13. TO BE OR NOT TO BE...

Gender things to ponder on...

Piggott had called the team working on the Bramble Bodies, as the two deceased mysteries were called, for duty early the next day. He wanted the investigation to get somewhere and didn’t believe for one moment that a human being could possibly change from male to female over night, so somewhere there was the possibility of a third body, or might be unless they got to it in time.

“You could have knocked me down with a feather when I read it,” said Inspector Piggott to his sergeant, who was yawning as his comment to an early start on Monday. They were in the cafeteria with coffee and toast before starting the day-proper. He tapped the beige folder holding pathologist Dearie’s initial comments on the body in the field.

“It sounds improbable, sir,” replied Sergeant Smethson. “Is she quite certain?”

“Nobody ever caught Dearie out on anything like this, not that there’s ever been anything quite like this,” mumbled Piggott, chewing a slice of toast. “But she’s certain. Neither the man in the flat nor the man in the field is Ivan Bramble, and discovering his whereabouts is becoming quite urgent. And the trouble is, we’re being hampered by a woman who reckons she’s him! I mean, whoever heard of someone going to bed at night as a fella and waking up next morning with tits? She must think we’re morons!”

“Can’t we do her for wasting police time?” asked Smethson thoughtfully.

“How? She says she’s changed sex and even though we know it’s impossible we can’t prove that she hasn’t! We might, but Dearie’s got a rather significant suspicion about the man in the field, which is why I’ve dragged you in early. She says he’s got ovaries!”

“Impossible!”

“You might think it is, but she’s adamant. The bloke in a dress is half man and half woman, and she says the man bit looks like it’s brand spanking new! She reckons his man-bits may never have swollen with unbridled passion, for goodness’ sake! And we come to the connection between the body in the flat and the man in the field. They’re close relatives, siblings and close siblings at that!”

“Two of triplets?” breathed Smethson.

“Horror of horrors, but it could be.” Piggott sounded thoughtful. “And the missing Ivan Bramble is almost certainly the third, which is why I’m so damned interested in him.”

“The records say that two boys and a girl were registered the best part of fifty years ago,” murmured Smethson, “so which one is the girl? The man in the flat, the body in the field or the sex-change schoolmaster who now calls herself Evana Bramble?”

“”I need to see the last one again,” muttered Piggott, “I only had her in last night, but was getting nowhere and I had to let her go when it was clear she hadn’t killed Ivan Bramble because we didn’t have a body that was in any way Ivan Bramble.”

“What about her DNA? Might that tell a story?”

“If might, and it’s due in today some time. And if she turns out to be Ivan Bramble the biology books will all have to be rewritten!” postulated Piggott.

“I’d hate to be a gender biologist at the moment!” said Smethson, standing up.

“Me too! And I find myself wondering… the man in the field with female organs, the Bramble woman who swears she was a man only hours ago … what’s going on?”

“Something strange,” nodded Smethson.

“You mean, like aliens?” Piggott allowed a hint of sarcasm into his voice.

“Maybe not, but strange,” repeated Smethson.

“Strange certainly, but is it illegal? Have we any right to be looking into it? What I mean to ask, is it our job to question nature, even if nature turns out to be a perverse and contrary sod that defies logic?”

“There are unexplained deaths...”

“The bloke in the flat died a perfectly natural death,” pointed out Piggott. “Dearie’s quite sure of that … a massive heart attack waiting to happen was how she put it. There was more fur in his arteries than you’d find in a flock of seagulls, apparently.”

“So let’s look at what we have got. One natural death, one we don’t know much about yet, only the bloke was dressed as a bird and had organs to go with the outfit, and a cross-dresser who claims she had balls this time last week! Looked at like that it isn’t so bad!”

“Come on, drink up, let’s get back to the Evana Bramble b***h and try to sort the wood from the trees.”

“So we’ve got trees to worry about now?” grinned Smethson as they made their way to the carpark.

“Funny! But last night as I dosed off I got to wondering what it would be like to wake up minus my tackle and with a chest grand enough to woo the boys with, and you know, I thought it would scare me to death. We’re blokes, the pair of us, and we’ve spent all of our lives since shortly after our conception getting used to that fact. It touches every part of our days, from peeing standing up to the way we think when we spot a pretty face. And to change suddenly, like the Bramble woman claims she has, from one sex to the other, would drive me bananas.”

Smethson nodded thoughtfully. “Me too,” he sighed. “They talk about nature and nurture and which contributes mostly to the people we become, so I suppose it’s got to be nature in the long run.”

“Nature that’s been modified by one hell of a lot of nurture,” disagreed the Inspector. “When my kids were young we bought them toys that were meant to be for what gender they were, cars for David and dolls for Sophie. And by and large they liked them, took to them like ducks to water, so to speak. It seemed to answer the nature part of the conundrum until David picked up one of Sophie’s dolls and put it in a car.”

“Kids like to play,” mused Smethson, “and there’s not much you can divine from the things they do.”

“Probably, but I was thinking more of what I’d feel like if I underwent a reversal in my sleep,” sighed Piggott, “and I wouldn’t like it one bit. I’d probably go madder than people think I already am. I’d hide away from folks, and the last thing I’d want to do is tell all and sundry that I’ve changed sex. It would be one deep secret. I’d probably even still go to the men’s toilets when I wanted a pee. I’d certainly wear men’s clothes.”

“Even with an, er, chest?” asked Smethson.

“I’d probably strap the buggers down, keep them well hidden,” growled Piggott. “Come on, get in the car and we’ll get off to see Ivan or Evana Bramble and see how easily he or she takes being the person she or he is.”

“It makes you think, though, doesn’t it?” asked Smethson quietly, “you know, guv...”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Sorry, sir, but you know, when I was just a kiddie, knee high to a grasshopper as they say, I thanked the lord that I was a boy because I discovered, somewhere along the line, that it was the girls that had babies, and I didn’t fancy that one bit!”

“Good Lord, man, that sort of thing never crossed my mind,” sighed his Inspector. “You must have been an odd child.”

“Sensitive sir, is what I think you mean: I was a sensitive little tyke,” grinned Sergeant Smethson.

Which just about summed his childhood up.

© Peter Rogerson 28.12.18