Sneak Peek: Who Made the Lamb

Here's a sneak peek at the short fiction currently in progress, working title Who Made the Lamb. It's looking to be a three-parter, with the first draft of part one pretty much done and coming in at around 10k words.

With part one done, I'll be turning back to Constant later this week and going forward, until the main narrative catches up with the Christmas arc.

***

Who Made the Lamb

“Fuck!” He slammed the door behind him. “Fucking misandrist dyke bitch!”

                The interview, he explained to his sister, did not go well. The woman took one look at him and made up her mind. She frowned, and looked down at the open folder on her desk and what he assumed was his CV and job application. Truth was, he didn’t remember sending the application. He’d sent so many over the past three months, he couldn’t keep track. This was the first hit he’d had in weeks, an actual invitation to interview for a real job.

                “Alex?” the woman asked. She never introduced herself. Her frown intensified. “It says here, Alexandra.”

                “Alexander, actually,” he corrected. He’d seen the typo on the invite and assumed it was a computer glitch.

                She levelled a look at him generally reserved for the street scum you scrape off your shoe. “I would’ve had a job for an Alexandra,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. “After due consideration,” she continued, louder, “I’m afraid you’re not suitable for the role.” He tried to protest, and she cut him off. “Don’t waste my fucking time, okay? The listing was clearly for a woman. Think you’re the first guy to come in here and spouting shit about diversity discrimination? Fuck!” She sat back in her chair, glaring at him. “I’ve got a job to fill, and I don’t have time for this bullshit. If I don’t fill this slot today, I lose my budget.” She swept his CV into a waiting bin. “Tits and a pulse, that’s what I’m looking for at this point. Tell you what, Alex. Know any women looking for work? I’ve got an open interview slot this afternoon at four. Send her in, she’s got a job.”

                “It’s not fucking fair,” he told his sister. “Fucking diversity and inclusion bullshit.”

                “Yeah,” Sophie agreed. It was nearly eleven am, and she sat at the breakfast table in her colourful morning kimono over coffee and morning bagel. She looked pale after a late night, bags beneath her eyes, dark hair a tousled mess. “White guys being totally underrepresented in the workplace.”

                He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he said.

                “I know you sound like a MAGA dickhead,” she said. “Again.”

                “Whatever.” He stalked back and forth, tugging his tie loose. “It’s not fair,” he said. “The best person should get the job.”

                Sophie laughed. “And that’s you?”

                “I’ve got a pulse!” he said. “And a 2-1 from Bristol. I’m just missing the tits.”

                The bagel paused halfway to her mouth. “What if you had them?”

                Her idea was simple and stupid. Dress as a girl, she explained, grinning. Show for that four o’clock interview, give that woman the tits and pulse she’s looking for. Alex sat at the table with her, laughed at her joke.

                “Can you imagine?” he said.

                “Yeah, I can,” she said.

                He frowned. “I don’t look like a girl.”

                “You made a damned convincing Juliet.”

                “That was a school play five years ago.”

                “And there was that Halloween party last year,” she said, smiling, “I saw the pics. Who were you again?”

                “It was Luca’s idea, I lost a bet,” he said, “Elvira from Scarface, nobody got it.”

                “Yeah, but you looked great,” she said, “you rocked that blue dress.”

                “Whatever, this is stupid,” he said, stood up and walked away.

                Five minutes later, Alex stalked back and thrust a finger in her face. “And if I got the job, what then, did you think of that? I don’t want to work as a fucking secretary, or whatever the job is, not as a girl.”

                Sophie shrugged: “expose their unfair hiring policy for the bullshit you think it is, threaten to go to the press if they don’t keep you on. At the very least, you get some interview practice. And I bet you could get an article out of it, get it published in the Spectator.”

                “Or The Guardian,” he mused. “I can see it going either way.”

                “See? You’re always complaining you’ve got nothing to write about.”

                He shook his head, scratched at his beard. Started soon after Halloween, he’d been trying off and on for ten months to grow it out. “I like my beard,” he said.

                She rolled her eyes. “Give it up, Alex. That’s not a beard. It’s not even beard-adjacent. It’s a soul-patch with delusions of grandeur.”

                “Yeah, well, I can’t pass for a real girl,” he said.

                “You did at Halloween. Didn’t you and Luca win first prize?”

                “At a dark bar with a bunch of drunks. I just had to stare into the middle distance and act detached. This is different. This is stupid. Why are we even talking about this?”

                “Because you need a job.”

                “Not like this, I don’t.”

                “Yes, like this,” she said.

                These past few weeks, Sophie had started dropped hints that she wanted him out. Never anything direct, but escalating comments about the impact of having him around all the time left him feeling guilty and angry. She resented him cramping her lifestyle. And Alex wanted out, too. He came to London expecting to find a job quickly, settle into his own flat, make friends, get out, get laid. Instead, the summer had come and gone, and he’d only gotten laid twice, one of those times with Jenny, his ex from back home.

                “There’s no way you can make me look convincing,” Alex said.

                “I’ll take that bet,” she said.

                An hour later, Alex grudgingly admitted his sister was right. First, she had him shower and shave off his beard and moustache. Truth be told, he wasn’t that sad to see it go. “Legs too, she said. “Nope,” he said, “no fucking skirts, no fucking dresses.” Sophie didn’t push him. By the time he finished showering and shaving his face, Sophie had several outfits laid out on his bed in the guest room. It was the happiest he’d seen her in weeks. “This is fun,” she said. “For you,” he said. “This is fucking embarrassing, I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

                She held up a skirt, a brown check mini from John Lewis. “You sure about the skirt thing? This would look great on you, with this—she held up a ribbed white long-sleeved top—and a belt, some sheer tights.”

                “No skirts,” he insisted. “No dresses.”

                Eventually, they settled on a pair of tapered beige trousers from M&S and a tight black button-down shirt from Next, long-sleeved and paired with a slender gold belt. A blazer, too—let’s keep attention away from those shoulders, Sophie said. A pair of clip-on fake pearl earrings and a slim watch finished the look. Beneath it all, one of Sophie’s old bras, white with lavender decorative lace, tight around the chest and Alex wasn’t too pleased to discover she was a C-cup. She filled a pair of stockings with rice, tied them off and stuffed the bra. The makeshift breasts sat heavily against his chest, knots pushing out like nipples.

                “How’d you know to do that?” he asked.

                She laughed. “Before you moved in, I rented your room out to all sorts,” she explained. “Had a drag queen living there for a few months, Madame Bouffante, big burly lad from up north but wow, what a performer, she was awesome. Fucking awful mess to clean up afterwards, let me tell you, pancake makeup everywhere, and half their stuff left behind. But I learned a few things. It’s why I’ve got this, it was left at the back of the closet,” she added, and passed it to him.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked, holding it at arm’s length. This turned out to be a high-waisted girdle for padding out hips and bum. “I’m not wearing this,” he said flatly.

                “You are,” she said, “or the trousers won’t sit right, and it’ll keep your belly in, you’ve put on weight.”

                “Speak for yourself,” he muttered, but conceded the point. After three months of sitting around the flat, drinking beer and playing games, he’d birthed a little food baby though the rest of him remained slim. Grudgingly, and feeling slightly sick to the stomach, he put the undergarment on, before slipping into the trousers and pulling the top down over his recently acquired breasts. The top felt cool against his skin, stretchy and tight and accentuating his fake boobs. Then she tackled his makeup, taking her time, wiping him clean and restarting a few times. Finally, she settled a wig on his head, a shoulder-length brown-haired bob. Ten minutes later, she stood him in front of the mirror. “Ta da!” she said.

                He looked at himself in the mirror, shivered and said, “I feel like a fucking poof.”

                She rolled her eyes. “Homophobe much?”

                “I’m not a fucking homophobe.”

                “Dickhead, then.”

                He ignored her, poked at his hair, brushing it out of his eyes, and lightly tugged at an earring. He swept his hands down his sides, felt the shapewear beneath that created convincing curves. “And I’m not some sissy cross-dresser, either. This is stupid, Sophie. I’m not doing this.”

                “You don’t think you look good?” she asked.

                “I look good,” he said. Truth was, he was a little taken aback at how good he looked. Five years ago, the school play freaked him out a little, at how convincing a Juliet he made. Single-sex private school, end-of-year production, Mr. Dixon gave him the part, you earned it, he said, you’re the man to play our girl. And he pulled it off, enjoyed it even. He made a very pretty Juliet, seventeen-year-old smooth-faced boyish good looks making for surprisingly alluring girlish good looks, too. There’d been a lot of good-natured ribbing, and some uglier ‘banter’ that bordered on bullying, and a few genuine questions by sensitive classmates.

                St Oswald’s wasn’t a school to skip on details, and Alex’s experienced the full Juliet: corset and stockings, flouncy dresses and flowers woven into hair extensions. After the final show, his best friend Luca, Romeo to his Juliet in the production, convinced him to go out still dressed like a girl. It’ll be a laugh, he said. And it was. He borrowed a skirt and top from Luca’s sister Bethany, low-heeled shoes and wore them over the Juliet corset. He’d always fancied Beth and went along with everything she suggested and sat quietly as she redid his makeup in a vibrant teenage style. The three of them tried the ‘Spoon in town. They got in, the two of them anyway, but not Luca. His friend never forgave him for that. But Alex looked older, as a girl, like a sixth former and he liked that, felt mature, felt powerful in a new and exciting way he didn’t understand.

                He had his first underage drink. Bethany and he chatted over pints of Butcombe beer, the first time they’d really spoken together alone. She held his hand. He remembered vividly the way their nails contrasted, her matte white next to his glossy pink press-ons. Then a creepy older man bought him a drink. That was less fun. Afterwards, he made out with Bethany in her car, his first kiss with a girl, slid his hand under her top, over her bra, and it was the first time he touched a girl there.

                When he got home, his father was waiting for him. Morgan was supposed to be away with work, as usual. But he’d come back early to watch the finale of his son prancing around on stage in a dress. It was the only time Alex could remember his father attending anything he’d done. That night, Morgan stood, fists clenching and unclenching at his side as though he wanted to punch something. His lip curled in an ugly sneer, and he stared at his son standing there wide-eyed in a colourful skirt and midriff-baring top pushed out by Beth’s padded bra, underage drunk with lipstick smeared across his face.

                Faggot, his father said.

                “I’m not doing this,” Alex said to his sister, pulling an earring from his ear.

                “You’re doing this,” she said.

                “You’ve had your fun, Soph. Ha ha. But I’m not doing this.”

                “Fine. Then grab your stuff and get the fuck out my flat.”

                “Excuse me?”

                “Three months, Alex. I’ve had it up to here with you. Three months I’ve put up with your shit. You’re my brother and I love you, but I’ve had enough. You don’t pay rent, you eat my food, you bitch nonstop, and you’re a sexist cock to boot. If I hear you mansplain another Jordan fucking Peterson video again, I’ll scream.

                “And how many job interviews have you had, hm? You turned down that first offer when you first got here, you fucking idiot, thought you deserved better, holding out for Slaughter and May or some shit like that. And since then—what, one? Maybe two. Are you even looking anymore? Far as I can tell, you lounge around my flat all day doomscrolling Youtube videos, playing Switch and watching episodes of Mad Men.”

                “That’s not fair,” he said. “The job market’s—"

                “Shit. Yeah, I know, whatever,” she said. “I don’t care. You think the market was great when I got here? Tail end of a pandemic, you think anyone was hiring? But I got a job, anything I could find. You need a serious reality check, Alex. Stack shelves at Tesco, pull pints down the pub. I don’t give a crap about your fucking degrees, nobody does. Get over yourself and just get yourself some work.”

                Alex plucked at the silky fabric of his top. His stomach roiled with anger, or disgust. “Christ, you sound just like fucking Dad. ‘When I was your age,’” he mimicked in a gruff voice, “’I stacked shelves in the warehouse. Five years later, I ran the joint!’” Alex crossed his arms across his chest, frowned, shifted them below his bra line. “I didn’t stick it out for a Masters’ degree to be a fucking waiter at Café Rouge.”

                Sophie rolled her eyes. “You’d be lucky to get a job at Café Rouge. They wouldn’t have you.”

                “You’re just jealous,” he said. “You’ve always been jealous. That I went to uni and you didn’t.”

                He immediately regretted his words and knew then that he’d be doing what she asked. Sophie had always been the stronger personality, had a way of getting her way when they were growing up. In many ways, it’d been a relief when she moved out at nineteen. He missed her terribly, though he’d never tell her that, but at the same time he felt a heavy weight lift from his shoulders, with her gone

                “You’re going to this interview,” she said. “I need to know you’re still trying. If you don’t, you’re out of here. I’ll give you until the end of the week to get your shit out of my flat. I’ll even buy you a bus ticket, you can go back to Mum.”

                And the thought of going back to that almost empty house, the weight of failure and the hollowness the thought of home brought to his belly, it felt even worse than the fear he felt at the idea of stepping outside in his borrowed sister’s clothing.

                He turned back to the mirror. “You really think I can pull this off, Soph?”

                “With a bit of effort, yeah, I do.” Sophie completed his look—clear varnish to nails, handbag, shoes—and gave some cursory instructions on moving like a girl, had him walk back and forth across the flat a few times, sit down at the kitchen table, shake her hand. “Just don’t overdo it,” she said. “Can you do a girl voice?” He thought back to Romeo and Juliet and Mr. Dixon’s instructions. He thought of Halloween and all those videos off of YouTube and Tiktok, crossdressing Minecraft streamers or Omegle pranksters. “I’m ready for my close up, Mr Demille,” he said, reaching for the right pitch, finding his voice. Sophie laughed and said, “good, not bad, keep practicing.” Finally, she filled his handbag: three tampons, a condom, a chintzy little makeup bag, slim girl wallet, hairband, Ibuprofen, small metal water bottle.

                Alex prodded the makeup bag. “What am I supposed to do with all this? I don’t know how to use this stuff.” He flicked a tampon. “And I definitely don’t need this.”

                “No shit, Sherlock,” Sophie said, “but it’ll help keep you in character. Just—don’t touch your face, okay? The makeup’s long wear, should get you through the interview at least without needing a touch up. Maybe just your lips. Here, let me show you how.”

                Swipe and wipe, ten minutes of practice, and he just about felt like he could manage. It was just a pencil, after all: fill in between the lines, try not to slip.

                Still, he felt faint leaving the flat, nearly collapsed to the ground for hyperventilating. Shaking her head, Sophie took his hand. He froze at the door and couldn’t let go of the door jamb. “I can’t do this,” he said.

                “Yes, you can. You’ve got this,” Sophie said.

                “I don’t know how to walk like a girl,” he said.

                “Try walking like a human, start with that. Stand up straight with your shoulders back,” Sophie told him. “Isn’t that what Peterson always bangs on about?”

                “Not so you can stick your tits out!”

                “Just be confident. Walk tall.”

                “In heels?” he asked.

                She laughed. “You think you’re ready for heels?”

                Sophie escorted him to the station. Nobody paid attention to two young women on their walk to Angel station. They took the tow path along the Regents’ Canal; a cyclist nearly ran them down, shouted ‘cunts!’ as he flew past. Otherwise, no one took notice, not even when they passed close to other pedestrians. Make eye contact, Sophie instructed, but not for too long. If you keep staring at the ground, you’ll draw even more attention. Especially if you walk into someone. Finally, standing outside Angel station, she wished him luck. “I’ll meet you in town after the interview, at the All Bar One on Cannon Street,” she said.

                Knees knocking, stomach churning, he tapped his phone and passed through the gates on his own. He felt sick riding the escalator down at Angel, but by the end of the minute-long descent, he felt better. This was London, after all. Two o’clock in the afternoon and a steady trickle of people heading down, heading up, and nobody spared him more than a passing glance. Nobody gave a shit.

                On the Tube, his skin prickled and it felt as though everyone stared. Soon, he realised everyone was staring, just not at him: at their phones, or into the middle distance. Maybe one or two flashed a look his way, but were they the curious looks of someone catching out a secret cross-dresser? No; rather and perhaps worse, he suspected they were men, checking him out.

                He got off at Bank, joining the crowds flowing up to the surface, and still no one cared, noticed, cried out or showed him anything greater than passing indifference. Gradually, he started to feel a little better. The sun overhead was bright, the air warm and the clothes he wore gradually felt less alien. Not comfortable; that wasn’t possible, with his cock shoved back between his legs, waist gripped tightly by shapewear. The earrings pinched his ears, and the makeup felt heavy and foreign on his face. He hated the watch and kept spinning it around his wrist. But—it was bearable. Better, Alex thought, than heading home.