#I love sitting at dinner with my firmly middle-class in-laws

[stonebasalt]

.

[solarwonux]

Autumn Leaves 

campus crush!jeonghan x f!reader

w.c: 3.1k

warnings: language, angst, suggestive

note: don’t mind me I’m just starting to re-upload all my old works onto tumblr again. This time last year I uploaded this story so I thought it was very fitting to re-upload it again around the same time. I hope you enjoy let me know your thoughts. 

masterlist

The first time you ever laid eyes on Yoon Jeonghan, the leaves had just started to change color. The dull greens slowly fading away as the days went by being replaced by the bright hues of oranges and reds. The leaves that had managed to fall due to their dying cause left a lovely trail behind as you made your way to your first class of the day.

That’s when you saw him, right in between the law building and the library. There he was laying down underneath a tree full of autumn leaves. Paying no attention to the boy who was talking rather animatedly next to him. He was looking up at the sky covered in leaves, an arm tucked underneath his head. You watched as a single bright colored leaf fell upon his chest. How he picked it up and twirled it between his thumb and middle finger. How he nodded absentmindedly at what the boy next to him was saying. How he threw the leaf he was holding to the side and sat up on his forearms. How his eyes met yours for a brief second and you knew you were done for.

You scrambled around trying to pick a different point to focus your attention on. You told yourself to get moving, that your class was waiting and being late was never an option no matter what. Yet, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his perfect brown ones. When he smiled at you curiously before point towards the law building, almost as if he were telling you to get going before you were late. You didn’t know why you did it, but you nodded before turning and walking away. The single sound of his laughter ringing in your eyes as you approached your destination.

The rest of the day and so on your thoughts were invaded by him. The way the sunlight had hit his perfect features making him look ethereal. How his laughter had managed to heat up your checks as well as your heart. And for the remainder of the semester, you made sure to leave your dorm room extra early, every Monday and Wednesday. In hopes of catching the blonde boy that had managed to capture your heart. But the more the weather grew colder, the less hope you had in ever seeing him again.

And as the days bleed on you had started to forget about him slowly.

That was until the grueling snow had finally melted and the springtime began. The flowers had just started growing, making the campus look like a garden of tulips. The dead trees slowly gaining their leaves, blossoming into perfection as they regained their life once again.

You had promised to sit in on Jihoon’s soccer practice. “I’m going to make captain this year, I can feel it.” Your best friend exclaimed excitedly over the phone. You smiled and nodded while walking to the library.

“Ahh, I know you will, that’s why we’ll go out to celebrate afterward.” You suggested.

“Sounds like a plan, I’ll meet you by the locker rooms when practice is over.” He added before saying quick goodbye and hanging up.

That’s how you ended up sitting on the bleachers. Trying to keep your focus on Jihoon who was bursting with excitement ever since the coach had named him team captain. And you supposed that the universe had its ways of working against your favor. Because just as you started to shift your attention on something else that wasn’t him.

He was back, his hair color had changed from the unnatural platinum blonde you had first seen him into a soft brown. Back then you were sure he couldn’t have looked better. Until you saw the sun rays of the setting sun hitting him at just the right angle that made your heart want to burst from how hard it was beating.

In his sweating form, he looked beautiful, like a fallen angel that had made its way down to Earth. In order to capture the hearts of innocents as he had captured yours. You tried to shift your attention to your best friend or anyone else for that matter. Your attempts being deemed as unsuccessful.

For the remainder of Jihoon’s practice, you fought with yourself for acting like an idiot. For getting all giddy inside whenever you heard his voice shout an obscene amount of insults at his teammates jokingly. For letting your legs grow weak whenever his laughter found its way into your veins making you choke on air. Bottom line you were a nervous mess and you weren’t sure how you managed to survive the rest of the practice without fainting.

As you waited for Jihoon while sitting on a bench in front of the locker room. You tried to keep yourself distracted by checking all social media. Even platforms you hadn’t seen yourself checking since freshman year of high school. Literally, anything to keep your mind off of a sweaty breath-taking brunette boy who had come to own your heart without his knowledge.

“Hey, I hope you don’t mind the guys want to come along with us,” Jihoon said, breaking your train of thought. You looked up meeting your best friend’s eyes, while the rest of his teammates acted like fools behind him unaware of your presence.

“Yeah, I don’t mind.” You answered before you could really process what he was asking you. You watched as Jihoon’s grinned widened as he hugged you tightly. Deep down you knew you were in for an overwhelming and anxiety-induced night. But for Jihoon you would go to the end of the Earth twice in order to make him happy.

Dinner was interesting, you ended up sitting in between Jeonghan and Mingyu, who you recognized as the boy that was with him the first time you saw him. And who seemed to dislike each other greatly. At least that’s what you had concluded by the end of the night. One minute they were talking and laughing with one another. When suddenly they’d start arguing about something stupid, with you stuck in the middle.

“Mingyu you’re not listening to me; Messi is not the greatest soccer player that has ever lived.” Jeonghan had practically spat in Mingyu’s direction. Mingyu scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Han honestly you’re entitled to your opinion but it’s obviously wrong,” Mingyu answered taking a spoonful from the rice in front of him. You could feel Jeonghan fuming next to you. His body heat lingering in the air making your nerves spiral out of control.

Needless to say, dinner was interesting.

Despite all the bickering going on between Jeonghan and Mingyu and you arguing with Jihoon to let you pay for your own mean. In which he ended up winning. Dinner had gone rather smoothly.

Now you stood waiting outside as the guys each bid each other a farewell. Which took an eternity because of the fact that they’d come up with excuses to continue talking to one another. It was cute though and you found yourself wishing you had a friendship bond as close as those boys had to one another. Of course, you had Jihoon, who had been with you through the toughest times of your life. But your bond with him wasn’t anything like the bond he had with the guys. In other words, in your eyes it was magical.

The way they cared for and supported one another. The way they stuck to one another through thick and thin. The way you had to physically pull them apart in order to get them to stop talking so they could go home. It was all fascinating and you felt yourself wishing your friends were anything like Jihoon’s. Sadly, they weren’t which made your longing grow deeper.

“Seokmin wants to show me a new game he bought, and the guys want to play it, is it okay if I don’t walk you home tonight?” Jihoon tapped your shoulder and smiled at you shyly.

“It’s fine campus isn’t far from here anyway.” You said nodding your head.

“You’re the best, I’ll see you later okay?” Jihoon asked rather than stating. You nodded your head and wrapped your arms around him giving him the tightest hug. Although the two of you had been friends since childhood, hugs still felt awkward between the two of you.

“Congratulations on making team captain Woozi.” You said pulling away and ruffling his hair causing him to groan angrily.

“Whatever loser, text me when you get home.” He said firmly before turning around and running back to his teammates that had started to argue on who gets to play the game first.

You shook your head smiling before turning around and heading towards campus.

“Wait.” You heard someone call out making you stop walking. You closed your eyes as your mind registered who the voice belonged to. “I’ll walk with you,” Jeonghan said when he was finally next to you.

You gripped the strap of your cross-body bag tightly. Of course, luck was never on your side, to begin with, and maybe the universe was working with you. But right now, it felt like it was working against you.

“Aren’t you going to Seokmin’s?” You asked keeping your focus ahead as you started walking again.

“Have an 8 am class tomorrow.” He shrugged and continued walking next to you. His gym bag strapped across his white shirt and his hands stuffed nonchalantly into his red joggers.

“oh.” Was all you managed to say as you tried your best not to let the tension growing between the two of you overpower your senses.

The two of you walked in silence. The only sound that was heard was your feet against the pavement and the over blaring sound of the car horns surrounding the two of you. Neither one of you threatened to speak or cut the tension that was bubbling up between the two of you as you got closer to campus. From your peripherals you caught him staring at you curiously. And the more the two of you walked the closer he had started to get to you. Soon you were breathing in his body scent and it was driving you crazy.

“Thanks for walking me, you didn’t have to.” You said as you stopped right in front of your dorm room. He leaned against the wall beside your door eyeing you closely as you look for your key in your bag.

“I wanted too.” He shrugged as you finally found it, inserting it in the lock and just before you could turn the doorknob a hand stopped you. You turned to face the curious boy that had patiently waited for you to get inside. His eyes pleading as if he were to ask you something and just before he could let the words out. His instinct took over and he kissed you deeply. Kissed you like you were the only person that mattered to him.

He wrapped his arms around you tightly bringing you in closer, finally cutting the tension that had grown between the two of you over the past four hours. He pinned you against your door as you responded to his feverish kiss. Feeling right at home as his hands trailed down your back in search of your doorknob.

The second he found it and opened the door he pushed you inside softly. “I’m sorry.” He mumbled against your lips as he walked you backward. “Don’t be.” You said breathlessly as you pulled away taking your hand in his and leading him into your bedroom.

The next morning when you woke up, you were alone. The ache between your legs reminding you of the sinful act you had committed the night before. Any traces of Jeonghan gone with him. The only thing that remained were the ghost touches of his fingertips against your fragile skin. That day you cried, cried for the loss of innocence. And cried because you felt betrayed. You don’t know what you were expecting as you let him touch you the way you wanted to be touched but it wasn’t the emptiness you were currently experiencing.

For the rest of the semester, you avoided going to Jihoon’s practices and games as if they were the plague. Every excuse in the worldwide book of excuses, you had used at least twice. Until one day his pleas and calls stopped coming. And you knew you had let a boy come in between the years of friendship Jihoon and you had under your belts.

You had spent weeks crying over your lost friendship. Whenever you reached out to him he would leave you on read or send your phone call to voicemail, you felt your heart shatter. You knew you had brought this upon yourself, you knew you were wasting your tears since this had been entirely your wrongdoing. But you couldn’t help but feel helpless and alone.

Then one Sunday morning after a night of spilling saddened tears for Jihoon and angry tears for Jeonghan. You had woken up feeling like the wave of sadness had finally passed. Summer was in full bloom which meant the scorching heat was back. But you felt okay and that’s all that mattered at least in that moment. You had somewhat returned to normal. You had stopped dreading getting out of bed every morning and your interest in your classes had been regained.

You spent that entire summer with your other friends. Your bond had grown closer as they watched you break before their very eyes’ months before. They were there for you bringing you the worst movies and all the ice cream you could ever ask for.

The peace had finally been restored in your life, only for it to be ruined one Friday night when Yoon Jeonghan showed up at your door before the start of the fall semester.

You had decided to have a night in. Your friends had tried to convince you to go out with them for drinks. But you hadn’t had a relaxing night to yourself in months. So, you decided to stay in with your Netflix account and a cheap bottle of wine you had bought on your way home from the corner store.

Just as you were about to sit down, you heard someone knocking on your apartment door. You looked up at the clock that sat on top of the tv, that had never worked once. But somehow you had developed this annoying habit of looking at it whenever you wondered what time it was. Groaning annoyed with yourself you set down your wine bottle and wine glass down on the coffee table. You made your way to your front door and looked through the peephole.

Your heart started to race as the ghost of that unforgettable night stood on the other side of the door looking like he had just finished running a marathon. You let out a tiny squeak as you leaned your back against the door. You closed your eyes contemplating whether you should open the door or not. But when the knocking came back and became more desperate than before. You knew you had to open the door because something in the back of your mind told you he wouldn’t stop until you did.

You unlocked your door and placed your hand on top of the doorknob. Inhaling deeply before you opened your front. Once your door was open, Jeonghan pushed past you and walked in leaving you dumbfounded as he pulled on the roots of his hair. You closed the door before turning to face him and watched as he paced back and forth almost as if he were arguing with himself.

“Please tell me you felt it too?” He asked looking at you with pleading eyes. His hands shaking slightly as he ran them desperately through his hair.

“W-What are you talking about?” You asked confused leaning your back against the door. He turned to face you and closed the distance he had created between the two of you. You held out your arm asking him to stop before he could get any closer.

“That night please tell me you felt it too?”

You stopped breathing upon hearing his question. Because whatever he was talking about, you had felt it. You had felt it that day when you first saw him underneath the autumn leaves. You had felt it when he first kissed you and pinned you against your front door. You had felt it when you pushed him down on to your bed and straddled his lap. You had felt it when he looked into your eyes deeply before asking you for permission to continue. When he had pinned you down underneath him and taken your clothes off. When your skin felt like it was on fire underneath his lips.

You had felt that wave of overwhelming emotions as he rutted into you with everything in his being. Like letting you go was the last thing he ever wanted to do. As he looked into your eyes with a passion you never once had seen in anyone else. That night, despite the suffering that had come afterward, was irreplaceable.

“Y-Yes.” You finally choked out, his pleading eyes softening as he let out a sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry, I left that morning, I’m sorry I never called, but you overwhelmed my senses. I couldn’t think clearly from that day on. And I’m the coward that got scared with everything I was feeling.” He confessed leaning his forehead against yours. “You’re a force to be reckoned with and I’ve been hating myself since that night for leaving you the way I did.” He finished closing his eyes as he planted a soft kiss on your forehead.

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding in. And wrapped your arms around your neck leaning into his touch. “Yoon Jeonghan, do you have any idea what you’ve put my poor heart through these past few months?”

“Believe me, I made myself go through the same suffering. Jihoon literally had to slap me for being an idiot today after practice.” He said wrapping his arms around your waist lightly. “I’m sorry.” He finished smiling softly. The same smile you had fallen for months before.

You shook your head smiling before you shoved him lightly. “I don’t know why I can’t say no to you.” You said pecking his lips before he had any chance to react.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” He asked curiously raising an eyebrow before leaning down and hovering his lips over yours.

“I haven’t decided yet.” You said before kissing him lightly.

The two of you holding onto one another tightly not knowing what the universe would have in store for the two of you.

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Stella and the Wolf - Chapter 6

You can read it here on AO3, or find the Tumblr Chapter Index here. 

The way Stiles figures it, the Alpha is the heart of the problem. As long as the Alpha is out there wanting both Derek and Scott to turn into mindless killing machines, that makes the Argents a problem too. Maybe they’ll back off when the Alpha is out of the picture? Although the amount of times Derek has been shot or stabbed, that’s a big maybe. There’s not a lot of love lost there, clearly. But the Alpha is still the biggest problem. And Stiles has no idea who it is.

He keeps circling back around to Deaton, Scott’s boss at the vet clinic, because Deaton is developing this habit of just kind of being in the vicinity when werewolf shit goes down. And when he talks, he’s always saying more than his words, even if Stiles doesn’t know exactly what he’s saying. He knows something, that’s for sure.

Except…

Except Scott works with Deaton three afternoons a week, and every Saturday. So if Deaton is really the Alpha, why hasn’t he taken the opportunity to get Scott to do his evil bidding or exert his mind control or whatever the fuck it is that Alphas do, when Scott is right there? Deaton is shady as fuck, basically, but him being the Alpha doesn’t quite add up.

Stiles has always loved solving puzzles, but when literally every person in town is a potential suspect? It’s not as easy as Law and Order makes it look, is all he’s saying. Despite his best efforts, Stiles is not going to solve this in forty-five minutes plus ad breaks.

He needs to know more about the Alpha’s victims. The bus driver, and the two guys drinking in the woods… Because if the Alpha is batshit insane, why haven’t there been more killings? Why isn’t he out there in broad daylight tearing people apart?

So maybe there’s a pattern, right?

Maybe there’s an actual motive.

He really needs to get a look at Dad’s reports.

Unfortunately, Dad knows better than to bring that stuff home, and has ever since Stiles was nine, helped himself to some light reading, and then asked Dad over dinner what carnal abuse was.

So now Dad’s files stay at work, and Stiles is pretty sure the laptop he brings home is password protected to NSA levels. Which leaves him with no choice—he needs to get to Dad’s files at the station, and copy them.

Stella, of course, is happy to help. For all that she’s a tattletale whenever Stiles is keeping secrets from her, all he needs to do to buy her undying loyalty is to make her an accomplice.

“You got this, Batgirl?” he asks when they pull up at the Sheriff’s Department.

She gives him the thumbs up. “Got it!”

Nobody has ever accused Stiles of stealthiness, or even subtlety, so lucky he’s got Stella to act as a distraction. She barrels into the station talking a mile a minute—she gets that from him—and straight into the bullpen, where she finds Dad and a few of the deputies, and proceeds to spin a tale about how mean one of the boys was at school today, and how he pulled her hair. Her outrage is palpable, and she adds the icing to the cake by announcing, “And Mrs. Svensen, she was the teacher on playground duty, said that he must have done it because he likes me. But I don’t like it when he pulls my hair! It’s not fair!”

Stiles slips away into the file room.

He finds the files on the recent killings, and photographs the pages using his phone. Even the autopsy reports, although they make his stomach churn. He does the same to Laura Hale’s file—stopping once and freezing when he hears footsteps passing—and then, more on instinct than anything else, looks for the file on the Hale house fire.

It’s huge.

Three massive folders stuffed with papers, and there’s no way Stiles will be able to copy it all.

Not in the few minutes he has left, anyway.

He doesn’t allow himself a moment to second-guess what is probably a monumentally stupid thing to do. Just unzips his backpack, shoves the file inside, and zips it up again.

By the time he gets back to the bullpen, Tara is showing Stella how to stomp on a guy’s foot and knee him in the balls in one smooth movement.  

It’s sort of hot, but that’s Tara all over.

“Want to be my guinea pig, Stiles?” she asks him with a smile, fingers hooked into the utility belt hanging off her hips, and Stiles tries very hard not to think about what it would feel like with her hands touching him. Like, he’s pretty sure it’d be worth getting kneed in the balls.

He feels his face burn. “Um… I… um. What?”

“Back to work everyone!” Dad says suddenly, putting a hand on Stiles’s shoulder and steering him firmly away from his humiliating inability to speak in actual sentences right now. “So, what did you two drop in for anyway?”

Stella skips alongside them. “Stiles is taking me to the hospital, but I wanted to see you first.”

“The hospital?”

“My Reading in the Community program!”

“Oh, right,” Dad says. He looks at his watch. “What time does that finish?”

“Five,” Stiles says. Now he’s out of Tara’s sight he can apparently remember how to use his words. “I figured I’d drop her off then go to Scott’s and do some homework before I go back and collect her.”

He’s actually intending to sit in his Jeep in the parking lot and photograph the entire Hale house fire file, but why muddy the waters with truth? Then he can hopefully return it to the station before Dad notices it’s even gone. Not that Dad will notice, right? The Hale house fire was years ago. Why would anyone want to look at the file today suddenly?

Stiles ignores the snarky little voice in his head that reminds him that the obvious connection is Laura Hale, because come on, Dad’s probably already made that connection, and probably already looked over the Hale fire file again recently, and the chances that he needs to do it again in the hour that Stella is at the hospital at miniscule at best, right?

Totally.

This is fine.

Stiles is not going to get busted.

This is fine.

“Sounds good, kid,” Dad says. “I’ll see you both at home for dinner.”

Stiles and Stella escape back into the sunlight.

***

There are four other little kids waiting at the hospital with their moms when Stiles turns up. It’s always a little awkward. Stiles is pretty bad at mom talk. Usually he just slinks to the edge of a space and plays games on his phone until he can escape, but this is a pretty small crowd and it’s hard to get lost in it. Stiles figures most of Stella’s school friends know her deal, but they don’t necessarily tell their parents, because there’s always at least someone who looks at him like ‘Why is this kid here at this thing?’

And Stiles really doesn’t like explaining his life story to strangers.

He’s saved from having to do it today when Stella’s teacher arrives. “Okay, we’re all here! Let’s go and read. Parents, you can pick your kids up from here at five!”

She saves a special smile for Stiles.

Stiles likes Mrs. Lucas, but it’s weird. She’s middle-aged, and it’s weird that she was actually his teacher in elementary school too, and the one big memory he has of her is the time he had a meltdown in class because his mom was going to die, and she took him outside and hugged him and didn’t even complain that he got snot all over her blouse. It’s awkward because he sometimes wonders if that’s her one prevailing memory of him as well, and he always feels like a little kid playing dress-up when he has to interact with her for Stella’s school stuff as like Dad’s proxy.

He smiles and waves as Mrs. Lucas ushers the kids into the hospital, and then dodges the other parents and hurries back to the parking lot.

He’s got an hour to photograph every page of the Hale house fire.

He sets his alarm on his phone and gets to work.

***

“I thought you were going home after the hospital,” Dad says when Stiles and Stella turn up at the station again.

Stella bursts into tears.

She’s not pretending this time.

Stiles watches, hollow-eyed, as Dad pulls her into a hug.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dad says, rubbing her back and looking at Stiles. “It’s okay, baby girl.”

“She got a coma patient,” Stiles says, his throat aching. “Mrs. Lucas said she was fine with it, but then we got to the car and this happened.”

Dad presses his mouth into a thin line for a moment. “Okay. You don’t need to go back next time, Stella.”

She draws back, tear-stained and affronted. “No! I want to!”

“You want to?” Dad asks, brows raising.

“Mrs. McCall says that it’s not like being asleep. He can still hear me read, so I’m going to do it again.” Her grim determination wavers. “It just makes me sad.”

Dad looks at Stiles, helpless.

Stiles shrugs. “I um, I need the bathroom.”

He’s feeling pretty close to a breakdown himself, after skimming through the Hale house fire file. He’d known, in the abstract, how bad it was. He’d even dealt with the autopsy photographs okay, since none of them looked like actual people as long as he didn’t study them too hard. But it was the other photographs that felt like a stab in the guts. Cora Hale’s yearbook photo. Talia and James Hale with their arms around one another, laughing. Patrick Hale in a little league uniform. Eight of them in total. Eight real people whose lives had been cut short in that fire.

That fire that Derek said had been started by hunters.

By the Argents.

Stiles had looked at the file and felt a chill to the core at the thought of that happening to Scott and Melissa. Happening to someone just because there are werewolves in the family.

He shuffles down the corridor toward the bathroom, taking a quick detour to replace the files in the file room.

He thinks of Derek again as he closes the door and makes his escape.

Thinks of everything that he’s lost.

Scrubs at his face before he returns to Dad and Stella, but it’s okay if Dad thinks he’s been crying too. He knows how Stiles feels when Stella gets hurt.

Dad ends up clocking out early from work.

They get pizza for dinner, because nobody feels like cooking.

They eat on the couch, Stella sandwiched in the middle.

Everything feels strange and fragile, like an itch under his skin, and Stiles hates it.

It’s not fair.

Nothing in the world is far.

Later that night when Stella and Dad are both asleep in their rooms, Stiles eases his bedroom window open, grabs the keys to the Jeep, and climbs out into the night.

Because nothing in the world is fair, and Derek shouldn’t be out there alone.

[roslinadama-sinequanon]

Christmas in Connecticut-Chapter 20 of 20

In this chapter Andy tries to keep his cool when Maura voices her skepticism of his relationship with Sharon. Peggy jumps to Sharon's defense.

Sharon spends some time with Sylvia who has a sentimental gift to give to her soon to be daughter in law.

This is the last chapter of this installment. Stay tuned as the story continues back in LA with "Saying Good-bye to Yesterday" which will focus on the annulments and some of what happened in Season Five. We will meet Winnie Davis and Sandra and there will be a few fireworks with Jack who is not going to be happy about his kids forcing him to sign the annulment papers. As with this story it will weave in and out of canon.

Story available here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12789981/20/Christmas-in-Connecticut

Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13293105/chapters/34782611

And here are a couple pics to go along with Andy remembering back to going to the Japanese embassy dinner with Sharon. Didn’t they look gorgeous that night.

You can also read the chapter here:

True to her word, as soon as Gina squeezed into her chair next to Sharon she set in to regale her with stories about Andy as a boy. The others were not content to let Gina steal the show and once she got started Maura, Peggy, Nell, and Sylvia were keen to join her, with Andy jumping in every so often to defend himself or offer explanations. The Flynn siblings were loud and boisterous; they competed with each other, interrupted each other and finished each other’s stories while Sharon was content with sitting back and taking it all in, the calm in the middle of their storm.  

Most of the stories were amusing, though a few made Sharon catch her breath with the danger young Andy had put himself in and the risks he’d taken. He sure hadn’t changed much. Listening to what he had been like as a boy she found that the traits he had as an adult were simply modified versions of those he’d had as a child. The women in his life gave her a clear image of a young boy full of mischief, quick to laugh and just as quick to flare into a temper, a young boy caught between two worlds, defending the honor of both.

“Back then, there was still some rivalry going on and PC wasn‘t something any of us had even heard of,” Andy explained. “To the Italian kids, I was a mick. To the Irish, I was a dago. It felt like I was always fighting somebody.”

“And don’t forget Dennis,” Peggy waved a fork at him. “You were always protecting him.”

“My cousin.” He responded to Sharon’s questioning look.

“Oh. The one with Downs?” Her friend Summer’s daughter Rhiannon had Downs and when Andy met her Sharon had been surprised at the ease and rapport that he’d had with the young woman. She and Summer had been friends since their kids were in diapers and she‘d seen how often people were uncomfortable around Rhiannon, but not Andy. When she had commented on that, he’d told her about Dennis.

“Yes,” Peggy said. “You know how kids are. They can be brutal to anyone different. They were always picking on Dennis. But when Aunt Loretta moved into the building Andy started walking him to school and Dennis didn‘t have any more trouble. Joe couldn’t be bothered, but Andy took care of him, just like he took care of all of us. As much as I hate to admit it, outside of the house he was a pretty decent brother."

"Outside?" Sharon’s brow arched with interest.

"Mmm..." Peggy took a sip of her wine then settled back in her chair giving her brother a little smirk. "Inside the apartment, he could say whatever he wanted about us, complain about us, tease us, pull our pigtails, and let me tell you, he did all of that. A LOT. He could be a little pest. But let anyone outside the house dare say anything bad about any one of us and they’d have Andy in their face.”

It was amusing to see that Andy was actually blushing. That didn’t happen very often. There wasn‘t much in the world that could surprise or embarrass her fiancé but it all rang true. Andy still had a protective streak a mile wide and she had never doubted his loyalty to her or the team. He might grumble about the squad and he loved to jab at them, especially Provenza, but she knew with every ounce of her being that he would step in front of a bullet for any one of them, especially her.

Andy took another helping of mushroom risotto and grew thoughtful. “That all started with Dad. He used to tell me, they’re your sisters, Andy. In this family, we take care of our own.”

“He used to say the same thing to Joey.” Gina’s eyes rolled derisively. “But he was always too busy with his friends. He never took any responsibility for us.”

“It didn’t take many fights for kids to learn that you didn’t mess with Dennis or the Flynn girls,” Maura added. “Andy was a tough little shi---kid and he taught us how to fight too, said we needed to know how to defend ourselves when he wasn‘t around.”

Sharon bit back a smile. Andy was the only person she knew who could look both sheepish and proud at the same time. “He’s still tough,” she said.  Sometimes too tough. Her sexy third in command Lieutenant was always the first one to kick in a door, and, along with Julio, to get in a perps face. He had zero tolerance for those who lied and those who hurt others…dirtbags. However, unlike Julio who still struggled with his temper, Andy had learned to keep his under control for the most part. When she’d first gotten involved auditing the Major Crimes division she had often been the one to set off that temper. Her position in FID, her insistence in following the rules, her ability to keep her composure, and the fact that for a time he thought she was out to get them, all seemed to set Andy off like a powder keg.

In an interesting case of reversal, once they had begun working together the opposite seemed to be the case. Somehow, and she wasn’t quite sure how it happened, she had become the one who could calm him down. When she saw his temper escalating all she had to do was give him a look, softly say his name, or rest a gentle hand on his arm and it was as if all the tension left his body.

“Well, girls shouldn’t be fighting,” Sylvia said firmly.

“Maaaa!” Her daughters were outraged.

“I disagree, Sylvia.” Sharon‘s protest was softer, but no less firm. “All girls and women should know how to protect themselves. I‘ve actually taught some basic women‘s self- defense classes at local high schools and at the battered women‘s shelter where I volunteer.”

“Kick em’ in the balls, takes em’ down every time.”

“Gina!” Sylvia sputtered.  “Good Lord.”

“What? I’m just sayin'…”

“She’s not wrong, Ma.” Andy shifted in his seat, wincing at the thought. “A swift kick to the balls will bring any guy to his knees.”

“Andrew, my goodness, do you children not see that we have guests?”

“Oh, don’t mind us. We’ve heard worse, right?” Ricky looked down the table at his siblings and Nicole who all nodded in agreement. “Hazard of being a cop’s kid, you never know what your dinner conversation is going to be about.”

An impish smile curved on Sharon’s lips as she turned to the older woman. “Besides, that goes both ways, Sylvia. We’re not guests, we’re family, right?”  

Sylvia sighed but acquiesced with a nod of agreement and Sharon turned back to Gina assuring her, “You were right. Groin attacks are definitely a big part of the course. It’s a very quick way to incapacitate a man.”

Eager to change the subject, Sylvia turned to her daughters. “Girls, would you get the pannacotta please.”

The Flynn girls might be feisty, but they listened to their Mama.

************************

“Groin attacks?” Maura sidled up to Peggy at the refrigerator and began pulling out the ramekins of chilled desserts. “Does she always sound so hoity -toity?”

“She’s a cop, I’m sure she can turn the air blue with the best of them, but she has class. You ought to take a lesson or two. And be quiet you don’t want her to hear you and you sure as hell don’t want Andy to hear you. That will really piss him off.”

“She’s definitely got him whipped.” Maura didn’t drop the subject but did speak more softly in an effort to placate her sister. “Did you see the way he looks at her with those puppy dog eyes? And, oh my God, seriously? She’s got him going to the opera and the symphony. Jesus, he’s got it bad.”

“He’s in love Maur.” Peggy began spooning the juicy combination of strawberries, blackberries, and raspberries over the desserts. “And if you were paying attention you’d see that she looks at him exactly the same way.”

“Hmph.”

“She does. And she’s gone riding on the back of his motorcycle on the Angeles Crest Highway and to a boxing match with him. Do those things sound like something she would have done before she met Andy? When you’re in a relationship sometimes you have to go out of your comfort zone. And it’s not as if they don’t have anything in common. They work together; they both love old movies and sports. I mean she loves the Dodgers, what more could Andy ask for?”

“I’ll give you that. I didn’t see the sports fanatic thing coming. Figure skating, sure, but football?” The very idea of the elegant Sharon Raydor wearing a big foam cheese on her head to root for the Packers was incongruous.

“See, you can’t just judge people by how they look or where they come from. Don’t let Ken’s shitty mid-life crisis make you bitter and hard. Andy’s had a tough go of it, admittedly through some of his own doing, but still. He’s fallen in love with a terrific woman, he’s getting married and he’s happier and more at peace than I’ve ever seen him. Let’s just be happy for him, okay.”

********

With lunch finished the LA contingent, including Emily, but not including Andy and Sharon, had to leave for the airport. After they left, Sharon rose to help clear the feast from the table but Andy handed her a cup of coffee and ushered her away to go relax with his mother. They weren’t leaving for LA until the following morning so they could spend a little more time with his family.

Sipping her coffee Sharon made her way back to the living room, pausing to pick up a framed black and white 8x10 photo. She settled into the couch with it, involuntarily shuddering at the crinkling noise the plastic covering made when she sat. The last time she had seen a plastic cover over a couch had been a few years back when a serial killer had lured Rusty to an empty condo in their building and had come very close to killing him. Were it not for Andy calling and tipping her off to where they might be, she never would have would have made it in time to bash the door in with a fire extinguisher and save him. Her heart began racing at the thought of how close she’d come to losing Rusty so she forced herself to leave the past and focus on the wedding picture in her hands.

The tiny dark- haired bride was wearing a ball gown style wedding dress circa 1950’s, tiny waist and full taffeta skirt, so she assumed it was Sylvia. A thrilled little jolt ran through her at the thought that she would soon be looking for a wedding gown of her own. Definitely not a ball gown style though, possibly an elegant A-line or a sexier fit and flare. Something romantic and stylish, both vintage and modern. Definitely some lace. She loved lace. When she got back to LA, she’d have to pick up a few bridal magazines and have a look at what was in style now. Gavin would be a big help there. His favorite television show was “Say Yes to the Dress.”  

At the woman’s side was a tall, very handsome young man with a thick head of a hair and a smile she knew all too well. The same smile as the one on the face of the man who was helping his sisters clear the table. The resemblance was uncanny. Andy had a framed picture of his parents in their bedroom and she had seen family photos at his house, so it wasn’t the first time she’d seen his father but in this wedding shot Patrick Flynn was young and still had the cocky grin that in his son made her heart flutter.

“My Patrick was a handsome man, wasn’t he?” Sylvia sat down in a chair across from Sharon.

“Yes, he certainly was.”

“Well, of course, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? Joey, my older boy, he's Rossi through and through, shorter, darker, pure Sicilian. Actually, he looks a lot like my father and my grandfather. But Andy, all he got from me was the color of his eyes, skin that doesn’t easily burn and a temper that heats up as fast as it cools down. In everything else, he has the look of his father, his height, his build, everything, right down to the twinkle in his eyes and that mischievous little smile. Oh that smile,” her eyes turned wistful as they landed on a laughing Andy in the kitchen. “That smile got them both out of a lot of trouble. I don’t know what it was, or why I fell for it, but all they had to do was give me that grin and I would forget why I was angry with them. The girls told you about Andy fighting, but I‘ll tell you, that boy could tell a tale and charm his way out of detention with just a smile. Even the nuns fell for it and I don‘t think I need to tell you how tough they could be.”

“Mmm…“ Sharon took a sip of her coffee and nodded in agreement. “It is pretty irresistible. “She couldn’t count how many times she’d been irritated with Andy, all he had to do was flash her that boyish grin, and she couldn’t seem to help grinning back, her anger magically dissipating.

“I always had a thing for the Irish boys. Did Andy tell you how Patrick and I met? “

“He said it was at a church dance.”

“Just like the movie.” Sylvia clapped her hands with delight. “Only backward. I was the Italian one, Patrick the Irish. Did you see “Brooklyn”?”

“I did, yes. It was the first movie Andy and I went to together.” They had just finished a case and were talking about what they were going to do on their days off. Andy had expressed interest in seeing the movie because of its connection with his parents and when she said she’d wanted to see it as well, he had suggested that they should go together. It was funny how natural it had seemed, sitting in the darkened theater sharing a bucket of popcorn and a diet soda with love em‘and leave em‘Andy Flynn.

“Well, of course, neither of us was new to the country like the young girl in the movie. I was a third generation American, but Patrick was a fourth, his family came here during the potato famine. I had never even heard about this famine until I married him. Then I read all about it. My God, it’s hard to imagine such suffering.”

Sharon nodded, she‘d done her own research on her family‘s history. “That’s when my father’s family came. They settled in Boston, though.”

“One generation doesn’t seem like much of a difference but it was. My grandfather wasn’t born in this country, he spoke English with a very thick accent and it always seemed like he still had a foot in the Old World. It wasn’t like that with the Flynn’s. Patrick’s family seemed so much more American to me. They had a history here. His great-grandfather fought in the Civil War and helped build the Brooklyn Bridge, his grandfather fought in World War I and Patrick in World War II. We Rossi’s were still the new kids on the block.

“Did your families give you a hard time when you told them you wanted to get married?”

“No, not really. By the time Patrick and I got married in the 50s, things were changing. Before the war, everyone was divided even though we shared the same religion. There was an Irish church, an Italian church, a Polish church and you rarely socialized with anyone outside your parish and your ethnic background.  After the war that began to change. The churches started to consolidate and we all started moving into the same neighborhoods instead of staying in our own little enclaves. There were a few snide remarks of course, you know, why wasn‘t an Italian boy good enough for me and things like that. But I think my parents were just happy that I was marrying another Catholic and not a dreaded Protestant.” Sylvia laughed, shaking her head at the way things used to be. Then she leaned forward and reached out as if to touch Sharon’s chest, only stopping herself at the last minute.

“That’s a very pretty necklace.”

Sharon’s fingers moved to her neck gently touching the delicate heart-shaped pendant, two hands cupped around a glittering emerald heart. “It’s a Claddagh. Andy gave it to me when we spent a weekend in Corona Del Mar.” Her eyes grew soft and she flushed slightly at the memory. Andy had bought her the necklace the night they had first made love. After dinner in Laguna Beach, they had been browsing through a Celtic store and had seen the necklace. While she had been purchasing some Innisfree perfume, he had surreptitiously bought the necklace and surprised her with it the following evening while they were gliding around the Newport Beach harbor in a romantic gondola.

“That look on your face tells me it must be pretty special.”

“Yes,” Sharon’s voice grew low, almost dreamy. “Very special.” When he’d put it around her neck he’d told her that when she wore it he wanted it to remind her of how much he loved her and how much the weekend had meant to him. Who knew that under his cynical, wisecracking exterior lay a romantic soul who shared her sense of occasion?

“Speaking of special, there’s something I’d like to share with you.” Sylvia rose and returned a few minutes later holding out a little velvet bag to Sharon. Sharon took the bag and when she opened it, she found a lovely rosary in mother of pearl, with a silver crucifix. “That rosary was brought over from Italy by my great-grandmother. She carried it at her wedding then it was passed down to my grandmother and my mother, to me, and then to each of my daughters. Andy said how important the church is to you and that you are hoping to have a nuptial mass, so I thought… Well, I thought maybe you would want to carry it with you on your wedding day. You’ll need a something borrowed.”

Sharon fingered the beads, her chest tightening with emotions and for a moment, she was unable to speak.

“Don’t worry,” Sylvia continued, mistaking her silence. “Sandra didn’t carry them. I offered but she wasn’t very interested in anything old fashioned like carrying a rosary on your wedding day.”

Sharon smiled at the woman who would soon be her mother in law, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Sylvia, I would be honored to carry this rosary with me on the day that I marry your son. Old fashioned is not a problem for me. Thank you.” She reached out to squeeze the older woman’s hand.

“No. Thank you. It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen my boy so happy. That’s all you.”

****************************

“I still can’t believe you’re getting married.” Peggy handed Andy another stack of plates he promptly set into the soapy water in the sink. “After Sandra, I didn’t think you’d ever take the plunge again.”

“Me either.” Even though they both knew the marriage wasn’t working and he and Sandra had both agreed to the divorce, their split had been bitter and acrimonious with a lot of anger and hurled insults, especially when it came to custody issues. Then when Sandra had begun using Nicole as a weapon against him, it had left him soured on the very idea of marriage. In fact, until he had fallen in love with Sharon he would have told anyone who asked that he would rather be shot in the head than ever get hitched again. Dating and sex was one thing, but taking those vows was something else entirely. “Sharon changed all that.”

“Yeah, we can see that. But I could see something was happening between the two of you way back at Nicole’s wedding.”

“You think? I don’t know. That was the first time we had ever gone anywhere alone outside of work. It wasn’t a date, but…” He trailed off not sure how to explain it.

“But what?”

“But it started to feel like one. And after our first dance, I guess I started wishing it was one. That day did change things between us.” It was strange how it had all happened so organically. He’d always had an eye on Sharon, even when he couldn’t stand her. It was in his DNA. A pretty woman walked by and he had to look. And Sharon was a beauty.  A cool, impenetrable, and totally untouchable beauty.  It was frustrating. He wanted to despise her yet there was a strange attraction he felt in her presence and the first time he had felt the urge to act on that attraction was well before they were even friends. He was pissed, yelling at her, defending his honor as an officer of the law and she was standing there cool as a cucumber holding his fat employee file filled with exonerated complaints, not even flushing as one might when trying to control their temper. No, she was completely unaffected by his anger and he suddenly got the urge to grab her by the shoulders and kiss her senseless. Kiss her into a reaction. The overpowering pull of attraction and its accompanying surge of lust only served to make him angrier. How was he attracted to Sharon---stick up her ass--- Raydor?

He wasn’t sure when exactly he’d gone from irritation with her and her rules, to admiring her legs when she sat on the edge of a desk and her cleavage when she leaned over one, to really seeing her as a person. It was probably right around the time she’d started asking him for advice on addiction after she’d found Rusty’s drug addict mother and had then asked him to accompany Rusty to pick up that mother up at the bus station. The crushing disappointment when she hadn’t been on the bus had caused Rusty to run off—so quickly Andy hadn’t been able to find him. The kid had lived on the streets long enough to know how to disappear. Telling Sharon he had lost the boy had turned out to be even harder than he’d thought it would be. The fear shining in her eyes and the way she had tried to smile so bravely and assure him she knew it wasn’t his fault, even as the tears welled in her eyes, made him feel like such a heel. He’d hated disappointing her. Then, just when he thought he couldn’t feel any worse, despite how upset she was, she’d squared her shoulders and taken a moment to tell them all that they had done a great job. He‘d just stood there with his heart twisting painfully in his chest as her voice broke and she‘d rushed off before breaking down in front of them. God how he’d hated being responsible for making her cry. Sharon might have a tough shield she surrounded herself with, but inside she was a marshmallow when it came to those she loved. Seeing that vulnerability and how deeply she’d come to care about a boy she had only taken in a few weeks before had raised her much higher in his estimation. Before he knew what was happening he found himself looking forward to hearing her high heels clicking down the hall first thing in the morning and feeling a little stab of pleasure at her “Good morning Lieutenant” as she made her way to her office, coffee in hand.

After Nicole’s wedding when they had really gotten to know one another as people, not just co-workers, it had seemed natural to start hanging out together more outside of work. They would go out for coffee or dinner or to the movies. And when he‘d had Dodger tickets dropped in his lap, instead of inviting Provenza as he normally would have done, he‘d invited Sharon. Just another reason for Provenza to grumble over their burgeoning friendship. Not a month later Sharon had invited him to be her “plus one” to a black tie charity dinner at the Japanese embassy and that was when it had started to feel more like dating than a friendship to him--and that possibly Sharon was feeling the same. It was fun getting all dressed up in his tuxedo for her and she had looked stunning in an elegant floor-length Grecian style gown the color of orange poppies that seductively left one shoulder bare. He was falling for her, he’d felt it, and it worried him. He knew that a relationship with her was hopeless and did try to put some effort into protecting himself. He‘d tried to keep her from working her way into his heart, but every time he told himself they were just friends he would remember how damn good it had felt to hold her in his arms when they danced at the wedding and the comforting intimacy of their shared life stories when they went out for lunches and dinners. He would be reminded of the warmth that spread through him when she laughed or when she rested her hand on his arm while she spoke. She was smart, stunning, vulnerable, and way too classy for a guy like him, but he wanted her dammit. He wanted her so bad, he ached with it and instead of thinking about all the roadblocks to a relationship with her, not the least of which was the fact that she was still legally married, his heart instead beat with all the possibilities of a romance.

“Are you really sure she’s the one for you?” Maura had been listening to the conversation while she covered the leftovers. Her skeptical tone caused Andy to turn to her with a frown and his temper quickly flared.  

“What do you mean by that?”

Maura held up a hand. “Don’t go getting all defensive. I just mean that, well, look at her. I’m not blind; I see why you’re attracted to her. She’s beautiful.” In that uppity sort of way, she was used to in her customers at Saks. “But she’s not the kind of beautiful you usually go for. “

“Thank God,” Peggy muttered under her breath.

“Greenwich, Connecticut? Come on. She obviously comes from money and you‘ve never been into high maintenance. Dating your swanky boss is one thing but…”

“Jesus Maura, get the chip off your shoulder,” Peggy interjected with a hard glare before Andy could explode. “Just because you have to deal with those rich bitches giving you a hard time at Saks, doesn’t mean every woman who has money is stuck up or high maintenance.  I spent a lot of time with Sharon at Nicole’s wedding and she could not have been kinder and more gracious.

“Peggy’s right.” Andy tried to keep his cool, reminding himself that there was a time that he too had thought that Sharon, with her luxurious Brazilian blowout, Armani suits, and designer high heels was looking down her pretty nose at him.  “Look Maur. You think I don’t know she’s out of my league? I do. But not because she comes from money and we don’t. Because she is amazing and she has a heart bigger than anyone I‘ve ever known. I don’t know why she loves me or why she agreed to marry me. I just thank God that she did. Give her a chance, get to know her. You might have more in common than you think.”

“Doubtful,” Maura scoffed.

Andy took a deep breath trying to remain patient; the last thing he wanted Sharon to witness was a knock down drag out Flynn family fight.  “I’m serious. Her life hasn’t always been easy. She’s had to struggle just like all of us. And just like you, she had a louse of a husband who walked out on her and left her to raise her children alone, only she didn’t have any financial support from him.” He didn’t think it would be smart to add that unlike Maura, Sharon hadn’t allowed herself to wallow in bitterness and self-pity, because he knew a thing or two about bitterness and self-pity. Maura was more like him or the him that he used to be than he cared to admit.

Maura turned and tried to look at Sharon through new eyes. The younger woman was smiling and completely focused on whatever Sylvia was telling her. She didn’t usually change her opinions on people but maybe, just maybe her judgment of Sharon was clouded by her own unhappiness…and jealousy.  Maybe Sharon’s quiet, soft-spoken manner just meant that she was a reserved person, not that she was a snob.

“You shouldn’t judge people so quickly,” Antonella admonished her.

Maura held her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I get it.“

“And you,” Antonella turned to her brother. “You should not be so hard on yourself. You are handsome and you can certainly be charming when you want to be. You are also kind and sweet--when you aren’t trying to be Mr. Tough guy, and you walk out your door every day and protect people. That is nothing if not admirable. Why shouldn’t Sharon fall in love with you? So you’ve made some mistakes, everyone does. It‘s how we rectify those mistakes that really matters and you seem to be doing a good job with that. I was so happy to see Nicole today. She’s turned into a lovely young woman. Peggy gave me the quick run down about you and Sharon, how you went from adversaries to, well, I guess where you are now. But I would like to hear it from you. Why do you love her? Why do you want to marry her?” It was telling to Nell that Andy didn‘t even have to pause to think about it.

“It’s true. I used to think Sharon was uptight, brusque, humorless, all business. But the first time I saw her smile, damn…It was like the sun filled the room. Then as I got to know her I could see that the way she distanced herself, the walls she put up, were all part of the job she had at the time. Now I’d say an easier question would be, what don’t I love about her? She’s courageous, strong, and confident. She really cares about the people who work for her and she has this, I don’t know how to explain it, this depth of love for her family that has just always reached out and grabbed me right in the heart. She’s a phenomenal mother and she has great kids.  She’s also direct, doesn’t play games and she can give back as good as she gets; I find that all very sexy. And one of the things that I’ve come to admire most about Sharon is what used to drive me crazy about her, no matter what’s going on she’s always cool-headed and in control., always grace under fire.”

“Well, they do say opposites attract.” Gina’s grin belied her sarcasm.

“Let him finish,” Nell said.

Andy smiled at his eldest sister and continued. “I know people say this all the time but Sharon really is one of those people who is every inch as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. She’s just a real doll. When she smiles at me I feel like I’m ten feet tall and when I’m with her she’s this kind of safe harbor where I can forget all the ugliness of the world of murderers, rapists, and pedophiles where I spend my days. I’ve never had anyone in my life that has been able to do that for me. Before Sharon, I felt so empty inside.” There was a slight emotional break in his voice and Nell reached out to take his hand, her eyes soft with sympathy. “ I tried to fill that emptiness with booze and when I had to give that up, my job, but nothing ever completely worked…until her. Sharon fills all that emptiness inside me and now I feel like I have a second chance at life.”

His sisters had gone silent and were staring at him with something akin to amazement.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re a freaking poet now?“  

“Maura stop it.” Peggy swatted at her with a dishrag. “That was beautiful Andy.” Andy shrugged, slightly embarrassed by how sappy he‘d gotten.

Maura smiled and jabbed him with her elbow. “I’m just giving you crap. I can see why you love her now. It’s not just about how she looks.” When Andy shook his head and turned back to the sink Maura’s smile faded and she reached out to touch the scar on his neck. “Are you still having any issues with that clot and the pinched nerve?”

“A little. The clot is gone, but I’ll still be on blood thinners for a few more months and I still get some numbness in my hand from the nerve issue. Until that goes away, I’m going to be stuck on friggin’ desk duty. “

“Well, better that than the alternative,” Peggy eyeballed him. “It had to be terrifying to think you were having a heart attack.”

“It was. It sure as hell felt like one. The pain in my chest took my breath away and it went down my arm just like you hear about a heart attack. Then my arm went numb.  I don’t remember much of what happened. But I do remember Sharon holding one of my hands for dear life.” While the other caressed his face soothingly.  “All I could think about at that moment was that I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to leave her.” The memory of the love and terror shining in Sharon’s eyes was still so vivid, as was the feel of her tears dripping on his hand, the hand she continued to clutch in the ambulance while begging him not to leave her. He had so many regrets at that moment. He had waited far too long to ask her out on a real date. He had foolishly allowed his fears to keep him from telling her that he loved her as soon as he’d come to that realization. He was never going to see her roll her eyes at him again, or shake her head with long-suffering patience when he was being a pain in the ass or slap at his arm or chest when she was irritated with him or amused by him. He would never again hear that wonderful laugh or see her bright emerald eyes turn to soft jade when he made love to her. But his biggest regret was that he might never know what it would have been like to call her his wife.

“Aaaandy….”

The four siblings paused in their conversation and Andy turned and grinned widely at the familiar voice. “Hey, Dennis. Sharon, come meet Dennis.”

The man who met Andy in the living room for a hug was barely five feet tall, his hair salt and pepper, his eyeglasses coke bottle thick and he had the nasal tone of someone with Down syndrome. This was the man who was more brother than a cousin, the man whom Andy used to protect from the bullies.

“Is this your girlfriend, Andy?” He eyed Sharon up and down with a frankness that in other men would have earned him a Darth Raydor glare, but which was, she knew, just innocent curiosity.

“Yes, she is. This is Sharon. But she’s more than my girlfriend; Den. Sharon’s going to be my wife.”

“I like that, Andy. Hi Sharon. I’m Dennis.” He held out a hand as he had been taught.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Dennis.” Sharon’s smile was warm and genuine. “Andy’s told me so much about you and what great friends you were growing up.”

Dennis turned to Andy with a smile. “I like her Andy. She’s nice. And she’s really pretty too.”

“Yes, she is, isn‘t she.”

“Can I come to your wedding, Sharon?”

Sharon’s heart melted. “Of course you can. You’re family; we’ll be inviting the whole family. And I know how special you are to Andy.”

“Andy’s my friend.”

“You bet I am.” Andy fist bumped him. At that point, his Aunt Loretta came in followed by Peggy’s husband Luke who had been busy all day at the restaurant.

“I live in my own house now, Andy.”

“You do?” Andy raised a brow at his aunt.

“He does,” Loretta nodded. “It’s a duplex in Queens where he lives with others who have Down’s.”

“That’s great Den. Do you still work at Stop n’ Shop?”

“Yes. I get the carts and bag the groceries and sometimes they let me help put out the vegetables. Are you still a police officer?”

“You bet.”

“Andy’s a hero,” Dennis told Sharon. It touched Sharon deeply to see the affection and hero worship Dennis had for Andy, the man who had protected him throughout his childhood. She reached out and took Andy’s hand, pulling it into her lap.

“Yes, he is.”

“Where do you work, Sharon?”

“I work with Andy.”

“You’re a police officer too?”

“I am.”

“Then you’re a hero too.”

“Nice to know there are some people left in the world who still think so,” Andy muttered under his breath. Sharon gave him a little smirk but nodded in agreement.

“Here they are Sharon. I knew I could find them.” Sylvia entered the living room carrying several photo albums.

“Oh Ma, what are those,” Andy groaned.

Sharon grinned and grabbed one of the albums. “Payback is a you know what. I deserve a little retribution for you pilfering through my awkward stages. “

“Babe you didn’t have any awkward stages.”

Maura rolled her eyes and stuck a finger down her throat as if to make herself vomit. Andy glared at her but Sharon laughed.

“You were right Sylvia,” she said. “He does have the gift of blarney.”

“It’s not blarney,” he protested. “It's a fact. You were beautiful from the day you were born.”

“Well, I still say you’re a tad biased, but I love you for it.” She kissed the back of his hand and then dropped it to flip open to the first page of the album. “But not enough to miss out on finding a picture of Andy Flynn the altar boy that I was promised is one of these albums.”

“Oh God, if Provenza ever got hold of that…”

“Stay on my good side honey and all will be well.”

Sylvia grinned and nudged Andy. “She’s got a sneaky side. I like that.”

*************************

“I don’t think Maura liked me very much.” Sharon lay curled up to Andy’s side, her fingertips tracing imaginary patterns over his broad t-shirt covered chest. As soon as they got to their hotel at JFK airport, they had washed up, brushed their teeth and gone straight to bed. It had been a long day and they had to be up early in the morning.

“Maura doesn’t like anyone, babe.” Andy kissed the top of her head. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I’m serious, Andy.”

“So am I. Look, right now Maura doesn’t like much of anything. I told you her first husband ditched her and left her to raise her two kids alone and now her second husband just left her for a younger woman. She had to sell her house and she hates her job. She’s angry at the world.”

“It’s hard to blame her for that. I wish there was something we could do to help her.”

“Yeah, me too. At least when I was that low I had a job that I loved. I don’t know how I would have gotten through everything if I’d lost my job.”

“Well, let’s be thankful you didn’t.” If he had lost his job during his drinking days, they never would have connected. “It’s too bad Joe’s living in Florida now, I would like to have met him. And I wish I’d gotten to spend more time with Nell. She’s worked in some fascinating places.”

Andy snorted derisively. “If you consider no electricity, no running water, and a hole in the ground for a bathroom as fascinating. I‘d call it hell.”

“Andy!” She gently swatted at his chest.

“What? It’s true.”

She reached into his t-shirt and pulled out the ring he always wore on a chain around his neck. She toyed with it for a few seconds before asking, “There’s more to this ring than just the fact that it was your father’s, isn’t there?”

“How…” He trailed off without finishing the question. Sharon was a detective; there must have been something she had seen when Antonella commented on it. “It is my father’s ring, but he didn’t give it to me, Antonella did. I was pretty messed up after my Dad died.” He trailed off as if unsure how to continue. Sharon hummed with understanding and nuzzled into his chest comfortingly. Losing his father at the young age of 14 to a brain aneurysm had been traumatizing. Andy didn’t talk about it often, but he had told her how it had led him to start following his older brother down a path that could have gotten him into serious trouble.

“My mother wasn’t really there for us. I know she was shocked and grieving and she had to support all of us but I didn’t see it that way then.” Fourteen was such an awkward age. He had tried so hard to be a man and keep his tears contained, but inside he was still a little boy who wanted to sob out his grief and who needed his mother to hold him and comfort him, and promise him that everything was going to be all right even though it felt like the end of the world. Instead, his mother had turned inward and he’d felt lost. Sylvia was not a bad mother, he always knew she loved him, but she was not a nurturer; she was more a pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get on with life kind of mother.  A more sensitive person, a mother like Sharon, would have seen through his tough outer shell and helped him deal with his loss. A mother like Sharon would have told him it was okay to cry and comforted him through his sorrow.  “If it wasn’t for Nell we probably all would have run wild. Then, not even a full year after my dad died, Nell decided to join the convent. I was really pissed about it--and I was a dick to her. I couldn’t believe she really wanted to be a nun. I accused her of wanting to get away from all of us so badly she was willing to throw her life away to do it.”

“I’m sure she knew you were just lashing out because you were hurt.”

“I don’t know.”

"It's really not surprising that you felt that way. First, your father dies, then your mother emotionally shuts down and then the one person who always gave you that unconditional nurturing love tells you she is leaving. It makes perfect sense that you'd feel lost and abandoned." Sharon's heart ached. Though it was impossible, she wished there was some way she could go back in time and take away the pain that he'd gone through as a boy.

"I told Nell I hated her. God, I wish I could take that back. It was the last thing I said before she left for the convent." He placed a hand over the one Sharon was rubbing over his chest, and then lifted it to touch his necklace. "After she left, when I got back to my bedroom there was an envelope on my pillow. When my father died, my mother gave us all something to remember him. As the oldest, Antonella got his wedding ring. Inside the envelope was his ring on a chain. There was a letter with it. She wrote that whenever I felt alone I should wear that ring around my neck and know that both her and my dad were with me."

Sharon sniffed and he glanced down to see tears swimming in her eyes.

"Hey, are you crying? Don't cry. Like I said before it was a long time ago."

"I can't help it. Sometimes you break my heart. "When she was in his arms like this it was hard to remember a time when he had thought she was cold and hard, because under that Darth Raydor glare there was no one softer or gentler than Sharon was.

"I don't mean to."

"Comes with the territory when you love someone. Have you been wearing it all this time?"

"No. I didn't put it on right away but I did hold onto to it. I kept it in my drawer and the day that I came home from my first AA meeting I put it on and I haven't taken it off since-though it has had a few new chains. I guess I figured I needed all the help that I could get.

"And has it helped?"

"I think it has, yeah. I don't really need it anymore, now that I have you. But, I kind of like having a part of my dad with me."

Sharon reached out to rub the ring between her fingers. "I wish I could have met him. He sounds like he was a good man. Your mother still wears her wedding ring and it's been what, 41 years since he died."

"Mmm...She was only 43 when it happened, he was only 50. A couple of my aunts tried to set her up on dates but she said that in her heart she was still married to my father and that's the way it would always be."

"That's both sad and romantic."

"She really believes that she's going to see him again when she dies and that's why she's not afraid of dying."

"Do you believe that?" Universal Salvation was one of the basic tenets of Christianity and sometimes she wasn't exactly sure where Andy stood in his relationship with God.

"I grew up in the church, you know that. You saw the altar boy pictures. I can't believe my mother gave you one."

Sharon giggled. "You were adorable."

He shrugged. "If you say so."

"I do." She rose on one elbow so she could see his face. "I also know you've had your issues with the church."

Andy grew silent, the conflict within him still there, though far less strong than it had been in the past. Sharon didn't prod or push, he loved that about her. She simply caressed her thumb over his cheek until he was ready to speak.

"After my father died, I was so angry with God for taking him. I just could'nt understand it. There were so many bad guys out there; my dad was a good guy, why did God have to take him? Why?" The pain was still there, even after all these years.

"I don't know. Sometimes we just can't understand why. That's what faith is, believing that there is a reason even if we don't yet understand what it is."

Andy sighed noncommittally. He wished he shared her unwavering faith. Those words were not just a platitude. She too had suffered loss at a young age when her brother died so she understood what he was feeling. "I hadn't even gotten a chance to get through that when Nell told us she was leaving us for God."

"Andy. Oh, honey, she wasn't leaving you for God."

"That's what it felt like. When I went off to college I walked away from all of it, God and the church."

"But you married Sandra in the church." It was the reason he was going to need an annulment too.

"I did. Sandra's family is Hispanic and Catholic so we married in the church but Sandra wasn't all that religious. Other than the big things like, baptisms, first communions, Christmas, Easter, we didn't go to church after we were married. Then I joined AA. Part of that is having a higher power."

"But it doesn't have to be God, right?" She knew a bit about AA from Jack's few short stints and a lot more from Andy.

"No, it doesn't. It can be anything. It's all about accepting that you can't conquer your addiction alone. But when I started thinking about a higher power, I kept coming back to what I knew. Once a Catholic always a Catholic, right? Then, it wasn't very long after that when the church scandal hit and I was so pissed I couldn't bring myself to go back to church."

Sharon nodded, pain tightening in her chest. She had experienced her own crisis of faith when the Catholic Church scandal exploded. It had been a very dark time for her and she'd only been able to navigate her way through it with the help of Father Stan who at that point had only been her priest for a few years. It had drawn them much closer and with his help, and a lot of soul-searching, she had chosen to remain a faithful Catholic, though she would never again be the innocent follower she had once been.

"I didn't really get back into going to church until I moved in with you. But I think that He and I have made peace now."

"How's that?"

"He's gotten me through some really rough times with my addiction and He gave you to me. Maybe even God needs to make amends."

Sharon gave a soft laugh and kissed his bicep. "An interesting theological concept. I'll let you take that up with Father Stan. But I am glad that you made your peace with God, with Antonella, and with Nicole."

"Me too. I like having a clean slate to start my life with you." Though he felt there might be one person left he had yet to make peace with. He had made his amends to Sandra but he wasn't sure they had ever really made peace.

"It's really going to happen for us, isn't it?"

"You bet it is, babe." He kissed the top of her head. "That is if you still want to marry me after hearing about what a troublemaker I was."

Her laughter was smothered into his shoulder. "Well, I've always known you were a troublemaker. I seem to remember our first fight was over your employee file."

"Second fight. The first one was over the evidence you removed from a murder scene we were investigating."

"Ah yes. You won that one. Pope made me return it all to you."

"Only because Brenda went to him to plead her case."

"Hmm…you're right." Brenda Leigh Johnson had gotten her job as deputy chief through a sexual relationship she'd had in the past with their chief of police. Because of that relationship, Brenda was usually able to get her way with him and Chief Pope let her get away with things he would never have accepted with any of his other officers.

"You know, a few years back there was a time we thought Brenda and Pope might have picked up where they had left off. I wanted to know if she was banging the boss and now here I am…"

"Andy Flynn, do NOT continue that statement."

"Uh, I wasn't. I mean, uh, I was just going to say, here I am marrying the boss."

Her eyes narrowed. Andy was a terrible liar. "Sure you were."

"I was. But to give you full disclosure,  I like banging her too."

"Andy!" Her attempt at chastising him was ruined when she couldn't contain her giggle.

"What? It's true."

"You really are incorrigible."

"And that doesn't give you second thoughts?"

"Not at all." She watched him playing with the engagement ring on her finger. "It's actually kind of tantalizing. Who knew that underneath it all I actually have a thing for sexy bad boys?"

"Sexy, huh?"

She got back up on her elbow and cupped a hand over his cheek, her voice a throaty purr. "Very, VERY sexy."

The End…

Of this installment anyway. Stay tuned as the story continues back in LA with "Saying Good-bye to Yesterday" which will focus on the annulments and some of what happened in Season Five. We will meet Winnie Davis and Sandra and there will be a few fireworks with Jack who is not going to be happy about his kids forcing him to sign the annulment papers. As with this story it will weave in and out of canon.

[forloveoflibertea]

To Be Remembered | o n e

[ originally published on Wattpad : May 23rd, 2017 . unedited . word count: 2,196 . updated January 23rd, 2018 . ]

o n e

« w h y d o y o u w a n t t o k n o w w h o i a m ? »

'"Who am I?"

'"Only you can know who you are, child; no one else can command you to become someone you are not. You are, at your innermost core, who you truly are—only you can know, only you can choose to bare your truest self to the world."

'"And if I do bare my true self? What then?"

'"The world is beautiful, but cruel. It does not know us, in the same way that we do not know its truest extent. To bare one's true self—to bare one's heart—makes us vulnerable. If you bare your true self to the world, there is no telling to the extent of the pain you will go through. I tell you, my child, only bare your truest self to the one that you love, the one who can accept who you truly are."'

He blinked tiredly at the screen, the light reflecting off of his reading glasses. With a huff, Arthur shut off his laptop directly after saving and closing the file. He pinched the bridge of his nose, blindly pulling off the glasses and placing it atop his nightstand.

Green eyes gazed at the ceiling, glazed over in thought as they idly followed the white pinpricks which were supposed to resemble the stars in the night sky. He'd long finished his homework, the papers neatly tucked into his binders, which were, in turn, carefully stashed into his messenger bag. That wasn't the problem, nor was his elder brother's distinct absence from his own house.

Arthur had met Antoinette, Camden's wife and his sister-in-law, as he'd tried to silently stalk up the stairs as soon as he'd come back to the house that afternoon. Or it was more that Antoinette, the French bitch she could be, successfully ambushed him after fifty tries ever since he'd traveled across the pond to live with his brother and his wife, and had persuaded him to join them for a disastrous dinner. (A cynical Briton forced to sit before an eccentric French woman do not a successful heart-to-heart over dinner make.)

The problem was that, as much as Arthur tried, he couldn't seem to get rid of that look in the American boy's eyes during that History class. There was incredulousness there—that was already a given—but what bothered the Briton was the smallest glint of sadness he'd managed to get a glimpse of in that tiny moment that their eyes met.

He didn't understand why that bothered him—after all, he didn't know the boy personally, aside from the occasional rumours he overheard.

"Alfred F. Jones," he muttered under his breath, the name rolling off of his tongue. The American was rather popular in the campus populace—both with the females and males, what with the widespread 'fact' that the boy was bisexual. (Although, with hearsay from the popularity-crazed teenagers who went to World Academy, Arthur could only take what they said with a grain of salt.)

A stereotypical all-American cliché—high school American football quarterback, energetic, and an everyone-loves-me kind of bloke, from the Briton's occasional (unintentional) eavesdropping on the rumour mill. But there were odd occurrences: the first was that the boy—now a Junior, like Arthur—had quit the football team the school year before, when he was a Sophomore, after building up a reputation of being the 'Golden Boy' of the academy. (Or, as Arthur could gather from what he heard through the grapevine, as the 'Crown Prince' of the social hierarchy.)

It only proved to become even stranger by the fact that no one really knew what the true reason was behind the sudden—and completely unexpected—event. The second odd occurrence was that Alfred F. Jones seemed to join the so-called 'Suicide Squadron' shortly after what was widely known in the campus as 'The Tragedy' and 'The Apocalypse'.

The third was that no matter how much Arthur tried to dig deeper into the true essence of those two events, he couldn't get a single clue from every student he came across. Each one had their lips zipped tight, and immediately left after he posed the question.

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his messy blond hair.

What a troublesome web of mysteries.

—

In World Academy, there were three unspoken rules which every student—both in the Social Hierarchy and out of it—already knew by heart, and the corresponding punishments labeled to each.

The first rule: Each student must be subject to one caste only.

There were two primary castes: the Royals and the Commoners. The Royals consisted of the highest-ranking in the Hierarchy, and were made up of the most popular and the richest students. The Commoners were neutral students, or those who were average in everything a high school student considered to be important: looks, luxury, and intelligence. The Commoners were the middle class in the Hierarchy.

The second rule: No student should ever associate with one who is not from their own caste without permission from the King.

To be allowed communication with a Royal for a Commoner was treated to be a special privilege. There was a strict criteria that the current King of the Hierarchy, Ivan Braginski, followed, and thus there were limited allowances for a student to mingle with someone who wasn't from their own caste.

And the third: Associating with the Suicide Squadron or anyone rumoured to be in cohorts with the Bad Touch Trio will immediately be punished.

These were the three unspoken rules of World Academy—and Arthur Kirkland, being a newcomer to the lions' den, unwittingly branded himself a 'Rogue' as he broke the rules.

—

"Say, Arthur, why do you always want to remain anonymous?"

The addressed Briton turned around, catching the stare of the green-eyed brunette. He offered a polite half-smile as the girl tapped at the printed sheets of the articles he had left upon her desk for her perusal.

"It's better this way." He said, and the girl—Elizaveta Héderváry, the Editor-in-Chief of the campus paper—frowned heavily. She stood from her seat, sweeping up the papers to wave them in front of the mildly startled Briton as she approached him.

"Don't you know how many of the students love the works you've been submitting to the paper ever since you came in that first week?" She demanded, advancing towards the uneasy Briton, who backtracked a step with each inch she moved forward.

He remembered the first time he'd gone to the school paper office with remarkable clarity. (And an underlying embarrassment.)

It had been the Friday afternoon of his first week at World Academy, just after his final class for the day. He'd planned to spend it the way he had the entire week after school: hiding out on the rooftop of the main building, writing and discarding what he wrote until the sun lingered just above the horizon in the few moments before it finally sunk and gave way to the night.

Arthur never liked to go back to his brother's house; the layout of the entire edifice reminded him too much of their home back in England. Camden had even tried to recreate the look of Arthur's own bedroom back at the old house, perhaps to alleviate the 'homesickness' the teenager didn't have. But there were too many memories lingering in every nook and cranny which resembled the old house, too many voices crowding his mind and begging his attention.

Too many regrets he could never erase.

So he spent as much time at the campus until he was forced to go back to the house. And that afternoon, as he was heading out of the main building, he met Elizaveta, who had been locking up the school paper clubroom. Or it would be more accurate to say that he literally bumped into her, and the impact sent his papers flying every which way.

He had apologized, of course, and had almost regretted doing so when she grabbed him by the shoulders and screeched, "I found you!" (Later, Arthur would realize that she had found out from whom the anonymous poem he'd left at the school paper office's submissions box earlier that week came from due to the similar handwriting both pieces—the one he'd left and the one she was clutching that day—had.)

"Your poems alone garnered so much praise, Arthur," her voice quieted, and he almost breathed a sigh of relief. When Elizaveta got going, it was extremely difficult to stop her. "Why don't you want anyone to know who's the writer behind these beautiful pieces?"

The brunette held up one of the articles, and Arthur glanced at his own looping script.

"I wait on these shores for one who'll never come back;

I wait beyond seas, beyond oceans of tears I lack."

"'And I turn away from hope, from hope that's gone,'" Elizaveta whispered, as the Briton looked away, "'And I turn to these lands, where forever I wait alone.'"

"It's better this way," Arthur repeated firmly. "Who would want to know someone like me, lass?"

Who would want to know someone who's given up on himself long ago?

The Hungarian girl smiled, and she turned around, walking towards her desk, upon which she perched herself with a knowing grin. "Oh, you never know, Arthur."

She jutted her chin in his direction, to which he elegantly raised a brow in questioning. Elizaveta merely grinned even wider, raising a hand and waving towards someone in the boy's general direction.

"Hello, Alfred!"

Arthur immediately turned around, and guarded green eyes met with amused blue. He forced himself to maintain his usual façade, crossing his arms across his torso as he regarded his fellow Junior.

The American strode into the room, nodding his head in recognition to the only girl in room with a bright grin. "Hey, Liz. Mattie's been looking for ya'; apparently, he needs your help with keeping a tight leash on the BTT again."

The Hungarian sighed, shaking her head as she hopped off of her desk, smoothing out her black Fall Out Boy tee, which was paired with a checkered skirt and ankle-high boots. (Arthur internally approved.) "Let me guess: Gil's at it again with some of the Royals, isn't he?"

Alfred nodded, stopping just a yard or so away from the Briton with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket. "Pretty much." He agreed, tilting his head in the direction of the door. "Also Franny's been flirting with the King's sisters again, while Toni... Well, I haven't seen him anywhere today."

"When will that French idiot learn that Natalya can turn his skinny ass into a freaking shish-kebab?" Elizaveta grumbled as she slung her bag over her shoulder, stomping her way to the door. (The Briton carefully kept his distance.) She turned to look at the two, tipping her head in the direction of the door. "Better get out while I'm still here; the lock on this door's been busted for a while now, which means that if somebody closes it with too much force, anybody who's still inside might get stranded for hours, and you do not want that to happen to you. Just ask Kiku—that happened once."

Arthur immediately sped out through the doorway, waiting for the Hungarian to follow suit as Alfred did the same. He kept his head turned away as Elizaveta passed by with a wave, which he returned, rather reluctantly.

He made to walk away, perhaps go up to the rooftop if he still had time, when the American reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, abruptly whirling around on his heel to face the boy.

"What was that—"

"'Who would want to know someone like you', huh?" Alfred said, and Arthur narrowed his eyes, shoulders hunching defensively. The damn American had the nerve to listen in on a private conversation.

"What's it to you?" He uttered calmly, his tone of voice betraying the underlying current of tension which threaded through his taut muscles. It had been one of his few moments of weakness, a question of bitterness he'd unknowingly let slip in front of the only person he considered an acquaintance in this school, and now this enigma—this Alfred F. Jones had overheard him.

He couldn't have been more careless.

Alfred was a mystery—a mystery he was in the process of unraveling, and perhaps in doing so, he might unravel the mystery about himself that he tried so hard to protect.

He couldn't let anyone know who he really was.

"Well.. I guess you could say that I want to know you." He smiled, and still Arthur remained tense, unable to relax.

"Why?" He finally managed after a brief moment of silence which stretched between them. "Why do you want to know who I am?"

Alfred only smiled wider.

"That's for me to know, and for you to find out, Artie."

It was when the American had started to walk away that Arthur let loose an outraged shout at the bloody insufferable nickname.

—

Notes:

Camden Kirkland — OC! Scotland

Antoinette Kirkland (neé Michel) — Nyo! France

[lsds-blog]

Polly

At a distance of many years I can now accept that Karen wasn't to blame for any of the events that came to have such disastrous consequences for me; rather she acted as a catalyst. Through my early years at school she'd appeared to admirable to me, and later I resented her, demonised her, even. Now I accept that she was a quite ordinary child, capable of acts of kindness and of cruelty, like most children. She was blessed with a special beauty, and this, more than any other quality, was what made me want to be close to her. She was a popular girl and I wasn't and her friendship seemed unattainable.

At the age of thirteen we entered a new class together. The positions in which we sat in our high school were determined by a random selection and I found myself sitting next to Karen. I was overawed and for weeks I could hardly bring myself to talk to her: she was so pretty with her long blonde hair, lightened by hours in the sun over the long summer break, her smooth skin conversely darkened by the sunny weather. Karen seemed years older than me, already a young woman, whereas I was still a child, skinny and shy. Gradually our relationship became closer and I found that she liked my sense of humour. My heart would beat faster when she laughed and I lost no opportunity to make jokes about our teachers. By the time we were half way through the year we'd become close and our friendship seemed to be cemented when Karen invited me to visit her home.

I'd seen Karen's mother at the school numerous times, and it was obvious where Karen had inherited her good looks. Her mother was tall and elegant, very confident, always able to command respect amongst most of the parents. However, my mother had hinted that she didn't like something about her, although she was never explicit, and she was happy for me to become friends with Karen.

I was shocked when I got to Karen's home. Her mother, who insisted that I call her Monica, had lost her beautiful long hair. She now had a severe crop, cut short over her ears and up her nape with a short blunt fringe. I'd seen a growing number of women in the town with this same haircut (my mother had voiced her disgust about it), which was modelled on the cut most of the women ministers in the government had been wearing for some years now. The cut was the recognised style of members of the People's Party.

At the time I'm writing about, the People's Party (almost universally referred to as the Party, or occasionally PP) had been in government for about three years. They'd initially formed a government as the junior partner in a coalition following an election. Shortly afterwards Anglia had been through an economic crisis caused by the failure of one of the large banks and had then got involved with a protracted war in southern Asia, which was still being fought during the time I'm discussing. These events allowed the Party to increase its power. A snap election following the crisis had allowed it to form a majority government, and the declaration of war, followed by a number of terrorist actions by a group of south Asians living in Anglia, had allowed increasingly autocratic laws to be enacted. By now membership of trade unions had been made illegal and most political parties had been abolished as a “temporary measure”, although in reality, Anglia would soon become a one party state.

My mother (my only parent, since my father had died before I was born) had always cherished personal freedoms; I'd always been taught by her to respect others' views and to practice tolerance. She despised the Party, opposing its policies on almost every issue. She described its leaders as a dangerous elite, masquerading as men of the people. Such talk was becoming dangerous, as the party used the war as a reason to silence all opposition. Already newspapers had been closed down and a number of journalists had lost their registration for “working against the public interest,” the euphemistic law which gagged criticism of the Party.

Now, because of her haircut, it was apparent that Monica was a member of the Party, and my mother's hostility toward her became more understandable. For my own part, politics seemed a muddle. I loved my mother, and the values she held seemed good and admirable, yet my school increasingly emphasised values of patriotism, which also seemed good. I was too naïve to see any contradiction, and too easily swayed by being a guest in Monica's home to resist her. She was the most elegant woman I'd ever seen, and she made even the functional Party crop look alluring.

At dinner, Karen mentioned that she had joined a new youth organisation, the Pioneers, and asked if I could join too. Monica asked me my age, then explained that I wouldn't be able to join until I was fourteen, which was still months off (I was the youngest child in my school year; if my birthday had fallen a day later I would have been held back a year). I felt disappointed that an opportunity to spend time with my wonderful new friend would be denied. Obviously Monica could see my disappointment: she said that there was a junior division for younger girls, but a very few places were available. She was a close friend of the Pioneer leader for the town and if I promised to commit to the organisation she would get me a place. I enthusiastically agreed.

Karen started to badger her mother into taking her to get her uniform that night so that she could attend her first meeting the following night. “If I miss that I'll not be able to go to the camp next month. You have to attend three meetings before you can go to camp. Please, Mum, take me and Polly for our uniforms. I'll do all the dishes for the next week if you do.” Monica was an indulgent mother and couldn't resist her only daughter's supplications. After Karen and I had washed the dinner plates, Monica took us to a local store where we were to receive our uniforms.

I was increasingly self conscious as we approached the store. My mother was nowhere near as affluent as Karen's family (her father, who I'd never met, was a senior civil servant) and I knew my mother wouldn't be able to afford an expensive uniform. I finally found the courage to ask Monica how much the uniform would cost. She sensed my discomfort about this sensitive issue and said there would be no cost for me. “The Pioneers have to be for everybody, regardless of wealth. I know your mother isn't well off, so don't you worry. You just have to promise me you'll honour your uniform.” At that moment I would have done anything for Monica.

At the store we were provided with our identical uniforms, khaki knee-length belted tunics, woollen socks, leather hiking boots. The owner, who wore her hair in the Party crop, told us that we made her proud of the country's youth. “Now you'd better get your uniform haircuts before the barber closes up,” she said.

I was thrown into a panic as I followed Karen toward the barbershop. I hadn't understood that I would have to get a haircut, and whispered this to Karen. “Oh sure, the Pioneers have to have a uniform haircut, everyone knows that.”

Before any further explanations were possible, we were in the barbershop, and a large, jolly woman, with a regulation party crop welcomed us. “Two new Pioneers, hey? Makes me so pleased to see you girls. Which of you is first?”

I found myself being nominated and somehow managed to clamber up into the chair. I had to sit on a plank which the barberette had hooked over the arms of the chair to raise my head to a more comfortable height for her work. I was fitted with a long red cape of slightly stained nylon which was tied around my neck and seemed to make the stiff collar of the uniform rub and irritate at my skin. I stared in the mirror, my eyes wide with fear as I awaited the fate of my hair. My hair was dark brown, and fell in soft curls to almost the middle of my back, the longest it had ever been.

In minutes the barberette had brushed my curls into a ponytail and hacked it off with a huge pair of shears. Suddenly my hair hung free, no part of it reaching down to the cape which covered my shoulders. I was too shocked to say anything. I felt drained as I imagined that I was going to be given a crop like Monica's. The barberette was talking constantly, always happy, but I couldn't hear what she said, it was just noise to me. She brushed my hair and made a section across the back, pinning up the rest of the hair with a clip that was fastened at my crown. I saw her lift a set of clippers from the counter and fit them with a plastic comb over the blades. I gasped, having never seen a woman's hair cut with these. I'd always had long hair, and went twice yearly with my mother for trims. Women's hair was cut with scissors, clippers were only for men. That seemed the natural way of things, but now my ideas were about to be blown apart.

I was horrified as the barberette prepared to shear me and I was desperate to find a way out, to stall her at the very least. “Are you going to cut it like yours?” I managed to blurt out?

“Like mine? Oh no, honey, this is a cut for grown ups. When you're twenty-one you come and see me and I'll make you a nice young woman with a nice woman's crop. But you're a Pioneer now, so you'll get a nice Pioneer bob.”

And with that she firmly tipped my head down and placed the clippers on my neck. I felt them shuddering against my skin, rising up, the sound changing as they met my thick hair. Short curls fell down the cape, noiselessly slipping into my lap. All the free hair was being cut short, right up to the section which had been pinned up, which was as high as the top of my ears. I didn't know how clippers worked, and in my imagination I had a bald nape now. Certainly no hair reached over my neck and my head felt cool where the clippers had passed. But the sensation of cutting was painless: I'd feared I would feel my hair being ripped out but instead the vibration was pleasant, a gentle massage-like sensation. I admitted to myself that I liked it. I felt confused. My hair, which I loved so much, was being shaved away and I found myself excited by the feeling. I felt I was betraying myself: I should not have allowed my hair to be destroyed, and yet I was not only complicit in its doom, I was taking a delight in it.

The clippers fell silent and I was allowed to raise my head. My hair was sprayed with a water bottle and combed through briskly. The barberette took her scissors and shaped my bob. She cut a heavy, blunt line around my head, starting at the right side. Before each snip she combed the hair down and gripped it between her powerful fingers, then cut an even line. After each cut the hair would curl and spring up as it was released. She worked methodically around my head, cutting always at the same level. My hair was cut to expose the lower part of my ears and of course, at the back the buzzed nape was exposed.

Once she was happy that she'd made all of my bob perfectly even, the barberette focussed her attention on my fringe. She cut it across the middle of my forehead, a perfectly straight line, and wide. The edges of the fringe were directly above the outside edges of my eyebrows. I'd had a fringe a long time before and this new fringe made me feel like I was regressing into my infancy. The barberette rapidly dried my hair which became more curly than ever, freed of the weight which had previously helped to lessen the curl. Of course, it also made my hair appear shorter. The barberette used a round brush to dry my fringe and smooth out the curl, so that it sat in a shiny block over my forehead.

I despised how I appeared now and found it difficult to look at myself in the mirror. The barberette took a mirror and held it behind my head. I looked fearfully, expecting to see my bald nape, but instead I saw that the back had been neatly trimmed to a block of dark, even fur, bristly yet somehow appealing. My relief at not seeing bald scalp was construed by my companions as approval for my new haircut and Monica expressed her delight that I had accepted it.

“I could see you were a bit shocked when the hair started coming off, but you look so much nicer now. I can see you're going to be a good friend for Karen.” I blushed and thanked Monica, her approval making me feel so proud.

As I watched Karen losing her beautiful blonde hair I kept rubbing my shorn nape. The hair was trimmed so short that I couldn't grip it, but it felt somehow thrilling, soft yet prickly. I watched the clippers buzz away Karen's silky mane, leaving a light stubble. It appeared darker than her long hair, as the bleached locks were cut away, yet it was almost the same shade as her tanned neck, and appeared almost bald, which somehow excited me. When her hair was cut it fell smoothly into a glossy bob, which was surprisingly flattering, unlike my unruly curls. The short fringe seemed to suit Karen too, her beautiful big eyes now framed wonderfully.

As soon as she climbed out of the chair I went to hug her, and I felt an unfamiliar excitement as she raised a hand to stroke my buzzed nape. “That feels so good,” she laughed. “It feels like my cat's fur!”

I couldn't resist doing the same, and I caressed her newly cut hair. Her hair was softer and finer than mine and I still vividly recall how beautiful her stubble was, with nothing of the bristliness of mine. I wanted to embrace her forever. She seemed like the most perfect girl in the whole world, and I was blessed to have her as a friend.

We stood side by side and saluted our barberette with a Pioneer salute, which Karen had had to teach me. “You look very nice, girls,” she said, contentedly. “Now remember! You have to get your hair cut here every four weeks at most. Any more than that and you'll get a report.” She issued us with cards to record our haircuts, and signed and dated the first box of the chart.

My shock of getting bobbed soon passed as I realised that it had brought me closer to Karen and Monica. When I returned home, my happiness was shattered. My mother had never lost her temper with me until that night. She was furious when I came home in my new uniform.

“Polly, what have you done? Your hair! You can't join that terrible Pioneer group, I won't stand for it.” She fussed with my hair, her eyes filling with tears of rage and frustration. I was defiant and insisted that I wouldn't let her stand in my way. Our anger increased, and when she told me that in the morning she would confront Karen's mother, it was too much for me. I screamed that I hated her and that I wished Monica was my mother. It was my last word for the night as I went to my room in tears.

In the morning I ignored her. I went to shower and washed my short hair for the first time. I still had mixed emotions, loving how my nape felt, but feeling a great loss. I'd never spent time looking after my hair, always letting it dry naturally after washing it. After dressing I looked in the mirror and saw that my hair looked terrible. The curls looked tighter than ever and my fringe had curled too, making it a mess of random short lengths of hair at the top of my forehead. Brushing through my hair just seemed to exacerbate the problems, as the curls frizzed out, and my hair resembled a ball around my head. I noticed my mother was watching me through the open door. She entered wordlessly and helped me to style my hair. She blew my fringe straight and sprayed something on my hair which helped to tame the curls. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. “Looks better, doesn't it?”

Our reconciliation was short lived. She informed me that her plan to see Monica wouldn't be changed and that we'd be going to see her before I went to school. The rage of the previous night had exhausted us both and our mutual displeasure was shown by a frosty silence. I walked a few paces behind her as we travelled the short distance to Karen's house. I'd never felt more embarrassed by my mother than when she knocked on the door.

Monica greeted her, but I could see immediately that there was a mutual distrust between them. “I was expecting you. You'd better come in, it would be unfair on Polly to allow you to cause a scene on my doorstep.”

When we entered the living room I smiled as I saw my best friend. Another woman was present, a middle aged woman with a Party haircut and a Pioneer uniform. Monica introduced her as Elspeth Evans. “She's our local Party treasurer and the patron of the regional Pioneer chapter. Mrs Anderson, what did you want to see me about?”

The presence of this stranger seemed to throw my mother off balance. At the time I had no idea how powerful she was, but clearly my mother did. “I don't want Polly to join the Pioneers,” Mum said quietly. I blushed and wanted her to stop talking.

“It was Polly's choice,” Monica stated. She turned to me: “Wasn't it, honey?” I nodded.

The older woman spoke. “The Pioneers is an organisation for young people to exert their independence. It's the young person who chooses to join, not the parent.”

“But Polly is too young,” Mum protested. “She's not fourteen.”

“She's been admitted to the auxiliary. I processed her admission this morning. Monica signed it on her behalf.”

“But she had no right!”

“She had every right. I trust Monica implicitly, she's a key member of the local Party. And I've heard Polly say herself that she chose to join. The signature is that of a witness, not a parent.”

“This is unacceptable,” Mum said. She was quiet but I could see her anger growing, and she was only containing it with considerable effort. “You can't just talk my daughter into joining a quasi-military organisation and cut off her hair without even consulting me!”

Mrs Evans stared at her before replying. “We've already established that Polly requested entry. The Pioneers is an admirable organisation which will teach your daughter key values. It may also help her to get away from the negative influences of her family.”

My mother looked shocked. “Negative influences?”

“Don't think I don't know about you, Mrs Anderson. This is a small, tight-knit community and no one escapes my attention. A single mother...”

“Widowed,” my mother interrupted.

“Not widowed, you never married. It shows a recklessness toward family values. And in the past you were a member of a listed political organisation. You do know that being a parent is a privilege? A fine young woman like Polly shouldn't be held back by her mother's failings. You need to start showing that you value her achievements. Instead of complaining about your daughter becoming a Pioneer you should show some pride.”

Monica now spoke. “If you keep taking such an antisocial attitude you'll lose the respect of your daughter completely. There are pioneer schools, residential schools where Polly could choose to go. I'm starting to think that would be good for her.”

“You can't take Polly away from me!” Mother was nearly in tears now, trying desperately to contain her fear, frustration, anger.

Mrs Evans spoke. “Monica can't take her away, but I can. You have to show me that you're a fit mother. I'll be keeping a close eye on you, because I want the best for Polly. You need to start behaving as a good example. You could take a leaf out of Monica's book. Her and Karen have an admirable relationship, and look how Karen is growing into such a fine young woman.”

Monica thanked her protector and asked Karen to take me along to school. “Mrs Anderson, you can stay, we need to discuss how you can become a better parent, and, for that matter, a better citizen.”

I spent the day at school barely able to concentrate on anything the teachers said. My friends were shocked to see my new haircut, but all I could think about was the events of the morning. I was fearful that I would be sent away to a residential school and never allowed to see my mother again. Only Karen knew what was upsetting me and she kept squeezing my hand and telling me everything would be fine. For those moments when she smiled at me, I believed that all my problems would go away.

I rushed home at the end of school, wanting to apologise to Mum for all the trouble I'd stirred up. I dashed into the kitchen where she was preparing our meal. Mum fussed self-consciously with her hair: it had been shorn into the style of the Party zealots.

I was astonished. This woman didn't look like my mother. She'd always had lovely thick curls, similar in texture to mine, auburn. I knew she'd coloured it for the last several years, and now it was apparent why. The back and sides, which had been tapered very close, were grey, and only the longer sections on top retained the reddish tone. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and this brutal crop aged her terribly. I started to cry and put my arms around her. My emotions broke through her attempts to remain stoic and soon her tears mingled with mine.

“I'm sorry, Mum. Please don't let them take me away.” She assured me that wasn't going to happen. “Why did you cut your hair?”

“I... They wanted me to. To show I thought like them.”

“Monica made you do it?” I was shocked. I couldn't believe that Monica would do this to Mum.

“I did it to show them that I can be good for you. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices.”

“I don't like the grey, Mum,” I said, stroking her hair, which was as short on her nape as mine. “Makes you look older. You should colour it.”

“No, Polly, best I leave it grey now,” she said. I could see that she was hiding something. I knew immediately that she'd been told to refrain from dying it.

“Are you going to keep it short?”

She nodded. “For the time being,” she said sadly.

Every four weeks now my mother and I would go to the same barbershop where I would have my Pioneer bob trimmed and Mum would receive her regulation crop. She never spoke to the barberette; she'd sit in silence as her hair was buzzed and snipped. I noticed that Mum's was always a little shorter than most of the Party members, who were becoming more and more common in our town. I can see now that this was just another little humiliation for her to endure.

At school I was closer than ever to Karen. We started to socialise almost exclusively with other Pioneers and my old friends drifted away unless I could convince them to become Pioneers too. I felt a great happiness when one of my friends agreed to join and submitted her long hair to the attentions of my barberette. I found watching her shearing excited me in ways I could only barely understand. When I lay in my bed at night I would caress my nape and daydream about the feeling of the clippers, about my memories of seeing my friends receive their shorn napes.

My life was beginning to fracture. At school and at Pioneer events I felt happy, part of a close community of peers. At home I had to witness my mother becoming increasingly depressed. Since the day she'd been forced to cut her hair I sensed that she'd become the victim of a campaign of humiliation by a group of Party members, and in retrospect I know that it was Monica who orchestrated this, although at the time I admired Monica so much that I wouldn't allow myself to believe that she was capable of wrong.

My mother became downcast and struggled to care for me. She frequently overslept and I would have to prepare our meals and take care of all the household chores. At Pioneer meetings Mrs Evans took a great interest in me, and would adopt a very informal manner, grandmother-like, when she called me to her office. She would inquire about my mother, and, since she'd gained my trust, I opened up to her about my concerns. She appeared sympathetic and promised to help.

It was a dreadful mistake. A few weeks after confiding I was called to see the headmistress in school. I was informed that Mum had had a breakdown and was on her way to a hospital to help her to get better. Although I was assured that she would be recovered in a few weeks I had seen her for the last time.

As an interim measure, I would be placed in a Pioneer school. The headmistress told me that I was very lucky to be accepted, not only because this school was so highly esteemed, but because in normal circumstances they wouldn't enrol pupils under the age of fourteen (my birthday was still some weeks off). I had been granted a special privilege under the aegis of the local Pioneer organiser (Mrs Evans) who felt that I had been a model of decorum since joining.

I was taken to this strange school, which was at the other end of the country to my home. I was introduced to the other girls at an evening assembly. “This is Polly Anderson, who I'm sure that you'll all welcome to our Pioneer community. She's a very brave girl: she's here because she informed against her own mother. The family bond is strong and it takes a special courage to do the right thing when the offender is one's own mother.”

I was horrified. I'd betrayed my own mother? I couldn't understand why this woman was saying these things. Surely she'd mistaken me for someone else. Over the next days I started to realise what I'd done, that my candour in discussions with Mrs Evans had condemned my mother to a psychiatric hospital. I felt strangled by a dreadful guilt which would not pass.

In my new school I did not prosper. I found the food unbearable and my body seemed to shrink. Already the youngest girl at the school, I seem to lag behind ever further in my development. Physical activities were esteemed by the school staff, but I was weak and awkward. An eye test a few days after my arrival diagnosed myopia and the following day I was wearing a horrible pair of black framed glasses. The girls were unwelcoming to this unprepossessing interloper. Not only was I sickly, puny, myopic, my mother's illness was common knowledge. My parentage was a reason not for sympathy but for suspicion and hostility.

My years in the academy were unbearably lonely. I had no one I could call a friend. The academy was run on military lines but I was reminded at every opportunity that my weakness made me unfit to serve my country. I applied myself to my studies, where I was modestly successful, but book learning was seen as a suspect skill. Pioneers were supposed to be resilient, rugged, not bookish. There was talk of transferring me to another school with a gentler regime, but this never came to pass. I had to endure the academy until I turned twenty-one.

My old life had become utterly lost to me. I'd corresponded with Karen and a few other friends after arriving at the school but soon their replies arrived after a long delay, and eventually there were no more letters. I received an update once a year about my mother, a brief paragraph from one of her doctors informing me that she was not responding to treatment and would not be considered for discharge at this time. When I was seventeen I was informed by my house-mother that Mum had died as a result of an unforeseen complication in one of her treatments. Given the “shameful nature of her disorder” it was felt that I should not attend the funeral.

My guilt seemed to define me. I was guilty about all my thoughts and actions, past and present. It was my actions which had caused Mum's depression, I who'd betrayed her to Mrs Evans, my weakness that allowed her to die alone in a dreadful hospital. I was lonely and secretly I dreamed about intimacy with the girls who shared my dormitory. Secrets were anathema. A private person was a traitor, we were told. Only through openness and community could the state and its people prosper.

Not only did I have secret thoughts, these thoughts were of an unacceptable nature. It was known that some girls did start to have feelings toward other girls, but this inversion of nature was a sickness. I feared my secret being discovered, feared more that my longings would force me to act.

There was a scandal (although no one was supposed to talk of it, there were whisperings in corridors and in the dormitory) because two girls had been witnessed kissing. They were immediately removed from the academy. I was told by an older pupil that such inverts would be sent to a conditioning clinic. When I asked what would happen to them, she grimaced. “You don't know?” she asked. “Those places are horrible. They use electric shocks and awful drugs to make you hate any intimacy. Most people end up in the same place as your mother after they go through that.”

There was a change after this incident; three times a year all of the girls aged over sixteen would attend a dance where the boys of corresponding ages from the local boys' Pioneer academy would be present. It was probably felt that the risk of provoking desires for the unattainable boys was preferable to having the girls sate their desires with the only intimacy which was available. The older girls were allowed to establish relationships with boys, although these relationships were entirely chaste. Pioneer girls were expected to maintain their chastity until their union was blessed by the state.

I found the dances alienating and frightening. Whilst the other girls would become terribly excited by the sight of the boys we were as a rule forbidden from seeing, the dances only served to convince me that I was suffering from an illness. I was painfully shy and the girls teased me about my awkwardness, ridiculed my unattractiveness to the boys. I took the humiliation with feigned good humour, but inside I longed to love and to be loved.

The objects of my desire changed often, but was usually one of the older pupils. I desired what I couldn't be: tall, athletic women. More and more, my lusts seemed to be connected with hair. I loved to see my peers on the day when they'd all received fresh haircuts, their napes shorn to stubble, their bobs chopped to a hard line, their fringes short. Each form would attend the barbershop on the same evening, going along in groups of four. When my turn came I would be shaking with nerves, and my classmates could barely help noticing. They teased me for my fear of getting my hair cut, but had no insight into my true feelings. I did dislike seeing myself with my curls cut into this ugly bob, but the sensations of the cut were my greatest pleasure.

I would lie awake at night, stroking my nape, dreaming of Karen's hair, the fine blonde silk which was so much more refined than my coarse curls. Would I ever again have the pleasure of stroking another girl's hair?

When I was sixteen there was a particularly hot summer and the headmistress announced that for the sake of comfort the pupils would have their napes shaved smooth with a razor. My form was one of the first to be shaved and the girls took it on them to make me be the first to submit to the razor.

The barberette, a mean spirited woman who invariably complained of the difficulty of cutting my curly hair neatly, made me sit with bowed head and sheared me up my nape, clearing an arch much higher than the usual clippered area. As she covered it with cold, wet soap, I started to feel a growing wetness between my legs. I could barely breath as she dragged the razor up my nape from neck to crown. The first stroke was raspy, the blade dragging against the hair. Then the razor rose again, but now my scalp was smooth, slippery. Once the stubble was all gone I endured a soft towel rubbing at the freshly bared skin. I felt a heat passing through me, a tingling, delicious sensation, and crossed my legs firmly under the cape, since I was sure I was about to lose control of my bladder. I had no idea what was happening to me, only that I was being consumed with the most glorious happiness. I could hear my classmates giggling as my face reddened. They assumed that I was suffering a terrible embarrassment at being shaved.

The barberette started to cut my bob and cursed me. “Sit still! You're fidgeting like a worm and you made me cut more than I intended.” I said nothing, sure that I hadn't moved. When I put my glasses back on my nose I saw the result of her mistake: my bob was cut much shorter than usual, barely covering the tops of my ears. Even the fringe had been cut shorter, presumably because the barberette thought that the normal length fringe would look out of proportion with so short a bob.

As I rejoined the other pupils I received a sharp slap on my shaved nape. “You really should sit still!” a bullying girl named Annabelle hissed. “You really should be used to getting your hair cut by now. A Pioneer should be proud of her haircut. You don't deserve to wear your uniform.”

“I do like it,” I insisted, untruthfully. “I just get a bit nervous.” As I looked in the mirror I felt shocked by the severity and ugliness of my new cut. I missed the long hair of my youth, and yet the feeling of my bald nape made me tingle once more. For the entire summer I experienced a new level of arousal, astonished each time I touched my bald scalp, filled with desire for other girls' bald napes, though too shy to risk touching.

The final years of life at the academy were given over to vocational training. As each girl celebrated her twenty-first birthday she was welcomed into womanhood with a ceremony which included her first adult haircut. The pioneer bob was shorn into the crop of the Party member, the familiar short back and sides with a straight fringe across the top of her forehead. I would be the last girl in my year to go through the ceremony and it was with mixed emotions that I sat for the last time for the barberette who'd tormented me for more than seven years. For the previous weeks the weather had been unusually hot and as she wrapped me in a cotton cape she announced that she'd give me a summer cut. Despite the fact that I was now officially an adult, my fear of her remained and I didn't dare question her.

The clippers whirred as she cleaned away the growth of fuzz from my nape. For the first time I felt her shape my hair without scissors. She pulled a comb up through the curls and stroked the clippers across the tines. Heavy clumps thudded softly onto the cape.

Even without my glasses I could see that she was cutting the sides too short. I could see pale scalp where I expected to see dark hair. She clippered up the sides again and again, fading and tapering the hair high over my ears. “A nice cool whitewall,” she said with a cruel laugh as she noticed my concern.

She used the clipper over comb technique to take the top short, then finished my cut by smoothing my fringe down and holding it in place with the comb. She touched the blades to my hair, cutting the fringe absurdly short, so that it barely covered any of my forehead. I expected to be released but instead I felt her apply a layer of soap to my nape and above my ears. The razor dragged over my scalp and I was reminded of my ecstatic epiphany years previously in this same chair. I had learned to better control my body in the intervening time, but knew that I would later achieve a new delight when I found some privacy.

I put my glasses back on. I'd been provided with a new pair only days earlier, round lenses with horn-rimmed frames. The woman who looked back at me from the mirror had the shortest haircut I'd ever seen. The barberette, who'd always disliked me, had taken her final vengeance on me. Although I knew this haircut would earn me endless teasing from my peers, I wasn't sorry. I loved the cruelty of the style and the feeling of the bald scalp. “Thank you, Miss,” I smiled. “I'll miss your haircuts,” I said with sincerity. She looked confused by my happiness.

Only days later I was discharged from the academy, no longer a Pioneer, but a full Party member. For the previous two years I had been training for service in the Office of Population and Statistics, commonly known as the census. The census had become a very important office in Anglian government, as the various ministries demanded more and more detailed information about the populace. I was under no illusions about why I had been appointed to a junior position; this was no indication of faith in my abilities. Rather, the sheer volume of data that was being requested from the census meant that huge numbers of employees were necessary in order collect and process information.

I travelled to my new home by train, feeling a huge anxiety at the unfamiliarity of the world. For seven years I'd barely passed beyond the academy walls, and everything seemed alien. Because I had no family, I'd been at a disadvantage. Many of the other girls would spend time with their families three times a year, allowing them some time to familiarise themselves with life outside the academy.

I found myself staring at passengers on the train, astonished to see people without uniforms, by the variety of hairstyles. For a section of the journey a man sat next to me, which put me in a state of panic. My only contact with males was at the dances, and before each we'd been warned of the risks of close contact, yet now I was sitting inches away from a stranger. Every moment that he sat next to me felt like I was doing something wrong and when he left the train I was relieved.

I was to live in a small room in a housing project for government employees. I would share a communal lounge and washing/bathing facilities with five other residents. Although the room was very small and Spartan, it was the first private space I'd had since I'd lived with Mum. I knew I had to be careful about spending too much time alone: privacy was a sign of an antisocial person. There was every possibility that the people I was sharing with would report on my behaviour. I had learned that I had to maintain an outward veneer of conformity, and especially never to show that I was down or lonely. Because of Mum's depression I was thought to be at risk, and a depressed person was poisonous, selfish, spreading their negativity to others. I'd learned a fake smile to greet others to show that I was a happy person.

The day after my arrival I reported to my new job. I would work in a huge tower block, eighteen storeys high. I was shown to my office, trying to memorise the route, sure that I could never find my way around. I felt utterly out of my depth in this chaotic, noisy environment. I'd spent years in the ruthlessly disciplined environment of the academy and I was ill-equipped to adapt to anything else.

My new manager, Celine, looked me over. “Christ, can't they teach you kids how to dress? What are you wearing?” What I was wearing was one of the three outfits which I'd been provided with as a leaving gift: a beige blouse, slacks of a similar colour. Apparently it wasn't a fashionable look. “And your hair! It's the shortest cut I ever saw. Please tell me you don't intend to keep it like that. I want you to look smart, not like a boy soldier.”

I apologised for the severity of my cut and promised to let it grow out. I'd noticed that in the years I'd been away, the Party crop had become less uniform. While it remained the same basic short cut with fringe, it had produced many personalised variations. Celine wore hers with long pointed sideburns which partially covered her ears. Her fringe was fairly long and swept to the side, softening the style. I tried to imagine myself with a similar look, soft and feminine. The idea pleased me.

I was assigned to a team which visited randomly selected domiciles to review living arrangements and update information about the householders. I would make all visits with another worker from a different team. It soon became apparent that this was a common procedure throughout government: employees would conform when they were with a person they didn't know. Over-familiarity with colleagues was discouraged; when I was with my partner I was instructed to communicate only about professional issues. A friendly and polite demeanour should be maintained but small talk avoided.

For the first few days I was teamed with experienced workers: the work was largely routine and mundane. We'd be driven to an area and inspect roughly half a dozen properties, then would return to the office to write up our reports in the afternoon. Despite my training, I struggled to adjust to life in the office. There were numerous convoluted systems to navigate, levels of bureaucracy which seemed to serve no purpose. The computer systems were unreliable, for which reason all reports had to be submitted as paper copies (all retained on file), to be input by a clerical assistant.

There was a strict division between the higher grade jobs, which were all occupied by Party members, and the non-Party grades. I soon became aware that this division extended into social relationships: Party members didn't form friendships with non-Party members. Amongst the lower grades I sensed that there was a division between those who resented the privilege and elitism of the Party and those who aspired to rise through the service by being admitted to the Party. During the time I'd been secluded in the school, admittance to the Party had changed. In the past anybody could join by registering and paying a small fee. Now this system only applied to associate members. Full membership was only granted to those, like me, who had attended a Party school, or through nomination by Party members. Even then, nomination was only possible for those who had passed a Work Guild examination which would allow employment in a Party grade job.

Secretly, I longed to be freed of the restrictions of Party membership. I found myself enchanted by the young girls who worked in the office with long hair. Some of them wore a lot of make-up, which was entirely unfamiliar to me; it was forbidden in the academy and Party women were expected to wear only minimal, subtle make-up. I dreamed of being a normal girl, allowed to wear pretty clothes and grow my curls long again. But I'd been strictly schooled that I was a Party member for all of my life. Resignation was not permitted.

There were times when I felt ashamed of the Party. In my second week as an inspector I was partnered with a woman in her fifties who seemed particularly callous. We paid a visit to an Asian family. The Asian war was still ongoing (news reports were always extolling Anglian successes, yet an end was never mentioned) and this had generated a lot of friction toward Asians. The Party had instituted a policy of Anglians First, which meant that immigrants and those of Asian ancestry were given lower priority in housing and education. We inspected the house of a young couple with an infant daughter. As soon as we entered my partner became hostile, raging at the young mother, whose husband was away at work. She demanded to see various papers, and became verbally abusive when the woman couldn't provide a tax record. She informed the woman that she was reporting her for a failure to cooperate with an investigation, and that as a result her family would lose the tenancy of this property.

I was shocked as we left. “What will happen to them?” I asked.

“They'll be rehoused with a private landlord. It'll be more expensive for them, and I imagine that it won't be in good condition, but we're under pressure to free up these government owned properties for Anglian families.”

“But she didn't do anything wrong. We don't inspect taxes so you had no business asking for that.”

“Don't get all sentimental! We have to target these people and any failure to cooperate is sufficient to report. I've done nothing wrong. Have I?” she snarled.

“No,” I said meekly.

“Good, you're learning. Next family of foreigners we visit it'll be you reporting them. I need to toughen you up.”

Fortunately, all of the inspections that remained that day were with Anglian families so my blooding was postponed.

I dreaded being teamed with that same inspector again, but knew that the chances of it happening soon were remote. What scared me was that it soon became apparent that her disregard for the letter of the law was an unspoken policy. Inspectors were expected to meet a quota of reports, and performance would be judged on numbers of evictions of problematic individuals and families. Reports were to be engineered by any means necessary.

It was in my third week when I had my fateful encounter with Andra. I was partnered with an inspector little older than me but much more experienced. She'd been complaining all day of feeling unwell, but this just seemed to put her in a bad mood; she'd been surly and aggressive during every inspection.

Our last call of the day was to a tiny studio apartment in a large tower block. The woman who admitted us was in her twenties, tall, slim, broad-shouldered. She had long, straight hair, dark brown with a blunt fringe and was dressed in flared jeans and a yellow t-shirt with a screen-printed design. I was immediately attracted to her. Most of the people who we inspected were deferential, fearful, but Andra was different. She seemed almost defiant. I was astonished when my partner examined her citizen card and noted that she was Asian. I hadn't recognised it, assuming that she was of exclusively European ancestry. Only when I looked closely could I something in her facial bone structure that suggested her ethnicity.

“My grandmother was Japanese,” Andra stated. There seemed to be pride in her statement. I could see my partner's mood grow increasingly worse as she sought an excuse for a report. However, Andra was well prepared and could provide every requested document and satisfactorily answer every question put to her.

My fellow inspector grimaced and rushed toward the tiny bathroom. I felt my cheeks colour as I had to listen to the awful sounds which left no doubt as to the nature of my colleague's illness. I stepped closer to Andra and whispered to her: “I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to go through this, it's all wrong. I want to help you.” She looked at me with disgust.

I remained silent and awkward until my partner emerged. She looked grey and signed off Andra's inspection. “Expect another visit soon,” she muttered threateningly as we left.

My encounter with Andra had left me haunted. My colleague had returned home and the reports were my responsibility. When I processed Andra's inspection I completed a form which stated that Andra was fully compliant. She wouldn't be inspected again for at least a year. I felt a pride in my little act of humanity. My work made me unhappy, complicit in acts of evil against innocent people. Even now I wondered if I would stand by my tiny act of defiance. If my partner checked my work would I say I'd ticked the wrong box and defer to her wishes, unreasonable and cruel though they were?

I made a very unwise decision. I visited Andra, even though I knew the risks were great if I were to be seen. She lived a few miles away from me and I walked across the town a few days after my initial encounter. I felt intimidated as I entered her district. At night it was almost deserted, but for groups of thuggish looking boys dressed in quasi-military uniforms. As I passed they smiled and waved with surprising friendliness. I later discovered that they were Youth Brigade members, little better than vigilantes, who enforced a sort of order in poorer areas of the cities and ruthlessly punished any who they deemed abnormal. As a Party member, they treated me with respect.

I arrived at Andra's block and entered using my inspector's pass (it allowed me to enter any housing block). I walked up to Andra's flat and paused before I had the courage to knock. When I did knock I soon heard someone behind the door call “Who's there?”

“Please... I need to see you,” I whispered.

The door opened and Andra looked astonished to see me. “Get in!” she hissed.

I entered her flat, feeling embarrassed and hurt that she was so obviously offended to see me. “What the hell are you doing here? How did you get into the block?”

“I used my card...”

“For fuck's sake! The scanner records cards used to access the building. They have a record that you've been here. Just better hope no one bothers to look who's been here.” I blushed at my naivety. “Really though... Why are you here?”

“I wanted to help you. I fixed it so you won't be getting inspected again any time soon.”

She shrugged. “Inspections are the least of my worries. You being here is much more of a problem. You think people don't notice a party member coming here by night? Do you want people to think I'm an informer?”

“I'm sorry, I never imagined...” I started to cry.

“Oh, just what I need. Tears. Sit down.” She poured me a glass of whisky and told me to drink it. It was my first taste of alcohol and I groaned as it burned my throat. Andra laughed at my discomfort. “You never had a drink before?”

“I'm just out of an academy. Not even a month. I don't understand anything in the real world. They didn't really prepare us for life on the outside, at least not me. I was there since I was thirteen. I'm Polly Anderson, I never did introduce myself.”

Andra laughed. “Polly isn't really the name for a tough inspector. Look, Polly, I'm sure you're a sweet girl, and I know you're lonely, but I'm not here to look after little lost puppies. This is a big bad world, and you're part of the problem. If you want to help, leave the Party, work to oppose what they do.”

“I can't leave... I mean even if I wanted to I can't. If I refused to do the job I've been given I'd be sent away to a conditioning clinic. How would that help anyone?”

Andra nodded. “You're useless to anyone. You're too naïve to be effective. If you tried to work from the inside you'd be caught.”

Her taunts hurt me. “I want to help. I could provide information. I'm still getting to know how the systems work but once I do I'll see how there are errors that could be exploited. I may be naïve but I'm not stupid.” Even as I said it, I wondered what I was getting into. I was no subversive. I was clumsy and error-prone. I'd be sure to be caught if I did anything unlawful. Obviously I was stupid.

“I suppose you think I am?” Andra suddenly got angry and my protests that I hadn't suggested anything of the sort were lost in her tirade. “I was a very good student, a very good musician too, but when I was sixteen I was no longer eligible to continue in education. You know your Party's policies now mean that people like me now leave school at fourteen? I work as a cleaner and I haven't played a piano for five years.”

“I'm sorry, that's awful. I wish I could help.”

“Stop saying that! You just make me angry. I can hardly bear to look at you. Your haircut is horrible, the worst little academy girl crop I can imagine.”

“I hate it too,” I said, ashamed. “The barberette always disliked me, I never fitted in. She gave me a shaved back and sides so that I'd look awful when I went to my new job. I wish I could grow my hair like yours. It's so pretty.”

“It was shaved?” Andra asked. I nodded and told her that I was due a cut but would let it grow out into a more feminine cut.

“No, get it shaved again. If you want to see me again I want to see you with the same haircut you got off the barberette who hated you.”

“Please, Andra,” I pleased, “I get teased about this haircut by everyone, and my boss has told me to grow it out.”

“So grow it out and leave me alone.” I shook my head. I wanted to see her more than anything. “There's a nature society that organises weekly trips to the countryside. Join it, I go every week. We can see each other there. Once we set out on walks there's hardly any supervision.”

The following day I joined the society and added my name to the list for Sunday's walk to a local forest. It was only three days off and I knew that I'd have to get my hair cut for Andra. I booked into a salon that evening and proceeded there immediately after work.

The salon had been recommended by Hannah, a colleagues that I'd developed a liking for. She had beautiful red hair, cut in light feathery layers. Her fringe was extremely short, wisps barely brushing the top of her forehead, and her nape was squared precisely, buzzed short up to a weight line high on her nape. It was by far the most creative interpretation of the official Party style that I'd seen.

My stylist was a beautiful woman in her thirties with a sleek blonde bob. If she'd been ten years younger I may have thought I was seeing Karen. She wore a stud in the centre of her lower lip, which shocked me. Piercings were discouraged, forbidden (with the exception of pierced lobes) for Party members. Her daring excited me. How I would love to have make-up like hers, dark lips, smoky eyes, thick false lashes. I sat meekly as she removed my spectacles and blinked nervously at my fuzzy reflection.

She tousled my short curls. “It's very short, Miss.” (Even the most junior Party members inspired a degree of deference). “Would you like me to just neaten it up, let a bit more length grow in?”

I would have liked that very much, but I had been instructed differently. “No, I want a summer cut.” That's what we called it at the academy when we were given a shaved nape. “Shave the back and sides please.”

“A close crop?” she asked, clearly a little surprised.

“No shaved smooth. With a razor.” My voice betrayed my emotional conflict.

She nodded and combed through my fringe, but then her doubts returned. “Are you sure? I guess you're fresh from the academy. No one really wears their hair like that any more. You'll fit in much better with a softer look.”

“I... I find shorter more comfortable,” I lied. “Practical too. I'm not really interested in looking fashionable.”

“OK, Miss, your choice. Perhaps we can treat the curls? It would make it a bit more manageable. It might balance better with the short sides, a lot of volume in the curl would look...”

She seemed unable to find the word. I imagined the word she was looking for: silly, ridiculous, ugly? I agreed to her suggestion without really understanding what treatment she was proposing.

She took her clippers and touched my head to make me bow, exposing my nape. Her perfume was strong and I was enchanted by her scent. I felt the cold buzz of the bare blades on my neck and tensed as she pushed them upward. Soft, dark balls of fluff rolled into my lap as my nape was returned to hairlessness. She was so gentle with me. I'd endured years of being shorn as quickly and functionally as possible. To feel her soft caresses was a sensual delight for me. The blades stroked and tickled at my nape, making me want to squirm and giggle, but I managed to sit motionless.

I felt the clippers zip high up the back of my head. Was she going to shave me even higher than my last cut? I realised that she was keeping the blades pressed tight to my scalp, with nothing of the rolling away that my familiar barberette used to make a taper. I'd seen the sort of imaginative style this salon produced. Was I going to get a completely unfamiliar style now?

I felt a growing fear as she clippered the sides. I saw a white expanse of scalp grow rapidly upwards, no signs of a taper. I tried to recall my instructions to her. Had I told her her to shave the back and sides? Had this been what she thought I'd asked for?

She lathered me, spreading the scented shaving foam with her soft fingers. I adored her touch but was appalled to feel the sandpapery stubble on the back now reached almost to my crown. I'd expected to have a copy of my previous cut but it was now apparent that I'd have something far more extreme. It was too late to go back. I allowed myself to relax as she gently shaved away the last traces of hair. I found myself growing toward a climax. I felt out of control, as if in a dream where I was drifting slowly toward embarrassing myself but powerless to resist.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how I would look with so little hair, but instead I kept seeing visions of my stylist, her beautiful lips, adorned with the stud which pierced her flesh. I wanted her to hold me close to her and press her lips to mine. I wanted her to paint my eyes and lips too, and to tell me I was beautiful. I wanted her to make me shriek with pain by forcing a stud into my lip.

The touch of the razor stroking up my nape was too much. I longed for the rough touch of the academy barberette to restore my equilibrium, but my lovely stylist was too sensual. I held my body rigid but my feet trembled as a wave of energy coursed through me. Did she sense what had just happened? I felt my cheeks burning with shame, grateful that I could keep my head bowed to hide my shame. I felt a coolness spreading over my loins and knew that I'd got wet. Would there be a dark stain on my trousers to announce my embarrassment visibly?

My beautiful tormentor continued to shave away my stubble. Her delicate fingers folded my ears as she shaved the shadow of hair from my temple. I'd never experienced such pleasures, such intimacy. I wished that this was something I could experience in private; to endure such excitement in public was humiliating for me, and I wondered if I would dare to return to this same stylist for my monthly cut. If I saw any indication that she was aware of how I'd disgraced myself I resolved never to return.

After rubbing my bald head with a towel, my stylist placed my glasses back on my nose. “You can wear these now. Your hair's well clear of your ears so they won't get in the way.”

I saw myself clearly now. Other than a strip of curls running over the top of my head, I was bald. The shaved strip of scalp over my ears must have been as wide as the palm of my hand. I wanted to tell her that she'd sheared far too much, that this wasn't what I wanted, but I was too polite to hurt her feelings. Besides, though I felt terribly humiliated by this too severe shaving, I was delighted by everything that was happening to me.

My stylist (I wanted to ask her name but was afraid that an increase in informality would feel inappropriate) started to apply a vile-smelling mixture to my curls, working it into the roots with gloved fingers. Once my hair was thoroughly coated with this gelatinous substance, she worked it with a comb, so that my hair formed into stiff ridges, sticking up vertically from my head. My hair formed into sleek sheets, looking longer than I'd supposed it was, now that the curl was straightened out. She applied a strip of plastic sheet across my forehead before combing my fringe forward. She used the comb to fashion it into a smoothly curled tube, but not centrally. Rather my fringe sat at an angle, pushed to the right side of my forehead. “Does that fringe look OK?” she asked with a friendly smile, obviously pleased with her work. I nodded in agreement, afraid to hurt her feelings.

I was told that I would have to leave the chemicals in place for at least an hour for them to do their work. I asked immediately to use the toilet and felt an enormous relief to finally gain some privacy. I was happy to see that no damp patch was visible on my trousers (although the moisture could be felt). I peeled my panties away and saw that my bush was flattened by the sticky juices that had run from me during my climax. I washed myself as best I could, hiding my stained panties in my bag. I rose to wash my hands before leaving the toilet and was confronted by my image in a mirror. I was shocked anew by what I saw, my head tiny and white without hair, my little remaining hair plastered into ludicrous peaks. I couldn't resist stroking the back of my head, so bare, so smooth.

After patiently allowing the processing to complete, I endured more sensual tortures at the hands of my delightful tormentor. She washed out the chemicals and shampooed my hair. No one had given me a shampoo since Mum when I was a little girl, and suddenly I was reminded of the idyllic days of my youth when she would patiently comb out my curls, easing out every tangle with gentle care, then putting my hair into long braids. How I missed her! I rarely allowed myself to think of her these days, the pain was unbearable. My thoughts sprung forward to her quiet sadness at having to endure her humiliating haircuts, forced on her by her cruel enemies. Without my treachery, my allegiance with Karen and her mother, Mum might still be with me. I vowed never to allow myself the privilege of long hair, to always keep my hair shorter than Mum's had been cut, to punish my wickedness.

I was surprised to see that my hair retained the form in which the chemicals had locked it, even now that they had been rinsed away. Even when wet, my hair stuck up and my fringe retained its strict curl. The top was snipped much shorter, roughly half the length being pecked free with the tips of the scissors. The top of my head was now covered with short, jagged spiky peaks. She cut the edges shorter so that my hair rounded smoothly into the bare sides.

My fringe was gently trimmed (just millimetres cut from the ends to neaten it), then my stylist misted my hair with a styling spray. She blasted it with a dryer, twisting at each spike to fix it in place, then smoothing my fringe with a round brush until it shined as if burnished. I felt my cheeks glow as I took in my transformation. It was far too extreme but the first haircut I'd ever had that looked stylish. I thanked her profusely.

As I walked back to my lodgings I felt every eye was staring at me. I felt naked, anxious. I wanted so much to just be a normal girl with normal hair and normal desires. As I entered the apartment building one of my neighbours passed me in the corridor. I felt her eyes assessing my new cut and she looked at me with a condescending smirk. I felt my embarrassment increase and I rushed to find solace in the privacy of my room.

As soon as I was alone I pulled down my trousers and started to touch myself. I groaned with pleasure as I relieved myself of the suppressed feelings which had filled me during my time in the salon. I kept caressing my bald head, feeling the stiff spikes on top, easing out my fringe and letting it spring back. It took only moments before my body had filled with libidinous energy. I held myself tense as my ecstasy grew and grew. I held it until the energy could no longer be contained and I was engulfed by a surge of bliss of a previously magnitude. It felt like a dam had burst.

I came to my senses shivering on my sofa. Suddenly I felt like I was becoming ensnared in a nightmare. I felt my bald nape and imagined the disapprobation this cut would draw from my manager, who had already hinted that I should grow my hair. Why had I done this? Why was I allowing to get myself involved with Andra? She was dangerous. I sensed her involvement with subversives working against the state. If I was caught I'd be punished brutally. Treason was the worst of all crimes. And yet I couldn't bear the idea that I should never see her again. Perhaps I could meet with her on the nature walk and explain that I'd been naïve to make contact with her, explain that we should end our involvement. I tried to rationalise this on the basis that parting on good terms would make her less likely to report me for my illegal visit.

I was unbearably tense when I returned to work the next day. Every time Celine passed through the office I expected to be called for a public dressing down. I felt her eyes bearing down on me, saw her anger at my insubordination, yet I was left in peace. In the afternoon Hannah came over to comment on my cropping. She told me I was brave to get such a bold style (although she never went as far as saying she liked what had been done to my hair). I rubbed at my neck with some discomfiture. “I thought Celine would be mad at me. She did say she wanted me to grow out my hair.”

“Ah, well. She knows about your protector. She wouldn't want to risk upsetting you now she knows about your connections.”

I'm sure I looked astonished. The idea that Polly Anderson, the lonely little orphan, was well connected was absurd. Surely Hannah was mistaking me for someone else. “My protector?” I repeated.

“Someone found out that you were sponsored by Elspeth Evans. Even now she's retired she still carries a lot of influence. Celine is a huge admirer so she won't risk upsetting you.”

This revelation did nothing to comfort me. Had Mrs Evans been watching over me from afar all through my schooling? If so I can only imagine her disappointment at how I'd turned out. Nor did I like having power over Celine. I was sure that she would resent having to grant me special privileges, and that this resentment would spread amongst my colleagues. I resolved, at some future time, to meet with Celine to apologise for my haircut and to promise to grow it out to something less ostentatious.

But I couldn't bring myself to meet her until I'd seen Andra. Some part of me needed her approval. What if she demanded that I keep my ridiculous new style? Where would my loyalties lie, with Celine or with Andra?

By Sunday I was feeling sick with nerves. I knew that the sensible course of action would be to avoid this tryst, surely doomed as it was. In my head I tried to list pros and cons. The cons won out every time, yet I made my way to the local railway station anyway. I watched the passengers embarking at each station, eager to see if Andra would board the same train. I was scarcely able to breathe as I saw her on the platform. She got aboard the train, though in a carriage further forward than mine. I tried to appear calm, but inside I was a maelstrom of emotion. I kept glancing toward the door that connected my carriage to that in front, hoping and fearing that Andra would appear.

She had a greater sense of discretion than I had managed to acquire. When I departed the train I saw a woman with the unmistakeable image of a party member holding up a sign to indicate that she was the organiser of the nature society. Slowly some of the passengers huddled loosely about her, about ten in all. Andra approached after me and I risked a glance. She didn't acknowledge me and I took this as a sign that our relationship was to be kept secret.

I was alone in the woods now. We'd been given a brief talk by our organiser about the flora and fauna that we might look out for. We wouldn't travel back for another five hours, although for those who couldn't survive a five hour walk there was a café near the station where they could take refuge. Andra had disappeared as soon as the leader finished her introduction, setting off at a fast pace into the densest section of forest. I'd taken a different path, but soon veered off toward the area where I guessed she'd headed. After almost an hour of searching I was in near despair. The forest was vast and I felt utterly lost. We'd been provided with a map of the paths, but it was badly duplicated in purple ink and nearly illegible.

I jumped as I felt two hands clap together onto the sides of my head. “Polly Anderson, whatever possessed you to get such a dreadful haircut?”

I turned to look at Andra, my face reddening. “Oh, Andra, I thought I'd lost you! I'm so pleased to see you.”

She looked at me with a quizzical expression. “So...” I looked at her blankly. “The haircut?”

“Oh, I think she misunderstood what I wanted. She really shaved a lot, didn't she?”

“She sure did. There was a fashion for this cut amongst the Party zealots about five years back, some horrible actress in a propaganda film had a cut like this, although she only had the sides buzzed. Summer Hughes, that was her. It was called a Summer cut.”

“Oh! Oh God! I didn't know. I asked for a summer cut, that was what we called it in the academy when we got an extra short cut in hot weather.” Suddenly I realised why my stylist had given me this style. “I hate it, everyone stares at me. I'll grow it out.”

“No you won't. You can keep it, it'll be your signature look, Polly.” She caressed her long slim fingers over the prickly stubble that had grown in. “I bet it felt much nicer when it was just shaved, didn't it?”

“It felt... weird,” I grimaced, ashamed by how excited I was by her touch. “The stylist did offer to shave me between cuts.”

“Oh, and you didn't even think to get a nice shave before you came to see me? I'm disappointed, Polly. I thought you'd want to make me happy. Next week you're to have a fresh shave before you come on the walk.”

I looked down, ashamed. “Please Andra, I need to grow it. My manager doesn't like it. I don't want to draw attention to myself.”

“You know why she hates it?”

“It looks too military, she thinks.”

Andra laughed. “She doesn't like it because you look like an invert!”

I shrieked with horror. “I'm not an invert, don't say that. Inverts are antisocial. They need to be reprogrammed.” Andra looked at me with amusement and asked me to explain what I thought an invert was. “A woman who likes other women.”

“You like me though?”

“Yes, but inverts like women... sexually.” I was ashamed to be talking like this. My upbringing had left me with a profound inability to discuss sex.

Andra plucked my spectacles from my nose. “You have a really pretty face, Polly Anderson. But no one can see that behind your horrible glasses and that vile haircut. Do you like it when I tell you you're pretty?” I nodded shyly, but I couldn't look at her. “Do you want to kiss me?”

“Someone might see us,” I whispered.

“But you do want it?” I nodded. “Then you must be... what?” she demanded.

“An invert.” I was almost in tears.

“There's a hut about half a mile from here that no one knows about. If I take you there I'll use you as I please. Do you want that?” I sniffled and nodded.

As we made our way through pathless banks of bracken, Andra teased me mercilessly. “Your family wouldn't be proud of their little academy girl now, would they?”

“I have no family,” I said with a sudden fury. And I told her everything, told her the story of how I'd let my desire to be friends with Karen ruin everything, how Mum had been bullied into depression and then rail-roaded into an institution. How I'd had no alternative but to grow up in an academy, lost and friendless.

We arrived at a tiny hut, almost invisible amongst a group of dishevelled saplings. Andra dragged me inside. It was cool and damp here, the floor covered with dead leaves which had blown under the door. The hut was empty other than a wooden chair and a steel framed bed.

“Am I supposed to feel sympathy for you? You made bad decisions and it wasn't you who suffered. Do you have any idea what psychiatric medicine has become in this country which you work for? Your Mum wouldn't have got therapy, she'd have been neglected and humiliated. Mental distress isn't an illness to treat for your people, it's a vice to be punished. You have no right to self-pity. Guilt is all you're allowed to feel.”

I sobbed as she accused me. I thought of all the terrible things that Mum must have endured. And all because of me. “Please, Andra, I was only a child. I didn't understand...”

“Get undressed,” she shouted. I reluctantly complied, but not with sufficient zeal to satisfy her. She tugged my trousers off roughly and threw me on the bed, face down. She placed her left hand on my nape and immobilised me as her right hand swatted my buttocks, over and over, each blow landing with more force than the last. “I hate you,” she spat. “You're a murderer!”

My body heaved as I sobbed violently, more from the shock I felt from Andra's condemnation than from physical pain, great as that was. I soon realised that Andra was crying too. She suddenly broke off from beating me and started to apologise. “Polly, I'm so sorry,” she murmured repeatedly. She took me in her arms and kissed me. She kissed me with such force and violence. Her lips felt like fire to me.

We were consumed by passion. Her roughness became transfigured into rapture. I'd never experienced the touch of another woman, and in my naivety I hadn't even understood what two women could do. I was a passive partner, unresisting as Andra explored my body in unfamiliar and often frightening ways. There were times when I longed to ask her to stop, but I didn't dare and I was rewarded with a bliss beyond what I imagined possible.

An hour later we lay in each others arms, our desires sated. She'd done things to me that I hadn't imagined possible. I looked into her eyes, dark, mysterious, beautiful. “This is how it must be, Polly,” she said tenderly, with heart-rending sadness. “I'm damaged, more angry than you can conceive. And you are a symbol of everything I hate. And I know rationally that you're a victim too, but my anger goes beyond reason.

“And you're damaged too, but your anger eats away inside you as guilt. So this is how it will be, my anger and your guilt. We really shouldn't see each other again. We're bad for each other in so many ways. When I brought you here all I wanted to do was to shame you and exploit you and send you away. But now I feel different. You're beautiful and sweet and I hate myself for my cruelty. So the choice is yours. Do you want us to keep meeting? Even though I will hurt you and shame you?”

I nodded. I loved her with all my heart, all the more for treating me so harshly. I needed her friendship, her company, her love. But more than those, I needed her anger. Her anger made her into a vengeful angel, and something deep inside was satisfied by her need to punish me. Only Andra could help me to appease my guilt.

I watched her intently as she dressed. For the first time I saw that on the back of her left shoulder was a large dark design, a tattoo. I gasped as I saw it. I could remember seeing tattoos when I was a little girl but now they were outlawed. Older people who were tattooed had had to pay to have visible tattoos removed and were forced to cover other tattoos in public, on pain of a fine and compulsory removal of the offending tattoo (cost to be borne by the offender). Tattooing had been illegal for six years now and since Andra was barely older than me I knew this must have been applied illicitly. I was taken aback to realise that tattooing was still going on.

She looked at me with amusement. “My tattoo? Do you like it?”

I shook my head. “Tattoos are antisocial, barbaric.” Even as I said it I felt ridiculous, prudish.

“Is that what they taught you in your little ivory tower? That you must conform to what our leader decides is good? That your body isn't your own, but must be dedicated to the public good?” Her mockery was hurtful because I did believe in those ideas. “Tattoos have been around for thousands of years. They can be used to indicate belonging to social groups or to assert individuality. I got mine to show that my body is my own, and to remember some people. And I think it's beautiful. It makes me more beautiful. Touch it.”

I traced a finger nervously over her skin, which was soft, pure, smooth. The dark lines, the soft colours were undetectable to the touch. But I couldn't accept that this mark was anything but a disfigurement on her lovely body. The tattoo was shaped like a small shield, wreathed in a filigree of fine arabesques.

“You should have it removed, Andra. It's too dangerous.” She looked at me provocatively, silent, waiting for me to say more. I knew I should remain silent but couldn't help myself. “They're looking for an excuse to get your home. Finding you have a tattoo would be sufficient.”

“They? They? It's you and your colleagues that are after me, isn't it?” she demanded.

“Not me. I'm on your side.”

“No, your loyalties are divided. You've been brainwashed to accept so many of their ideas. You still want to fit into the Party, but you can't. You'll never find peace, Polly. You don't believe in anything.”

She was becoming taunting, aggressive again. “I believe in you,” I said.

“You don't know me. I'm just a symbol for you. I symbolise freedom, rebellion, escape. And you're a symbol for me, but not of good things. I should be glad. If I wasn't racially compromised I may have become like you, a little Party zealot.”

“You're right, I only know what I was told. I haven't seen anything of the world until the last few weeks and I can see there's a lot they kept secret. You can teach me. And I can help you.”

“I hate it when you keep saying that. Shut up!”

She was sulky and silent as we dressed and I didn't dare say anything. She told me to wait for ten minutes before following her out of the hut so that we wouldn't arrive back together. I asked her when we would see each other again but she said nothing. She still looked angry, but then her gaze softened and she kissed me before she vanished into the thick undergrowth.

I waited as ordered, then started to make my way back. I had no familiarity with woodland and I got lost. It was an hour before I found my way back to a path. By now the weather had changed. Heavy cloud covered the sky and the forest seemed gloomy and menacing. Without any sun I was unable to orient myself and I wandered aimlessly hoping to find something familiar to help me find my way back, but every tree looked the same. I started to think I was going around in circles. It was getting late and I was sure I was going to miss my train back. I was in tears, imagining that I would have to spend the night in the woods. Eventually I heard calls. The other members of the party had been sent out to look for me. I managed to compose myself before meeting them, hoping that they wouldn't see I'd been crying. I was no more than a mile from the rendezvous.

On the train home I sat with the group leader who was livid with me for getting lost and delaying the return journey for the entire group. “You're a party member, you should set an example,” she kept saying. I sat with head bowed, apologising for my mistake, ashamed of myself. Deep inside I still felt a warmth that would sustain me through any horror. Andra was sitting at the other end of the carriage but she'd done nothing to acknowledge my existence. I looked at her on the platform as she got off, hoping she'd return my look, but I was disappointed.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. Even my dreams were filled with visions of her. My attention wandered when I was working and my social gatherings (most evenings I was expected to attend some form of community activity) seemed dull and worthless. I longed for Sunday when we would once more be alone together. I fantasised not just about our intimacy, the joys when she kissed and touched me, but also about her cruelty. I analysed our encounter endlessly and saw four phases: accusation, punishment, release, exile. Of these, it was the first and the last that were the hardest to endure, but all were necessary. My unhappiness was a result of my guilt, and Andra was the only person who understood me. She would make me confess, would punish me for my wrongs. It was the confession that was most difficult, compared to that the physical punishment was easy to accept. And then I was forgiven, and for a moment I was free and happy. Andra, too, had assuaged her anger and was at peace with herself. We were two people, content, in love. This is how I imagined people lived in the past, away from all the terrible things in the new world that meant we had to endure these restrictions.

When Sunday arrived I was shaking with nervous energy. I felt sick and couldn't eat breakfast. My mind was full of fear and anticipation. I feared Andra wouldn't be there, feared more that she would. I knew she'd be angry with me for getting lost. Our secret could only survive if we didn't draw attention to ourselves. Andra seemed to move like a shadow but I seemed to be cursed with a terrible gaucheness. No matter how hard I tried, I would have accidents. In an attempt to avoid a repeat of the previous week's disaster I'd purchased a compass.

I felt like my heart was breaking when the society assembled: no Andra. I'd not seen her board the train, but hoped she'd taken an earlier one and would be waiting at the rendezvous. We were given our introduction by the leader but I couldn't take in what she was saying. She then pulled me aside and suggested that I accompany some of the more knowledgable members of the group to avoid getting lost again. I almost acceded, but part of me still hoped that Andra would be waiting for me, hidden in the woods. I assured the organiser that I had a compass now and I wouldn't be late again. She reluctantly agreed to let me go alone, but warned that if I was ever lost again I would be suspended from the society.

Just as the group members were starting to disappear into the trees I heard another train departing from the adjacent station. A breathless Andra came into view, apologising to the society leader. I didn't wait for her, although I couldn't resist a backward glance. I headed toward the northern region of the wood where the hut was, although I could never have found it on my own. I wandered slowly, eagerly anticipating the moment when Andra would ambush me.

I heard a hiss from the left of the path and looked into the shadows of the undergrowth. I glanced back to ensure that no one was able to see me before I left the path. I was overjoyed to see Andra huddled under a bush.

I couldn't contain my delight; I ran to her, embraced her. “Andra, my love, I've missed you so much,” I whispered. She was trying to look cold and stern but her face softened into a smile. I've never known greater joy than at that moment, when I knew my love was reciprocated. She put her finger to her lips to silence me, but no words were necessary.

We made our way through the dense wood toward the hut. Only when we were inside did Andra seem to relax. “What happened last week?” she asked.

“I'm not used to being in woods and I couldn't find my way back to the path. I'm sorry, it won't happen again.” I came to kneel before her, my head bowed. I wanted to feel her rage.

“This isn't a game, Polly. We can't get caught. It wouldn't just mean we couldn't see each other again. We'd be sent to prison, or worse.”

“What would they do?” I asked. I was so ignorant of the powers of government, even though I was part of that government. I wanted to find out more, but I wanted to feel fear too.

“Labour camp. They make slaves of people who don't conform. Factories, farms, mines. Fourteen or sixteen hours a day, every day, starvation rations, unheated dorms. And lesbians are treated with hormones. They make your body bloat up and you feel sick all the time.”

“Lesbians..?” It had been so long since I'd heard this word I could hardly remember what it meant.

“People like us. What they call inverts. Why are you looking ashamed? Are you ashamed that you love me?”

I struggled to reply. “I sometimes wish I was normal. That I could just get married and be content with that.”

Andra looked sternly at me. “We can't choose our sexuality. It's those who persecute us who should be ashamed. You disgust me sometimes, Polly. How can you feel it's wrong for two people to love each other?”

“It's not... wrong. But it's unnatural, I suppose.”

“You suppose that because you're ignorant!” she snapped. “Hundreds of species of animals relate sexually to others of the same gender. There's nothing unnatural or pathological. The pathology is in those who fear their own desires. Your Party is sick and unnatural.”

I nodded. I couldn't accept everything that Andra was saying, but I sensed it was true. “I've been lied to for so long, Andra. I don't know what to believe any more.”

“It's the Party who are inverted. Everything they touch is turned upside down. I was denied an education, yet I know more than you. Your extra years in school only robbed you of knowledge or an ability to reason. And they don't even allow you to love. It's not the role of the state to determine what goes on in private. Why should we allow our freedoms to be stolen by Wilkinson and his cronies?”

“Andra!” I gasped. “Don't say that!” I'd taken a weekly pledge of allegiance to Anglia and its chancellor every week for the last seven years. Despite my doubts about the world I lived in, I didn't dare to question the greatness of Chancellor Wilkinson, and how his vision had saved Anglia. To hear Andra's criticism was shocking to me.

Andra reacted with fury. She stripped me naked and forced me onto the bed. “After all that's happened to you, you still defend that thug? He tricked this country into a war just to allow himself more power. Over a million people have died because he wanted to introduce his new constitution. And now he's losing the war and no one will trade with Anglia. There's not enough food. The hospitals don't have essential medicines. Open your eyes, Polly.”

I felt her push my wrists together, then wind a length of rope to bind them. She dragged me to the chair and tied my ankles to the legs. “Look at you! You look so pale and sickly. You're a young woman but you look like a girl. Your body knows what your mind refuses to accept. You can't prosper in this country.”

I knew Andra was right. I thought about how I'd fallen further behind my school peers in my physical development, my shame during sports when we would have to undress and expose our bodies. As the other girls developed breasts and hair, my body remained sexless and immature. They would tease me every time I undressed. And even now I remained painfully thin, my breasts little more than small buds on my chest. How I would have loved my body to be more like Andra's, with her wide hips, her narrow waist, her broad shoulders supporting the rounded globes of her breasts.

She took a length of nylon rope and flicked it toward my breasts. The end had been sealed by heat and formed a hard, rough scale. I yelped as it stung into my sensitive skin, but Andra showed no compassion. I felt the rope tear at my breasts, my nipples. I begged her for mercy. “Please Andra, I'll be bruised. People will see the marks, they'll ask questions.”

“You often show your breasts? You're more daring than I thought,” she mocked.

“I have to do sports twice weekly. We have to change in a big room, there's no privacy.”

She stopped and considered what I was saying. “Your Party! They can't even let people choose how to enjoy themselves. Everything is supervised and chosen by the Party faithful” She slapped me hard across my breasts. “Is that better? That won't bruise you. Tell me you like it!”

I was crying hard now but I nodded. “I do like it, Andra,” I groaned.

She cried out, exasperated. “Polly, I hate you! I try to make you think for yourself but all you do is parrot whatever you're told.”

“No, Andra. I want you to punish me. I've been wanting it all week. I need this, I've needed to be hurt, needed it for so long. You're the only one who understands me.”

She slapped me again and again. “Tell me when you've had enough,” she whispered. She wasn't angry any more. She looked emotional.

I endured her beating until I felt that my breasts had turned to pulp. Tears streamed down my face. At last I wailed “Please, no more!”

She knelt and started to kiss me. “My poor baby, what have I done to you? Oh no, you're going to be black and blue. I'm so sorry.”

I wanted to take her in my arms and console her but I was tied. “It's OK, Andra,” I smiled through my tears. “I fell heavily in a hockey game last week, I can say I injured myself then.”

She kissed the tender flesh, took my nipples in her soft lips and soothed the burning with caresses of her tongue. “Some day we'll be free. This can't last. Or if it does we'll escape. We'll go to Europe where we can live free.”

I smiled. It seemed impossible to imagine that some day I could walk down a street holding Andra's hand, showing how much I loved her. Were there places where that was tolerated?

“I want us to get tattoos to show our love,” she smiled. I was horrified.

“No Andra, not that. I can't, it would get me into so much trouble.”

She kissed me. “Yours can wait then. When we're free.”

I still shook my head. “I don't like tattoos, Andra.”

“Then I'll have to tie you up and force you.” She kissed me, becoming more aroused. “They hurt, but that'll be a pleasure for you. How does it make you feel to think that I'll get a tattoo so that I have something on me forever that reminds me of you?”

“I told you, I don't like them. Please don't get another.”

“One day I'll be smothered in tattoos. I want my arms to be covered so that no skin is without pigment.” She was taunting me, but I could see she was serious. “I'd like to learn to tattoo so that I can ink you.” She sat on my lap and threw her head back so that her hair fell over my body. “Kiss my tattoo, Polly. Tell me it's beautiful.”

I was sure she was crazy. I kissed her tattoo because she'd told me to. Would I force myself to be obedient if a day ever came when I could be tattooed without fear of being expelled from my job, my home? I started to imagine being tied to a chair, like I was at that moment, a tattooed Andra leaning over me with a needle, making dark lines sprawl over my white arms. I could barely breathe, so appalled was I by the idea, yet even this suffocating horror excited me. I would endure it if Andra demanded it of me. Maybe I was deceiving myself: after all, I couldn't believe that either of us would ever be free of the tight bonds of government which directed every aspect of our lives.

I realised that for some time I'd been kissing Andra's tattooed shoulder with increasing passion. Despite myself, I found something in this darkened skin made me squirm with an obscure ecstasy. And the idea that Andra would mark herself for me, with all the dangers it entailed, made me delirious. I wished that I could love her so fearlessly, so selflessly.

She pushed herself into me so that her back pressed against by bruised breasts, twisted her head so that our lips could meet. She stroked my head, which was now covered by a soft layer of darkening stubble.

Andra spun around so that her legs straddled mine and we were face to face. She took off my glasses and threw them onto the bed. “When I take off your glasses you're my Pretty Poll. I want you to forget everything bad that you've become once you're Pretty Poll, you're back to being innocent, and we can love each other fully.” I smiled as I stared into her big mysterious eyes, so deep and dark. For the first time since we'd met there was no trace of scorn or anger in her face. She looked younger and more beautiful than ever.

“I did ask you to do something, Polly and you ignored it. I told you to get this stubble cleaned up before we met next. Polly's been very naughty.” Her tone was soft and playful now. “I'll have to punish you.”

“I'm sorry, Andra. I wanted to but I couldn't bring myself to go to the salon this morning. It looks better with a bit of hair.”

“It's not up to you to decide what's better. You think you can get away with having no bush?”

“Bush?” I whispered, ignorant of what she meant.

She ran her fingers over the sparse dark curls between my thighs. “I'm going to shave this off, Polly. Do any of the other women in your sports teams have a bare pussy?”

I blushed. “I try not to look.” She looked at me curiously. “I don't think so though, I think they all have hair. Why would you shave it off, Andra? I'll look like a little girl.”

“Ah, so you do look at other girls' snatches! You're such a slut, Polly.”

I felt myself blushing. I wasn't used to talk of this type, I felt so naïve. Andra could embarrass me so easily.

“Please, you said I shouldn't attract attention. Someone will notice and start asking questions.” She went into her back pack and took out scissors. I gasped as I felt the cold blade touch my skin and snip away a curl. “Please, no,” I begged. She ignored me and kept cutting.

Soon my curls had been razed to an ugly, uneven stubble. The scissors had cut to the skin in places and there were criss-crossing pale lines. I was helpless as Andra covered me with shaving foam, her fingers delicately working the soap into every crevice, her touch making me softly shiver with delight. Gently, she wielded a razor to clean away the bristles. She delicately drew it over the stubble, then made a second firmer shaving, the blades now meeting no resistance. I found my emotional state changing from moment to moment, one second fearful she would cut me, the next thrilled by the sensation of freshness, one moment dreading that this shave would lead to my discovery and public shaming, the next filled with delight that Andra had chosen to lavish her love on me.

Andra washed me clean with a soft cloth, wetted from a bottle of water. I was so sensitive and the cold made me jump, but I was powerless to resist, which only made me more excited. It felt weird to see my mound hairless: through my years at the school I'd longed to grow hair to be like the others, and now Andra had taken me back to my state of innocence, yet somehow there was no regret. I felt like I was reborn into a state of purity, that I had a chance to redeem myself and to become a person I could feel pride in.

Andra knelt before me and pressed my thighs apart. She leaned forward and kissed the freshly shaved skin. “This is why I wanted you clean, Pretty Polly. Doesn't that feel good?” It felt better than anything I'd experienced in my life, and I groaned when she stopped and stood, pleaded with her to continue.

“Oh, my Pretty Polly, I'd love to, but look at your hair. I need to tidy that up before I can continue.” She squirted some of the shaving foam on her fingers and kneaded it over my temples and nape.

“Please Andra, don't shave me. Everyone will notice when we get back to the station and they'll know something strange is going on.”

“There's a barbershop in the woods, you can tell them you found it and went in there for a trim.”

“Really?” I said astonished. “I never imagined any shops out here.”

“Yes, it's a shop that the little wood pixies run so that their hair doesn't get untidy.” I blushed as I realised she was mocking my naivety. My pleas were silenced as Andra dragged the razor down the back of my head. The blades pulled as they snagged against the long stubble and the sensation was unpleasant. My vocalisations of protest were given no sympathy by Andra. “It's your own fault, Polly. If you'd been to the barber as instructed I wouldn't have had to do this.”

I sat (having no choice) unhappily as Andra carved away the dark bristles from the lower part of my skull. It was a relief when she had shaved away all of the longer stubble and my mood became excited once more as she shaved me close, the blades now sliding over my scalp easily.

All my doubts about the trouble I would get into were washed free every time my eyes met Andra's and I saw her smile. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and she loved me. I knew that she was smart too, and that she would protect me. I just had to be brave and do as she told me and all would be well.

Now Andra took a make-up box from her bag. “I'm going to make my Polly even prettier,” she smiled.

I looked at her excitedly. “I've never worn make-up,” I confessed. She laughed at me. “It's true, we weren't supposed to wear it in school. Some girls would wear lipstick or mascara in secret, but I never had the chance to get any.”

She looked astonished. “You didn't try it since you left the school?”

I shook my head. “It's only been a few weeks. I feel so overwhelmed by the world that I just want to get by quietly and unnoticed.”

She set to work, applying liquids and powders, painting my eyes, pencilling my brows. Finally she coated my lips with lipstick. I could see that she was excited by what she'd done and I was eager to see myself.

I didn't have to wait long. She took a small mirror from the make-up set and held it before me. I gasped to see the girl reflected before me. She had dark lipstick, darker and more dramatic than any I'd ever seen. Her eyes were softly outlined with smoky black, her brows starkly defined. I'd expected to see a subtle change to my look, but this took my breath away. And of course, to add to the drama of my makeover, I was once again shaved to baldness. “You have the sexiest lips, Polly,” Andra whispered. Every compliment from her made me swoon.

She dropped between my legs and worked her tongue into my bared slit until I could contain my delight no longer. I screamed loudly as my body was taken over by a thrilling force. Time seemed to be suspended, but insufficiently. I wished this moment was an eternity.

I was freed from my bondage and for what was all too brief a moment we lay together on the bed, staring into each others' eyes. Reluctantly, Andra started to dress. A sadness came over her as she looked at me. “My poor Polly. I have to take away your prettiness and return you to the world.” She scrubbed away my make-up and put my glasses back in place. “You need to be two people. Once you return to the world you're like a seed in winter. You have to be hard and keep the germ hidden safely deep inside, protected from harm. It can only grow when the spring arrives. Until then you have to be hard, you have to look like the grey, lifeless world around you.” She knelt and washed my body. I savoured every moment, every touch. My life seemed bearable only for those moments when we were together.

“I loved the make-up. Please let me wear it again next time.” I told her about my stylist and how she wore a lot of make-up too, how beautiful she was. “She's got a piercing in her lip, though. It's too much, I don't know why she'd ruin herself by doing that.”

Andra laughed. “Oh Polly, you don't understand yourself at all, do you?” She stroked my clitoris teasingly. “Are you telling me about her to get me jealous? I suppose you fantasise about kissing her lips and feeling the stud press against you?” I protested, saying (honestly) that I'd never dreamed of such a thing, yet now the seed was planted in my mind and I did indeed imagine how it would feel to have something hard and metallic set in the soft warmth of Andra's kiss. Andra's was the only kiss I'd experienced, but I could imagine no kiss more perfect, more exciting.

“I won't be here next week,” she announced, and abruptly my pleasure drained away.

“The week after?” I said, anxiously.

“Yes, Polly, I'll make sure of that. You're still to come on the walk next week though. We don't want to set a pattern where we're always absent on the same weeks. In two weeks you'll be due a haircut, and I've decided you should get a bowlcut.”

I groaned. Bowlcuts were usually seen on older Party members, and it was such an ugly cut. Even the most severe cut I'd seen didn't have the nape shaved clean like mine. “Please, Andra, it's an old woman's cut,” I begged. “Anyway, my hair isn't long enough for a bowlcut.”

“I don't care. You're going to get her to approximate a bowlcut as best she can with your little hair. It'll soon grow into a proper little mushroom. And keep the back and sides shaved. I want Polly to look like a real Party zealot. You're to act like one too. Model your behaviour on the most rigid Party faithful.”

I nodded meekly. Two weeks of being without the pleasure of privacy with Andra would be unbearable, but before I was exiled from her once more she gave me two gifts. She dressed me in a pair of silk panties, which felt delightful against my newly shaved sex. And she gave me a red lipstick, with instructions to only wear in private. “In public you're to become a sexless Party droid. Severe haircut, severe clothes. Everything for practical purposes. If anyone queries your hairlessness you're to tell them it's more hygienic. Say it boldly and with no shame.” I nodded.

“But how am I to explain coming back from a walk in the woods with a haircut?”

“Wear your hat!” she laughed. I blushed as I told her I didn't have one with me.

“Didn't they teach you anything in that school of yours? You should always have a hat when you go out in the countryside. Lucky I came prepared.”

She fitted me with a woollen hat, of soft fuzzy mohair. She pulled it down over my nape and fitted it so that my fringe peeked out at the front. The shaved part was covered completely.

The softness of the mohair on my scalp made me blush. I loved the feeling, and Andra could see it. She kissed me gently. “Farewell, Polly. See you in two weeks. Until then, we don't know each other. Head due west from here and you'll be on a path that leads south to the station. Don't get lost this time!” We left the hut, Andra heading off into the trees in a different direction. In seconds she was lost to my sight.

I slowly journeyed back into the morose reality which was my existence without Andra. My mind still echoed with her presence as I sat alone on the train, constantly adjusting my hat so that I could feel the wool stroking against my scalp. Every time I closed my eyes I saw visions of my love, but once we were back in the city my imagination clouded and I was distraught as I found I could no longer recall her features in any detail.

I returned to work and tried to put Andra's instructions into action. I worked long hours in the office, which allowed me to avoid some of the enforced communal activities without suspicion. More difficult was emulating the hard attitudes of my older colleagues, who I found cruel and heartless. They relished the power they held over people, longed to humiliate anybody who they found wanting in orthodoxy, the strict canon of the Party being the standard which all should be accounted.

My woodland trip without Andra was horribly tedious. The weather was cool and showery, and time passed so slowly as I wandered in the woods alone. A few days later I discovered that my relationship with Andra would take me into new and dangerous situations. During a routine inspection my companion was contacted on her radio to inform us that an anonymous tip off had been called in, indicating that someone living close by was housing a fugitive. Our next visit was cancelled as we prioritised this property.

My colleague, Louise, an experienced inspector, the very sort of Party hard-liner that I'd been trying to study, explained that the occupier had already been flagged as politically suspect. We were to give no indication that the inspection was anything other than a routine, randomly selected visit, but as soon as we arrived Louise became almost hysterical. She was aggressive and intimidating toward the woman, who was softly spoken and cooperative. As Louise was looking in the bathroom for clues the woman suddenly stepped forward and pressed a folded piece of paper into the palm of my hand. I was astonished and looked at her, puzzled. “Hide it!” she mouthed anxiously, before stepping back into the corner of the room. I pushed the paper into my coat pocket.

The search revealed no evidence that anyone else had visited the apartment. Louise questioned the neighbours in adjacent properties but no one had seen anybody but the owner enter or leave for as long as they could recall. Nevertheless, on our report Louise insisted that our target's security status would be flagged.

I lived in a state of anxiety until I arrived home late in the evening. I took the paper from my pocket and opened it. It was a single sheet of thin A4 with instructions for me to file an inspection report for a named property, stating that the inspection was clear and that no further inspection need be made for a year. I was instructed to memorise the address and immediately burn the paper. At the bottom it was marked “A. xxx”.

I couldn't sleep that night. To file a false document was risky. I was sure now that Andra was involved with an illegal opposition group. What if this was covering for a terrorist cell? If I was caught I'd be tortured and executed. I entered my office the following day in a state of exhaustion, which I hoped masked the panic I was feeling. I was irritable during the inspections, and found myself shouting at people if they didn't comply with my requests. My companion found my bad behaviour admirable.

I filed my report, still unsure how I would file the false report. I agonised and procrastinated. My companion's reports appeared on my desk to be countersigned. As I leafed through them I was astonished to see that she'd left an address completely blank on one form (she was a sloppy worker, it seemed, as numerous other boxes had been filled with incorrect or inadequate information). I filled in the address I'd been sent, trying to emulate her writing, then countersigned it. I felt my heart beating hard; I'd committed a serious criminal act.

I felt anxious all of the time. I was sure that I would be discovered. Every time I saw a manager enter the office I expected them to approach my desk and confront me with the faked document. I had nightmares where I was exonerated but I had to watch the execution of my companion, now condemned by my cowardly actions. Why had I done this? Had I risked everything just to impress Andra? I started to doubt her; I hardly knew her, I'd seen her for a few brief hours. What if she'd seduced me only to use me? But then I remembered how she looked into my eyes and I knew she was the love of my life.

I booked an appointment for early on Sunday morning, early enough that I could still get to the station in plenty of time for my woodland trip. I was desperate to see Andra. I wanted to look perfect for her, and she'd requested a bowlcut, so that was what I'd get, even though I knew I'd look awful.

I was the first customer in the salon. I saw my stylist who greeted me and called me straight over. “Hello, Miss. So nice to see you back.” I greeted her, apologised that I'd forgotten her name, although I was only too aware that I'd never known it. She introduced herself as Eva.

I felt overawed by her stylishness. She looked very different today. Her hair had been cut, still bobbed but the back had been cut in an arch which exposed a closely cropped nape. Her long fringe was braided and pinned to the side to keep it off her face. She wore pale make-up, her lips almost white; her face looked peculiar to me. It took me a moment to realise that she'd bleached her eyebrows so that they were almost invisible. I'd never seen anyone who looked like her. There was something slightly grotesque about her look, especially since she still wore a stud in her pierced lip, and yet I found myself immensely excited by her daring.

She combed my hair then stroked the soft stubble. “You shaved it again after your last visit?” I nodded, embarrassed at her questioning. I'd hoped she wouldn't have noticed, but then how could she not?

“I got it done at a barbershop. I like it nice and clean. It's hygienic.”

She nodded. “So it's the same again today?”

“Actually, I was thinking of going for a bowlcut.”

She looked surprised. I dreaded her trying to talk me out of it. I would have loved long hair like Andra's, would have loved to have a cut as stylish as Eva's, but I had to please Andra.

“You know, you've got a really pretty face. I don't think these glasses do you any favours. And a bowlcut is so unflattering. Why don't we try something softer?”

“No, a bowlcut with shaved nape,” I snapped. “I'm not interested in looking fashionable, I want a practical cut.” I didn't mean to say it with such force, but the strain of the past week had left me with difficulty controlling my emotions. She looked shocked and nodded.

“I'm sorry, Miss. It's not my place to question your decision.”

I felt terrible. She'd been so sweet and kind to me and I repaid her with anger. I wanted to apologise but couldn't find the words. I sat in silence as she fiddled with my hair.

“It's not really long enough for a bowlcut, Miss. Perhaps you should let the top grow out for a month or two before we cut it into a bowl?” She looked afraid of me, as if her suggestion might release another tirade.

“Couldn't you do something like a short bowl?” I asked, trying to sound conciliatory.

“It would be very short. I'd have to treat it again to make it lay flat and smooth out your fringe. Why don't we do that first and you can see how it looks? Then we can decide how to cut it.”

“Thank you, that sounds good,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Do you want me to shave you now?”

I blushed. “Yes, let's get that out the way.”

She put a cape on me, tucking a tissue around my neck. “The stubble is a bit long to shave so I'll buzz it down with the clippers, if that's OK.” I nodded, remembering the nasty dragging of the blades when Andra shaved me. At least I'd be spared that discomfort. I took a last look at myself before Eva took my spectacles from my face. She put some clips into the hair on top so that it was held clear of the short area. I liked the tightness of the clips, which seemed to stir some memory in me. It took me a moment to recognise the association: Mum used to braid my hair tightly, which as a girl made me complain. Now I would have loved to feel Eva braiding my long hair, but I knew that I would never feel that pleasure.

As I peered at my indistinct reflection I remembered Andra's description of me as Pretty Polly once she took off my glasses. I bowed my head as Eva prepared to clipper my stubble, offering her my nape. I felt like I was enduring a ritual sacrifice, a sacrifice to atone for my wrongs, to appease a demanding but beautiful goddess called Andra. I tried to stay calm as I heard the buzz of the clippers begin, but felt my fear and excitement start to swirl within me. I was anything but placid, but decorum demanded that I at least maintained a pretence of tranquillity.

I saw a dark dust of tiny hairs discolour the cape. I knew that when I was finished I would look anything but pretty, yet Eva's attentions were a delight. I savoured the tingle of the vibrating blades on my head, her delicate touch as she manipulated my ears to allow every hair to be reached. Her perfume was intoxicating, and I started to think that she embodied something of an ideal femininity. Every woman should be like Eva, as daring, as beautiful. I started to dream of Andra taking her turn in this chair, her long hair being cut shorter, more dramatic, more stylish, dyed an unnatural shade, Eva lavishing attention on her make-up, anointing her in a rich and exotic musk. I felt a profound joy in this fantasy. Would I dare tell Andra what I wished for her?

The clippers were silenced and as Eva gathered the tools to shave me I dared to reach from under the cape to feel my nape. She'd mown the softening stubble to almost nothing, and it felt raspy as I pushed my fingertips upward on my scalp. I didn't like how it felt and knew it would be nicer once it was shaved. But I despised how it would look, pale and shiny. Would I beg Andra to allow this to be my last ever shave?

My resolve was threatened as soon as I felt Eva smooth the lather over my stubble, her gentle fingers seducing me with their soft caress. If she'd shaved me entirely I could not have resisted, so enraptured was I with the delight of her touch. I lived in the moment, and each moment was pure pleasure for me. How beautiful life would be if it were lived like this, carefree and ecstatic. My past and my future seemed to have receded to a great distance where they could no longer trouble me. Eva directed the movements of my head with the gentlest contact of her fingers, allowing her razor the easiest access to my scalp. The blade smoothed over my skin lightly, barely touching me. There was a soft rasping as the last spoor of my hair submitted, my scalp feeling gorgeously cool and tight now.

Throughout I remained silent, eyes closed, breathing deeply, slowly. I was sure that my rapture was apparent to Eva, but, rather than being ashamed, this pleased me. I felt a deep connection with her, a communication through touch that said more than words.

Eva covered my newly shorn scalp with a plastic film and doused my hair with the heavy chemical gel she'd used to remove the curl from my hair on my previous visit. Now my spiky hair was smoothed over my skull, my curling fringe flattened against my forehead. I was allowed the privilege of my spectacles: I saw a plain girl almost devoid of hair, and the remnants were slicked down over her tiny skull. I was startled to see how short the hair on top looked now that it was smoothed down. I dreaded how severe the completed style would look.

I had to wait for the chemicals to reshape my hair. I sat impatiently in the corner of the salon, reading a magazine. I started to worry that the appointment was taking longer than I anticipated, that I might miss my train. If I was delayed could I find my way back to the hut, and would Andra be waiting? I was pained to think how tenuous my communications with her were. If I missed our rendezvous how could I ever arrange another? Would she be lost to me forever? Would I risk everything by visiting her home again?

The salon was starting to fill up now. I noticed how people glanced at me. My haircut was the most extreme imaginable and it was bound to cause some curiosity. I didn't like this attention, didn't like any attention, I'd always been happiest when I could remain in the background, unnoticed. I waited anxiously to be called back to Eva, a pang of jealousy making itself known when I saw another woman being treated to her attentions. I waited impatiently for her shoulder length curls to be trimmed to neatness. Finally I was beckoned.

“Please, I have another appointment soon, Eva,” I informed her. “Can you please finish me up as soon as possible.”

She set to her task with admirable efficiency. My hair was rinsed and conditioned. She led me to her cubicle and started to snip my sparse hair into a neat new cut. Little dark tufts of wet hair dropped over the cape. The cold scissors traced a line around the sides of my head, cruelly high. “I'll have to take your fringe quite short,” Eva said regretfully. I acceded. The cold steel passed high on my forehead, snipping my fringe to its new form. I'd grown fond of my curled fringe, the only concession to femininity in my previous style. Now it fell away in heavy chunks, discarded.

Eva rubbed a perfumed pomade into my hair and blasted it with a dryer, shaping the new style with a bristle brush. There was so little hair that it took only minutes to style. Eva put my glasses back in place so that I could fully assess her work.

It was a harsh jolt to see what I'd become. My hair was plastered close to my head, layered and thin, snipped to a blunt line across the top of my forehead, a line that completed a circuit around my entire head. Everything below was white, shiny and bald. It was the ugliest haircut I could imagine. I felt my cheeks colour in shame. Was this what I'd asked of Eva? I realised that with such short hair this was the only cut she could have created within my instructions. I nodded and thanked her, but I couldn't hide my disgust at my new image.

I rushed from the salon, knowing that I was risking missing my train. As soon as I got out of sight of the salon I put on the soft woollen hat, my gift from Andra. It felt lovely, ticklish yet comforting. It also protected my shameful haircut from the eyes of strangers.

I barely made the train and I was hot and breathless when I boarded. My anxiety about seeing Andra didn't allow my heartbeat to reduce. We pulled into the nearest station to her home. She was there! I felt at that moment that I could have died happy. Just to see her was my greatest pleasure.

I was frustrated that on departing the train there was a police check. I was told to line up in a long queue. The rear part of the train was nearer to the exit and I could see most of the other members of the society (Andra included) make their way off the platform while I was still made to endure the wait for the police to check me. It was only as I got nearer to the officers that I started to become anxious. What if I was their target? I'd been so distracted that I'd barely registered the situation. I was a criminal now, someone linked (I was sure) to a subversive organisation. Perhaps my name had been found on a list, perhaps someone had named me under torture. I'd been out all morning, perhaps my home had been raided and now they were seeking me on the walk which I always attended on a Sunday.

I arrived at the front of the queue. Two police officers, confronted me, a third standing off to the right. All carried automatic rifles. “Papers!” The one addressing me looked barely out of his teens, heavy jawed, shaven headed, brutal. I held out my card. Immediately his attitude changed. “I'm sorry Ma'am, I didn't realise. You should have come straight to the head of the queue.” He waved me through, believing I was one of the Party faithful.

By the time I arrived at the society rendezvous point, the group members were dispersing. I looked for Andra but there was no sign. She'd obviously left already. I headed toward the area of the wood where our trysts took place.

I spent an hour looking for Andra without success. I was sad and frustrated to waste time when I could be with her. Did she expect me to make my way to the hut? Could I find it without her guidance?

I did, but it took me longer than I'd have liked. I approached nervously, pausing for a good five minutes to ensure that I wasn't being observed. Eventually I went to the door, my heart pounding. “What kept you?” Andra said softly. “I've been waiting here for ages, I was starting to think you'd lost interest.”

I threw my arms around her. “I'm sorry, I couldn't find the hut. I get lost in these woods.”

She started to talk when I excitedly interrupted her. “Your lip!” I shrieked. Her upper lip was pierced in the centre with a white metal bead.

“Do you like it? I got it done for you since you seemed to like your hairdresser's so much.”

“Hers is in her bottom lip. And I didn't say I liked it, I said I hated it.” I winced as I tried to adjust to this disfigurement which Andra had subjected herself to.

She pursed her lips. “You don't get to kiss me until you say you love it. And you have to mean it. Anyway, before we get to that, what are you hiding under your bonnet, Polly?”

I reluctantly pulled away my hat and smoothed my hair back into place. Andra started to giggle. “Oh Polly! What have I done to you?” She put her arms around me and hugged me tightly. “My little baby, I'm sorry. I didn't realise how short it would be.” She laughed again. “It looks terrible!” She stroked my bald nape and suddenly my embarrassment seemed worth it. “Are you going to be in trouble with your boss because of me?”

I explained that she was scared to say anything to me because of my historical association with a local Party elder. “But... I do worry that they'll find me and take me to a camp. Please Andra, don't make me do things like that again. I'm not cut out for being a subversive. I get so nervous and I'll surely get caught.”

She was serious now. “Polly, we have to act. If we do nothing, they win. There's an area in the north where there's been an uprising. The police have lost control there. We have to keep the police busy in the other territories so they can't put all their strength into suppressing the uprising. If the north can consolidate they'll never be able to win it back. Once the country starts to fragment the government will crumble too.”

I looked at her fearfully. “But I'm not strong like you. I can't hide my feelings. I look scared all the time and people will be suspicious. My biggest fear is that if they arrest me they'll torture me and I'll give them your name.”

She nodded. “That's a risk we have to take. But I can't go on living like this. If we have to risk death to make a better life for everyone then that's what we must do.” I was in tears now. I couldn't bear to think of Andra being hurt. “You have to try to get involved with IT. The computer systems are terrible because they purged all the computer scientists. We need someone on the inside to find where the weaknesses are. Will you do that?”

“I'll try.” My obedience was rewarded with a kiss. I felt Andra's new piercing press into my lip. The presence of this alien object unsettled me. I imagined what she'd endured, a needle passing through her flesh. The idea repulsed me, but aroused me vividly. I felt Andra's fingers stroke my nape as our kiss endured for an eternal moment. We parted softly.

“Do you love my piercing?” she asked.

I nodded. “I don't like it, it scares me, but at the same time I feel so excited by it.”

“You're such a timid little girl, but there's a lovely young woman growing inside you. Once day we'll find a way to release her. Then you won't be scared any more.” She kept stroking my bald head and smiling at me. “Have you been tortured enough today? Or do I need to be cruel to you?”

“It was hard seeing my new haircut,” I whispered. I paused before continuing, afraid of making my lovely Andra jealous. “I love being in Eva's care though, the hairdresser. She's so gentle with me. And she's so beautiful.”

“More beautiful than me?” Andra's voice had taken on a harder edge, playfully pretending to be hurt. But I sensed a vulnerability there, a genuine insecurity. She loved me and feared my rejection.

I shook my head. “You're the most perfect beauty. You never need to worry about me turning to someone else. But Eva has dyed hair and wears lots of make-up. I do keep thinking about what you'd look like if she gave you a makeover.”

She smiled indulgently. “You are obsessed with hair, aren't you? What sort of cut would you like her to give me?”

I shivered, so nervous about exposing my inner fantasies. “I don't know. You have such lovely silky hair and I'm sure I'd cry if she cut it. But hers is cut into a bob, shorter at the back. It arches up and she has a little bit of buzzed hair showing on her nape.”

I took hold of her hair and swept it back at the sides so that I could see what she'd look like with a bob. “Please let Eva cut your hair,” I murmured excitedly.

She kissed me again. “I can't afford an appointment at a salon like hers. I'm a cleaner. It would cost me nearly a week's wages.” I thought that she must be making a joke but I soon realised she was serious.

“You really have to live on so little.”

She nodded. “Why do you think people are so eager to join the Party? Only Party members get well paid jobs. The rest of the population live in terrible poverty. You've seen the conditions in the houses you inspect. Do you think that's a good reflection on this country? People used to live comfortably before Wilkinson wasted all the money on an unwinnable war and caused every democracy to impose sanctions.”

I became silent and brooding. I still found it hard to hear criticism of the leader I'd been conditioned into thinking of as a great man. Andra took off my spectacles. “Pretty Polly, don't sulk. One day when I don't have to pretend to be a stupid cleaner I'll be transformed. I'll dye my hair and wear it in the most outrageous styles, I'll never be seen without make-up and I'll get more piercings and tattoos.”

“Oh, not that!” I complained. “Please, no more tattoos or piercings!”

“Ah, so you don't want to kiss me any more?” I nodded. It was all I could think about. “If you kiss me I'll take it as a sign that you approve me being pierced.” She closed her eyes and pouted. I gave my approval with my heart and soul.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My lips were bright red, my brows had been thickened into pointed arches. My hair was slicked back, dark and gleaming above the smooth shaved sides. I looked so wild and dangerous. Between my thighs I held a long vibrator inside me which made me moan with every breath. Andra's arms snaked around me from behind, her fingers caressing me. Her whispers in my ear about my beauty were only interrupted by frequent bouts of kissing on my neck, my cheeks, my shaven head. I felt my consciousness dwindle into a delirium. I no longer knew where one orgasm ended and the next begun.

Andra groaned. “Oh, my lovely Pretty Polly, our time is over. We need to head back to our horrible grey existence for another week.”

I moaned and pleaded to be allowed a little more time, but I knew she was right. My last pleasure was to allow Andra to clean me and to free me of the make-up I took such delight in wearing. “Will we meet here next week?”

She nodded. “It's risky though. I want to try to find somewhere else, but nothing is safe. Really I shouldn't see you at all. But I can't help myself.”

“I'd die without you,” I said. It was the truth. Only my time with Andra made my life bearable. “I'll do anything for you. I'll make myself harder and try to work in the computer department.”

Andra gave me her lovely warm smile. “Don't ever let that germ inside you die, Polly. We mustn't let ourselves become like our enemies to defeat them. We must always do the difficult thing, which is to remain good.”

During the next weeks I questioned my goodness repeatedly. I'd been in my job sufficiently long to be told by my manager that I needed to show more assertiveness (every one of my inspections had been described by my companion). I was aware of the results that were expected of an inspector, that I needed to report violations. Every inspector had to attain a target, with points assigned on the basis of the outcome of actions taken against offenders. If I failed to produce sufficient actions I would be demoted to a more junior position (it was even hinted that my Party status could be revoked which would lead to my dismissal). If I was to rise to a position where I could aid Andra and act against the government then I would need to prove my competence, yet to do so would mean committing acts of injustice against those with least power. So far I had been passively complicit as my fellow inspectors had enforced notices against offenders (the offences sometimes imagined), but now I was expected to be the persecutor.

I reluctantly decided to allow myself to become an instrument of evil. I could have tried to justify my actions to myself by pretending that the violations I reported would have been spotted by my companion and that I was essentially powerless to prevent the outcomes, but in some cases I was more diligent than my companion, positive that without my perspicacity some violations of unjust rules would have gone unnoticed. I was committing acts of evil for which I must atone by performing acts which would allow a greater good to prevail, or so I hoped. I did not allow my evils to be forgotten, but etched them deep into my memory. Andra would be my confessor, I determined, each sin to be detailed to her, punished as she saw fit. During our next meeting in our woodland hut I allowed myself no pleasure, spending the entire time with my love listing the distressing details of my works. She was shocked that I could allow myself to let harm fall on the heads of the innocent, but understood that if I were to ascend to a position where I could do real harm to the system of oppression then I must continue to act zealously. I begged her to punish me, to transform my guilt into physical pain. She beat me so severely that I could not sit without pain for the next week.

A few days later an event happened which was to lead to a fortunate outcome for me, but which at the time was extremely frightening and distressing. I was on my third inspection of the morning with a companion who was no more experienced than me. We were in a particularly deprived area of the city, inspecting flats which appeared barely inhabitable, and in some cases less than that. We'd entered the tiny studio apartment of a married couple, the husband having been recently released from prison. As I searched through a cabinet I heard a thud followed by a strange groan. I turned and saw my companion slump forward, looking at me with a look of surprise. It took me a moment to realise that the man held a kitchen knife with which he'd stabbed my colleague.

I reacted without conscious thought. In the cabinet was some sport equipment. I seized a hockey stick and swung it as hard as I could. It connected with his arm and he stepped away. The next swing caught him squarely in the face and he made a squawking sound which seemed absurdly comical for a man who was threatening murder. He retreated across the room, dithering as he tried to decide his best course of action. He threw the knife at me (it hit me sideways on, causing only a minor injury) and fled the room.

I called for help on my radio, forceful but with a calmness which surprised me. I took a towel and pressed it to my companion's wound. There was less blood than I would have expected but as her face turned grey and she started to become confused in her responses I knew she was bleeding internally. I repeated my demands for medical assistance and within minutes an ambulance had arrived.

My companion survived following surgery and I was commended for my actions. Although I'd been calm during the event, during the following days I was extremely emotional, subject to episodes of uncontrollable crying. It was no consolation to be told that the aggressor had been apprehended. I knew that he would be subjected to unimaginable brutality by the police, and that he would eventually be executed. I was granted leave until I felt recovered, which at least spared me the attentions of my colleagues: I was being painted as a heroine, but felt only disgust at myself.

I wanted Andra, but was so distressed that I was unable to make our weekly meeting. I couldn't leave my apartment without experiencing feelings of panic. I cried to think of disappointing the woman in the world I most needed, the only person who could console me. I imagined terrible things, that she would be unable to meet at the woods again and that there would be no way to communicate a new meeting place to me. Never seeing her again seemed worse than if I'd died in the attack.

I was visited on the next day by a manager from my officer who informed me that I was to be given a medal. I admitted that my emotional state had been affected by the event, which seemed entirely reasonable to me, yet she was unsympathetic. I was astonished and hurt that she mentioned Mum, telling me that I must prove that I was stronger than her. Nevertheless, in light of the positive publicity I'd received (my story had been told in the national newspaper) she felt that I should be promoted to a role where I wouldn't have to face potentially hostile civilians.

Was it dangerous for me to suggest that I should work in the computer system? I found myself speaking before I could think. “I've always been fascinated by computers, perhaps I could be useful working with those?”

She nodded. “Your evaluations at the academy suggested your interpersonal skills were limited, but you did seem to have been improving as an inspector after a poor start. I think computers may be a good place to maximise your utility. Can we expect to see you in on Wednesday? I think any longer on leave and people may start to think you share the emotional flaws of others in your family.” I assured her that I would be eager to start in my new role.

I was surprised, and more than a little embarrassed that my first day in my new job was interrupted by a ceremony to award me the medal. I was photographed with the press, had to make a short speech (which was written for me, nothing being left to chance where the media is concerned) and generally treated like a conquering warrior returned from the war. I was glad when the whole circus was over. I took to my new role with commitment, eager to learn all I could.

Sunday came around and I was desperate to see Andra. The fortnight without her had seemed an eternity. I was terrified that she wouldn't be there, sure that if I didn't see her I'd go crazy. When I saw her on the station platform (as always, she boarded the train in a different carriage to me) I wanted to shout with joy. I had trouble containing my excitement.

As the introductory talk was made by the society leader I couldn't resist stealing glances at Andra. It was a bright day and she looked particularly beautiful, her hair gleaming in the sunlight. I longed to be alone with her.

We set off on different paths, but both converging on our secret hut. I was becoming more adept at tracing my way to there, more skilled at wood-craft (in my early years in the academy we'd often been taken to camp out in the local wood). When I'd approached to within a few hundred yards of the hut I was sure I heard a cough. I froze. It was unmistakeably masculine. I made my way slowly through the undergrowth, moving through softer plants which would make less noise. I rose up behind the trunk of a large beech tree and peered about the small clearing in front of the hut. It took me some time to spot a metallic glint; concealed between two bushes I could make out the face of a policeman bearing a rifle.

My only thought was for Andra's safety. She would surely walk straight into the trap. How could I warn her? She never approached the hut the same way twice (doing so would have increased the risk of creating an easily spotted trail) so I had no way of predicting her route and intercepting her. I could only wait and hope I could warn her before she was spotted by the policeman.

I saw her. She was off to my left, making her way softly and quietly through the trees. I didn't dare breathe as I saw her getting ever closer to catastrophe. I picked up a fir cone and threw it to attract her attention: I knew it was risky, especially since I'd never been good at throwing. The wood was almost silent today since there was hardly any wind, and the sound of the missile ricocheting from a tree would doubtless alert the watcher. I followed the trajectory of the cone, which seemed to move more slowly than was possible. I scored a direct hit! The object struck Andra on the chest and fell silently to the soft ground. She halted and looked around, soon noticing my gesticulations (I was hidden behind the broad bole of the tree).

She looked at me with a smile but immediately realised there was danger. I tried to indicate where the sentinel kept watch but our communication was imprecise. We had to retreat from the hut but silence was more crucial than haste. My instinct was to go to Andra and leave together but I realised that it was better for us to move away singly: if one of us were apprehended we could say that we'd stumbled into the area accidentally, whereas if we were together we would surely be doomed.

My exit from the dense wood seemed to take for ever, moving agonisingly slowly, my course dictated by the lay of the land and by the flora. Within minutes Andra was out of sight. My greatest fear was that the area would be under surveillance by more than one policeman. If that were the case then both of us would surely be caught. However, I managed to make my way back to a path without challenge. I wandered restlessly, fearful of Andra's escape.

She managed to find me as I took a path back toward the station. We took shelter in the wood for a brief moment. We held each other and kissed. I started to apologise for my absence the previous week, but the silenced me. “I read all about you in the paper. Are you OK?”

“I'm fine. It was all a bit shocking but I'm over the worst. And I got a promotion to computer systems!”

She looked delighted, but we had a more serious problem. “The hut has been found out. Since there was only one policeman there they probably think it's just some illicit love affair going on, but we can't ever go back there. We need to keep coming on these walks but we can't have any contact. I'll try to arrange something, but it might be less often.” I groaned. Weeks spent without Andra would be unbearable.

I was to find out just how unbearable. There was no communication between us for a month, only tantalising glimpses of her during the nature society walks (even these became less frequent as she started to skip some weeks). Then, one night as I walked home from a social gathering for the computer staff I heard a hiss from the doorway of an apartment block. A figure was silhouetted but only when she stepped forward could I recognise Andra. She stepped inside and I followed her. We silently made our way up to the third floor and entered a small apartment.

“Oh Polly, look at you! Your hair is growing so fast.” She rubbed at the soft fur than now covered my nape and the sides. The top was now growing into a fuller cap that Eva had permitted to reach a little further toward my ears. She took off my glasses and stared into my eyes. “Pretty Polly, my love. I've been desperate to see you but didn't dare risking it. I shouldn't be with you now but I couldn't bear to go another day without you.” We kissed excitedly but sadly that was all of the intimacy that would be allowed us on this night. There was important information that I had to discuss. In my new job in the computer department uncensored press reports were processed and even low ranking members like myself could find a lot of unpublished news. I passed on to Andra details about the uprising in the northern territory. The rebels were being armed by a coalition of nations who opposed Anglia and attempts to retake a major port to prevent the arms getting to them had gone disastrously. A terrorist action had destroyed a large chemical plant, contaminating a large area and making one of the main routes to the northern territory effectively impassible. Andra was delighted by the news.

“You pass this way almost every day, don't you?” she asked. I confirmed it was on my route home from the railway station. “If you see this window open when you pass it means you're to come here. Sadly, it won't be often. I can't risk coming here more than once a month.”

So our meetings became brief monthly liaisons. We would discuss the news of the war in the north, weaknesses in the computer systems and how to exploit them. On one occasion Andra gave me a memory stick, and ordered me to open the file on a networked computer. I was to be as cautious as possible and destroy the stick in an incinerator once I'd completed my task. I knew that to be caught with it would mean my ruin and I was horribly nervous when I entered my office the following day. I managed to complete my task, using a colleague's computer which she had left unlocked during her lunch break. Inevitably, my relief at completing my duty was tempered by the guilt that my actions could lead to an innocent colleague being prosecuted.

When I met with Andra we would discuss urgent business and I would be given instructions. Then we would permit ourselves a half hour of pleasure, when Andra would take me in her strong arms and tell me how beautiful and brave I was. We dreamed of a day when we would be free. We decided that one day we would leave Anglia and make a new life in another land.

I still took a perverse delight in letting Andra choose my hairstyle. No sooner had my bowlcut started to grow into a glossy mushroom than she decided I should change my look. The newspaper had carried a report about a new group of women in the capital who'd formed a society, called The Standard, which promoted a return to the core principles of the party. Among their complaints was that many women had softened the standard Party haircut and the identity of the Party had been weakened as a result. The article had been approved by many of the leaders, reputedly by Wilkinson himself, and similar societies had formed spontaneously in many cities. Andra had decided that I should show my commitment to the ideals of the party by joining up.

A few days later I'd arranged to attend my first meeting but needed to look the part. I'd booked an appointment with Eva, only two weeks since my previous cut. She welcomed me like an old friend; she always seemed to enjoy having me in her chair, surely sensing, and even sharing in, the pleasure I experienced when I was in her care. Her look changed constantly, which excited me. She'd been growing her hair but today I saw she'd been newly bobbed, the shortest cut I'd seen on her, sharp points falling across her cheeks and her nape shorn close to the scalp. She'd added a heavy fringe too. The cut was very flattering and I complemented her on her new look.

She smiled and turned from side to side as if posing for a photograph. “Thank you, Polly. It's one of the perks of the job to be able to get a nice new style whenever I please. What can I do for you today? I didn't expect you back so soon.”

“Oh, I decided to join The Standard. I'm going to a recruitment meeting tonight and thought I should look the part. You know what the regulation cut is for Standard members?”

She nodded. Was there some regret in her expression? I sometimes wondered how Eva regarded the Party. Almost all of her customers were Party members, or else their wives, yet she wasn't permitted to join. Her flamboyant look seemed to suggest an individuality, a sensuality that set her at odds with the ideals of the Party.

“There have been a few people in here getting the Standard cut. They've published a detailed description of the cut so I can make sure that yours will be absolutely the same as everyone else's.” Again, I sensed a note of disapproval hidden beneath her smile.

I took my seat and allowed Eva to cape me. As she readied her tools I took a last look at bowlcut Polly. Andra had allowed me to keep some hair on the lower part, and now I had a full half inch of hair softening my temples and nape. The top had filled out and now reached to within less than an inch of tops of ears. My hair was so thick that the weight line was thick and heavy. It was an ugly and absurd cut and I felt no regret that it would soon be gone. There was still nervousness, however, about the style which would replace it.

Eva readied her clippers. “The cutting is all done dry. You'll be surprised how quickly you'll be done. The Standard don't permit any processing. With such a short cut your wave will hardly be noticeable.” I nodded, smiled nervously. She took my spectacles and placed them on the counter.

She ran her fingers up so that they insinuated themselves into the cool hair at my crown. I instinctively bowed my head. The clippers started to purr and I felt the blades at my neck. She pushed them up and after a few seconds I saw felt-like clumps rolling down the cotton cape. I wasn't sure if the clippers were shaving me to the scalp; certainly they were cutting very short.

The blades pressed close to my skin, a steady even upward stroke curtailing my soft pelt. Above the occipital I sensed Eva allowing the tip of the blade to slowly rise away from my scalp, fading the hair, allowing a little more length to persist. The clippers made their way up my head repeatedly, each time repeating the same gesture with mechanical precision. I saw the dark hair fall from the sides, pale scalp now revealed.

Once the back and sides had been tamed, Eva combed through the thick slab of hair on top. She combed up a section and ran the clippers over the comb. Heavy locks thudded onto the cape as all of the length was rapidly taken from me. I squinted to make out how short were the tufts which remained.

The top was now shaped with more precision, still cut clipper over comb. Only the fringe was spared the clippers. A little hair was combed forward and snipped across the top of my forehead. Eva finished the cut by using a set of trimmers to shave my nape into a neat square, then touched the blades to my cheeks as my sideburns were taken from their soft natural state to shaved points. I was astonished at how quickly the cut was completed.

I slipped my glasses on and took in the details of my new look. The sides were faded very close, with no more than an eighth of an inch left above my ears. The top had been cropped to about an inch and the cut was, with the exception of the tiny fringe ( the sole hint of anything feminine), almost identical to the cut the academy boys wore, who used to attend the dances. I looked so boyish now, so much so that I feared people would no longer guess I was a woman.

“Very butch, as they used to say,” Eva smiled, enigmatically. I didn't understand the word.

My new look seemed to inspire a certain fear (the Standard had become a Jesuitical organisation, enforcing a counter-revolutionary spirit in the Party), although I was sure that behind my back people commented on how ludicrous I'd become. When I looked at myself in private I longed to be rid of my ugly glasses which hid my features. Andra teased me about my haircut and I confessed to my insecurities about looking androgynous. She teased me all the more, calling me Paulie. But then she would take away my glasses and I'd be Pretty Polly again.

The weeks seemed to drift past slowly, my precious moments with Andra all too rare. It had been a few weeks since our last contact when I saw her name in the most unwelcome of places: a list of fugitives. I tried not to react, but I was broken. Andra must be in hiding and being hunted by the police.

I worked late at the office as a way of avoiding the official social activities which would otherwise have been compulsory for me that evening. On my way home I decided to call in at the apartment where I met with Andra, even though the window was firmly closed. I knocked at the door, using the rhythm which I'd memorised. I was about to leave, sure that my visit was wasted when I heard a quiet voice hiss “Who's there?”

Andra looked pale and haggard when she admitted me; I was sure she'd hardly slept in days. “You shouldn't be here!” she admonished. “They might have followed you.” But her anger lasted only as long as it took to express itself. Her features softened immediately and I took her in my arms.

Both of us felt a flood of emotion and within moments our tears mingled as we kissed. For minutes we consoled each other wordlessly. Our sadness seemed to exhaust itself and later we discussed Andra's situation. There had been a wave of arrests, and more than one person had been arrested who knew her identity. She'd gone into hiding as soon as she heard of the arrests and her status as a fugitive may have been provoked by her disappearance of by one of her associates naming her under torture. Either way, only by avoiding capture herself could Andra have any possibility of survival.

Because of the arrests her network had been severely disadvantaged and false identity papers couldn't be obtained. She looked at me hopefully, and I immediately knew what she expected of me, since she knew my department was involved in the issue of identity cards. “But Andra,” I explained, “I'm only involved with Party membership cards.”

“All the better!” she exclaimed. “Could you get something with travel clearance? Something that will enable me to head north, then I could travel on foot across into the northern territory.”

“Andra, you don't look like a Party member.”

“Then I'd have to disguise myself, wouldn't I?”

“You have Asian blood and it's recognisable in your features. Asians are barred from the Party, you know that. And Police are trained to recognise Asian people.”

“So are inspectors, but you didn't recognise my Asian features immediately, did you?” I admitted she was right. “I'd have to cut my hair. Maybe if I bleached it too... Glasses?”

I winced at the thought of Andra's beautiful hair being ruined, cut into an ugly party crop. But her idea seemed feasible. Only Andra's eyes suggested that she wasn't European, and concealed behind glasses it would be harder to recognise her heritage. And with blonde hair she'd surely look entirely Caucasian to anything but a rigorous examination.

“So? Could you get me a Party pass card?”

“I hope so, but it's risky. I need to find someone who's inactive in the Party. A lot of women marry and take leave to start families, so I can use one of their identities. I can amend the computer record and place a false application for a new card in the system. But getting it to you is more difficult. Usually they go out in special postage. And the identity is cross referenced to the address, so that's not easily changed.”

“Then you need to find a way to intercept the pass before it gets sent out. Find out about how the mail system works.” I reluctantly agreed, but wasn't sure how I could investigate in another department without arousing suspicion.

“Can you get some bleach then?” she asked. “Do you think you can trust your hairdresser to give you some?” It was almost impossible to get hair dye. Only the best connected salons could obtain a reliable supply.

I rubbed my hair. “I'd better book an appointment.”

“Tomorrow, Polly. We need to act fast. Tomorrow night bring a camera, scissors, bleach if you can get it.”

“You're really going to cut your hair?” I asked, pained.

Andra laughed. “No, you are.”

I gasped. “No, I can't. I can't cut hair!”

“I don't know anyone who's as obsessed with hair as you. I'm sure you've watched so many haircuts that you could do a crop just fine.”

“I'll mess it up, Andra. Please find someone else to do it!”

“There is no one else, Polly,” she said, seriously. “You're all I have. If we mess this plan up I'm gone. I need to get away within a few days, otherwise they're sure to catch me. And if they do they'll inevitably find you too. We can't ever be safe, but this is the only way out for us. No mistakes now. You have to be smart and fearless.”

I arrived at Eva's salon after an exhausting day. I'd spent the entire day trying to find out how I could obtain a false identity without being caught. Just investigating seemed to carry not just risk, but the inevitability of capture. I was delighted to see Eva, even if my pleasure was clouded by the moment when I'd have to ask a favour of her. She'd become a friend to me, a confidante of sorts, although much of my life had to remain a closely guarded secret. She looked perfect, as she always did, her hair and make-up flawless.

“You're back soon. It's hardly been a week since your last cut.”

“I'm going to be busy for a few weeks, so I thought it was best to get a trim before the hard work starts.” I felt like she suspected something but was determined not to show my fears. Now that I was a Standard member I was expected to go no more than two weeks between haircuts so my explanation wasn't unreasonable.

I soon sat in the chair as Eva ran her fingers over my scalp. We were alone in the salon and she seemed more relaxed and playful than usual. I giggled as she tickled my ears.

“Do you want me to take it a little sharper than the usual? If I take it a little shorter than the usual cut you might get three weeks between cuts without it looking too scruffy.”

She gave a me a little wink. Her rationale was a mere pretence. She knew I got excited by having my hair cut too short, and I was sure she enjoyed it too. She pushed my head down and turned on the clippers. I felt the cold blades press up my nape.

“Oops!” Eva laughed. “I forgot to put a guard on the blades. Silly me. I suppose I'll just have to take it all a bit shorter to balance it, won't I, Miss?”

“Yes, Eva,” I murmured. If only she knew how much I longed to have hair as beautiful as hers. I still hated to see myself with this masculine cut. I would never adjust to it, would never allow myself to believe this was who I really was. And yet I adored being made to wear my hair like this, adored every sensation as Eva sheared away every trace of the real Polly that kept trying to grow out of me, but was ruthlessly suppressed.

“Would Miss like me to use the razor on her?” I shivered as she asked me this. I knew I had no choice, I was in Eva's power now. I remembered how my scalp felt when it was newly shaved, how adorable it was when Andra kissed me. I could only mumble my agreement to Eva's offer.

I blushed as I replaced my spectacles and saw how short my hair was. Eva had cut the top to half its usual length. My fringe was so short that it barely covered the hairline at the top of my forehead. It was my shortest ever haircut, severely masculine. I realised that I had less hair than most of my male colleagues.

Eva smiled at me. “I overdid it, didn't I? I'm sorry, I got a little carried away.

“It's OK, I like it.” There was some truth in what I said. Now I got embarrassed as I tried to find the way to ask her a favour. “Eva...” I stammered. “A friend of mine, she wants to bleach her hair. But she can't get hair dye anywhere. Could I buy some from you?”

“Just tell her to make an appointment,” she smiled.

“Oh, she can't afford it. She's not a Party member.”

“Well, I suppose I could spare a little,” she winked. “Is her hair long?”

“Well... no it's quite short.” I found it hard to think of Andra as having short hair. “Actually, she needs a trim. I don't suppose... I could borrow some clippers?”

“Oh, Polly, are you going to cut it for her?” It was the first time she'd ever used my name. I nodded. She passed me the clippers. “You need a guard, or are you going to cut it like yours?”

“No, nothing like that short!” Just thinking of Andra with my haircut seemed repulsive. She placed a guard on the blades and hid the clippers in my bag, then added a box of bleach powder.

“Bring them back first thing tomorrow.” I promised not to be late. Suddenly Eva was close to me, staring into my eyes. Her beauty bewitched me and I found myself expressing my gratitude with a kiss on her lips. She seemed equally willing to share a moment of delight. I withdrew guiltily.

I took my route home slowly, every shadow seeming to contain an eye, a camera, a microphone. I could no longer trust my instincts. Paranoia had overtaken me. I slipped into the apartment building and waited in the hallway for a full fifteen minutes to see if I would be followed. I knew that waiting here was without purpose: if they'd seen me entering the building then all was lost for me and Andra, yet some irrational impulse made me delay my visit to Andra.

I gave the knock which we'd agreed the previous night (did Andra have a plan to save herself from being captured if the police arrived at her door?) She quickly admitted me.

“Oh Polly, what did she do to you?” She laughed as she saw how short I'd been sheared.

“Oh, she got a bit carried away. Does it look ridiculous?”

“It does, Paulie. I'm not sure I like you any more.” I blushed at her teasing.

“I think she understands me a bit too well. I think she shares my tastes.”

“Come here!” She kissed my temple, her soft lips exploring the scalp. “Oh, Polly, she razored you! Is this what you had to endure to get what you needed from her?”

“It is. Look...” I took the bleach from my bag. “And she loaned me these,” I said, proudly holding up the clippers.

Andra groaned. “You're going to buzz me?” I could see that losing her hair wasn't going to be easy for her.

“I'll get it much neater with these. It won't be short like mine, she put a guard on for me.” For the first time I checked and saw that it was a number two. It was shorter than I'd wanted, much shorter. I guess my disappointment showed in my face.

“How short does it cut?” Andra asked with some anxiety.

“About a quarter of an inch,” I admitted. She looked horrified. “But I'll just use that on your nape, maybe a bit above your ears. It'll be longer on top.”

Andra bowed to the inevitable. “It's only hair!” she announced with fake bravado as I apologised for the imminent cropping. I combed her hair back into a ponytail and raised the kitchen scissors I'd appropriated for the task, the only sharp scissors I could find. I now wished I'd asked to borrow a pair from Eva.

I didn't dare speak as I chopped through Andra's tail at its root. The scissors made hard work of severing it, though perhaps any scissors would: her hair was thick, thicker even than my coarse waves. My hand was sore with effort as the ponytail finally separated. She ran a hand up her neck and winced as she felt how high up her hair now began. I started to discuss cutting options but she interrupted me. “Just do a cut that looks passable for a Party member with enough clearance to travel. And neat enough not to attract attention.”

I worked at my task in silence. I pinned up the top layers of Andra's hair and readied the clippers. They felt awkward in my hand as I prepared to cut Andra's nape. I turned them on and almost dropped them; the vibration seemed to numb my fingers. “Here goes,” I whispered, and tilted her head forward. The clippers rose easily through her hair, although the sound changed as the motor was strained by the thick hair the blades met. I was transfixed by the sight of the heavy locks slipping free, the dark covering of velvet that remained. There seemed to be some alchemical process which this tool instituted: it converted soft, silky hair into a bristly, even pelt.

I hadn't really planned the cut. I found myself running the clippers up her nape time and again, stripping away all the hair from the back up to around the tops of her ears. Was it too short? I tried to recall styles which had a short nape; there had been a shift toward shorter styles since the emergence of the Standard, even amongst those who weren't members. The fear of denunciation it had inspired had led many to make some concessions toward styles which seemed sympathetic to its aims. Now I saw that Andra would have to endure a quite severe new look.

I directed the clippers around her right ear. A long fringe of hair escaped the blades around the perimeter, where her ears impeded the passage of the blades. It looked crude, comical almost, not befitting for my beautiful Andra. I softly pressed her ear aside and hastened to shear away the long tufts. Now her perfect ear was revealed, framed justly by the dark suede-like hair which covered her delicate skull.

I rapidly cut away the locks which concealed her other ear to restore a sense of symmetry. Now I took the comb and lifted the hair which grew higher up the side of her head, used the clippers to shear away the length. I gradually shortened it until the length blended with the buzzed areas above her ears. I was entranced by my power, seeing the hair fall away effortlessly. I saw only details, fragments as I tried to ensure a neatness to my craft. I started to wield the clippers with more confidence, and the taper I achieved looked surprisingly professional. I worked over the sides, then through the back, shaping the hair between Andra's nape and crown.

I paused to dab away a trickle of sweat from my brow. The interruption suddenly made me see afresh what I'd done. I'd cut Andra's hair terribly short, much shorter than was necessary. Her face was grimly concentrated, as she tried to contain her emotions. I was torn between admitting my fault and pressing on, finishing the cut as quickly as possible so as not to prolong her suffering. I decided I had to be honest.

“Andra, I'm sorry. I think I've gone too short. I didn't really plan it well enough and I think I got a bit carried away.”

“Let me see,” she said, gesturing toward the mirror. I passed it to her.

“Oh! Oh Polly...” She rubbed a hand over her temple curiously. “You've cut it quite neatly. You're a good barber,” she said with a forced humour. “You'd better finish it off.” She took a last glance at herself, which was too much. She gave a strange cry and suddenly her tears flowed.

Her emotion made me lose control. I thought back to the day when Mum had endured her first haircut, when she'd been bullied into losing her individuality by Monica and Mrs Evans. Now I'd inflicted virtually the same cut on the woman who meant everything to me. “Forgive me, forgive me,” I pleaded.

Andra seemed embarrassed by her reaction. “My little baby, it's not your fault. Look at me, I'm being hunted by the police and I have to be tough and I cry because of a little haircut. I've made you get far worse and you take it. I need to learn from you, don't I?”

I couldn't control myself. Andra held me close to her and rocked me. “There, there. You only did what needed to be done to save me. One day we'll be free and both of us will have long hair.”

I laughed through my tears. “Right down past my waist!” I said. “So long that I can sit on it.”

She laughed too. “We'll have a competition to see whose hair grows fastest. In a year mine will grow a foot. But you'd better dry your tears and finish off my cut.”

I did as I was told. I used the scissors to snip away the top, being more careful now, afraid of going too short. By the time I'd completed the cut I'd managed to execute a cut that didn't look awful, but it was rather dowdy and unstylish. Andra took in her reflection: she was no longer so shocked that she cried but she did look sad. The short fringe in particular seemed to perplex her, although I liked how it showed off her eyes. Her loveliness was undiminished by my work, at least in my eyes.

“Let's finish off my transformation,” she said. “Use the bleach.” I followed the instructions, mixing it up with some water, then nervously applying it to Andra's short hair.

“It says it's best to apply two or three times to dark hair to lighten it. How light do you want to go?”

“I'll let you decide. Bleach me till I look like an evil Party bitch.”

I let the white paste sit on Andra's hair until I couldn't control my anticipation any more. I was desperate to see how it looked. She was glad to rinse out the bleach because it was making her scalp horribly itchy, so much so that I worried I'd caused a chemical burn.

When I rinsed out the bleach (Andra stood bent over a small sink, the only suitable facility) her hair was a gingery orange, not at all what I'd hoped for. I couldn't hide my displeasure at the result and Andra demanded a mirror.

“Oh, tangerine! I'd hoped it would be a gorgeous rich blonde.” She giggled with a little embarrassment at how her look was changing. “Shall we try another bleaching and see if that looks better?”

I obliged and Andra had to suffer yet more irritation as the colour was slowly stripped from her hair. “You know, your eyebrows are going to look really dark now your hair's lighter. I think we should bleach them too.”

“Really? Didn't you say Eva bleached hers and they disappeared? I don't want to look like that.”

“You won't! Hers were almost white. Yours will be orange at the lightest.” My joke sounded forced and hollow. I dabbed lines of bleach over her brows with the tip of a gloved finger. We waited in almost silence for the bleach to transform her hair.

I rinsed away the second layer of bleach and saw that Andra was now a blonde. Her hair had assumed a yellowish tone which was quite brassy and unnatural. It wasn't perfect but it was an improvement on the gingery shade. I blushed as I saw her brows. The bleach seemed to have worked much more quickly on the fine hairs and they had turned a shade lighter than her hair. Andra could read my expression and demanded a mirror.

She looked displeased as she saw herself. “I thought you said they wouldn't be too light. I can hardly see them. It looks really weird.” She seemed to be torn between anger and self-pity. I sensed the wrong words would make her cry again.

“They are a bit light but it makes you look like a natural blonde.” I actually liked how the pale brows had transformed Andra's features. I wanted to take her to bed and show her how much her makeover had excited me.

“The hair's still a bit yellow though. Do you think it will look better if we bleach it again?”

We were in agreement that a third bleaching would be best. By the time that was rinsed, Andra's hair was almost colourless, as pale as straw. I dried it and smoothed the top to hide the imperfections of my cutting. “I'd have walked past you in the street. Although I would have stared at you because you're so beautiful.”

Andra looked at herself in astonishment. “It is a good disguise, although I still think anyone looking closely will see I'm Asian.”

I took off my glasses and put them on Andra. “Now they couldn't.”

Andra squinted to see what she'd become. “That's... Is it really me? I don't have any glasses though, so that's a difficulty.”

“You can have mine. I'll say I lost them and get a new pair.”

She kissed me. “Pretty Polly, that's so kind. You can't see without them, though, and it'll be weeks before you get a replacement. I can't take them.”

“I can use my old pair,” I assured her. In truth, I'd had to return them at the opticians when my new spectacles were issued. The shortage of lenses meant that everything had to be recycled. I knew that the glasses would help Andra, and if I had to lie to make her accept my gift then so be it.

I used the camera to take the pictures for Andra's new papers, not permitting myself to dwell on the difficulties that would be entailed in obtaining the pass card. The short haired, bespectacled blonde in the photographs didn't resemble Andra in the slightest, at least not the Andra I fallen in love with. I wanted to fall in love all over again with this beautiful stranger. She was to be a cruel lover, however.

“Polly, we must part now. You've stayed here too long tonight. It's late and your neighbours will notice if you delay much longer.” She demanded of me when the new papers would be ready. I calculated that they would be processed in three days (although I didn't dare tell her that I had no confidence that I could actually obtain her pass card). She told me to leave the ID in a locker at the railway station for which she provided a key. I was only to visit this apartment again if the plan failed.

“I won't see you again?” I said incredulously. I was filled with grief.

“You will! I promise you, Polly, this is only a temporary parting. And when we meet again we'll be free and we'll be together forever.”

I sobbed and held her. We kissed and Andra started to cry too. “My Pretty Polly, you've made me the happiest girl in the world. How will I ever thank you?” The only thanks I needed was to see my love again and I made her pledge to arrange for my escape as soon as it was safe.

I felt like I was intolerably stressed when I entered my office. I performed every task with my concentration absorbed by getting Andra to safety. I had already established a way to enter a false application into the system, had already chosen the new identity Andra would assume (a woman who'd been a Party member for many years and had risen to a high standing, but had stepped down from her public life more than a year previously to start a family). The insurmountable problem was that the new pass card would be posted out to the intended recipient and I could see no way around this, since the address had to match that on her computer record. If I changed the address to mine or the apartment where Andra was hiding, the error would soon raise a flag and my plan would be revealed.

Every glance at me triggered a feeling of panic. I was sure that my colleague sensed my suspicious behaviour. My new haircut and being seen for the first time without glasses had aroused a certain curiosity, but I found any attention only added to my paranoia.

I felt that destiny was favouring me as a solution was revealed to me later that day. An outbreak of 'flu in the postal room meant that our internal mail was delayed and I volunteered to go down to the basement to collect it. When I was there I noticed a tray labelled “Bad Addresses”. When I queried this I was told that any outgoing mail with an incorrect area code would be placed in here and returned to the worker who'd sent it out to be corrected.

This seemed to allow a way for me to get the pass card. I went into the computer record and transposed two digits in the area code, then completed the false application, stapling the photographs of Andra to it. I looked at her face, still lovely even behind my ugly glasses. I regretted my rashness, as I was overcome by a wave of sadness, our parting too recent and raw to allow me to be able to control my painful emotions. I took the completed form and added it to the top of a pile of applications in a neighbouring office.

I spent the next days in a crippling agony of insecurity. My knowledge of the bureaucratic systems were far from perfect and I knew my actions could be uncovered at any moment. Everything I did seemed to risk drawing attention to myself, the attention that would finally undo me. I had to get the papers to Andra, that had become my only goal. Once that was done I had resigned myself to capture. I'd even thought of suicide once my task was completed, sure that I would give away Andra if they tortured me.

The mail room had continued to suffer from under-staffing and I'd made it a daily duty to visit to collect mail. Two days after I completed the form I saw the familiar name (Henrietta Birch, an unfortunate name, most unbecoming for Andra, I felt) on an envelope in the Bad Addresses pile. I slipped it in with the mail I'd collected and returned to my desk.

On my way home I placed the new identity card in the locker at the station, then went to partake in a sports event. I had been avoiding these recently, absorbed in my work as I'd been. Now the physical activity seemed to give some release. I felt reckless, out of control, wild. I arrived home exhausted and aching. I hardly dared allow myself to hope that Andra would soon be free.

The worst thing was that I had no way to be sure. Two weeks had passed and I had no idea where Andra was. She may have been safe in the northern territory, she may have been in custody, bearing who knew what tortures, she may have been dead. There was no way I could find out.

When they came for me I felt surprisingly calm. I saw my manager approach my desk with two armed police and another woman. I'd still not managed to replace my lost glasses and I squinted to see if I recognised her but she was unfamiliar. I looked to see my colleagues' reactions as my wrists were shackled. They looked away, unable to return my gaze. I was escorted from the building very publicly, shambling out as my ankles were now linked by a short chain. My wrists were fixed to a belt which had been locked around my waist.

I was thrown into a van where the police started to curse me with all sorts of filthy words. “Did you see that? She spat at me!” one of them claimed falsely.

“Better hood her then. Inverts are full of diseases.”

I'd remained calm but now I started to feel panic. I was told to bite on a large rubber pad, which was marked with the impressions of numerous teeth. It smelt strongly, not just a rubbery smell, but the smell of the saliva which had dried on it from the previous victim. I protested, only to be poked hard in the belly with the butt of a baton. The rubber was slid into my mouth.

I sobbed as I saw the hood. It was a featureless leather hood. Only a small rectangle opened up to allow my nose to be uncovered. It was placed over my face (I was in such pain from the blow to my abdomen that I didn't dare resist) and strapped in place so tightly that the leather strips cut into my scalp.

My sightlessness and the pressure of the rubber filling my mouth made me panic. I was sobbing and tried to free myself, although the shackles made it impossible. In response my nose was pinched. Within moments my head was swimming and I saw spots swimming before my occluded eyes. I was powerless to resist and as I lost consciousness I thought I was dying. My last thoughts were filled with memories of Andra.

I woke, still in the van. “Piggie's awake,” a voice said. “You grunt like a pig, Piggie!”

“She looks better with the hood on. That's why she's an invert, because no man will look at her fucking ugly mug.”

“I bet you never had sex with a man before, did you, Piggie? Not till now. I screwed you while you were sleeping.”

They laughed at me. I had never been more ashamed in my life. Had I really been violated? I wanted only to be dead.

I was dragged out of the van and fell heavily. I was ordered to get to my feet and ordered to walk until I was told to stop. Every command was screamed into my ear so that I was constantly fearful. I was taken to a large hall where I was unshackled and undressed. I felt a measure of relief that the belt had been secured so tightly that it would have been impossible to remove my trousers. I hadn't been raped, at least not yet. Was the belt all that had saved me?

The hood was finally pulled free and I saw where I was for the first time. I was in a large hall with about twenty other women who shared my situation, naked and frightened. I was aware from their hairstyles that none of the others were Party members. All around were armed guards, mostly, though not exclusively, female. In addition to their pistols they bore electric batons to shock their charges into compliance.

We were ordered by an officer to form into a line and told to proceed into the next room to be processed. “You will have your heads shaved to show that you're worthless. Then you will be fitted with uniforms and proceed to psychiatry for evaluation.”

There were three barber's chairs in the next room. The shaving was done by women who I presumed were themselves prisoners, for they were all bald and dressed in white tunics. The first three women took their places in the chairs and were rapidly stripped of their hair. One girl, who looked no more than eighteen, slim, and pretty with long dark wavy hair, started to panic and plead with the guard. She was knocked to the floor and repeatedly shocked with the baton until she was screaming in pain. “Do you need more pain?” the guard screamed. “Or are you going to ask the nice lady to shave your ugly little head?”

“No more,” she gasped. She slumped into the chair and accepted that she was defeated. The guard relished her humiliation by making her repeat the request. “Please shave my ugly little head,” she croaked.

The clippers sheared away her curls, long rapid strokes from front to back stripping away her lovely hair. Once the long locks had been reduced to a fine stubble, the girls head was painted with a greasy oil and a razor was dragged over her scalp. The guard humiliated her with a final shock from the baton on her newly bared skull, inducing a pitiful wail. I flinched at the sound.

All of the women endured the same indignities. As soon as they were bald they were given a white canvas tunic, stained panties and a pair of white rubber shoes. They dressed and made their way into the next room, every one itching at their necks which were covered in a dusting of fine short hairs.

I awaited my turn at the back of the line. I was aware of someone entering behind me but didn't dare to turn around. “I know this one!” a familiar voice exclaimed. “She's not to be shaved, she has some very strange fetishes and it would only make her get aroused.”

I couldn't help but look at my accuser. Something in me tried to block out the acceptance of who I was seeing: the voice and face were familiar yet somehow strange. Finally I couldn't deny who was confronting me. “Eva?” I whispered incredulously.

Eva's soft voice had become loud, with a fanatical edge. But her appearance was even more unfamiliar. Her bob was gone, replaced with a rather nondescript Party crop, dyed a light brown rather than the soft blonde streaks she'd had at our last meeting. She wore a military uniform and her face was devoid of make-up. Her lip piercing was absent, only a small depression indicating that it had ever existed.

“Surprised to see me? I'm Captain York, Executive Military. When we met I was working undercover to expose an invert ring who had links with the salon. You were a particularly disgusting specimen. Your behaviour finally convinced me that I could no longer bear being undercover. I made a special request to be involved in your processing, which given my successes in the operation couldn't be denied. I'm going to enjoy sanitising you.”

I was soon in a small cell, alone with Eva. I couldn't stop crying. I felt betrayed, felt that I couldn't trust myself, convinced that if I'd believed so completely in Eva's deception that Andra must also be doomed. But even as I realised the hopelessness of my position I felt a glimmer of light. I was here because of my sexuality. They didn't know of my acts of treachery against the government. I had to be brave and hold out, not reveal Andra's identity. I was realistic enough to know that at some stage they would break me and I would probably reveal everything, but my goal was to give Andra as much time as possible to make good her escape. I was beyond hope, but Andra wasn't!

Eva made me undress, then ordered me to sit on a device which looked like a dentist's chair. I was strapped in to immobilise me, bound around torso, at wrists and ankles, my head fixed tightly to a headrest.

“First I have to test you. It's a little formality we have to go through because we live in a just land. I have to make sure you're an invert, although I could hardly doubt it in your case. I do think this could be skipped for a lot of people, because it's a disgusting process for normal people. Still, the scientists maintain that we can gather useful information about the subjects through this test so I'll just have to trust them.

“I'm going to connect you to some testing equipment, so that we can measure your level of arousal. Then you'll be shown some disgusting images which normal people would find repulsive, but which inverts will find titillating.”

Eva wheeled over a trolley which bore many devices which appeared terrifying to me. She picked up a long, thin metal cylinder with a rounded tip and held it before my face. “I hope you don't get turned on by this. I'd be very embarrassed if you did and I'd have to punish you. You had a crush on me, didn't you, Polly.”

I blushed and nodded. “I can see you for what you are now though. You can rest assured I find you utterly disgusting.”

She slapped me hard across the face. “Please keep provoking me. Everything you say and do makes me enjoy your treatment all the more. You have no idea what will be done to you. I've even dug out your mother's file so I can let you know how well looked after she was after she went a bit crazy. I'll see to it that you go crazy too. And then you'll just gradually fade away until there's nothing left of you but a little file in a hospital and a little pile of ashes.”

“You think your regime will last much longer? It's all coming apart already. It may be too late for me but don't think your evil will be forgotten. You'll pay for your actions.”

Eva slipped on latex gloves, then pushed the cylinder into my vagina, hard and brutal. I wailed at the pain of this intrusion. “There, is that nice? I've heard you nasty little perverts like that sort of thing. It will measure your reactions when I show you the disgusting pictures. But we need to add a few more sensors.”

She lifted the tube, the end of which protruded, so that I was forced to raise my buttocks. Now her fingers probed at my anus. “When we get excited our body temperature rises a little so I'm going to fit you with a thermometer. It's core temperature I'm interested in so I'll have to go quite deep.” She took another metal cylinder, not as long as the first but just as wide in girth. I felt the end touch my anus, the chill making me twitch involuntarily. She forced it inside me without compassion. A second thrust slid it deep inside, so that I felt like something would tear inside me.

“Now, how does that feel? Do you want to beg me for mercy? Do want to confess your wrongs? I'm not a monster, Polly.”

“It's not me who's done anything wrong,” I sobbed. “And you're deceiving yourself, you are monstrous.”

“Poor deluded little girl. Soon I'll make you say anything I want. But that's only the start. After that I'll start to control what you think. You'll no longer know anything, you'll only believe what I allow you to believe. But I can only begin to really work on you once we've proved your perverted nature. Not that I can't punish your outbursts. I'm going to fit you with ECG sensors to monitor your heart's responses. I could fit tape sensors to you but I'm going to indicate that you pulled the sensors off. For naughty girls we have these ones.” She held a needle before my eyes, the tip fitted with barbs. “There's a better contact when it goes beneath the surface, and the barbs won't allow it to come out without tearing at your skin. Are you going to beg me not to use them?”

I shook my head, determined not to give in to her. She slid the needle into my chest, above the outer edge of my right breast. I groaned as it stung at my skin, burrowing in painfully. “You're so brave, aren't you?” Eva mocked. “So important to keep your dignity, isn't it? I'll tell you some stories about your mother and how she kept her dignity. You really are her daughter in so many ways.”

Another needle tore into my skin on the left side. “The barbs mean I can't get these out. I'll have to call a nurse later to slit the skin to free the needle. They hurt rather more coming out than going in.” The third sensor was pushed into the skin of my groin, the most painful of all.

“Now, I heard you spat at one of the police officers who arrested you. That was very childish and disgusting, wasn't it?”

I shook my head. “I didn't do anything of the sort. He made it up.”

“Polly, it's very serious to tell lies about authority figures. You need to learn that.” She pressed an adhesive patch behind my ear. “This will make it more difficult for you to produce saliva, so no more spitting. Might make your mouth very dry though, so I expect it won't be very nice when I make you wear the hood all night.”

The idea of the claustrophobic mask being fitted again terrified me and I couldn't hold out any longer. I started to beg Eva to spare me that. She smiled, seemingly happy at my response. “That's progress. Give in to your fears. That's all that can save you.”

She fitted leads to the sensors and trailed the wires across to a recording device. She pressed switches and buttons until satisfied that all was working. Now a screen was positioned before my face and she activated a paper feed on the monitoring equipment. Several pens flickered a trail across the paper, making a soft scratching. She marked a line on the paper as she turned on the screen.

I saw a fuzzy image of two women naked on a bed. They were kissing and touching each other, gradually becoming more passionate. Despite my fears I couldn't help but feel an interest, a surge of excitement at what I was seeing. I'd heard tales of films like these, but had never seen one. The women were heavily made-up, one was tattooed, fallen women, as they were described in the academy. My breathing became faster, my heart pounded. I wanted to expel the painful sensors which filled my orifices. I knew that they were telling the unmistakeable story of my sexuality. After a few minutes the screen darkened.

“Oh Polly! A very strong invert reaction. You really should be so ashamed. Do you want to be helped? Do you want to be rehabilitated and re-enter society one day?” I nodded. I'm no longer sure whether I really wanted to be changed or if I acquiesced only to avoid further punishment. My reward was to be fitted with the hood once more, but this time Eva added a further device. She placed plugs in my ears which were attached to a small box which caused them to hiss loudly. When the mask was fitted over my face, leather flaps pressed tight over my ears, pushing the plugs in deeper and increasing the perceived volume.

I was helpless as the sensors were roughly pulled out of me. The patch had seemingly dried all secretions and the pain was dreadful as the metal dragged against my dry mucous membranes. I endured the sensation of the needles being freed with a scalpelled incision, presumably administered by an unseen nurse. I was lifted from the chair by powerful arms and once more fitted with shackles. I shambled out, marching between two large men, my hobbled feet struggling to keep up with their pace. I was thrown onto a bed and a restraining chain fitted between the belt and the frame of the bed. I could see and hear nothing.

My sensory deprivation made it impossible for me to judge the passage of time. The loud roaring in my ears took away any possibility of sleep. I hadn't eaten all day and my mouth was so dry that my tongue began to stick to the thick rubber pad which filled my mouth. After what seemed like days spent in an airless, dark world, I was suddenly wrenched to my feet. The unexpected touch terrified me and I felt the most intense panic I'd experienced. I tried to scream but the hood muted me completely.

The panic had barely subsided when the hood was finally removed. I tried to control my breathing and gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was strapped into a wheelchair (so complete was my terror that I hadn't even been aware that I was seated) and across a desk from me was a middle aged woman, who I guessed, from her attire, was a doctor. At her shoulder stood Eva.

“Why hasn't she been shaved?” the doctor asked tetchily.

“She was one of the inverts I met in the field. She exhibits a marked fetishism around hair. I was sure that the haircut would have been a source of pleasure for her so I instructed her hair to be left until further assessments could be made.”

“Fascinating!” the doctor mused. She looked over a report and then stared at me. “You're an invert. Do you admit to your perversion?” I tried to protest that what I felt wasn't wrong but my tongue was so dry and swollen that I couldn't speak. I made a raspy croak, then merely nodded. “Academy educated, Pioneer, Party member. Most unfortunate,” the doctor tutted. “Do you see any prospect of rehabilitation, Captain?”

“Unfortunately not. She's not expressed any regret for her actions. In fact she was quite markedly antisocial, subversive even, in her statements. She comes from a quite corrupt bloodline. Her mother was morally defective, as you can see in my report. Still, it's your decision, doctor,” she added obsequiously. “I've heard some can be rehabilitated with neurosurgery and can return to some menial functions.”

“She's a bright girl, it would seem a shame. She wouldn't be bright after the leucotomy. Still, I'm not sure there's any real alternative. A lifetime of institutionalisation wouldn't benefit anyone. We'll commence with hormone and shock therapies and see how she responds. I'll give her a few weeks to mend her ways before we go into her head.”

The doctor left and I was alone again with Eva. “Did you hear that? She's going to drug you to make you compliant. And when that fails she'll crack open your head and chop out pieces of your brain to make you into a zombie. There's a whole ward of girls who had neurosurgery downstairs. They can't even feed themselves, they just sit staring at a wall all day, dribbling down their tunics.”

“Please, how long have I been here,” I croaked. My ears were still ringing from the roar of the earplugs.

“You've only been here overnight,” Eva laughed. “Did you start to go crazy already?”

“Please, a drink,” I begged.

“No food or drink until you've had your injections. And none at all today if you're not totally compliant.”

I was as meek as a newborn lamb when the nurse gave me my injections. I was injected in the upper arm and in my thigh. The latter was particularly painful and my muscle immediately started to ache and swell. Eva gleefully discussed the treatments. The one in your thigh is a depot injection of a major tranquilliser. It will last two weeks and once it kicks in, about an hour, you'll feel sleepy all the time. The other was a hormone injection and it'll start to change your desires. Your libido will start to wither and die, but it'll probably have some side effects. You'll start to look even more like a boy, especially since you'll start to sprout facial hair. I would worry that you'd find that a turn on, but believe me, you won't be feeling horny once your therapies begin.”

She unlocked the shackles and I stretched my arms gingerly. “Please may I have some water,” I whispered. Eva took me to the nurse's station, which was visible through a small wired-glass window overlooking a large lounge where about fifteen women sat in vinyl covered armchairs. All of them looked vacant, drugged; all were shaven-headed. Three male nursing assistants supervised. Eva knocked on the window, which was drawn aside slightly.

“This is Polly Anderson. She needs her meds.” I was passed a small plastic cup with some pills in it. I swallowed them and washed them down with a small paper cup of water.

“I haven't eaten since yesterday morning,” I said.

“Lunch is at one o'clock!” the nurse shouted menacingly. I wouldn't make the mistake of asking again.

Eva told me I should wait in one of the chairs and left me. I took her advice, which for once seemed without malice. No sooner had I taken my seat than I felt a wave of torpor spread over me. Suddenly I was being shaken and told to attend a therapy. I felt confused and couldn't clear my head. “What time is it?” I demanded, but my interlocutor only gestured toward the clock over the nursing station. It was two thirty. “Please, I didn't eat lunch, can't I have lunch? I haven't eaten since yesterday morning?” Was it really yesterday when I arrived or had other days passed?

“You miss lunch, that's your problem,” she laughed. “Now get up and come with me or I'll have you shackled for the rest of the day and you won't get dinner either.”

I followed her unsteadily. I tried to rouse myself but couldn't shake the kind of confusion that usually passes moments after waking. Everything seemed dreamlike, unreal, menacing. I was taken out of the lounge (which I discovered was kept locked) and down a corridor to a treatment room. The nursing assistant told me to sit. “Can I trust you to stay here and behave? You know you'll be battered if you try anything?”

I nodded wearily. “I can hardly move. I'll just sit here in peace, Miss.” She nodded and left me. I was alone for only a few minutes I suppose but was already drifting into sleep by the time the doctor arrived, accompanied by Eva.

“Settled in?” the older woman asked.

“I haven't eaten anything,” I stated, trying not to sound like I was making a complaint.

“Refusing food?” I was slow in thought and response and she took my pause as an agreement. “I'll increase your chloridone.”

She sat closer now. “And what about your... urges? The desires, sexual desires.”

“They're... better,” I offered.

She seemed unhappy at my response, I'd obviously misunderstood her intentions. “Tell me about why you were attracted to women!”

I looked at her blankly. How could I explain something which felt as natural to me as a desire to eat? “I always felt it,” I answered. She seemed to think I was being evasive.

“You're attracted to Eva? She tells me you wanted to kiss her.”

“I was,” I said nervously, unsure where a confession would lead me. “I'm not any more.”

There were more questions as she tried “to get to the root of the inversion” but I was defensive and self-conscious. “Do you drink alcohol?” she asked.

“I tried it once, but I didn't like it.”

“We'll try that. It's a good disinhibitor, especially for those who have no tolerance.” In retrospect it seems comic that this is what psychiatry had come down to in Anglia, a doctor getting me drunk to hear the salacious details of my sexual history, for it was no more than that. At the time I was only glad to be able to drink something. I was made to drink three small bottles of strong cider and soon I felt woozy and intoxicated. Even this small amount had made me drunk.

My two interrogators asked me lots of questions, feigning a friendly relationship now. They delved into my history at the academy. Had it been there I'd started to grow sexually attached to girls? I confessed there'd been someone even earlier, although at the time I understood nothing of sexuality, I'd only felt a mysterious attraction. This seemed to please the doctor, since it was evidence that the academies weren't responsible for producing inversions, merely providing an environment where they became apparent. She hinted that she wanted a screening programme for very young children to identify the problem at a young age and commence treatment. Even in my inebriated state I was horrified by her idea.

Now the question became ever more intrusive, revelling in prurient detail. The doctor took a delight in my revelations that was clearly more than professional, nor was Eva above a similar response. Perhaps her cruel new demeanour was a defence against her true desires.

Eva interrogated me about my fetish. I confessed that my first real haircut when I joined the pioneers had triggered some confusion in me which had remained with me.

“But what was it you liked so much about getting your hair cut?”

“I didn't like it at all. I was very upset. I still don't like having my hair cut short. I'd love to have long hair, but something makes me want to get it cut short. Almost like I'm punishing myself.”

Eva couldn't accept what I was saying but the doctor seemed intrigued. “This isn't rare in fetishism. When a traumatic event occurs in the child which they can't accept the mind turns it into something desirable as a means of self defence.”

“And if Polly accepts that getting a haircut is normal she'll be cured?”

The doctor laughed at her naivety. “If only it were that simple. These ideas have been in her for so long that they've insinuated themselves deep in her brain. It's like a plant with a large root system. We see little shoots and it's easy to lop them off, but more keep growing. If we want to get rid of the plant entirely we have to dig deep and remove every part of the root. And, anyway, that's only her fetish. She's already told us that her inversion dates back longer than the hair fetish, so that would be even more difficult to get to.”

“But you can dig deep into her brain and remove it?”

“We can, but it will kill some of the nice flowers in her garden too, which is why it's a last resort.” Eva was clearly unsympathetic to the doctor's aims. I saw through both of them. The doctor wanted to use her patients as a testing ground for her ideas; her goal was treatment of girls before their teenage years, which horrified me. Eva was fighting to suppress her feelings by punishing those who had similar desires. My revelation was no consolation. I was powerless to resist. These women had absolute power over me.

The faked bonhomie faded. “Eva, get a bucket over. I'll give her a purgative. I think it's important that she takes away negative associations from this therapy.”

I was terrified as the doctor prepared an injection. She tied a strap around my arm and made the injection into my vein. I waited in terror for the effects to manifest, and didn't have to endure much delay. I started to feel my abdomen cramping and contracting. Eva pushed my head down into the bucket. “Don't mess up the floor, Polly. You'll be cleaning up after yourself.”

I vomited copiously, a torrent of watery liquid jetting from my mouth. My stomach contracted rhythmically, forcing every drop out of me, and even when it was empty I continued to feel painful cramps. I moaned in agony, cold, dripping sweat, tears flowing from my eyes. I could barely maintain my grip on the bucket which seemed so heavy and slippery. I slid to the floor and knelt with my head over it, crying and coughing. I was ordered to my feet and passed a tissue. I dabbed at my eyes and wiped my mouth. Somehow I managed to follow the orders to empty the bucket down a toilet and wash it out. I returned to the lounge quivering violently, my belly still agonised by muscular spasms.

I sat with my knees drawn up to my chest, sobbing quietly. I just wanted to sleep, and soon I achieved my goal. I was woken by a nursing assistant. “Anderson, meds!” she grunted. I followed her confusedly, thoughtlessly. As I approached the nursing station I glanced at the clock. Seven. “What time is dinner?” I asked.

“Six thirty. You missed it. Meds at seven.”

“But, please, I haven't eaten in nearly two days!” I could barely speak, so dry was my mouth. “No one woke me.”

“The patients wake each other.”

“But no one woke me.”

She smiled cruelly. “It's the haircut. No one in here likes you. You're a Party member, you see? Don't expect any favours around here.”

I made sure I didn't miss my breakfast the next morning. After waking all patients went to the lounge where morning meds were given. I paced along the back wall to stop myself falling back into sleep. I must have looked crazy, slumped over, taking tiny unsteady paces. Finally we were called to the dining room. No one wanted to sit with me so I sat alone. I was given a small bowl of cold, sticky porridge with no flavour, but I was just glad to eat something. I could barely swallow it, however. I tried to wash it down with the cup of water I was allowed but my mouth seemed too dry. When we were ordered out of the dining room almost half of my breakfast remained in the bowl. I was agonisingly hungry, yet I was leaving food! I looked back at it longingly, close to tears.

My days seemed to consist of dreamless sleep interrupted by waking nightmares as Eva and the doctor used my body as a testing ground for their competing theories. My memories of the days are blurred by the treatments I suffered, although the word treatment must be regarded as a euphemism. I was being tortured, broken, not healed. Eva in particular was candid about her aims. She wanted me to reveal the names of my lovers. She was convinced I'd had numerous sexual partners, since she appeared to assume all lesbians were promiscuous. She provided lists of the sports teams I'd participated in and ordered me to name all of those who'd been my lovers.

“None of them,” I said, pushing the list back toward her. “I've only had one lover and I'm not going to name her. There was someone else who willingly kissed me though. I know she's really an invert, although she tries to hide it. Even from herself.”

“Who?”

“Eva York. You can't fool me.”

For a moment her anger seemed about to explode but then she regained control. “There you go again, trying to provoke me. I have to give you some credit, Polly, you're intelligent. You know what to say to get a reaction. But a girl as intelligent as you should realise your situation. You think you're still playing a game. But the truth is as soon as you gave in to your perversions the game was already lost. You're in my game now, a pawn, not a player. You think you can say things that will hurt me? Well let's see if I can do better.”

She lifted an old yellow file onto the table and opened it. “Anderson, Gretchen. Patient in this very hospital. Shall we see what we can find in here?”

I wanted to shut my ears and hide myself. “Please, Eva, I'm sorry. Don't...”

“It's Captain York! Do you think you can still address me as you did when I pretended to be your friend? You disgust me. And now you'll sit and listen to what I have to say because I'm in charge here.

“Here's something. 'Patient continues to resist her weekly head shave. She appears paranoid about this although she hasn't expressed anything concrete about her delusions. Today she attempted to bite trustee patient Donaldson who is employed as a barber. Recommend dental intervention to reduce risk from her bite.'” She leafed through a few more pages. “Yes, here it is. They pulled out all of her teeth the following week. It doesn't say that they used anaesthetic though.” Eva laughed at me. “Gummy mummy! I bet she had pretty teeth like yours. Imagine how sad she was when they all got taken out.”

I was sobbing and begging her to stop.

“I'll stop if you tell me your lovers' names. You have to understand your situation, Polly. You're powerless. You'll give up those names soon.”

“What about when I have neurosurgery? I won't even remember then.” She looked furious. “So there is still a game. I have to keep my secret until the doctor opens up my brain. Then I'll have beaten you. Because I still love someone, and I will keep her safe from you. All you have is fear and hatred, but I can still love, and that makes me better than you. I'll always know that.”

I'd found a chink in Eva's tough exterior. She knew I was right, and my punishment for exposing the weakness in her plan was swift and terrible. I was strapped to a table within minutes and a thick rubber gag inserted into my teeth. Eva was eager to tell me what I would experience. “You're going to have electro-convulsive therapy, Polly. Normally a muscle relaxant is given, which also helps to relax the patient, but I don't think you deserve it. I'm going to pass a current through your brain and it will make you have a seizure. The contractions have been known to snap bones, but I hardly think that's a risk for a puny little thing like you. You always were such a little weakling. I must have a word about your hormone therapy. Increase the dose of male hormones so that you get stronger. I'd love to see you sprouting a moustache, that would be so embarrassing for you.”

I'd have spat in her face if my mouth wasn't filled by the gag. I'd have endured the hood for a week to express my loathing for her at that moment. I felt the electrodes being placed on my temples, pressed firmly against my skull. “Stand clear,” the technician said. Then everything turned white.

I woke in the lounge. My tunic was soaked down the front with dribbles. I was unable to hold my head upright. I couldn't remember who I was.

Sometimes I have vivid memories return to me of my days in the hospital, memories which I'd had no awareness of previously. I was given further shock treatments. There was a drug used on me which put me in a coma for days. I would sometimes wake to find I'd wet myself, or even on one occasion I'd soiled. The nursing assistants beat me severely after that and I was forced to wear a nappy as a punishment for my incontinence.

Still I resisted Eva. I refused to name Andra. I tried to push her memories into the parts of my brain which the treatments seemed to be destroying. If I remembered nothing of her she would be safe. But I couldn't allow it. In my moments of lucidity I clung to the precious memories of our all too rare hours together. I remembered how she told me to cling on to the goodness, to let nothing get to that. She was everything good in the world, a symbol of a better life. Nothing would make me betray her.

I was very lucid the day everything changed. I was alone in a treatment room with Eva, presumably less drugged than usual to allow a greater response, She was using my mother's file once more to torture me, and had revealed (with some evident ambivalence) that the following week I would be subjected to neurosurgery.

“You'll be a shambling wreck, Polly. I can save you. You were in the Party. The Party looks after its own.”

Then darkness, the room shook, noise, the loudest noise I ever knew.

I came back to consciousness. There was some daylight in the room, which seemed strange since the hospital had no windows. I tried to get up but I was trapped and every movement made me hurt. I was used to feeling confusion when I woke from my treatments but I knew this was different. As my alertness increased I saw that the room was reduced to rubble. A bloody hand was visible before me, the arm hidden behind a section of ceiling panel. I reached out to touch it. The blood had dried to tackiness, the hand was cold. I called out but there was no reply. I lifted the panel gingerly, anxious that I could cause a further collapse. Eva faced me, her scalp split, hair stiff with dried blood. Her face was entirely red, but it looked like paint, so thin and flat was the covering. Her eyes were open but clouded. I had no doubts that my tormentor was dead.

I tried to ease myself out from the rubble which covered me, but only succeeded in moving into a less comfortable position before the pain became unbearable. I found it impossible to determine how serious my injuries were. Certainly I had painful injuries, but whether bruise or fracture I couldn't say. I could feel numerous small cuts and a more serious gash above my knee. I willed myself to be strong and tried to ease myself free. The tunic was torn and a corner was entangled under a block of concrete. I tore the material so that I could slip out of the garment. With a final push I was free.

Free was perhaps an inexact description of my situation. I was able to stand but there was hardly anywhere to go. I examined myself and saw that the cut on my leg was deep and bleeding. I tore a strip of canvas from my tunic to tie around my leg. I was barely able to support any weight on that leg: the ankle was injured too. A small area of blue sky was visible through a hole above me but to climb up to it (even assuming that were physically possible) would surely precipitate a catastrophic collapse. I watched the sky in fascination, white clouds slowly drifting past.

Time seemed suspended. After what seemed like an eternity I heard voices calling from outside. I called back. There was an excited response. “Who's down there?”

“Eva York,” I called back.

“Eva, we'll have you out soon.” I wanted to explain the error but I checked myself. Pretend I was Eva. Maybe it would be a way to escape, although I would surely be recognised. But what further punishment could be inflicted? I'd accepted that my life was over and any risk seemed worthwhile.

An hour later I was winched through the enlarged hole, born again into the world from the dreadful womb of the hospital whose name I didn't even know, as naked as at my true birth. I saw that across a wide lawn, behind a high fence, a crowd had gathered to watch the rescue efforts. As I emerged a loud cheer went up. I lifted a hand to acknowledge them.

A fireman put a blanket around me. “You're the only person we've got out of this block alive. Was there anyone else in there with you.”

I nodded. “I'm sorry, I don't even know who it was. She was too injured to recognise.”

I was taken on a stretcher across the field to a waiting ambulance. I peered at the faces at the wire link fence. I saw a tall blonde woman wearing glasses, her face only partly visible behind other people. Was it Andra? My sight was too weak to be sure and a moment later the crowd had surged forward, her face lost. They called out to me, words of kindness and good wishes. I found myself so touched that I cried.

A doctor examined me in the ambulance. She reassured me that I had had a lucky escape, that the wound in my leg wasn't serious, and that a sprained ankle was the injury which would affect me most. It was only as we neared the hospital that I realised that she was addressing me as Miss. I was still assumed to be a Party member! My haircut marked me out as a member of staff and not a psychiatric patient. I was sure it was only a matter of time before I was recognised but for now I would play along.

I was taken through the ambulance bay into the accident department of the hospital. I was astonished by the scenes I witnessed. There appeared to be total chaos. Numerous people were lying injured on trolleys and soldiers and police swarmed everywhere. I took the doctor's hand.

“Please doctor. I know this will sound crazy but I have no idea what's going on.”

“Of course! I'm sorry, someone should have kept you informed. There's been a huge terrorist attack. There was a bomb at your hospital, but there's at least another half dozen through the country. And all the computer system has been disrupted, some sort of virus that's taken out all the servers. Even the phone system has been affected. It's complete chaos. No one really knows what's happening.”

I was taken to a private room where my wounds were cleaned, the gash stitched, my ankle bandaged. I wanted to sing with joy. I felt like I'd escaped from a noose, like I'd been given a second chance at life, but knew that everything was provisional. A membrane as fine as a bee's wing protected me from slipping back into my old life. It could rupture at any moment.

I fell into an exhausted slumber. I woke to see Andra facing me. I was surely dreaming. She held finger to her lip. “Remember, I'm Henrietta now. How are you?”

“Hello, Henrietta, I'm Eva. And I'm really much better than I've been in a long time. Better than I ever was, maybe. And how have you been since I last saw you.”

“Surviving. That's enough for now. But we have to move fast. Can you walk?” I told her I could, but not without difficulty. “You'll just have to be brave. Get dressed.”

“I don't have any clothes. They pulled me out naked.”

Henrietta was a dominating figure. She called in a doctor and addressed her urgently. “My friend, can you arrange her discharge? She's injured her leg but that's all. Surely you need this room for more urgent cases. I can take her to my home and look after her.” The doctor agreed to the plan. “There is a little problem. Her clothes were destroyed in the explosion. She lives much further away than I do. Isn't there a store of clothes in the hospital?”

Soon I was walking out in the borrowed clothes, walking with the aid of a crutch. Passing through a corridor, Andra had taken a large dressing and told me to hold it over my face so that no one would be able to recognise me. “Where are we going to head to, Henrietta? Please tell me you have transport.”

“I will once I've stolen something.”

We stood at the edge of the car park as if awaiting a pick up. We saw a large saloon park up and an affluent looking man climbed out. Andra told me to walk, and I followed her, following a trajectory toward him. As we came close by, Andra hooked her foot around the end of my crutch. I lost balance and fell to the floor. She started to apologise immediately, but didn't move to help. Instead, the man bent over to lift me to my feet. As he did, Andra put an arm around him and thanked him profusely.

“That hurt,” I whispered to her as the Samaritan walked away. “You did it on purpose!”

“Sorry, baby. A necessary distraction.” She jangled a car key.

“No!” I hissed. “There's a camera on the car park. They'll be all over us in an hour.”

“All the cameras are down. The entire government computer system is dead. All your work. For the next few hours they've lost all their eyes. We need to get as far away from here as possible. We're heading north.”

I wanted to find out everything that had happened to Andra but the motion of the car soon lulled me to sleep; it was hardly surprising given my traumatic day and the poisons that still filled my body. I was awoken by a cessation of movement. We were at a roadblock where “Henrietta” was being fearlessly brazen with a young soldier.

“I'm quite aware of the situation. Why do you think I'm risking travelling on a day like this if it isn't because of important business?”

“Please Ma'am,” the soldier, hardly more than a boy, stammered. “We're under instructions only to permit military personnel. This area is so unsafe for civilians.”

“If it were possible we'd have made sure a communication had been sent ahead. But everything is down. This young woman has vital information about the bombings. She was injured herself, lucky to survive. How else are we supposed to get that information through? Are we to wait for a few days until everything is restored, while the perpetrators make good their escape?”

I could see he felt out of his depth. “I'll need your pass cards. And to record your number plate.”

“Of course. Unfortunately my companion lost everything in the attack. She was naked when they pulled her out. But here's mine, and I'll vouch for her.”

After some procrastination he gave in. Andra smiled at me. “See what happens when you're bold? Are you OK, baby? You're sleeping all the time.”

“They did things to me in there. A lot of drugs. It'll take a while before they're out of my system.”

“I wish we could lie low for a few days to let you heal but we need to move today. We'll have to go on foot soon too. It'll be really tough.”

We pulled off the main road and turned toward a forest on a narrow track. Even though it was only the beginning of autumn, the trees looked grey and colourless.

“There was a chemical spill nearby, the explosion from the chemical works. All the local population was evacuated. It's safe to go in now, at least if we stay in the right areas, but everything in the forest is dead. The water table is polluted so stay away from any ponds or streams.”

Andra drove the car behind a bush and snapped off some branches to disguise its presence, checked the boot and took a picnic blanket and a tarpaulin which were stored there. We made our way across a muddy field toward the tree line, my borrowed (and slightly too large) tennis shoes soon becoming clogged with mud. I struggled to keep up with Andra, unable to bear weight on my injured ankle and still adjusting to using the crutch. We entered the forest and the ground became firmer, which made progress easier. We walked in silence for an hour before Andra permitted a break.

She took a bottle of water from her pocket and offered it to me. “Just a mouthful. We only have two of these to last us. We've got a long way to go.” I sipped the water, longing to empty the entire bottle down my parched throat. My mouth was still permanently dry due to the drugs I'd been given in the hospital.

“Polly, did you tell them anything about what you'd done?” I could see she'd been holding back asking this question since we'd been reunited.

I smiled proudly. “I told them nothing. They didn't even suspect me as a subversive. It was Eva at the salon who had me arrested, she was Executive Military.”

She looked astonished. “So your cover wasn't blown? It was for sexual offences they arrested you?”

I nodded. “And I never named you.”

She kissed me, then started to cry. “Polly, I can hardly bear to look at you. There's something different in you, something hurt in your eyes. It's all my fault, I got you mixed up in this.”

I shook my head. “No, I came to you, remember? Nothing that happened to me was your fault. And now we're together and you can heal everything they did to me.”

She took me in her arms. “It's going to take us a couple of days to get to where we're going, and it's going to be dangerous and tough. We're not equipped to be in a forest. We'll go as far as we can before the light fades completely, then make a bivvy.”

We went deeper into the lifeless wood. The trees were shedding their bark and some had split and fallen. Many of the trunks were studded with clumps of a monstrous fungus, black and misshapen, the only thing that seemed to flourish in this doomed landscape. The leaves had formed a thick carpet on the ground, now rotting into a slime.

The only signs of animal life were dead carcasses which we came upon more frequently than I would have liked. Because the scavengers, fox, crow and buzzard, were all dead too there was nothing to strip the flesh and the corpses had rotted slowly, pervading the wood with a deathly odour. I shall never forget the sight of a large red deer stag, hugely antlered, half buried in leaves, his once beautiful pelt now torn open to reveal grotesquely swollen organs. His head was preserved almost perfectly, tilted back by the weight of his antlers, as if he were about to call out in protest at this dreadful display. We passed on in silence.

The evening light barely penetrated through the interwoven branches which formed a canopy above us. The still night was uncommonly silent, not a sound of a single bird to comfort us since our arrival. Andra and I seemed the only creatures alive here, dwarfed by devastation.

We walked for as long as we could. Although there was still a grey light visible when I looked up, silhouetting the fingers of the dead trees, on the ground I could see almost nothing. Andra was still able to make her way through along the path we were following, but my progress was slowing with every passing minute. “We should rest for the night,” she announced.

Andra made our camp with almost no assistance from me. She tied the small tarpaulin between some trunks using some shoelaces she'd had in her pockets. She covered it over with broken stems of dead bracken and placed the blanket on the ground inside the shelter. As soon as I'd stopped moving I became aware of how chilly the night was becoming.

“It's going to be cold tonight, Polly. Maybe even some ground frost. We can't risk a fire though, it would be visible for miles and there are patrols not far from here. We're going to have to snuggle up to save our warmth.”

As we curled up on the blanket she started to laugh. “Oh Polly, I've been struggling to see through these stupid glasses, and there's you squinting without them!” She placed my spectacles back on my face and for the first time in weeks I could see clearly.

“I think if you allowed it, I'd never wear them again, Andra. I'm not sure I want to see the world as it is, there's only wickedness and evil. Only you are beautiful and I always want you close to me, where I can see just fine.”

“If you think like that then they've succeeded, at least a little bit. We'll get through this, Polly and we'll make a new world. Everything will change in Anglia. These are the last days of this regime.”

I wanted to confess all the awful things they'd done to me, to show how brave I'd been, to show her that they hadn't broken me, but I was overcome with shame. I thought of the other women who'd been in the ward with me, but not one of them was known to me by name. Were they all dead now, nameless victims of forces beyond their control? I'd been one of them, a lifeless, inert slab of flesh but an accident of fate had given me a chance to be free. I felt unworthy.

I woke the next morning, aching and shivering. Andra held me tightly and had taken off her coat to cover me, at the cost of exposing herself to the cold. Despite this, she seemed to have endured the night better. As we set off once more, after a breakfast of a cereal bar and a mouthful of water, I struggled to make a good pace. During the night my body had bruised and I ached terribly. My ankle seemed to have become more painful and the wound on my leg was swollen and hot. But more destructive was my inner state: I'd become withdrawn, morose. I started to become delusional, believing that this journey wasn't real, that I was still in the hospital, under some form of hypnosis. Initially I felt only a vague unease, but gradually the idea took hold of me more completely.

I became unwilling to talk to Andra, my paranoia making me feel she was unreal, a doppelgänger trying to trick me into revealing something of the real Andra. This simulacrum was a figure constructed by my tormentors, Eva and the doctor.

I made my way through the wood, following in Andra's footsteps but with ever more difficulty. Andra sensed my discomfort and allowed me to rest often, but encouraged me to keep going. Only later did she tell me how concerned she'd been: the woods were heavily patrolled by the army (although so vast that our safe passage was possible). She knew I was suffering from an infection in my wound and had developed a fever (which was the cause of my delusions) and she feared that another night in the open would be more than I could endure.

Our progress was marred by my injuries and I'm not sure we advanced even ten miles toward our goal that day. I'd become increasingly sullen and uncommunicative and Andra's good humour gradually drained as she started to believe that we couldn't escape. She didn't dare tell me but the woods were thirty miles wide and our goal was some distance north of the woods. Andra later confided that she had grown despondent, sure that I would never be able to reach the town, and it seemed that death was our only way to avoid being captured.

We were forced to camp out for a second night. There was hardly any conversation between us now. I was unable to get warm. We'd used all of our water and though numerous streams criss crossed the forest we couldn't replenish our supply. When we set off the next day Andra looked pinched and frozen (she'd again used her coat to keep me warm). I was barely able to stand and the fever had become worse. When Andra tried to encourage me I started to cry. I was in no shape to continue but what choice did we have?

Our progress was even slower than on the previous day and now the weather turned against us. The temperature had dropped to just a few degrees above freezing and before noon it started to rain heavily. I needed water and would hold my mouth open to let some raindrops fall onto my tongue, but it provided no relief. I seemed to move in a trance, barely aware of what was happening, only wishing for the cold and the pain to stop.

I can barely remember anything of our capture. Most of what I know is from what Andra told me later, although I do have some confused, fragmentary memories. We'd descended a ridge and come onto a road. Andra had tried to stay clear of roads, as they were obviously more likely to be patrolled, but this one had to be crossed. We stayed on the road for a little while, since it was so much easier to walk on the even tarmac than on the woodland paths which were turning to mud in the heavy autumn rains. The sound of the wind and the rain had masked the approach of the vehicle and by the time we heard the engine it was too late to hide. We tried to take cover in the trees as the van pulled to a halt but I was so immobile by now that there was no possibility of being able to evade my pursuers. I urged Andra to leave me, but she remained.

As the two soldiers came closer, guns trained on us, Andra began to shout excitedly, repeating the phrase “Wren Carpenter” over and over, and urging them not to shoot. They searched us and bound our wrists with cable ties. They put hoods over out heads, not leather hoods like I'd worn when I was last captured, simple thick black cloth, but nevertheless I was distraught and claustrophobic, panicking as soon as it was placed over my head.

We were taken to a police station, taken to separate rooms to be questioned. I remember a doctor coming to see me, consulting with the interrogator, saying that I had to be taken to hospital, that I was in no shape to be questioned. When I woke I was lying in a clean bed in a bright room. I lay looking up at the sky through the window for a long time until a nurse came to attend to me. She smiled at me and asked me how I felt. I could only smile back at her.

Then I remember Andra was with me. She looked clean and healthy again. My paranoia seemed to have been something I'd experienced in a bad dream and now I regarded her with only tenderness and affection. “We're safe,” she smiled. “And we're free.”

“But the soldiers... the police station?” I was still quite confused.

“We're in the Free State. The Northern territory. They weren't government soldiers. We were lucky, Polly. You're ill, the wound has a bad infection. But you'll be fine now, they're looking after you.”

I spent three days in hospital, resting, recovering. I was interviewed by an officer from the Free State army, but there was no hostility and Andra accompanied her to reassure me. I appeared to have gained a degree of fame since I was the one who'd sabotaged the state computer system. There was even a promise of receiving an award. I gave information about what I'd learned about security weaknesses. Then the conversation turned to my experiences in the hospital. I had to ask Andra to leave before I could discuss my treatment. I couldn't bear to let her hear what had been done to me.

The officer listened with patience and sympathy. She asked if I would tell my story to a French journalist who was covering the conflict. “It's important that the world knows what's happening to people in Anglia, how they're being treated merely because of their ethnicity or their sexuality. The government is starting to disintegrate, factions turning on each other. Your story could help to get support for our cause from other countries.” I reluctantly agreed to her request.

I left the hospital feeling weak and sore, but I was healing. Andra took me to our new home, a small flat near the city harbour. It was quite cramped, sparsely furnished, but I was delighted. It seemed like a dream to be able to be with her with no fear of being exposed. I wanted to spend all of the day in our new home, lying in her arms, but Andra insisted we go out for lunch.

The extent of our new freedom started to become apparent to me when Andra took my hand as we made our way to a café, then kissed me. I felt a terror spread over me. Was this really permitted? I'd spent so long hiding my feelings, knowing that to reveal them was a death sentence. “No, Andra!” I gasped.

She smiled and gestured at our surroundings. People went about their business. No one was perturbed by a kiss shared by two young women. “We're free, Polly.” And she kissed me again. My shock that this was possible only made the pleasure more intense.

We entered the café, a small, dimly-lit but welcoming establishment. Andra gave a shriek of delight as soon as we entered. She'd spotted an upright piano next to the counter. Within seconds she was sat at the keyboard and testing the tuning, sounding a few scales. Then she started to play. Her left hand gently sounded some mysterious harmonies as the right slowly delineated a melody. I was entranced, astonished to hear how beautifully Andra played. Nor was I alone in my admiration: the entire clientele seemed to grow quiet and listen to the sweet melancholy. Her fingers fluttered and glittered over the keys. Tears flowed down my cheeks, so moving was this music. As she drew the music to a close a ripple of polite applause spontaneously arose around the café. Andra seemed dazed and embarrassed as she acknowledged her audience. She had been unaware of where she was, so absorbed was she with making music.

“That was so beautiful,” I sniffled.

Andra laughed bashfully. “Oh Polly, you're crying. You cry far too easily!” she teased. “Anyway, I'm so rusty my fingers hardly move. It was Debussy and I didn't do the music justice. Not that I ever really could...”

“It was beautiful and sad and I've never been more proud of you.”

We ate a beautiful meal which the proprietor refused to accept payment for, on condition that Andra would play again for his customers. She modestly insisted on paying but some of the patrons on a neighbouring table asserted that Andra should play some more. “We haven't heard good music for so long. Please, don't deprive us of the pleasure!”

She sat again at the piano and laughed. “I literally hadn't touched a piano for years. I've forgotten most of the music I learned. I'm not sure this is really the type of thing you want to hear, but it's all I can remember. It's a little chorale prelude by Bach, Nun komm' der Heiden Heiland.”

The music unfolded slowly, sadly, like distant bells tolling. I was sure that this time I wasn't the only person in tears. Andra seemed absorbed completely by the music. She played ever more delicately and sensitively, but every note made itself felt through the rapt silence. Time seemed suspended and the music seemed like an elegy for those still suffering. The last notes faded into oblivion and there was a long pause before the applause began.

Andra dispelled the sombre mood with a giggle. “I'm sorry, that was a bit sad for a café. Please forgive me!”

There was nothing to forgive. The owner demanded that Andra return to serenade her customers. “I can't pay but I will feed you and your good lady and ply you with drinks.” Andra agreed as long as she was permitted the use of the piano each morning to practice.

“There is one little thing...” The owner looked painfully embarrassed to raise this. “You do look a little... Well... Your haircuts..? They look like...”

Andra nodded. “We've only just got out. We had to disguise ourselves, you see. We'll put it right immediately, won't we Polly?” I nodded, wondering just how our short hair could be changed to make us look less like the enemy.

We walked around the city, hand in hand until Andra had found what she was seeking. Her goal was a barbershop with a female barber, which we found after an hour's searching.

The shop was deserted when we entered, just a bored looking barberette reading a magazine. She looked at us a little suspiciously as we entered. Did she take us for Party women? As if to reassure her, Andra made sure she knew we were lovers, putting her arm around me ostentatiously.

“Could you fit us in for cuts? We've just arrived from the south and we had to disguise ourselves as Party to get through.” She immediately seemed more sympathetic and asked who would go first. Andra settled into her chair.

“I had long dark hair. It was hard to cut it and bleach it.”

“I bet!” said her barberette, who'd introduced herself as Heather. She unconsciously pulled at a lock of her glossy auburn curls as if imagining a similar makeover. “So what did you think we should do today? It's pretty short.”

“I wondered if you could be so kind as to shave me completely. I want to make a fresh start, and bald seems to be symbolic somehow.”

Heather looked astonished. “Are you sure? Completely bald?” Andra nodded.

“Not a trace of hair left.”

Heather vacillated, evidently unused to such extreme demands, nervous that her client may change her mind and regret her actions. But Andra was adamant and Heather gave in. She raised her clippers and turned them on. “Last chance to change your mind. Are you sure.”

“Definitely, positively, one hundred per cent, certainly sure.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” Heather smiled. She raised the clippers to Andra's nape and buzzed a strip of hair free. I watched in fascinated horror as the smooth layer of blonde hair was reduced to an uneven greyish shadow. The clippers whirred up the back of her head, shaving away blocks of hair with each thrust. The sides were shorn too and now Andra had a shock of blonde spikes on top, above a closely sheared back and sides. It wasn't a look I liked on her, but then it didn't last long. Heather raised the clippers to her forehead and shaved a bare trench through the thick blonde hair from front to back. She and Andra laughed but I could see a little strain in Andra's face. She was tough, good at hiding her emotions, but I knew she was suffering. She was a beautiful woman and not without vanity. To see herself without hair was difficult.

In ten minutes, Heather had buzzed away every trace of the Party haircut I'd inflicted on my love a few weeks earlier. Now a layer of white foam was evenly spread over her round head. I went over to Andra and reached under the cape to squeeze her hand. Our eyes met and she saw that I understood her discomfort. For a moment she seemed afraid, afraid that her tough exterior was penetrated, that I could see what no one else could. In that moment she feared that she would lose control, that she would break down as she had when I'd cut her hair short, but then she was once more in charge of her emotions, at least on the surface. Her embarrassment as she saw herself with her scalp covered in lather was disguised behind a giggle.

As Heather shaved away the foam, an ivory skull was revealed, pure, smooth perfect. The ugly, slightly uneven stubble was gone and nothing distracted from the taut skin, stretched over beautifully modelled bone. Andra's scalp was pale and smooth, slightly paler than her face. Without hair her features were exposed in all their beauty. She seemed mysterious and ethereal, yet bold and provocative. She looked lost as she took in her reflection. She couldn't accept what she was seeing, was too shocked to be able to look at herself objectively. She looked at me for reassurance, afraid that she was no longer beautiful. Her expression softened as she saw how delighted I was in her transformation.

As she stood I was overcome with erotic energy but was too inhibited to act on it: I still couldn't bring myself to accept that a public display of affection was acceptable. Fortunately, Andra had no such qualms. She embraced me and I couldn't resist touching her head, which felt intoxicatingly sensual. “Do I get the same?” I whispered.

“You're free now, baby,” Andra whispered back. “You're in charge of your own destiny.”

I felt desperate, sad, alone. “No,” I groaned softly. “I need you more than ever. You tell Heather what I get. No choices. Please, Andra, I need this.”

I didn't give her time to reply, since I saw she was uncertain about my request. Without hesitation I climbed into the huge barber chair where Heather fitted me with a cape which covered me to my ankles.

“What's it to be, honey?” Heather asked cheerily. I sat in silence feeling awkward and frightened.

“Same again,” Andra said forcefully. Something stirred inside me. I didn't want to be bald, but more important was that I didn't have a choice.

Heather looked troubled, unsure whether to play along or get my approval for my haircut. “Just do it, it's what she wants.” I nodded my agreement silently.

My hair had been growing for weeks and was longer than I'd been permitted to wear it (at least on the back and sides) for many months. I'd secretly been excited to see how much it had softened my look, gave me a touch of femininity. Now I had to accept its total loss. There was regret but I felt it was necessary, not just because it was what Andra demanded, but as a rite of passage. My old life was over. I felt like I should have died, knew how close I'd come to that. Now I'd been blessed with a second chance and I was determined not to suffer the privations and misery which had stifled me previously. Being shorn would symbolise a purging of everything I had been so that I could rise from the ashes of my former existence, phoenix-like.

Heather placed the clippers on my neck. I felt the vibrations of the blades. I thought of the pleasure of my previous haircuts, but it was tainted. Eva had despised me, seduced me merely as a trap. Still, I couldn't accept that she hadn't enjoyed the private moments we'd shared, which made her betrayal all the more acute. I was overcome with an intense desire for revenge, a wish to do violence to Eva, but my desires would forever be thwarted by her premature death. Unbidden, I saw vivid images of her corpse in the room we'd been forced to share after the explosion. As clearly as if she were lying alongside me I saw her once beautiful face, now frozen in a scream, her skin hidden behind a layer of shiny crimson. I wondered if she had suffered as I lay only inches from her, unconscious. Had she cried out to me to help her, had she begged my forgiveness as her blood flowed from her body?

And now I was looking in the mirror as Heather sheared away the last of the thick hair from my scalp. What had happened to me? I looked pale and ill, my eyes hollow and pained. I saw clearly what I'd become during the previous weeks, how it had stolen my spirit. I looked like one of those unfortunates in the hospital, broken in mind and body. “Eyebrows too,” Andra ordered Heather. The blades zipped across the edges of my eye sockets and suddenly my thick, dark brows were reduced to a barely discernible shadow of faint stubble.

I was covered in lather and Heather silently shaved away the spoor of my hair. My skull looked as wan as ivory now, though it was no paler than my face. The reflection I saw was a ghost of Polly, bloodless, as though my life force had drained away in the hospital when I lay alongside Eva. Andra made to return my glasses but I refused them. I couldn't bear to see myself too clearly, and besides, I felt a ghost wearing glasses was an absurdity.

A wave of emotion was building inside me, but I didn't dare let it show in public. I needed privacy now to let the wave break, even though I feared it would tear me apart. I was in a trance as I allowed Andra to lead me home and as soon as the door closed behind me I started to sob. She held me in her arms and tried to soothe me, but tears flowed endlessly, tears of rage, of sadness, of grief, of regret, of frustration. I wept until no tears remained, yet the desire to weep had not been quenched.

Andra blamed herself for my turmoil. It was only much later that I could express something of my feelings, although much of what I felt was beyond conveyance in words. I told her of my associations of the haircut with my betrayal by Eva, of the revelation I had of how great a toll my suffering had had on mind and body. “But what hurts most is that I can't tell you what was done to me. I find it unendurable to think that you should know what was done to me, that you could never see me as fully human again. I've become degraded and less than human, and if you were to know how I'd suffered then something would be taken from you too.”

Andra looked hurt, shocked, sad, but said nothing, merely pressed me tightly to her body as if wishing for her energy to flow into me and bring me back to health. At last she whispered: “Remember what I told you, about the seed inside? I know you never let it die. We need to let that grow now. You've been hurt but now that part of your life is at an end. You need to rest and to be loved. Now we'll do that.”

She took me to the tiny bathroom and ran a hot bath, then undressed me and helped me into the water. She poured a blob of shampoo into her hand and spread it over my scalp. I shivered as I felt the unfamiliar sensation, my bald head so sensitive to her gentle touch. “Are you going to grow your hair long again? I've often wondered what you'd look like with a thick mane.”

“I don't know,” I murmured. “I want you to decide everything about my look.” I still felt that long hair was something I should be denied, my punishment for my treachery toward my mother.

“We'll start with your pussy then. I like it hairless.” She took more of the shampoo and massaged it into the fuzz that covered my sex. I could barely tolerate her touch, so much did it excite me. For a moment all my fears and hurt were gone, my mind completely filled with sensation. My past was no longer significant, only the present was real.

The razor rasped slowly over my skin. Andra only paused to rinse away the hairs clogging the blades. Soon she stroked the soft silky skin and I sighed with delight. “I want you to keep it this smooth. Shave it every day, Polly.” I nodded obediently.

Her fingers stroked softly up and down my slit as her other hand moved my clit in slow circles, making my joy spiral upward like a bird floating in a thermal. I was ecstatic and almost as soon as her fingers penetrated me I orgasmed. I felt a huge rush of energy as something which had been pent up so long was finally released. Andra kissed me with a desperation as the climax continued to surge through me. I felt alive, human for the first time in weeks.

Almost as soon as the climax subsided I fell into a deep sleep. I woke in a still warm bath (obviously Andra had kept it topped up with hot water) with a beautiful bald woman looking down at me. Andra had applied make-up, more than I'd ever seen her wear. Her eyes were darkened with smoky black, her lips a sensual deep red. She looked extraordinary, like no woman I'd ever seen. I felt a little afraid when I looked at her, not just because there was something intimidating in her beauty, but because of the desires her beauty threatened to unleash in me.

“Don't you like it?” she asked, somewhat taken aback by my gaze.

“You look so wild and dangerous... I never saw a woman like you before.”

She knelt beside me. “Do you like wild and dangerous?”

“Yes Andra. I want you to take control of me, punish me and control me. Use me, make me yours.”

She looked deep into my eyes. “Be careful what you wish for. Wishes come true sometimes.”

I sat naked on the bed, allowing Andra to paint my face. Our games in the hut had frequently involved make-up but now she lavished much more attention on me. There was no rush any more, no risk of being discovered. She was touching in some eyebrows with a pen now.

“Why did you have my eyebrows shaved?” I asked. “It looks so odd. I look so odd!”

“Your eyebrows were so thick. I'd been wanting to do something about them since we met, but it would have been too risky. I think it's easier to spot a Party woman by her unkempt eyebrows than by her haircut.”

“I left the Party now, I think,” I giggled. “Not sure they'd have me back.”

“That's right, Polly, you're just too good for them. You always were.”

The revelation of my new look took my breath away. Andra had applied so much cosmetics that my features seemed to be buried. I had orange pearly lips, rouged cheeks, eyelids of metallic green and peacock blue which were surmounted by black arches. The brows in particular seemed alien, angular and hard-contoured, giving me a fierce, angry expression, like a femme fatale from a fin-de siècle painting.

It was some time before I could speak. At last I thanked Andra. “It's beautiful but it's not me. I look too... sexual.”

“You look adorable. I never imagined I could love a bald girl so much. Maybe we should both stay bald forever.”

I went to kiss her, but she stopped me. “No, you'll ruin our make-up.”

“I don't care, I just want to show you how much I love you.”

“There'll be plenty of time for that when we get home.”

“You don't mean I have to go out looking like this?”

“Of course not, baby! I'm going to dress you first.”

We did indeed go out, to a local bar where our appearance seemed to attract a lot of attention. Andra had dressed me in a beautiful vintage dress, striped with red and ivory. She wore a black pinafore with a high necked white blouse, simple and elegant. I'd refused to wear my glasses, becoming ever more convinced that they were an artefact from my unbearable past. Andra was happy to go along with this but as the night progressed I was forced to admit that my eyesight was too poor to go unassisted. I felt almost helpless, unable to see much of what was going on around me (but convinced, not entirely baselessly, that everyone was staring), reliant on my companion to locate the toilets, indeed to lead me back home in the unfamiliar city.

When we were safely back in private Andra took me in her arms. “Everyone was staring at us, especially you, because you were the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“More likely because I was bald, I think.”

“They might have noticed you because you were bald, but they kept looking because they were envious of your beauty.”

“They were envious because I have you.”

She started to kiss me, no longer concerned that my make-up would be smudged and ruined. I took it on myself to ensure that hers would be just as ravaged by my fervent kisses. It was only a foretaste of the pleasures our night would hold.

I didn't wake till noon the next day. Andra had just returned from a morning of piano practice at the café. “It's really frustrating. I can only remember a few pieces and my technique has really suffered. I wish I could have kept playing the piano. I love it so much.”

“I'm sure with practice it'll get better. Maybe we could look for second-hand bookshops and see if they have any sheet music.”

“That's a good idea,” Andra smiled. “Although you won't be much use, squinting without your glasses. We'd better find an optician for you today and get you some nice new glasses.”

After breakfast we put Andra's plan into practice. Unfortunately, there were a lot of shortages in the independent territory, even more so than in Anglia. Optical glass was in short supply and it was likely to be at least a month before I could obtain new glasses. I emerged blinking into the sunlight wearing contact lenses, which the shop had had in stock. I felt liberated, able to see clearly without glasses for the first time in years.

Andra looked at me happily. “You look so pretty when you smile. I want to buy you some jewellery to make you look pretty. You never wear earrings and we need to put that right.”

I immediately understood her intentions. “You're going to get my ears pierced?” She nodded, obviously very pleased by the prospect of my first piercings. I felt a nervousness. I could hardly deny her this; pierced ears were commonplace even in the conservative factions in Anglia. If I hadn't grown up in the academy, I'd no doubt have had mine pierced long ago. And I was told it wasn't more than mildly painful. My real anxiety was that this was only a beginning, that Andra would like me to be pierced more.

Her lip had lost its stud, which she'd had to remove when she'd adopted her disguise. I'd asked her to put it back in (this desire surprised me) but was disappointed to discover that the hole had closed during the weeks we'd been parted. I asked her if she'd get her lip redone, but she only gave me a sphinx-like smile.

We arrived at the shop, which the newly painted sign proclaimed as a tattoo and piercing shop. I'd never seen such a place, since tattooing had long been outlawed. It felt like a transgression to even enter the building. I still harboured a very negative attitude towards tattoos, despite Andra's and despite the arousal it could provoke in me. I was acutely aware of the desires she'd expressed to be extensively tattooed, and to tattoo me, but the prospect disgusted me. I didn't want to be here a second longer than necessary, ashamed that Andra may be tempted to be tattooed.

The shop wasn't as I'd feared. It was actually brightly lit and scrupulously clean, and the staff were very friendly. I sat in a small room with Andra and Marian, who would pierce my ears. Andra was fascinated to discuss the shop.

“We only opened a couple of weeks ago. I'd been piercing secretly for years, but it was always hard to get the necessary equipment. Finally we can get deliveries from Europe and so we could open up the shop. There are so many people getting tattoos. It's become a real craze. People want something to show their commitment.” She showed us a small circular pattern, the insignia of the resistance movement, tattooed on the inside of her right wrist. “We're doing a dozen of these every day.”

I was pleased when Andra steered the conversation back to piercing. She told Marian about my upbringing (I'd started to hate my past being revealed, afraid that some would judge me negatively) and explained that I'd never been able to get my ears pierced. “We decided that three in each ear would look nice.”

I tried to hide my shock. We'd decided nothing of the sort, hadn't even discussed it. I found myself nodding to every question asked of me, although I was too anxious to take in the sense of what I was being asked. Marian and Andra discussed things I didn't understand, types of jewellery, gauges and the jargon was impenetrable to me. I just nodded and agreed, knowing that I would soon have triply pierced ears.

Marian had marked dots on my earlobe, the uppermost so high that it was above my lobe, on the soft margin of skin at the side of my ear. She scrubbed at my ear and told me to look down, sensing my squeamishness. Too late, I'd already glimpsed a long needle. Andra had assured me that the pain would be a tiny prick, hardly a pain at all, but the stinging was worse than I'd prepared myself for. My treatment over the previous weeks had toughened me, yet still I found this pain brought me close to tears. I allowed myself to feel this pain and realised that when I was being tortured I'd buried my consciousness deep inside. This pain wasn't torture, it was a means to an end, a gift to the woman I loved and I had to experience it as fully as I experienced her caresses, her kisses. I would endure this pain another five times.

The rings were added to my ears (I was surprised that I was aware of their weight) and I stood to look in the mirror. Three rings of brightly polished silvery metal, evenly spaced one centimetre apart, adorned my ears. The rings were of different sizes, the upper about a half inch, the lowest an inch, the middle somewhere between. The metal was thick, about three millimetres, and each was closed with a round bead. Now I saw why they felt so heavy. Every movement made me aware of their presence, their mass. My baldness made their presence all the more evident.

“Just gorgeous,” Andra whispered, close to my ear. She touched the lowest ring in my right ear, the gentlest touch imaginable, yet the touch made me flinch. I realised how sensitive the piercings made my ears and knew that our private explorations would be wonderful.

“Let's get tattoos,” she whispered. “On our wrists, like Marian's, to show our commitment.”

I gasped, struggling for breath. “I can't, Andra, not yet anyway. Please forgive me.”

“It's ok, baby, I understand.” She turned to Marian. “We want tattoos like yours, can somebody do them now?”

I was confused as a few minutes later I was conducted to a chair by Andra, told to sit (she looked at me lovingly but there was a steely firmness to her voice) and hold my arm out. The tattooist, Alexandra, applied a stencil to the inside of my wrist, a roundel identical to Marian's. I was in shock, numbed and powerless as I felt the sting of a needle, poisoning and blackening my skin forever. I felt the ink being jabbed into me, felt that something was forever changed now.

I have no idea how long the tattoo took. I was so unsettled that I was in a state of confused panic, although Andra later told me I maintained an admirable appearance of calm. I kept glancing at my tattooed wrist as I waited for Andra to be similarly despoiled. I didn't want her to have more tattoos but I was powerless to prevent it. Despite their small dimensions, I was still shocked by our tattoos, especially because they were in a place which would be hard to conceal.

Back home I displayed myself for Andra, bald, pierced, tattooed. She looked delighted. “You didn't get your lip re-pierced,” I said with disappointment, although I was no longer sure I wanted her to have more piercings.

“I know, baby. Gives us a reason to head back there, doesn't it?” she winked.

She pulled me onto the bed and kissed me excitedly. She crawled on top of me, her thighs straddling me, pinning my arms to my sides. “You're not going to get more tattoos there, are you?” The idea Andra being covered in tattoos terrified me.

“If you promise to be a good girl and get a few more piercings then I won't get any more tattoos there.”

I nodded my grudging agreement. I tried to imagine how I'd look with piercings in my lips, my nose. Not good, I thought.

Andra giggled. “You are so sweet, Polly. The truth is Alexandra isn't a very good tattooist. I'll wait till we can afford someone good before we get tattooed.”

I wanted to protest that she'd tricked me, but she was so turned on that I was swept up in a wave of pleasure. An aroused Andra was like a force of nature, her energy boundless, and focussed on enrapturing me. I felt her slide down my body and use her tongue on my smooth pussy. She delicately explored every fold, seeking out the precise locus which would make me throb with desire, then working it until I could hold myself no more. As I sank into a deep climax I felt her rise, taking my new piercings inside her lips, her tongue delicately probing at the new wounds, which simultaneously repelled and excited me. Her fingers rubbed at my head, delighting in the soft prickly stubble which could be discerned when she drew her fingers back from my forehead. “Shave it. I want it bald and smooth again,” a voice said. It was my voice but it took me by surprise, an unconscious desire being expressed.

Andra seemed pleased at my request. It signalled to her that I was enjoying my new look, that I was revelling in the pleasurable sensations that my shaven scalp had brought. She shaved my brows as well and allowed me to see myself. I couldn't hide my sadness.

“What is it baby? I can see you're hiding something from me. I want you to grow your hair but you ask me to shave you. But when I do I see the hurt coming back into your eyes.”

I finally confessed that I'd pledged never to allow my hair to grow long again, as a punishment for my role in my mother's fate. Andra took me in her arms. “Polly, you were a little girl. They wanted to hurt your mum and exploited you. You were a victim too, not one of her persecutors. You were never allowed to grieve for her. How can you heal without doing that? You're stuck. This is the last time I shave you, Polly. Your hair grows for a year now. No punishing yourself for things you didn't do. I'm the only one who punishes you now,” she said with a mischievous giggle and kissed me.

Andra's plan to help me come to terms with Mum's terrible treatment was to make me write about my memories of her. I diligently spent an hour each night writing about Mum. It was frequently painful, and when I became sad Andra would hold me and tell me to let it out. I cried almost every night.

Nor was it the only painful search through my memories. As agreed after my escape, I gave an interview to a French journalist recounting my treatment following my arrest. I'd been ordered not to discuss my involvement with the uprising, since that might give the government information (they'd undoubtedly monitor all of the French broadcast). I was filmed in silhouette, wearing a wig to make me unrecognisable. The journalist was sympathetic and calm, but her questions were sickening for me. I had to relive my treatment in the hospital, tell her things which I'd held back from everyone. I knew Andra would listen to the story of my degradation and the hurt it would cause her seemed worse than what I'd endured. I retained the fear that she would no longer be able to accept me as fully human.

I couldn't sleep that night and Andra kept vigil beside me, our tears mingling. She swore her love for me, but when I asked her to promise never to leave me she shook her head. “Polly, I have to go back. I can't stay here while people in Anglia are dying. I have to do whatever I can to make sure that no one else goes through what you did. And the truth is, we're not safe here. The only way to be really free is to see the government fall in Anglia.”

It wasn't what I wanted to hear, but I knew that Andra was right. We'd been following the news closely. Wilkinson was losing control and had had several ministers and generals arrested (reputedly executed) for plotting against him. There were rumours that one officer (General Deal) had a lot of support and was building an ever growing group of sympathetic officers. Wilkinson hadn't been able to get close to him because in effect he'd built a private army.

    The war in the east was now lost. The people of Anglia hadn't been told the extent of the failure, but every night we saw footage from overseas journalists: thousands of Anglian troops had been captured and were held in a camp. Wilkinson had refused to negotiate a truce (how can a man in hiding negotiate) and so they were left in limbo. It's hard to keep the absence of thousands of missing people secret and everyone in Anglia had heard rumours about the capitulation in Asia. There had even been a demonstration to protest the missing troops, which would have been unthinkable months earlier.

It seemed inevitable that Wilkinson would now be swept from office (despite my fury at the terrible things he'd done, I'd been conditioned to think of him as heroic for so long that it cost me an effort to voice any criticism, and at times I still felt myself thinking of him sympathetically). Andra's concern was that Deal would mount a coup d'état and seize power. He was no reformer, but a hard-liner and in all likelihood he would institute a regime even more authoritarian than that which we'd experienced. His victory would be a disaster.

Andra's return was delayed by practical issues: the border areas between the independent area and government controlled Anglia became the theatre of skirmishes between the opposing factions and the civilian population was forced to flee, causing an influx of refugees into the north (we were lucky to have escaped when we did; a few weeks later and we'd have been living in a camp). It was six weeks after her first declaration that Andra's intention of returning to the south were fulfilled. We said a tearful farewell, both knowing the danger she faced, both afraid to express our fears that we may never meet again. She departed on a ship in the night, her destination a port on the south coast and if I'd known how long it would be before we met again I'm not sure I could have had the strength to stay on the dockside.

[lovemenowmr]

Chapter twenty one

December was already here and I was so busy trying to find, Marco had been injured again after our little trip and he had missed a Europa League away match. That had also meant he was needy so I couldn't catch up so well with my projects and notes so I had last and this week’s work to make, I had also had to go do Sunday’s match at Signal Iduna Park and, since it was Marco’s comeback, it didn’t felt right not to go.

Borussia had won that match and there was another Bundesliga match but, as it was an away match, I didn’t feel obligated to go and could finish. I did watch it though, there were playing against Wolrsburg and Marco scored the first goal.

The next week it was already one of the last weeks I would spend here this year, which was kind of crazy. I hadn’t spend much time with my classmates this past moths, instead I would rather be with Marco or help Cathy to come up with her new youtube channel video. She was a little vain but I enjoyed her company so much, she was sadly leaving town next season since Matts was leaving the club to go to Bayern which – if you asked me – was a huge dick move. However Cathy seemed happy about it since they could be closer to their families and I understood how she felt.

We had decided to make Christmas shopping together since I hadn’t had time to buy anything, It was already Friday and I had bought loads of little things for my closest family and now we were looking for a specific kind of doll for Xiana, my niece. I had been talking with her yesterday in the middle time and she had told me he had asked Father Christmas for it but my brother couldn’t find it.

So here we were, on the third shopping mall and still without a present for Marco or Matts.

“Adi” Cathy said a little bit too loud “Is that the doll? I think it is”

“OMG” I said also loud “It is!! I can’t believe, I deserve “the best auntie” award”

We headed into the store and I finally bought the doll and text my brother a picture, which I captioned with a “I got it”.

“Okay, your niece is ready” Cathy said “Now I need to find a present for Matts and you for Marco”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it but I really don’t even know what to buy him, I mean, he has everything he wants already”

“I have the same problem with Matts” she said stressfully “And I also have to buy something for his mum, but she’s easy”

“I also wanted to buy something for Marco’s parents” I said suddenly realizing it “I’ve been at their house a lot for lunch and it feels right”

“Then we should hurry up” she said.

It took us a while but Cathy ended up buying an expensive watch for Matts and a dress for her mother – in – law and I bought a tray for Marco’s father. I had decided I would print out pictures of us and put then on a frame rather than buy something for him.

That’s what I did the next day and I also went to work, since I was making the hours I wouldn’t be able to do at Christmas. It ended up looking nice and I wrapped it up as well as the other presents. I put all my family’s presents on a box and took it to the post station, where I send it home since it was cheaper than carrying it on the plane.

It was match day on Sunday and Cathy picked me up and we headed to the stadium.  It was a good match and Borussia won 4 – 1, however Marco had a minor discomfort and was being checked up at the nursery when I left with Cathy, we had dinner together and I sent Marco a text asking how he was. He answered late at night and I didn’t  see it until the next day, he apparently had adductor problems again, which was heartbreaking to hear.

I had to go to class but I went to his house as soon as I finished, when I got there I saw Marco’s mother and sisters’ cars. As soon as I pulled of at the driveway Marco’s mother came to meet me.

“Sweetheart” she said “I haven’t seen you in while, how have you been?”

“Busy, what about you?”

“Great, babysitting a lot”

“Then you hadn’t been bored” I said laughing.

We entered into the living room and I saw all of Marco’s family there, Nico came to me running as soon as he saw me and gave me a huge hug, which melted my heart.

“Hi Nico” I said lovingly “I haven’t seen you in a while, how’s school did you learn a lot of things” he nodded while still in my arms and told me about what he did at school.

After a while he got down and went back to his toys, I said hello to everyone and sat next to Yvone, who was heavily pregnant by now. We talked a little about her and the little girl, who was going to be called Mia and was due to January,

I spent the whole afternoon with them, alternating between talking with them and playing to Nico, who seemed to want all my attention that day and got told off by his mother a few times. Apparently he was starting to feel a little jealous over his sister and was all needy, which I thought was so cute.

Thomas talked with me about Spanish football, because he had been watching it lately and since I had been informed by my brother I knew what was happening and we had a little debate over who was going to win La Liga. We also talked about Christmas presents but in a secretive way, since Nico was listening to us too. They were going to have lunch together the 25th and they would open their presents that morning while I was going to have diner with my family on Christmas Eve and open the presents that night.

They also invited me to have lunch the next Sunday with them, which I did. I spent the weekend with Marco, who was recovering and will be ready for the re start of Bundesliga after Christmas. We had a lovely lunch and we ended up having diner too since time flew by after we started talking.

We left their house at nine o’clock in the morning and as we were getting close to Marco’s house it started snowing, which made me so excited. I pulled off as soon as we entered the gates and told Marco to get the car at the garage. I ran towards the backyard, which was starting to get white already.

Marco came a while later, carrying two blankets and two mugs, he sat next to me at the garden’s couch and handed me a mug with hot chocolate, his was filled with a coffee.

“You’re insane” he said “You’re going to freeze out here”

“It has literally never snowed where I lived let me enjoy it” I said.

“Never?” he said.

“Nope, I live next to the see and it’s very difficult for it to snow, we had to travel to the mountains to see the snow when I was little”.

“Okay, but you can watch it inside too”

“Just let me stay here a little longer” I said looking up to him “Come sit with me”

He did as I said and we got comfortable under the blankets, my head resting on his chest. I listened to his heartbeat as I got intoxicated by his scent, the snow now covering the whole garden but I barely noticed it. I was looking up to him, his strong jawline was showing a little bit of stubble and I could appreciated it now he wasn’t wearing any scarfs. His cheeks were rosy because of the cold air and the tip of his cute nose was also red. His beautiful green eyes were visible through his lashes and they were looking at the end of the backyard. His hair was starting to get dump because of the snowflakes falling.

“The point of being here freezing is for you to enjoy snow” he said suddenly giving me a huge smile.

“MARCO” I said laughing as he carried me on his shoulder and spanked my butt.

“I’m not freezing for you liar” he said laughing as well “You’re getting wet and you’re going to be sick. I’m taking you to the shower” he carried me upstairs to the main bathroom.

As we got there we quickly stripped and got into the shower, letting the hot water run over our skin. I was still smiling like a fool and giggling a bit looking up to him, who was smiling wide as well. We stared at each other a little bit and he then grabbed my faced and got down to kiss me. I instantly got on my tiptoes so he could reach me and he smashed his lips onto mine with force, his tongue parting my lips away. As the floor was slippery I couldn’t spend much time on my tiptoes our kisses couldn’t last long, his hands grabbing my hips firmly so I wouldn’t fall.

“God, you need to grow a little” he said in between kisses, my hands now around his neck to give me balance.

“Hey” I said shoving him playfully “Maybe it’s you who need to shrink”

“Do I” he said while walking towards the end of the shower picking me up. “Are you sure you want me to shrink?” he asked while nibbling on my neck, “Not everything, hugh?” he said as he felt me yelp when I felt his hard – on pressing on my thigh.

“You’re getting out of topic” I said looking up to him while I tilted my neck to give him better access.

“I think you don’t really care” he said smiling against my skin.

Wednesday was already here and I felt both happy and sad. Happy because I would finally get to see my family and sad because I would have to leave Marco, which right now seemed like the most horrendous thing that could happen. We were going to spend a whole month without seeing each other, I was coming back after New Year’s day but he would be on Miami and he then had training camp away as Bundesliga didn’t start till the 28th of January.

It was very early in the morning and we had left to Dortmund’s airport half an hour ago so we were already there. Melanie has come whit us so Marco could go back home after I left. I had told him not to come but he was helpless and wanted to. We took a little longer because we had to pick her up at her house.

It was time for me to go and I didn’t want to say goodbye – that’s why I didn’t want Marco to come.

“Bye” I said looking to the ground as I got closer to the queue, feeling shy as I noticed people giving us looks. I soon felt a pair of strong arms enveloping me in a consuming hug, I hugged Marco back, feeling a few tears come to my eye and I rested my forehead at the crock of his neck as I was wearing heels. I loved to do so because I could smell his cologne and fell his heartbeat.

“I’ll miss you” he mumbled on my head while stroking my hair making me scoot closer to his body even though it was impossible to get closer.

“Me too” I said against his neck, only loud enough for me and him to hear and breathing into his neck one more time so it would stay all that time. We then pulled apart and looked at him to see a few tears in his eyes, which he blinked away,

“I love you” he whispered while he grabbed me by the face tilting my head until I meet his eyes, I answered the same way before he got down and pressed his lips onto mine in a frantic kiss, which would normally make me blush. “Remember to call me, okay?” he said as we pulled apart breathless. I just nod, still trembling for our kiss.

We pulled apart and I said goodbye to Melanie as well and wished her a merry Christmas after I grabbed my bags and started walking towards the line. I was soon into the gates and I looked back to see Marco and Melanie still standing there looking at me, I waved them goodbye and blew them a kiss after starting to walk up to my gate, which was still far away.

I was walking with a strong pace but that’s not what I was feeling inside, I felt uneasy and all the cells in my body were screaming to get back and be with Marco after that breathtaking kiss. I soon was sat at my seat, next to the window and an old white-haired man knowing, after for long hours and a brief stop at Munic I would be at Madrid and then I just had to wait for an hour till another plan would get me home.

M

I watched leave down the airport corridors, she was so perfect you could easily tell she was better than anyone around her. I could watch her all day, the way he walked so gracefully, the way she talked to everybody with so much respect and sweetness, she was just perfect.

I never had been so heartbroken in my life and this wasn’t even a full goodbye, she was okay, she still loved me even though I didn’t know why and she would be back but I couldn’t help to feel this ache which make my heart sting with misery as I saw her march down the airport.

I felt like a horrible person for wanting her to stay. She had just been away from his family for four months and it was so selfish for me to ask her to stay, that’s why I didn’t do it even though I was dying to. I love my little blonde so much I couldn’t even spend a week without her, let alone a month,

I had seen a few tears in her eyes as she had pulled away and I had been so painful to see, yet reassuring as to she didn’t want to leave me neither.

I had also seen a lot of people staring at us, but I couldn’t help but ignore them and center my attention into Adi, who was leaving me for a whole month. She was going to be having fun with her family and friends from home and I was so happy for her but I also felt unease as I had never been introduced to them nor did she talked to an extent about her family. However she did talked about her town, which she loved so much, that was because I was so lucky she wanted to stay with me.

“Marco, should we leave” Melanie said.

“Yep” I said with a broken voice, trying to stiff it afterwards.

“God, you’re so whipped” she laugh. “Never thought I’d seen the day”

I felt my cheecks blush and I shrugged my shoulders. She was so right even though I wouldn’t admit it to her.

[goodnightandbillyrobicheaux]

Faraquez Cook Off Fic

Josh grinned at the sound of the front door opening and shutting again. "I swear officer! I'm done with the hard stuff! I'm just cooking dinner for my amazingly sexy husband..." He felt a warm pair of lips on his neck shortly after. "I'm afraid I may have to search you for contraband, sir." Vas whispered in his ear, his hand snaking downward to squeeze at a firm ass cheek. "Hey now, slow down there law dog." Josh shrugged him off. "You'll make me burn your dinner." "Hmm." Vas hummed, receiving the soft little kiss on the mouth that Josh offered before he turned his attention back to the stove. Vas kept a hold around his husband's waist as he cooked. "How was work?" Josh asked. "Not nearly as busy as it was yesterday, thank God." Vas replied, resting his head on Josh's shoulder. "What're you making?" "A little seafood medley for my love." Josh smiled at him, flipping the scallops he was currently frying. "I went down to the pier today. Got nice fresh shrimp, scallops, and squid." "That the calamari?" Vas asked with a yawn as he watched Josh cook over his shoulder. "I think you cut it a little thick, Guero." "For your information, oh master chef, these are scallops and I cut them like a damn professional." Josh replied smugly. Vas made a face. "You don't fry scallops." He told Josh. Said red head turned to look at him with an irritated frown. "Excuse me?" He asked. "You can't cook them like that, Guero." Vas continued, letting go of Josh's hips. "Look." He pointed. "They're gonna be all greased up and fatty now." "Your point?" Josh asked. "I don't wanna put a greasy lard ball into my mouth or my stomach. You know I'm on a diet!" Vas argued, hands now on his hips. "Well excuse me for trying to make your whiny ass dinner!" Josh fired back. "If you want them cooked different maybe you should do it yourself!" "Guero don't...." Vas sighed, trying to stop Josh before he removed his apron and shoved it at Vas, then slamming his spatula down on the counter by the stove and storming out of the kitchen. Vas sighed and proceeded to finish the meal on his own. ....... "This is stupid." Vas rolled his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. "No. It's necessary." Josh countered, setting out all of their supplies on the kitchen counter. "You could just apologize and admit you can't fry scallops you know." Vas grinned hopefully at him. Josh chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah. You wish, buddy. Get an apron on. They'll be here any minute." He told his husband, tossing him a pink apron that read 'Kiss the Cook' across the chest in rhinestones. "Where did this come from?" Vasquez asked, glaring at Josh. "It was my grandma's." Josh but his lip, trying not to laugh. "You went out and bought this didn't you!?" Vas growled. The doorbell rang, interrupting their little spat and possibly saving Josh's life at that point. "Hey guys. Come on in." Joshua greeted the rest of their little gang at the door. They didn't tell them of their plan until everyone had socialized a bit and had a few glasses of wine. In Josh's experience, It was always better to confess whatever you'd been hiding after the alcohol was served. "You invited us here under false pretenses." Goodnight accused. "Hey, look at it this way. You guys get a free three course meal plus alcohol and all ya gotta do is sit there and tell us which plate you like better." Josh tried to convince them all. "May I ask why you're doing this?" Emma spoke up. "You know it's just gonna cause hurt feelings." "Don't be a party pooper." Josh told her. "This is gonna be fun." Red shrugged, taking another sip of wine from his glass. "See? Red's in!" Josh nodded toward their Comanche friend. "Hey, free wine. Free food. I'm happy." Red replied with a smile. "Well I suppose so long as neither of you poisons anyone it could be fun." Jack finally gave in. "There, now see? This is gonna be a party. Now you all stay there and we'll bring the food to you." Josh smiled his signature goofy smile. The others weren't very optimistic at first but the first dish wasn't that bad. The boys started them off with shrimp based appetizers. Josh brought out a shrimp cocktail while Vas made shrimp tempura, which Billy was quite fond of. "Billy that really hurts." Josh whined. "All you did was clean a few shrimp and place them around a glass filled with cocktail sauce." Billy firmly reminded him, defending his position on the matter. "Billy's worth more points." Vas declared. "Him being a professional chef and all." "Bull!" Josh growled. "Boys, just get on with the next course without fighting again please." Sam sighed, rubbing his temples. These children really stressed him out at times. Especially these particular two. There were several complains about dessert being served after the appetizer, but of course Josh wouldn't let the main course come till last. He claimed it was the grand finale. "You can't just serve dessert before the main course." Emma told their two wannabe chefs. "She's right." Teddy agreed. "It throws everything out of whack." "Teddy your brain is outta whack." Josh snorted. "Everyone just be quiet and taste the damn desserts." Vas's ended up being the favorite. Cheesecake with raspberries and white chocolate would be a favorite of any sane person, though. "You all are startin' to piss me off." Josh muttered after the judges had given their ruling. "You're just a sore loser." Vas beamed. "Who doesn't like churros!?" Josh demanded. "Josh it's not that we didn't like them." Goody tried to explain. "It's that they had street fair written all over them. Not upper middle class dinner party." Vas had a smug grin on his face and Josh shot him a glare. By now he was so discouraged that he didn't even want to bring out the main course. They did though, of course, and once again Vasquez's seared scallops triumphed over Josh's fried ones. "Why!?" He demanded the others as they finished up their meals. "Joshua, dear." Goody started. "Everything you've given us has been dipped in fat and fried twice over." "So what? That's what Americans eat!" Josh argued. "Not all." Emma spoke up. "Some people prefer a healthier, less grease filled meal." "Plus, too much fry batter cancels out all the natural flavors." Billy added. "If you're gonna fry something at least be sure you can still taste whatever it is." Josh was defeated and forced to apologize to his husband for the night before. Vas was forgiving, but also a little bit of a braggart. He wouldn't let it drop that he'd won. Not until that night anyway before they went to bed. Josh was sitting up in bed flipping through channels when Vas got out of the shower. "What're we watching tonight, Guero?" He asked, still drying his hair with a towel. "Don't know." Josh shrugged. "There's nothin' good on." Vas climbed into bed next to him, taking his husband into his arms and kissing down his neck tenderly. "I'm sorry I was so smug about winning tonight." He told him. Josh shrugged again. "Guess some people just can't appreciate a nice all American meal." He sighed. Vas chuckled. "Why don't I make it up to you and we can go out to eat tomorrow?" He suggested. "Only if it's Olive Garden." Josh insisted. "Done." Vas agreed, resting his chin on Josh's shoulder as the other man flipped through more channels before finally landing on 'Cupcake Wars'. "This show always puts me in the mood to make cupcakes." Vas told his husband. "Just be glad we didn't have a cupcake contest." Josh told him. "Hm? Whys that?" Vas asked him. "Duh. My cupcakes would dominate yours." Josh stated with confidence. Vas gave a snort. "Want me to prove it?" Josh challenged. "Why don't we just make a midnight run to the bakery downtown instead?" Vas suggested. "Hell, I'm game." Josh replied, swinging out of bed and going to grab his shoes. Vas followed him out of the bedroom, grabbing the car keys and giving Josh's ass a little tap. THE END