This work is fictitious, and any
similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life
only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of
medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be
the fount of all knowledge.
The author accepts the right of the
individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views,
and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your
problem.
This is only a story, and it
contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details
pertaining to genitalia. If this is
likely to offend, then don’t read it.
Unfortunately no politicians were injured
or killed in the writing of this story, and no one else was either.
If you enjoyed it, then please Email me
and tell me. If you hated it, Email me
and lie.
I will always welcome contact.
The legal stuff.
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and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether
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for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through
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the author.
Synopsis.
Alexander, at 16 is the only son of an
aging criminal, and is left alone for most of the time. He has a secret, and lives in a fantasy word
of the internet chat rooms where he can be Sandi, the vivacious and sexy pretty
girl of his dreams.
But events catch up with his
father, and Alex is forced to become Sandi to escape the gangsters who are
after his Dad.
But Sandi does more than wear
a disguise. And the girl is here to
stay.
Twisted
Dreams
I sat in the very bleak waiting area,
feeling very nervous and about as insecure as I had ever been, not least
because of the task I knew I had to undertake.
I was a stranger in a strange land.
I watched the rain lash against the window, and was grateful for the
lift to the hospital in the police car. I had sat in silence for the
twenty-minute trip. The young uniformed NYPD officer was obviously aware of the
purpose of my journey, and did not really know what to say to me.
I stood up, and walked across the grey
lino floor, to stare out of the window for the twentieth time. I was conscious of the sound of my high
heels on the hard floor. As I looked out into the darkness, with the rain
running down the outside of the panes, I could see my reflection in the window.
A tall, pretty girl, in her late teens or early twenties stared back at me, her
long, fair hair cascading across her shoulders, and her dark skirt ending a few
inches above her knees, and her long attractive legs clad in sheer
stockings.
I
was actually nineteen, but looked older. I wore a dark turtle-neck sweater, and
a broad cream belt on the outside of the sweater, emphasising my hourglass
figure. I had a coat, but it was lying
on a chair to my left. My black leather shoulder bag was slung across my
shoulder, and I felt no doubt that this was the person I should always have
been. I opened my bag, and using my compact mirror, repaired my makeup. After all, it had been a long day, and was
not over yet.
“Miss Lake?” A male voice asked. I turned, and saw a white coated woman and a
man in a suit. He looked like a
policeman. I’d seen a few of them in the last few months.
“Yes.”
He smiled, those half apologetic and half
embarrassed smiles of officials everywhere, who have to give you bad news.
“Thanks for coming, Miss Lake. I am Lieutenant Collinson, NYPD Homicide. I
understand that you have been through a hell of a time. I am sorry about what
has happened, and I hope this will not be too distressing for you.”
“What
happened to him?” I asked.
“I am not certain yet. There is an
ongoing active investigation into his death, but we do actually have reason to
believe that it was a homicide,” he said, and I watched his eyes narrow as he
tried to gauge my reaction.
“Reason?”
“We aren’t certain. We do know that he was assisting Federal
officers, and was, ah, actually in touch with a Federal Agent even a few days
ago. It is rather confused by the fact
that we have a record that he died over two years ago in Miami. But when we ran his prints through New
Scotland Yard, it came back as your father.”
“How did he die, this time?” I asked.
“This time?”
“Last time they said he was shot by a
policeman, so what is the story this time?”
I felt sorry for the poor man. He only
had some of the pieces of the jigsaw, and he didn’t know whether I had the rest
or not.
“That can only be determined officially
by autopsy.”
“Come on. Was he shot, stabbed or what?”
“He has a single bullet wound to his
heart. But that is unofficial at this
time.”
I
stared at him, aware that I was giving nothing away. I nodded, and almost smiled.
“I suppose I expected it,” I said, and he
frowned.
“Oh?”
“Lieutenant Collinson, I know that he was
hardly an angel. I had to identify him
last time, only to find him alive and on a witness protection programme. His
actual activities were never revealed to me, but over the last few years I have
been made aware that he was mixed up in all kinds of things. Last year he told me he had information that
the FBI found useful, but I have no idea what that information was. I do know that a substantial amount of
cocaine was seized along with an awful lot of money.
“As you probably know, I was the subject
of a kidnap attempt, and had been under police protection for some time,
because of information that I passed to them from him. My father and I were not dreadfully close,
but we did love each other in a funny sort of way,” I was aware that I sounded
awfully English.
“Well, shall we get the formal
identification over with, and then we could discuss things?” he said.
“Will I need a solicitor?” I asked, and
he smiled at my very Englishness, and shook his head.
“No, you don’t need a lawyer, you are not
implicated in any crime in the United States.
But you could help me clear up quite a lot that I don’t understand.”
I followed the pair through the doors
marked Morgue and we entered a long room with large cooler doors down one
side. The woman checked her clipboard,
and opened one of the fridge doors.
There were three tiers of body trays, and she pulled out the middle one. A figure was covered by a plain pale blue
sheet. She looked at me, and then at
the cop. He nodded, and she pulled back
the sheet.
I don’t know what I expected, but it
wasn’t what I saw.
My father looked more peaceful than I
could ever remember. So much so, that I
surprised myself by finding tears in my eyes.
I was crying for the bastard. He
was lying on his back, the sheet revealed he was not wearing anything on his
upper torso, and I assumed he was naked.
His eyes were closed, and he looked asleep. He wasn’t asleep. It was his pale colouring, and totally relaxed
muscle tone that gave it away. Even his
hair looked neat and tidy. That hair
that he had spent so much time on, keeping it the right colour and always so
neat. The last time I saw him he had
been trying to grow it back after having shaved it all off. I was glad he managed it.
I nodded, and said, “That is my father,
Jonathon Edward Lake,” Even to my ears, my voice sounded flat and emotionless.
“May I touch him?” I asked.
“Of course. If you want.”
I reached out and stroked his cheek. It was as cold as ice. He was definitely dead, this time.
The woman replaced the sheet, and slid
the drawer back and closed the door.
“Are you sure that is your father?” The
detective asked.
“Oh yes, that’s Dad. He looks pretty good, considering,” I said, with a little smile.
“I
need to get some paperwork completed first, and then I will get you a cup of
coffee or something. There are some
personal effects. You can have them now,” he said.
I signed a form stating that I positively
identified the body as my father, and another form that, as his only next-of-kin,
I was taking custody of all the personal effects that were on him when he was
brought in.
I was handed a large clear plastic bag
with a red plastic seal around it.
I signed another form for the hospital
that I released the body to the Coroner for post mortem examination by
autopsy. This was a mere formality, as
there would be a PM regardless of my wishes.
They explained that once the autopsy had established cause of death, the
body would be released to me for burial, or cremation.
“I actually buried him nearly two years
ago. Can I have the ashes sent to me,
and I will dispose of them appropriately?” I asked. “Is it possible that the
publicity on this can be kept to a minimum?
Only the last case was highly publicised as part of an FBI operation,
and he went into the witness protection programme.”
“That has already been arranged. The FBI are dealing with that side of
things, but we still have a homicide to investigate.”
“But he is already dead, legally.”
“Not as Charles Armitage, and that is who
he is, legally.”
The joys of being an only child of an
unsuccessful criminal.
The Lieutenant took me out of the Morgue
and to his car. He drove a short
distance from the hospital, and pulled up outside a bar/diner.
“Look, Miss Lake, Jim Randall from
Scotland Yard called me, so I know some of what has happened to you, but not
everything. If it will help, I’d like
to hear your side. After all, it is a very unusual story. It is not every day I get to take a top
fashion model out for a drink.”
I stared out of the car window, the
wipers were still going, and the rain was making the lights refract into weird
patterns. New York seemed a lot seedier
like this.
I looked down at my hands, which were
clasped together in my lap, the long manicured nails glistening darkly as the
light reflected off the red varnish.
The single engagement ring gleamed on my left ring finger, and I
twiddled it absently, and smiled as I thought of him, my rock, who was several
thousand miles away when I really needed him.
I realised that with my father’s death,
my long ordeal was over, and with a little luck, I really could now pick up my
life and start afresh. However, I’d
been here before, and here I was again. The enormity of everything I had
experienced, and the relief that it was all over hit me like a double whammy,
and I almost broke down into tears.
I sat there and the tears threatened to
well up. Finally, I could not contain them and they streamed down my face, and
then the sobs started. Great heaving
sobs, but as always when I cried, almost totally soundlessly.
The detective was clearly at a bit of a
loss, and he looked so uncomfortable that it made me start to laugh. It was
enough to make me stop.
He handed me a tissue, and I blew my nose
and wiped my eyes. I took out my make
up, and cleaned up and repaired my mascara.
“I’m okay now. I’m sorry, but is suppose it has just dawned on me that it is
finally, actually over,” I said, and he smiled.
“Come on, Miss Lake, I’ll buy you a
coffee, or something stronger.”
“Can
you call me Sandi, Miss Lake sounds awfully official?”
“Sure, Sandi, if that makes you feel
happier.”
I smiled a little, and we got out of the
car.
I followed him into the bar, and we sat
in a secluded booth. A waitress came
over and he ordered a glass of wine for me, and a beer for himself.
He sat opposite me, and I sipped my wine.
“Where would you like me to start?” I
asked.
“How about the beginning? It is usually
the best place,” he said, with a smile.
I smiled, took a deep breath, and cast my
mind back two years.