4. A POLICEWOMAN CALLS

What would it be like to find that you've spontaneously changed sex?

It wasn’t until Ivan Bramble decided to take a shower in order to wash away the little dribbles of vomit that had somehow managed to stick to his skin after the shock of being told it was him lying long dead in next door’s flat that he found himself having to come to terms with a totally new and certainly unexpected experience.

He’d been half asleep first thing that morning when he’d sat on the toilet unthinking and bleary-eyed, and it hadn’t immediately registered in his groggy mind that anything was wrong, but now he was disgustingly alert, just in time to discover that unaccountably and inexplicably he had become a she.

And unwished-for. He’d always been a man and always wanted things to stay that way.

And now, standing naked in the bathroom he saw himself in the mirror. For some reason a previous tenant had installed a full length mirror where an ordinary little shaving one would have done perfectly well, and in a moment’s shock he could see all of him, from his blonde tresses down to what looked like size five feet.

“Where’s it gone!” he gasped, grabbing his crotch. There was nothing there, except the intertwining mat of greying pubic hairs and a scar left by a childhood accident at the top of his right thigh. The hairs were right, the scar was right, but what was missing was so definitely wrong.

But he had to take a look. Down a bit from the intertwining mat, past the missing bit to…

“I’m a woman!” raced through his head, “somehow I’ve lost my dick and gained a fanny! And over night, too!”

And he had breasts. Not the magnificent ones he would have opted for given a host of varying breasts to choose from, but rather pudgy ones that had apparently long been responding to the remorseless call of gravity whilst possibly (and he wasn’t sure of this) lacking the right support.

And not to forget his hair. How could a bald man in his very late forties grow such glorious tresses of golden hair in a single night? It didn’t make sense because it was plainly impossible. Yet, come to think of it, the locks of flowing glory seemed to suit him.

He ran the shower and waited for the water to warm up. And while he waited he shivered because the cold from outside was just as obvious on the inside of a flat with no operational heating. His underfloor heating didn’t work and now he knew why. That bloke from next door had connected his electricity meter to his own power and lighting mains, was deliberately stealing his electricity, and then had done him the discourtesy of dying, leaving the expensive heating on and blasting out warmth to be enjoyed by a dead man. And all at his, Ivan Bramble’s expense!

He remembered the maggots crawling down a dead nose, and shuddered. Death meant life to some creatures, but the thought wasn’t beautiful.

I don’t own a bra! he thought. Then: My only underwear is boxer shorts! Size Large at that! A drawer full! And all of them with a hole to poke the willy through… I need some knickers, proper ladies knickers and not one of those thong things … or do I? And I need a frock, pretty with puffy sleeves and a full skirt … maybe a necklace or two, and look at my great big hunk of a manly watch … I need something more appropriate, sweet and gold, with a real leather strap…

He stepped into the shower when it was running warmly enough and loved the feel as it ran over his already chilly flesh.

You can’t beat a good shower, even when you’re a woman, he thought.

But even though he loved showering, everything was unusual as he massaged shower cream into his armpits and irritatingly plesant bosom. And lower down his strange new body, there was nothing to wash down there like he usually did, nothing to yank about a bit and make absolutely sure it was cleaner than clean, mum had always said that cleanliness was next to godliness (whatever that meant) and he was sure she had meant genital cleanliness.

What had happened last night?

Why was he a woman? Or was this just a nightmare? A dream that he would awaken from and then discover he was as manly as ever, and as bald, and that the man next door was alive and kicking and had nothing to do with his rotten central heating and that Maureen was cooking him breakfast… It would make him smile, it really would.

She’d always been good at cooking breakfast, in the heady days before she was converted into being his ex and had run off with Gerald.

I’ll bet I have to shave my legs… And armpits, I’ll have to shave those too. And will I want a Brazilian?

It’s time for me to be back in bed and wake up...

But he didn’t seem to want to wake up. The nightmare didn’t seem to want to go away.

How does a woman wash her lady parts? I don’t know…

But he did his best and turned the shower off before the water ran cold. He was grateful that the immersion heater was on a different electrical circuit to his heating because if it hadn’t been he’d be filthy by now, and probably smelling of dirty old man…

By the time he was dressed, still in man-clothes and without a bra, (I’ll have to go to the shops and buy one, but what do I know about bras and their sizes and where to measure, and cups and stuff like that?) and about to put the kettle on for a well-deserved cup of something hot, when the door bell rang again. For the second time that day! And it was still not ten o’clock in the morning! He wasn’t used to that many callers. In truth, he wasn’t used to any.

It was unusual to be wanted...

His heart sunk when he saw who it was. The chip-shop hard-faced police woman with a penchant for arresting people for no better reason than because grim-faced young purveyors of fish and chips took against them.

“Well?” he asked, trying to make his new voice sound truculent.

“Is Mr Bramble at home?” she barked, ignoring what ought to have sounded like a really bad mood, but hadn’t.

“I’m here, can’t you see?” he replied, particularly irritably because so far the day had been nothing if it hadn’t been certain to produce irritability.

“I said MISTER,” said the police woman.

Then it crossed his mind that she did and she didn’t mean him and how was he going to cope with the day as a woman? And he said “sorry, I thought you said Mrs...”

And then, he followed it up with, “Mr Bramble’s next door. Or so they said.”

She said, “I’ve a few questions to ask him about his neighbour...”

And Ivan/Evana smirked, “you mean the dead one?”

And the policewoman nodded.

“They said it was Mr Bramble who was dead,” murmured Ivan/Evana quietly, and somehow, he didn’t know how, but he managed to produce a convincing tear which trickled its way down his face.

“Oh. Did they? And you are?” asked the policewoman flicking through the pages of her traditional police-type notebook.

“I’m Evana Bramble,” whispered Ivan/Evana tearfully.

“Oh. Are you? I didn’t know … I’m sorry for your loss,” intoned the policewoman, “I truly am. I lost my father last year, and I know how it feels.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Ivan, still tearfully.

“That’s very kind of you under the circumstances,” replied the policewoman, “and yes I would, it would be most welcome...”

And she followed Ivan into the kitchen with its small table and two stools.

© Peter Rogerson 13.12.18