The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) by Annelie Wendeberg Page B
Authors: Annelie Wendeberg
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grinned back at me.
After the lesson was over, I sent a wire to Holmes, wrapped the boots and clothes in wax paper, and left for home.
— six —
I walked along the buzzing streets, trying to avoid collision with other pedestrians. Street vendors advertised their goods and a variety of odours wafted through the heavy summer evening air — fish, pastries, smoke, blood, urine, and stale sweat. I bought an eel pie and ate it while walking, the package for Holmes clamped under my arm.
The direct way home was a three-mile journey, which I usually did not take. I also avoided walking or riding the same route on two consecutive days. It was my way to disconnect my two different lives — the male and the female. If anyone wanted to follow me from Guy’s to my home, they would have a hard time doing so.
When the weather permitted, I chose to walk; on other days I took an omnibus or a hansom cab to some place close to Bow Street.
Today was dry and sunny, a good evening for a stroll. I passed over London Bridge, turned left into Upper Thames Street all the way to Blackfriars Bridge, crossed the river a second time, on to Stamford, crossed it again at Waterloo Bridge, passing The Strand — sometimes I took supper here, but not today — walked along Charles Street and into Bow Street.
Blackfriars Bridge (11)
At the back door of the cobbler’s, I made my way up a narrow staircase, careful not to bump into the ceiling at the very top, and then turned into a dark corridor just underneath the attic.
I unlocked the door at the far end and entered a tiny windowless room. Very conveniently, my landlady had poor eyesight and it was easy to make her believe that I used the room as a storage place for costumes. I had told her that, at odd times, I or customers of mine would enter, pick a dress of their liking, and leave again. And as these few possessions represented my entire riches and I could not afford to lose them, I had persuaded her to allow me the installation of an extra lock at the door, to which only I had a key. It was an unusual arrangement, but she needed the extra shilling I paid her each week.
Once inside, I bolted the door to my secret dressing chamber, ready to start my daily ritual. I lighted the two oil lamps standing on either side of a locked wardrobe, slipped the key in and turned. The door creaked open and the looking glass fixed to its inside revealed a view of Dr Anton Kronberg, respectable member of the medical establishment, dressed in a sand-coloured cotton shirt, cotton trousers of a darker shade, and patent leather shoes. His hair was slicked back with Macassar oil. Well educated, distinguished, and peculiarly delicate. A few nurses at Guy’s thought him attractive. What a waste.
I unbuttoned the shirt, took it off, and draped it over a hanger, then pulled off my shoes, trousers, and stockings. My fingers probed inside the wrappings around my chest until one end of the bandages was found and I could free my compressed bosom. While rolling the cotton strip into a ball, the red stripes on my breasts slowly paled.
Pulling off my underpants, I grinned at the absurd appendage that stuck out between my legs. After four years, I still haven’t got used to my penis — fastened to a harness and made of the finest calf leather. It appeared authentic enough as long as no one examined it too closely. It had a narrow rubber tube inserted, with its other end attached to a small leather pouch filled with water. Occasionally I accompanied a colleague to the urinal, which drowned all doubts about my sex before they had the opportunity to surface.
Carefully, I took the contraption off, wrapped it in a towel, and stuck it into my doctor’s bag.
I gazed at my naked self and let the fact sink in that I was yet again a woman. Every morning I shed my female part and made myself believe I was a man. To me, it was the only way not to be afraid. I had no time for fear when I was at work. Rather, I had no time
After the lesson was over, I sent a wire to Holmes, wrapped the boots and clothes in wax paper, and left for home.
— six —
I walked along the buzzing streets, trying to avoid collision with other pedestrians. Street vendors advertised their goods and a variety of odours wafted through the heavy summer evening air — fish, pastries, smoke, blood, urine, and stale sweat. I bought an eel pie and ate it while walking, the package for Holmes clamped under my arm.
The direct way home was a three-mile journey, which I usually did not take. I also avoided walking or riding the same route on two consecutive days. It was my way to disconnect my two different lives — the male and the female. If anyone wanted to follow me from Guy’s to my home, they would have a hard time doing so.
When the weather permitted, I chose to walk; on other days I took an omnibus or a hansom cab to some place close to Bow Street.
Today was dry and sunny, a good evening for a stroll. I passed over London Bridge, turned left into Upper Thames Street all the way to Blackfriars Bridge, crossed the river a second time, on to Stamford, crossed it again at Waterloo Bridge, passing The Strand — sometimes I took supper here, but not today — walked along Charles Street and into Bow Street.
Blackfriars Bridge (11)
At the back door of the cobbler’s, I made my way up a narrow staircase, careful not to bump into the ceiling at the very top, and then turned into a dark corridor just underneath the attic.
I unlocked the door at the far end and entered a tiny windowless room. Very conveniently, my landlady had poor eyesight and it was easy to make her believe that I used the room as a storage place for costumes. I had told her that, at odd times, I or customers of mine would enter, pick a dress of their liking, and leave again. And as these few possessions represented my entire riches and I could not afford to lose them, I had persuaded her to allow me the installation of an extra lock at the door, to which only I had a key. It was an unusual arrangement, but she needed the extra shilling I paid her each week.
Once inside, I bolted the door to my secret dressing chamber, ready to start my daily ritual. I lighted the two oil lamps standing on either side of a locked wardrobe, slipped the key in and turned. The door creaked open and the looking glass fixed to its inside revealed a view of Dr Anton Kronberg, respectable member of the medical establishment, dressed in a sand-coloured cotton shirt, cotton trousers of a darker shade, and patent leather shoes. His hair was slicked back with Macassar oil. Well educated, distinguished, and peculiarly delicate. A few nurses at Guy’s thought him attractive. What a waste.
I unbuttoned the shirt, took it off, and draped it over a hanger, then pulled off my shoes, trousers, and stockings. My fingers probed inside the wrappings around my chest until one end of the bandages was found and I could free my compressed bosom. While rolling the cotton strip into a ball, the red stripes on my breasts slowly paled.
Pulling off my underpants, I grinned at the absurd appendage that stuck out between my legs. After four years, I still haven’t got used to my penis — fastened to a harness and made of the finest calf leather. It appeared authentic enough as long as no one examined it too closely. It had a narrow rubber tube inserted, with its other end attached to a small leather pouch filled with water. Occasionally I accompanied a colleague to the urinal, which drowned all doubts about my sex before they had the opportunity to surface.
Carefully, I took the contraption off, wrapped it in a towel, and stuck it into my doctor’s bag.
I gazed at my naked self and let the fact sink in that I was yet again a woman. Every morning I shed my female part and made myself believe I was a man. To me, it was the only way not to be afraid. I had no time for fear when I was at work. Rather, I had no time
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