This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Permission is granted for it to be copied and read by individuals, and for no other purpose. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited, and may only be posted to free sites with the express permission of the author. If you enjoyed it, then please Email me and tell me. If you hated it, Email me and lie.

This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental.

I have based the tragic incident in the first chapter on a real event, and I salute those public servants and volunteers who worked so hard to manage the event, from every angle. My heart goes out to those directly and indirectly involved in the whole horrible affair, and I hope that I can, in some small way, pay homage to those who sought to bring relief and help.

I dedicate this work to the police officers, fire fighters, paramedics, doctors and nurses and all the other professionals and volunteers who give of themselves on a daily basis for the sake of others.

Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.

The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.

This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don't read it.

The following weekend was the last before the end of term. The school play had been on the Friday and Saturday and the concert was due to be on following Thursday, with the Carol Service on Friday with the end of term commencing after it finished.

I had an appointment with Bruce on Monday, so Saturday was precious to me. I asked if I could go to Tim's place to practice the drums. Dad was mildly surprised that I was now drumming, but he thought it was because I was infatuated with a certain tall blond boy. He was partly right, but my main reason was so we could access the Internet and in particular the Thames Valley Police Web site.

He'd found out that Inspector Thomas William Stewart, born in 1955, had served for very nearly thirty years before succumbing to a fatal heart attack in the early hours of Monday the 9 th November 2004.

He left a widow, Maria and two children, Matthew and Annie. He had lived in Shiplake-on-Thames and was very highly regarded by everyone with whom he came into contact.

There was even a photograph of the man and his family, taken a few years previously when he was awarded a long-service medal.

He was a handsome man. Bigger than my Dad, so he was over six three. He looked quite a hard man and his eyes gave nothing away. He looked at home in his uniform and I didn't think much would get past him. He looked shrewd and yet the smile lines seemed to soften the image.

His son was very like him and both had the same wicked smile. Annie was younger in the photograph, nearer my age I guessed. She looked like her mum, but was taller than her in the photograph. His wife looked very Mediterranean and exceptionally pretty too. They all were smiling, portraying a typical happy family.

I stared at him, hoping something would trigger a memory or something in my mind, but nothing happened. I'm not sure what I was hoping for, a revelation or something, perhaps. But nothing came to me. They were another family of strangers.

“You even sound like an old copper. Your language occasionally drifts in a downward direction, were you aware of that?”

“If we look on the website of the local papers, they are bound to report his death and probably his funeral.” Tim whizzed through the Internet sites, finally giving a triumphant shout.

“The funeral for the late Inspector Tom Stewart was held yesterday at St Mary's Church, Shiplake-on-Thames. The church was full to overflowing as relatives, friends and colleagues all came to pay their last respects to a well loved and highly regarded man.

“Maria, his widow, children - Matthew and Anne, and sister, Kathleen (pictured above), were surprised at the massive turn-out at the small parish church. Eight colleagues carried the coffin into the church, and over eighty officers in uniform crammed into the back. The ……”

I didn't need to hear anymore. I was staring at the photograph of Kathleen. She was standing next to Maria and Annie. I knew this woman, as she was the one I had seen in my flash of the other funeral, that of ‘our' mother.

“She's Kathleen, I've been at a funeral with her for our mother, is that spooky enough for you?”

“I don't know, I really don't know. I suppose I'll have to speak to Annie and take it one step at a time.”

“What will you say, ‘Hello, I've your dead dad in my head' or what?” he asked.

I smiled, as that sounded so silly, yet, that was near enough what I felt was happening to me.

“At least I know I'm not imagining it, like the shrink thinks. I'm not going mad, and who knows, I could have fifty years of knowledge that if I could tap into….” I trailed off as the enormity of what was happening began to sink in.

“Tim, I tried to tell the shrink and Dad, but they don't or won't believe me. No, this we keep to ourselves and never tell anyone else, okay?”

I was thinking. How could I ever hope to find out how much of his memory was inside my head? How much of me was left, or was it him?

I looked down at my body and wondered if that was the answer. Was that why I felt such a stranger in my own body and in my own life?

Tim and I went to see The Incredibles at the cinema, and it was so pleasant not to have to think about anything at all. We had a Chinese meal afterwards and then his Dad came and picked us up.

I liked his parents. His father was an engineer. He designed power stations, turbines and stuff. His mother had been a teacher and now looked after Tim, his two sisters and one brother. Tim was the eldest, followed by the girls, Holly at fourteen and Katie, twelve. Holly was at our school and Katie was due to start next year. Roger, the little boy was eight.

They lived about two miles away from us in a big house outside another village. His father worked all over the world, but often spent weeks working from home.

Dad was in his study and Richard was watching TV. He came home at most weekends. His school broke up for the holidays on the Sunday after mine.

“It's all right, Daddy, he can't help it. No, we didn't, we just watched the film.”

“Kids! Enough, Richard, leave your sister alone, she's having enough problems with her memory as it is, all right?”

I went up to my room and shut the door. It was nice being able to get away from everything. My thoughts often threatened to overwhelm me, but I was beginning to feel I was on the brink of understanding what was going on.

My bruising had almost gone now and although I was stiff, the pain was rarely present, only when I moved unexpectedly or similar. My hair was thicker and although short, was at an acceptable length now.

I looked at my figure - the pert, round breasts and very graceful hips. My legs were slender and, to be honest, I was thrilled with what I saw. That's not to say that I was used to it, but I accepted it as being mine now.

I sat on the bed and stared into the reflection of my eyes. In a way, they were familiar and yet in another way they were the eyes of a stranger. I smiled and the girl in the reflection smiled. I caressed my breasts, and watched as the nipples hardened under my touch. A flutter of excitement seemed to begin in my belly and I gently stroked the outside labia lips of my vagina.

Shivers of pleasure coursed through me and the flutters increased. I watched myself as I masturbated, rubbing myself slowly and gently with one hand, caressing my breasts and nipples with another.

The feelings were wonderful and I lay back on my bed, rubbing faster. I generated my own lubrication and my fingers slid around, increasing the pleasure until I felt a glow of unadulterated pleasure build until it exploded inside my being. I kept going and seemed to maintain a peak for some time. Eventually I stopped, gasping for breath and feeling as if I'd suddenly discovered the secrets of the universe.

I sat up, looking at myself in the mirror. I was sitting on the bed with my legs out, knees up, and I opened my now swollen labia with my fingers so I could see the pale pink tunnel of my vagina. Pearls of moisture clung to my fine hairs and it was gleaming with the natural lubricants. I inserted a finger and squirmed as I tried to feel myself. There wasn't a lot of sensitivity inside, but at the opening and around the clitoris, there was a lot.

I suddenly wanted to know what it would be like to have a penis inside me and Tim came to mind. I grabbed a tissue and wiped myself dry. As I slipped on my nightie, I thought about who I was.

I was a girl. I liked being a girl. No, I adored being a girl and every day was like a new adventure. My body pleased me and I now felt at home in it. My home was lovely and my dad loved me. Even my brother was bearable for a thirteen year-old boy.

But that was a daft question, because I was ‘me'. I wasn't sure what ‘me' comprised of and, to be honest, I don't think it mattered very much. I was thinking, breathing and living a life. I was capable of independent thought and action, so did it really matter about who I used to be?

I was the ‘me' of now and tomorrow, just as Bruce was trying to impress upon me. The ‘me' of yesterday was gone and I had to accept that.

As I lay down to sleep, I smiled, as I was content. It was as if a barrier had been broken down that was preventing me from moving forwards.

The dream was so obviously a dream, but I willed myself to take a note of what was happening, as I knew with a degree of certainty that this was important to whom I was.

I was reading a magazine. I was sitting and as I glanced up, I saw things pass the window. I was in a train. Now at this point I knew that there was going to be a crash. This is what gave it away as being a dream.

I looked across at the woman sitting opposite me. I recognised her as being my mother. She smiled at me and then things all started going wrong.

The world seemed to just stop and yet we kept going. Lights went out, I was flung forward and felt pain and that gritty calcium taste came to my mouth as if I'd chipped teeth.

I saw my mother being flung violently to one side like a rag doll, and then there was enormous weight on my head and back.

The pain stopped and I was floating. My mother was with me and she was holding my hand. Her hand was warm and it felt good to the touch. She was smiling again and we headed towards some light. I thought they'd opened up the carriage and we were just able to float out.

Something held me back and I saw a chord was attached to an object. I looked and saw it was my body, lying in a heap of wreckage.

I watched as they released my body from the broken wreckage, and my mother was still with me. She had no such impediment and yet she stayed to keep me company.

We remained with my body as it was taken to hospital. It seemed an age, but after a long wait I became aware of another person. It was neither a man nor a woman, but something of both. He or she was in some distress as I received a deep feeling of regret and unfulfillment.

I instantly knew what the problem was, and offered him the only thing I had. Then I was almost free, as the thread to my body became stretched and very fine. My mother smiled and together, hand in hand, we floated towards the beautiful warm light. We stopped and my mother smiled, letting go of my hand. I knew that I couldn't go with her, even thought we would be together forever. Daddy could join us later. I still had to finish my life. With a last smile she waved at me and the light vanished.

I put on the light, glanced at the clock and scribbled down what I could remember. It had been very vivid and as I wrote, the memory faded slowly.

I wondered how much was imagination, spurred on by my own theory of what had happened. As I thought about it, it did make sense in a weird sort of way.

Why did the person, obviously the policeman, give me the impression he was both male and female?

That was a real puzzle and as I glanced at the clock, I realised that the answer could well never be answered. It was four in the morning and chilly. I went to the loo and afterwards threw my damp nightie into the wash basket. I slipped a clean one on, snuggling down into bed again.

I wasn't sleepy, but felt excited as I had actually a memory of my mother. The dream was still there, although, as with all dreams, it was fading fast. I picked up my pencil and A3 sized sketchpad, attempting to draw what I remembered of my mother just before the crash.

I sketched for ages. The picture in my head took shape on the page. She was sitting opposite me and I attempted to capture her very essence. I was quite pleased with the result. She had on a pale blouse with a neck scarf tied in an intricate bow at her throat. She had a bolero style jacket on, her hair was cut in a long bob style, and I managed to catch the expression as she smiled at me. I dozed off at about six o'clock. The alarm woke me at seven. I was up and in the shower quickly. The heating had come on, so it wasn't so chilly any more. I was already dressed and downstairs before anyone else. Then I remembered it was Sunday.

I had some breakfast, but found the TV so moronic that I switched it off and went into Dad's study. I had my own PC, a laptop, and we were allowed to use his when he didn't need it. Richard was into games, and his grandparents had bought him an X-Box for his birthday.

I logged onto the Internet and typed in ‘man/woman' into Google. Various weird eastern sites came up, and loads of sites with man and woman as separate things. I typed in ‘girly-man', and got back loads of musical stuff.

I then tried, ‘man-woman' and was just as unsuccessful. ‘Girly-boy' and got sites for gay sex. But there were some reference to TG, TS and TV. I tried ‘TG' and got loads of educational and Scientific sites. But on page six I found the Transgender Forum Resource Center.

After trying a load of different words, I found several sites for the trans-gendered and transsexuals.

This was very interesting, as it seems that there is a myriad of individuals who did not fit into the straight female/male role models.

There were those who like dressing as the opposite gender, those who want to be the opposite gender and many who are content looking like one, but having the sexual organs of the other. It was a revelation to me. I had no idea that such people existed in such numbers. I knew about homosexuals and some who liked wearing drag, but the sheer quantity of people who seem trapped in the wrong body astounded me.

I really felt I was onto something here and spent ages looking at different sites. There were so many, I didn't know where to start. I read some stories on one and some letters and advice pages on another. I looked at photographs on yet another and started to believe that here was an answer to my question about the mysterious person in my dream.

What if the policeman, Tom Stewart, had been a secret trans-thingy and had never been able to be whom or what he always wanted to be?

That would explain the feelings of unfulfillment I sensed in the dream and it would also explain why part of me was so excited and pleased to be a girl.

It was food for thought and I knew that if he'd kept it a secret to his death, then his wife and children would never have known. I logged out of the computer and then saw a possibility. The computer kept files and logs of where someone had been searching. Unless he was particularly meticulous in erasing his pathways, it might be still there!

I went and had some breakfast. It was still only half past eight, and I heard Dad get up and go to his bathroom. The Sunday papers arrived, so I spread them out and was reading them when Dad came down.

“Yeah. I couldn't sleep. I had a dream. I dreamed of Mummy!” I said, showing him the sketch I had completed.

“A couple of hours ago. I had a really vivid dream - more a flashback really. I dreamed I was on the train and she was sitting opposite me. I went through the crash and everything!” I said, going on to explain about the light and hospital. I omitted the part of the ‘other' person.

He reached out with his right hand and stroked the picture with his fingers, as if he was caressing her face.

“I am so thrilled you did this. More than that, it means that you have some memory and I'm getting more of my little girl back!”

We had a soppy session and I think it did both of us some good. I was able to ask him about her and he was able to talk without breaking down as he had done every time previously. We seemed to become closer as a result and the love he showed me was reciprocated for the first time. I did love this gentle giant, who had lost so much, yet still was strong enough to get up and face his grief every morning for the sake of his children.

“Of course, it's not very good though. I was in a rush before the picture faded.”

“Don't do yourself down, it's brilliant. You've captured her wonderfully. It's how I want to remember her.”

It dawned on me then that he would have had to identify that rag doll of a body. No wonder he was so cut up!

“Oh Daddy, this has been so hard for you and I've just not been there for you,” I said.

“Princess, you've been my reason for living. You and Ricky, that is. With you in the hospital fighting for your life, I could put my own grief aside and it helped, I think. Now you are so much better, I am beginning to be able to think too much and that's not a good idea.”

Tim called at ten o'clock, wanting to know whether I wanted to go over for lunch. I was planning to cook a roast for Dad and Ricky. Richard had to be back at school by seven in the evening and so lunch was our last time together for a week.

“Why don't you come to us? There's plenty, Dad always buys too much,” I suggested.

It was lovely to see him again and I gave him a big wet sloppy kiss, as soon as he walked in through the front door.

“Hello Tim, how are you?” Dad said, coming into the hall. “Jenny, shut the door, it costs enough to heat this damn house as it is without you letting all the hot air out!”

I shut the door and took Tim into the kitchen. He sat and chatted to me as I prepared lunch. He even peeled the potatoes for me as I made the Yorkshire pudding mix.

“How come you remember how to cook? I didn't think you were much of a cook before.”

“The same as the drumming, I suppose. I'm not questioning it, as it might go away. I think I was right, by the way.”

“My theory. I'm not sure how much of me is Jenny or how much is the policeman, but I really believe some of him is in here somewhere.”

“Not really. I'm still me. Just with extra bits filling in those old bits that are missing. It's not like I'm suddenly going to be a monster or something.”

“Well, I know you are still you, but don't you think this theory is a little far fetched?”

“You're right. It's just a silly theory and I'm obviously trying to see things that aren't there. Let's forget it, and get on with life!”

He looked relieved and I changed the subject onto the band and music. I popped everything into the oven, putting the vegetables into a pan. They needn't be cooked yet, so we went into the sitting room and I put on some Status Quo on the record deck.

“Less of that young man, I'll have you know these were state of the art when I bought them!” Dad said, as he came in. He walked over to the fireplace and took down the picture of some fat woman standing next to a horse.

“It captures her last moments so well and that smile is so exactly as I recall.”

“Yup. I saw her in my dream. I told you. I wanted to remember what I saw, so I sketched it.”

“She's almost as beautiful as you,” he said and I looked sharply at him. He was staring at her, so I softened.

We had a happy lunch. I seemed to step into the ‘mother' role with no problem, even my Yorkshire puddings rose spectacularly. We all helped wash up afterwards, and then settled down to watch a film in the afternoon. I snuggled up with Tim and enjoyed feeling his arm over my shoulders. Richard managed to restrain himself from making kissing noises after an hour or so.

I went to bed that night more relaxed than ever and slept soundly with no dreams.