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Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 001.
Detective Jodie Cole drove, giving me ample enough time to get up to speed with everything. Having only just transferred, the specific what’s and where’s of the Autogyne Crime Unit are new to me, but Cole seems to think I’m up to the job, what with my history.
Four hours it took, but traffic had a lot to answer for. Plenty of time to go over the files. Helen Herr is described by his former GP as a broadly delusional, 5 '8 autogynephilic male. No former criminal record. Has undertaken nearly a decade of hormonal replacement, and has surgeries on breasts, nose, jawline. Herr has a record of ‘passing’ - including the successful infiltration of many female-only spaces (toilets/changing rooms) so is considered highly dangerous.
Authentic sex-name is unknown, somehow. Former GP (Brian Carter) believes files might have been deleted/lost in-transit during doctors surgery change. The negligence is astounding, however Mr. Carter no longer practices and is, thankfully, in prison.
Cole has warned me to keep my wits about me. These Autogynes, she says, are habitual liars. They live and breathe a fiction, so I must be vigilant to take everything they say with an ‘immense heaping of salt’. Detective Cole helped found the unit, so knows what she’s talking about. I, myself, haven’t worked much with Autogynes. I met a few during my time in Vice - mainly prostitutes. Some found dead. That all stopped after the ruling - thank God. It was tough, but fair. Better for us, and better for them too. Everyone is safer now.
We pulled up at 13:20pm. The TWI had been temporarily closed, though some staff remained on-site. Of the 16 total residents, 5 have been re-housed at the facility down the street. 10 others were spread across other centres within a 50 mile radius. Helen Herr, of course, remains at-large. We hope to question as many as we can. I’m sure we’ll find him soon enough. Hiding won’t be easy - not now.
We interviewed TWA staff members C, J and A. The rest are arranged for tomorrow. Cole and I have a Premiere-Inn booked close-by, which is where I am typing this up from now. My room is pleasant enough. Clean, with a mattress protector. Breakfast included. The ‘view’ isn’t much to report on - a car park, attached to the loading bay of a nearby Asian Supermarket. No biscuits included with complimentary tea bags and coffee.
C was incredibly distraught when we spoke to her. She had to help identify the remains of Professor S (what there was, that is). The fire had rendered the cadaver an almost indistinguishable, charred mess. C was not present at the time of the incident, so is not currently a suspect. J, who was Herr’s ‘keyworker’ takes no personal responsibility. He claims to have been outside in the garden during the discovery of the fire, and has not proven particularly forthcoming. The Autogyne residents seem to corroborate his statement.
A, the other staff member on duty, I do not trust. She has no good explanation as to how the kitchen door ended up locked, and no convincing alibi to rule herself out. Of course, our leading theory is that Helen Herr was responsible, however we do not yet know how - looking into A’s records, we learned that she once had an Autogyne sibling (deceased) - so we cannot yet rule out conspiracy. There are, unfortunately, still many who do not comprehend the importance of this societal undertaking. A lot of women, especially, are too empathetic. They let it cloud their judgement - don’t understand the implicit danger at hand.
Two witnesses - an elderly couple on a ‘Christmas walk’ claim to have seen a ‘young woman with a dog’ hurrying off in the direction of the town centre around the time of the blaze. We are currently awaiting closed circuit footage from the area, and will review in due course.
Herr’s room was searched thoroughly by myself and Detective Cole, and papers were found - folded and tucked behind a loose skirting board - a crude diary of sorts, and what appear to be some attempts at short fiction. The pages were not dated, or ordered, so it is difficult to build a timeline at present, and deciphering exactly which is narrative fiction and which is Herr’s journal is not simple.
Detective Cole has ordered us pizza, so we can eat it in her room and review the CCTV footage - which she expects we’ll have in the next couple of hours. Ham and mushroom for me, and some sort of spicy chicken for her. I like Cole - she is methodical and logical, like myself. She doesn’t allow for sympathy to cloud her judgement. She knows as well as I do that the law is the law, and boundaries must be maintained. ‘Common Sense Policing’ she calls it. Amen to that.
We are awaiting transcript documents from Herr’s in-house psychiatrist, Rachel Sweeny. She is keen, it seems, to help us track Herr down.
END OF FIELD LOG.
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Mumsweb Forums - New Thread: New Mothers
OP: Anonymous
Good news… I’m alright.
Things are busy right now, so I’m going to have to make this brief. It’s been a tough couple of days - have had trouble sleeping. Rough nights. But I have my little friend now, and we are looking after each other. I’ve named her Julia.
She is as good as gold - very alert. An extra mouth to feed, sure - but well worth the struggle. Having to post this from a public library computer. People always leave themselves logged in. Not staying in one place for very long - moving quickly and often - only sleeping when I have to.
Feeling very exposed - bad skin, dirty hair. Will I ever get my looks back? God, I hope so. I have enough medication for a month or two, but I’m going to have to figure something else out soon enough. Trying my best not to be seen too often. I know it’s unlikely anyone I know will be reading this, but I need somewhere to put it all down - for posterity more than anything else. I filled up my notebook - left it on a park bench by mistake. Don’t even know the name of the park. Not a great start.
I hope things are okay with you. Hope you girls are hanging in there. Hope you still have computer access. Hope you stumble across this somehow.
I’m sitting next to a ‘recommended books’ display right now. You’ll never guess what’s on there… something called ‘The End of the Gender Cult’ by Gloria Greene. Hardcover. Kate Bailey from The Guardian says it’s good, according to the blurb. What do you think? Is it ‘the end’?
Alright, well I’d better get going - library is getting busier now.
Will check in again when possible.
Be as good as you can.
H x
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Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 002.
Detective Jodie Cole & I reviewed the CCTV footage. It is clear from the video timecode and angle that Helen Herr was the first person to leave the TWI (front entrance), somewhere between 5 and 7 minutes after the blaze began. We see him walk briskly down several streets towards the town centre, accompanied by a dog, ducking down behind cars and shielding face with sleeve. For now, we have positive ID on the suspect up until Randolph Park. I have reached out to the local council for additional security footage.
Today we returned back to the TWI to pick up A for further questioning. She wasn’t pleased to learn we were taking her into the precinct, as our previous interview had been on TWI premises. Jodie thought we’d have a better chance of the truth if we scared her, though. Drive there not too bad - 3 hours 37 minutes. Traffic minimal. Suspect A was belligerent, and very irritating for the first half hour of the journey, but Jodie drowned her out with a CD of Cats, the original broadway cast recording.
After that, South Pacific, Annie Get Your Gun and Gypsy. I had no idea she was a musicals fan, just like me. She apparently used to be a stage manager on the west end. It’s always nice when you get to learn a bit more about your partner - break down the walls a little bit. I shared with her that I had always dreamed of being in the theatre as a girl. “Look at us now” she said, and we both laughed.
It was true - my life is so different now. Not worse, by any stretch. I’m actually incredibly fulfilled. When I look back on where I was just 5 years ago - audition after audition, degrading self-tape after degrading self-tape. All I achieved was a short run in a pub-theatre production of Waiting for Godot and a call back for a polo advert (the mints, not the cars - and I didn’t get it). I don’t miss that struggle. No, I’ve really found myself in this line of work. Progress within it much clearer - more methodical. Fair.
When we arrive at the precinct, Jodie makes a big song and dance out of dragging A out of the car. A is still, even after 3 odd hours, very agitated and vocal. She has guilt all over her face, and a clear issue with authority. Women like her really get up my nose. I never used to notice it until working here though. Used to sympathise with them. But it’s her exact type who was dragging us down as a sex - happily handing over our safety, open handed, to Autogyne perverts. Jodie tells me I should never let my feelings get the edge over me. ‘Be Kind’ isn’t policing.
Jodie places her in the interrogation room, and as I enter - she gives me the signal that I’m ‘Good Cop’ - a little stroke of her right eyebrow. Barely even noticeable, unless you know what you’re looking for. Whenever we do these, I’m always Good Cop. It’s funny, I think Cole thinks of me that way because I’m quiet. I keep a lot of it to myself, yes, but in my head I’m far from that. I’m capable of being Bad Cop. But I’m new here, I understand that. There’s no rush with these things. Lots of interrogations to do, I’m sure.
We both sit down at the desk in front of A. I ask her if she wants anything - a Coke, Sandwich? She says ‘a lawyer’, which once upon a time would have held up the day significantly. We’d have to stop asking her questions immediately, wait until the court appointed one, then sit there for hours while she repeated, at their advice, ‘no comment’ over and over again. Luckily for us, this is the Autogyne Unit, and none of that applies.
Jodie grabbed A by her hair on the right side of her head, and yanked it down so hard that it caused her to 1) smash her face on the desk, and 2) hair come out in a clump in Jodie’s hand. Jodie began shouting then:
“Why do you hate women? Why do you hate your own kind and want to see us destroyed? It’s pretty fucking stupid, isn’t it? Pretty fucking short-sighted, no? Why’d you take the job if you don’t believe in the cause? Are you working for somebody? Who is it? We know you started the fire, so if you don’t start coming up with some information, it’s looking like a pretty stretch of time for you…”
I interjected there - hit her with a bit of the Good Cop. Asked her what sort of sandwich she’d like, cheese and pickle or ham and cucumber? She was, unfortunately, very rude.
“I don’t want a sandwich you fucking Pig”.
The door opened, and an officer from the observation room called me out as there was a message waiting for us from Psychiatrist Rachel Sweeny, regarding Helen Herr’s talk-therapy transcripts. Detective Cole said I should take the call, and assured me that she’d be fine completing the interrogation by herself. As I left, I saw her roll up her shirt sleeves and give me a wink.
I’ve never understood why people call us ‘Pigs’. Pigs are very misunderstood animals. Highly intelligent and sensitive. Hardly seems fair to me. END OF FIELD LOG.
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Mumsweb Forums - New Thread: Kids Lunchbox Ideas
OP: Carole-Anne
Not eaten for a while, but I did manage to clean up a bit - have a wash, rinse my hair a bit in the library bathroom sink. Big, Victorian tiling. Unisex. Not the same library I posted from before, a different one. Not the same one I’m in now, actually. Finding somewhere to sleep is difficult, so I try to keep moving.
Did nod off for an hour or so in a park. Julia is good at waking me up if anyone is around. I was going to steal some books, just to keep my mind occupied, you know? But I found a library card on the ground outside, and they don’t have photos on them. So I am Carole-Anne Whitbread now. I hope she likes fines.
Looked her up on the system and the last book she got out was The Davinci Code. Before that, a DVD of Dido in concert. I used the card to get out that book I mentioned before: The End of the Gender Cult by Gloria Greene. They had it in paperback here, which is a bit easier to carry around.
I’ve only read the first few pages, and it’s not very good. She’s an ‘academic’ apparently, this Greene, but I’ve never heard of her. Her style is dry, like a machine wrote it, and is about as nuanced or philosophical as you might expect. I want to read it though. I want to understand who is responsible here - who is informing these politicians. To figure out if there’s anything we can do about it.
It’s risky, but I’m going to steal a packet of razors from a corner shop. I need them. If I can pull that off, I’ll try to lift something to eat - some crisps or chocolate. A milkshake maybe, to keep my protein up. Dog food for Julia. The razors might seem ‘vain’ to you, but I have to pass. The risks are even higher now. Blending in comes before anything else.
I can’t exactly tell you my plan because firstly, it’d be pretty stupid of me to expose myself so quickly and, secondly, I don’t have one. All I can really do for now is to keep moving - to try and build myself back up somehow. To get my hands on the right medication - the right clothes - the right friends. Imagine it girls, if I can pass in this hostile a landscape, won’t they all look stupid then?
But right now I’m so far back. I have such an altitude to climb, and until then I must remain out of sight.
Be as good as you can.
H x
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[TO BE CONTINUED...]
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 003.
Helen Herr’s psychiatrist, Rachel Sweeny, has been incredibly cooperative. Didn’t hesitate to send us over a complete transcript of all their conversations (which Detective Cole is currently reading through), as well as some useful insight into the mind of the Autogyne, more generally. Says she is working on a book about them. That’s good, I told her. We need to understand them in order to help them, and free them from their cruel affliction.
She agrees. Cole might see that as ‘weak’, and I do understand her perspective on it, but they take up an awful lot of public resources in these facilities. Why should they get room and board at our expense? If we can cure them, then they can become useful members of society again. I’m sure there are even jobs they can do - working in charity shops, perhaps. I have hope in that.
Rachel Sweeny tells us in her notes that Helen Herr had a dangerous outburst at a cemetery, and had to be restrained and segregated. Police were called to help, and although he has no known record of previous criminal activity, Sweeny believes him to be a ‘ticking time bomb’. Herr showed no real interest in being gender-reformed, despite a stint of pretending to be - misleading staff. He also witnessed the death of a fellow Autogyne, as well as a hired Masculinity Trainer named Angeloupolus. Sweeny advises us to approach with extreme caution, as these events can only have contributed towards a fractured and unpredictable mental state.
Helen Herr is not our only assignment. We have also been surveilling a suspected Autogyne Female named ‘Richard Hastings’ who we believe to have been illegally living deep-stealth since the law change. Hastings works in an establishment called Full Moon Cafe as a barista. We have had a tip off from her manager, and I am typing this now from the car while we wait for Hastings to finish her shift.
My partner, Detective Jodie Cole, sent me in to do a recon on Hastings earlier this afternoon, as well as pick up two caramel lattes with oat milk, and two cinnamon swirls - which I am happy to report were delicious. Below are my findings from said reconnaissance:
14:00: I enter Full Moon Cafe. Tasteful decor on walls - Italian street scenes. Rome, probably. Easy listening jazz music playing on speakers. Visualisation on suspect Richard Hastings - located behind till, serving elderly woman. I join the line, which is moving at a reasonable pace.
14:03: Hastings takes my order. I notice she is short in stature - approximately 5’4 - with beard and nose ring. Hands seem proportionate - not a definite giveaway. Could be a bio-males. However, lips are fuller than a man’s. And there is something soft about ‘him’.
14:05: I ask Hastings to double my caramel, forcing her to reach up to a pump on a high shelf - I do this to catch a glimpse of the neck, in case an Adam’s Apple is visible - however the beard proves too full and I don’t catch it.
14:06: I pay - thanking ‘him’ for the drinks, and make my way back out of the cafe, and get back into the car.
I tell Jodie that I’m 80% sure she is a deep-stealth Autogyne. Jodie tells me she’s 100%. Apparently, the tip-off came from the manager, after finding a used tampon in the men’s toilets, and witnessing Hastings being the last to leave the facilities. This manager has been suspicious for months, and has been losing sleep about it.
See, these Autogynes don’t realise the harm they do - confusing good, everyday, hard working people. Toying with their sense of reality - having them second guess themselves and feel guilty simply for doing their civic duty. It’s practically gaslighting.
Jodie says she has just gotten confirmation from the manager that Hastings is about to go on break. When we go in, she says, I’m to let her do most of the talking, but I should keep an eye on the exits and general surroundings. We do not yet have access to proper firearms, unfortunately, however I do have a taser and a pepper spray that Jodie says I should ‘absolutely not hesitate to use if any resistance is put up’.
This will be my first Autogyne capture, so I’m keen to make a good impression - however I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Some of these Autogynes are seriously dangerous. There have been incidents of them fighting back - pulling weapons. Amazing what gender-ideology will do. Detective Cole can see this and grabs my hand. She squeezes it and tells me to breathe and remember that we are doing good work. We are right. There is a war on women, and we are the front-line.
She’s right. I squeeze back. She tells me it’s okay to be nervous - that I should use it.
Time to go…
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Mumsweb Forums - New Thread: Au Pair Issues
OP: Anonymous
I’m exhausted. I have been walking aimlessly, down random side streets and busy motorways. Julia is getting confused, I can tell. I’ve not been eating, and what I do have for poor Julia clearly isn’t enough for her. It might be less cruel to just let her go, I don’t know. Maybe leave her outside a vets or an animal charity if I see one. I don’t want to.
I can’t really keep this up - not like this, anyway. The libraries are good for a bit of restbite, but what’s the plan?
I don’t think I’m going to be able to stay in this library very long, either. The woman behind the reception is definitely suspicious of me. Keeps giving me side glances, and finding excuses to come over and ask if she can ‘help’ with anything. Yeah right. Not falling for that one.
I’ve been reading through this Gloria Greene book. She says that we’re ‘under the spell of a bourgeois, luxury identity - one which seeks to find status in oppression politics’. I don’t exactly know what all that means - I’m too hungry to focus and my brain is struggling to string words together.
Be as good as you can.
H x
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 004.
Jodie barely even identifies herself, she just goes right behind the counter where suspect Richard Hastings is hanging up ‘his’ apron, and grabs him/her by the arm, twisting it behind his/her back and pushing him/her down hard onto the counter. She informs her/him that she/he is being detained for being a suspected deep-stealth Autogyne - and that any resistance will be met with double back. Hastings does not resist physically, but is extremely confused and upset.
The drive over to the precinct is frustrating. Hastings is a whiner, claiming harassment - pretending his/her arm is broken. Jodie tells him/her to ‘put a sock in it’ and cranks up the Cats (our new tradition it seems). As ‘The Old Gumbie Cat’ blares out, Hastings insists that we’ve made ‘a huge mistake’. That we’ll ‘regret what we’re doing’. Still, they all say stuff like that. Arrogant fucking Autogynes…
UPDATE: Yesterday I looked up ‘Autogyne’ on the web. It derives from the term ‘Autogynephile’ - traditionally used to refer to a MAN who ‘sees himself to be a woman’. However, in recent times we have taken to referring to all - whether biologically male or female as ‘Autogynes’. Technically inaccurate, yes - but easier to classify, and catchy. Us vs. Them. It is mostly ‘trans-identified’ males we deal with anyway, as most of the females are much harder to uncover - but Jodie has lightly reprimanded me about putting ‘Autogyne’ in official reports, which I’m to change to ‘Andro’. She can’t stay mad at me, anyhow!
When we arrive at the precinct, we go through the routine as usual. We sit Hastings down in the interrogation room, and offer him/her a drink or something to eat, [then we leave her/him to stew for about 3 hours - ignoring toilet requests. It’s not technically ‘standard procedure’ but it gets good results. There’s no one in the precinct who isn’t dedicated to our end-goal, so we don’t have to worry all too much] *do not include in final report draft.
We usually spend that time finishing up on reports, or eating, or catching up with colleagues. It’s the only chance we really get to see each other, and is a vital time to share stories and techniques. There are a few of us though who see each other outside of work. Go out clubbing sometimes. There’s Jodie and I, obviously. Then there’s Nathaniel. He’s hilarious. Gay guy, late 40’s. Camp as all Hell. He brings his life-partner (Ralphy) with him sometimes. Nice guy, works in high-end textiles. They know I’m a lesbian, and we have a good laugh. Let off some steam.
Nathaniel is there today. He tells us about a recent capture he and his partner Trudy made, which nearly got them both killed. This Autogyne they’d been tracking for weeks led them to the entrance of a sewer, and when they entered a gunshot ricocheted off the walls and the bullet skimmed Trudy’s head. Undeterred, they followed through the pipe and found the Autogyne dead after having fallen 35 feet off a concrete ledge. No weapon was found on the suspect.
Nathaniel tells it like a ghost story, and if creeping me out is the intention - it works. The insinuation here is that there are even more Autogynes than we can imagine - literally living underground in the sewers - intentionally leading us down there to be murdered. I said we ought to just gas the entire sewer system - which got a good laugh.
As we head back to the interrogation room, Jodie grabs me by the arm to turn me and looks me in the eye. She says I impressed her back there, in the cafe - keeping an eye out for her and not rising to the suspect’s antagonisations. She says I’ve come on leaps and bounds. Her hand stays gripped to my arm. I can feel her manicured nails just poking through the threading of my longsleeve. It doesn’t hurt, I like it.
Jodie says I should be Bad Cop this time. I ask her if she’s sure I’m ready, and she insists I was ‘ready weeks ago’. It feels good to have my work recognised, finally. I’ve seen her do it a hundred times now, so I know what to do. It’s whether I can convincingly sell it or not, that’s the thing. Letting Jodie down is the last thing I ever want.
As we enter the interrogation room, Hastings leaps up - startled. We sit down, and Jodie begins the game - asking if we can get him/her anything. Hastings says he/she is dying for the toilet, and Jodie says she can take him/her. The Toilet Routine, we call this. We’ll watch which toilet the suspect chooses, then grill them on it when they return. Hastings goes for the men’s room, predictably.
When Hastings sits back down, I hit him/her across the face. Open palm - hard. The sound is exquisite. A perfect SNAP - a slight echo of it lingering. I deliver my line…
“Why the fuck did you go in there? You’re a woman, aren’t you? What the fuck are you playing at?”
Hastings stands up, sending his chair backwards onto the ground. He doesn’t say anything - he just glares at us both, teary eyed, and proceeds to pull down his trousers. A penis.
We’ve messed up big-time.
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Mumsweb Forums - New Thread: Diaper/Nappy Rash Issue: Help!!
OP: Anonymous
Something interesting has occurred. The librarian, who I first had assumed had suspicions of me, instead invited me over to her house for dinner. This played out last night as the library was closing. She waited until every other patron had left, and then sat down next to me - asked me if I had anywhere to go. Instinctively, I told her ‘yes’ and that I ‘wasn’t homeless, if that’s what she thinks’. I was standoffish. Dead-rude. She said she understood, but there was ‘a bed open to me for the night if I changed my mind’.
I sat there for a further 15 minutes, and she let me, too - just tidying up books behind me, sorting the coins out of the printer. I told myself I wouldn’t trust anyone, that’s the thing. Especially not her sort. Cis. Older. To look at her you’d think she has one of these Gloria Greene books on her shelf at home. I reckoned there were only two likely possibilities: 1) She doesn’t know I’m trans, and would rescind her help if she found out. Or 2) She knows, and this is a trap to turn me in.
Except, I was so hungry. And then there’s Julia. I was getting to the end of my tether - too low on sleep. Hallucinating. If I could just get one good night’s sleep, I should be able to carry on for another couple of days. I weighed it all up, and came to the conclusion that agreeing to her offer was high risk, but that going on as I have been was a sure failure. So I accepted.
Turns out, she only lives around the corner from the library - so we walked back in the dark. I won’t name her, for her protection. Let’s call her ‘Karen’ (a little in-joke that she’d find funny). On that walk to her house, I disclosed everything to her. Told her who I was… what I was. Where I’d come from, and what I was doing. Full disclosure. Again, a huge risk - and not something I wanted to do.
But she already knew… God, I need to get my hormone levels balanced.
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 005.
I thought we would get dragged across the coals for our cock-up with Hastings, but Detective Cole - as a founder of the Autogyne Unit - has friends in high places. She spoke with Sergeant Greer - took full responsibility. So long as we both participate in a one day, mandatory ‘Identification Training’ we’re fine to carry on as usual. Cole tells me that Hastings has been compensated fairly. Since the gaffed interrogation, we have also followed up with the manager who reported Hastings - who, would you believe, is ‘himself’ an Andro Female! Thought ‘he’ could get away by selling out her own kind…
Jodie says that these things do happen from time to time. The fact of the matter is, Autogynes and Andros are much harder to identify these days. It isn’t like the glory days of old, when the science wasn’t as sophisticated - and the newspapers did their bit by publicly shaming them. Well, most newspapers - The Telegraph, God bless them, have always been a good ally to us - a vital tool in our public communication on the issue. It’s the ones who started young that are most problematic. To the untrained eye, one can hardly be sure.
The Identification Training is illuminating. Jodie and I attended the session, which took place in a hotel conference room, and was facilitated by a cheery gentleman named Tony. There were 8 of us in total, and a healthy continental breakfast was included, with tea and coffee making facilities. Before working as a Trainer for the AU, Tony was a receptionist in a gender clinic, having met and personally interacted with hundreds of Autogynes and Andros - so he certainly knows his onions.
His Powerpoint presentation was extremely illuminating. I learned a lot about subtle facial signifiers, as well as some pertinent tidbits on the differences between male and female hairline areas. He even allowed us to pass around and examine real bone fragments and guess which ones belonged to biological females, and which to Autogynes. I was able to identify them correctly 70% of the time, which Tony assures me is very good.
The training session ended a couple of hours early, with Tony more than satisfied we were all ready to take our ‘newly learned expertise’ into the field. Jodie suggested she and I ought to go out for dinner afterwards, which was fine by me. She said she knew a place about 20 minutes away that did incredible barbeque ribs, so we headed over there by foot. We cut through Trafalgar Square, and a tourist asked Jodie to get a picture of her in front of the fountains.
Jodie then asked the tourist to take a photo of us with her phone camera. She put her arm around my shoulder, and pulled me in tight to her body. The tourist snapped the shot, but Jodie wasn’t happy with it, so asked her to do another one. On the second go, as the camera flashed, Jodie kissed me hard on the cheek. Not a friendly peck - something longer. More meaningful.
Before we could get to the restaurant though, Jodie received an update on the Andro cafe manager. She said that Nathaniel and Trudy were due to administer a ‘marking’ within the hour, and wanted to know if she’d be an official witness to it. I didn’t know what any of it all meant at the moment - I didn’t want our time by the fountain to end. I wanted to tell her how I felt. Wanted to kiss her back. But Jodie seemed excited about this update, and said she wanted me to see it too.
On the cab ride back to the precinct, Jodie explained that ‘markings’ were rare - but were being trialed on an experimental basis. She’d never witnessed one in person herself, but had seen videos - motley out of America. As it turns out, Prime Minister Wesley Grantham had just authorised a trial that month, and now we were rolling it out. All I could think about though was that kiss.
Back at the precinct, there was a palpable excitement in the air. Jodie guided me over to the first aid room, where the Andro Cafe Manager (Stephen Gill) was being held down on a bed by Nathaniel and an officer we call Duggs. Trudy was reading over an instruction manual and pressing buttons on a piece of heavy duty equipment reminiscent of a tattoo gun. I learned later that it was just a standard tattoo gun.
Gill was extremely bothered - trying to flail her legs, and ended up having to have a mild sedative administered. Nathaniel asked Jodie and I if we agreed to be witness to the marking. We agreed. Trudy then processed to brand a less-than neat, dark black marking onto the left cheek of Andro Stephen Gill. Only when Trudy had finished, and moved to put the tattoo gun back in its box, could I see what the marking was.
A large ‘XX’, just beneath the eye.
END OF FIELD LOG.
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Mumsweb Forums - New Thread: Killer Spaghetti Recipe
OP: Anonymous
‘Karen’ is wonderful. She used to have a dog, so has been great with Julia. This morning she even took her for a walk while I spent some more time in bed. Turns out - I really did need that sleep. She made me an incredible pesto spaghetti dish with garlic bread and mushrooms last night, and we talked for a little while in her kitchen before she showed me to my bedroom. She used to be a Labour councillor back in the 80s - has photos with some of the top guys from that period. Says she could never vote for them now.
She told me I can stay as long as I need to - but I don’t think I should hang around. Maybe I should ask her if she’ll look after Julia though? She’d be in better hands with her than with me. She says she’s not afraid to house me - tells me I’m no imposition - thinks ‘all this nonsense’ll blow over soon enough’ - and that I should at least stay hidden until it does. I told her I don’t think it will. I said I think it’s only going to get worse.
Besides, I don’t know for sure if I can trust her. I almost bolted immediately when I saw the Labour Party memorabilia - thought I’d walked into a trap - but she seems long past all that now. Still, I should be careful. I can’t really afford to put my trust in anyone as it stands. If I keep moving, even if I don’t know what I’m moving towards, at least I’ll be a moving target. Harder to hit.
There’s a TV in the small guestroom, which I put on for a bit this afternoon while Karen was at work. I realised it’s the first time I’ve seen any terrestrial news for about a year… and the way they talk about us now… Before the law-change, they were already openly misgendering us - but the tone is different. It’s more venomous. There are specialist policing units now - out looking for absconders like me. There’s even a daytime Watchdog style documentary programme on BBC One dedicated to bringing us in.
It’s called ‘Chasers’ and I caught a bit at the end of one episode where the camera crew followed a unit making a bust at a Quaker centre. They were hiding two trans women and three trans men. The people running the Quaker centre were both sentenced to 6 years jail time. I don’t want that to happen to Karen. (I don’t know what happened to the trans people).
Spent a little bit more time reading this Gloria Greene book. In the chapter I’m on, she talks about how ‘trans identity is a conspiracy by Big Pharma to sell hormone replacement drugs’. I guess that’s what I should be figuring out first - where I’m going to get my medication from. It’s not going to be easy, because under Prime Minister Wesley Grantham all HRT has been banned for ‘trans identifying adults’. There used to be a black market on the internet, but I’m worried a web-search might lead back here. It’s just too hot right now. That’s why I’m hand-writing this, and I’ll transcribe it later in the library.
Be as good as you can.
H x
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 006.
Watching Stephen Gill get facially marked was arresting. The buzz of the tattoo gun. The look in her eyes as its needle jumped up and down into her cheek like a piece of cloth on a sewing machine. It felt like justice. Finally, we had some proper punishment - not some cosy bed and board slap on the wrist - but a real, actual consequence. These Autogynes and Andros have done more than enough to confuse our kids - to muddy the waters of reality. Now, there’s no confusion. An individual can take all the hormones, or get all the surgery they want, and they’ll never be able to truly ‘pass’. The ‘XY’ or ‘XX’ on their face will tell the entire story.
Why we didn’t start doing it sooner, I don’t know. Bureaucracy, I suppose. But Prime Minister Grantham has really proven himself as far as I’m concerned. I’m proud to say I voted for him. I mean, how could I not have done? The prospect of a first openly gay Prime Minister? I think deep down, I didn’t think he’d actually win - I’m ashamed to say it, but I underestimated the British public - mischaracterised them as homophobic. But to their credit, they voted for Wesley Grantham on the content of his character. His policies. The ‘de-normalisation of trans-ideology’ was more than enough for most to get on board.
After we signed the witness papers for the marking, Detective Cole and I went back out for that dinner, but we decided to forgo the ribs, and instead just pick up some take away noodles from a street vendor, which Cole suggested we take back to hers. Cole’s flat was small, but homely and tidy. Carpet floors, not wood. 2 cats greeted me as I entered, one - black with grey facial markings snaked itself around my ankle. The other, an expensive looking Russian Blue kept a bit more distance, looking me over from midway down the hallway.
We eat in the living room - sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa. Jodie puts a small DAB radio on to some odd Muzak station, which got a laugh out of me. She swears she doesn’t listen to it normally - says it’s usually tuned to something ‘much cooler’ but I tell her I think it’s cute. Who still listens to the radio, anyway - Grandma? She shoves me, playfully. She uncorks a bottle of Pinot Gris, and we talk it through…
Jodie wants to know what our next move is - finding Helen Herr. Up to now, I’ve mainly followed her lead, but now she wants my input. I’m flattered, but honest - I tell her I don’t really know. Maybe he’ll go back to see his parents? Jodie agrees - says it’s smart to get them on side - set up a trap. Many parents, she says, will help the police - if they think it means they’ll get their old son or daughter back. Most are only ‘pretending’ to be alright with Autogynes and Andros anyway. But thanks to us, and our work, they have other options.
Jodie asks me where I grew up, and I tell her - nothing fancy, just a suburb in Chorlton, Manchester. I go back here and there - see Mum, but I always wanted a bit more. She tells me she grew up nearby here, on a council estate in Lewisham. Tough upbringing - always getting into fights with other kids. It’s all small-talk really, and I enjoy the quiet gaps in-between more. I go for it - place one hand on her knee. Give her the old Frasier Smile. A little family in-joke, that. She smiles back, thank God, and I lean in.
As we pivot down onto the carpet, Jodie lays back beneath me - bending one knee, and snaking a leg around mine. I brush her hair away from her face, and marvel at her features at this new gradient. I can’t resist any longer, so kiss her lips - first delicately, then harder. Her tongue pushes hard against my tongue - like they’re playfighting - which makes our bodies respond in-kind, rolling over on the floor - switching positions and nearly knocking over the egg fried rice.
Above me now, she pulls off my top - tickling my belly with the tips of her nails as she does - and tosses it up onto the sofa above us. I notice the Russian Blue jump off, startled - then begin sniffing around the noodles we didn’t finish. Can cats eat noodles? I don’t care - let them have it. All I want is Jodie. Jodie Jodie Jodie. She stops for a second - reaching over to the coffee table where the remote control for the radio is - and grabs it. Jodie turns it over from DAB to CD and, as ‘Memory’ from Cats begins to softly chime out its introduction, she proceeds to kiss me up and down my stomach.
In the morning, I wake up with Jodie in my arms. We are in her bed, and I get a look at her bedroom for the first time with the lights on. A pink dressing gown on the door. Small vanity mirror, with basic make-up, nothing extravagant. The bed itself is probably the nicest thing in the room - it’s metal frame golden and ornate.
I climb out, and cautiously make my way to the bathroom - taking care to not make too much noise. Sitting on the toilet, I notice there is no toilet paper on the holder, so search around the room with my eyes. Not getting up, I can just about reach the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink, and inside I find a small wooden box just big enough to maybe contain a few rolls, but when I open it - I do not find any toilet paper. What I find instead confuses me. Makes me panic. I drop the box.
Mumsweb Forums - New Thread: Menopause Advice?
OP: Anonymous
I told Karen I’d cook tonight, as a way of saying thank you. I wish I could do more - but I have nothing. No money, no bank account - barely even any clothes of my own. Karen said she’d sort that for me - pick me up some things on her way home this afternoon. I’ve had a look around the kitchen, and she’s got the right stuff to make risotto, so maybe I’ll do that.
Last night, Karen told me about her wife - who I’ll call ‘Veronica’. They met in Jamaica. Veronica was on holiday, and Karen was visiting family. They met on a bus - Veronica was lost. They started living together just a few months after. True love. 20 years ago, this was! Unfortunately, Veronica passed away a few years back. I didn’t want to pry too much, but she was ill - she told me that.
Karen asked me what my plan is, and I explained that I needed medication. I feel like I can’t do much without it. I’m far from the first trans person she’s met in her life, so I didn’t have to explain it too much. She gets it. She said she could probably wrangle me some from the pharmacy - HRT being available for menopause treatment over the counter - but I don’t even know if it’s the same kind. I’m sure the dose’ll be too low. Of course, I accept her offer, but I’ll still need to figure something else out.
I wonder what my sister is doing right now? Probably settled into her new flat. I’m sure Mum and Dad will be helping her out - giving her money for appliances or whatever. She always wanted a KitchenAid. And a baby. Sure she’ll be getting on with that soon enough, too. That’s what you do - get married, get a KitchenAid, get a baby. Then society leaves you alone.
I’ve stopped reading this Gloria Greene book for a bit. Last I checked in, she was going into the gory details of sexual reassignment surgery - trying her best to make it sound as gross as possible. You can make any surgery sound unpleasant if you go into too much detail. Anyway, I’d better go - this risotto isn’t going to cook itself now is it?
Be as good as you can.
H x
​
_________________________________________________________________________
Mumsweb Forums - New Thread: RE: Menopause Advice?
USER: Breckin_Ridge [REPLY]
Hello Helen.
Being ‘good’ doesn’t always work. Stick with the book.
Page 205. Everything you need is there.
Breckinridge.
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 007.
Dropping the box must have woken Jodie up, because before I can even properly get my thoughts together, she’s there at the door - knocking - asking if everything is alright? I tell her I was just looking for toilet paper, which she tells me, through the door, that she keeps in a kitchen cabinet. Says she’ll grab me one. The box is broken, and its contents scattered out onto the bathroom floor - some long, some short, cylindrical… things. They look like vibrators, but aren’t - no buttons, or electronics of any sort. I thought back to an old documentary I saw in my teenage years, about an Autogyne in the 90s (although we called them transsexuals back then). They’re called ‘dilators’, I remembered. Used to widen a pseudo-vaginal-cavity following a ‘sex change operation’. I gathered them up, threw them back into the box.
Jodie knocked on the door again, and I knew there was no hiding what I’d found. She’d notice the broken box. Besides, did I want to hide it? If she… he… whatever, was an Autogyne, I wanted to know. I had to know. I open the door, and she can immediately tell something is off with me. I’ve never had a good poker-face. I open the door wider, to invite her in, and see what I’d uncovered. To my surprise, she just laughs. She sits down on the side of the bath, picks up the box and gives it a little shake, smirking at me.
“You found my secret treasure?”
I don’t answer - just wait for her to explain it, which she does - only after an intentionally cruel, pregnant pause.
“You think I’m one of them, do you? An Autogyne? Want to check my neck?”
She tilts her head back, revealing that smooth, elegant neck my lips were up and down just last night. I feel ashamed to look, but I do. I see no lump. I ask her to explain the box.
“You think I use those things? I’d have thought a gold-star lesbo like you would be able to tell a fake from the real thing?”
She doesn’t break eye-contact once while she says this - her smile unwavering. If she’s lying, she’s damn good at it. Why does she have them then? What possible reason could there be…
“They’re just decorative. I picked them up online, years ago. They’ve not been ‘used’ if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve got tons of artifacts relating to pre-autogynian society, mostly in the loft. I was going to have them out on the mantlepiece, but it tends to freak people out when they come over’.
Relief washed over me. Then shame. How could I have believed for one second that Jodie was one of them? Later, during breakfast, Jodie showed me a few other pieces from her collection. An at-home laser hair remover. A pair of ‘tucking knickers’, which she put on her head and danced around in while I choked on my scrambled eggs. I told her she should open a museum one day.
Jodie drove me home so I could get changed into something clean and work appropriate. She waited in the car for me while I applied some deodorant, brushed my teeth and threw on a fresh blazer. I grabbed myself a banana, and one for her too, and wondered how serious she and I were… I thought about how much I liked her - and hoped she felt the same. This was so like me though, to fall for a girl so quickly. For all I knew though, I could be one of many dyke cops that Jodie brings back to her flat. More shame. I had no right to think that of her - she’s an adult, she can do whatever she likes.
I get back in the car, and hand Jodie the banana. She acts out an amusing, overly dramatic ‘for me?’ gesture, to which I bow, theatrically. Today, we continue our hunt for Helen Herr - heading out towards the home of his parents - who we hope will be able to assist us in bringing him in. Getting stuck in the rush hour London traffic though, Jodie turns to me, one arm up, resting on her headrest.
“Char, what would you have done if I had told you I was an Autogyne? If I’d have broken down in tears back there in the bathroom, and begged you not to tell anyone?”
She was testing me here. I could always tell when she was testing me, because the tone of her voice shifted to that of a patronising driving instructor. I thought about it for a few seconds, and then proceeded to inform her that I would have most probably gone to Nathaniel or Trudy - asked them what the procedure would be. Jodie shifted gears, accelerating the car forwards.
“There’s no procedure for that, Char… it’s unprecedented you know?”
As we drove, I wondered to myself what I would actually do in such a scenario. I waited for my brain to tell me - but it didn’t answer.
Mumsweb Forums - New Thread: RE: Menopause Advice?
USER: Anonymous [REPLY REPLY]
Breckinridge? I don’t know anyone by that name. If you’re reading this now, which I’m guessing you are, why did you call me ‘Helen’? I never stated that was my name.
I read the page you suggested. 205. Are you sure you got it right? Because as far as I can tell, it’s just a bunch of ill-founded nonsense about ‘trans identity’ being equated to a ‘teenage fad - like goths’. I’ve read the page over and over, about twenty times, and it's hardly ‘everything I need’ - as you state.
Who are you? What do you know about me, or ‘what I need’? I’m going to assume you’re a crank - trying to mess with me. Thanks for nothing.
H x
_________________________________________________________________________
The End of the Gender Cult’ by Gloria Greene. Page 205.
…which is why we must view it in similar terms. My son (and he won’t mind me telling you) went through a similar such phase when he was entering his adolescence. Many of his school friends were avid fans of heavy metal ‘music’. Bands like Rat Curdle and Screaming Piss. Within just a few months of making these friends, he was begging me to take him out shopping every Saturday to
Camden Market to buy him ripped trousers, barbed-wire necklaces and black nail-polish. He was utterly dedicated to this lifestyle, and insisted it was no phase. Why can’t you just accept me for who I am mum? However, a mere few years later he was suddenly a devotee of experimental jazz fusion - looking back on those hideous t-shirts and bedroom posters with cringing embarrassment!
Now, imagine for a moment if, instead of getting into Rat Curdle’s 1997 seminal grindcore album ‘Mutilate O’Clock’, he’d have instead gotten swept up into the radical mess of on-set gender ideology? He’d no doubt be looking back on that now with the same regret and embarrassment, except he may well have irreversibly lost his own genitalia! And that’s the thing, isn’t it? We all go through phases, but it doesn’t mean we should indulge in all of them. Yes, I took him to Camden Market, and yes I bought him a t-shirt with a decapitated baby on the front. But I drew the line at black nail polish. I told him - girls will get the wrong idea about you. You have to draw the line somewhere, and where…
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 008.
When we pull up to the Herr household, I’m surprised by how shabby it is. I always imagine these Autogynes to come from fancy backgrounds - families who are well off and spoil their kids. It is, afterall, a luxury identity. Most of them choose it, most likely so they can appear ‘special’ to their friends. And they do choose it. I’m sick to death of hearing all the ‘born this way’ crap. No one forces you into a dress and a bad wig, do they? I think of it like one of those Chinese finger-traps. If they just took a second to breathe - think it through and relax - they’d see how easily it comes off.
Before we go up to the door, Jodie suggests that, when referring to Herr in front of his parents, we try to stick to ‘they’ and ‘them’ pronouns. A lot of parents, she says, can get funny about it still - and as we’re trying to get information here, we’re best to stay on their good-sides. I see her point, but when Mr. Herr opens the door and welcomes us in, it becomes apparent that we need not worry. He doesn’t even use the name ‘Helen’ - he says ‘Adam’. This will help us later when we do another look into his medical records.
We sit down in the living room, which has an odd smell about it - something like burnt poptarts and hot glue. Mrs. Herr asks us if we want tea/coffee/squash. Jodie asks for a black coffee, so I do too. While she makes it, Mr. Herr sits down and asks if we’ve made any progress on finding his son. Jodie tells it to him straight - we’re sure he’s not too far away from the TWI, but so far we’ve not had many leads. I chime in as Mrs. Herr puts the coffees down on the scratched up table, and I add that we’re hoping they can give us some ideas where he might be.
According to them, Herr was an ‘extremely insular person’ before being transported to the TWI. Lived alone, no stable friendship group. Had struggled with depression after a break up and, according to Herr’s mother, barely even left the flat. This means, wherever Herr is, it’s most likely a completely random location. We know that Herr was once close with his sister, Cassandra, so may at some point reach out to her, if in desperation - although, it is clear that their relationship was fractured recently.
They tell us that all they want is to have their son back, and ask what will happen to him if we find him. Jodie assures them he won’t be harmed, and that what we want, above anything else, is to just talk with him - to get his side of events, and gain some clarity on the situation. Of course, the truth is - if we do locate Herr - it’s more than likely he’ll be implicated in the fire. What’s more, his fleeing of the facility won’t be looked upon kindly by a judge, and he may well be deemed too high a risk to re-enter sane society, marked or not.
We inform Steve and Janet Herr that there is a chance he will attempt to contact them in some way, and that if they do receive even so much as a suspicious phone call, they should get in touch with us immediately - day or night.
We spend the rest of the afternoon just driving around the backroads and intersections near the TWI. It’s possible that Herr is sleeping rough, and when we see homeless people we question them, but none yet have been helpful. Unless we uncover a better lead, this might be our routine for a while. I ask Jodie if she thinks there’s any truth in the supposed underground sewer community of Autogynes that Nathaniel and Trudy believe in, but she doesn’t buy it. Jodie says that Autogynes are vain by nature, and could never last in such conditions.
A few hours into patrol, Jodie parks up in a petrol station and asks me if I want anything from inside. I say a cookie (to keep me going) and a hot chocolate if they have a machine. She grabs her phone off the dashboard, which she always uses to pay with, and makes her way inside. I wait until she is all the way inside, and then I shift around and reach back over to the back seats where she left her bag. I can just about see that there’s a short line inside, so I reckon I have two or three minutes max. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I look anyway.
It’s a betrayal, I know that - but I can’t help but think a cop as good as Jodie would do the exact same thing if the roles were reversed. Door keys, with a plastic keyring for Cats at The West End. A lipstick - plum red, which I’ve never seen her wear. Box of Tic Tacs, lime and orange flavour. I crack open her purse, and inside it are 2 strips of unbranded, pink pills. One of the strips has been started, with about a quarter of the pills gone. Taking the entire strip would be a giveaway, so instead I just pop one pill, wrap it in a tissue, and stuff it into my trouser back pocket. I stuff everything back into her bag and turn back around.
As Jodie gets back into the car, she hands me a Cappuccino - apologising because the petrol station only had coffee. I tell her it’s fine. Tossing her phone back onto the dashboard, Jodie starts up the engine, and we’re off again - on the hunt for the Autogyne.
Mumsweb Forums - New Thread: Normal Reading Level for a Year 5?
OP: Anonymous
I went to Karen about the page. She asked me why I would put myself through reading anything by Gloria Greene, and I told her that I used to read a lot of anti-trans books. I told her that I have a morbid curiosity - to know what talking points they were spreading - to ‘understand my enemy’. Karen said it can’t really do a person any good, but I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one. Anyway, I told her about the reply from ‘Breckinridge’ and page 205. She seemed less concerned about the message though, and more about how they knew my name. She thinks it could be a trap. Said I should steer clear.
Still, she loves a puzzle. I know this, because we’ve spent the last 3 evenings watching old Jonathan Creek episodes on DVD. She agreed to take a look. From what she can see, there’s no clear cipher, or hidden messaging - so it must be something to do with the content. ‘Camden Market’ stands out, of course. Although, she reminds me that the original one Greene is referring to burned down in 2008. Then, she noted, there’s a mention of ‘Saturday’. Perhaps they want me to go to where Old Camden Market was - on a Saturday? She reminds me that this would be one of the busiest days to go, and I could be hanging around all day. Without a solid time, or any more detail - it’d be a huge risk. Just the CCTV alone would come back to bite me.
Maybe she’s right? Maybe I’m reading into nothing - just hoping that there’s something more out there. Some sort of hope. I don’t even know what it could realistically be? Some kind of underground trans network? The more I thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed. Trans people have never been especially good at organising. We’ve always just pleaded for kindness and understanding - and waited around like lemons for people’s hearts and minds to change, and look where it got us. Most of us couldn’t organise a book club. Maybe this is a bad idea? These posts, I mean. I already feel uncomfortable having done so many on the same computer. Perhaps it isn’t safe?
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 009.
I ask Trudy about the tablet - not telling her where it came from, of course. Instead, I give her some story about a raid on a suspected Autogyne den - tell her we need to find out what it is - trace the supplier. I probably could tell her about Jodie - about my suspicions. Out of everyone at the precinct, Trudy hates Autogynes the most, and the thought of one working on the inside would be enough justification for her. But, I’m not trying to cause a scene before I know a bit more first. I need to be sure. Even then, if I am right, do I actually even want to do that? When I look at her, I don’t see an Autogyne. I have to remember - innocent until proven otherwise.
I can’t stop thinking about what Jodie asked me - about what I’d do if she had told me she was an autogyne. Would I have jumped up and restrained her? Held her down on the ground until backup arrived, and watched as she was carted off to God knows where? Or would I have screamed, and thrown things at her? The truth is, I probably just wouldn’t have believed it. She isn’t one - I know that. She couldn’t be. Some do pass, but not that well. And to have that sort of brazen audacity? Helping to start an Autogyne Unit - walking around, confident, among those who want to lock you up? Sleeping with me? You’d have to be psychotic, wouldn’t you?
The more I think it through, the sillier it all seems. Of course those things in the box were just decorative. Of course she isn’t one of them. This is what it’s been like for me over the past few days - my mind ping-ponging back and forth like this. Thinking about how much I like her. How all I want is to be alone with her, in her flat - eating Chinese food and laughing, sitting on her carpet. I think… I love her. And that’s why all of this is so confusing, because I can’t be with her if I don’t know for sure. I simply have to know.
Trudy tells me the results shouldn’t be longer than a couple of days, and most of that has been spent at the precinct - doing routine paper-work. I have my own desk now, which sits opposite Jodie - who gives me a wink every now and then, or brings me coffee. Even the dull paper-work is made more bearable with Jodie to look up at, but I’m on edge - constantly frightened that Trudy will bring over the results while Jodie is looking. I don’t want her to think I’m doing anything behind her back (even though I am). I’m sure she’s noticed I’ve been acting strange around her. I’ve never been good at disguising my body language.
FRIDAY
Jodie asks if she can talk with me in private, so we both go out to the car park for a smoke. It’s just starting to rain, but Jodie doesn’t seek any shelter, or even wince - the wind blowing rain onto her face. God, she’s beautiful. She lights up, but doesn’t speak immediately. She hands me one of her cigarettes, and lights it for me.
“The other night Char… it was unprofessional. I shouldn’t have, you know… I’m technically your superior”.
I feel my stomach sink. My head starts to spin (although it could be the nicotine - I only ever smoke when Jodie does). I assure her it’s fine. We’re both adults, afterall.
“I know, but… look, I really like you Char. You’re really cool, you know? It’s just…”
She’s breaking up with me. We’re not technically an item, I know that, but that’s what it feels like. She’s putting up a wall. Putting some distance between us.
“... I can’t be seen to be - you understand don’t you?”
This is because of the box. It has to be. Everything was great until I found that box. Unless she’s never actually liked me? I really thought we had something special. I thought she’d… I don’t know what I thought. God, I’m so fucking stupid!
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked for another partner. It’s nothing personal, honestly. We’ll absolutely still see one anoth…”.
I don’t really take in any more of what she’s saying. I just stare across the street - try to focus on something, anything, so I don’t have to face the dissolution of my silly little fantasies. I settle on a man with an umbrella who has stopped to let his dog pee. I nod - tell her I understand - even though I don’t.
Jodie puts out her cigarette on the precinct wall, placing a hand on my arm - giving me a little rub that makes me feel worse. She offers me a Tic Tac, even though she knows I don’t like them, then pops two into her own mouth. She goes back into the station, leaving me outside in the cold. I watch as the dog’s pee disappears into the flood of rain water. It shakes itself off, then leads the man away.
Notes App
Karen got me a mobile phone. Said it was non-negotiable, and that I didn’t have to worry about paying. It’s on contract and everything. I don’t know how much she paid for it, but I cried when she gave it to me. She’d wrapped it up in birthday paper, even though my birthday isn’t for months. I promise I’ll make it up to her one day, but she is having none of it. The only thing she wants from me, she says, is my safety. I honestly didn’t think I was capable of feeling cared for like this again. For so long now, I’ve told myself that everyone hates me. I’ve had to. But I will pay her back. I don’t know how, or when - but I’ll figure something out.
She’s not ‘jazzed’ about the idea, but Karen has agreed to drive me into Camden tomorrow. At least that way, she says, she’ll be parked nearby if anything goes wrong. She also wants me to stay on a call with her while I’m at the market so she can hear what’s going on. We had a breakthrough on the riddle of page 205 - Karen noticed another detail: Gloria Greene mentions ‘Rat Curdle’s 1997 seminal grindcore album Mutilate O’Clock’.
‘Mutilate O’Clock’ sounds an awful lot like ‘Eight O’Clock’.
As to whether that’s AM or PM, we don’t know for sure, but seeing as Old Camden Market is now just a bunch of fast food outlets that don’t open until midday - eight in the morning would be a safer time to check it out. Yes, daytime is risky, but eight in the evening, on a Saturday night, is game-over. Karen and I spent some time last night figuring out what I was going to wear - and have settled on an ensemble featuring a scarf, fabric face-mask and a wooly hat. Incognito.
It seemed like a more realistic way to go, considering I still have a lot of catching up to do - passing-wise.
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 010.
Trudy is my partner now, and we spend most of our time on general patrol, driving around and around - on the off-chance that we might somehow stumble across a stray Autogyne. The work is less strategic and direct. I feel like we’re being kept busy. Trudy is nice enough company, but the rapport just isn’t the same. She talks a lot, mostly out-loud to herself, and at times I feel as though it wouldn’t matter if I was there or not - she’d still carry on. The other thing is, she hates musicals. I can’t understand that. Sure, it’s fine if ‘Cats’ isn’t your thing, but all musicals? As if they’re all the same or something. She’s never even heard of Sondheim. Instead, she insists on having Talk Radio on all day - which these days is almost entirely dedicated to people phoning in and complaining about immigration.
I wonder what Jodie is doing now? I can’t stop thinking about her. Yes, I still see her around the precinct here and there, but she doesn’t go out of her way to talk to me. I feel like I’ve been dumped and demoted. I hear she’s partnered up with Nathaniel, which’ll be fun for Jodie - I hope she enjoys long, aimless chats about antique furniture. Oh yeah, Trudy got back to me about that pill - turns out it was an antihistamine. An allergy pill. I felt so daft when she told me. Since the petrol station, I’ve been wondering if maybe Jodie saw me looking through her bag? I’m sure she didn’t, but it’s possible. And it would explain why she’s been so cold with me. I should have just trusted her. I’m a fucking idiot, I always ruin good things.
I ask Trudy if she’s ever actually found an Autogyne on patrol. She says she hasn’t, but that it’s ‘an important part of the job’. She tells me that Helen Herr isn’t the only escapee on the books, and that I’d be surprised how bold some of them are. How entitled. As usual, our search-shift is uneventful. At one point, Trudy thought she saw someone wearing a ‘Protect the Dolls’ t-shirt (a now outlawed Autogyne Activist slogan) but it was actually just a ‘Live Laugh Love’ top (unfortunately still legal).
The last thing on today’s agenda is to check in on a recently marked Autogyne male. When we mark an Autogyne, we have a responsibility to follow up on them - to make sure they’re not up to no-good. This one, who goes by ‘Debbie’ spent some time at the TWI, but left after he agreed to participate in their detransition exit programme. Like so many though, he couldn’t hack it. Fell back into old habits - public crossdressing, attempts to self-medicate. When he was offered the marking, he practically leapt at the idea. You wouldn’t think it, but a lot of them do. I guess the urge to play dress-up usurps facial disfigurement. I’ll give them one thing - they’re dedicated. Go figure.
We take the lift up. This one lives in a flat with his parents who now have conservatorship. Even with the marking, it doesn’t buy you full autonomy. Most of these Autogynes will never be in a position to rent a flat or get a decent job again, despite what we tell them. I wouldn’t mind them working, of course, but the sad truth is most simply won’t hire them. Most are barely qualified for retail positions, and given the choice - would you want one as the face of your business? We knock on the door. Trudy announces herself as AU and orders them to open up. Eventually, a man in his early 40’s peers around the door.
“Yes?”
“Hello Sir, we’re from the AU - just here to see Debbie. Are they in?”
“Can you hold on a minute?”
We wait as he goes back in, closing the door softly on us. Trudy rolls her eyes. Something feels off to me, though. There are sharp whispers coming from the hallway - a murmuring I don’t like. Why wouldn’t they just let us in? The door creaks open again.
“May we?”
Trudy asks, but it’s mostly rhetorical. She pushes open the door, and we walk in. As we make our way through into the living room, the mother is sitting there on the sofa. She smiles - offers us a cup of tea - but she’s nervous, and trying too hard not to look it. We decline. Ask where Debbie is. The father interjects - says they don’t know. Haven’t seen ‘her’ in days, apparently. Trudy tells them that we’re going to need to search the flat, but they’re insistent - Debbie isn’t here. But someone else is. I can feel it.
Slowly, I poke my head around the kitchen door. Clear. I make my way into one of the bedrooms, and as I do - I notice instantly how cold it is in there, before seeing the window is wide open. Suddenly, a gunshot shrieks through the house. Trudy screams from the other room. Before I can turn to see what’s going on, the father is at the door - blood across his shirt - and he’s trying to pull the door shut, to lock me in the room.
I just about manage to squeeze past him, pushing through the gap under his arm. In the living room, the mother is standing over Trudy’s body, holding a gun she’s clearly never handled before. Still, she got lucky - her aim was good. Trudy’s face is absent - scattered across the carpet with bits of her brain and skull. I reach for my taser, but I already know it’s useless before I take it out of the holster.
Notes App
Karen has betrayed me. I’m typing this as quickly as I can right now so if there are spelling mistakes or whatever I;m sorrt, I’m hiding in an alleyway right now behind some large bins.
She drove me int o Camben, but befre I could even get out of the car she started to break down in tears. I asked her what was wrong and she just kept saying over and over again I’m sorry, I’m so sorrt. I said what is it? What did you do? She just said I had to. THe neighbours saw you. I had to get ahead of them.
I think the Mumsweb post was her - Breckinridge was her. She set the whole thing up with thejm. To trap me. I grabbed at the door handle, but the child locks were on so I shouted open the door, please open it. PLEASE. And then she did and I just ran - as fast as I could through Camden high street.
I can see a police car by Old Camden Market - they’re talking to KAren through her car window. FUck. I shouldn/t be writijng this, I should be running again, but I’m too unfit. but if this is it thben I need to put something down. I have to write something, somehow - so other trans people know the truth. If you’re readijng this now DONT TRUST ANYONE> Don’t put your faith in tthem, thei’r kindness is only as good as it benefits THEM..
I should ditchb this phone now. Its too comprikmised. WIsh me luck.
H.
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 011.
I ask the mother, as calmly as I can muster, to please lower the weapon. I try my best not to look too closely at the mess that once was Trudy’s head all over the living room - instead adjusting the focus onto the trembling gun in her hands. She’s in shock - probably never in a million years visualised herself doing something like this. She can barely get a word past her lips, so again I focus on keeping a calm temperance to my voice and ask her to lower the weapon. It must have been around then that I blacked out - struck from behind - the last thing I remember being a dull thud across the back of my head.
I wake up back in the bedroom - which is warmer now. Stifling, even. Darker. Window locked shut, and door too, my head spinning. I feel sick. Probably concussed, so remind myself not to lay down. Not to fall asleep. I’d been left on the bed - my taser gone. Phone gone. No radio… no communication. I stumble as gracefully as I can over towards the locked door and place my ear up against it. A similar mumbling - panicked and desperate. I switch the light on, which reveals a chest of drawers, an oak wardrobe and one of those metal clothes hanging frames you put together yourself. Immediately I begin scavenging around the room for something - anything - I can use as a weapon.
The wardrobe is locked, so I pull out all of the drawers - letting them fall out onto the floor. The first one is just towels. The second one down has some old family photos - a younger Debbie, posing next to a horse with her dad. His dad, I mean. I was surprised to see how feminine he looked, even as a child - like a little girl. Then again, my eyes weren’t focusing great, so I put it down to the possible concussion. Third drawer down - looks like certificates, little trophies for dance competitions. No 1st places, but one looks weighty enough to do some damage if swung hard enough, so I grab it.
Under the bed is a crate, which has some broken picture frames in it - also some tools. A screwdriver - useful. A hammer - ideal. I throw the trophy at the window, but it bounces off. I pick it up, and launch it a second time - much harder. It goes straight through and careens off down towards the street, glass and all. I knock out the last few shards of pointy glass with the hammer, and stick my head out into the air to scout an exit strategy - as I do though, I can hear footsteps making their way back over to the door. The sound of unlocking. It’s too high up, and I’m too out of it to risk it - it’ll be certain death.
As the door begins to open, I pivot around quickly - hammer raised above my head and brace for what’s coming. For a second, I realise that this could be it. I wait for my life to start flashing before my eyes, like in the movies, but it doesn’t. All I can think about is Jodie. Her face, like a painting, flashes before me - and I tell myself that if I somehow get out of here alive, I’ll tell her exactly how I feel. That I love her. That I’d love her no matter what. That I’d leave the AU if it meant we could be together.
Debbie’s Father points the gun around the door, not quite entering the room himself.
“Don’t do anything extreme, okay? I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I have to”.
He doesn’t want to? Well, that’s something, I think. Increases my chances a little bit. They’re in crisis management mode - don’t want to make it any worse for themselves. I figure I probably shouldn’t mention that two dead AU Officers isn’t going to make much of a difference over one - it’s still most certainly the death penalty for both of them. I tell him I have a weapon and I’ll use it if he comes near me, but that I too don’t want to.
“What do we do now then?” he asks from behind the door, just his forearm visible to me. I can hear a slight quiver in his voice, which makes me wonder if he’s ever shot a gun before. I tell him he needs to let me go - that what happened to Trudy has happened now, and we will sort it out properly. Talk it through. There doesn’t need to be more chaos. There is a slight pause as he processes this.
“What’s going to happen to Debbie? After all this, I mean”.
I say: “Sir, all we wanted to do was talk with Debbie. Make sure he was…”
“SHE!” he shouts - much louder than I was expecting. A sudden escalation - unstable. Clearly they’re both captured by the extremist Autogyne ideology. Under the spell of their child’s madness - it happens a lot. I resent having to use female pronouns when referring to Debbie, but I will do it in a life and death situation like this.
“... Make sure she was following the conditions of her parole. We’re not trying to take… her… away. This was just supposed to be a routine thing and it’s all blown way out of proportion. You need to let me go. We can still turn this around”.
“No, no no no. There’s no going back from any of this, you know it and I know it. That’ll be it for my wife. You’ll take Debbie away - lock her up. You know I can’t let you leave here, I’m sorry. I just need to…”
From there, he starts to ramble more to himself than to me. Breathing heavily, psyching himself up for something terrible. I knew I had to act fast - spring into action. As far as I saw it, I had two options - try to get past him - use the hammer and make a dash for the front door, but I was sure Debbie’s mothers would be waiting out there, and she still had the gun. Or, I could take my chances with the window - climb out and shimmy across to one of the rooftops.
I began to step backwards, slowly, taking care not to step on the broken glass while he continued talking - readying himself to enter the room and do God knows what to me. I clambered up onto the windowsill, throwing one leg over and reaching up to try and gain some purchase on the pipework outside. That’s when he burst in, firing wildly. I had no choice but to let go - to close my eyes and fall backwards.
As I fall, I feel the wind rush past my ears - and it’s deafening. Even then, my life doesn’t flash before my eyes. But I do hear Jodie’s voice - a whisper, cutting through the scream of the air.
She says my name.
The last image I see before I hit the ground is a memory of us. You’d think it’d be a special moment - us laughing together, or making love - but it isn’t. It’s completely innocuous. Dull. She’s offering me a Tic Tac, even though she knows I won’t say yes, because she knows I don’t like them.
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 012.
I wake up, which is in itself a good sign. Though my eyes are open, the pain is astronomical. I can feel my arms and my legs - again, a positive, but my left leg is definitely broken. Left arm, at the very least dislocated. I’m in what feels like an empty bathtub. I reach around and feel what seems to be the faucet of a sink, which I use to hoist myself upright. The lights are off, but as my eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, I can just about make out the bottom of a light cord by the adjacent wall. It takes me no less than an hour to grit through the pain and find the resolve to reach over and turn it on.
To my surprise, the door isn’t locked - and as I peer out through the gap, I realise I’m back in the flat again. I catch a glimpse at my face in the mirror and it isn’t a pretty sight. My left eye is almost hidden by the swelling of the flesh around it. My nose caked in blood, probably broken too. Little shards of glass and stone all over me. I must have fallen a considerable way, then been dragged back up here by Debbie’s parents. Why didn’t they just kill me like Trudy? Maybe they thought I was dead.
I limp pathetically out into the hallway, telling myself I’m being stealthy - but anyone would hear me coming. What becomes apparent though is, there’s nobody here anymore. Wardrobes have been raided - cupboards emptied. It takes me another 30 minutes or so to get as far as the living room, but I regret the journey when I see what’s left of Trudy. No effort has been made to hide her, or clear up the scene, which is a boon for me as she still has her police radio. Prying it from her belt, I press down the button with my one good hand (which, as it happens, is torn to shreds) and put out a garbled call for help. There is a response, but I can’t make it out over the low hum that’s living in my head.
I pull myself up onto the sofa, slouching down - and try to focus on items in the room to keep myself awake. A cold mug of tea on the side. A porcelain figurine of a horse, standing on its back legs. A framed photograph of what looks like Debbie at a birthday party. The balloons say ‘16!’. Debbie looks happy, with a big group of girls around her. Not Autogynes. Her friends. His friends, I mean. Oh, forget it - her friends. I don’t have the energy to keep correcting myself in my head. I barely have the energy to keep my eyes open. I hear what sounds like sirens. Then frantic footsteps coming up the stairs - people shouting my name. Shouting Trudy’s name. I black out again.
When I wake back up again, I know where I am. There is an IV in one arm, and a cast on the other. One leg is propped up, like in a Laurel and Hardy film. I have a private ward, and nobody is around. It must be the middle of the night. I go to sleep.
When I wake back up again, I’m still there - but it’s the morning. I don’t notice her at first, but sitting next to me, reading a magazine, is Jodie.
“Jo?”
“You’re awake! Oh my God Char…”
She goes in to hug me, but stops - realising that navigating the IV and the other wires would be too difficult. Instead, she places one warm hand on my good arm.
“How are you feeling? Want me to get you something? Morphine? I’ll call the nurse.”
“No no, I’m okay. You’re really here aren’t you?”
Jodie laughs. I love that smile.
“Yes I’m really here. The nurse isn’t happy about it - said it’s not visiting hours. Have you seen her? She’s a real bat…”
I squeeze Jodie’s hand and try to pull her in closer. She sees what I’m aiming at, and helps me by leaning over the bed. I whisper into her ear.
“Can I have a Tic Tac?”
“I don’t know about that Char, no solids for you at the moment. I can help you clean your teeth though, if that’s what…”
“I know it’s the Tic Tacs Jodie”.
She stops. Moves away, and looks around the room.
“Are you alright? How much morphine have they got you on?”
“No, I get it. It’s smart. Really clever…”
I wait for her to reply, but she doesn’t say anything. Just looks down at me, her eyes watery and glistening. Slowly, she sits back down in the guest chair, and pours herself a cup of water.
“I’m not going to tell anyone. You don’t need to worry”.
“Tell anyone what? I don’t know what you’re talking about Char…”
“The Tic Tacs. They’re hormones aren’t they? If I’m wrong, give me some”.
She won’t look me in the eye, but I can feel her panic. I reach out for her hand but she yanks it away.
“What, so you can take them to Trudy and get them tested? So you can go and tell everyone there’s an Autogyne on the force? So you can have me put away into one of those disgusting fucking TWI nut-houses? Oh wait, you can’t, can you? - because you got Trudy’s head blown off”.
She knew. I knew. What now?
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 013.
The palpable fear in Jodie’s face makes me feel monstrous. How could she think I’d turn her in? Except, of course she thinks that. In what universe would she not be thinking that? Words alone simply aren’t gonna cut it here, but I’d be remiss not to at least try.
“Jodie. I wouldn’t do that”.
“What if I ran? Disappeared completely? Then what?”
“I don’t see why you’d need to do that Jo. I swear, I’m not going to say anything. I… I love you. All I want is you”.
Jodie doesn’t reciprocate. She’s too cornered to think of anything else.
“Just tell me why Jodie. Or, how even? I mean, it’s mad really…”
She whispers through gritted teeth.
“I’m not ‘mad’. I’m resourceful. I’ve always passed well. Started young, never had any issues. What would you have done? If you were me, would you have just let yourself get locked away?”
My head was spinning - partly due to the medication, but also because of how confusing this all was.
“But Jo, I don’t get it. You’re so good at your job. Are you saying you don’t believe in any of it?”
Jodie’s expression is like stone.
“You think I’m ‘good’ at this? I’ll tell you what I’m ‘good’ at - hiding. I’m good at protecting myself. You think it’s been easy doing this? Every day I lose a bit more of my soul”.
The stone breaks. I can see her lip start to quiver. Did she really think a day like this wouldn’t come?
“I’ve justified it to myself in lots of ways, Char. Told myself it’s the price I’m paying for real freedom. Told myself that I’m going to bring it all down from the inside one day. But I won’t, will I? There’s no freedom in it. Times run out”.
It’s a strange thing, being told by the person who taught you something that they themselves don’t really believe in it. It doesn’t cure you. Doesn’t take away your prejudices. The truth is, Jodie was a good teacher. If she was only pretending this whole time, she was pretending convincingly. And I was convinced. But I was a hypocrite. I didn’t see Jodie as an Autogyne - as the same as the others. And I told her as much.
“You’re wrong Char. I am exactly the same as Debbie. And I’m exactly the same as Helen Herr. I’m exactly the same as all of them. Surely, you must know what I’ve been doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Helen Herr. You think I don’t know where she is? You think I’ve not been muddying the waters? Deleting the CCTV footage? Not just her, either. Debbie as well. I helped her get out of the TWI early, and I helped her parents get away after Trudy’s death…”
“What are you saying to me?”
“Are you stupid? I helped them drag your body back into the lift. Dealt with the CCTV. Put you in the bath”.
“You’re lying”.
“I’m not Char. Not anymore. I’ve done a lot of things I regret, for my own self-preservation. The least I could do was try and even the scales a bit”.
Something catches Jodie’s eye. Something behind my head.
“What? What is it?”
“Nothing. I was just… oh God… honestly?”
“Yes, honestly! What were you thinking just now? I want to know”.
“I was thinking of grabbing that pillow there, and putting it over your face and holding it down until you stopped breathing. I was thinking about covering it up as an overdose - and wondering if I still had the energy to carry on living how I have been…”
I didn’t reply. How do you reply to something like that? She didn’t love me, and she never would. Maybe I should have been thinking about my life at that moment, but all I could think about was the fact that there had never been any hope of a relationship with Jodie. To her, all I was was a part of her facade.
“Don’t worry Char… I’m not going to. Usually, I can see it clearly - the next steps. It’s not coming to me this time”.
“We can sort this out Jodie…”
“I know.”
That’s when she got up and put on her coat, and I had the inescapable feeling that I’d never see her again. And I was right - not alive anyway. That next morning her body was discovered washed up on the bank of The Thames. CCTV recovered from the area clearly shows Jodie, climbing up onto the side of the Millennium Bridge, and then disappearing off the side into the darkness of the waters below.
She didn’t leave a note. No parting words or profound last statements. Just a single box of Tic Tacs, sitting on the fold out bed table in my hospital room.
Field Log: DCI Charlotte Frasier. 014.
I didn’t go to the funeral because I was still in the hospital, but when I did eventually get out I visited Jodie’s grave. Nice placement - right under a shady tree - birds chirping. Some of the Autogyne Unit left little trinkets on the grave - little inside jokes between them, symbols of friendship and references I’ll probably never understand. I had my own - a fresh box of Tic Tacs, orange and lime. I wondered how long it would be until everyone found out the truth? It wouldn’t be from me, but eventually someone would put 2 and 2 together. Her flat will be cleared out, and connections will be made. I wonder what will happen to her grave then.
Will she be exhumed? Have her bones analysed, just to make sure? Will her tombstone be altered to have her old name on it (whatever it was)? Or will her remains be relocated? There are already cemeteries starting to pop up which have gender-segregated sections. I thought it was a good idea a few months ago, but now I can’t seem to even see the logic in it. It makes me wonder how many other things I was taken in by? Things that feel like solid common sense in the moment, but dissolve like sugar in water as soon as you step away for a little while.
While I was recovering, I heard an interview on the radio from the ‘United Church of Suffrage’ - a relatively new Christian denomination who are strictly woman-only. They were talking about how the different needs of women in society calls for a different approach to faith. Its members go by ‘Eveists’ and shun a lot of the more patriarchal traditions of mainline Christianity.
They believe in a separate female heaven (and I guess a female hell?) They have two physical Churches in London already, and I suspect the separate cemeteries are something to do with them. They say their memberships are growing faster than they can manage - and that rumours about their clandestine practices are ‘exaggerations’. I don’t know exactly what she was referring to.
I told Jodie about all of this. Told her about the nurse in the hospital who helped herself to one of her ‘Tic Tacs’ that she left for me. I told her that I hadn’t been back to the precinct yet, and that I wasn’t sure what I was doing anymore. I told her how much I missed her, and how fucking stupid she is for everything. How angry I am at her. She didn’t reply, of course. No signs - the sun didn’t come out from behind the clouds. No rare bird appeared. I wondered which heaven she’d be in right now. Probably the Eveist one, given her record. She was probably beloved up there.
I also missed Trudy’s funeral, of course. I don’t know where she’s buried.
The AU has offered me some counseling sessions, which they want me to start before I can come back onto the force. Right now though, I can’t really imagine going back. Maybe I can ask for a transfer? Something slower. Or, maybe I do something completely different? I’ve always been interested in politics.
I don’t think I’d be much use on the AU now, anyway. Whenever I see or hear about an ‘Autogyne’, either on the run or freshly marked, I just think about Jodie. I think about that fear in her eyes back at the hospital - when she realised I’d figured it out.
None of this is going to be published in my actual field report. If the AU wants the truth, they’ll just have to figure it out themselves. After this sentence I’m going to delete it, and that’ll be it - my last gift to Jodie - FULL STOP.
Congratulations on finding this. Your choice of library books is excellent! Did you enjoy it? I think there’s a lot of interesting stuff in there, but it definitely trails off a bit towards the end, doesn’t it? Ultimately, you can tell a man wrote it. There are better Gore Vidal books. The film is good too, if you can find it. A lot of critics panned it at the time - and it is odd, but Raquel Welch plays a worthy Myra, and I especially love the opening title sequence.
Anyway…
The piece of paper you hold in your hands right now is, believe it or not, the beginning of a map of sorts - one that, if you can follow the trail successfully, might lead us to one day meet in person. But, you understand, I need to be sure you’re somebody I want to meet. Somebody who thinks like I do. Who isn’t a woolf in sheep’s clothing, so to speak. Someone who, in the search for true autonomy and freedom is willing to travel across sea Or land. Oh, and you’ll have to be smart. You’ll have to figure out for yourself which book to read next!
Find me. I’m dying to meet you. Let’s start a book club?
Be as good as you can.
Breckinridge x
15
​
Interrogation Log: DCI Nathaniel Thomas
Subject: Charlotte Frasier (former DCI/AGU)
Transcribed from tape recording
N: Hi Charlotte, how you holding up? Can I get you anything? Coke, water?
C: No.
N: I’m just going to pull this chair over (INAUDIBLE). It’s been a while hasn’t it?
[Silence]
N: Look, it doesn’t need to be this difficult. I don’t want to see you like this. Nobody does. If you just start cooperating, we’ll be able to get everything cleared up and you can leave.
C: So you’re the Good Cop?
[Silence]
N: I’m not coming to you as a cop, Char. I’m not trying to play games with you - trick you. We just want to get things sorted out. To understand how all this happened. Clearly we’ve got some serious holes to patch up here at the AU. I know you’re not with us anymore, but you’re still with us aren’t you?
[Silence]
N: You don’t want to talk to me, I get it. I can always ask my partner to come back in? She said you and her had a good talk before I got here?
C: You’re fucking sick Nathaniel, you know that?
N: You know how this goes, Char. You’ve been in this chair before.
C: It’s wrong. All of this, it’s [INAUDIBLE].
N: You’re only saying that because you fell for it. You feel embarrassed, I get it. I would be too if I got tricked into bed by a tranny. Aw, were you ‘in love’? That’s so romantic.
C: I thought it was policy to say ‘Autogyne’?
N: You know as well as I do there’s no difference. Look, we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. You think I like doing this? I don’t, Char. I care about you, and I want to see you do the right thing. I believe in second chances, and I’m giving you one right now. All I want to know is - how long did you know about Jodie, and did he tell you anything about the other Autogynes he was protecting?
C: Really Nath? ‘He’? After all these years.
N: See, that’s the thing Charlotte - I have principles. I actually believe in this thing. You think I joined the AU for a laugh? No, I joined because I understand the danger Autogynes place on society. What they do to pervert the sanity of the public consciousness. How they distort our kids' minds.
C: What kids? You don’t have any kids.
N: You know what I mean. Why did you join - because you weren’t smart enough for Homicide?
C: I never should have. I can see that now.
N: I’m going to level with you, alright? If you don’t start giving me something, a man is going to come in here soon and he’s going to mark you. I don’t want that to happen, but it will. He’s setting up the machine as we speak.
C: Mark me? With what? I’m not one of your Autogynes.
N: With an ‘X’.
C: Just one? What is that supposed to mean?
N: It means you’re a traitor to your sex. It means you’d rather throw biological women and girls under the bus to validate the perversions of a bunch of crossdressers. It means, Char, that you’ll not be able to show your face in public again without everyone knowing. What do you say to that?
C: I’m done talking to you Nathaniel.
N: Right then. Wait here, I’ll go and get him.
For months Breckinridge walked, stopping only to sleep or pass water. Alone, and aimless, She realised that forward momentum was the only meaningful force. She had much time to think, and to dream of the place She might be heading towards, though likely it did not exist and doubtful, though it may be, that She would ever get there if it did - still, the moving toward it was enough.
Breckinridge was not Her name, but She had chosen to take it. Her previous name had too not been Her first, but She had outgrown it then. Her name, previous even to that, was not even worth stating (or recounting), as was the fish from which the tetrapod evolved, and so on and so on. It was behind Her now, a symbol of weakness, and She would encourage others to do the same as She.
Breckinridge spent many a night and day in the woods, off lay-bys and motorways, where others seldom rest and cameras have no dominion. Food was found, as and when, and stolen in times of desperation. When emerging in public, She shrouded Her face, and frequented libraries, leaving maps along Her way, tucked into books and magazines and DVD cases. To Breckinbridge these were seeds, to be left dormant until time of their discovery, and then, hopefully, set to germinate and blossom when in the right hands.
Her journey was long, and arduous, and fraught with peril. There are many stories to be told, in fact, of trials overcome - foes bested and narrow escapes, which you may one day learn the details of. But for now I must tell you of a place, mysterious as any other off the beaten path, in which Breckinridge found shelter, and solitude. A farm house, derelict and abandoned, all but for one lone horse. Breckinridge approached it with caution, but it was too emaciated to truly pose any risk.
Breckinridge stayed with this horse for some time - journeying into the nearby town only to steal food for the both of them, and in the evenings, She would tell the horse about her situation. It was a good listener, and they grew close. Breckinridge did not name it, in keeping with her personal philosophy, but chose instead to hold it in high reverence. From this, curious reader, is where The Equinilians derive their namesake - and from which their mysterious order was birthed.
Breckinridge spent many a month at the Farm House undisturbed, however the feeling that one day She might be found never escaped her. From time to time a sound from the nearby road would prompt Her to hide, or pack up to flee, but it never did materialise into a real threat. Somehow, against all the odds She had found true solitude.
Breckinridge read every one of the books left abandoned in the Farm House - no matter how dull or obscure. How to tie knots. Agriculture. Cook books. Advanced sewing. And in the gaps between reading, She would outline Her plans to the horse, who thought they were good.
Lo, Breckinridge outlined Her first Sacred Edict of the Order of Equilinians.
-
Be Nice to the Horse
If One should meet a horse, One should await its approach with patience. Greet a horse with offerings of food and water, and detach any harness or restraint. If the horse should want to leave, do not attempt to stop it. NEVER ride the horse. Speak kindly to it, and tell it your deepest secrets - and it will repay you in profound, mysterious ways. It may speak back to you. It may enter your dreams while you sleep. It may allow you to touch it - to stroke its back.
In truth, Breckinridge did fear the horse at first. But She had learnt an important lesson from a dog some time ago, not to judge a book by its cover - not a horse by its eyes, or imposing stature, or reputation.
One day though, the horse did leave. Breckinridge awoke one morning to find Herself alone, and in that dark time had to make due with Her own company. This is when Breckinridge outlined Her second Sacred Edict of the Order of the Equilinians.
2. Tame Thy Bladder
If One is to overcome Her oppressor, One must learn to hold Herself. Meditations must be practised and perfected. We do not wish to imitate the horse, to expel water as and when needed, for we have not yet earned that higher position. Instead, we must overcome it. Mind over Water. It is the only way.
Breckinridge had trialled many routines. Drinking more water, but limiting Herself to no more than three expellings per-day. Breathing exercises and focused meditations. Often, She would let the tap drip for hours on end while in deep meditation, attempting to overcome Her physiology. Many failures were had, but no shame was felt. Breckinridge knew this would be a life’s work. Improvements would be gradual.
One glorious day the horse returned, and it was not alone. With it, was a second horse - larger in stature. The first horse too was different somehow. Less approachable. Perhaps, Breckinridge deduced, there were actually three.
Breckinridge continued to check the local library, wondering if any had yet found Her maps, and responded in-kind. Alas, nothing. She began to wonder if any ever would. Perhaps, thought Breckinridge, it was all for nought. Perhaps this old Farm House would end up as her final resting place?
But, curious reader, The Fates sometimes have their own designs. Little did Breckinridge know that at this very moment of doubt, someone was making their way toward Her - through the trees and across the hills - to give Her purpose once again. To read her edicts and to join Her in-kind. To read, and to meditate, and to help Her steal food.
16
The horror of it is, the more I struggled - the worse the tattoo came out. So you have to submit to it, or else you’re left with something even bigger - even more noticeable. But it isn’t the pain of the needle on your skin, it’s the knowledge that it’s permanent. That it isn’t your choice. None of them ‘wanted to do it’ they told me, as they continued to do it regardless, and after it was done I was escorted out of the precinct and told not to come back.
Getting it removed won’t be possible - this is just my face now. Not only is tattoo removal illegal, so are personal tattoos. When they first began closing down all the tattoo studios, I didn’t think too much about it. Tattoos have always seemed like an odd luxury to me - not something I would choose to get anyway. I thought about it once, when I was a teenager, but never could come up with something I cared enough about to commit to my body permanently like that.
A lot of my friends would get nonsense ones. I once knew a girl who had the Dr. Pepper logo on her leg. She didn’t think twice about it - just wanted one. You can’t do that now. After the Autogyne Law, body-modification in general became more taboo. All the studios were turned into recruitment offices, or coffee shops, or newsagents. So I can’t even get this ‘X’ covered - turned into something more palatable. I don’t know what that would even be… a swastika? Joke. Or am I? It probably would be.
When I got back to my flat it had been ransacked. Cupboards emptied - mattress overturned. Even my plates and mugs were smashed. I don’t know what they were looking for… maybe some proof of collusion? Maybe they just wanted to scare me. Now that I think about it though - as I type this - I realise they must have been looking for my work laptop. If they’d have thought to ask, I had it on my person while they were ruining my face. It didn’t exactly prompt me to hand it over.
Aside from the ‘Tic Tacs’ Jodie did leave me one extra gift before she left. Access. All that CCTV footage and intelligence she’d gathered over the past couple of months. Helen Herr. I keep the laptop ‘offline’ now, of course - but I backed it all up. I know where she is, roughly, and I’m currently on my way there to find her. Not to hurt her, or to bring her in. I just want to talk. Ask her some things. She didn’t know her, I’m aware, but I want to understand Jodie better. I want to know what goes on at the TWI. To know who my ‘enemy’ has been this whole time. And why.
I know how I must come across. Hypocrit. I’ve done awful things - things I only see as ‘awful’ now in hindsight - now that I’ve been affected personally. And it’s true - I am. If I’d never found out about Jodie, I’d still be hunting Autogynes. I’d still hate them. I’d still think they were all the same - all mentally ill perverts, obsessed with taking my rights away. But Jodie wasn’t that. Jodie was a woman, as far as I’m concerned, who was in a desperate situation. If I were her, I probably would have done something similar. And this Helen Herr - I think she’s the same.
I guess the way I see it (and this might seem cynical to you) is that, if I’m going to be marked with an ‘X’ - as a traitor to womankind - I may as well live up to it. Clearly, this is who they want me to be. Like I said before, it’s not coming off. Autogynes never held me down - never disfigured me against my will. The life I once knew is over now… I might as well explore other options.
So far, I’ve been alright in public. I’m sitting in a service station coffee shop as I write this now - and I’ve gotten a few stares, but that’s only because I still have a bandage on my face. Sooner or later, it’s going to have to come off, and everyone’ll get to see the ‘X’. As far as I know, most of the public don’t know what it signifies yet, but there’ll most certainly be a TV campaign about it soon enough, and then who knows?
In a few hours I’ll be at Helen Herr’s last known location - a village shop where she was caught on CCTV shoplifting 2 bags of apples, a loaf of bread and some chocolate. She has a better diet than I do right now - I’ve been existing primarily on bags of crisps from service stations.
17
Lo, Breckinridge awoke that fateful morning with no knowledge of the presence that moved toward Her. She did as She always did, feeding the horses and washing Her hair in the nearby stream. She ate a breakfast of burnt toast and peanut butter, having forgotten about it on the grill while conversing with the horses about Her plans. She tried to keep up these talks with the horses, as they helped Her to visualise Her next steps. This morning however, it had been fruitless - and though She hated to admit it, She realised She was all out of ideas.
Upon the arrival of the afternoon, Breckinridge noticed unease in the horses. One especially was agitated, and flared its nostrils and would not allow itself to be touched. This is when Breckinridge noticed the figure in the distance, making its way over the hill - slowly toward the farmhouse. Breckinridge had always known this day would come, and sprung into the routine She had played out in Her head night after night, rushing into the farm house - locking the door behind Her - and grabbing the iron poker by the fireplace She had never once dared to light.
From the upstairs window, Breckinridge watched tensely as the figure grew closer and closer, until She could identify its features. A ponytail. Ladies suit bottoms - white top. A blazer over one arm. Backpack. Breckinridge knelt down behind the windowsill as the figure knocked upon the farmhouse door.
“Hello? Is anyone home?”
Breckinridge did not respond. She knew better than to out herself willingly. This stranger, whoever they were, had no right to Her company. No right to Her lifestyle.
“Helen? Helen Herr, are you in there?”
Breckinridge tensed. She plotted out Her escape route - down the stairs and out the back door. She thought She might just start running, as fast as She could, into the wilderness of the trees.
“Helen - if you’re in there, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m alone. And I know you have no reason to trust me, but I want you to know that I want to help you. If you’re in there, you don’t have to come out or let me in. I just want to talk…”
As the figure turned around to leave, Breckinridge’s mouth did something Her mind had not authorised… it responded. It asked a question She feared She may well regret.
“Who are you? What do you want?”