Chapter 4: 4. Room and Bored

2019 October 14
Monday

It’s the intercom that wakes him, but it’s not shrieking with feedback this time, and the voice that comes out isn’t shouting.

“Are you okay?” Christine whispers, over the speaker. “Don’t turn over. We’re not supposed to be talking to each other. I’ve muted the microphone in your room, but the camera is active, which means someone’s watching you right now. You’re facing away from it; stay like that.”

He doesn’t want to say anything. After his interrogation at the hands of the blonde woman and a night of some of the worst sleep he’s ever had, all he wants to do is lie on the thin, uncomfortable mattress, stare at nothing and slip in and out of consciousness. Maybe wrap the ugly, scratchy smock tightly around his own throat.

He’s never before seriously believed himself vulnerable to dysphoria. Thought of his body as just the thing he lives in. Worried, in the back of his mind, that it means he’s not really trans. Periodically he even convinces himself it means his persistent curiosity about the female experience is nothing more than a fantasy, or a fetish.

Stefan’s never felt so horrifyingly male before.

The blonde woman lectured him for what felt like hours. Stefan kept silent, as much as he could, but it seemed like it only encouraged her. Stubborn boy. Not listening. Pathetic. He was an insect she’d found on the sole of her shoe, and no matter how many times she stamped on him, he wouldn’t cooperate and die.

She told him he was ugly. Violent. Dangerous to be around.

Clumsy. Oafish. An affront to grace.

She held his name against him with malicious glee, branded him with it, burned it into his skin.

She treated his body and his spirit as if they were interchangeable, both of them tainted by maleness. Manhood as weapon, wielded by him against all those around him. Manhood as disease, one he was too weak to recover from, too stupid even to recognise. Over and over again she put him in his body, exposed it to him, made his very nature despicable.

Stefan found it hard, in the end, not to believe her. So many of his own fears, barely articulated until last night, placed in her mouth and spat back at him.

He wants out. Out of this cell or out of this body. Either will do.

“I’m not okay,” he says.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Why did she say all those things?”

“She’s… very angry. At herself as much as you, I think.”

“She hated me.”

“It’s not supposed to be personal. It’s part of the programme here. Think of it like an entrance exam.”

“An entrance exam for what?” He raises his voice, can’t help it. If he could shriek loud enough to expel last night from his memory, from his body, he would. He itches in a way that has nothing to do with the smock.

“Don’t turn over! The camera will see you talking!”

Stefan freezes. Keeps his eyes closed and carefully moderates his breathing. Clenches a fist as hard as he can and concentrates on the pain in his knuckles; you can’t obsess over your whole body if you’re forced to deal with the one part of it that really, really hurts, right?

An old trick. Stefan wonders, too late, if someone who believes his life hasn’t been defined by dysphoria should have quite so many tricks like that.

Concentrate!

This place, whatever it is, has Christine so scared of being caught talking to him that she ran off before the blonde woman found her outside his cell. So scared that she’s hijacked the intercom system instead of coming down to see him again. Does the blonde woman, or whoever she works for, whoever she represents, have power over Christine, too?

“I’m sorry,” she whispers over the speaker. “I’ve made a huge mess.”

He releases his fist and rolls back over to face the wall again. “What is this place?” he asks.

“Long story. Look, I’m going to get you out. Last night made that process… a little more complicated than it has to be, but mostly only for me. You should have just had another night of isolation and shit food. Another couple of days of it, actually. But I think she’s accelerated the programme, and if she has, she might take you out of your room today, to visit the other boys.”

“There are more—?”

“Please just listen. If she does, you have to continue to act like you don’t know anything. It’s awful, I’m well aware. And the other boys, they’ve all done something. It’s why they’re here. Sometimes it’s something violent, sometimes it’s more like… social violence. The other boys will think you’re like them. Try to roll with it. And the girl who berated you last night, she thinks you’re like them, too. It’s part of why she hates you so much.”

“She thinks I’m violent? Is that why she said all those things?”

“Yes. I mean, it’s also because she’s, uh, working out some issues. But yes.”

“Why does she think I’m violent?”

“Because you’re here. Good men don’t end up here. Just go along with it for one more day, be the bad guy they think you are, and I’ll come see you tonight and get you out. I have to go.”

“Just tell me what this place is!”

“It’s a long story and I don’t have time. I’m still in the programme here myself, and I have inspection any minute. Sit tight, and I promise you’ll see me tonight.”

“What do you mean, you’re still in the programme?” Stefan says, but the slight hum from the intercom has ceased; she’s gone.

 

* * *

 

Tonight’s her last chance. The next step after the first session — the debasement Pippa subjected him to last night — is to introduce him to the other boys. The point is to move fast, to keep him off-balance. He’ll be shown the locked doors and the bare little dining area and the utilitarian bathroom facilities and made to understand that it will be his home until she says otherwise. And he’ll go back to his cell for one more night to stew, to get scared, to build up in his head the horrors that await him that have been up to that point only artfully implied.

It’ll be her last chance to catch him without anyone else around. Her last chance to get him out, to lead him quietly past every lock, to erase his data from the system. The implant in his belly will dissolve in a month or so. At most, he’ll feel a bit tired.

But Pippa is a problem. If she really is stepping up his introduction to the programme, then by tonight he will have seen the faces of all the other men taken this year. He’ll have seen the faces of several sponsors and possibly even their names. And he’ll know the exact layout of the cells and the common area and the bloody utilitarian bloody bathroom!

If only she’d gotten him out last night. She could have promised him all the answers he wants, snuck him off campus, told him some half-truths about the programme. Enough to convince him to stay quiet. Sure, Pippa would remember him, but it’s nothing a quick Photoshop job on their internal records and some fast talking couldn’t mitigate. There’d have been an investigation, and a tightening of security, and Christine would have had to back off from gleefully hacking Dorley’s network all the time, but she does little with her access but open doors she shouldn’t; no big loss.

But now… Now, when she gets him out he’ll want to go straight to the police. Armed guards? Men kept against their will? A whole underground facility? They look like a bunch of kidnappers! Worse: they actually are a bunch of kidnappers.

There’s only one solution: she’ll have to convince him of the worth of the programme before she walks him out. Make him understand it’s best for everyone if those boys stay put. God, it’s a big sell. Can she even be convincing enough? She believes in Dorley, sure, but does she believe in it enough to make an ironclad case for it? Does she really think every single one of her Sisters benefited the way she did? Does she genuinely, in her heart of hearts, believe the boys down in the basement will ultimately be better off?

“Or are you just saving your own hide, girl?” she whispers to herself.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

On the screen, Stefan is still facing the wall. He might be shaking. Last night hit him hard; harder than she expected, even when she saw how Pippa was going at him. Mostly the boys are indignant, defiant, like she had been. What’s different about him?

Maybe it’s just that he’s the first actually good person to be inducted into the programme. Well done, Christine.

The sound of the door just down the hall from hers opening and closing makes her jump; they’re done with Paige’s inspection. Quicker than she expected.

She shuts down the monitoring software she very much is not supposed to have, and takes stock: is she ready for this? No more or less than usual. Her room is in its normal state, tidy enough for anyone not pathologically obsessed with cleanliness, and therefore probably due a grudging C or C+ from Aunt Bea. Her laptop and phone are both innocently idle, all unauthorised software closed and lurking in a hidden partition, and her binder is open on her bed with the notes from her last Language Acquisition lecture facing up, written out in the looping handwriting that Indira, with some exasperation and amusement, encouraged her to adopt; she has to admit, it’s more readable than the scrawl with which she used to pollute the page. Ah, but she’s wearing her habitual casual clothes: a loose scoop vest, shorts, and white ankle socks. That’s probably going to lose her some points. Too busy worrying about Stefan to change into something with flowers on; hopefully the glittery fabric of the vest will be worth something, at least.

Too bad she has to go right after Paige. Paige, who already has thirty thousand followers on Instagram and a wardrobe full of influencer outfits. Paige, who very nearly graduated early, like Vicky, and was foiled only by a loss of composure near the end of her second year. Paige, who has blonde hair down to the small of her back and a heartbreaker smile. Next to her, Christine might as well be a donkey with a wig on.

Just as the lock on her dorm room door buzzes — the sound of someone other than her bypassing the biometrics — she quickly dashes to the cupboard, pulls out her plush pink penguin and her tiny fluffy rabbit and practically throws them at the pillow, adopting a relaxed, innocent, ‘just studying’ pose mere moments before the door opens and Aunt Bea strides in, followed by Abby.

Christine relaxes slightly. If Abby is acting as her sponsor today, standing in for Indira, this might not be so bad.

“Christine,” Aunt Bea says, opening with a broad smile, of the sort you might find waiting for you in a dark forest, surrounded by claws, “how are you this morning?”

Christine ostentatiously puts down her binder and places her hands carefully in her lap. “I’m very well, Aunt Bea.” Please don’t notice the concealer under my eyes, she thinks.

“Such a shame you are still in your pyjamas.”

“Oh, um,” Christine stammers, “this is just what I’m wearing today.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, she realises Aunt Bea was actually offering her an out: ‘Oh, yes, Aunt Bea, I was just about to get changed into my prom dress or my pink blouse or my pretty bloody pinafore, you simply caught me amidst my morning ablutions,’ or some shit. Too slow, Christine.

“Hmm. Rather… boyish, don’t you think?”

Christine affects a pout and stands up to look at herself in the full-length they all have in their rooms. “Do you think so?” she says, injecting disappointment into her voice. “I was going for… playful?”

“A lot of girls on campus wear very similar clothing,” Abby says, winking at Christine from out of Aunt Bea’s line of sight. A brave move; it’s never been proven that Aunt Bea doesn’t have eyes in the back of her head.

“I’m sure you’re right, Miss Meyer,” Aunt Bea says to Abby, and returns her appraising gaze to Christine, still making a show of inspecting herself in the mirror. “You look quite charming, Christine.”

“Thank you, Aunt Bea,” Christine says, hoping her smile of relief passes for genuine gratitude. And Abby gets to be ‘Miss Meyer’, does she? The privileges of rank.

“You’ve returned to classes, have you not?”

“Yes, Aunt Bea.” First year Linguistics. Her second shot at a degree here at Saints. Most girls who return to classes do so in the same subject they initially studied, relying on time, a second puberty, and surgical alterations to avoid being recognised; not Christine. Computer Science was judged to be one of the things she would have to let go. Too much of a contributor to her malfeasance. She’s not sure if she misses it or not. And her new courses are interesting.

“Would you mind summarising your most recent lecture?”

“Of course, Aunt Bea,” Christine says, bobbing down by her bed to collect her notes. She takes them to the dainty little folding chair by her desk and starts reading through, making sure to gesticulate in an expressive but feminine manner with her free hand, and carefully angling the page so everyone can see how beautifully curly her lettering is.

Aunt Bea listens attentively. She doesn’t carry a notebook or a phone or anything else on which to make notes; nevertheless, Christine can almost see the pen and paper in her head, making delighted check marks or disappointed crosses depending on the performance of the girl in front of her.

The custodian of Dorley Hall looks immaculate, as always. Her dress is modestly beautiful, her hair is artfully styled, her makeup is subtle and elegant. How much of the persona she presents to those still in the programme is an act, Christine doesn’t know, but she takes it very seriously. In Christine’s first year here, down in the basement, the boy who is now Jodie Hicks called Aunt Bea a MILF to her face and earned a week back in the starter cell. Christine’s always wondered if she still holds it over the poor girl. Jodie has the first room on their floor, so she’s always first in line for monthly inspection; did Aunt Bea look her up and down this morning and ask, in her prim and proper pronunciation, “Do you still consider me a ‘mother you’d like to eff ewe see kay’, girl?”

Christine’s never considered the acronym appropriate, anyway: she can’t imagine Aunt Bea doing something so vulgar as fucking.

“Christine?” Aunt Bea says. “Are you still with us?”

“Oh! Sorry.” Christine glances over her notes, buying some time to come up with an excuse for zoning out. “I was just remembering something the lecturer said, Aunt Bea. Something funny.”

“That is quite all right,” Aunt Bea generously allows. “I’m pleased to see you so absorbed in your studies. Would you mind repeating the joke? Assuming it is appropriate, of course.”

“Yes. Right!” Christine racks her brain. “It was, um…” Think, idiot, think! “Are you familiar with ‘Lad Bible’? It’s, uh, an obnoxious Twitter account that reposts other people’s videos and jokes and gets into trending a lot. Well, um, the lecturer, Professor Coleman, he said that Chomsky’s concept of the Language Acquisition Device is heavily contested, that is, it’s considered very much outside the norm these days, and he said those who stand by it without sufficient evidence are, I quote, ‘preaching from the LAD Bible.’ We, um, we all laughed.”

Christine holds her breath. The story’s true, except that the students received the joke with the grim silence it probably deserved; she has neither the energy nor the nerve to lie creatively right now.

“I see. Well! Thank you.”

Behind Aunt Bea, Abby bites her lip to stay silent while her face creases up, and Christine has to look back down at her notes to maintain her composure. So she misses it when Aunt Bea reaches out. Almost jumps when she crooks a finger under her chin and lifts her face.

“Let me look at you, girl,” she says.

Levity forgotten, Christine’s skin crawls and she struggles against the urge to screw her eyes shut. This is always the worst part: she didn’t ask for this body, and now she’s being judged on her upkeep of it.

“You have beautiful skin,” Aunt Bea says. “Although you really should try to get more consistent sleep. Drink more water, perhaps.”

“Or get better with concealer,” Christine says, taking a risk, hoping Aunt Bea takes it as a mild joke.

She does. Or she smiles, at least. Sometimes Christine thinks she appreciates the effort more than the result. “Quite.”

A gentle pressure on the back of her neck urges her to stand. She does so, and Aunt Bea moves her hand to Christine’s shoulder and pushes lightly, encouraging her to turn around, to give the woman the full three-sixty.

When she has to, Christine can move her body like a dancer.

“Beautiful,” Aunt Bea says. “Your mannerisms have come along wonderfully.”

“Thank you, Aunt Bea,” Christine says. Her voice doesn’t shake.

You are reading story The Sisters of Dorley at novel35.com

She’s asked herself how she feels about what was done to her. Whether she approves of the changes that, eventually, she agreed to participate in.

One night, early in her second year, when she was still developing, she investigated herself. Lying in bed she raised elegant hands to the starlight and winked out the heavens, finger by finger; she stretched out her legs, hip to toe; she explored her small breasts and her arched back. She hadn’t really explored her new body before, merely inhabited it, tolerated it. That night, alone in her room, one finger at a time, Christine discovered herself.

She likes who she is. Genuinely. Not just her new shape but her new mind, too. Christine is a better person to be around and a more enjoyable person to be than the boy who woke up in Cell 1 over two years ago. At the critical point she was given the choice they all were, to accept the programme or to wash out, and when properly she examined what was being offered, she took it without hesitation.

The boy was miserable. The boy hurt people. The boy, ultimately, had no future. The girl, the woman, is someone new. Someone better. And she’s her creation. The sum of her choices. And the life she now lives is hers alone. They might have given her the map, but it was Christine who made the journey.

But it’s hard to remember all that when Aunt Bea has a hand on her. It’s hard to forget how angry she was to be caged.

 

* * *

 

“Get dressed, Stefan Riley.”

Stefan hadn’t noticed the blonde girl walk up, hadn’t even noticed the glass door opening and closing, but now, on the floor by his cot, there’s a pile of clothes. Workout stuff, by the looks of it: loose joggers and a hoodie.

Had he been asleep? Or had he just zoned out that hard? Something about the last day — be it the isolation, the strange hours, the complete collapse of his identity, or the hope, yes, the hope that enough of what he suspected is actually real, real enough to help him, if he can just decipher this place — has obliterated his coping strategies. Boredom, fear, terrified optimism and abject self-loathing, mixed together, leaving him adrift and losing time.

He makes a fist again, out of sight of the blonde girl. Wake up, Stefan. Pull yourself together. Christine said he was going to be introduced to the other inmates, yes? Maybe he’ll finally get to find out what happens here.

He swings himself off the cot and looks pointedly at the blonde girl. “A little privacy?” he says.

She smirks. “You have nothing I haven’t seen before.”

At least he can turn his back. But he still feels her eyes on him as he pulls off the smock and starts getting dressed. There’s a t-shirt in the pile, and he can hardly put it on fast enough.

Even under the best of circumstances, Stefan does not enjoy being naked.

The socks go on last; he doesn’t really mind his feet being on show. Toenails could use a clip, though.

“Before I open this door,” she says, “there are some things you must know. One: every woman you see is armed, including me. Two: our tasers are locked to us and us alone; useless to you. Three: all the doors are locked and this whole area is monitored remotely. Four: if you are compliant, you will be rewarded. And five: violence against our staff will be not be tolerated. Every year, there are washouts. Those who wash out are never heard from again. Attempting to hurt any of the women in this institution is the quickest way to wash out. If you have aspirations to one day see the sky again, you will be docile and you will follow instructions. Say you understand and agree.”

Christine said, over the intercom, that he should be the bad guy everyone else will think he is, but how would a bad guy even behave in this situation? Yell and scream? Bang on the glass door? Try to disarm someone? Unattractive options. And someone could get hurt.

Aren’t bullies known to back down at the first show of strength? He’ll be that guy. He’ll back down.

“I understand and agree,” he says. He doesn’t have to fake his nervousness, at least.

The blonde girl smiles. “Then welcome to Dorley Hall, Stefan Riley.”

“Dorley Hall?” he says, remembering to feign ignorance, as the door buzzes and slowly swings open again. “On the edge of campus?”

“Under it.”

He steps out into the corridor. The blonde girl and the two others who are with her — tasers held casually in their hands, he can’t help but notice — put their backs to the wall and give him space. Like they think he’s going to attack them. They indicate for him to walk past, to lead the way, and so he does, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, broadcasting an absence of hostile intent as hard as he can.

He really doesn’t want to get tased.

 

* * *

 

After what seems like forever, Aunt Bea finally congratulates Christine on her dedication and her steady progress and, with a silently acerbic eye aimed at the untidy pile of textbooks by the desk, leaves. But Christine and Abby hold their breath: they’re waiting for her footsteps to fade, waiting for the faint buzz of the biometrics at the end of the corridor, and when finally it comes they almost collapse.

The tension exits her body along with all of her air, and Christine laughs until her chest aches.

“Oh my God,” Abby wheezes. She sits heavily on the folding chair and takes off her glasses to clean them. “The pyjamas thing! I thought she was going to make you strip, there and then!”

That’d be nostalgic. “I almost pissed,” Christine says, falling backwards on her bed and narrowly missing her laptop. “Thanks for the save, by the way.”

“I think it helped that I’m literally having a slob day.” Abby pulls on the fabric of her loose yellow t-shirt. It says Saint Almsworth Hockey — GO SAINTS! on the front, and her dark skin shows through in several places where the much-loved shirt has become threadbare. “Hard to get on your case for not being feminine enough when I’m wearing this.”

Christine sits up, puts on her best lecturing face and wags a finger. “You’re setting a bad example for the younger girls, Abs.” A giggle breaks through her stern frown. “How will we learn to dress like princesses and dance like angels when you keep reminding us of the existence of full-contact sports? And—” she fake-gasps, “—t-shirts!”

“Just be glad Liss isn’t here or you know Bea would have picked her instead of me.”

Melissa had been the star of her graduating class: too damn pretty and too damn well-dressed for her own good. Or, to be precise, for the good of every girl around her.

“It’s not fair,” Christine says. “I can be pretty! I can wear nice things, if someone else picks them out for me. I even kinda like it! I just…” She sags as her mood collapses. “I don’t like doing it for her.”

“Hey,” Abby says, picking up the folding chair and moving it closer, so she can take Christine’s hand; unlike with Aunt Bea, this is a contact Christine doesn’t shy away from, “you’re doing great. Not long to go, now. Then you can be pretty when you want and slobby when you want. Just like me.”

Christine squeezes her hand. “I’m going to be like Paige and Melissa: perfectly pretty all the time. I’m going to be so annoying.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Abby says. She hooks her other arm around the back of Christine’s head and gently draws her closer. Touches their foreheads together for a moment. “I’m proud of you,” she whispers. “And I know Dira is, too.”

Closing her eyes, Christine absorbs Abby’s touch. Abby, Indira, Vicky, and Paige; Christine feels indecently lucky. Their friendship, kindness and patience all seem like things she hasn’t entirely earned. If she has to live by Aunt Bea’s strictures for another year, well, perhaps it’s a small price to pay if she gets to stay with the first true friends she’s ever had. And her third year at Dorley has been by far the least onerous. The relatively casual monthly inspections are preferable to the constant moral and physical inventory she was required to maintain in her second year.

A shame she can’t be like Vicky, released from the programme a year early and granted the same level of trust as Indira, Abby and Melissa; trust she immediately started abusing, with Christine’s help, to supply HRT for her girlfriend. But with Vicky it had been as if the programme simply discovered the girl who’d been inside her all along; Christine had to go looking for hers.

Abby lets go of her hand and sits back. Christine instantly misses her.

“How’s Dira?” Abby asks, reaching over to Christine’s desk and stealing one of her bottles of Evian.

Christine raises an eyebrow and holds out a hand, refusing to respond until Abby hands her a bottle. Aunt Bea’s orders, after all. She cracks the bottle and takes a swig. “She’s good. Down in London for an audition, and visiting family.”

“God,” Abby says, “imagine being cleared to see your folks.”

“No, thank you.”

Indira’s parents and older sister were, a little under a year ago and after extensive lobbying from Indira and several other Sisters, visited by an associate of Aunt Bea’s and encouraged to believe their ‘son’ had always been a trans woman, who chose to disappear because she feared how her family would react to her transition. As a friend, the associate explained, they were willing to act as go-between on Indira’s behalf, and perhaps arrange a meeting in a neutral location. Somewhere safe for their first time seeing their new daughter.

At the meeting, her family embraced her with open arms, scolded her for vanishing for years and giving them the shock of a lifetime, and dragged her back home for a whole week, culminating in a party to which they invited several of the Dorley girls as well as, seemingly, the entire street. It had been Christine’s first trip outside Saints as her new self, and the first time she’d felt like she might be able to make it in the world as Christine, after all.

Indira’s sister took them both out clothes shopping for something to wear to the party. Christine keeps hers safe in a dress bag in the back of her wardrobe; a memento of one of her first genuinely good memories.

Visit any time, they’d said.

“You don’t miss your parents?” Abby asks sarcastically. She knows she doesn’t.

“Mine aren’t like Dira’s.”

“Are anyone’s?” Abby says with a giggle.

“Did you see her on the news last week?”

Indira’s mother, now a minor social media celebrity thanks to her enthusiastic and public support for her younger daughter, has been on Channel 4 News twice in the past year, once for an interview about her mother-daughter reconnection and most recently to provide the counterpoint to some new ‘gender critical’ celebrity on a post-cancellation media tour. Dira proudly sent Christine a screen grab of her mother in the chair opposite Krishnan Guru-Murthy, with the strapline, Aasha Chetry: Twitter Mum & Trans Rights Activist.

“Yeah, we had it on in the common room on third. She’s just fantastic.” Abby bites her lip. “So, did you get the latest update pack on your family?”

“About a month back.” Christine gestures at a folder on her desk. “I don’t open them any more, though; they’re all the same. Dad’s still sick, Mum’s still caring for the old bastard. No contact with the authorities. It’d be nice if they acted like they cared I’m gone, you know? Just a little bit.” Abby reaches out, takes Christine’s hand again. “How about you?”

“They’re still looking for the old me. They’ve got a private detective and everything. I’ve asked Aunt Bea if her ‘contacts’—” two manicured fingers make an air quote, “—can put out feelers. Assess their mood. She said she’d think about it.”

“You’re thinking of doing a Dira?” Christine asks, surprised. Is this going to be a thing from now on? Dorley graduates getting back in touch with their families?

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’d like to! I’m sure they’d be okay with it. With me.” Abby sighs heavily, scrunches her fingers up in Christine’s. “I’d hate to have to lie to them all the time, though. Not about who I am; you know how I feel about that.” Christine nods. Abby’s thoughts on gender have very much influenced her own. “But about where I’ve been, and stuff. I can’t say I’ve been here all the time, right? Even Indira had to pretend she spent a year couch-surfing, and Aunt Bea’s worried about bringing too much attention down on us.”

“Better to lie than never see them again, right?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“How’s work?” Christine says, to lift the mood.

Abby’s worked for the local paper for a couple of years, which is why she still lives at Dorley Hall and picks up some extra cash part-timing as an administrator for Aunt Bea; whoever owns the Almsworth Gazette clearly believes young journalists need experience and exposure more than food.

“It’s good!” Abby says, smiling again. “I pitched a piece deep-diving into the pay dispute at the council. You know, history of low wages, understaffing, inflation reducing the actual pound value of the work year-by-year.” She pauses, builds anticipation. “She said yes!”

“Oh my God!” Christine yells. Abby’s been trying to get her byline on something real for a while. “Congratulations!”

They hug, and Abby fills in a few more details, including the interviews she’s got lined up with various local notables. “Actually,” she says, “about the paper, I wanted to ask you a favour?”

“Anything.”

“You can still get at… things you’re not supposed to, right? On our network?”

“Yes,” Christine says, grinning, “but shush.”

“There’s a new boy, right? Downstairs? Do you have his profile? I want to keep us in the loop if he gets reported missing and we hear something at the Gazette.”

Christine nods, freezing her smile in place while her heart sinks. She calls up Stefan’s information on her laptop, using the app she’s shown to a select few of the Sisters, the one that implies she has access to only the less vital files.

There he is. Stefan Riley. He still looks kind of sweet. Christine swallows against the guilt.

“You’re kidding,” Abby says. “Christine, you’re sure this is the guy?”

“Hundred percent.”

“Fuck me, Chrissy. That’s Melissa’s friend!”

“You’re not serious. The kid? The one she always talks about?” He did say he was looking for someone… Melissa? Damn it, the timeline works out, doesn’t it?

Melissa was getting ready to leave Dorley while Christine was still in the first year of the programme, so she doesn’t know her particularly well — they’ve barely talked, and when they have it’s been awkward, like at last year’s disaster of a Christmas party, when a drunk Christine spent half the conversation calling her Sabrina; Melissa looks a lot like the girl from the nineties version of Sabrina the Teenage Witch — but Abby’s stayed in touch, and talks about her a lot.

“She always said he was the sweetest kid ever,” Abby says. “Said he wouldn’t hurt a fly, even if the fly wore a Kick Me sign and peed in his cereal. What happened to him? What did he do?”

“Do you… want me to try and find out?”

“No,” Abby says, closing the laptop and sitting back. “No. I’m not his sponsor and neither are you. Whatever he’s done, whoever he’s become… that’s what we’re here to fix, right?”

“Right,” Christine says, pouring as much enthusiasm into one syllable as she can muster.

Shit!

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