Chapter 1 - A Life Unravelled

  Biiiiiiiig stretch. More Bigger. More stretch. Oh that’s the stuff.

  The morning sun streams through the window of Madame’s bedroom, bathing my doggy bed in a comforting orange glow. Puppy could snooze here all day if I could. Perhaps it should. It is warm and snug here, but then again… My tummy grumbles, eclipsing any thought of further rexation. Breakfast. That was the name of the game. Puppy needs breakfast!

  I head zily for the bedroom door, with every intention of heading for the kitchen. Puppy’s legs are sooo stiff. My doggy bed is nice enough. It’s a huge, soft fluffy thing that could fit three of me if I really wanted it to. Instead it’s stuffed with bnkets, stuffies, and a few items of clothing Puppy has, shall we say, borrowed from Madame to keep her scent around me.

  FUCK. It’s closed.

  I try the handle but it won’t budge. Stupid potion…I like my current lifestyle, actually I really love it, but I won’t pretend that my inability to fully make use of my hands isn’t at least a little inconvenient .

  “RUFF!! RUFF!! WUFFFFF! AROOOOOOWWW” I cry at the top of my voice.

  What I was trying to say was: “Madame! Puppy is stuck in the bedroom!” but as you can see it didn’t turn out that way. Another side effect of Madame’s potions. No human talk in pet mode.

  I cw at the door, letting out a long, high pitched whine. My thoughts start racing. Spiraling.

  This is how it ends. Puppy will surely die. Madame is gone. Puppy is abandoned. Puppy will be alone forever and ever and ever and Puppy will never see Madame again…

  My thoughts turn into a series of sharp, frantic barks.

  If Puppy barks loud enough, someone will hear. Someone will save Puppy. Take Puppy to Madame.

  I almost believe it. Almost. I let out a howling cry that echoes off the walls of my owner’s rather cavernous boudoir. Then I hear something. A tapping from outside the room. I let my ears adjust, trying to locate it.

  The door. Behind the door. Something is there! Puppy must investigate!

  Cck.

  What is it?

  Click. Cck.

  Where is it?

  Click. Cck. Click. Cck.

  Coming closer. Wait. Puppy knows that sound. Madames heels clicking on the hallways marble floor. Madame is coming!! Coming to save Puppy! Oh how wonderful! Puppy is so lucky to have such a loving owner!

  “Madame! Madame! Puppy is in here!! In the bedroom!! Madame!!!” More barking, but Madame will get the message.

  The door opens with a click that makes my heart flutter. Madame has barely crossed the threshold when I leap at her, nearly knocking her down. She squats and allows me to greet her, licking her face and nuzzling at her neck.

  “Madame! Madame! Madame!! Puppy thought it had lost you forever!”

  Madame strokes me between the ears. Did I mention I have dog ears? No? Oh, well I do. A tail too. Thanks, weird pink potion. My tail wags frantically behind me. Madame chuckles to herself.

  “Oh Puppy I’m so sorry” Madame says softly, pulling me into a firm hug. “I don’t know how that door got closed. You sounded so frightened!”

  Puppy wasn’t frightened. Puppy is brave. Puppy wasn’t…alright it was a bit afraid…or a lot…

  I must have thought this all aloud in the form of little yaps and whines, as Madame kisses my forehead, strokes my back and softly whispers to me.

  “You’re such a good girl. You’re safe now. Safe with Madame.”

  I nuzzle against Madame’s neck. It loves to nuzzle. Puppy loves to nuzzle against Madame, covering its face with her smells. Madame always smells so good. That’s actually one of the more interesting side effects of the pink potion - my sense of smell kicks ass! I can just about make out the scent of Madame’s body beneath her floral perfume. Nasty stuff. Why does Madame wear it? Why can’t she just smell like Madame instead of flowers? Puppy wants to smell…

  My train of thought is rudely interrupted as Madame gets back to her feet, compining about her knees as she does so.

  “Come Puppy” she says, patting her thigh, a gesture meaning Puppy should follow. “Time for breakfast.”

  *****

  It hasn’t always been like this, my life I mean. Actually being a puppy is incredibly new to me and I’m still learning the ropes as I go along. Only a week ago - although if I’m honest it feels like a lifetime - I was a perfectly normal human woman. Well normal in the sense that I was a human woman, less so in every other sense.

  Up until a week ago, I was known as Riley Sincir, 34, single, broke, miserable. And like a lot of women in their mid thirties, just going with the flow, even though it annoys the hell out of me. A week ago, my life fell apart completely, and here we are.

  *****

  Three Years Ago

  My life sucks. I’ve been working my entire adult life at a dead-end office job in a company I can’t stand. A job bores me to distraction, cks any kind of advancement prospects, and hasn’t given me a raise since 2009. A job featuring bafflingly incompetent management, a right-wing pervert for a CEO, and an office filled with coworkers I want to set on fire.

  When the pandemic hits, I lose my job quite unceremoniously. To be honest I’m not too shat up about it. I’ve got couple grand in savings, enough to st me a few months. I’ll find something new eventually, but for now I pn to enjoy myself. No more meetings or reports. No more huddles or team-building exercises. No more Deborah - I seriously cannot over-stress how much I loathe Deborah. Alright, not having an income sucks - and god knows the benefits system in this shit-heap of a country can’t keep you afloat, but it does give me chance to reflect. Is this what I want to do with my life? Do I really want to sit in a cubicle in an office that hasn’t been renovated since the early 70s, moving figures from column A to column B and trying my hardest to look busy without actually working.

  No. No I do not.

  What I want to do, what I’ve always wanted to do, is to become a Conservator of historic art. You know, repairing and preserving old paintings that have seen considerably better days. It’s the perfect career for me - important (at least in my eyes), challenging, and most importantly, solitary. No shit-heel coworkers coming round every ten minutes to ask about sales figures or documentation. Just me, some old painting and the tools of the trade. Heaven.

  I don’t have anything better to do while I’m trapped in my ft (thanks lockdown), so I figure what the hell, why not look. What’s the worst that can happen? I find nothing? My brief hopes of change smashed into pieces. That’d suck. Oh god. What if I find something…something too expensive or too far away to be feasible…that would be so much worse. Push it down. Push it down. Don’t think about it.

  Oh fuck it, odds are I’ll be back in some new miserable office job like my old one before too long, may as well indulge the fantasy while I’ve got the chance.

  That’s the mindset I’ve got going into this search. Pointless, misguided hope. That wish-upon-a-star childlike dreaming that feels great to indulge every once in a while but will, inevitably, and often almost immediately, turn round and fuck you in the arse. But right now I’m desperate, and I’ll take literally anything that might bring a shred of joy to my currently pointless and unspeakably tedious life.

  *****

  I don’t believe in fate. It’s a ridiculous concept conjured up by sociopaths who want to cim their dumb luck is somehow divinely ordained. That said, if the email I just received isn’t fate, I’ll be damned if I know what it is.

  Honestly, I have no idea how this has even happened. My phone pings an alert, which is odd since I spent a hell of a long time making sure any and all notifications or alerts were turned off when I bought the damn thing. Too distracting - gives me anxiety. Still, I check the alert and it’s an email from my university’s alumni association. Hardly unusual, they send me dozens of emails every year begging me to donate time, or preferably money, to whatever pointless scheme they’ve been working on.

  This email, however, is different. Very different. Instead of the usual badly formatted poster with my name automatically added by the computer, I find in its pce, a letter that seems specifically written with me in mind.

  It reads:

  Dear Riley,

  I hope this email finds you well. Forgive me if this is unusual, but I happened to learn of a training program we think would be perfect for you. I don’t want to over-sell it, but this is one of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, and I’d hate for you to miss it.

  Have a look at the brochure when you get the chance. I really think you should go for it. Take a shot at your dream - you deserve it.

  All the best,

  Keith Diamond,

  The Alumni Association.

  Who the hell Keith Diamond is, I have no idea. It sounds like a scam. Like those Nigerian prince emails where they say they’ll send you millions if you just pay the admin fees. Check out this opportunity Riley, I can get you in if you just send me ￡500 for a reference. I should just delete it. Pretend I never saw it. On the other hand, there’s nothing in this prehistoric ptop I give a crap about, so if it turns out to be a virus, who cares.

  I click the PDF attached to the email. A brochure entitled “The Featherton Trust Historic Art Conservatorship Program.”

  Now keep in mind, while I am technically a member of the Alumni Association - they make you a member automatically when you complete your degree - I have never, in the decade and a half since I graduated, interacted with the association itself. I speak to a few people I graduated with, but only like, twice a year. More importantly, my degree is in Business Studies, with a focus on Accessibility and Diversity, a degree I was more or less forced into by the human shaped pile of rat shit I’m forced to call my father. I hated it. I still hate it. But worst and most upsettingly, I had to tell myself every single day that I loved it, that I was super interested in the intricacies of business and development - because what kind of idiot spends four years and thousands of pounds on a degree they can’t stand. No, I had to love it, or I wouldn’t be doing it.

  Which is a roundabout way of saying that nobody - and I mean nobody - at the university would or could ever have known what I truly wanted to study, or what career I wanted more than any other. They couldn’t have. And yet…

  The course looks perfect, suspiciously so. A three part program, split over seven years. Four years of art history, and practical csses to perfect your artistic skills. Then, assuming satisfactory completion of part one, a two year, paid apprenticeship with a team of qualified and experienced conservators. Part three, the final year - gainful employment with The Featherton Trust, who runs the apprenticeship. AND as if that isn’t enough, part one is part time hours, and affordable enough to study on minimum wage. Just.

  I read the brochure about fifty times over trying to wrap my head around it. None of it makes sense. Literally none of it. It’s everything I want. Hell that’s putting it mildly, it’s more than I could have possibly dreamed of.

  It’s doable. It’s actually doable. Just. I mean I’d need to find part-time work, but how hard can that be? This can’t be real. But it might be, and if it is…

  If this is somehow a scam, whoever’s doing it almost deserves my money ‘cause they’ve really done their research. If it’s not a scam…well that still doesn’t make it real. Maybe I’m being pranked by some dick-head influencer for clout and when I turn up for my first css, they’re gonna jump out with cameras, screaming in my face “Ey yo, Riley Sincir, you’ve just been RIZZED!” or whatever the kids are saying these days. I could be dreaming or in a coma. Maybe I’ve been abducted by aliens and their running weird simutions on my brain. Even that seems more likely than my dream future being dumped into my p.

  Well, if I’m gonna be probed by aliens, I may as well put on a show. I apply, and after a few agonizing days I find that, somehow, I’ve been accepted. Things are finally looking up, and I’m bricking it.

  *****

  1 Week Ago

  Everything has been going so well. I’m coming up to the end of my second year of study, and I’ve been loving every minute of it. Study, that is. The rest of my life is a bit of a shit-show.

  My part time job in food service for an international fast food giant is literally the only thing I can find that gives me enough flexibility to work, and still dedicate enough time to my studies. And believe me, I tried EVERYWHERE. Either they don’t offer flexible hours, or, more usually, they do but aren't hiring. On occasion, it feels more like they just aren’t hiring me - this town isn’t exactly diverse, and being an openly transgender woman tends to rub some people the wrong way - not that I’d ever be able to prove that.

  Unfortunately this crappy job is better than nothing, but only just. It just about pays the bills, and while I hate my coworkers, my manager, the customers and pretty much everything about it, I’ll keep plugging away at it until I can finally start my apprenticeship. I’ve gone out of my way not to think about how unstable my position in life is. A decision that can’t possibly come back to haunt me.

  Money is super tight. The course is technically affordable on a part-time wage, but the rest of my existence sure isn’t. I can afford to live, just, thanks mostly to the existence of instant noodles and the incredibly cheap, and incredibly small, room in a ft-share I was forced to move into after I lost my old pce - turns out losing my job in the wake of a global pandemic isn’t a reason not to pay rent on time.

  So now I share a four bedroom house with six other people. So what if all six of them are sketchier than a well dressed bald bloke in a seedy pub, draped in gold jewellery. So what if I had to install extra locks on my bedroom door just to feel safe enough to sleep. So what if my socks and underwear keep going missing when I hang them out to dry. It’s better than sleeping rough - not that I have a choice. This is the only pce I can afford on my crappy wages. A miserable little cube of a room with space for a bed, a chair and a small chest of drawers. Four hundred quid a month. Fuck this economy.

  But it’ll be worth it. Two more years of study and I’ll be in a full-time, paid apprenticeship and one step closer to fulfilling my destiny.

  I picture my future career every day as part of my morning routine. It helps, kind of. Gives me something to focus on in the mornings aside from the relentless, grasping tentacles of poverty.

  ‘Think of the future, and the present can’t hurt you.’

  I think Einstein said that. Or Pto? Maybe it was Doctor Who. Not that it matters. The important thing is routine. Always routine.

  Wash face. 2. Eat breakfast. 3. Brush teeth. 4. Get in the shower. 5. Picture the future. 6. Wash. 7. Dress. 8. Leave.

  Every morning, at 6am like clockwork. I thrive on routine, what can I say? But every day, I visualise my future. A future so close I can almost taste it.

  I picture a vast archive, climate controlled artefact cases spreading as far as the eye can see. A clean, sterile boratory, words printed in bck serif letter on its sliding gss door: Lab 6 - Dr Riley Shaw, PhD.

  I examine the painting I’m about to restore. 15th century Artist unknown, but certainly Italian in style. Subject; the beheading of John the Baptist…as beautiful as it is gruesome. Bold confident brush strokes, masterful use of colour and light, remarkable detail, particurly in the eyes. Truly a masterpiece. An utterly abused and mistreated masterpiece.

  I imagine tears in the canvas, missing paint, discoloured varnish, the gilt frame tarnished and peeling. The works. It could take me weeks, maybe months to fully restore it. It will take time to diligently remove the ancient, decaying varnish. Days spent agonising over the process of patching the fragile canvas, masking and concealing the great wound that distorts its surface. Reverently adding new paint - cleverly disguised so the untrained viewer will never know restoration has occurred, but identifiable to the next conservator, who one day far in the future, may need to remove my untold hours of work as methods of restoration improve and grow.

  That’s what I love about it, conservation and restoration. It makes you part of a painting's story, its living and evolving history. It is, to me at least, a kind of magic, a connection, a love letter to the past. It is all I’ve ever wanted to do. Well, if you forget the times when I wanted to be a paleontologist, an astronomer, and an egyptologist. Or that one summer where I fervently believed my life’s purpose was to become a famous author - a dream that had immediately come crashing and burning around me as I re-read my first draft and immediately took a metal bin into the garden and burned the offending notebook to ashes.

  *****

  Unfortunately, as is customary in my life, a period of stability must inevitably be followed by a period of unspeakable devastation. Life is going well - I have hopes and goals and aspirations. Therefore, the universe must bance things out and kick my life violently in the throat.

  It starts with a compint at work. A false cim made by a transphobic co-worker, and upheld by an equally transphobic manager. No investigation, no sign of empathy. Just turn over your uniform and get the fuck out.

  What is the compint you ask? Well, I’m a trans woman. I don’t try to hide it, and for the most part nobody cares. Unfortunately there’s a small, but incredibly irritating cadre of total wankers who, for reasons known only to themselves, have decided that being trans is an inherent, and overtly sexual thing. You know the ones - they go around with poorly spelled signs and pray god smites down little kids ‘cause they show a bit of gender variance. Nice people.

  Well, turns out, if you’re of that mind, like my former manager is, then apparently it’s not that difficult for you to believe that your sole trans employee has been harassing and propositioning customers. Inexplicably, my manager not only buys that bullshit story, but drags me into his office and chews me out about my ‘moral perversions’ for the better part of an hour. Apparently he was half a dozen witnesses to multiple incidents. It’s horse-shit, of course. The closest I’ve ever come to propositioning a customer is asking them if they ‘want fries with that’.

  And I know what you’re thinking, I don’t have to put up with this crap. I should leave immediately, wyer up and sue him. But that requires a willpower I don’t possess - not to mention money. So I just stand there, like an idiot, and take his abuse, trying all the while not to literally piss myself from some combination of shame, rage and fear.

  *****

  My boss finishes his tirade and finally announces that I’m fired. I stagger out of the restaurant in a daze, under the watchful eyes of my coworkers. They know what just happened. They were probably listening at the door. Bastards.

  Fuck I hope this pce burns down. Maybe I’ll burn it down. I’m not gonna burn it down. Probably.

  Nothing makes sense. My mind is on fire. I’ve spent two whole years pushing down the lingering sense of dread, the ever-present, and perfectly reasonable fear that losing this job would destroy me. I pushed all those feelings down, pretending I was nice and stable, that nothing could come between me and my dreams.

  Well, when the dam breaks, it breaks completely, leaving untold destruction in its wake. I become rapidly and painfully aware of my situation, of the reality that my entire life is about to be obliterated. Without that job I have nothing. No income, no savings, no possessions save for a cheap mobile phone and a backpack full of art supplies. No way I’ll be able to make rent this month, and that means I’m out. I’ve already had one strike for causing, and I quote “causing excessive damage to the property”, which transted from ndlord-ese means “I clogged the toilet once and he had to get a plumber to fix it.”

  “One more strike and you’re out”, so sayeth the slum ndlord. He means it too. I wouldn’t be the first person he’d booted unceremoniously from the ft-share for non-payment of bills. Or noise. Or ‘suspicious activity’. Or “excessive and unnecessary use of the facilities”, which is a fancy way of saying that after a guy called Keith moved in a few months back, the water bill tripled, and Mr Slum Landlord didn’t like it. To be fair, he’s probably not used to paying for water given that the overwhelming majority of his tenants don’t seem to have discovered such rudimentary hygiene tasks as bathing or washing clothes. Dude is ruthless and evil. Typical ndlord.

  No income means I can’t pay for my course either. The one good thing in my life. I’ll be alright for the moment, I’m paid up until the end of the school year, but after that I’ve got nothing. Sure, I can work full-time over the summer and try and get things together, but then when term starts again, what? I hope and pray I can find reliable part-time work again? Not a chance. I’m not being defeatist either. Not a day went by while I worked at that damn restaurant that I didn’t look for something, anything else. Nothing. Not a single fucking thing. Living in the sticks is the absolute worst for employment, especially when you don’t drive.

  Nobody else in town will accommodate my hours, they’ve made that hurtfully clear, and if I can’t work and study then I have no choice but to drop out of uni and give up on my dream. It kills me to think about it but what choice do I have? Rob a bank? Pray for a previously unknown, but hideously wealthy retive to die and leave me their fortune?

  It’s hopeless. My life is over.

  *****

  I find myself lying on a park bench in the rain.

  I performed my morning routine as usual, but having hit the final step, Go To Work, I remembered I had no work to actually go to.. To be honest, I didn’t have anywhere else to go either that wouldn’t have been pointless and painful. What could I do? Sit in the university library, studying for a degree I can’t possibly finish. Visit a museum and remind myself of the future that has been cruelly ripped away from me? Fuck that for a game of soldiers.

  No. Day drinking in a public park is the name of the game, and buddy, I’m gonna win.

  I’ll be the first to admit I’m not much of a drinker. Beer and wine all taste the same to me - like ethanol and piss if you’re curious - and every time I drink harder stuff I get sick. I can usually manage if it’s in a cocktail, but I can hardly drink myself stupid in the park sipping a Pi?a coda, can I? That said, there is one thing I can at least tolerate in sufficient levels to get me absolutely pstered, without making me want to die (more than I already do).

  Now you might say it’s weird to drink port from the bottle in the middle of a park at 9:30am. And maybe you’re right. But it’s the only pn I have, and I’m determined to make it work. Fuck anyone who pns to stop me - not that anybody cares enough to try.

  I’m already a bottle and a half deep when the rain starts. Little drops at first, a minor annoyance, swiftly followed by a deafening crash of thunder as the heavens open and the gods piss all over me.

  I jerk upright as best I can, the sudden movement turning my stomach. I wobble as I sit, trying to regain my composure. Fucking rain. I scan the park, seeking shelter. My prayers mercifully answered by the dipidated bandstand standing mournfully in the center of the vast, patchy wn. With its peeling paint and rotting timbers, it looks about as wretched as I feel. A perfect match.

  I snatch up my shopping bag as carefully as my already drunken body can manage and run for it. I’ll be soaked to the bone by the time I reach shelter, but fuck it. Maybe I’ll catch hypothermia and…

  “NO”, I scream, my voice shredding my throat. Can’t think like that. Don’t think like that. We’re drinking to forget not to… I’m lost, buried in my own thoughts as I stagger into a nearby bin.

  Fuck that hurt.

  I book it for the bandstand, the alcohol in my system making me clumsy. I twist my ankle but keep running, I have to get out of the rain, I've got more drinking to do.

  Fuck this, fuck this, fuck everything! I repeat under my breath like a mantra as I run. Maybe some rogue spirit will take pity on me…or kidnap or kill me…I don’t care anymore. Fuck this, fuck this, fuck everything!

  *****

  I make it to the bandstand in one piece - more or less. I seem to be down a shoe and my arm is all banged up for some reason. Plus I'm soaked through and shivering which is just delightful. Fortunately I've got booze, and plenty of it. Booze will make it better. Probably.

  I slump to the floor in the center of the bandstand, finding a spot that remains just about untouched by the rain hammering in from all sides. I waste no time in cracking another bottle, hurling its screw-top into the stormy void.

  I'm safe here. Sort of. The storm can't reach me. I'm safe with my little gssy friends.

  I take a deep swig from the bottle, then, figuring I have nothing to lose, I down the whole bottle of overly-sweetened red piss in one long draw. It kicks like a mule, a heavy pounding in my forehead alerting me that I've just bought a ticket to the inevitable pass-out train, but who knows when it'll arrive.

  I feel dizzy, nauseated. But warm. Warm is good. Warm is nice. Much better than cold and wet. I could do with being warmer and bottle number four is calling out to me.

  I go to unscrew it but my hands don’t work right. I just can’t seem to grip the lid. Still the bottle calls me, its siren song punching through my brain. I can’t stand it. I smash the bottle's long neck against the ground, pulling back as quick as my reactions would allow, lest I spill more of the precious plonk than is absolutely necessary. I put my lips to the jagged razor edge that digs hard into my chin. Blood flows down my neck and onto my already sodden clothes. I don’t care about that, or the gss shards I’m sure I’m swallowing every time I swallow. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter anyway, it’s time for bottle five.

  *****

  I’ll be honest, I really don’t know what happened to bottle five. I remember reaching for it, grabbing by the neck. Then…poof. Nothing. I spot a dead bird I haven’t seen before, surrounded by broken gss and a suspicious pool of red liquid. Highly suspicious. Maybe the bird is responsible for the disappearance of bottle five. It makes sense, but I’m in no state to investigate. Leave that to the experts. Focus on what I know. Focus on bottle six, we can’t let anything happen to him.

  Bottle six is my friend. He’s not the best looking and he doesn’t talk much, but…well he doesn’t really have any redeeming features or traits, but he’s still my friend and I love him. And he loves me. I named him Ron, since Bottle Six was getting increasingly hard to say for some reason. Ron. Sweet Ron. Of course he loves me, why wouldn’t he. Just because I’m a failure and my life has fallen apart. Because I’m useless and unlovable and undeserving?

  I howl as the tears burst from me like a fountain, deep, heavy sobs crashing through me and turning my insides to ice.

  Ron says nothing. The bastard. That is SO Ron. Here I am breaking down and can he even muster a single word of support? Of course not. Prick. I bet he doesn’t even love me. Why would he?

  “FUCK YOU RON!” I scream, smashing him into the floor. Ron’s gss body shatters into a million billion pieces, his wine-blood spreading in a morbid pool that turns my stomach.

  “You bastard! You bastard! Look what you made me do!” I cry as I try desperately to p Ron’s life-juices from the filthy concrete. “You bastard…you bastard…”

  An anguished howl flows from somewhere deep inside me, dragging on, long and low and hard until my throat is ragged and sore. Ron is gone. My life is gone. What the hell else am I supposed to do? I have nothing and no-one.

  I wish I was dead. I don’t want to die, the idea scares the shit out of me, I just…I’d really like to not exist right now. To sink away into inky darkness where nothing can bother me.

  The world dims around me. I might get my wish. This isn’t so bad I suppose. Sure it’s not how I imagined it. I always pictured family, friends, warm hugs and kind words as I passed, a far cry from the isoted shame spiral I find myself in. Oh well.

  The world spins, whirling and twirling in obnoxious, sickening patterns. Lights and sounds and smells and every other form of sensory input combine into a cacophonous roar, burning my senses. A rge steam train rams me violently in the stomach, presumably. Or perhaps I’ve been shot. Either way I feel like my organs and bones have been mashed to a pulp. Bile burns in my throat as I gag for air. I can’t breathe. I’m freaking out. I gulp and gasp - pure sulphur - poison shredding my organs like vicious tigers eating me from the inside. My throat turns to ice, chokes me, tears streaming from my eyes, snot from my nose, drool from my mouth. And then it comes as I knew it would. Surging like a river, coursing through my body, burning as it expels itself from my body, flowing endlessly until finally, everything turns bck, and I colpse, my body still and limp, soaking in a mixture of rain, wine and vomit as the storm rages around me.

  *****

  I open my eyes, vision blurry. A sharp pain digs its way into my brain, its source unknown. All around me the storm performs its violent symphony. There is a warmth radiating from somewhere in the vague oozing conglomerate of light and shadow that constitutes my vision. I ball my fists, rubbing my eyes until the worst of the pain subsides. I look around me and see her.

  A vision. An angel maybe? Oh fuck, I actually went and did it. You stupid bloody bastard, how could you?

  “You’re not dead, you know” says the vision, her voice deeper than expected, but smoother than silk. Each sylble sends a shiver down my spine.

  I turn towards her, taking in her features. She is, without question or exaggeration, the single most beautiful woman I have ever fucking seen. Long, wavy brown hair cascades past her shoulders, framing her face. I want to touch it, stroke it, smell it. She watches me with deep coffee-coloured eyes. God I could lose myself in those for days…weeks… There’s no judgement in those eyes, as far as I can tell. Pity, maybe, sympathy perhaps. They make me feel safe, protected…and yes, I know that’s probably a weird thing to say about a stranger, but considering the emotional minefield I’m currently navigating, I think it’s fair to say I can be a little weird about it. If I want to tell you I’d give both arms and both legs just to see that soft smile, those stunning, soulful eyes looking down at me, her arms around me, whispering that I’m safe and cared for, even just for one brief moment, well then I’m going to. Or rather, I just did.

  Jesus Christ. I know I’m a lesbian, and a good old-fashioned U-haul disaster lesbian at that, but holy crap. Ho. Ly. Crap. This can’t be a dream. My brain, even when it isn’t absolutely pickled, couldn't come up with anyone half this gorgeous. My damn heart is doing flips, there’s butterflies in my stomach, and the less said about my nether regions the better, but suffice to say they’re happy too.

  “Riley?”

  She knows my name. How does she know my name?

  “Riley!” she says, an edge building in her voice.

  Something about hearing my name from those lips. Spoken with that voice. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My heart is pounding in my ears, threatening to burst from my chest and retreat to a safe distance.

  I’m lost in my own haze of arousal and infatuation, so much so that I fail to notice that this angel has moved from her original position and now has my head gently cupped in her right hand. She leans in, her warm breath softly caressing my skin.The hairs on my neck prickling and standing to attention.

  “Riley Emeline Shaw.” She whispers sternly. My full name. Fu… “Be a good girl for me and pay attention, won’t you.”

  Be a good girl for me. A good girl. Good girl.

  All my words, and the thoughts that accompany them drain out of me in an instant. I can be a good girl. I’ll be such a good girl. Damn trigger phrase. It always gets me. But how does she know that?

  “RIley, Riley, Riley” says the angel, or whatever the hell she is, her voice heavenly as she half sings my name. “You poor little thing. It was all going so well. People can be so cruel, can’t they?”

  I open my mouth to respond but she holds a finger to my face, silencing me, my lips tingling, sparking the electricity as her skin makes contact with my lips. Fu…

  “Pay attention Riley, there’s a good girl.”

  I close my mouth again, and all too soon she removes her finger from my desperate lips, my body and soul aching for them to return.

  “Now then. I’m aware of your situation, and I want to help. I have a…proposition for you. You might find it a little” she leans her head back as she searches for the word, exposing a neck I need to kiss and lick and bite as surely as I need to breathe, perhaps more… “...unusual.” She cps her hands together delicately, a smile crossing her face that could melt not just the coldest heart, but steel beams too and probably solid rock if it really needed to.

  “You see Riley, I am a reasonably wealthy woman. I find myself with fine clothes, food and wine. A magnificent house with everything I could ever need tucked away inside it. And yet…” she sighs wistfully, my heart bleeds as her effervescent smile fades in an instant.

  “To put it bluntly, Riley, I’m lonely. I need a companion. I would like that companion to be you. In exchange I can offer you everything you could ever need. I can even finance your studies.”

  My eyes grow wide, infting like balloons, threatening to break their bonds and fly free from my head. The vision giggles at my reaction. Sweet fuck how the hell is she so cute?! I think to myself, before the reality of what the vision has just said kicks in.

  “You want to pay for my degree?” I yelp, my words faltering and stumbling in my mouth.

  “No dear, I want a companion. Paying for your degree would merely be compensation for services rendered. Quid pro quo, as it were.”

  I’ll be honest, my decision was already made long before she made the offer. This woman could have offered to kick me in the head and I’d have thanked her for her hard work. I can be a companion. I mean I’ve had plenty of friends. I’m fun and interesting if you’re into geeky shit. I’m pretty cute. Yeah. I’m the whole package. I have no idea what I’d be expected to do as a companion but it’s not like she’s some million-year old looking to py dominoes or talk about the blitz or something. She looks about my age…actually, she looks a little younger than me. Not to mention she’s absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. Honestly if she wants to py dominoes and talk about the war then hand me the bones and boot up the history channel.

  “You don’t have to give an answer now. Think it over. Here’s my card. If you’re interested, meet me tomorrow at noon. Wear a sun-dress.”

  Again I move to respond, but that same finger returns to my lips, that single point of contact between us, pure ecstasy.

  “I’m aware of your financial issues, darling.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a manil envelope. “Take this, buy yourself a nice sun-dress and do what you will with the remainder.” She hands me the envelope which, as it turns out, is stuffed with twenties. Four hundred quids worth. I know that because instead of doing one of the normal things people do when handed an envelope full of cash unexpectedly, trying to return it, for example, I sit there and count it all. Every st bill. When I look up the vision is gone. I half expect the envelope to have disappeared too, another unnecessary trick from a cruel and unforgiving universe.

  Much to my surprise, the envelope, and all its contents, remain clutched in my left hand. I immediately shove it all, envelope, money and business card into the inside pocket of my jacket. Last thing I need is someone seeing me clutching a stack of twenties and deciding to gently persuade me to donate it, willingly or otherwise, to line their own pockets.

  The storm is still raging beyond the bandstand. Actually that’s not quite accurate. Something is happening out there, but it’s not like any storm I’ve ever seen before. A bnket of thick, strangely green fog surrounds the decrepit shelter. It moves slowly around the perimeter, shifting and oozing like sand. It’s unsettling to say the least. The sound of the wind is deafening, my eardrums likely to burst at any moment, and yet I feel nothing. Not the slightest whisper of a breeze.

  The fog creeps towards me. Thick, smokey tendrils reach out from the main body of this weird cloud-monster-type-thing, they grab and pull at my clothes, my hair, my limbs. It engulfs me, penetrates me, suffocates me. Darkness takes me.

  ***

  I awake, yet again, from what I have to assume was a booze-addled dream. Nightmare? I’m not sure what it was. I feel…weirdly sober?

  None of this makes any sense.

  It’s stupid, I know, but I reach into my jacket, more to prove I’d been dreaming than anything else. Imagine my surprise when, instead of the void that should have occupied my pocket, I find instead an envelope with a fistful of crisp twenty pound notes tucked carefully inside, along with a bck business card, embossed with elegant golden writing.

  Ariadne Featherton, PhD. Featherton? As in Featherton Trust?

  Holy. Shit.