Swadlincote, Derbyshire
Thirty-four months ago

It was exactly 11:55 when the letters started dancing.

I only knew the time because one of the invigilators had just announced that there were five minutes of the mock exam remaining. I couldn’t have deciphered what the clock at the far end of the room was showing if the lives of every man, woman and child in Great Britain had been at stake.

The sweating and itching came on almost at once. Bizarrely, my last thought before the pen fell from my hand was that Christa would never agree to go out with me now.

Miss Ross was first to reach my desk. Although her face was an incoherent jumble of visual signals, I was still able to make out her distinctive carrot-coloured hair.

“You are aware of what is happening to you, Keith Dunning,” she said into my ear as she placed my arm around her middle and braced herself to take my weight.

She wasn’t asking a question. Of course I knew what these symptoms meant. All of us did.

One of the male teachers was holding the door open.

“Lucky you were here, Melissa,” I heard him say.

“Do you think so?”

Her reply made no sense. But that didn’t matter. All I wanted was to be away from here, and the murmuring that grew louder with each second that passed.

The best I could hope for was that it wouldn’t hurt very much.

The electric train slides soundlessly to a halt. Through the grimy window I can see an empty platform protected from the pouring rain by a high arched canopy, and hear a voice talking in an accent that sounds as if it belongs in Devon or Cornwall.

“Porritsmuth an’ Saysee. This is Porritsmuth an’ Saysee. Remain aborred for Porritsmuth Arburr an’ the Gosporrit an’ Oyeel o’ Woyeet ferries.”

Fortunately the announcement is translated on each of the station’s nameboards.

Portsmouth & Southsea. Remain on the train for Portsmouth Harbour and the Gosport and Isle of Wight ferries.

Portsmouth and Southsea. My stop.

No sooner have I risen from my seat than the other passenger riding in the compartment leaps up. He’s got the door open in a jiffy, and my overnight bag off the luggage rack in only one shake of a lamb’s tail. His reward is one last look at the tight-fitting faded jeans I fill so well, not forgetting a farewell glance at the contours straining at the fabric of the T-shirt I wear beneath my leather jacket.

I doubt if he’d have had the nerve to ogle me if I hadn’t dyed my hair dark brown and grown it back to shoulder length. But that’s a price I’m willing to pay if it means I can pass for an ordinary eighteen year old girl.

“Thank you,” I say politely, though I don’t smile.

“Any time, love.”

I bristle at that, but not for long. When I think about the manner in which I was once addressed I have very little cause for complaint.

My high-heeled ankle boots make contact with the pitted, uneven asphalt, and the latest chapter in my life is about to begin.

A chapter in which every word will be a lie. Because there’s no other way.

I walk down a wide staircase to the spacious but dingy concourse, where a queue has formed in front of the ticket barrier. A second line awaits me on the other side; this one is made up of people my age, most of them encumbered by heavy suitcases. The wooden table they’re shuffling towards carries a placard which reads WELCOME TO PORTSMOUTH POLYTECHNIC.

When it’s my turn I give my details succinctly. Cathryn Dunning. Geography. The Avalon Hotel, Granada Road, Southsea. In return my name is crossed from a list and I’m pointed in the direction of the coach parked in the station forecourt.

I glean nothing from it’s steamed-up, rain-spattered windows. The driver makes so many detours that my sense of direction, usually so reliable, deserts me almost at once. Now and again I glimpse buildings possessed of a Victorian seaside gentility, yet of the beach itself or the famous pier mum told be about there’s no sign.

Each stop disgorges more freshers, until there are only a handful of us left. Finally the man at the wheel barks out my destination as he pulls in beside a gravel forecourt separated from the pavement by a low brick wall topped with a chain fence. At its rear stands a four-storey whitewashed villa which a garish hoarding advertises as the Avalon Hotel. Bed and breakfast is charged at  £2 10s per person per night, and full board is available for an extra  £1. A special weekly rate of  £17 is offered out of season.

I’ll be paying half of that. The rest is subsidised by the Accommodation Office, who have billeted me here because the Hall of Residence is being refurbished and won’t be ready before next summer.

I don’t waste time making a mental inventory of my surroundings. The main road at the corner, the boating lake and the esplanade register in the rapidly encroaching darkness, but only superficially. Most of my concentration is devoted to keeping my Muse in check; this is a situation a Thalia’s programming would enable her to sail through, and the temptation to let it take over grows stronger with every second that passes.

I crunch towards the front door and ring the bell. The man who answers is in his middle twenties. He’s dressed in loose white pants and a Paisley shirt. His hair is close-cropped, and I can see straight away that he’s wearing eye make-up.

“You must be Miss Dunning!” he beams. “Come on in from the wet, dear! Honestly, it hasn’t stopped since lunchtime —and it isn’t as if we’ve had much of a summer either. Put your bag down there while I fetch your keys. You’re the only girl they’ve put with us so you get a room to yourself. My name’s Drew, by the way. The Stringers like their Sunday evening telly, which means I’m the welcoming committee.”

The foyer is tiny, less than ten feet from wall to wall. The visitors’ book on the reception counter lies open; nearly all of the most recent entries include the word ‘comfortable’, which is a tactful way of saying they’d stayed in better places. But if it beats the dorm in Strathgorrie I’ll be more than content.

My home for the next eleven weeks is on the ground floor at the back, facing north. The bed is to the right of the window; to the left is a recess containing a WC, shower and washbasin. There’s a fairly large sylvestris wardrobe, and a matching chest of drawers, dressing table, writing desk and easy chair. The plain teal wallpaper is hung with paintings of still life and seascapes. The carpet is a deeper shade of blue, with an abstract black design woven in. It’ll all need cheering up, especially as it won’t get any sun.

Once Drew has told me when the meals are served, where I can find an ironing board and how late I can entertain guests, I’m let alone to kick off my boots, flop down in the chair and let the stresses and strains of my journey from the Midlands seep from my tired bones.

Except that the trunk in the far corner of the room is conspiring with my holdall to stare accusingly at me in the hope that I’ll feel guilty enough to start unpacking.

First I pull a shilling from my jeans pocket and pad along to the payphone I noticed in the foyer.

“Hi mum it’s Cathy…five or ten minutes ago…not too bad, I suppose…yeah, I’m just about to…it was fine until Bletchley, then there were delays all the way to Euston…I know, it’s pretty grim here too…not yet, but the good news is there are no other girls so I should be all right…we’ve talked about this before, I’ll just avoid them…yeah, I will…listen, there’s the pips… ring you tomorrow, okay …bye.”

My filial duty done, I get to work. By half-past seven I’ve hung my jeans, slacks, skirts, dresses, blouses and my smart new business suit in the wardrobe and made space at the bottom for my shoes, sandals and knee boots. I’ve folded away my jumpers, T-shirts, socks, stockings and underwear. I’ve set out my toiletries and towels in the shower area, and my cosmetics and other beauty aids on the dressing table. I’ve found compartments for my jewellery — such as it is — my handkerchiefs, my combs, brushes and hairgrips. I’ve arranged my books on one of the shelves, and my ring binders, notepads and other items of stationery on the writing desk. I’ve unwrapped my electric kettle, teapot, cup, saucer and spoon, my alarm clock and beside lamp.

The framed photograph of Christa Stapleford I leave in its protective newspaper. There’ll be plenty of time for shame and remorse after I’ve settled in.

I’ve just decided to gobble down the last of the sandwiches mum gave me for the train when a gentle knock brings me to the door.

“Ooh, you have been a busy bee!” exclaims Drew, peering past my shoulder. “But what I came to tell you is I’ve gathered all the boys together so they can say hello to you. One or two are heading over the road to the Schooner in a bit, and they said you’re very welcome to join them.”

“Yeah, well I might give that a miss.”

He gives me a quizzical look.

“I know it’s none of my business, dear, but I assume with your looks you’ll have someone back in…”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then choose one of them quickly. That way you’ve taken yourself out of the game.” His painted eyes sparkle. “I know who I’d be getting my claws into…”

He leads me back to the foyer, past the precipitous flight of stairs going down to the dining room and up another to a lounge from which the theme tune to a popular situation comedy show is blaring.

I don’t wait for Drew to introduce me.

“Hi, I’m Cathy, I live near Burton-upon-Trent and I’m doing Geography.”

The seven responses I receive are automatically rendered into likely character profiles by my Muse.

John. Motherwell. Economics. Self-confident, mature and considerate. He’ll have his own flat in less than a week.

Pete. Wiltshire. Another Geographer. Charismatic. He won’t be here long either.

Nick. Merseyside. English Literature. Full of himself. Looked at my tits and liked what he saw. He’ll make sure we’re sitting at the same table tomorrow morning.

Mervyn. South Wales. History. Genial. Rugby player. He’ll have a steady girlfriend back in the valleys.

Kevin. Keighley. Economics. Shy and inarticulate. Lets his mother choose his casual clothes. Careful with money.

Larry. Altrincham. Mechanical Engineering. Talkative. A clown.

Dick. West Hartlepool. Yet another Geographer. Tall, gangly and awkward. Nervous in mixed company. A thinker. If anyone penetrates my disguise it’ll be him.

There’s one person in the room who isn’t a student. She’s watching the television intently, though the jokes won’t mean anything to her, just as they don’t to me. She appears to be in her late twenties, and is dressed in a white peasant blouse and black corduroy pants. Her jet black hair is chopped short on top but with enough left on at the sides and back to brush her shoulders.

And I’m in no doubt whatsoever that she’s a Thalia.

The conversation that follows is banal in the extreme. Larry dominates it, with Nick a close second. The struggle to impress me has already begun, a ritual as old as the species.

After ten or fifteen minutes a commercial break gives the boys their chance to head for the bar. I make a vague promise that I’ll think about following them over. Kevin decides he can’t afford that kind of entertainment and stays to watch the end of the programme. I return to my room, knowing it won’t be long before I have company.

She appears at the door within moments. I gesture with my eyes towards the easy chair, then sit on the edge of the bed.

“Holly Reynolds,” she says.

“Cathryn Dunning.”

The bond between us is implicit, its parameters established. Holly knows I transitioned; I know she was born a Thalia. The fact that we both colour our hair has established a common attitude towards our heritage.

“Three days ago my husband moved his new girlfriend in with us. He said that if I didn’t like the arrangement I was free to leave. I took the children to my mother’s in Chichester, and came here to gather my thoughts.”

I don’t need Holly to tell me that the young woman in question is a muse mutation. If it were otherwise she’d never have got through the front door.

“Is the house far?”

“Six or seven miles.”

We exchange information in a piecemeal fashion. Holly has the situation under control; she’s taken legal advice and is confident that she’ll soon be rid of both her husband and his lover. She isn’t asking for my help. She’s confided in me because of what we are.

At length her eyes alight on the trunk, and the single object it contains. A slight nod of the head gives her permission to unwrap the photograph and study it.

“I was abducted on the day of my transition,” I explain. I don’t have to say why, or who was responsible. “My indoctrination was almost complete by the time Chris arrived. She very nearly didn’t get me back.”

Holly puts the portrait back in its newspaper. My voice has betrayed the fact that the episode ended badly.

“Where were you taken?” she asks.

“Strathgorrie, just north of Inverness.”

“Do you know her designation?”

“TH-2336/4.067. But there’s no way I can ever…”

“You have to,” she says.

When Holly has gone I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Outside, the rain continues to hammer against the window.

Walton Bridge, Derbyshire
Nine years ago

The weather had clouded over by the time I got home from school, but I didn’t care. Life was good.

Three full weeks without Stephen Chalmers pulling my ears in the playground! Three full weeks without Stephen Chalmers pulling my ears on the bus! Three full weeks without Stephen Chalmers crawling through the gap in the hedge, sneaking up on me and pulling my ears in my own back garden!

New Zealand — wherever that might be — was welcome to the little shit.

The Midland Red dropped me at Main Street, across the road from the Shoulder of Mutton. Next to the pub was the village shop, and a few yards further on the corner of Fairfield Lane, which started off flat then began to climb steeply. Ours was the sixth house on the left. Although it looked quite old, on the inside everything was bright and modern. We had a colour television, a radiogram, an electric cooker, a fridge-freezer and an automatic washing machine. Mum was always complaining about the extra shifts dad needed to put in at the power station to pay for all these things, but it didn’t stop her boasting about them.

I was more taken with the view. I rarely reached the front gate without turning to gaze down past the church tower to the River Trent and the meadows on the other side, then the railway line where if I was lucky I’d see one of the cross-country expresses steaming along at nearly a hundred miles an hour, and beyond the Lichfield Road and Barton Turn the rolling hills of Needwood Forest, clothed in dark, forbidding sylvestris trees. Even at the tender age of nine I realised that I probably wouldn’t be living here when I grew up, and I wanted to imprint that scene indelibly onto my memory.

But this afternoon all I had eyes for was the furniture van parked on what used to be the Chalmers’ drive. It seemed our new neighbours had finally got round to moving in.

I found mum in the dining room sipping tea with Mrs Bradley, who was on the committee at the Women’s Institute. That meant I had to be on my very best behaviour or I’d never hear the end of it.

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt at all,” mum was telling her. “It’s not just her hair and her skin, it’s her whole attitude. It reeks of Thalia. I’ll tell you something else, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find she'd transitioned.”

“We’ll talk about it another time,” said Mrs Bradley, turning to fix me with her beady, horn-rimmed stare. “Hello Keith. What did you do at school today?”

“The Bombardment. Miss Brown told us to learn the date off by heart.”

“And have you?” asked mum.

“30th July 1914.”

“Well done. Now tell Mrs Bradley all about it.”

I tried hard not to let my displeasure show. All I wanted to do was have a kickabout in the garden — and spy on the new arrivals in case they’d brought another Stephen Chalmers with them.

“Okay…” I sighed. “They were black, and the size of golf balls. They didn’t do much damage ‘cause they weren’t heavy enough. And there was nothing inside them. They just dis…what’s the word?”

“Disintegrated,” supplied mum.

“Yeah, that’s it. Oh, and none of the ships out at sea saw any of them so they must have been launched deliberately. That’s why the countries stopped that argument they were all having. Miss Brown said there could have been a big war otherwise.”

“My grandmother was a little girl when it happened,” said Mrs Bradley. “She remembered looking out of her bedroom window and watching them fall. Over an hour it lasted, she said, and in the end there wasn’t an inch of ground left uncovered. Of course she lived in Coton Hall, just outside Tutbury, so it was only a light dusting compared to what they suffered in the towns.”

“Miss Brown showed us some slides of old black-and-white photos,” I said. “One of them was of Trafalgar Square. You could see Nelson’s Column and the tops of the buildings but that was all. In France and Germany it was just as bad.”

“Yet so few people died,” remarked mum.

“The Lord sent the spheres as a warning,” said Mrs Bradley. “They weren’t intended to cause us harm.”

“Some people think it was the Martians,” I chuckled.

“There’ll always be disbelievers.”

As I went into the kitchen to help myself to a glass of milk I decided that on the whole I tended to side with Mrs Bradley. If little green men from another planet had wanted to invade us they’d have filled the spheres with poison gas or spores or deadly insects or something. And they wouldn’t have ignored us for the past ninety-odd years.

Our garden had a lawn with a concrete path down the middle. At the end stood two clothes poles with a line strung between them so that was the goal. I used a deck chair as the ‘keeper and a watering can as an extra defender. If I scored I didn’t have to go very far to fetch the ball back because there was a high stone wall a few yards further on belonging to Warren House. On the other side grew a belt of tall sylvestris trees that protected us from the wind when it was from the north. They were evergreens — related to pines, dad said — and you could build or make just about anything out of the wood if you treated it properly. Not only that, but it had replaced coal in railway engines, factories and even power stations.

I wasn’t too bothered about improving my shooting skills this afternoon. Within a minute I’d sent the ball flying over the hedge. Now I had an excuse to scramble through the privet where it was at its thinnest and take a quick look around while I retrieved my property.

Carpet slippers. Grey flannel trousers. A white shirt. A dark blue cardigan.

But they were topped by a kindly face that reminded me of my grandad in Reading.

“Hello, young shaver!” it said in a sing-song accent. “You know that trespassers can be prosecuted, don’t you?”

“I didn’t…I mean I only wanted to…”

“I’m having you on, son. Come through any time you like.” He held out a calloused hand. “Tommy Stapleford.”

“Er, Keith Dunning.” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you from Brum?”

“Don’t you let my missus hear you say that!” grinned Tommy. “Whatever you do, you mustn’t call us Brummies. No, we’re from Willenhall in the Black Country. You know what they say about the girls in that neck of the woods, don’t you? They’re from Willenhall, and they will an’ all!”

I wasn’t really sure what he was referring to, and a couple of seconds later I didn’t care. The woman who emerged from the house wasn’t young, yet she had the bright red hair and the smooth, peachy complexion of someone half her age. And the way she carried herself reminded me of Mrs Wood, the headmistress at Rosliston. I had a feeling that I ought to be frightened of her, without having the faintest idea why. I made up my mind there and then that in spite of Tommy’s invitation I’d keep the football on our side of the hedge in future.

She didn’t come over to us, but busied herself sweeping the patio — for which I was heartily thankful.

“Molly’s a Thalia,” said Tommy. Before he could expand on this I heard mum calling me inside.

She was in the kitchen washing up. Mrs Bradley had evidently left.

“Mum, what’s a Thalia?” I asked.

“One of the Muses.”

“What’s a Muse?”

“They’re very special people.”

“How are they special?”

“In all sorts of ways.”

“What’s transitioned mean?”

“It’s something nasty that happens to boys who ask too many questions. Now run upstairs and get your coat because I have to go to
the shop and it looks like it might rain.”

MUSIC: Jellyfish - Watching The Rain
http://youtu.be/2DwfMKHEfWY