The Flaming Girls Ch. 01

"Don't try to wank me off Ruffe. I was right the first time, you're a vulture but you're obviously a smart vulture, you got yourself in here. Do we have a deal?" Charlie stuck out her hand and Ruffe shook it.

He pulled up a chair next to her and took out his notebook.

"You don't get everything Ruffe. Not yet. I'll tell you what happened to me on Saturday morning under the railway viaduct but the rest you have to pay for," Charlie's throat was sore but she went on.

Ruffe wrote down everything Charlie said never once interrupting her even though he had a thousand questions and wanted more details. Charlie was right. There was money to be made out of this story and a series of follow-up pieces would keep the masses enthralled, his editor happy, and Ruffe's pockets filled. For now his headline scoop would do. He'd ask for a hundred pounds and if the Daily Sun wouldn't pay it, he'd take the story elsewhere.

Charlie told Ruffe most of what she could remember about the lead up to and the actual attack but she couldn't remember every detail and she deliberately withheld some information. Ruffe's mind was ticking over thinking of the mileage he would get out the story. Not just the attack itself, but Charlie's backstory, a story about the poor women forced to sell their bodies on the streets of Essex, a story about how Charlie had been treated after the attack... it was a goldmine!

They both heard brusque voices outside the door to Charlie's room and Charlie looked panicky. Ruffe kept his cool and slipped the chair back under the table near the window and slid into the ensuite bathroom putting a finger to his lips and winking. He closed the door but left it ajar.

"You look a lot better mister Ringwald," the doctor picked up Charlie's chart and began to scribble.

"That's Miss Ringwald," Charlie replied.

"Whatever; you'll soon be well enough to go into the public ward," the doctor said dryly.

Detective Sargent Robin Sparrow had followed the doctor into the room.

"Are the police going to let a woman who was nearly murdered out into a public ward? A ward which is not compatible with her identified gender?" Charlie said angrily.

"The police have no control over hospital policy and procedures," Robin pulled the recently vacated seat out from under the desk and placed it beside Charlie's bed.

The doctor fussed around, taking Charlie's blood pressure and looking at her wounds.

"They're healing nicely. I'll have a nurse come and change the bandages when the Detective Sargent has finished," the doctor said before departing.

"What now?" Charlie sighed.

"Some follow up questions. We have your story but now I'd like some details if you'd please," Robin opened his notebook.

He grilled Charlie for more details about the description of the man who attacked her.

"Anything else, anything out of the ordinary?" he asked, giving Charlie a glass of water only after she asked for it.

"There's nothing ordinary about seeing your intestines in your lap," Charlie sneered.

"Any minute details, anything in particular that might help us identify the man or link him to the crime?" Robin ignored her sarcasm.

Charlie thought hard.

"Yes. He said something strange when he approached me. He said 'you're one my flaming girls'; I don't know what that meant," Charlie furrowed her brow.

Robin looked hard at Charlie and then wrote down what she had said and underlined it.

"We err... we err, didn't find any underpants at the scene. Were you wearing any?" Robin blushed when he asked the question.

"Of course I was wearing knickers! What do you take me for? I remember now. He took them; he said he wanted them before they got blood on them. And he took my earring," Charlie put a hand to her right earlobe and felt the scab where her attacker had torn out her earring.

Detective Sargent Sparrow visibly stiffened and wrote something in his notebook, his face earnest.

"Does that mean something? Him taking my pants and my earring?" Charlie asked.

Robin Sparrow didn't answer; he just stared at his notes.

"You don't like me do you? Is it because I'm a brass or because I'm a transvestite?" Charlie asked, she was tired now and wanted to be left alone.

Detective Sargent Sparrow got out of his chair and stood over Charlie and gazed at her, moving his eyes up and down her body, finally settling on her face.

"I don't know how you can stand yourself. If he'd killed you he'd likely have done the world a favour, you'd be better off dead," he said through gritted teeth.

He closed his notebook and left the room.

Charlie had heard worse but this man was supposed to her protector, her saviour. She turned on her side and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Ruffe slipped out of the ensuite bathroom grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

"What a fucking story!" he whispered to himself and almost skipped down the corridor.

The nurse came into Charlie's room while she was sleeping and threw the flowers in the bin and stole her chocolates.

*****

Walter Middleton opened the garage door using the remote control clipped to his visor, he loved modern gadgets. He parked his Bentley in the four-car garage, his wife's new blue and white Ford Cortina was parked closest to the door that let into the main house.

Walter got out of the car and stretched; it had not been a long drive but morning twilight was just breaking. He opened the boot and took out the carry bag and went over to the little workshop attached to garage, he unlocked the workshop door, entered and locked it behind him.

He took off his suit jacket and put it on a hanger then his trousers and folded them neatly over the back of a chair. He unlocked and opened the large tool box that had never had a tool anywhere near it and gazed at the contents with awe. He became tumescent immediately.

Laid out in the top tray were six resealable plastic bags each containing a pair of panties and a single piece of jewellery. His fingers caressed the bags lovingly, then he opened the carry bag and took out Charlie's knickers and earring and put them on the workbench. He put the knife down beside them. He opened a drawer and took out a resealable bag ready to take the next trophy for his collection.

Beside the box of resealable plastic bags were ten packages of Pretty Polly sheer stockings. Walter opened a package and took a single stocking out of the cellophane wrapper and placed it carefully on the bench next to his new trophies.

He bought the most recent of his Flaming Girl's knickers to his nose and inhaled. Walter hadn't known she was a transvestite until she had pulled down her tights and bent over for him, but it didn't matter. When he first saw her and she became one his Flaming Girls, her fate was sealed. Her perfume lingered on the satin panty and when he held them up to the light he could see two little stains on the back panel.

Walter had really liked that she had climaxed, unfortunately not many of his Flaming Girls had, but the conclusive evidence was right there, two little dried semen stains in her knickers where it had dribbled when she came. He found it no more repulsive than the crusty vaginal discharges in the crotches of the other Flaming Girl's knickers, he liked that he had some part of their physical being remaining on the totems he collected. He picked up the earring and wiped the blood off the hook with a tissue dipped in methylated spirit and then he carefully wiped his knife.

He loved the smell and texture of blood, the way it sprayed from a severed artery, the way it percolated from a dissected belly, the sweet, metallic aroma of it when it was fresh and bright red. But blood can be a nuisance as he found out when he first began to collect his Flaming Girls. Blood gets everywhere and on everything, hence the collection of coveralls and boots in the locker in the corner, brand new still in their wrappers and boxes. Half a dozen duffle coats hung in the locker for when he had to do his work outside.

Walter had stopped at a services on the A12 and had taken his little suitcase with him to the bogs. The toilet block was decrepit and filthy but it served his purpose perfectly as the building was located well away from the petrol bowsers and the café which reeked of fried food and over-steeped tea. He had taken off his duffel coat, his coveralls and boots and put them into a plastic garbage bag; he washed his hands, cleaned his knife and changed into his suit. The plastic bag went into one of the two huge garbage skips behind the toilet block and then he drove up to the bowers to top off his tank.

There were a couple of prostitutes leaning against the wall near where the trucks pulled up, all miniskirts, stockings, high heels and over-fussed hair. One of them was a redhead but she wasn't a Flaming Girl, she didn't immediately excite him like the transvestite prostitute had tonight. He knew as soon as he laid his eyes on Charlie that she was a Flaming Girl. Thinking about what he done to her caused his penis to dribble pre-ejaculate.

Walter sighed and pulled the Pretty Polly stocking tight over his erect penis and bought Charlie's panties to his face and inhaled her perfume. The memories were fresh and came flooding back: ejaculating inside her, her own ejaculate dribbling into her panties, the look of surprise as the knife sliced through her neck, the gush of blood down the front of her blouse, the stifled scream when he opened her up and then that look of surprise transformed into a look of disappointment when she realised her pathetic life was over. But for one brief moment she had become engulfed by flame, she had burned brightly but then she had fizzled out like all of them did when they died.

Walter rubbed himself and the stocking darkened and a globule of semen extruded from the toe as Walter climaxed. There wasn't much; most of his semen was inside the Flaming Girl's anus.

He was sure the girl was dead, he'd slashed her throat and started to disembowel her but the old tart had interfered. He was tempted to give her the same treatment as Charlie but she wasn't a Flaming Girl and she didn't deserve it. Walter had simply walked back down the railway underpass and along the dark street to where he had parked his car. The plastic he had used to cover the driver's seat and the floor mat had gone into the same skip as his coveralls.

The semen filled stocking went into the bin and Charlie's panties and her earring went into the resealable bag and took pride of place beside the other trophies in the tool box which he closed and locked. The knife went into another resealable bag and he hid it in the hidey-hole behind a loose piece of skirting board.

Walter took his suit with him to the main house and tossed it into the hamper to be dry-cleaned, then used the downstairs bathroom to shower. He changed into clean underwear and pyjamas, padded upstairs and slipped under the covers next to his sleeping wife. She snuggled up to him.

"Another all-nighter?" she asked, still half-asleep.

'What a stupid question,' he thought.

"Yes dear," Walter patted her plump buttocks and immediately fell asleep.

He dreamed of his Flaming Girls and had a nocturnal emission. His sex drive was insatiable.

*****

Ruffe returned the next day with the fifty quid, the makeup and hairbrush, a packet of Consulate and lighter and a wispy pink rayon baby-doll nightdress and matching panties. He put them down on the over-bed table along with the morning edition of the Daily Sun.

"There you go Charlie, I'm a man of my word," he grinned.

The money and the cigarettes she put in a drawer in the bedside table then she opened the makeup box. There was a mirror built into the lid and Charlie went about brushing her hair and then using the cosmetics.

"Help me out of bed," Charlie said.

The tubes had been removed from Charlie's arms but she still had difficulty getting up. Ruffe was a lot stronger than he looked he took most of her weight as she unsteadily gained her feet. He knew what she was about to do and he really wanted to get pictures of her ruined belly but he didn't ask; he needed Charlie to trust him. He turned away while Charlie removed the faded cotton pyjamas and underpants that the hospital had provided. Slipping to the panties and nightdress completed Charlie's transformation and she felt normal again.

"Do you mind?" Ruffe bought out his camera.

Charlie nodded and tried to pose as best she could while Ruffe snapped away. When he had finished taking his shots he helped Charlie back into bed and took a couple of frames of her sitting up in bed.

The makeup had made an amazing difference to Charlie's appearance. She had looked 'plain but pretty' before, now she looked downright beautiful. She hadn't done her 'working-girl' makeup but instead had applied the cosmetics carefully to highlight her best features. Ruffe had only just realised that she had amazing emerald green eyes, the kohl and mascara brought out their full effect. Her dyed red hair, which she wore stiff and spiky on the street was now brushed out into a soft bob which complemented her unblemished alabaster complexion.

"There he is! That's the fucking cunt!" the door to Charlie's room burst open and Detective Sargent Sparrow stood there accompanied by the doctor, two uniformed policemen, and a policewoman.

Ruffe knew what was coming and he stuffed his camera inside his jacket pocket to protect it.

The two uniformed coppers roughly took hold of Ruffe, driving his hands painfully up near his shoulder-blades and frogmarched him out of the room. They took him to the stairwell and commenced punching him but the blows were mostly ineffective as Ruffe covered his face with arms. The policemen threw him down the stairs and he tumbled onto the landing below.

"Fuck off Ruffe and don't come back you piece of scum!" one of the policeman shouted after him.

"Wooden-tops!" Ruffe gave them the forked fingers and scampered down the stairs when the constables came after him again.

It took Robin Sparrow a while to realise that Charlie was wearing makeup and female night attire because he was so angry he could hardly see. He slammed the door shut leaving just himself and the WPC in the room with Charlie.

"You fucking bitch!" Robin glared at Charlie.

"Sargent. Sargent, settle down, you're doing yourself no favours here," the WPC said calmly.

"What did you tell that shit-raker?" Robin was wheezing he was so angry.

Charlie was just happy that Robin had called her a bitch; he'd inadvertently acknowledged her as being female.

"I only told him what happened to me. I didn't tell him about the things that obviously piqued your interest, the things you so enthusiastically scribbled in that little notebook," Charlie said calmly.

"Bullshit!" Robin seethed.

"Why are you so angry?" Charlie asked, perplexed that he would be so furious.

"Here! Look at this!" the detective flung the newspaper that was sitting on the table at Charlie.

Charlie straightened the newspaper out on the over-bed table.

Sixth Slasher Victim Survives! Transvestite Prostitute Lives To Tell Tale the headline read.

What followed was pretty much the exact story that Charlie had told to Ruffe Ingersoll about her attack; at least he used the words 'the name of the victim has been withheld' in the text, saving Charlie the indignity of besmirching the family name. A picture of her asleep sans makeup, looking defenceless, the wound to her throat covered by a large bandage, graced the text. Inside the paper Ruffe had padded out the story, summarising the Exeter Slasher's previous murders and making comparisons to Charlie's ordeal.

Then she found a sidebar: Police Torment Slasher Victim.

'Detective Sargent Robin Sparrow leading the investigation into the transvestite prostitute's vicious attack told the Slasher victim that the Slasher would have done the world a favour if he'd killed her because she'd be better off dead.'

The story that followed alluded to Charlie being discriminated against because she was transgender.

"He heard you say it. I didn't tell him," Charlie said matter-of-factly.

Robin Sparrow turned on her, his screwed up face was so red that Charlie though he was having a heart attack.

"He was here!" Robin screeched.

"In the bogs over there," Charlie pointed to the ensuite bathroom.

"And you didn't think to tell me!" Robin seethed.

"Why should I. You've treated me like shite since you first saw me. I've done nothing wrong and I've been mutilated and you and the doctors treat me like dog-shit sticking to their shoe," Charlie refused to cry, she was made of sterner stuff.

The policewoman interjected at this point.

"And all that stops now," she said.

"I'm WPC Glenda Savage and I've been appointed as your police liaison officer. I have been assigned as point of contact between you and the police officers investigating your crime."

WPC Glenda Savage was a pretty woman in her late twenties with blue eyes and cupid-bow lips; she had a halo of black curls surrounding her pretty face. She filled out her tight-fitting dark-blue uniform but she carried the weight well and she had a fine set of legs sheathed in non-regulation fully-fashioned black stockings, her skirt sitting a lot higher above her knee than was mandated by the police uniform manual Charlie would bet.

Charlie pegged Glenda as being a no-nonsense type who didn't mind speaking up to those in power, even if they were men.

"So how has all this come about? What's changed?" Charlie asked.

"Can you answer her question please Sargent Sparrow," Glenda said firmly.

"Because of the newspaper article I was dragged before the Chief Constable and made to explain myself. He appointed Glenda here as your liaison officer while the case remains active," Robin Sparrow said, the bitterness in his voice evident.

"And?" Glenda encouraged him.

"And I have been directed to deal with you as I would any other female victim and I am to apologise," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"Is that my apology?" Charlie asked, but you could tell she was amused.

"That's all you're getting. I've got work to do. Even more so now that Ruffe has spilled everything we have on the case," Robin grumbled.

"He didn't spill everything Robin. May I call you that?" Charlie deliberately taunted the detective.

"He's chosen to hang onto some vital titbits; just like you have," Charlie sipped water again.

"Titbits?" Glenda interrupted.

"We withhold certain facts from the public. It's helpful to weed out the loonies who confess to every murder they read about. You know about Lenny the Loop?" Robin began.

Glenda nodded. Lenny the Loop turns up at Chelmsford Police Station every time a major crime is reported in the media and confesses. He often wears fancy dress and is obviously mentally unstable.

"But keeping some of the facts secret helps us weed out the other more serious false confessions or so called eye witnesses who just like to get involved in the case," Robin explained.

Charlie wrinkled her brow.

"Say for example someone came forward to give evidence in your case. When I interviewed them I could say something like 'her white blouse was almost dyed completely red because she'd lost so much blood','" Robin offered.

"But my blouse was mauve," Charlie interjected.

"Exactly. So if the person agreed with me about the blouse being white I'd know they were lying but if they corrected me and told me the blouse was mauve I'd be very interested," Robin said authoritatively.

"There also facts in evidence or exhibits that could prove to be exculpatory or inculpatory evidence when we find a suspect," Robin had a self-satisfied look on his face.

"My earring! If you found the earring that was ripped out of my ear on a suspect it would make him a credible person of interest," Charlie remarked.