The following few weeks were filled with great change. Raquel watched, feeling helpless, as Jackson settled into the destiny he had constructed for himself, and which he was running headlong to embrace, regardless of its consequences.

As he had promised, Jackson was an attentive and bright student, and in the weeks since his first transformation, he had mastered the arts of the world of the transvestite with perfection.

The female persona he'd forged was without parallel. Raquel had never thought that any man could be so beautiful. He even had to concede to Jackson on one day in particular, that he was finally convinced that Jackson could successfully see his plans through.

Jackson had changed in other ways, too. He had withdrawn from those around him in gradual and minute amounts, but Raquel had sensed it and it bothered him. Raquel would look at the youth sometimes, when Jackson was silent, and saw a glimmering in the boy's eyes that disquieted him. No doubt he was churning over again the motions of his plan.

He was a young man determined to achieve triumph at any price. He was prepared to give up his identity, sexuality, his fertility, his body - his whole life, to reach that end. And he was willing to toss aside his relationship with Claire, too.

Jackson was continuing to see Claire, but their time together were no longer what it had been. She, too, could see the change in him, but was unaware of its source. She had commented to Jackson and Raquel both – separately - that he had become cool and secretive. She had once told Jackson that she felt as if he were trying to shut her out of his life and was letting her feel unwanted and useless.

He had denied this of course, and an argument had soon followed. Although, as she later relayed to Raquel, who had become somewhat of a go-between for the young couple, Claire said that it could not have been described as a genuine argument. Certainly, she had grown angry and yelled at him and demanded explanations for his attitude, but he had never once lost his composure. This had only served to infuriate her further.

She was fighting for their relationship, but as far as she could see, he was happy enough - no, complacent enough to let it slide by without concern.

Together they had gone out for a night at a cinema in the city, and had planned to drop into a pizza place afterwards. They came out of the cinema a little after nine o'clock, and spilled out onto the street with a horde of other people. Claire placed her arm around Jackson's waist as they moved along the pavement. There was no reaction to her advances.

They walked on in silence for a time, as Claire wondered if perhaps she had done something or said something to upset him.

They went into a pizza place, and sat down in one of the booths, sitting across from each other. The attendant approached their table, and Jackson ordered two Cokes and a medium sized pizza with the lot for both of them. The Cokes came back almost immediately, and they sipped these as they waited on the pizza.

"So, what did you think of the movie?"

"It was O.K., I guess," he replied.

"I liked it. It was funny," Claire said, trying hard to sound normal and cheerful. Jackson just shrugged with indifference.

"Jackson, is something bothering you?" Claire asked. She thought that it was more than time for them to settle whatever it was that was going on between them. She had to be able to understand why he was building up the barrier which she could feel was driving them apart.

"No. Should there be?"

"I don't know. I'm asking you. In the last few weeks you haven't been yourself, and I don't know why. Is it a problem at work, or is it me?" she asked him.

Jackson looked at her for a long time. She could read nothing in his face. But she thought that something about him was different, and had felt the same sensation on previous occasions, but just couldn't decide what it was. Was it his eyes? No. His skin? No, not really - although it did look cleaner and healthier than she'd ever seen it before. Was it his mouth? No. Then what was it?

"You're imagining it. Forget it, Claire, there's nothing wrong," he told her blandly. But she wasn't satisfied with his response.

"Don't give me that crap, Jackson. I've been watching it go on the past few weeks, not understanding what’s happening inside your head...! I want to know what's wrong. What has changed between us?"

"Not now, Claire, O.K.?”

"When?" she cried, thinking it a perfectly justified question. But he didn't reply. He drank his Coke in stone faced silence.

"Aren't you happy with me anymore?" she inquired, the edge in her voice softening as she felt the treacherous tears creep into her eyes.

His face at last betrayed emotion. He was frowning and she thought she saw a flicker of pain and concern in his expression.

"You know that you've always made me happy," he told her. "I love you, Claire," he spoke softly. “I always will."

It was almost a premonition; a sense that while he had said the words she had longed to hear, and had clearly meant them, it was these words and their sentiments that signaled the beginning of the end of their time together.

"Then why have you been so cold lately?" she asked him.

"It's something that I just have to work out for myself, that's all," he replied evasively.

"Is it your family?" she asked cautiously, knowing well how little he liked her broaching that particular subject. The displeasure and annoyance registered instantly on his face. But still, nothing could have prepared her for his violent response.

"Will you just give up, Claire?!" he yelled at her, not giving a damn about the other people in the shop. “Leave them out of this, just for once, will you! Stop taking every opportunity to bring them up all the Goddamn time...!"

She shrank back into her seat in the booth as he abused her from across the table. But then she sat up straight and told him that she felt it was natural for her to want to know something about his parents -they were the people who had made him what he was.

"It's my past. And it's private," he countered.

"Why do you feel that you've got to keep secrets from me?" she cried in frustration.

"Maybe it's to protect you!" he said.

"From what?" she said. “The truth?" she cried.

“I think it could hurt you - yeah," he answered.

“That is so stupid," she retorted, nearing the end of her tolerance. "You are assuming that you can make decisions for me, and that I'm some weak, silly girl who can't cope with anything. You're also showing that you don't trust me! What kind of relationship does that make for?" she exclaimed.

'Trust has nothing to do with it -"

"I'll say it doesn't!" Claire cut in waspishly. "You don't trust me! Why?"

"Claire, let's just let it go...”

"No, I want to know why it is that you can't talk to me about your family or where you grew up or any of that stuff…?"

"Claire - no," he said in a very cold, very determined manner.

Claire paused, collecting her wits, deciding on anew approach. "Have you ever lied to me?" she asked him.

"No, of course not."

She nodded, seemingly accepting this. She then asked him when and where he had first met Raquel. Jackson squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly developing a deep curiosity with the small bowl on the table that held the sugar sachets. He picked one up at random and absently read a quote, which was printed on one side of the Kraft sachet. It read: 'Man may have his will - but woman has her way'. ~ Oliver Wendell-Holmes.

‘Oliver, my friend,' Jackson thought to himself, 'I’m counting on it.'

Jackson fidgeted with the sachet as he told Claire that before he had left Helton, his home town, a mutual friend of his and Raquel's had given him Raquel's address and name and suggested that he could stay with him, as well as possibly find some work at the club.

Claire shook her head, clearly annoyed with him. “Why couldn't have you just told me that you'd met in prison?” she asked him, disappointment in her eyes.

“How did you know?” he asked her.

"Robbie told Paul, and Paul told me… on the night you and I first got together,” she replied.

“You’ve no right to pry into my life!” he yelled at her, becoming defensive again.

“Well how else do I learn anything about you? You never tell me a thing!" She said. “Besides, the point is that you just lied to me. How do I know you haven't lied to me before this and won't do it again?”

“Claire, I haven't lied - ”

"You just did it then, didn't you?”

"That was the first time!” he proclaimed.

"But it won't be the last, right?” she said scathingly.

“You’re being painfully pedantic!” he snapped, at which point there seemed little else for them to say.

A young Italian youth brought their pizza over to the booth and set it down between them. When he was gone, neither Jackson nor Claire moved to take apiece of it. Their appetites were lost.

“What's the use, anyway?!” cried Claire suddenly as she got up from her seat. She stared down at Jackson with glistening brown eyes. “I'll see you when I see you... I guess. I don't know why you're doing this to me... to both of us. Why are you pushing me away? Can't you tell me that much, at least?”

He said nothing. He just looked at her dispassionately.

”I know you're filled with hurt. And I do love you, and I want to be there with you, to help you. But you just won't let me close...” She started to cry. Feeling foolish, she cursed at herself for crying, realising that the other people in the pizza shop were watching her and Jackson, as if they were some sort of sideshow. She walked hurriedly out of the shop.

Jackson remained where he sat, ever cool and calm, as reflected by his poise and manner

A few days passed. Jackson did not hear from Claire, nor did he seek to talk to her. He marked the time that passed by learning well the valuable lessons that Raquel was instructing him in. This included a daily regime of beauty products to cleanse and tone the skin, to keep it in perfect condition, as Raquel stated that it was one of his many assets.

He was taught everything about make-up – which were best, and which to avoid. There were also the styles of clothes and colours to which Jackson's female persona was best suited. Again, Jackson was fortunate that he was able to look good in virtually anything.

There were perfumes and scents to be learnt; he had to be able to name them by smell, and recognise a genuinely fine scent from a common and gaudy one. This was harder than he had expected, but he was progressing well. There was also the matter of movement and speech.

Jackson was indeed a naturally graceful person in his manner, but he needed some refinement, so Raquel had devised a set of basic but important deportment skills in which he had to be trained. As for speech, Raquel said that the best way of disguising his male voice was to start by speaking with an accent.

Over time, as he learned how to properly speak in a feminine way, and with the effects of the hormone injections to aid him, he would be able to lessen the accent as it suited him, and perhaps drop it all together. Raquel told him that the ploy of using an accent was an old one, with several transvestites and transsexuals he'd known over the years employing it quite successfully.

Jackson settled for a hybrid between a Southern English accent, mixing it with just the hint of something huskier and middle European, giving the impression of a girl schooled somewhere on the Continent. This he was able to master rapidly, for he found he had a talent for mimicry. And all these things he learnt in his female persona.

Raquel stressed that if he was to practice on his speech, movement or any other aspect related to his female persona, then he must be garbed as such; and when he was dressed as a woman, he stayed 'in character', doing everything as a woman would do, even going to the toilet as a woman would - or at least, so far as his current physiology would permit.

Raquel told him that if he dedicated himself to his studies in this manner, he would never have to worry about 'losing his character', and that eventually all aspects of his training would flow naturally from him, as if from within, as if he’d be born to it.

Jackson's confidence was swelling dramatically and he wanted desperately to take his female persona into the public and see how well she went. But Raquel insisted on him holding back on his debut, stating that he didn't think that he was ready for public appearances. He disagreed with Raquel, but after some heated debate, he held in check his plan to step out in to the world until curiosity and temptation became too much for him to cope with.

It was Jackson's night off work and Raquel was downstairs performing in the evening's show. It seemed the perfect opportunity for the youth to test out his abilities and see if he could manage the transformation of young man to young woman without any assistance from Raquel at all, and then go downstairs, into the club, and mingle with the rest of the crowd, and just find out how well he could blend in.

His hands expertly applied the make up to his creamy coloured skin. His brush strokes of blusher were confident and perfectly placed; his application of eye shadow, liner and mascara was faultless, and putting on the lip gloss so that it was just right was no longer the challenge it had once been.

When he was through, he was dressed in a well tailored, short tight skirt of striking red, accentuating his narrow waistline, and a figure hugging, sleeveless black top. He looked at himself in the mirror, adjusting a few strands of hair in the wig until he was positive that everything was perfect. He smiled at the image he saw.

The wig was a temporary thing. His own hair had grown quite long, but it's style wasn't yet suitable for him to do anything with which would then suit the sort of young woman he was attempting to be. So it had to be grown out until a hairstyle more suitable could be made from it. The wig was also useful in another way; as he was leading a double life; the difference in his own hairstyle and that of the wig made any chance of someone recognising him even more remote. It amused Jackson to liken the situation to being a drag version of Clark Kent and Superman.

"Perfect," he said to himself, as he viewed his form from all angles in front of the mirror. He was still admiring himself when a knock came at the apartment door. He went out and answered it and felt somewhat anxious when he discovered that it was Pearly.

The elderly transsexual eyed the young lady challengingly, with a glimmer of distrust in her eyes. She set her jaw firmly. At the same time, by chance, Claire happened to be making her way along the hallway when she saw Pearly standing outside of Jackson and Raquel's apartment facing a very attractive young woman with long dark hair. Claire hung back to observe.

"Can I help you?" the woman in red asked in a full, low and husky voice that sounded well educated, confident, and with the hint of an accent.

"Where is Jackson Crane?" Pearly asked bluntly, her keen, hawk-like eyes seeking to peer beyond the woman, into the apartment.

"Why do you wish to see him?" she inquired, in an equally direct fashion. Jackson secretly thrilled in the realisation that he had completely fooled the infamously wary old witch.

"Not that it's any of your concern, but Old Jas wishes to see him, directly.”

The young woman remained stoned faced for a moment, before saying that she would be sure to pass the message on to him once Jackson had finished dressing. "Now, is that all?" The young woman asked curtly.

Pearly gave her a hard, scrutinising look, said nothing and left. She passed Claire on her way down the hall, giving the pretty young girl a wary, knowing and cynical look.

The door to Jackson and Raquel's apartment clicked shut. Claire stood in the hall and pondered.

She wondered who the woman at the door was? And what was so lovely a woman doing alone in there with Jackson? Why was he getting dressed? Claire's mind went into a spin, plummeting to the nauseated pit in her stomach. She concluded that she had just stumbled upon the reason why Jackson had been behaving so distantly the past few weeks and why he had been so cruel to her and broken off their relationship.

It had all been because he had become involved with this other, unknown woman; a woman who was older, more sophisticated than Claire, and considerably more beautiful. She felt a vengeful anger engulf her.

Jackson's indifference had been something she had not been able to fight, but another woman was something else entirely. At least it was a foe that was tangible. She was capable of handling a little competition. Claire wasn't yet ready to give up on Jackson. She loved him, and held to the faith in her heart that he loved her, too.

She approached the door and knocked boldly. The woman in red opened it. They eyed each other in strained silence. One could almost see their claws extend, ready to attack.

"I want to see Jackson," Claire announced.

The woman stared hard at her with icy grey eyes that were measureless by anyone's standards. They were without equal, and guarded the woman's thoughts without fault.

"And who are you?" she asked Claire, sounding faintly bemused.

"I'm Claire. Jackson and I -"

"Ah yes! You were Jackson's little girl friend," she said and smiled. It was as mocking and as cold as her description of Claire's relationship with Jackson. "I'm afraid that you can't see him."

"Why not? Didn't you just tell Pearly that he was inside, getting changed?" she asked pointedly.

The woman did not lose her poise for a moment. "So, you heard that? Very well. It's this simple; let's see if you can follow it ... Jackson does not wish to see you. Is that clear enough now?" she inquired cattishly.

Claire's face flushed with anger and hardened. She was growing to like this woman less and less, and wondered what it was that Jackson saw in her. Claire felt that there was something cold and false about her. The life in her eyes shone with a sharp and malicious mind.

"I want to hear that from him, not you," Claire said.

"Look, I could stand here all day and exchange childish banter with you, but I’m bored already. The fact of the matter is: Jackson doesn't want to hear from you or see you. It's finished. That's it, my dear," the woman said with a shrug.

"And where do you fit in?" Claire asked.

"Jackson and I are - friends. Close friends," she said, correcting herself. "Extremely close, in fact." The woman stated, raising one eyebrow, meaningfully. "So, you see, he has no further need of you. I am all he needs now ...All he will ever need ...or want."

"We'll see," Claire offered as a parting remark, although with less confidence than she would have preferred. She started to turn to leave, hesitated, and then shot one final comment back at the woman over her shoulder: "By the way, you can take that fucking pole out of your arse now."

"Charmed, I'm sure," the woman replied with a tight smile as she closed the apartment door.

Inside the apartment, Jackson turned and leant his back against the door. "Pole up my arse!" He muttered to himself, grinning crookedly, inwardly impressed with Claire's parting remark.

He allowed himself a minute to reflect on their taunt exchange, sadly so, and then he inhaled stiffly, straightened up and ventured up the stairs to Old Jas' suite.

He knocked on the door and went in when he heard the old woman's faint voice call him in, from the other side.

As always the desolate room was dimly lit and decidedly chilly. Old Jas was at her post, sitting on the hard and uncomfortable high backed, antique chair. From where she sat, she could not see Jackson, who was standing amongst the shadows. He walked around, when summoned, and stood before the ancient hermaphrodite.

The old eyes did not widen with surprise, or scorn. They didn't appear to judge him at all. Maybe there was a hint of sadness, a confirmation of pain, but it was only momentary. The old face became lit up by the benign smile which said many things, amongst them, Jackson sensed, that Old Jas had always known that he would arrive at this point in his life.

"I commend you. Not for your actions so much, but for the determination and strength with which you have pursued your goals. These qualities have done you credit, and you have constructed for yourself quite a mask. So life like is it, that you have fooled both Pearly and the young girl, Claire, who cares for you deeply. They are the two hardest people you are ever likely to need to convince. Others will see what you allow them to see - nothing more," Old Jas informed him, and then requested him to sit on the sofa.

Jackson did not bother to ask the old wise woman how she had known about his confrontation with Pearly and Claire. As he saw it, Old Jas possessed a power that he didn't have and could not pretend to understand. But he respected it, and Old Jas.

"You are on your way. But this you already know," Old Jas went on.

"Yes," he agreed, speaking in his feminine voice, as Raquel had trained him to always do.

"You are a beautiful young woman. Without a doubt, you are the loveliest thing I have ever seen in all my years. Truly you are," she said, again smiling.

He allowed himself a small smile of pleasure, pleased with the great compliment. But Old Jas' face became darker and more solemn.

"Men will want to kill for you," Old Jas predicted. "And two men will."

"Who?" he asked urgently, alarmed by the sage's warning.

But Old Jas just smiled at him. "It is all ahead of you, child, waiting for you to meet it. Your destiny is close at hand. So far, you have learnt your lessons well. But there are more, many more, ahead of you. Learn them well, or you’ll make the same mistakes as your father has, and suffer a similar fate..."

"What is my father's fate?" Jackson asked. But the old woman said nothing. "Can you see it?"

"I see many fates, all entangled; from the past, the present and the future. You are the common thread," she said as she reached out and took Jackson's hands in her own. “ All of them will depend upon you. Not the least of which is your own fate, child. When the end comes, you must make that decision." She told him cryptically.

She sat back in her chair, letting go her hold on him, but doing it most reluctantly. "Now go. Be with people, play out your role," Old Jas instructed him.

Jackson rose from the sofa and thanked her. "You have helped me a lot. You have been an inspiration to me," he said, and leant down and gently kissed her on the forehead.

"The road you have chosen is not all that different from my own," Old Jas warned, when Jackson was standing tall again. "And look at what I have become. Remember that, child, remember that always," she said gravely.

He nodded, while wondering who Old Jas was, where she had come from. He muttered something by way of a reply, saying that he would remember her words, but instantly he found himself pushing them from his mind the moment he was out of her dark and depressing suite.

Out in the hallway, he felt a heavy and impending sense of doom settle on his shoulders. He could not push that away so easily, as he made his way down the internal set of stairs, through a side corridor, slipping out of the loading bay doors, on the side of the building, unseen by anyone. They led him into a dark, neglected lane way, along which he walked until he came to the main street.

The pavement was seething with people; it was another lively night in the inner city suburb of Prahran.

Jackson looked about, experiencing a moment of self-doubt and hesitation and paranoia -everyone was looking at him; they could tell he was in drag – they knew! They knew! He looked absurd! He was teetering ridiculously in his stilettos...!

He regained control of his frantic mind, and with a flick of his head, shaking his long dark locks, he took his place in life, sauntering along the street as if he owned it all.

Yes, he did attract glances, stares, but he knew - he knew! – that they were the kind he wanted, needed; admiration, curiosity, desire, envy , lust. Along Chapel Street, he would stop and feign interest in the windows of various boutiques, his movements elegant, alive with poise, knowing that he was catching the attention of a community of people usually unshockable. And he loved it!

At the corner of Toorak Road and Chapel Streets, where he crossed at the traffic lights, expensive looking sports cars rolled past, loaded with handsome young men, all of them whistling, calling to the stunning woman in red, promising flowers every day and undying love. Jackson turned, gave a slight smile to his admirers, but walked on.

Finally he stopped outside a bar. Glancing in and seeing it to be quite busy; he decided to push this test run a little further.

He stepped past the door bitch and her male counter part, and moved over to the bar where she was fortunate enough to find one empty stool available.

Almost as soon as he had arrived, he felt the stares of dozens of the other patrons. He wondered, at first, if they were not laughing at him amongst themselves, spying immediately that he wasn't really a woman. But once he controlled his feelings of paranoia, his self-confidence returned.

Jackson ordered a drink, a vodka martini, from the young bar man. The young man seemed to have trouble taking his eyes off of the woman in red and black, as he fixed the cocktail.

“Thank-you," the woman said, as he gave her the drink.

"It was my pleasure," he smiled, his accent Italian, and went onto introduce himself as Stefano before he stumbled away and onto the next customer.

The woman smiled to herself and swiveled on her chair, casting her eyes about the bar's interior. It was still relatively early, so many of the customers were at the tables enjoying their meals. At the far end of the bar, Jackson noticed, was a party of five men, ranging in age from early to late twenties.

They were drinking a lot of beer and sharing the occasional joke. Their spirits seemed high and pleasant, their laughter was robust at times, but not annoyingly so.

Jackson had scarcely noticed them. But they were well aware of the woman in red. The group's leader was a big guy with a footballer's physique, named Terry Gunn. He was square jawed and uncomfortably tall, with a burst of blonde hair and pale blue eyes. He was a striking looking man. He spoke in a narrow vocabulary of colourful expletives, and his topics of conversation usually centered upon himself; his feats of athletic prowess, and his sexual conquests, which he numbered in the high hundreds. His crude eye had caught the image of the woman in red's form, and he smiled crookedly to his mates.

"Now I wouldn't mind a bit if that one sat on me face and pedaled me ears," he told them, pointing to the woman in question. This was his mates' cue to laugh at his extraordinary wit. They obliged, with the exception of one of their number.

He'd been Terry's friend for more than seventeen years and knew him better than most. He loved Terry like a brother, although there were times when he hated him for his narrow-minded ways and animal stupidity .His name was Christopher Kelly.

Christopher was a degree shorter and somewhat slimmer of build than Terry, with a face that was sensitive and more angular. He could not join in with his friends as they laughed at Terry's joke, because he found no amusement in mocking a lady. The woman in red was clearly not the type of girl Terry usually boasted about. This woman had a distinctive air about her. She was different. Special.

Christopher looked at her approvingly as she sat at the bar, her back to the rest of the bar.

"Watch the old ’Terry-Gunn-Charm’ in action, boys, and you'll see perfection in motion," he boasted. "You losers might just learn something. I'll have her cumming in her knickers before you can say 'Do you spit or swallow, babe?"' He laughed coarsely, and sauntered up to the other end of the bar, towards the woman in red.

The mates that he left behind all snorted and snickered in support. But Christopher stood away from them, sipping his pot of beer thoughtfully, as a frown creased his clear, handsome brow.

"Hello there," Terry whispered, standing behind Jackson, into his right ear. He put his hand on the swivel top barstool and turned it so that the woman was now staring him right in the face. She was even more gorgeous than he'd first realised. This called for something extra special from the 'Old Terry Gunn Box of Tricks': he offered her his best sardonic grin.

The woman's lips curled up slightly at the corners, and her eyes rested on his. Jackson was secretly wondering if this man was about to puke on his new red dress.

Terry looked into her eyes - they were bright, intense, energetic and powerful. He could not hold the gaze for long, and so chose to study her lips and perfect skin.

"Can I buy you a beer?" he asked.

"I have a drink, thank-you," came the cool reply.

"Don't believe I've seen you here before...”

"No. This is my first time;” the woman told him.

Terry leant up against the bar, with one hand dropping to rest just above her knee. Smiling, he moved it up higher.

'Take your hand off, please...”

"C'mon now, babe, I’m just being friendly. And I know you types. You girls all want it the same," he said.

The woman's face became ice cold, and twice as hard. Her eyes burned with hatred and revolution. Jackson thought to himself: 'There are men that actually say that?! God help us!' To Terry, the woman in red said: "Get your hand off me, you moronic piece of filth!" she hissed at him. She stood up, glaring into his eyes challengingly.

Terry was incensed and shocked at her rebuttal. He'd never had a rejection before; well, certainly never like the one he'd just been delivered. He felt humiliated in front of his mates and the entire bar.

"You cock teasing slut!" Terry yelled, and raised his fist to strike her.

"Go on! Hit me! I bet it's the only way a troglodyte like you can get it up! You 're no good in bed, so you get your kicks by punching women. Well, go on then and hit me!" she urged him. But his fist fell limply to his side as he muttered a string of foul curses under his breath.

Christopher came up behind Terry and urged him aside. "C'mon, Terry, forget it," he said to him. "Let's just finish our beers and get out of here, O.K.?" Christopher suggested calmly to his friend.

"We don't want his type in here," Stefano bellowed from behind the bar. "Get him out, before I get the bouncers to escort him out!" he threatened.

"I'm going!" Terry yelled, and then turned to his friends, who stood about together in shocked and embarrassed silence. "You guys can stay," he said to them sulkily. "I'm going home. I don't give a shit," he said, and stormed out of the bar, pursued by the woman in red's taunting smile, not to mention some applause from a few nearby tables of witnesses to the entire sorry display.

She re-seated herself at the bar, and sipped blithely at her drink. Stefano went up to her and apologised for the ruckus, but she was nonplussed.

"Er- excuse me," came a voice from the woman's right. Jackson turned and found that it was Terry the Thug's friend.

“Yes?"

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry for what happened. Terry can get a bit agro once he's put away a few beers," Christopher explained, and smiled wanly. "And he's never had a rejection like that before," he concluded.

"Why the smile?" The woman inquired.

"I must admit, the way you handled him - well, he's probably had it coming for a long time," Christopher said, nodding

"Forgive me if my jaw doesn’t drop to the ground in shock in response," Jackson quipped dryly.

"I'm Christopher Kelly," he said, by way of an introduction.

"Nice to meet you, Christopher," came the response. "How is it that a Neanderthal like Terry has you for a friend?"

He chuckled. "Oh, he's not so bad once you get to know him. He was brought up in a family of eight that was pretty rough and ready, if you know what I mean. He wasn't especially bright at school; so because he couldn't exercise his mind, he exercised his muscle...”

"By belting people up," the woman concluded. "Charming, I must say," she went on dryly. Christopher laughed again. “He’s a sterling example of what lies at the bottom of the shallow end of the gene pool.”

Christopher chuckled. "You have a very dry, sarcastic sense of humor," he noted.

"Thanks for noticing,” she replied. “But I don't know if it's so much a sense of humor, as it is seeing things as they are."

He studied her intently, finding her deeply intriguing, as well as incredibly beautiful. He could hardly believe that she was talking to him, out of all the men in the club.

"Do you mind if I join you in a drink?" he asked her. There was no protest, so he ordered from Stefano, who seemed a little put out that Christopher had made himself comfortable beside the woman in red, and eventually delivered to him another pot of beer.

"Where are you from?" he asked, thinking it a good opening to conversation.

"Here and there.'

"Are you married ...involved with anyone?"

"Not really.”

"Do you live in Melbourne?"

"Sometimes."

"What about family?"

"What about it?"

Christopher sighed and grinned to himself. "Why do I get the feeling you're avoiding my questions?"

"Am I?" The woman asked, seeming surprised at this disclosure.

"Look, I'm not from '60 Minutes'. Relax, ok? And don't give me that surprised look," he said, still good humored. "O.K., so you want to remain a mystery woman. I get it. But surely there are some things that you can tell me about yourself? Or will I have to bore you all evening with my life story?"

"There's no reason why you have to bore either of us," the woman said blandly to him. He instantly flinched at her retort.

The pain that registered in Christopher's eyes did not escape Jackson's attention. He saw it and for a moment he reveled in it. But he also felt pangs of pity for his unwarranted callousness towards Christopher Kelly and was compelled to make amends for it.

"I'm sorry, Christopher. That was uncalled for. I guess what happened with Terry has disturbed me more than I wanted to let on.”

He smiled at her. "I accept your apology .I'm sorry for hassling you. I just thought that you looked kind of lonely. I thought… maybe you might like some company.”

The woman thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

"Now, can I buy you another drink?" he asked.

"Why not?" The woman said, and requested a vodka martini.

Thus it was set into motion; the beginning, for Christopher at least, as he fell into a world of feelings he had never known before. Within half an hour, he realised that he had fallen in love, hopelessly lost in love with the beautiful woman with the sparkling grey eyes, which could so swiftly snap freeze a person's soul. A woman who possessed a face that was immensely powerful and strong, yet serene - but possibly unforgiving.

For Jackson's part, he found Christopher to be an interesting enough person, but not so much on a personal level. Rather, Jackson saw him as a living experiment; a trial run, which he needed as a lead up to the grand event: the seduction of Lloyd Crane.

He discovered that Christopher was the middle of three children. He had an older sister and a younger brother. Both his parents were still alive, and while his sister had married, and moved to a neighboring suburb, he remained at home with his brother and parents.

Christopher was an English and Social Studies teacher at a local high school. It was his very first posting and he was loving it. He liked being around young people, for he got a lot out of their freshness and brutal honesty, and their blunt disregard for society's expectations of them.

"So you're a bit of a revolutionary, are you, Christopher?"

“I'm open to all things," he replied. "And I don't consider myself to be conservative in my thinking. Things should be accepted on their value to the person, and if it’s what makes you happy. That's what life's all about."

"So they tell me."

He frowned at her wary tone. "You disagree?"

"No, not at all. I believe each to his own. One should live their life as they feel, and not bend to the expectations that others may have for them."

Christopher nodded his approval of what she was saying. "I like the way you put that," he told her.

The bar was all but emptied of its patrons. Christopher regarded his watch and found that it was a quarter after four in the morning. He was frankly amazed at how fast the time had gone. The woman seemed to read his mind, and suggested that they call it a night. He agreed, commenting on how quickly the evening had gone by.

"It has, indeed," the woman replied.

"Can I give you a ride home?" He asked.

"No, thank-you. I'll get a taxi," she told him, and they rose from their seats and made their way outside. Jackson had no desire for Christopher to know where he lived. It could well lead to complications that he didn't feel were necessary.

They came upon a taxi rank, across the street, and there were several taxis lined up, waiting. They stopped near the curbside to part company.

"It's been a good night. I hope you had as good a time as I did, and that I didn't bore you too much," Christopher said to her.

"I had a nice time, thank-you, Christopher," the woman replied.

Christopher stared wonderingly into her eyes, and in them, he found the courage to ask her if he could see her on the next day.

Jackson pondered the proposal, and then; "Yes, let's do lunch together, at the Menzies, my treat."

But Christopher shook his head "I' d feel better if we went somewhere else and I paid - "

"Christopher," the woman said with mock admonishment. "Such hypocrisy, and from one who claims that he's not bound by the conservative and traditional mores of Western society!"

He laughed, and conceded to her point, agreeing to the date.

"Good. We'll meet there at twelve-thirty."

"You make it sound like a business appointment," he remarked, and wondered to himself why it was that she needed to reduce everything to solitary and clinical facts? Did human warmth make her uneasy? Or did it frighten her?

"Will I see you then, or not?" The young woman asked, ignoring his last comment entirely. He nodded and then stepped closer, placing a brief and gentle kiss on her cheek, and then stepped away, reveling in the woman's scent and the brief moment when he had felt the softness of her skin.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said hastily, and climbed into a waiting taxi. The woman watched him, seeming unmoved by his kiss.

As the car began to pull out from the rank, it suddenly stopped and Christopher wound down his window furiously and called out to the woman in the red skirt. "Hey!"

Jackson, who had turned away to walk along Chapel Street, looked back at Christopher, curiously.

"I don't know your name!" he exclaimed, grinning at her foolishly.

Jackson's response came without thought. It flowed as naturally as the movements and the voice that he'd learnt and adopted as an integral part of his being.

"Jaselle. Jaselle ...La Fleur," he replied, standing on the curb, watching as the cab pulled out from the edge of the road, with Christopher waving back at him as it disappeared down the street.

Only when he was sure that the car was out of sight did Jackson continue his trek along the street, back to ’Jaselle's', and slip upstairs to the apartment. He made his way up, feeling pleased and proud of himself.

And for the time, until he was sure of his skills, and before the hormone injections were begun and a suitable clinic found to perform the sex change operation, Jackson would continue to use Christopher Kelly as a teaching aide. He would be the unwitting subject in Jackson's – correction; Jaselle La Fleur's - grand experiment.