Jasmine and September

Another weekend, another Bookfair (or author-signing-event as they are sometimes called).  Today it is Wellington in Shropshire – almost local.  Let’s hope this event actually attracts keen readers who want to browse the books on offer and even buy some.  It will be my first opportunity to offer Cold Fire for sale, in advance of my official launch next week (Leominster Library 2.00 – 6.30 p.m. Thursday 19th Oct.).

Last Saturday I was in the position of reader at Crickhowell Literary Festival. A very pleasant event in venues scattered across the town. One talk, or rather discussion, featured two ex-policemen who had (or are) retiring having fallen to PTSD. They had turned to writing to express their feelings and ended up publishing books, one fiction (supposedly, although it reads more like an autobiography with added action) and the other an non-fiction account of his career and illness.  I don’t know how good the books are (I’m reading one and am not impressed) but both picked up publishing contracts with apparent ease. Why – because of their jobs (senior Met officers); because of their undoubtedly exciting life-stories; or, because they are good writers? I wonder.

I finally got round to watching the Horizon programme on transitioning by transsexual men and women. It followed half a dozen, mainly trans-women, as they embarked on the medical aspects of transitioning, not just gender-confirmation-surgery, but also vocal chord surgery, testosterone injections for transmen, et al. All the subjects made the point that social transitioning i.e. coming out to family, friends and colleagues, was the most difficult part however painful and difficult the surgery.  It was a good, straightforward account of what transsexuals have to go through to achieve the bodies they want (need?), with enough bloody detail to make you want to look away from time to time.  All the subjects seemed well-balanced and cheerful even if they had had difficult times earlier in their transition, but the programme did not attempt to make judgements or bang a drum for more gender clinics or increased availability of surgery.

I was interested, but not for myself.  It is Jasmine that is a transwoman seeking to achieve the body of a woman and prepared to accept the pain and discomfort that involves.  The fourth Jasmine Frame novel, Molly’s Boudoir, which I am writing in fits and starts at the moment, takes place as, and just after, Jasmine has her GCS, but even that won’t be the end of her transition.  Although in law a woman and now with a vagina she still seeks that alteration that makes her appear more feminine and thereby matches her self-image.  I am not the same.  For many years I have been uncertain of where I stood.  While I feel a degree of femininity, I have never wanted to go through everything that Jasmine wants. Now, I think I have found my place in the spectrum.  I’m gender-fluid; I am comfortable wearing feminine clothes, jewellery, make-up, but I oppose any sort of gender stereotyping, detest exceptional macho-male behaviour but do not see in  myself a girly or motherly woman.

As I mentioned, the 4th Jasmine novel is taking some time to write partly because of other things happening round here, and the time taken to promote Cold Fire along with my other novels. There is also a hint of a demand for another September Weekes novel (the fifth!) while I have ideas for other novels in different settings with different lead characters. Perhaps soon I’ll have more time to think and write. . . How many times has that been said.  Watch this space.

 

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Cold Fire

This week is all about Cold Fire – my new fantasy novel for young adults and above, which is now available in paperback.  I am holding a launch at Leominster Library from 2 – 6:30 on Thursday 19th October and there will be some sort of launch at Novacon in November.

Cold Fire features September Weekes, the heroine of my trilogy, Evil Above the Stars. It follows on from the final paragraph of vol.1 Unity of Seven but is a free-standing novel, which I think can be read on its own.

The story takes place mainly in 1680 in the Wales and London  of a parallel universe to our own. Aeddon is a young man in the service of an alchemist. The alchemist learns about the discovery of “phosphorus” and desires to make it himself to see and make use of the cold fire it produces.  Aeddon describes the quest to find the ingredients to make the cold fire and witnesses the awful results that bring September into the story.

There are appearances by famous scientists of the period, Robert Boyle and Robert Hooke; there are dragons and unicorns and mermaids; there are Welsh legends and heroic action. Can September find the magic that will enable her to overcome the Malevolence in this world?

Copies can be obtained from any bookseller or the publisher Elsewhen Press.  Or you can order copies from me for £9.99 including post and packing.  Send your order with a postal address to this email address  . I will post your copy/ies and give you options of how to pay. Cold Fire is also available as an e-book in all formats.

Copies purchased from me will include a postcard of one of the water colours by Katie Ellis of scenes from the story.

Here is a short excerpt from Cold Fire

Chapter 1
I am given a task by my Master

“Boy! Boy! Where are you? I have need of you!” My Master’s voice came to me from below. He was in the crypt where he performed his manipulations. I was in the kitchen, searching through the sorry remains of our larder for something my Master would find acceptable for his table. There remained just a few parsnips, some herbs and a piece of mutton that the flies had settled on. My Master rarely troubled himself about the source of his food but relied on me to set it before him, unless of course he was too deeply involved in his work to think of food at all. How we would obtain new food supplies, I knew not.
I answered his call immediately as I did not wish to feel a stroke of the birch rod that he kept to punish my many misdemeanours, real or imagined. I hastened down the stone steps into the dimly illuminated crypt of the old abbey. The pale March sun slanted through the small windows at the top of the vaulted walls revealing a space cluttered with urns, jars, chests, furnaces and shelves filled with the Master’s precious glass apparatus and other contrivances. The floor, which I had swept only the previous evening, was already covered in detritus from the Master’s experimentation as well as the droppings of the mice and doves that he kept for testing his nostrums.
My Master, Ezekiel Soulbury, was sitting at his table which was covered in papers, vellum rolls and books but he held in his hand a letter, which I presumed to be that which he had received with great excitement earlier in the day. It had been sent by his cousin from the city of London and such epistles invariably stirred my Master into some kind of activity, although usually of the ‘grumbling and muttered oaths variety’.
“Ah, there you are boy,” he said at the sound of my feet on the flagstones, “stoke the furnaces. We have much work to do. Stir the putti and set them tasks. Where are those mischievous cherubs? Come on, come on, don’t be idle. I need heat.”
This torrent of words poured out of my Master as he shook his head and beard of long grey hair. He waved his hand bearing the letter which stirred the dust floating in the air. It seemed that the letter had brought news of something that had inspired him to a new venture. I wondered what my part would be in it and how much more pain and suffering would be inflicted on me. My search for edible food was inevitably to be set aside as the Master embarked on this new enthusiasm.
I was unsure whether to follow the Master’s first instruction and collect wood for the furnace or his second which was to find his other assistants, the putti. They at least could take some of the effort from the first task if they could be so persuaded, but where were they?
“Yes, milord,” I replied, “I will set to immediately.”
“That you must, while I assemble the necessary apparatus.” The Master got up from his stool, momentarily catching his foot in the torn and threadbare robe which he wore over his rough woollen garb. Once he had had fine clothes of silk and satin but these had been scorched by fire, burned by acids or sold to raise funds for his endeavours.
The putti were obviously not down here in the cellar so I returned to the ground floor, whistling and calling for them. They had not come into the kitchen while I had left it nor were they in the cold dark hall. I climbed the wooden stairs to the upper floor and entered the Master’s little used but grand bedroom. There they were, dancing in the sunlight that shone through the unshuttered, glazed window. Three small, naked, plump boys with feathered wings fluttering a few hands-widths above the floor, circling and weaving as if engaged in some galliard or other.
“Quickly. Come with me,” I said, “The Master has tasks for you and me.”

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Last week was spent in the wonderful countryside of Scotland’s Loch Tay. I took the opportunity to test the inclusiveness of the local community, especially the town of Aberfeldy and was not disappointed. Also for the first time I attended a family event, a wedding, in a dress. It was a wonderful occasion, I felt great and I don’t think I stood out that much, especially as most of the men were in kilts. My thanks are due to my step-niece and her new husband for showing wonderful understanding.

There will be more opportunities for purchasing Cold Fire and my other novels, starting with a Meet the Authors day in the library Wellington, Shropshire on 14th October. Following my launch on 19th October I will also be in The Castle Bookshop, Ludlow on 2nd Dec.

 

 

A change is as good as. . .?

Not a lot of time to write this week as I am experiencing the wonders of Scotland. We are staying in the small village of Kenmore at the end of Loch Tay where the River Tay commences its route to the sea. Although the hilltops have been lost in mist we have had dry weather in which to explore. Our walks have taken in the lakeside, a steep climb alongside a dark but attractive waterfall; tracks through Tolkienesque woodland with snatches of views across glens; and traverses of hillsides.  We have not, and do not intend to tackle any munros but are astounded by the beauty of our surroundings. The apparent remoteness is striking.  We drove the seventeen miles along the single-track road following the southern shore of the loch and the twenty or so miles through Glen Lyon. Both were dotted with houses (lived in and for holidays), farms, forestry works,  even a school,  all many miles from a shop and most over thirty miles from anything resembling a town. There’s a heck of a lot of driving done in this idyllic wilderness.
The vegetation is lush, and not-so-wild animal life (sheep, cows, pigs, pheasants, partridges) very visible. We have seen hares but so far no red squirrels. We have also spotted various tourists like us taking advantage of the midge and child free almost off-season.

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I haven’t had the opportunity to watch this week’s Horizon on gender reassignment (or confirmation) so cannot comment on it. However I did catch a possible storm in a teacup about a researcher whose proposed investigation of reversal of gender reassignment was refused by Bath Spa Uni, apparently on the grounds of it “not being PC”. I will be very annoyed if that is the reason. For a start the term “political correctness” is a red herring (or a stinking kipper). Behaving in a PC fashion merely implies allowing a person their right to a safe, unmolested life and that is all. Anyone who complains that something is “PC gone mad” is usually a bigot who wants to deny someone their basic right.
However, back to the main point – investigating the reversal of a transsexual transition. I am quite sure that a significant proportion of people who have transitioned find that it was a big mistake. People change their minds about things, even life-defining matters, all the time. I would not be surprised to learn that this is particularly true of those who transitioned more than 10 years ago. Then, declaring oneself transsexual and going through all the stages of transition was the way one could express one’s conflict with one’s birth gender, unless one was content to be labelled a transvestite or crossdresser with the attendant threat of ridicule and worse, if found out. Today, I think, society has moved somewhat and there are more options; being non-binary, gender-fluid, agender are alternatives to transitioning with all its medical implications. While more people are recognising that they are trans, and at younger ages, I wonder if as big a proportion want to go “all the way”. Whatever the statistics, those who do realise they have made a mistake should not be vilified as traitors to the trans cause and given the help they need. Research on the matter would be useful.

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No Jasmine episode this week or fill-in. Just a reminder of the publications available.
Discovering Jasmine:  James is 17 and learning how to be Jasmine, but a chance meeting with a mature transsexual draws her into a life-threatening conflict and her first contact with the police.
Novella. Available only as a Kindle e-book.

Murder In Doubt: James is starting his university career and venturing out as Jasmine. She meets Angela Madison. When they hear that a trans student has died Jasmine is convinced she has been murdered and sets out to investigate.
Novella. Available only as a Kindle e-book

Painted Ladies: Jasmine is sore from having resigned from the police force but is drawn into the investigation of a killer who is targeting transgendered people by her former boss, DCI Sloane. She joins her old buddy Tom Shepherd in the investigation but finds that she could be the next victim.
Novel. Available in paperback and as Kindle e-book.

Bodies By Design: Jasmine is about to clear a significant hurdle in her transition but is invited to join the investigation into the death of a young person of uncertain gender. Jasmine find herself in the world of she-males and transgender prostitution where she presents a tasty target for the killer.
Novel. Available in paperback and as Kindle e-book.

The Brides’ Club Murder.  A country house hotel, a murder, ten suspects. Jasmine is called in to infiltrate the Wedding Belles and identify the killer of their leader. She is forced to participate in a transgender ritual that she finds distasteful, but with time running out she must reach a decision on who is the murderer.
Novel. Available in paperback and as Kindle e-book.

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Jasmine in her own words

As you read this, assuming it is just after it published, I am hopefully selling books at the Sandbach book-signing event. This is the second of these bookfairs that I’ve attended and there are more happening over the next year. I am hoping that there will be hordes of eager readers willing  to dip hands in pockets to buy books from me and the dozens of other authors.  If there aren’t then it will have been a waste of writing time.

Gender remains up there in news and comment consciousness. I note that next week’s Horizon is concerned with transitioning and being transsexual.  Gender is also the subject of this year’s Royal Society science book of the year.  The prestigious award has been won by Testosterone Rex by Cordelia Fine (published by Icon Books).  Apparently Fine challenges the pre-eminent position of testosterone in driving male psychology and the fundamental role of biological sex in the development of gender identity and culture.  I haven’t read it yet but I am looking forward to doing so and seeing the responses. It has already received many reviews.

Gender fluidity is even a theme of  W1A the BBC spoof of, yes, the BBC. For those of you who don’t watch the sit-com it is concerned with the knots the BBC management ties itself in to try to appear balanced, inclusive, on message, and popular. The theme involves a retired footballer who has come out as trans, who wants to be a football pundit (on Match of the Day) but who is actually quite rubbish at it. If he is booted off the programme the management don’t want it to appear because he wears a dress, and so the farce builds. I love W1A and all its characters and I am hoping they have got this right. I hope it never slides into treating a bloke in a dress as being funny in itself.

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Last week I completed the latest Jasmine Frame prequel, Viewpoint.  There will be a rest now for a few weeks while other things take precedence.  The main event coming up is the launch of the paperback version of Cold Fire – watch this space.  To fill the gap here is something I’ve been meaning to do for a while –  Jasmine speaking for herself. In fact it was suggested that this whole blog should be “written by” Jasmine.  Here is her autobiography.

Jasmine Frame – in her own words

While I was waiting for the date of my gender confirmation surgery, my doctors suggested I might like to write about myself, my journey, my life. So I have. In some ways, it is a final farewell to James Frame, in others it is a search for an explanation of who I am.

I was born in 1983 in Hastings on the south coast of England. Nothing special in that and nothing at all special in my early years. My father was an engineer on some big civil projects so was away quite often. My mother stayed home until I went to school and then went back to work for the county records office. She had a history degree and was an amateur archaeologist. Apart from me there was my sister, Holly who is four years older.

My earliest memories are of playing in a park with Holly and Mum. I have no early recollections of being gender confused or of denying I was a boy. I don’t think I was even conscious of gender until I was quite a bit older. However, I do recall playing with Holly and her friends. They never seemed to mind me being around when they were trying to get on with their own play but I do remember them using me as a sort of large and animated doll. I suppose lots of girls make use of their younger brothers in the same way and I am sure that we don’t all end up trans. Holly dressed me in her old dresses which for some reason Mum kept even when they no longer fitted. I seem to think I was quite happy to go along with the play and actually enjoyed the feel of the smooth and shiny satin and the swish of the dress on my legs. Holly went off to high school and more grown up interests while I got on with my own growing. I had girl and boy friends at primary school, played with Lego and cars as well as enjoying arty pastimes. I do realise now that I was a little bit of a loner, always content with my own company and not much of a team player. In fact, I didn’t get into team sports at all.

It was during my last year at junior school that I discovered that I could run a bit. My parents took up my teachers’ suggestions and enrolled me at the local athletics club. Throughout my secondary school career, I practiced regularly and often with boys and girls. I was county age-group champion at 400 and 800 metres at various times. The fact that I was competing in boys’ events was barely an issue.

It was only when puberty slugged me with a right hook that I became conscious of gender. It sounds silly but I don’t think I had thought about what growing up as a man or woman meant. Holly had her education and career mapped out, certainly not planning on getting married early and having children soon. With Mum taking on more hours of work as I got older I never saw men and women as being different with respect to employment. But growing facial hair, my voice breaking and getting erections made me realise that I was a boy – at least physically.

I was about fourteen when I began to have the thoughts. Perhaps they were a throwback to Holly’s dressing games but I realised that I didn’t want to turn into a hulking, macho, testosterone fuelled bloke. That’s when the urge to find another persona for myself started to take hold; and a different character meant different clothes. Although Holly was about to go off to university, she was still living at home and some of her clothes were left in her bedroom even when she was away. I began to experiment. Holly and I were a similar size then, in fact, I’m only slightly taller than her now.

The feel of a skirt, of a tight top, of tights and yes, finally, a bra, became familiar. At first it was exciting and arousing. I worried myself sick when once or twice I nearly spurted cum over Holly’s skirt. Soon though, becoming Jasmine ceased to have any masturbatory effect and simply became me in girl mode. It was the late 90s by now and I had access to a computer at home and the internet. I found out words for what I was – transvestite, transsexual I wasn’t sure which – but I did realise that being found out could make life difficult.

Fear of discovery did not stop me experimenting with Holly’s and Mum’s make-up. During holidays, when both were out of the house, I ventured out into town. I avoided the cafes and parks where my friends and school colleagues hung out, and instead went shopping. I used my pocket money to buy a few items of my own. With my blonde hair, quite long at that time, and fair complexion, I found I passed easily as a girl. Shop assistants, even if they sussed me, were eager to make a sale so I had few difficulties.

I became a little complacent I suppose and took to adopting my persona as Jasmine whenever I had the house to myself. That was why when I was 17, Holly discovered my secret. I’ve got to hand it to her, she was pretty calm and was soon advising me on styles of dress and cosmetics. She helped me keep my secret from Mum and Dad.

Going to Bristol to study for a history degree was a big move. I was free to be myself, or was I? Surrounded by other students I could have been drawn into a male world I suppose. As it happened the first guy I met turned out to be gay and he introduced me to other gays and lesbians. I was persuaded to let on that I was trans. And then I met Angela. She wasn’t a lesbian, no way, but she had friends who were and was very open. We hit it off straight away and for some reason she was as keen on Jasmine as James. For a time, I attended lectures and seminars as James but spent a lot of my social life, largely with Angela, as Jasmine, but gradually they all blurred together. Life was so busy and fun that I didn’t really consider where I stood on the gender spectrum or what would happen when university life came to an end. All I was sure of was that I wanted to be with Angela and she felt the same about me.

Of course, we were having sex, eagerly and often, from early in our relationship. She was the woman and I was the man – I had the penis. Making love was very pleasurable but I noticed that when we were having intercourse I could imagine that it was me being penetrated not Angela. It didn’t bother me – we were both feeling satisfied and I enjoyed being Jasmine.

Finishing university was a bit of a shock. We joined the real world embarking on careers, finding somewhere to live and fitting into society. I had settled on the police as a career. Why? Well I suppose my brief adventures with the law had sparked my interest and history seemed to have elements of crimes investigation. I was lucky to be recruited and to get on a training course. I had no real idea what the police reaction would be to my gender flipping although the Gender Recognition Act was just coming into force, but I thought it wise to keep Jasmine hidden from my superiors and colleagues. Angela was getting into her career in commercial accountancy and we decided to make our relationship official by getting married.

If I had thought that getting down to work as a police officer, with all the training that involved, and putting a home together, would make me a man I was wrong. Being Jasmine was a way of relaxing but I also found that increasingly my feelings about being a woman were growing. The urge to be female became more intense and I didn’t want to stop it. Angela was very understanding. Perhaps she had realised all along that that was the path we were on.

Becoming a detective and member of the Violent and Serious Crime Unit was the peak of my ambition, but it also brought increased stress. Now being Jasmine permanently became my greatest desire. I resisted it for a time because I knew, we both knew, that it would mean Angela and I splitting up. Then it was still necessary for married couples to divorce if one of them wanted to transition and obtain a GRC. Finally, though, the decision had to be made. Angela was supportive, so was Holly, but my mother wasn’t. Dad had died from cancer, a few years earlier and now she thought she was losing the other man in her life.

I started transitioning in the summer of 2010. I knew Angela and I would part. The sex in our relationship had always been important to her and she had always been straight. Whatever my fantasies had been she had always taken delight in having good old-fashioned heterosexual sex. I didn’t want to take that away from her but also didn’t want to be piggy in the middle of an “open” marriage. So we split, and I moved out. Angela was by now earning far more than my police officer’s salary and the financial separation was relatively straightforward. What I had not bargained for was my career falling apart. The police service management was helpful and supportive but that couldn’t be said for one or two of my colleagues. Perhaps I could have and should have stuck it out but I didn’t and so Frame Investigations was born.

Then Viv appeared on the scene. I’m dearly looking forward to having the body I’ve imagined myself to have for years. The future is a bit misty but I am looking forward to entering it as Jasmine Frame.

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Jasmine at an ending

In the last week there have been two minor bits of news that have got me fuming. The first was a secondary school’s announcement that it was introducing a gender neutral school uniform.  In other words all the students, male, female and gender-fluid, would have to wear the same outfit of trousers, shirt and, I think, blazer and tie. They said this was to be inclusive to transgender students. I don’t think they actually asked any pupils for their opinions or ideas before making the decision, perhaps they did, but I doubt it. The point is that the uniform is not gender neutral, it is male. Now, girls often wear trousers and a shirt but I doubt whether all girls want to wear trousers and a shirt all the time.  I’ll come back to that in moment.

The second item was the “Christian” mother and father who withdrew their “confused” six year old son from a C of E primary school because the school had allowed another pupil who had been classed as a boy to wear a dress.  It’s not clear whether the gender-variant pupil was making a permanent change from male to female or was taking it day to day. In this case the school was following the law of the UK, following the 2010 Equality Act, recognising that gender is not dependent on what bits you have between your legs and giving transgender people the same rights as every one else. Secondly the C of E recently adopted, at last, an inclusive and welcoming attitude to transgendered people of all ages.  The critical parents have no cause to complain about the school’s action and if they want to lock their child away from an inclusive and diverse society they can home-school him. I fear for their child. The other child I hope will continue to receive support from his school, parents and peers.

What irritates me is that both cases show people just not getting this gender thing. If a school really wants to have a gender neutral uniform policy then allow all students to wear what they like within a set list of trousers, skirts (or dresses), shirts, blouses, and whatever else is deemed necessary. The clothes themselves are not gender specific; it is people that make stereotypical assumptions about what people wear. There is nothing about a skirt that makes it exclusively female other than preconceptions. Also of course, gender identity isn’t just about clothes, but that’s a longer story.

Gender stereotypes are not only discriminatory to those who identify with a gender that does not match their physical attributes. They also have a negative effect on boys and girls generally.  99% of boys are happy being boys and probably never think about their gender. The same applies to 99% of girls. But stereotypical attitudes such as girls are weak, cannot do maths, while boys are boisterous and don’t do emotions, hold back boys’ and girls’ development in many different areas. I would advocate removing all stereotypical gender clues from homes, schools, everywhere in fact, and let children’s gender identity grow naturally. The result may be more rounded characters of boys and girls, and more toleration of those that are different to the 99%.

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Next Saturday I will at another Bookfair, once again offering my Jasmine Frame and September Weekes books for sale at very generous prices.  Come and have a look around Sandbach.

And finally, we’ve reached the final episode of Viewpoint, chronologically the last prequel before Painted Ladies.  Comments welcome.

Viewpoint: Part 14

DC Kingston looked blank for a moment, then nodded.
‘I see. Stay here. Taylor’s in the next room, but when Tom and Terry have finished talking to him they may send him back to the cells. I’ll be back soon.’ He turned and left the room leaving Jasmine sitting with a cold cup of coffee and cold slice of toast. She ate the toast.

Almost half an hour passed and Jasmine was fidgeting with boredom. At last the door opened and Derek entered.
‘We’ve got response teams looking for your Harold up and down the canal. Tom and Terry have just finished Taylor’s interrogation. He didn’t answer any of their questions. The custody officer is going to take him, back to the cell in a minute or two. Come and stand in the corridor.’
Jasmine got up and followed her colleague. They stood a few feet along from the door into the other interview room. The moments passed and Jasmine wondered what she should say to Taylor.
A burly uniformed officer passed them and opened the door. A few seconds later, Kevin Taylor emerged. He looked more dishevelled than before, with another day’s growth of beard and heavy eyes.
Jasmine stepped into his path. He stopped and looked at her without registering recognition.
‘I didn’t meet Alfie, but I know what he went through,’ Jasmine began.
‘Don’ know an Alfie,’ Taylor recited like a well-rehearsed refrain.
‘You called him Lucy, but he’d never been your daughter. You knew it, really. Before he left you beat him for saying he was a boy and making himself look masculine.’
Taylor stared at her, not responding, but his eyelids flickered.
Jasmine went on. ‘When he went to Weymouth he got help. He managed to have his breasts removed. But it wasn’t because he was trans. Do you know why he was able to get it done?’
Taylor stood impassive but his head almost moved from side to side.
‘It was because of his mother, your wife, who had supported him. Alfie had her genes and had a high risk of getting breast cancer. So, they gave him the mastectomy that helped him become the man he knew himself to be. But you, his only remaining parent, denied him.’
‘He wasn’t my girl,’ Taylor blurted.
‘Not your girl, but the same person he’d always been. The child of you and your wife, left in your care after his mother died.’
‘It was a bloke that appeared on my doorstep. He said he was my son. I told him I only had a daughter.’
‘He wanted your help. A father’s help.’
Taylor cried out. ‘He wasn’t my girl.’
‘He was the same person,’ Jasmine repeated.
‘She’d had things done to her. Like my darling Rosie. It made me angry to see how she’d changed.’
‘So angry that you had to get rid of him?’
‘Riley said he’d see to her.’
‘He took him away, kept him prisoner, hurt him. You gave your son to two heartless thugs who thought they could have their sadistic fun with someone they barely thought of as human, because you had rejected him. They beat him, raped him, killed him.’
Jasmine saw Taylor’s eyes widening in horror.
‘I didn’t mean them to kill her,’ he appealed. ‘I didn’t know what Riley and Owen were like. When he told me that Lucy was dead I didn’t know what to think.’
‘But they had to get rid of the body so you helped them.’
‘I didn’t know what else I could do.’
‘You helped them put the bodyin the back of your car and drove it to the canal.’
‘Yes.’
‘And dumped the body of your son in the water.’
Taylor raised his hands to his face and sobbed. ‘Yes.’
Derek Kingston stepped forward and took Taylor’s arm. ‘I think we’d better go back into the interview room, Mr Taylor. Perhaps you will answer some questions now that we’ve heard you admit to helping dispose of your son’s body. Maybe you’d like the solicitor that you refused earlier.’
Taylor, shrunken, with tears streaking his grubby cheeks, nodded, and was led by the custody officer back into the interview room.
Derek turned to Jasmine. ‘Thanks. We got our breakthrough. Why don’t you go down to the canteen and get a fresh coffee.’
Jasmine nodded and trudged off reluctantly. She wanted to complete the job and get Taylor’s signed statement admitting his part in Alfie’s death, but she accepted that she wasn’t going to be given that opportunity.

She sat alone at a table, with a steaming mug of instant coffee, munching a soggy sausage roll. The canteen was quiet at this time of day, just a few officers and civilians chatting on their break. The canteen wasn’t very cheery but it was a place of refuge from the often-frenzied work taking place on the floors above. She took a sip of coffee thinking it would probably be the last time she would have to drink the not very palatable fluid.
‘Derek said he’d sent you down here.’
Jasmine looked up to see Tom standing over her. ‘Hi, Tom.’
‘Sloane asked me to find you. He wants to see you.’
Jasmine put her mug down. Another coffee that would turn cold. She stood up. ‘Okay then. I don’t suppose he wants to congratulate me.’
‘You did get us a result, Jas. Derek said how you got Taylor to break down. That was great work.’
‘I was letting my feelings out, that’s all. I just wanted that chance to tell him about his son, making him see that Alfie was the same person as Lucy. The little girl he thought he had brought up had become a young man. Unfortunately, a depressed and disappointed young man.’
‘Well, however you did it, Taylor is now answering questions and with the evidence we’ve got and a witness statement from your mate Harold, we’ve found him by the way, the case against Riley and Owen is wrapped up.’
They climbed the stairs to the V&SCU office. The main room was empty but the door to Sloane’s own office was open.
‘You’d better go in,’ Tom said, urging Jasmine forward. She crossed the room and tapped on the door before stepping into the inner sanctum of Sloane’s domain. He looked up from the pile of files he had in front of him.
‘Ah, Frame.’ His nose creased as his eyes took in Jasmine’s tights, skirt, bosom and lipstick. Jasmine stood in front of his desk not surprised that she was not invited to sit down.
‘I understand that the body in the canal case is all but completed,’ the DCI said.
‘Yes, Sir,’ Jasmine replied wondering what was coming next.
‘So, you can go home and resume your final leave prior to the termination of your employment at the end of the month,’ Sloane continued.
‘Yes, Sir.’
Sloane sniffed and drew in a breath. ‘I am sorry that this is the conclusion of our acquaintance.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Jasmine found herself stuck in a rut of affirmatives with nothing else to say.
Sloane hadn’t finished however. ‘When you joined this unit, Frame, I had high hopes for you and indeed at first you showed that you had the potential to be a fine detective. But, this change you’ve undergone, are, um, undergoing, has unbalanced you. You have become insubordinate, impetuous, careless of your safety, and have placed responsibilities on your colleagues. That is not good in a member of a team, so while I am sad to lose an officer I think you have made this parting inevitable.’
Jasmine felt her cheeks beginning to flush. ‘Please, Sir, may I say something.’
Sloane’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Yes, of course, Frame.’
She summoned the words for what she felt. ‘The Police Force has been very helpful concerning my transition, Sir, but I don’t think my senior officers in this unit have been so understanding. I was side-lined and left to do the in-office tasks instead of joining in other aspects of investigations. Jobs which I had shown I had an aptitude for. Even in this case, DS Palmerston ignored the information that I supplied regarding the victim.’
Sloane puffed out his cheeks. ‘DS Palmerston has been a very successful senior investigating officer. In fact, I recommended her for promotion to Detective Inspector and as a result she is moving to another post, in Warwickshire, I believe.’
‘Palmerston is leaving?’ Jasmine said, feeling simultaneously victorious and disappointed.
‘Yes. It means I have two places to fill – one for a DS and one a DC. But that won’t concern you Frame. I understand you are becoming a private detective.’ His nose and mouth creased with disdain. ‘I hope you are successful in your new career.’
‘I will be, DCI Sloane, I will be.’ Jasmine turned on her heels and strode out. She passed Tom as she crossed the office.
‘Oh, Jas,’ he called, ‘here are your car keys.’ He held out the Fiesta’s key fob. She took it.
‘Thanks, Tom.’
‘I hope she starts okay. Derek had a bit of trouble last night bringing her back.’
‘She’s temperamental, Tom.’
‘Like her owner.’ Tom’s voice dropped to a whisper, ‘I heard you having a go at Sloane about Denise. I didn’t know she was leaving.’
‘Well, there you are Tom, your chance to get your Detective Sergeant post. Good luck.’
She walked out of the office, waving goodbye to Tom and her career as a police officer.

The End

 

Jasmine answers questions

As expected, NAWGFest17 at Warwick University was stimulating and great fun, from the Open Mic session on Friday evening (I did my 5 mins) through the workshops to the Gala Dinner. I attended two excellent sessions on historical fiction (thanks to Tim Wilson), filled in some of the gaps in my knowledge of police procedure (thank you Stephen Booth) and had my vocabulary of emotion  and senses stretched by Anita Loughrey.  It was Anita who won this year’s Minitale Award (100 word story) but I got a certificate for being shortlisted (yippee!).  They were the last of the awards made by Lord Fellowes after the dinner.  The winners and runners-up of the many, many other competitions deserve all the praise.  After the Fellowes’ departure, Peter Robinson (author of the Insp Banks series) gave a fascinating and humorous talk about his life which said a lot for determination, and a little luck.  As always I came away revitalised and looking forward to next year.  Why don’t you join us.

……………………

Munroe Bergdorf was in the news this week having apparently accused all white people of being racist. Bergdorf is a British, mixed-race, trans-woman who is a (very attractive) model.  From her background you would expect her to have quite a knowledge and understanding of prejudice and discrimination. I can understand her statement, which of course got taken out of context by certain media people.  She says that all white people in the UK, USA and elsewhere are still benefitting from the spoils of slavery and colonialism and so share responsibility for the past and present persecution of other races. While it is true that western wealth rests on the exploitation of other peoples, not just historically, I am not sure it is right to infer that all white people are therefore racist. Do children carry guilt for the sins of their fathers and mothers? Do we all bear the stain of original sin? I don’t think so.  While many white people are racist, homophobic, transphobic, etc., it doesn’t follow that we all are. We do have a responsibility to ensure that all people, whatever colour, gender, etc. can live freely in a sustainable lifestyle – which is certainly not the case at the moment. Nevertheless, the bile directed at Munroe only served to rather prove her more right than wrong.

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The climax of Viewpoint was a week or so ago but the story is not over yet. Here is the next episode of the Jasmine Frame prequel.

Viewpoint: Part 13

The alarm woke Jasmine. She reached out an arm to switch it off and groaned as her muscles complained. She forced herself to sit up. There was no chance of going out for a run this morning but she was determined to get up and ready before Tom or whoever came to collect her. She’d given herself plenty of time she thought. It was only 6:30 a.m.
It took her longer than usual to get showered but the hot water did soothe and loosen her muscles. There were still red rings around her ankles and wrists where the cords had constricted her but at least the skin wasn’t broken. She dressed slowly, finding it difficult to bend to pull her tights up her legs.
She was thankful she had risen early when at seven-fifty her mobile rang. It was Tom.
‘Hi, Jas. How are you?’
‘Been better but not too bad.’
‘Good. I just thought I’d let you know that Terry is on his way to pick you up.’
‘That’s early.’
‘Palmerston wants to get you in to take your statement. I think she wanted you off guard. You are ready?’
That would be just like the DS, Jasmine thought. ‘Just. Haven’t had breakfast yet, but then I haven’t got anything in to have anyway.’
‘I’ll pop some toast in the toaster for you and have a cup of coffee ready.’
‘Thanks. See you soon.’
Jasmine had hardly switched off the phone before the doorbell rang. She looked around for a coat to wear. Her puffer jacket was still covered in mud and dead leaves. A woollen jacket that she usually kept for formal occasions was the only substitute. She answered the door while pulling it over her shoulders.
Terry Hopkins stood on the doorstep, glowering.
‘At last. I was beginning to think you weren’t up. You ready, Frame? I seem to be acting like your chauffeur rather too often.’
‘Nice to see you too, Terry,’ Jasmine replied as cheerfully as she could manage. She grabbed her bag and keys and stepped out. ‘I’m ready. Ready and eager.’
Hopkins harrumphed and went to his car. Jasmine joined him in the front and they drove to the police station in silence.

Jasmine followed DC Hopkins into the station foyer and through the security door. She took a step onto the stairs.
‘No, Frame,’ Terry growled. ‘The DS says you’re to go to the interview room to give your statement, not the office.’
‘What?’ Jasmine said. ‘Aren’t I a member of the investigating team?’
‘No, you’re not. Didn’t I hear Palmerston chuck you off it yesterday before you set off for your little adventure.’
‘But I have important information to hand over.’ Jasmine felt indignant but not really surprised by Hopkins’ treatment of her.
‘Which Palmerston says you can put in a statement like any civilian witness.’
‘Civilian!’
‘Well, isn’t that what you want to be in a few days. A member of the public.’
Jasmine gave up trying to argue. ‘Okay. Which one?’
‘Room 2. I think they’ve started on Taylor again in room 1 by now.’
Jasmine followed Terry further down the corridor until he stopped at a door and pushed it open. She entered the drab but brightly-lit room and sat in the chair on the suspect’s and witnesses’ side of the table. Hopkins pulled the door closed and left her alone.
A few minutes later, the door opened and Derek Kingston entered carrying a mug in one hand, a plate in the other and a file of papers under his arm.
‘Tom said to give you these,’ he said placing the mug and plate in front of Jasmine. There were two slices of buttered toast on the plate. Jasmine picked up one slice and started munching. She had known she was hungry but now she realised she was ravenous.
‘DS Palmerston will be here in a minute,’ Derek went on as he sat in the chair opposite her.
Jasmine had managed to stuff all of one slice into her mouth before the DS arrived. She glared at the plate and mug but said nothing and sat beside DC Kingston. Jasmine examined her face as it glowered at her. There was a slight flush, and watery glint in her eye. She’s barely under control, Jasmine thought.
‘So, despite my express order to go home and have nothing more to do with this case you decided to go off on your own,’ Palmerston began.
Jasmine decided it wasn’t a question that needed an answer. She shrugged and stared at the senior officer.
Palmerston continued, ‘Your foolhardy interference has complicated the case and could have got you killed.’
‘That wasn’t part of the plan,’ Jasmine admitted.
‘Plan! You didn’t have a plan.’
‘I found the hut where Alfie had been kept and heard Riley and Gary say things that incriminate them in his murder.’
‘That would have been a lot of good if you were now lying in a shallow grave in the woods.’
Jasmin reluctantly had to admit that that would have been the outcome if Tom and Derek hadn’t turned up when they did. She kept quiet.
‘As it happens, my plan brought results,’ Palmerston said with quiet satisfaction. ‘Shepherd and Kingston followed my orders, followed Taylor to his meeting with Patrick Riley and Gary Owen where we will find evidence of Lucy Taylor’s imprisonment and murder.’
Jasmine noted Palmerston’s words. ‘They haven’t confessed then.’
Palmerston sniffed. ‘Not yet. Owen has incriminated himself but Riley and Taylor are refusing to admit any part in the girl’s death.’
A cough of a laugh escaped from Jasmine’s throat. ‘Well, they can’t wriggle out of what they intended for me.’
‘False imprisonment and actual bodily harm is all,’ Palmerston said. She looked at Jasmine’s wrists which rested on the table, noting the red rings. ‘You didn’t need the hospital so your injuries weren’t much and they say they were just going to frighten you off by putting you in the hole they had dug.’
Now Jasmine laughed loudly. ‘Oh, that’s good. Why would they drive me all the way out there to frighten me?’
‘I’m not bothered about whether they were going to frighten or kill you, Frame. I want an admission of guilt in the killing of Lucy Taylor from all three of them. Now tell us what you were doing there last night and what you heard. DC Kingston will write it down.’
Jasmine sighed and recounted all that had happened the previous evening from getting into the grounds of the park homes until her rescue by Tom. Derek read his notes back to her and she signed them. As soon as it was finished, DS Palmerston got up and stalked out of the room. Derek was about to follow.
‘Hey Derek. Haven’t you found evidence of Alfie being in the hut and her body being carried in Taylor’s Land Rover?’
The DC paused and turned.
‘SOCO have taken various samples from the hut which may prove that Alfie, er, Lucy, was there and had been harmed but there’s so much muck in the back of the pick-up that they’re unlikely to prove that she was carried in it. There’s enough evidence to implicate Riley and Owen but not Taylor.’
‘But it was the three of them that dumped Alfie’s body in the canal,’ Jasmine complained.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Harold saw them.’
‘Harold?’ Derek took a step towards her
‘The boatman. Moored under the bypass. He was walking his dog up by Renham Lock and he saw the three of them dump something in the canal. His description matches Taylor, Riley and Owen. They took it from a vehicle which he described as being very much like Taylor’s truck.’
‘We haven’t got any of that.’
‘No, of course you haven’t. Palmerston didn’t think to send any of you along the canal to see if there were any boaters around that night.’
‘When did you speak to this Harold, guy?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. I went for a run when I got sent home. It was after I heard what he said that I decided to investigate a bit more.’
‘You should have told us.’
‘I was off the case. Remember?’ Jasmine realised that she sounded petulant and obstructive. ‘Okay. I should have rung in. But I was angry. Right?’
Derek looked sympathetic. ‘I understand, Jas. I know you haven’t been treated well and I’m sorry you’re chucking it in, but we could do with Harold, here.’
‘Well, he’ll be on the canal somewhere, not too far away. He lives on an old working boat called Nile.’
Kingston nodded. ‘Taylor’s the problem. He’s pretty cool, cold even. Says he hasn’t seen his daughter since she left home years ago. But if we have a witness that puts him with the other two when her body was dumped. . .’
‘You’ve got to get him to face the fact that his daughter became a man. I think I can do it, Derek.’
‘Denise won’t let you interrogate him.’
‘I know, but perhaps a meeting can be arranged.’ Jasmine winked at Derek.

………………….to be continued.

 

 

Jasmine in the earth

We had a lovely day at the UKIndieLitFest in Bradford last weekend. There were lots of writers competing for the book buyers which were always going to be scarce.  Nevertheless we gave away a few copies of Painted Ladies, sold a few others and did lots of good promotional stuff.

Now it’s NAWGFest weekend; two full days at Warwick Uni.  I hoping  to see some familiar faces and make some new friends, and even sell a few more books.  I’m also looking  forward to going to Sandbach on 23rd Sept for their Author-Book-Signing Day – more opportunities.  Soon after that we will be into the launch of Cold Fire in paperback (it’s already available as an e-book).  I’ll have some interesting things to show you when the time is a bit closer.

Back to our brief visit to Bradford.  We had a evening in the city centre looking for somewhere to eat. Bradford is of course a very diverse community and I felt it very welcoming. Just before we went we watched one of the BBC Gay season programmes about the abuse of and vicious attacks on LGBT people, some very recent. It is dreadful what harm a very small number of people can do and knowing that these things can happen can make people fearful of stepping outside their door. The fear of terrorist attacks has a similar effect. But I am sure (I hope) the number of serious hate-crimes against gay and trans people is relatively low.  I don’t want to feel threatened every time I go out but I am wary, and fairly selective of where I go.

Talking of attacks, Jasmine is in the hands of a vicious trio in Viewpoint. Does she survive?  Of course she does.  It’s a prequel to Painted Ladies and the other novels.  But you can find out what happens by reading part 12 below.

Viewpoint: Part 12

A shadow of a figure crouched down beside her.
‘God! You are alive, aren’t you?’
Jasmine fluttered her eyelids to show Tom that she was indeed living. It was about all that she could move.
‘Can you breathe?’ Tom inserted a finger to pull the cord from her mouth but only succeeded in making it dig into the back of her head even more and pushing the cloth down her throat. He pulled a penknife from his pocket and flicked it open.
‘Lie still. It’s going to be difficult to cut the string without nicking you.’
Lying still was okay. Tom slid the blade between her cheek and the binding and sawed at it. The cords broke and Jasmine felt release but the cloth was still wedged in her mouth. Tom tugged it out and she at last felt cold air enter her lungs. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes in relief. Tom moved to her wrists and then her ankles, freeing her limbs. Excruciating pins and needles in her arms and legs were the result. She groaned.
‘Are you alright, Jas? They didn’t hurt you, did they?’
Jasmine managed a shake of her head but no words would come out of her mouth yet.
Tom bent down to her and scanned his torch over her body. The light dazzled her and she screwed up her eyes.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
Jasmine gasped and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘I’ll be fine. Now.’
Tom stood up. ‘Derek! Read them their rights then get them to a car. Keep them apart. Don’t let them talk to each other. There are questions they need to answer.’
Jasmine heard Derek Kingston reciting the arrest. Tom leant down to her with an arm outstretched.
‘You must be soaked. Can I help you up?’
Jasmine hadn’t given a thought to where she was lying. Now she noticed that the leaf litter was sodden and she was too. She lifted a leaden arm. Tom took hold and gently pulled her to her feet. Her knees buckled rather than take her weight and she started to slide down Tom’s body. He grabbed her with both arms and hauled her upright.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, ‘My legs don’t seem to want to hold me.’
‘That’s okay, Jas. We’ll head back to the car.’
Tom half dragged, half carried her through the woodland to where the Land Rover was parked. Tom’s unmarked Mondeo was there too and three police cars. Jasmine rested against the roof of Tom’s vehicle while he opened the doors. The three men, handcuffed and lead by police officers followed and were taken to separate cars.
Tom, opened the rear door and helped Jasmine into the seat. DC Kingston joined them.
‘You stay here, Derek,’ Tom said, getting into his driving seat. ‘That Land Rover needs looking at and we’ll need photos of the digging they were doing. You should have assistance soon.’ As he finished a police four-by-four arrived and two more uniformed officers got out.
Tom turned the key in the ignition and closed his window. Jasmine felt the warm air from the heater and recalled that it was less than two days since she had experienced a similar welcoming blast.
They drove along the rough, dark track until they reached a road. Jasmine peered into the blackness. If Tom had not appeared when he had, she thought, it would have been a long time before her body was found, buried in the depths of the wood.
‘Thanks Tom. You saved my life.’
She caught Tom’s eyes in the car mirror.
He didn’t respond to her gratitude. ‘What were you doing there, Jas?’’
‘They brought me in the Land Rover.’
Tom sighed. ‘I know that. What I meant was, what were you doing at the cabin?’
And so it starts, Jasmine thought. My inquisition.
‘I was sure that Alfie had been held captive at that park,’ she began, ‘but Terry Hopkins had said that Riley’s hut was too small for him to have been kept there. I guessed that there would be an empty cabin that they had used. I didn’t think Palmerston was concerned so I thought I’d have a little look myself.’
‘You found it.’
‘Yes. It was obvious really. The hut appeared to have been unoccupied for some time but there were fresh tracks in the grass outside it. I managed to get in to have a look round. Then Riley and his mate turned up and I was stuck.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone on your own, Jas. You shouldn’t have gone at all. Denise took you off the case.’
‘I couldn’t let it be, Tom. She wasn’t going to do anything.’ Jasmine was annoyed at the whine that had crept into her voice.
Tom twisted his head round to glance at her briefly. ‘Actually, she did, Jas. She thought Taylor required watching. Derek and I drew the evening shift. We spent a couple of hours sitting outside his farm gate twiddling our thumbs until he left in the Land Rover. We tailed him to the park. He stopped off at Riley’s place but there was no one in. He got back in the car and headed further into the park.’
‘You followed him?’ Jasmine asked getting excited by Tom’s tale.
‘Well, I thought we’d be noticed if we drove in. Derek went on foot. He found Taylor’s car parked outside the hut. Riley and his friend were loading something onto the back; he didn’t know then what it was. Taylor set off and Derek had to run like Bolt to get back to me. We almost lost them then but luckily Taylor wasn’t driving fast. Perhaps his old crate can’t go at speed. We tailed him all the way to the wood and luckily none of them noticed. Derek followed them in and came back and reported what they were doing.’
‘Preparing to bury me.’
‘Well, we didn’t know it was you, but yes.’
‘So you called in back-up.’
‘That’s right, but told them to arrive without sirens and lights.’
‘Just in time.’
‘Yes. I’m not sure how much time we had left. That hole they dug was plenty big enough.’
Jasmine shivered. She could almost feel the cold wet earth around her but couldn’t imagine being dead. Tom drove on in silence. When they got in to the centre of Kintbridge Jasmine noted that Tom was not heading to the police station.
‘Hey, Tom. Where are we going?’ she cried.
‘I’m taking you home, Jas, unless you think you need the hospital.’
‘No, I’m fine.’ In fact, her arms and legs were still sore and she felt lousy but that wasn’t the point. ‘But we need to question Taylor, Riley and Gary; get their confessions to Alfie’s murder.’
‘You’ve forgotten something, Jas.’
‘What?’
‘You’re off the case. You’re not going to be doing any questioning.’
‘Aw, Tom.’
‘Don’t do that. DS Palmerston is in charge and she’d have my balls if she found I’d let you take part in the interrogation.’
‘But, they said things when they had me in the hut. I know they kept Alfie there and they killed him.’
‘And we’ll need to know what you heard, Jas. Do you really want to face Palmerston, or even Sloane now, in the state you’re in?’
Jasmine became conscious of her wet and mucky clothes and then remembered.
‘Er, Tom, we can’t go to my flat.’
‘Why not?’
‘I haven’t got my key.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In my bag, in my car.’
Tom braked and pulled into the side of the road. He turned around to face her.
‘And where’s that.’
Jasmine managed a thin smile. ‘Back at the cabin site, well, a few yards from it.’
Tom sighed, twisted back, glanced in his mirror and pulled the car round in a U-turn.
‘Okay, we’ll go and pick it up.’

It took a few more minutes to drive out of the town again and onto the lane that lead to the park-home site. Tom slowed as they approached the gates. There was a police car parked at the entrance with its lights on and there were lights showing at various parts of the grounds.
‘Can we. . .’ Jasmine began.
‘No, Jas, we’re not going in. SOCO will be going over both huts and Palmerston may even have got officers questioning the other inhabitants. Where’s your car?’
Jasmine pointed through the windscreen. ‘Another hundred metres or so.’
Tim drove on slowly until the dark outline of the Fiesta appeared, parked on the verge. Jasmine felt in the pocket of her jacket and was relieved to find her key was still there. The car stopped and Tom got out to open the rear door. Jasmine swung her legs round, put her feet on the tarmac and tried to stand up. She almost made it.
‘O..oh. Careful there, Jas.’ Tom caught her as she crumpled up. He lowered her back onto the back seat. ‘I’ll get your bag. Give me your keys. Where is it?’
Jasmine fumbled in her pocket feeling bemused by her weakness. She pulled out the car key and placed it in Tom’s waiting hand.
‘Um, thanks, Tom. It’s under the passenger seat.’
Tom moved away and Jasmine contemplated her fatigue. She felt sore all over and so lethargic that ever moving again seemed impossible.
Her bag dropped onto her lap.
‘There. Let’s get you home.’
‘What about my car key?’
‘I’ll keep it and get your Fiesta brought back into town. Is that OK?’
As Jasmine wasn’t in a mood to make plans herself she indicated her agreement.

Tom drew to a halt at the steps to her flat. He got out and opened her door.
‘Go and have a shower and get some sleep. I’m sure Denise will want to speak to you early in the morning. One of us will come and pick you up I expect.’
Jasmine slid across the seat noting that she was leaving a damp and grubby patch on the upholstery. This time, Tom helped her to her feet and escorted her to her door with an arm under her armpit. She inserted the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Tom’s arms guided her into a dining chair.
Jasmine looked up at him. ‘Okay, Tom. I’ll manage now. Thanks for looking after me, again.’
‘Don’t expect me to make a habit of it, but I’m glad we got to you before. . .’ He turned away and pulled the door closed behind him. Jasmine sighed and faced the challenge of getting to her feet.

……………………..to be continued.