An Orphans Tale

Turning seventeen meant I must leave Hillington House Children’s Home that had been home since, well, forever. As soon as a place opened up in sheltered accommodation I would be moved on - on and up Matron said, it was her way of trying to make leaving Hillington feel less scary.

But leaving Hillington was scary. 

What Matron called a home for young men was, in reality, a house of multiple occupation where majority of sharers were older men and/or those with dependancy or other issues. As if that was not sufficient upheaval I needed to find another job, it would be my seventh since leaving school a year earlier.

I had done well at school for a Hillington boy, leaving with enough qualifications for the careers advisor to suggest a factory job, suggest I had the potential to make leading hand one day if I set my mind to it. I tried, I really did. 

Lucky for me jobs were easy to come by in 1970. 

Easy come, easy go I thought at the end of yet another unsuccessful trial week. I promised myself on the first day this time I will concentrate, make the boss want to keep me on and I did for a while. But, as usual, I demonstrated how unsuited I was to factory work. I had gotten to the good bit in the detective novel late the night before, all day my mind wandered thinking of what might happen next. I failed to notice the conveyor belt had backed up.

Get a job with long hours Danny one of my new housemates advised in a rare moment of sober induced clarity. His advice did made sense. I would have more money and have less hours at home listening to drunken arguments. 

Often shops put ‘staff wanted’ cards in their windows and factories always had vacancy boards outside. I dressed for a factory job - jeans and a tee shirt with a thick padded jacket over, my blonde hair pulled back into a tight pony. Factory bosses expected workers to be big, strong, manly and wearing my padded jacket I sort-of looked the part. 

Okay I was a little short standing at five foot, five and a quarter inches, borderline acceptable, but my wiry frame still needed to be hidden until I had the job. Bullies at Hillington had nicknamed me ‘whippet’ after the skinny dogs popular at that time.

Walking toward the industrial area a card in a pub window caught my attention;

BAR STAFF WANTED

LIVE IN OR OUT

I ran back to my room, washed, changed into my best (only) trousers and shirt before walking into a pub for the first time in my life.

Silence fell over the bar as I walked in. What do you want son? A big man behind the bar asked as I neared. 

Can I apply for the job I asked, answered seventeen at the age question. Without missing a beat he replied you mean eighteen, you need to be eighteen to work in a bar, without waiting for an answer he asked how soon I would start. 

It really was that easy.

My room might have been small and right up in the eaves but it was mine. Mine alone! Barmaids, Betty and Ella, lived next floor down. George, the landlord, had an apartment on the ground floor behind the bars. Soon The Kings Arms, or ‘Kings’ as we all called it, felt more like home than Hillington, and Betty and Ella felt how I imagined older sisters would feel.

Kings was a ‘drinkers pub’ as opposed to a pub that served food. Most of the customers did not work. I soon learnt why. I was among various flavours of criminal. Over several months noticing regular customers disappear without warning became routine for me, not even worth a ‘have you seen…’ Occasionally new-to-me regulars appeared, welcomed back like old friends returning from an extended holiday. The cycle of criminal life played out like that in Kings.

Naturally I kept all that to myself on the rare occasions if I met friends from Hillington House in the street. Never have been a grass.

Out of the blue Ella asked if I wanted to go to see a band which surprised me as she was in her twenties and, last I heard, had a boyfriend. Being asked out by a woman sounded so grown up, I nodded eagerly. Ella handed me my entry ticket and asked for the money. 

George hushed the amused and rowdy regulars sitting at bar, saying Ella was not a cradle snatcher, adding her boyfriend had gone on his holidays (been arrested) that morning. Their laughter rang in my ears as Ella told them to leave me alone, she couldn’t afford to pay for both tickets. Now everyone, me included, knew it was not a date. But I did secretly pretend strangers might think it was when they saw us together. I puffed out my chest as we waited at the train station.

Ella told Betty how I had talked more on the train home than all my time at Kings. And Betty, being the gossip she was, told everyone. Something changed, I now felt like I had something to say to adults, and they listened. 

We had been repeatedly warned at Hillington how instant addiction to drugs was, now I had my own addiction. 

Every free moment I traveled to Brighton for my live music fix, occasionally with Ella for company. It was one of those times I travelled alone to Brighton to see a band playing on the beach that I noticed the underbelly of the gay capital. I was part of a group of concert goers wandering the streets, mingling with the outpourings of late night bars while waiting for the first train home next morning. In full view men held hands, even kissed in dark doorways as if homosexuality was not illegal. Mixed amongst them, with varying degrees of success, were men dressed as women and women dressed as men. 

Careful to avoid mentioning that side of Brighton I was telling one of the Kings regulars about live music and wandering streets while waiting for the train. He touched my arm, leant in and lowered his voice, suggested I get a fake I.D. to get into nightclubs.

A warm nightclub, not the ones those men went to of course, sounded better than cold, rainy streets. I already knew, from John le Carré novels how I could get a false identity. 

Third graveyard I found what I was looking for, his date of birth would have made him nineteen in 1970, his first name was, like mine, Danny. Next stop the town hall to get a copy birth certificate, then onto the driver centre for a learner drivers license using the house of multiple occupancy address as mail always lay in a pile, unread, in the hallway. I had my fake I.D. but no real idea why I actually needed one as I did not drink. Nightclubs probably had a minimum age requirement I rightly guessed. But the weight of someone not me in my pocket did feel good - every spy and master criminal, in the novels I endlessly read, had multiple identities. And now I did as well. 

Betty and Ella would occasionally and gently tease me about getting a girlfriend. I always replied no time, my life is centred around Kings and live music. On one of those music trips I took my first step toward a life of crime.

I discreetly earwigged conversations while working, tales of near escapes sounded so much more exciting than any events from my life. Two shoplifters were talking about working together when someone else said; shoplifting is for women and queers, it’s not proper crime. 

I was called away to serve, when I came back within earshot the group were enthusing about the excitement of proper crime, how no one got hurt. That sounded wrong coming from what I knew to be two armed robbers. 

Alcohol began loosening their tongues I realised they meant no one got hurt if the victim was a bank or some big corporation when one said; only cunts rob small businesses. 

I chose a shop that was part of a multinational company, I did not want to be classed as a cunt if anyone from Kings found out. It felt as if my heart would burst from within my chest when I walked from the shop with a book hidden under my jumper. Certain of feeling a hand on my shoulder any second I walked toward the public toilets at the same pace as other shoppers. Safe inside a toilet cubicle I skim-read the cover notes on my random stolen book, felt my cock hardening. Once I had cum a feeling of shame swept over me, I left the book in the cubicle.

Matrons warnings rang in my ears, she had a wide range of warnings suitable for any occasion imaginable and many unimaginable ones as well; a criminal life started with one small crime, and, there never is any turning back. 

Soon my shame had receded and I was in the bookshop and stealing another book. Second time I picked one I wanted to read, did not leave it in the cubicle after masturbating. Over the next few weeks my book collection grew and was joined by a cassette payer, transistor radio, some music cassettes. No matter how many times I returned home from a distant shopping centre with some item of illicit bounty the excitement never waned, nor the need to masturbate.

Waiting in the bank to pay my wages into my savings account a voice I recognised boomed out ‘everyone on the floor’. I complied, buried my face into my arms hopeful they would not see me. I didn’t know his name, just his voice, he was one of Kings ‘old regulars’ - recently released from prison. Next day, in Kings, I learnt his nickname - Frosty. 

Frosty bought round after round of drinks for the entire bar while bragging to anyone who would listen about the car he was getting. 

What had surprised me more than anything, more than the guns, more than the shouting, was the tears, the wailing, the effect on everyone in the bank after the robbers discharged a shot into the ceiling as they left. Over the next week or so I would wake during the night from a dream about a bank robbery in which Frosty had my face. I wondered how the counter staff coped after having a gun pointed in their face, wondered if the sound of a shotgun blast still rang in their ears, like it did in mine, in sleepless small hours before dawn.

Friday nights, after Kings closed, staff had a drink at the bar when George paid out our wages. I would listen to the chatter as I made myself tea in the kitchen. George was telling Betty how Frosty had been arrested, saying it was no surprise he was on his holidays as he had been bragging right in front of ‘people who should not know’

I was learning so much so fast at Kings I began to feel like a student in criminal college.

I learnt for myself shoplifting really is a mugs game when store security gripped my shoulder. I wish I could say I told them to go fuck themselves, break free, run off. Reality was nothing like that. Repeatedly apologising did nothing to stop the police being summoned. I gave up my fake I.D. apologised some more, cried, lied it was the first time and got away with a warning. My name would be on file if I shoplifted again. I had learnt a valuable lesson, well two really:

1. Petty crime does not pay
2. A fake I.D. is essential

I ditched what spy novels call a compromised  I.D. and added a third lesson to my mental list:

3)   Not having fingerprints taken is essential 

Danny is a common enough name so I chose another Danny when I trawled the graveyards once again for my new I.D. I told myself I was done with shoplifting (and crying to police). But I had grown to like anonymity. I threw myself into live music once more, but masturbating just was not the same without the thrill of crime. 

The three of us were crammed into my tiny room listening to music, Betty was telling Ella her boyfriend had ‘had a result’ (which I knew to be code for some successful criminal enterprise). Had bought her Chanel No 5. I watched as Betty sprayed some in the air as they walked downstairs, both mmming while passing through the cloud of perfume. 

Whenever one or other passed close by as we worked I couldn’t help but suck in a lung full of Chanel No 5 fumes. If ever I get a girlfriend I would buy her that I silently promised myself, giggled as, in my head, I changed ’buy’ to ‘steal’ 

Beside being smitten with Chanel perfume I was smitten by Brighton. It was summer and I was there every free day. The beach, bars, and clubs were full of young holidaymakers and I had a cheap deal with one of the bed and breakfast places a few streets inland for a room even smaller than my one at Kings. No more trawling the streets waiting for the first train home for me. 

My part-time landlady, Edith, reminded me of well spoken version of Matron. An older, wiser, and well-spoken version. A version that turned a blind eye when a girl spent the night, by girl I mean woman. Using my new fake I.D. to gain access to nightclubs I could be nothing less than a young looking twenty years of age - a look that proved very successful with alcohol marinated holidaymakers.

Edith said I could have mail delivered as I was nearly resident, not that any of my one night stands ever kept in touch, but having an untraceable address did fuel my spy fantasies.

I booked a week holiday at Kings arriving in Brighton to find the beaches nearly empty and the music scene moved to pubs near the university.

Summer season was over. 

Wandering the streets I still found plenty to do and, slipping back into bad habits - shoplifting the new John le Carré novel, I found a toilet, masturbated. 

The early autumn weather was still warm enough to take coffee sitting outside, at least on the sunny side of the street. I noticed a man walk into a shop opposite as I sat reading then another a few minutes later. I smiled inwardly, unable to concentrate on my book I people watched a while. Watched as another male customer entered the ladies wear shop. I knew what the shop specialised in, had seen the little card in the window ‘spend the day as the woman of your dreams’. Some people said Brighton had a lot of ‘characters’, some said poofs, some said queers, some said worse. Back in 1970 fancy terms like LBGT, transgender, and tolerance were patiently waiting to be invented. And while England waited for homosexuality to be legalised Brighton turned a blind eye. Even men dressed in women’s clothes, or contrariwise hardly warranted a second glance. 

I watched a cute girl about my age emerge from the shop and disappear into the throng of shoppers in the street. If anything she was dressed a little old for her age which I estimated to be around my own (real) age - pencil knee length skirt, tight sweater that did its best to hide her midriff, white sneakers - to my eyes a look Betty or Ella would go for. 

But her pixie cut was the latest London holidaymaker style.

Draining my cup I crossed the street and, without breaking step, walked inside for a close look at the men-women inside. 

The shop was, more or less, exactly as expected - wigs to shoes and everything between. There was an archway to another room where the two men, now dressed in skimpy clothes, sat drinking tea. To innocent me it all seemed very strange. Not just why men would want to dress like a woman but all that effort to create the illusion then hide away in a room at the back of a shop. If there were a word that meant more pointless than strange yet still freaky then that word would fit what I saw perfectly. An obvious man-woman, six-foot plus, sales assistant suggested I might like to stay for tea.

Declining I casually browsed the racks, eyes only, while working my way toward the door. A shop full of men-women did not need to know the real reason for my visit…I was not ready to admit that even to myself.

 

This would suit you, look cute - a voice close by. I looked up. The girl with the pixie cut introduced herself as Cynthia as she held out the summer dress toward me as she asked what size I usually wore.

I quickly stepped back, declined help and left, to be honest I was angry she assumed I was some sort of a pervert.

Next day I telephoned the shop, recognised Cynthia’s voice, asked so many questions she became a little short with me; it’s no big thing, just come in for the day. 

One part of me wanted to tell her how this was an experiment, and I probably would have if she hadn’t ended the call. 

No undercover agent worth is salt would reveal his intentions I said aloud to the phone booth, no explanation needed - let them jump to the wrong conclusion. I could easily leave Brighton, never return, if my experiment turned into a disaster I reasonably reasoned. 

Cynthia mentioned ‘there will be four of you dressing today’ as I requested she select ‘clothes that would be everyday appropriate for someone our age’  - you know, normal, everyday clothes. She stood back, eyeing me up and down as I exited the changing cubicle wearing the skirt and sweater similar to what she had worn the day before plus my white sneakers. She asked if I was sure, did I want something a little more ‘glam’ as she let my ponytail loose and brushed my hair into a centre parting. While she added some shape with curling tongs I asked for discreet makeup, like hers, she pulled a lopsided smile, perhaps, even looked a little pleased.

Sales assistant Ariadne, (the 6 foot man-woman) made small talk, as the other three ‘dressing’ arrived I offered to make a pot of tea for everyone. Ariadne said she liked my look, very vanilla s/he called it. I realised what Cynthia and Ariadne had been hinting at when I carried the teas through. I pretended being greeted by a nurse and two street walkers was no big thing. 

All three showed very clear signs of arousal in contrast to me feeling silly with a pinch of embarrassment. They clearly did not wear panties with a cock pocket like the ones Ariadne had sold me ‘for hygiene reasons’. Unsure of protocol in such situations I settled into pretend-reading my book while listening to their tales of sexual conquests. Bored with listening I began real-reading my book. My fellow ‘dressers’ began leaving, I clearly overheard each one masturbate in the toilet as they changed - it would have been impossible not to.

On my second visit next day I was the only one spending the day as the woman of my dreams. Cynthia asked if I would like to walk around town. I semi-resisted, saying I was more scared of being pointed out as a freak than not wanting to go out. I gratefully soaked up Cynthia’s generous reassurances, plus, if my plan was going to have any chance of success I needed to become comfortable in public. By comfortable I mean confident, totally confident. And I had four days left in which to achieve that.

In reality outside was far less of a big step than outside made itself out to be inside my head. My confidence grew, by the hour, by the minute. Cynthia discreetly coached me while we wandered The Lanes and department stores without incident. From time to time I would look to where Cynthia should be only to discover she had let a distance form between us.

Over coffee Cynthia confided that Ariadne was her father, mentioned she, Cynthia, was a student and finding university challenging. I told her I worked as a barman, trying to focus on vague details of my life in the hope she would not ask about my reasons for my desire to present as female. Cynthia began talking about my voice - it being my only ‘tell’ perhaps you’ll go full time like Dad she said. 

Perhaps asking why a man wanted to pretend to be a woman was not the done thing, even in Brighton…just as well as I had no innocent yet believable story for that. 

Alone in my room and using my cassette player I learnt that I had a talent for impersonating female voices as well as accents, within a couple of days I managed to imitate Cynthia’s Dorset accent. To Cynthia’s delight I sounded sufficiently like her to fool Ariadne on the telephone.

Summer season over I had my own room at Ediths, mine to use until next summer season - a big new room. Compared to my usual attic billets it felt truly enormous, I had two comfy chairs and even my own little bathroom. My life had rushed forward at a breathtaking pace.

First step in preparation for moving had been trying out my cover story on Edith saying; I am a woman trapped in a man’s body. I had gotten the idea for that line from a spy novel in which a woman posed as a man, I merely reversed the genders for my own purpose. Edith’s support surprised me, she stayed silent for a second, perhaps three, then casually asked ‘what name should I call you by?’ 

Leaving Kings had been a sad time for all concerned, there was a little party that consisted of the regulars getting drunker than usual, George said my job would be waiting if needs be. For my cover story at Kings I told everyone I wanted to be near my (invented) girlfriend Cynthia, Ella hugged me, said it was only natural I want to be with her.

Out of season the bustling seafront was like a scene from some dystopian film, most of the clubs hibernated. Yet there was still plenty of work for bar-staff plus with Cynthia back at university I occasionally helped out at Ariadne’s shop. I soon had a couple of ‘Ann’ fake I.D.s’ - Ann, like Danny, was a common gravestone name. Soon my Ann persona had mastered the local accent as well as Edith’s educated accent. 

Englands south coast is dotted with large towns linked by train and bus - a shoplifters dream. A day out in Ann mode always included shoplifting. Part of practising passing I told myself - all very well passing in a crowd, a different story passing while store detective or sales assistants might be watching my every move. 

Ann preferred targeting cosmetic counters. Wether a nail polish or coffee table book the result was always an urgent need to masturbate. Best of all were the times I managed to force myself to stop just before cumming, remaining on the brink as I traveled back to my room. Or I might set a target of, perhaps, three items to earn the right to cum.

We worked odd shifts in several pubs, by ‘we’ I mean Danny in some and Ann in others which amused Edith. One evening as I left for work she joked I would forget who worked at which pub. Edith looked serious ‘you need to stick with it Ann’

Edith was right! 

Danny / Ann was a recipe for disaster, or at least discovery. I mentioned what Edith said, Ariadne completely understood saying it takes dedication to feel the perfect woman outside, it takes these to feel the perfect woman inside Ariadne put two pills in my hand then said I’m not that sure I feel any effect, shrugged, they probably do not work. I am sure they do not.

That was Ariadne all over - over confident one moment, self deprecating negative the next. I necked them dry like I was in a nightclub. Unlike the usual leisure pills I felt nothing. Ariadne laughed, confidence had returned, said they made the world feel softer, wrote a number down saying ‘you’ll get a prescription no problem Ann’. Before the week was out it was as if I had always been Ann. Ariadne insisted it was the pills warning me not to forget to take them. I opened a bank account next town over and rented a small safety deposit box. As I put my stash of fake I.D.s’ inside I knew I was ready. 

More like I knew Ann was ready. 

Ready to put everything I learnt in Kings to good use. 

I knew robbers get caught because they all made the same mistake; 

they either get recognised without a disguise or when pulling a balaclava over their face.

Ann can go into a toilet cubicle as a brunette with discreet office appropriate daytime makeup and leave as a brash blonde with a little too much makeup. 

Danny the man would never be considered a suspect in the search for a female robber…in my head it was the stuff of Agatha Christie meets John le Carré.

It all happened so suddenly, before I was truly ready, without planning. After I cursed myself and whisper/chanted ‘failing to plan is planning to fail’ in bed that night. 

I had been on a routine day out. A little shoplifting trip, two lipsticks in I was edgy, super edgy, super needing to cum edgy, when I spotted a shop that sold fishing tackle and…imitation handguns. Saying it was a gift for my brother I chose a small black one that, although light plastic, looked real enough at a brief glance. Safely in a cubical I slipped the gun into my purse and, feeling like a gangster, set off to shoplift the third item. 

I have a gun I said quietly to the counter clerk in the post office, I kept my voice low and calm as I discreetly and briefly revealed my gun. His hand shook a little as he put money on the counter. It was that simple. I nearly laughed, instead a smile escaped when he said ‘thank you for not pointing that that me’. A warmth spread between my legs as I slipped the money in my purse, a stickiness followed as I calmly walked outside while terrified inside.

As the first hint of dawn hit my curtains I finally stopped whisper chanting failing to plan is planning to fail and dressed for an early morning run. 

With the money and fake gun safely in my safe deposit box I knew shoplifting would never be enough again, I had robbed a little over two hundred pounds - not much by todays standards but a small fortune to a barmaid who earnt £25 on a good week. Unlike the robbers who drank in Kings I had no intention of telling a soul let alone splashing a penny of it around. To be honest I had no need of the money. I had my transistor radio, cassette player, books, and enough clothes. That added up to way more than I had ever owned before.

I searched the local newspaper disappointed my robbery was not worth a mention. Soon I was ready to carry out a second robbery, planned this time! 

Agatha Christie wrote; every robber develops an identifiable modus operandi, it  forms by accident over several robberies, one that police pride themselves on recognising. 

I would have my modus operandi, the exception the rule being mine was fully planned and I intended it to be recognised. Of course I sort-of wanted the money, more importantly I wanted my work to be known. No more post office trial run for me. That is how I considered the post office robbery - a practise run.

Dressed in a navy blue knee length skirt, white blouse and sneakers that secretaries wore to rest feet from a day in office appropriate heels I was just one of hundreds of office workers that would pass unnoticed at lunchtime in any shopping street. I pulled my shoulder length, curly, brown wig over my blonde hair and left the toilet cubicle heading for the bank. 

I carried a fashionable shoulder bag, the sort office workers carried their heels in while wearing sneakers or carried sneakers in while wearing heels. A bag big enough to hold two of the small cloth cash bags intended for coins when full of banknotes.

I had rehearsed until my script, I was word perfect, came out of my mouth automatically…no one will be hurt I said quietly to the counter clerk, I have a gun I kept my voice low and calm as I opened my bag a little for him to see my gun while saying please put the money in these, I handed the cashier two empty cloth coin bags adding £20s’ first then £10s’ if there is room

I walked briskly toward the shopping centre, slowing to match the speed of other shoppers before ducking into a toilet cubicle, and masturbated quietly. Putting my bag and wig inside a department store carrier bag I walked to the left luggage lockers. Like dozens of shoppers in the mall I stowed my shopping and went to lunch.

I’m wrapped up warm, sitting outside my favourite coffee shop people watching, pretending to read the local rag. This time I make the local paper, police are looking for a plain looking woman, brown curly hair, chubby, around 5’-6” tall, and dressed like slightly scruffy office worker.

Even I did not recognise myself - I mean chubby? I am a size 8, my clothes were immaculate and…I’m cute…not fucking plain! 

Plenty of customers in the pub tell me that. 

Rant over I know I should be pleased with the inaccuracy of my description - too accurate and I could end up like Frosty. 

A passer by looks as I feel a blush then laugh aloud at myself for thinking; that sounds like I’m liking how men call me cute. I mean they do but men are, most definitely, not part of my plan. 

I am a bank robber not an arse bandit. 

This whole robbery thing is in danger of getting out of hand I tell myself. I tell myself I don’t want or  need the money. Danny needs to come back for a while. Is self deprecation contagious? 

Have caught self deprecation from Ariadne?

Just as quickly as Ariadne I am back to confident - everyone knows me as Ann I reason inside my head, Danny has no apartment, no job. 

Never change horses mid-stream my inner Ann wisely suggests. 

Time to calm down and take stock I decide. I book a week off work and telephone George at Kings, he says don’t visit, come stay a while, your room is empty when I tell him my imaginary girlfriend is away.

I do just that, it feels strange-good to be Danny again, feels good to be home. Betty and Ella fawn over me, they blush as I flirt with them. But I sense they like it. Last time I was at Kings I would have been the one blushing. I slip into working behind the bar, because that is where I want to be and gives me a chance to take note of their new clothes for future reference. 

The second I see Weasel I know we need to talk, not that it is something I had planned. I catch him alone in the toilet telling him I have a customer, I need his help. As I explain exactly what my fussy customer wants he warns ‘it will cost’. I repeat it must be new, adding ‘new in the box Weasel, not some battered and sorry old war souvenir’

While at Kings I visit my doctors surgery, it is exactly as I remember it, at the messy reception counter I lean my hand on the counter near an ink pad, knock the surgery seal on the floor while making an appointment. Helpfully I bend down to pick it up the seal the telephone rings, the receptionist answers. While she is distracted I discreetly stamp the back of a passport photograph I need certifying. 

Back in my room I take another peek at the photograph, already I miss that young blond woman. Any spy worth their salt creates a clean identity I read in a novel. An identity totally separate from any other identity. Just in case. 

I take a train to London several mornings where I create mine - Constance Moore. 

Constance, Connie as I imagine her being called, already has birth certificate, I add provisional driving licence, bank account, and safe deposit box using an empty house as my address. Soon she will have her passport as well. 

The hospital insists I must go immediately I lie to the supervisor at the passport office, under cover of my purse I pinch my inner thigh harder, the tears in my eyes run down my face, my mascara streaks, I sound pathetic just the way I practised  if you could help me see mummy one last time… 

I watched the supervisor talking to his manager, increased the pinch, smeared my eyes a little before sobbing some more. They had said it was impossible an hour before, but, I leave with my new passport. Now Connie lacked just one document - her national insurance card. 

Back in Brighton I relax. Ann is back. I gloat over my shiny, new, Walther PPK. Weasel has excelled, Walther came in a presentation box with 2 magazines and cleaning kit. Weasel included a box of 32acp in the deal, not that I intended using Walther. 

By spring both Connie and Danny had passed driving tests and Connie had her national insurance card. Danny and Connie had safe deposit boxes crammed with £20 notes. 

Daddy farms I mentioned at our first meeting to indicate I came from money and my solicitor did not bat an eyelid when I paid in cash for the building in a part of London that was half the price of those a street away. 

People in London were busy in their own lives, they asked few questions and generously accepted what strangers told them. It really was that easy to become accepted as Constance. I fine tuned my Edith-posh accent. In nearby restaurants and shops I was accepted as a local. I imagine neighbours would have as well if I had any. The building I had purchased - a shop with accommodation over sat at the end of a line of similarly boarded up shops. My apartment over the shop had its entrance door on the side of my building opened on a different street to the shop front. I would be just another stranger, a part of the stream of pedestrians within a step or two. Free to come and go unseen Danny, Connie, or any future character I chose could come and go equally unnoticed.

Walther and I had plans…Brighton was our apprenticeship, London would be our career.

No rush though. I still had a little cash as well as a little savings in various bank accounts. Time to find a pistol range that catered for newcomers. Owning Walther and not being able to shoot made as much sense as owning a horse and not being able to ride. I went several times a week, always in Danny mode, and tried out several different pistols before gaining proficiency with a battered club Walther PPK. 

More a ladies gun the instructor sneered when I first selected the PPK. If needlessly wearing camouflage clothing had not been enough for me to dislike him then disrespecting a Walther certainly was. 

I occasionally travelled between Brighton and London at that time. As I lay on the sofa watching television a news article about a robbery at a safe deposit company caught my attention. I made a mental note to keep less cash in mine as I listened to the full report, ‘bearer bonds’ and diamonds featured heavily in reporting of what had been stolen. Intrigued I researched bearer bonds at the public library before discounting putting my money into them - they were just as vulnerable and untraceable as the cash or diamonds in the safe deposit box robbery.

Ready for some excitement I checked into a run down hotel in north London as Danny. It was in a busy part of the outer city. Train, tube, bus or a mixture of all three provided routes back to my apartment. Five minutes walk away was my first target. I walked the route at various times, chose last Friday of the month lunchtime - payday, just before office lunch breaks. 

Excitement built within me. The queues were beginning to form as I arrived in the bank no one will be hurt I said quietly to the counter clerk, I have a gun, I kept my voice low and calm as I opened my bag a little for her to see Walther clearly while saying please put the money in these as I handed the cashier two empty cloth coin bags £20s’ first then £10s’ if there is room

After emptying her own cash drawer she opened the adjacent cashiers drawer saying stay calm to her coworker as she emptied that also. I walked smartly to the shopping centre, ducked into a toilet, tucked Walther in my waistband like in the movies and masturbated silently. Putting my bag and wig in a department store bag I walked to the left luggage lockers. Unlocking the one I had earmarked earlier I stowed my bag and returned to the hotel room. I changed from clothes that said low paid secretary into Danny’s clothes that I took comfort in thinking said blue collar worker, swept my hair back into a tight pony and went to lunch. 

By late afternoon the police had departed and the bank had closed. Still dressed as blue collar Danny I reclaimed my bag from the locker and merged into the stream of commuters.

Dressed as Danny? That is what it said in my dream. 

In my dream bright lights dressed as Danny circled around my head in a dark room. I sat bolt upright, opened my eyes expecting to still see the lights. Wide awake I made coffee while thinking about the meaning of the dream. Picking up a pen I wrote down:

I am Danny, I dress as Ann

I am Danny, I dress as Connie

I am Danny, I do not dress as Danny 

That sorted I made a todo list. My apartment was scruffy, I wanted somewhere nice. I called my solicitor, he recommended an architect to oversee the refurbishment, oversee the stage payments.

I dressed as Connie ready to visit my safe deposit box. Upending the bags of money on the floor I began counting. As the total reached £2000 with still more on the floor I was feeling good about London, about my career. I tucked Walther into the waistband of my skirt. Loosing interest in counting I lifted the hem of my skirt and began to slowly stroke my cock. “Just this once” I said to the empty apartment. 

Afterward I tried remembering the last time Danny masturbated, shook my head, it was just heat of the moment excitement. That made sense, for a while arousal had centred on robbery. This was just the result of robbery. And Danny was never around at those times. Next time I would be Danny when I counted my haul.

Newspapers were full of reports of the robbery. Headlines read: ’Polite South Coast Robber Hits London Bank’ they made a big thing of the timid, female, bank robber. I read on. The description the clerk gave described me as; plain looking, inexpensively dressed, and probably single, not the sort of woman a man would want for a girlfriend. The bitch. I felt so angry that, on impulse, I purchased a nice diamond ring on my way to my safe deposit box. The jeweller described the solitaire ring as not too ostentatious and, perfect for what you intend when I paid in cash.

I had mentioned to the jeweller I wanted something to discourage unwanted attention from men, in part that was true. But I had another, secret, reason for wanting a diamond ring on the third finger of my left hand.

There is a saying that lightning never strikes the same place twice, but I struck that same bank twice. Same counter clerk…the bitch could not take her eyes off my diamond ring.

I was already on my way to my safe deposit box when I remembered about dressing as Danny before masturbating…next time…do not forget I chided myself.

As soon as details of my apartment refurbishment were in hand and happy at being labeled The Fiancée Bandit by one newspaper I dressed in the chain store clothes that Ann wore before returning to Brighton.

When the refurbishment was complete I would form a new plan but for now spring had arrived and the tourist season would start any day now.

I rented a small bedsit in Brighton that reminded me of my room at Kings. To occupy myself and to meet people I took a bar job. I really did not need the money! 

Winter had refreshed Brighton - last seasons workers had moved on. I made fresh, casual, friends and soon everyone knew me as Connie, my London accent became my default.

‘I cannot believe my eyes’ Cynthia announced when we met for the first time in months. Hardly surprising really - so much had changed since we last met in person, even my name. I giggled thinking of what she would say the first time we went to the beach. Cynthia told me about university life and I told her that I was in Brighton for the season, or until my apartment was ready. I asked her to call me Connie, straight off I liked the way it felt in my ears when she said it. 

Cynthia introduced me to her boyfriend from university, John, calling me her best friend. 

Allergy I lied as I dabbed at my eyes with a Kleenex. That was a massive thing for me - no one had ever called me that before - and Cynthia knowing exactly what I really was made being her best friend even more special. 

I kept a low profile when John was around, occasionally he would turn up with a mate when Cynthia and I were together. If my diamond ring did not dissuade them Cynthia would soon put a stop to any flirting with me by saying stop that, Connie is engaged. And almost every time John would say we should do that Cynthia…get engaged. Sometimes he would try to enlist my support but with one real friend in the world I knew to say silent.

I did not know it at the time but wearing a diamond engagement ring sort of marked the start of Plan 2. Around that time I also took beauty classes to improve my makeup skills, started to take more interest in clothes, exercise more, resume running. 

Ariadne had been wrong and my Brighton Doctor correct - the tablets did work. I now had breasts, small but real! Long term, when I was ready to be Danny once more, forever, breasts would be a problem. 

I panicked and mentioned my chest but not the tablets to my London Doctor. He said lots of young men experienced some swelling in the chest area Danny. Often a temporary sign of hormone imbalance, a part of puberty, he would monitor any change, I should come back if I had concerns. 

The remainder of Plan 2 centred around my plethora of fake I.D.s’. Randomly switching male/female/male from day to day had been my first Plan 1 mistake. Creating multi-female identities was the second mistake. 

For the time being I would only present as Connie. My Ann persona would only exist in my head like some imaginary friend who robbed banks. Once I had enough money, or, the excitement faded, or, police started to close in, Danny could return. 

I add ‘fine tune dormant Danny’ to Plan 2.

Plan 2 makes so much more sense. 

No fake I.D.s’, once I get enough money I will go back - be Danny forever. 

   

My London apartment was ready toward the end of summer, the architect and the interior designer had excelled. As they should have -  I paid them enough! 

I knew the concealed, built-in safe was my favourite feature the first time I saw the apartment, even moreso once I had a good size pile of used £20s’ inside. What I had not expected was the change in the area over the months I was absent. Buildings boarded up when I last saw them were cloaked in scaffold. My solicitor kindly remarked what a shrewd move buying in such an up and coming area had been on my part.

When Cynthia and John went back to university at the end of summer there really was no reason for Brighton. Back in London and missing my best friend I enrolled in a photography course. Just to occupy myself I initially thought. Seeing an image starting to appear for the first time in the darkroom I knew I was as addicted to photography just as much as I was addicted to robbery…well nearly.

Cynthia and I wrote most days, our letters often crossing in the post, she was a much better writer than I. In return I often sent my photographs like postcards.

I was over south coast robberies, not that I have anything against the banks there, just that it’s more work. London cash drawers are always full. How is that for lazy? I soon loved the London music scene and began to think of the city as my home.I made a list:

London really is home 

I feel settled for the first time

Earning potential

Not able to think of any further items to list I decided to go to work next day. It had become that routine; Danny would check in some grubby hotel, dress as Ann, do my thing, dress as Danny, go home.

I picked a female counter clerk, female ones were sometimes kinder in describing me, and began my normal I will not hurt you, I have a…

A gun, I know, you are The Fiancée Bandit she interrupted, her voice low, conspiratorial do you want the bearer bonds as well? 

I flashed back to what I had learnt in the library about bearer bonds, said yes, then the £20s’ She spun around in her chair, picked the documents from a shelf, spun back around and began stuffing my bags. Then it was back to routine; toilet cubicle, masturbate, wig off, bag in locker, hotel room, dress as Danny, collect bag, go home.

Without looking in the moneybags I threw everything in the safe and put on my best clothes. Connie had been invited to a gallery opening along the street. The once boarded up shopfronts were becoming wine bars, delicatessens, bistros, and now an art gallery. My shop was one of the last empty ones.

Although I sounded and looked like my well-to-do neighbours I lacked the confidence they radiated - it might sound strange for an armed robber to think that way - but they intimidated me a little. I was thinking next time I’ll bring Walther for dutch courage when I became aware of someone talking to me. 

‘Everyone is trying to guess what you are creating…with your shop’

I had been caught unawares, fake-coughed to make room in my head for an answer. Perhaps a studio? I finally answered using a rising infliction to add a sense of uncertainty, the two of us became a small group. A studio was vague enough to invite a steady stream of questions. Speaking quietly I answered in short sentences; a portrait studio, I am a photographer I lied. I tried ‘we are still waiting for planning permission’ - a phrase I had heard many use. It worked perfectly as people vied to tell their own planning horror story. I took the opportunity to slip away.

Sound of the post arriving woke me first thing and telephone ringing got me out of bed. I knew something must be wrong the second I heard Cynthia speak. We never telephoned. Ariadne had died. We arranged to meet in Brighton later that day. 

I telephoned a hotel saying I might need a second room then ordered a taxi. I cut the driver off as he began talking about some big robbery saying I wanted a quiet ride. I only realised how interested I was in what he had to say when it was too late. The headline outside the railway station newsagents said plenty: The Fiancée Bandit Pulls Off Massive Heist.

If newspapers are to believed the counter clerks description was wide of the mark, but, in a flattering way. As usual the counter clerk had provided an interview; I was polite, well spoken, expensively dressed, however she described minor details wrongly from eyeshadow to nail polish colour. Not as usual was an account of my activities on the front page of every national newspaper. And, most definitely, not as usual was the news that I had stolen eleven million pounds in untraceable bearer bonds! 

As I read the article for a second time I saw how inaccurate some details were, especially how I had asked her for the bearer bonds. My thoughts wandered, perhaps she hated her job or boss and this was a way to get revenge…I snapped back to the page, re-read the paragraph that ended …police suspect the robber had inside knowledge, perhaps a disgruntled employee.

I ran through details of the past day - I had never been to the bank before, never seen her before, and as usual all of my clothes had been new. As part of my distancing routine I always put everything I had been wearing in a trash bin on the way home and, last robbery, I had watched those bins being emptied. Forgetting eleven million pounds in bearer bonds for a moment I felt confident nothing connected The Fiancée Bandit with the bank. 

I stayed in Brighton for a few days after Ariadne’s funeral helping Cynthia clear the shop and hand the shop keys back to the agent. John came for the funeral, left same day. When I asked about university Cynthia said a few more days away would not hurt and accepted my offer to spend a short while in London saying she was done with Brighton, it was her time to move on as well. 

Cynthia looked me in the eye I never did ask where you came from, she cocked her head to one side slightly you know, before Brighton

I told her London is like that, no one ever asked where people come from saying just like us when we stepped off the train today, everyone arrives on their day zero incase she felt tempted to press the question of where I came from. Cynthia took the hint at my ‘day zero’ speech and as strange as everything must have felt to her she just accepted the public and home sides of my life without comment. And I reciprocated by avoiding any mention of Brighton.

Selfishly I felt thankful not to be alone. I had no idea what awaited me in the coming days, I had been watching television news and reading every daily paper the rumours became ever wilder:

The Fiancée Bandit was in France, South America, had bought a pacific island that put her out of reach of law enforcement world-wide.

The money was funding a religious cult in an unspecified country.

Theories became more farcical by the day. 

After a Sunday scandal-rag suggested a foreign government had carried out the robbery and the daily newspapers seemed to loose interest.

At night I turned every light on in the apartment as I made coffee for us. If police were coming for me I wanted them to know I was there. Bring it on.

When she left I cried a little at the railway station and so did Cynthia…okay…we both cried a lot. 

I took a taxi home, acting like a real bitch I berated the driver for the rough ride as I retouched my makeup. As if that was not enough I had him wait at a bookshop while I popped in to shoplift a book, best part of a month had passed since I stole a single thing. This is what I need I told myself - to get back to normal. 

I browsed, slipped a book I wanted into my purse, browsed some more, left the shop. But it was not normal, I paused outside the shop, went back in and paid for the book. Shoplifting had become pointless. I was done with petty crime.

For the first time I opened the safe, my loot still in the coin bags, Walther sat on top like some deadly guardian watching over my loot. 

That is what one newspaper called my haul - loot, loot sounded good inside my head so I said it aloud a couple of times…loot felt just as good in my ears.

For the first time I struggled to be in my apartment, it felt empty being there without Cynthia. I had an assignment for my photography class, a good reason to deal with sorting out my loot another day. 

Dressed in an unthreatening hippy style; bellbottom denims and a flowery blouse, a long waistcoat over I loaded my new Leica with black and white film and set off. I wanted to take some street portraits, perhaps in a trendy greasy spoon cafe down Brick Lane. 

They both stood in front of me blocking the alleyway, each produced a knife like performers in some nightmare magic act. I turned and ran, if there had been a third behind me I would have been done for…and I dread to think what could have happened if they had rape on their minds as well as robbery. I thought how helpless I was, how I pointlessly locked Walther in my safe…a mistake I would not repeat. Thankfully their platform shoes were no match for the white plimsolls I wore. 

I would open some sort of savings or investment account for the bonds, my plan had been to go to the bank in Danny mode, that is until I began to dress. When I first became paranoid about having a puffy chest I bought what women who dressed as men called a binder, suddenly it was unbreathably tight. It needed to be tight, just not that tight, I still needed to breathe!  Even if I did wear the binder my shirt felt too tight and my butt had gotten so big my trousers were in danger of splitting asunder. How could all of my Danny clothes suddenly not fit I asked myself. 

I will deal with that later, meanwhile I need to exercise I said aloud as I tucked myself into my gaff and reached for my sports bra. I had gotten used to timing my morning run so that it fit into that eerily quiet hour between office workers and shoppers.

Thoughts of my bearer bonds kept distracting me throughout my run. I walked into a bank, mentally congratulating myself on arriving both unprepared and inappropriately dressed in running gear. Staff did not waste much time with a jogger asking about opening an account with perhaps a million pounds - that did not surprise me. In some ways it worked in my favour. No one expected me to have any identity documents, my enquiries did not even warrant a request for my name. 

Depositing any number of millions, even just one, is more difficult than withdrawing eleven of them had been. I pressed on visiting a couple more banks. High Street banks could possibly help, I would need to make an appointment.

On the way home I happened upon a bank with an unknown to me name, we are a private bank the snooty receptionist said by way of dismissal for high net worth clients

Okay my clothes did not say money, but my accent matched his, no trumped his, and so did my dismissal of him as a junior clerk. A calm, unhurried voice behind me asked how he could help, an older man who hoped I did not mind him asking if I felt hot after exercising, could he start by getting me some water?

I dressed smartly for my second visit to the new to the private bank. Snooty receptionist addressed me by name.

Things went very well with my initial deposit, my investments grew at a rate faster than I could possibly spend. And when I did spend my cheques drawn on a private bank required no consideration. 

For a few months I became side-tracked, the spy like excitement of squirrelling away my millions was enough; the train to Europe, staying in swish hotels, opening untraceable Swiss numbered bank account.

I became bored, threw myself into shopping for a day; a Chanel little black dress, Chanel No5 perfume in one shop. Mindful of how close I came to being mugged, or worse, I added a sweet little ‘purse size’ derringer and a selection of switchblades to my more fashionable list of purchases.

My purchases required a new suitcase, had I considered matching luggage the sales assistant wondered. I became bored and restless. The Fiancée Bandit wore a discrete solitaire diamond ring, I bought Connie a three stone diamond ring to set her apart. Returning to London by the next train I was keen to unleash my inner Fiancée Bandit. 

Excitement that had been missing for too long was back, unable to sleep I lay awake in the North London hotel room with my fingers resting on Walther under my pillow. 

Waiting in line at the bank I felt nothing, at the counter I felt nothing. I was on autopilot for the next few minutes - toilet, masturbate, wig and money in a locker.  

Reality of the reason for my lack of excitement hit me - those bearer bonds had done for The Fiancée Bandit. Next day I sold The Fiancée Bandit’s diamond ring and slipped the Cartier three stone ring in its place on my finger. 

People reviewed their lives at major points in life; starting a family, retiring, an illness - something like that.

At twenty-two years of age I was in no place for anything like that. I visited museums, took portraits, and things like that for a few days while thinking through my options. 

For a couple of days I dressed as Danny. There was no reason for continuing with the whole Connie charade I reasoned. Connie existed for one reason - to provide a disguise to rob banks. Now that I gained no pleasure from that it was time for her to slip away. Some of my money was in Connies name, that would take a while to sort, most of my money was in the nameless numbered account.

‘Plan 3’ I headed the sheet of paper and over a few days I crafted and refined my new plan:

 

Talk to Cynthia

Re-locate money Connie holds

Pursue my love of photography - or any other hobby 

Build up a new circle of friends

Work in a pub part time when it suited me

Perhaps go back to Kings as a customer

Naturally first item on my list was ‘talk to Cynthia’ - loosing her friendship was unthinkable. I was in danger of her becoming ‘someone I once knew’ our letters had become once or twice a week rather than once or twice a day. 

Recently we had both used the phrase ‘my turn to write’ as if letters were governed by the same rules as tennis.

I tried to explain that I wanted to go back, be an ‘ordinary man’ in a letter. Whatever that meant! 

My wastepaper basket filled, a second unanswered letter from Cynthia sat on the table, more of a short note ending ‘are you okay?’ 

I needed a break from trying to write the letter, when he taxi dropped me in Leicester Square a soft warm rain fell, I ducked in to the closest cinema. A film starring Charles Bronson film about to start - Death Wish. 

A smile spread across my face, the film was based on Brian Garfield’s novel of the same name that I loved. As I watched Paul Kersey prowl the dark corners of the city I thought back to my encounter in the alleyway, my cock began to harden. My fingertips neared my belt, where Walther lived. I stroked Walther. For the rest of the film I was Paul Kersey.

Two more wastepaper baskets full I admitted defeat at sending my news by letter. I began to pack Danny clothes. Warning I was coming would spoil the surprise and, selfishly, I wanted to see Cynthia’s face when she saw me standing there.  

Danny turning up out of the blue would be even more awkward than a letter. 

I slid my three stone ring onto my empty ring finger and left with one Danny outfit at the bottom of my case. I wish I could honestly say sitting in my apartment, waiting for the taxi, wearing Connie’s clothes for the first time in a week felt awkward. I wish I could say I could not wait to be Danny again. 

I could say those things but, at that moment, they would be lies.

My train had compartments linked by a corridor, I imagined looking vulnerable to passers by as sat alone in my compartment. I imagined I was a vigilante like Paul Kersey, my heart raced, I slipped my hand into my purse, felt the coldness of Walther, felt my cock struggling to harden in my gaff panties. 

Theatrically and needlessly checking I was alone in the carriage I said control your excitement Constance Kersey and laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea. 

Cynthia would be so surprised to see me, in all the time we had been friends I had never visited her at university. The taxi driver claimed he had the correct address. I guessed we must be a good hour away from the university. He agreed then cheerfully asked if I wanted to be taken there. 

The house was shabby, in a shabby part of town, and I was feeling awkward dressed London smart. I started wondering if she lived with someone, perhaps her boyfriend. Next I began wondering if arriving unannounced had been a bad idea. 

A man in his forties yet dressed like a pensioner answered the door, mumbled directions to Cynthia’s room then he turned, his slippers with trodden down backs made shuffling noises as he entered the cloud of grease fumes billowing out from the kitchen at the far end of the hallway. 

She opened her door a crack. If I had tried to imagine Cynthia looking shocked, horrified, and embarrassed all at the same time it would be the exact face that peered back at me. I had imagined a students room would be full of thick textbooks with tiny, densely packed words inside. In my imagination Cynthia’s room had one such book open on the table with sections of text underlined, annotations vying  with marginalia for space. There would be a legal pad full of undecipherable notes and half empty mugs of forgotten, gone-cold tea. Sure enough mugs littered the table, floor beside the sofa, atop partly eaten dinner plates, sort-of in the way I expected but all evidence of studentish study was absent.

Ariadne had been so proud of his daughter going to university Cynthia could not bring herself to own up to having dropped out first year she explained. She had been living a lie ever since, working in a laundry while pretending to be a student. 

I blushed, thinking how it could have looked as if I were flaunting my charmed life before Cynthia when she stayed with me in London. I put that thought aside, and this was no time to burden her with my petty Danny/Constance worries. I needed to step up and be the friend Cynthia needed.

 

After Cynthia got over the shock of me at her door. 

After a couple of days. 

After I was back in London 

Our friendship had been restored to the best version of itself - we signed our letters with just a capital C, or not at all, letters crossed in the post, arrived daily, sometimes two a day. My letter writing skills improved. Cynthia liked it when I made my photographs into postcards, she joked the postman read them. That is when my flirting started! As a tease for the postman - but never in a letter - we were not that sort of friends. 

Cynthia loved the game, suggested things I could write. Then, responding to my flirty postcards, she began sending flirting postcard replies. Our letters never once hinted at the flirty postcards let alone directly mention them.

 

I didn’t ask her straight out, instead I slipped seemingly innocent remarks in my letters, little by little I mentioned some people could feel lonely even when surrounded by millions of strangers, sometimes I would call my spare  bedroom ‘your bedroom’. That sort of thing. Slowly, over a dozen or more letters I sowed seeds hinting that I would like my best friend to move to London. I ran out of hints and shameless manipulations and finally asked outright if she would come, stay awhile, perhaps forever Cynthia did not even reply. 

Her letters simply stopped for perhaps a week. I took the hint and stopped writing as well.

Late at night someone banged on my street door…let me in! 

Somehow I just knew the police had come for The Fiancée Bandit - now I felt the terror that I overheard robbers talk of in Kings when police came for them…now they were here for me. They came early morning. Or late at night. When you least expected. More insistent banging…Connie let me in…much louder now…loud enough to recognise her voice.