T.J. Allan

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

Unfortunately no politicians were injured or killed in the writing of this story, and no one else was either.

If you enjoyed it, then please Email me and tell me. If you hated it, Email me and lie. I will always welcome contact.


The legal stuff.
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.



The photographer was trying to get us all in the picture. We were all giggling and pushing, and he was having a hard time controlling us.

“Come on, this is your graduation picture, you should be serious,” he said, which made us giggle more.

It had been three hard years, and I was now the proud holder of a BA Ed, specialising in Drama and Music, from De Montfort University, Bedford. I was twenty-two, and it had been Gwen's advice that I look at a teaching degree, so that I would be able to pass on my skills to others when my singing career came to an end.

I had continued to produce songs, and was making a very reasonable living at singing. However, due to my studies, I had not performed so much as before, and I missed it quite a lot.

I had really enjoyed University, and felt completely vindicated that I had not needed to finish my education at Monksreach Hall. As I posed with Mike and Mary, and then with Steve, in my gown and mortarboard, I ensured that my engagement ring was there for the world to see.

My twenty-first birthday had come and gone. There was a flurry of press interest in the Drysdale Trust, but I had deliberately not upset the status quo by rushing off and claiming what was rightfully mine.

On my twenty-second birthday, Steve had asked me to marry him again, for about the six-hundredth time, and I had simply said, “Yes.”

That evening, I was spending the night with Steve, and I had sat down with him, and put the ring on the table. He looked at the ring, and frowned.

“Steve, it is truth time,” I had said, and the frown deepened.

“My real name isn't Emma Pearson.”

I then told him the whole story, with the exception of the blackmail of Charles Greg son, I laid myself completely bare before him.

“So, now you know. It is only fair that you know the truth. If you decide that you have to walk away from me, then I will understand. It will completely devastate me, but I promise I have no hold over you. Regardless of who I used to be, I am more Emma that I was ever Russell. I just pray that you don't hate me too much.” I said, trying unsuccessfully to refrain from crying. The stress of holding it all in for so long got the better of me, and I broke down in tears, and fled from the room.

I lay face down on the bed, and wept, partly with relief that I had finally managed to release the truth, and partly out of the fear that he would be angry and stop loving me.

A few moments later, he lay next to me, and I risked a peek at him. He had a silly smile on his face.

“You silly tart. I don't give a shit about the past, no matter how far fetched it all may be. I have loved you since that first day we met, and you don't have to doubt that you are 100% Emma. Of course I still love you, but please, never tell anyone else this silly story.”

I just wrapped my arms around him, and wept with pure relief. Needless to say, it led to other things, and I realised how much I loved him.

Later, as we just lay entwined together, he kissed my forehead.

“So, why the charades?” he asked. “Surely there was an easier way?”

I told him about my mother and my inheritance.

“So why didn't you claim your inheritance when you were twenty-one?”

“Lots of reasons. There was too much press interest, I was afraid that I'd lose you, I was enjoying my studying, and really I didn't want to change my life.”

“Okay, so what are you going to do?”

I shrugged, as I had no desire to collect my inheritance, as it would mean revealing myself to the world.

“I don't know. Nothing, I suppose. My mother will try all sorts of tricks, and hopefully she will be disinherited.”

“It is your life. It seems a shame for all that wealth to go to some dog lover.”

I smiled, we talked over various options and in the end, I agreed to try to claim what was mine.

The next day I got a shock, for on the second page of the Daily Telegraph was a photograph of my mother, and a tall young man. The article said:

Millionaire's Widow tries to cheat her own son.

French born Brigette Drysdale (48) seen here leaving her late husband's solicitors in the Strand yesterday, after taking a complete stranger to the offices purporting to be her son Russell, who went missing six years ago.

Her late husband, industrialist Charles Drysdale, left most of his fortune to his only son Russell when he died. However, fearing that attempts may be made to cheat him out of the money, Drysdale established certain tests to be met before his son could claim the inheritance.

The first was that he should be over twenty-one and that his finger prints should match those taken when he was seven years old.

This last test was unknown to Mrs Drysdale, and she was reported to have been shocked and angry that her late husband did not trust her.

It was rumoured that it was her infidelity that was partially to blame for Charles's stroke, and subsequent death. The police have been notified and papers are being prepared for the CPS.

Although Russell has never come forward, police state that they have been in constant communication with the boy over the period of time.

He claimed that he was in fear of his life, as he thought that his mother

would attempt to kill him for the inheritance.

Mrs Drysdale is seriously in debt, and last year attempted to sell a villa in Monaco, that belongs to the estate.

Having failed to sell the villa, she tried to falsify the records of the family yacht, and attempted to sell that.

Authorities in Monaco seized the yacht, and are holding it for Russell to come forward.

The identity of the young man pretending to be her son is still unknown, but his fingerprints have been handed over to the police.

Steve saw my dazed expression, and read the article.

“A bloody yacht?” he asked.

I nodded, and he continued to read.

“Decision time, Emma,” he said.

The telephone rang. I knew exactly who it would be, and I was right.

“Hi Mike,” I said.

“You've seen it?”


“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know. I think I ought to at least go to the solicitors.”

“I agree. Would you like us to come with you?”

“No thanks. Steve is with me, and this is something I need to do by myself. Besides, I don't want you to get into trouble.”

“You've told Steve?” he asked, surprised.

“As we are going to get married, I felt I owed it to him.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone.


“Congratulations. We always thought you would, when did he propose?”

“Last evening.”

“Do you want to tell Mary, or can I?”

“You tell her. Oh, and Mike?”


“Can you marry us, as well as give me away?”

There was silence on the other end, and I realised he was crying.

“Yes, Emma, I'd be honoured to.”

We chatted about likely implications and consequences, and I decided that this must end today.

Steve drove us up, I was very quiet, and my mind was in a real whirl.

“You look fabulous,” he said.

I had tried to look as elegant and sophisticated as I could. I was wearing a very expensive black and gold outfit I had bought in America. There was no doubting that I was female, short of being actually pregnant, I was about as female as one could look.

We managed to park a short distance away, and I was surprised to see Ron Higgins approach us.

“Steve, thanks for your call. Emma, I understand you have information about Russell Drysdale?” he said.

I looked at Steve, and he shrugged. I smiled and put a hand on his arm to signal that I approved.

“Yes, if you care to come with us, I hope to clear the whole matter up in a few minutes,” I said.

Together with the two policemen, I walked to the solicitors' offices. I stopped and looked up at the clock, it was exactly as I remembered it, and I had a wave of memories about my father.

“Are you okay, Sweetie?” Steve asked.

“Fine, just a blast from the past,” I said, and Ron frowned.

We went in and the receptionist looked at us.

“Yes, can I help you?” she said.

“Hello, I'd like to speak to the solicitor handling the Drysdale estate,” I said.

“Have you an appointment?”

“No, but I have something very important to tell him, and I won't be long. Oh, and these gentlemen are from the police,” I said.

“One moment,” she said, and picked up a telephone. She spoke for a few moments, and then looked at me. She was obviously describing me to whoever was on the other end of the phone.

“Mr Carter will be down presently.”


A few moments later, a portly man in a pinstripe suit and huge red handkerchief in his breast pocket came out of the door to our left. He was in his sixties, and was balding.

“Rupert Carter. You mentioned something about the Drysdale estate?” he was the epitome of the pompous solicitor, with public school accent and flamboyant gestures.

“Hello, yes. I have information about the present whereabouts of Russell Drysdale,” I said.

He looked at me, and snapped his fingers.

“I know you. You are the singer, Emma Pearson. My son is sixteen and has posters of you all over his bedroom wall,” Rupert said.

I smiled.

“Well, come into my office. And your, ah, the officers,” he said.

Once the office door was closed, he invited us to sit in the leather chairs provided.

“Now, Miss Pearson, I am at a bit of a loss to understand why the police are with you.”

“Well, this is Detective Sergeant Ron Higgins, he was the officer who initiated the initial enquiries when Russell left his school. PC Steven Roberts is here as moral support. We are engaged to be married,” I said, and Ron started as if he had been poked with a shark stick.

“Congratulations, but what can you tell me?” he asked.

I looked at Steve, and then Ron, who was frowning. I looked down and took a deep breath.

“Russell ran away from his school because something happened to him. He could no longer stay there due to the, ah, peculiar, um, well I suppose it was the medical condition he had, so he left. A lovely couple, who helped him become the person he is today, found him. His mother actually contracted her lover to kill him, and so he was forced to hide. However, you may have gathered that from the press.

“The police are aware of all this, and indeed the lover, Raoul, was arrested in Milton Keynes armed with a pistol while looking for the boy.

“He adopted a new identity in line with his new persona, and continued his education, and indeed recently graduated from university as a qualified teacher. Yesterday's newspaper article prompted me to come forward,” I said.

“You said that you know Russell's current whereabouts?” Rupert said.

“I do.”


I looked at Steve and he nodded. Ron was staring at me intently.

I took a deep breath.

“I am, or rather, was Russell Drysdale,” I said.

Rupert burst out laughing.

“I can prove it,” I said, and he stopped. Ron was sitting on the edge of his seat, staring at me with a smile on his face.


“I remember coming here when I was seven, and a man took my fingerprints. I also have my wallet and bankcards that I had when I left Monksreach Hall. If you take my fingerprints, I am sure this can be resolved in seconds.”

Rupert stared at me, just blinking.

He stood up and went to a safe, and removed a file.

He took out an inkpad, and a plain piece of A4 paper.

“Would one of you like to do this, I am sure you have more experience than I?” he said to the officers. Steve looked at Ron, and Ron stood up. He came over to me.

“I knew there was something really different about you,” he said.

A few moments later, I was washing my hands in the ladies. I noticed that they still used Pears soap, and I wondered whether it was the same bar. I dried my hands, checked my makeup and returned to the office.

Rupert was comparing the fingerprints to those taken all those years ago.

“Emma, you mentioned a medical condition, what exactly was it?” Ron asked.

I smiled.

“Simple. I woke up one morning and discovered that I had become female. So, I could hardly stay at an all boys school anymore, now could I?”

“What, just like that?” asked Ron.

“Well, I guess it took a couple of days, because I noticed that my boy's stuff seemed to shrink, and I started to grow breasts. I mean, not much, just a sort of slight swelling. Enough for me to be teased in the showers. But that was nothing unusual. But then one morning, I went to the loo, and I was a girl.”

“Well, I'll be buggered. You were there all the bloody time,” Ron said, and started to laugh.

Rupert handed the prints to Ron.

“They look the same, what do you think?”

Ron looked and I looked, the new ones were larger, but then I had been seven when I had had the first ones taken.

“No doubt. Look at the ridges and whorls on this index finger. An absolute match,” said Ron.

Rupert sat down, and mopped his brow with his large red handkerchief.

“Well, I have to ask you a few questions, this is most extraordinary,” he said, and opened the file again.

“Have you attained any academic qualifications?”

“I have a Diploma from the Teesdale College of dramatic arts, and a BA Ed, from University.”

“Have you taken steps to ensure that you are capable of earning a reasonable living, independent from any family or friends?”

“Over the last three years, my income after tax was in excess of eight hundred thousand pounds. And all my own work,” I said with a smile. “In addition, I have invested in property, and I am not sure how much that is worth.”

“Try a guess.”

“Two million?”

All three men looked at me with somewhat dazed expressions.

“Are you committed to family values and the establishment of a family of your own?”

I looked at Steve, and smiled. He reached out and took my hand.

“We are going to be married in the summer, how much more committed do you need?”

The lawyer smiled and took out a letter and opened it.

“This letter is addressed to this firm, ‘to be opened as and when my natural child meets the criteria stipulated in my will'. It is signed by your father, Charles Drysdale.”

If this letter is being read, then I am happy. It means that my child is present and has proved himself worthy to be my heir.

To Russell.

I am so sorry to have put you through this, but I had to be sure. You are the most important person in the world to me, and as such, I have to know that you are equipped to deal with the wealth, which you now inherit.

Your mother is not the person I once thought she was, for I did love her dearly. She has betrayed me, and I fear she will betray you too. I have no doubt that already she is attempting to cheat you out of what is yours, well, there is a proviso to my will, which comes into force as you now assume your birth-right.

As from this moment, she has a pension of twenty thousand pounds a year, until she dies. She has no other benefits, and it is conditional on her having been a good mother to you over the last ten years, or so.

If she attempts anything to cheat you, then as from this moment, she gets nothing.

Wealth brings responsibilities, and great wealth brings great responsibilities. Your life will never be the same, and it is my hope that you will be a good steward of that which you now have. A man's measure is not what he leaves behind, but what his life said about him.

May God bless you, and I wish I could see you, and be with you. I love you with all my heart, and pray you have a long and fruitful life.

Your Father.


I found myself crying. Steve came over and put his arm around me.

“I can hardly remember him,” I said.

“You meant a lot to him,” Rupert said, even his eyes were moist.

“I hope he understands, now that I am his daughter.”

“I'm sure he would.”

There was a long silence.

“So, what happens now?” I asked.

Rupert produced a form, and asked me to sign it, as Russell Drysdale. I did so.

“Then, I have to inform you, that as from this moment, you are now the legal heir to the Drysdale estate, and trust.”

“That sounds very nice, but what does it actually mean?”

“The trust was set up so you would have some capital at twenty-one. This is because all the estate is tied up in property or commercial interests. The trust has been managed by your father's financial advisers, and is very healthy.”

“How healthy?”

“Twenty million, give or take a few thousands.”

I was very quiet.

“And the estate?”

He took out a single sheet of paper.

“There is your father's house near Great Missenden in Buckinghamshire. There is a flat in Mayfair, and an apartment in New York. There is the villa in Monaco, and a house in Florida. The yacht is currently at Monte Carlo. The business interests alone amount to about two hundred and fifty million pounds, not including the properties and yacht.”

Ron laughed and stood up. He walked over to the window. Steve looked glazed.

“How long until I have access to the trust?”

“You signed receipt of the trust and the whole estate, and it is yours now. There are one or two administrative details to complete, but they are not to hard. The big problem is actually your name.”

“My name?”

“You are Russell Drysdale, but you are also Emma Pearson. This is a unique problem.”

“Not necessarily. I have obtained a letter from a doctor, clearly stipulating that I am a perfectly normal fertile female. It is my intention to change my name from Russell Drysdale to Emma Pearson, so as to bring into alignment my two identities.”

“Well, as your late father's solicitor I am of course at your service, should you wish to continue using this firm's services. But that is a matter for you,” Rupert said.

“Thanks, I would be more than happy with continuing the arrangement, and if I could leave the matter of my name in your hands, I am sure I can trust you to be discrete. Above everything else, I would dearly love to keep as anonymous as possible about the whole affair. I do not want to draw attention to myself,” I said.

“That might be hard, as you might imagine, there has been considerable press interest in the whole affair.”

“There is no reason for anyone to know that I was once Russell Drysdale,” I said.

Rupert smiled.

“I will do what I can.”

“Thank you. Is there anything else?”

I spent another half an hour signing various documents, and gave him my address at Little Mudsley. He then shook me by the hand, and kissed my cheek.

“Never did I imagine that this case was going to turn out like this. Of course, you mother has successfully disinherited herself from all monies, and is as from this moment, penniless.”

I looked at him, and Steve smiled.

“I know she was an absolute cow, but she is still my mother. Can we let her know exactly where she stands, and should a full and public apology be forthcoming, then I should like to give her that pension of twenty thousand a year. However, if she wants to be a greedy cow, and holds out for more, then she can stuff herself. If you excuse my language.”

All three men smiled, and Ron burst out laughing.

“Well, I am more than satisfied that Russell Drysdale is alive and very well. So, I shall have great delight in closing that case. I can see why you stayed quiet; I don't blame you at all. However, I find it amazing that you were under my nose all the time, and that I spoke to you several times and never realised it. I even remember that conversation when you told me you could dress as a boy and pretend to be yourself. Very smart girl,” he said.

We prepared to leave, and Rupert said, “Your father would be very proud of you. If you were my daughter I would be.”

I kissed him again, and thanked him. We then left the office, and the haughty receptionist looked daggers at me, as I had told her I would not be long.

“Mrs Green, Miss Pearson has just become an extra special client, and when ever she calls, please put her through, regardless of whom I may have with me,” he said, and I chuckled as we left the office.

There were some reporters hanging about, obviously waiting for anyone who might look as if they could be involved in the Drysdale inheritance case. One of them recognised me, and shouted out.

“Hey Emma, what ya doing girl?”

I smiled sweetly, and replied, “Just seeing my lawyer about a recording contract. So whom are you waiting for?”

“Hoping the Drysdale kid comes to collect his millions,” he said.

“Sorry, it is just little old me,” I said.

They took a few snaps just for the hell of it, and I noticed Ron and Steve made themselves scarce.

I took my two pet policemen for lunch at Simpsons in the Strand, and we toasted my father. I was still somewhat bemused by the whole thing, and it had yet to sink in that I was now worth over two hundred million pounds.

Steve was very quiet, and I could tell something was brewing.

“What's the matter, love?” I asked.

“I suppose being a copper's wife is off the cards now,” he said.

“Not at all. Unless you don't want me.”

“You know I want you. But you could have anything you want now.”

“Good, because all I want is you,” I said, and Ron made vomit noises.

I kissed Steve, and he started to smile again.

Ron went his separate way after lunch, and Steve drove me home. We were both quite quiet on the journey, as there was a lot to think about. He dropped me off at Mary and Mike's, and held me in his arms for a moment. I just liked feeling him hold me. It was so reassuring. He smiled and gave me a kiss.

“It takes some getting used to,” he observed.

“I suppose. But it doesn't change anything. Life goes on, and I still want to marry you.”

He just held me for a while, and I could see he was trying to see what the wealth really meant.

“Hey, we won't need a mortgage, and we can have really nice holidays,” I said, and he grinned.

“I could jack in the job, and concentrate on my music,” he said.

“No, you don't want to do that. I will still pursue my career, and so I expect you to do the same. I fully intend to off-load my wealth so it is more manageable.”

“How do you mean?”

“Steve, I don't need all that wealth. Think what good it could do, if only given half a chance?”

“You'd give it away?” he asked incredulously.

“Why not? We won't need it.”


“I'd set up a charitable trust, and find worthy causes and support them.”

“Very noble, but how do you select who to give stuff to, and who not to?”

“You have trustees who get together and manage the charity, it would be fun.”

He smiled.

“You are unique. You inherit more money than most people could even dream about, and then, the same day, you plan how to give it all away.”

“No, I never said all. I only said most,” I said.

He laughed, and kissed me again.

“So, Miss moneybags, how much would you keep?”

“Enough,” I said, and he smiled.

Over the next few weeks, I was busy sorting through material for a possible new album. I had done very little over the last three years, and I wanted to get back into the swing of things.

The solicitor, Rupert was being busy with my identities. It was proving to be a problem, as I was legally two people, so he was looking at how he could manage to eliminate one, without drawing attention to me, and harming my career, or by getting Mike into trouble. Ron popped in for a visit, and we went through the whole saga with my mother, including her attempt to have me bumped off.

Ron got me to sign some forms, and Mike actually told him how he had managed it. Oh for a Christian conscience.

Four weeks later, I was recording the new album, and I got a phone call from Rupert.

“Emma, my dear, I have some news. The police have charged your mother and the young man she used to pretend to be you.”

“What with?”

“Attempted deception.”

“What happens now?”

“They are on bail, and will be before the Magistrates in two or three days.”

“My God, what will happen to them?”

“Well, as neither has previous convictions and if they elect to be tried in the magistrates court, who knows. Nevertheless, the court can send them to the Crown court for sentencing. They could get five years in prison.”

“She'll skip the country,” I said.

“They have thought of that. She had to surrender her passport, and there is a security of fifteen thousand pounds. If she buggers off, she loses the lot. But the best bit is the CPS are considering a charge of conspiracy to murder.”

“Will it stick?”

“Probably not, there is very little evidence. Incidentally, her lover, Raoul has recently been sentenced to three years in a French Prison for tax and accounting irregularities. He was only released from the British Prison a year ago after the firearms charges.”

I laughed, and asked him about Mother's court case.

He told me which court, and the date and time of the hearing. I had not seen her since that day outside Aylesbury Police station.

“Another thing, Russell Drysdale does not exist.”

“How did you manage it?”

“With a great deal of paper sifting. But eventually, using the medical evidence, I have changed Russell Drysdale to Emma Drysdale, quite legally, as he was wrongly identified at birth as a boy. I have checked records, and no one has twigged that Emma Pearson has never existed, all the certificates had been logged as genuine, and you are Emma Pearson.

“However, you are also, Emma Drysdale, and you are the only person I know who has two completely separate apparently legal identities. So, with the cooperation of the police, your friend Ron Higgins was brilliant, we have managed to sort things so that the certificates have been withdrawn, as being utilised as an official cover in order to protect you from assassination. It took a Home Office memo and a note from a very senior police officer to straighten things out. There were questions as to how you managed it, and the police stated that as the danger of you being killed was so great and the amount of capital involved was in excess of two hundred million pounds, that the security services were involved, and no questions need be asked.

“My task was to then change Emma Drysdale to Emma Pearson, and with Home office approval, we have managed to keep the whole thing classified. The Home office have asked, unofficially, how you managed it, and with a promise of no action being taken, Mike actually explained it and handed over any spare certificates so that it could not be repeated.

“End result: Mike in the clear, you are Emma Pearson, and the heir to the Drysdale estate, which is still highly confidential. The police have cleared up a Missing Person report, and charged your mother with a serious offence and no one is any the wiser.”

“You seem to have earned you rather high fees,” I said, and he chuckled.

“We are very good,” he said, with an upper class snigger.

“You will have to be with complicated clients like me,” I said, laughing.

“Well, anything else?”

I told him about my idea for a charitable trust, and he was quite surprised. I arranged an appointment to see him so we could work out the details.

I went over to see Steve's parents, as I did quite often, and they accepted me as one of their own. We were planning the wedding in June, and Mike would conduct his last wedding before retirement. He and Mary were determined to go to New Zealand to be close to their grand children. Steve came round on his way home from work, and I was pleased to see him. I told him the news and he was delighted.

“I want to go to court and see what happens to my mother,” I said, and he nodded.

“I thought you might. Are you going to tell her who you are?”

“I don't know. Probably not, as this way I have control.”

He nodded again.

“Do you want me to come?”

“If you want. You know I always like having you with me.”

So it was, I sat at the back of the court and watched my mother surrender to the court, and was seated in the dock. The strange young man had been identified as an out of work young actor with a drug problem, whom my mother had persuaded to supply for life if he pretended to be her son. He had told the police everything, and separate lawyers defended each of them, as his evidence further incriminated her.

My mother was looking older. Her crowning glory, her hair, was looking decidedly tatty, and the darker roots were showing, as the dye needed replacing. I could even see a hint of grey at those roots, and her whole demeanour was far less controlled that previously.

Her clothes were smart, but no longer new, nor indeed did they suit her. She wore a light fawn tight skirt that was too short and too tight. Her white blouse showed too much, and the dark jacket displayed all her dandruff. Her white shoes had very high heels, and looked rather silly.

The term, ‘mutton dressed as lamb.' sprang to mind, and her make up was applied so very thickly that she looked like a middle-aged tart.

She stood when the Magistrates entered, and when asked her name and whether she pleaded guilty or not, she was arrogant and supercilious. She pleaded not guilty, but her co-defendant pleaded guilty.

This caused the lawyers to ask to consult with their clients, and there was a brief exchange of heated whispers.

In the end, the lawyer defending her stood up.

“Your Worships. I regret to inform you that my client has declined to take my advice in this matter, and therefore I am unable to further represent her,” he then started to gather his papers together.

“You useless bastard. You are fired!” my mother shrieked from the dock.

The magistrates ordered her to be quiet, which she refused, and swore at them too.

She turned and looked at everyone at the back of the court. For a brief moment, our eyes locked.

“You fucking ghouls. Piss off, I'm not a fucking freak-show,” she shouted. Her French accent made the offensive swear words seem so ridiculous, somehow.

A police officer and a security guard took hold of her and removed her from the court, and the court was going to hold her for contempt. It then dawned on me that, on top of everything else, she was drunk.

I shook my head, and turned to Steve.

“Lets go, I've seen enough,” I said, and he nodded.

We went over the road to a coffee shop, and he bought me a cup of hot chocolate.

“Well?” he asked.

I shook my head. Tears were not far away.

“It is so sad, she had the chance to have everything, but blew it. What makes someone become so evil?”

“I don't think it is evil, just sort of twisted, as if she can't see what is right any more,” he said.

“I actually wanted her to turn round and be a mother for me for the first time in her life. I'd have forgiven her everything,” I said, and Steve took my hand.

“I know.”

“I was so alone.”

“I know, but you aren't now.”

I looked at him, and smiled. I squeezed his hand.

“I know, thanks for being there for me,” I said, and kissed him.

“Hell, you have been there for so many people, and without you, my life would be so dull,” he said, and I stroked his cheek.

“Everyone needs someone. No one should ever be alone. I was alone for far too long, and I was young and it hurt me so much.”

Steve said nothing, as he was aware of how miserable I had been.

“Our children will never be alone,” I said.

He smiled.

“Oh yes, are you pregnant?”

“Not yet, but I so want your children.”

“I'm sure we could work out how to acquire them, with a little practice,” he said with a grin. I smiled, and kissed him. I loved him so much.

Tanya Allen

© 5 December 2004