna, almost bouncing with excitement and the surety that she's done right. "Bloody good job, lass," he says, grinning with approval. A big man he's pot-bellied under his armour and old enough to be Donna's dad. No wonder his younger, fitter colleague got on her toes after the rapist. A big van with a whole team of armoured and aggressive looking cops rolls up next. Two of them go into the park, the rest get back in the van and roar off to join the search. "Best get the paperwork started then," says the big lad, reluctantly. He takes out a tablet from some pocket and taps a pass code into it. "Hate this bit, but we'll nail this fucker - pardon my French - with good paperwork. Now then, love. Let's start with your name." Donna's euphoria collapses like a bucket of iced water has just tipped over her head. Harsh, hard-cornered reality strides up and punches her square in the face. "Oh, shit! Really, can't I just..." She knows she can't just. The cop frowns at her. "Andy. Andy Hillman, 32 Abbey Close, Brookwood." But the copper hardly registers the address, he's stopped looking at his tablet and has eyes only for Donna who hasn't the energy to meet his disdain with a 'fuck you' tilt of her head and belligerent stare. All that adrenaline vanishes from her system like a switch has been thrown and she just looks at the floor, her feet and ruined tights. "Andy? Short for Andrea, right?" She shakes her head, shrugs a little shrug. "Only at weekends, like today." "Oh. I see." But he doesn't. Nobody does. Sonia doesn't see anything but the embarrassment this is going to cause her and doesn't bother to moderate her sneer. "Have you been wearing my things? Jesus, Andy, have you been into my fucking knickers." "Sonia, I don't need to wear your clothes, I don't want to wear your clothes, I wouldn't disrespect you by wearing your clothes. I have my own clothes." "Your own women's clothes!" That look on her face; a mixture of contempt, disgust and blank incomprehension. "Where?" "I keep them at a friend's." Sonia recoils from that idea with a Jesus H Christ of shrill frustration and storms from the room, slamming a couple of doors to emphasise the point. Donna slumps deeper into the sofa where the two of them have had good times, a few wild times, and wonders if something like this was always going to happen. This isn't the worst of it though. Somehow a local news website gets hold of the story, probably from some loose-lipped copper. As she sat in her spoiled finery waiting to give her statement, more cops than usual had looked around the interview room's door, for nothing more than the sport of it. The detective who'd finally come to record the statement had been pleasant, maybe empathetic, but not understanding. "Do you want to get home to get some of your own clothes?" she'd offered, after asking if Donna would like some tea. "These are my clothes." Though the tea was very welcome. They let her use the disabled loo, not being sure which toilet to offer her. "Is this really you?" her supervisor asks at work - a regional office for an international bank where Donna does well paid, boring stuff she doesn't value. She offers her phone so Donna can see the CCTV still the media had got hold of. Nobody wants to know about the girl. "It's really me," Donna agrees, wearily. "Love your shoes." She suppressies a smirk as she speaks. What to say to a woman who compliments you on your heels and probably doesn't mean it? "Thanks." "Did you really run after that pervert in them?" She gets one of those looks. "Seriously? Four inch stilettos? I'm impressed you think me capable." She has the good grace to laugh. "I didn't chase him, the cops did that. I took them off and ruined my tights fighting him." That makes her frown, like tights are somehow weird where heels aren't. "Why?" she asks. Lots of people have, since a tabloid paper christened Donna, 'Supertran' and her business stopped being her own. Her own mother won't answer her calls; Donna's sister reports the press crowding their house, like the zombie apocalypse. Sonia hates that press attention too, and the questions they shout to her, "Sonia, do you let him have your clothes?" "Didn't you realise he's a tranny?" "It's disgusting, perverted!" Sonia builds herself to a frenzy of outrage. Like crossdressing could be in any way up there with date rape or child porn. "And you were doing it behind my back. Like you didn't trust me enough to tell me!" Donna folds her arms. "Has everybody forgotten I'm the good guy in all this!" "So every month, when I go to visit my Mum, she's agoraphobic you know, you're out prancing about like some... fucking drag act!" "And that's what we like to call lazy stereotyping." More doors slammed. "Don't you think a relationship should be challenging?" she asks Chip over a coffee in Chip's flat. Chip wears her hair in a glorious, shaggy fall of royal blue streaked with silver and owns a fabulously cool coffee shop by a railway station in the suburbs. "That depends what you mean by challenging?" she says, drawing out the words and looking over the top of her glasses. Those things combine to make words brim with wisdom. "Would stimulating be a better word?" Chip had found Donna at the door to her flat twelve hours after the police had finished taking her statement, noted her friend's weary smile and the three large holdalls at her feet. "Sonia kicked you out?" "I walked out." She stood back to let her in. "Want to get glammed up and drunk?" "You know me too well." "You're wasted on her, I said that all along." And she had. Donna has her own room at Chip's, used on her monthly girls' nights out. Chip lets other friends sleep there too, but only she and Donna know where to find the key to the wardrobe where she keeps her girl-time clothes. After blasting off Sonia's disdain with scorching water and billowing steam she brushes fingers over her dresses and skirts and wonders which of them will bring her peace. Nearby, in the kitchen, Chip sings to herself as she pours Doritos into a bowl; beer bottles pop and fizz as she opens them. This is not the time for glitter and slap, to tape her bits, or to add falsies; Donna keeps things simple with her hair loose, a black USS Sulacco T-shirt, thick tights and an A-line, stone washed, denim skirt. Chip hands her a beer, dewed and wonderfully chilled, achingly soothing when she presses it to her glowing brow. Smoothing her skirt she folds her legs under her and lets her weight onto them. Chip pats her ankle affectionately, like a cat; she's wearing a chunky, scarlet jumper and a billowing, velvet skirt so black it could be a magician's cape. "You know, you can stay as long as you need." "You're the best, Chip. Thanks. Sonia's right though, I shouldn't have kept it from her. Where's a relationship without trust? I didn't trust her enough to tell her I like to wear a dress once in a while and, boom! When she finds out, she goes ape. Obvious really." "Alright, Einstein. There's a reason why you didn't trust her to tell her that." "Einstein was a physicist." "I couldn't think of a.... a relationship expert and the name came to mind." "A reason? Hmmm... Didn't you say she was a self-obsessed, scheming cow? Will that do?" "You were so wasted on her." "We had some good times, lots of good times. And she looked great, beautiful body - and the sex, Chip. Oooh, could she shimmy her hips." Donna swirls her beer again, seeking some answers in the patterns maybe. Or honesty; of all people Chip warrants that. "Do you know, being with her... I thought I'd feel like a man." "What does being a man feel like?" "Does anybody know? Even men?" Chip's mostly thirty and still answers 28 when anybody asks her age; she has broad shoulders and strong features, Rosetti lips and hazel eyes that glint with amusement at most of what life throws her way. Her coffee shop features in all the cool visitor's guides and has a queue outside every Saturday and Sunday lunchtime. "Why do they call you, Chip?" Donna asked the first time they met, in a pub outside the city centre where nobody cared who wore what. "I'm greasy and bad for you." She is neither, and has become one of Donna's closest friends, more so now many of her friends are backpedalling away from Donna's Supertran outing. In reality CHIP comes from her initials - Cassandra Henrietta Imogen Prentice. Her father, imagining she might one day become a top class cricketer gave her them, though he'd used Christopher Henry Ian Prentice on her birth certificate. She speaks precisely with a slight drawl, like an upmarket newsreader, like they had expected her to in the public school where she'd been eternally, weeping miserable. Her father had bankrolled the coffee shop's startup - making up for the hell of her education. "I'm royally fucked," says Donna staring with heartfelt melancholy into the bottle's green depths. "Why do people get so hung up on clothes? What difference do the clothes make!" Chip gets her another beer. "You know what difference the clothes make." "Yeah, to me. But them! And the looks at work. I saved that girl's life and now I -" "Don't say it, because you don't wish you hadn't." Her shoulders round down, a long sigh whistles away and she puts down the beer, uncoils her legs and puts her feet flat onto the sofa so she can rest her chin on her knees and wrap her herself tight. "I'm glad I saved her. Even with all this." Chip reaches out, rests her hand on Donna's shoulder and squeezes gently. "You know, out of all my trannie friends you're the one I think that really gets it. I look at you, even without make up and I see the woman. Even in bloke clothes I look at you and see a woman." "It's the hair." "If you had a buzz cut all over you'd still look like a woman." Donna looks up, brows furrowed quizzically. She sees something new in those lively hazel eyes, but doesn't understand what and goes back to her knees. When did it start? Little, lonely Donna sneaking like a thief, her heart banging too loud for her chest, into her Mum's room where all the lovely things are kept. That breathless drawing of satin panties over her legs, the first time she felt her thighs sparkle with only the sheerest stockings between them, the joy of a skirt's flow, or lipstick's kiss on her inexperienced pout? Or even before that? Did it start in the womb? Some stress her Mum had felt in her rocky life, some rush of oestrogen to alter the wiring forming in foetus-Donna's brain? Maybe it started further back than that, some genetic tweak carried over the generations just waiting for the opportunity to rear up and exert itself. When she takes her place in the witness box the defence barrister, a gaunt grey-haired strutter with the air of an Old Etonian about him, gives her a Sonia look. "Mr Hillman, can I confirm that at the time of the incident you were wearing," a haughty sniff and superior look for the jury's benefit, "a dress?" Several of the jurors lean forward. "How is this relevant?" demands the prosecutor, a waspy looking ebony woman. "I was walking back to a friend's after a night out, minding my own business," Donna says, having been warned this would probably come up. "In a dress?" "An electric blue, knee length, sleeveless, fitted dress. From Next." "I don't think Mr Hillman's weekend activities have any bearing on his evidence," says the Judge. Chip attends court each day Donna gives evidence. She sits tall in the public gallery wearing a perfectly tailored, three piece trouser suit in sombre grey with brown, high heeled brogues and a silk tie to match her hair. Each day she wears her hair in a different, but eye catching Hollywood updo. She beams strength and serenity to her friend, and the other women in the court. "Had you been drinking, Mr Hillman?" askes the defence. "Four, maybe five bottles of Becks beer. Maybe four or five cocktails." "And how did four, maybe six bottles of Becks and all those cocktails leave you feeling." "Mellow. It had been a pleasant night." Donna glances at the victim sitting to one side of the court. She's elected to give her evidence face to face rather than by video link or behind a screen. She'd been having a pleasant night too, she'd described it for the court, then sobbed her way through cross-examination. She and Donna shared the same hair colouring and build, though she was busty in a way Donna could only find with latex and silicone. She often wonders how it would have been if the Bastard had decided on her for that night. Sometimes she wishes he had, to have spared the victim and because she thinks she could have broken his jaw. When he gets fifteen years in prison, 'a real danger to women,' Donna wishes him a dry arse fuck up him every day each day of his sentence. Inhumane? Perhaps, but Donna is only human. Outside the courtroom, before heading out to the prying cameras, Chip and Donna are intercepted by the victim, her fiance and father. Silence binds them at first, both have been flayed, they have been brutally exhibited. The two men shake Donna's hand firmly, but the victim hugs her tight; they weep together, but for different reasons. "Come and work for me," says Chip. "The pay's shit, but the coffee's great and the company rocks!" Donna blows her nose, she's been crying. More anonymous shit at work; everybody knows who's behind it, but nobody will talk. The boss just says ride it out, because it's too difficult to grip, the ringleader too secure to discipline; the organisation just hopes Donna will go away. She's already been cold-shouldered from the five-a-side football league she's played in for the last six years and her Mum still affects a monumental sulk whenever Donna tries to talk to her. Chip's hair has turned cherry cola red, she has a new tattoo scrolling all the way down her right arm and an extra hoop through her left eyebrow. The weekend before she'd taken Donna to meet her parents for lunch in a pub on the edge of the Pennines - they were travelling from South to North for some reason and diverted to meet their daughter. Exceptionally pleasant, they look blandly middle-class, dress like catalogue models from Joules and greet Donna like she's the evidence of Cassandra finally settling down. Until Chip introduces her as, 'my best friend Donna,' contrasting her with the polo shirt, jeans and walking boots Donna had worn for the lunch. Neither of the parent's smiles falter at this, the father shakes her hand warmly and they have a jolly time. Surprisingly jolly. They even call her Donna without corrupting her name with their tone. "Good people," she says to Chip as they drive away, waving through open windows. "Surprisingly cool with everything I've done with my life and all their expectations I didn't do." Work for Chip? Serve coffee and cakes and paninis instead of manipulating spreadsheets and figures? "You can be Donna there if you want? You can have two name badges, one with Donna and one with your other name. Nobody will care if you fancy coming to work in a skirt (no micros please) one day or jeans another." Work for Chip? Wear a skirt, be Donna? It seems like a wild fantasy, like the one she has when she runs her fingers over the medication boxes Chip keeps in the bathroom cabinet. Work for Chip? Wear a skirt, be Donna. Be a woman? Is this where trying to be conventional has led her? "Let's go out, Donna. Tonight, now! Come up, get on some slap and something glittery, let's posse up the girls and get pissed." Tempting. She hasn't been Out since that night, hasn't really gone for it in terms of dressing up, as if denying herself that outlet will somehow bring her life back together. It hasn't - in fact it can't - ever; that bus has gone; the horse has emphatically bolted leaving little point in bolting the stable door. Action is needed and Chip's plan sounds a good one. If she's been neglecting her wardrobe she hasn't let her appearance slide - her hair still gleams, her skin's kept smooth. Chip paints her nails, glorious Barbie pink, then lends her butterfly drop-earrings and a matching pendant. Donna arranges her bits carefully, choosing a gaff instead of tape, fixes her modest breasts then covers them with a smooth, black t-shirt bra to match her panties. Dressing up feels good, she admits - she's left it too long. Simple, ordinary, feminine tasks calm her; she points her feet and eases black nylon over them so the seams lay perfectly along her bright toes; draws the tights over her legs like a long, calming sigh and rubs her nylon-slippery legs together in a sinuous, sensual dance for nobody's benefit but her own. A high-waisted, black mini-skirt, patterned with abstract splashes of red and gold, just about covers the tops of her thighs then she pulls on a long-sleeved, scoop necked top splashed with constellations of silver sparkles you can almost see her bra through. Chip spends some time pinning Donna's hair into tousles and fine plaits, lifting it away from her neck and face; makes her eyes sultry with bronze and gold eyeshadow, adds mystery with black eyeliner and mascara then honeys her lips with red-brown lipstick. They sip wine as Chip works and by the time she slips her feet into elegant silver court shoes, and smiles to feel herself elevated by their tapered heels a mellow warmth has seeped through her. She should have done this ages ago instead of hiding herself. Walking out to the taxi she enjoys the cool evening air through her tights, the bounce of her little breasts, the movement of her artful hair, the faint scent of her perfume and swinging earrings. She's tall, natural, elegant - beautiful again. Twenty minutes later, as they wait at the bar for their first drink she surprises herself by taking Chip's hand and pulling her close, against the music's noise. "Thank you." "It's nothing." But Donna feels her eyes filling up, threatening to overspill through all Chip's good eyeliner. The lights, music, people jostling good naturedly, sight of a couple of mates waving from the doorway and wading through the crush lifts something golden from Donna's core, inspiring her to plant a soft, friendly kiss on Chip's cheeks. "I've never had a mate like you," she says while Chip's eyes go wide and a surprised smile crosses her lips. Later, much later, when sunrise silhouettes the city's high rises and commercial architecture, the two of them kick off their heels, with sighs of relief, stretch their toes on Chip's carpet and slump to her sofa's embrace. With a comforting blanket and mugs of hot chocolate they plan to watch the sun bring the morning to light. Her head spins and tilts happily, the cocktails have been superb, the dancing legendary and company delightful. They'd missed her; Roxanna and Judy, Paige and Collette - the weekend girls, Flo and Izzy who'd become wholetime women, and she'd missed them. There'd been hugs, cheek kissing and joy enough to make Donna realise where her heart lay; not tied in the clean lines of the bank, the conventional alignment of Andy and Sonia, but amongst the flow and grace she knows as Donna. Somehow, without conscious thought or direction, her head finds Chip's shoulder, their hands entwine under the blanket before it's absolutely the right time for their lips to brush, to press and then part into breathless passion; Chip's tongue tastes divine as Donna's hands smooth away Chip's skirt even as she parts her thighs for Chip's teasing fingers. It doesn't matter that Chip won't have surgery, that her body contrasts with convention or that her arousal, her orgasms don't blossom like anything Donna has experienced or imagined; she's beautiful too. Convention fades when Donna realises, with hot certainty, what love really means and who she really is; when she finds herself in the arms of the lover she should have embraced years before. Afterwards, drowsing in Chip's bed Donna rides the gentle aftershocks of the revelations, enjoying her body's memories of Chip's, their skin glowing together, hearts beating together. Words rise from her soul with nothing to hold them back any longer. "I love you," she whispers, wondering if Chip has drifted too deep to hear, but she stirs, lifts her head from the pillow of Donna's shoulder and smooths hair from her eyes. "And I love you." This is where it ends. Donna smiles, slow and dreamy; all pretence washing from her like sandcastles under the tide. Tomorrow is the beginning; coffee and cake and panini, she imagines the stretchy skirt she'll wear over black opaque tights and the badge with her real name displayed. She thinks of the medication she'll have to sit beside Chip's in the bathroom cabinet and tingles with the anticipation of her body changing. Best of all is imagining all that coming wonder with Cassandra by her side; helping, guiding, sharing, laughing, loving. "Always?" "Forever."