Jake was not the only man in the wine bar who looked up when she entered. It was not that she was large-breasted or flirtatious, it was more because she had a subtle, understated, almost unobtainable sexiness about her. Even here in Central London, they were characteristics which attracted attention and Jake guessed the bulk of the men in the place hardened at her appearance. He turned to his friend Tom sat beside him.

Tom swallowed his mouthful of wine. "There she is, as arranged." He stated with a quick glance at his watch.

"Yes." Jake confirmed.

"You've done excellent work on her."

"Thank you." Jake responded with a tone of false modesty. "As always." He reminded. "Now it's up to you, enjoy her and remember it's your turn next, I trust you'll be able to produce someone half as good."

Jake watched as his friend nonchalantly picked up his magazine and slipped it beneath his arm. He had to admit Tom had prepared well. He looked just the kind of man that he guessed Monica, or Monique, as she would now call herself, would go for. Tom currently looked like he was in his mid-thirties, about six to eight years older than Monica, but as fit as a younger man. His hair was now dark like hers and his complexion lightly tanned in the way Jake was sure Monica, sorry, Monique, would like to appear herself. Soon she would know that he was an investment banker, however, not for some money-grabbing corporation but rather for ethical investors. The Docklands apartment he had rented would fit in perfectly. Jake could imagine them getting on incredibly well, allowing Tom to feed to his full.

Now Jake turned his attention back to Monique and cast a proprietorial eye over her. He liked the way she had her dark, almost black, hair hanging simply and sleekly down her back. That leather dress fitted so well with the image he had sought for her. It was scooped at the front but did not show off any cleavage. The straps were slender but no spaghetti-strings that would have seemed too flirty. The dress reached to mid-way down her thigh, showing off the beauty of her legs. Her calves were kept taut by the strappy high-heeled shoes she wore, again in black leather, to match her dress, and again, sexy without suggesting she was anywhere close to being tarty. Her make-up fitted perfectly too, just light mascara and eye shadow to accentuate rather than conflict with her skin tone; her lips were just the pale rose side of natural. Monique sought in her velvet clutch bag for the money for her wine but Tom was in with the ease that betrayed him as an accomplished artist. Jake knew that minutes later they would be sharing a table and within weeks possibly days, a bed.

Jake heard clapping hands from behind him. He turned his head to see a tall woman with bold features. She had a strength about her, something that was held effectively in check and reminded Jake of a female truck driver or rugby player. Her hair was dark and short and she was dressed in a black denim jacket and matching jeans contrasted by a purple shirt of some shiny material. It was the crimson glints that seemed to flicker across her eyes that told him she was something other than human.

"Mr. Concubivore I presume?" The 'woman' said lightly.

Jake smiled as if he had been caught out at some prank. "Yes, that's right, Jake's the name. And you're...?"

"Let's say I know Nematash pretty well. You can call me Della."

"Okay, Della."

"So how does it work? You craft that human female into something that your fellow concubi' can feed on? Why bother? Why the double act?"

"Well, yes, you're right you've determined the whole operation straight off. Tom and I work together; we take turns, one arranges things and then the other exploits the situation. Unlike 'people' like you, we have to worry about how we sustain ourselves, it can be a full-time job finding sufficient 'food' to keep us going for a few weeks."

"Why don't you just buy yourself some sex? Surely you could derive as much energy from someone you picked up in Soho as from that one?"

"No, you'd probably need six whores to supply as much as that one is going to give Tom with her first orgasm."

"Okay, if you do not want professionals, I'm sure there are enough bars and clubs where a couple of men with your attributes could each find someone fresher. I know you can't shape-shift fully, but that which you can alter combined with the glamour, and I mean that in the techno-magical sense, around you, must be sufficient to enable you to seduce human females until you are aged well into your five or six hundreds."

"Yes, yes, that's all true; it is how we keep ourselves going. But surely you know the fun of the hunt? One seeks out those prey which are going to challenge you. We are connoisseurs and behave like a human who would not think of defrosting a pizza to have for dinner, but goes out to the best restaurants."

"So, that is the reason for picking this one in particular?"

Jake nodded. "Whilst there are vampires who'll suck dry any rat they find, I'm sure you've met the ones who hunt only for AB Rhesus negatives. There's only 0.6 percent of the population with that blood type and they'll tell you it's the best, it's the Chateau Lafitte for them. Well, this human female, my Monique, is rather like that for us. She might not know it yet, but she's able to achieve a whole chain of multiple orgasms and combined with that something extra that you just can't put your finger on. Give her a couple of months and Tom will be sated for the rest of the year on the highest quality food. However, to be able to achieve that we had to get her to a state in which she was open to having sex, good sex. The way she was before, well, there was very little chance of that ever happening. It was such a shame to see her go to waste like that."

"Okay, but after all your hard work, there's no reward for you?"

Jake smiled. "They may be rare, there might not be another in the next hundred, two hundred, a thousand women, we meet, but we'll find one and that one will be for me. And anyway, you'd be mistaken to think concubivores only worry about where their next meal is coming from and seeing you in this place, I would guess you have similar interests. Humans are delightful to play with. This one was an unpromising canvas and yet see what a masterpiece she has become; the misshapen raw diamond has become a gem."

"Yes, yes, I get it."

From Della's expression he could see that he had been right and she could sincerely admire the artistry.

"Let me see it." Della said as she reached forward.

Della's grasp of Jake's wrist was not strong, but sufficient. He could already feel her mind probing his and welcomed the fact she was treading softly. Jake knew that in a mental or a physical contest with a demoness he would come off far worse. Then, as she locked into the memories of Monica's story, Jake felt as if he was being taken back to that other café, just five months earlier. Then, suddenly, Jake felt himself jerked back to the here and now.

"No, that's no good." Della said, letting go of Jake's wrist. "It will be better seeing it from the human female's perspective."

Jake shot a glance over to where Monique and Tom were deep in conversation before looking again at Della. She had sat back in her seat and had grasped her hands together whilst a look of concentration came to her face.

"Yes, that's it, there it is." Della said with a smile. "Let me dive in. Ah, that's interesting, not what I expected."

Five Months Earlier:

Monica Chase awkwardly grasped the mug of tea in one hand and the white china plate of biscuits in the other. It was awkward because of the oversized bag that hung from her shoulder and knocked against her hip as she moved. She navigated between the tables towards her favourite in the corner. There was a young builder sat on the side facing the wall chatting away on his mobile phone as he stirred another spoon of sugar into his own tea. Monica did not mind as long as she got the seat by the window facing the other way, down the length of the café and the street outside.

"Sorry dearie." The builder said as he folded up the newspaper he had lying out in front of him to give Monica some space.

Monica grunted some thanks and slipped into her usual seat. She felt tired. She shifted the heavy bag from her shoulder but did not remove the old wool duffel coat or the misshapen cap she wore, even though both were damp from the rain that had fallen on her at the bus stop and she had no doubt the coat would soon give off its usual dank smell.

There were forty-five minutes until she started worked, but already she was weary. She quickly thought through the day ahead. Despite taking a Law degree Monica had ended up as a legal secretary rather than the solicitor or even a barrister that her parents had expected her to become. She never seemed to be able to put herself across effectively either in her applications or in the rare job interviews that she had been called for. Looking back she was always pleased that she had taken up the job centre's offer to do some secretarial training while she was unemployed and counted herself lucky that, as a result, Blackburn & Frost had ultimately offered her a job.

The company was hardly grand; it occupied cramped, rather dull 1960s offices, down by the railway. They seemed too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. Many of the staff were temporary and none seemed willing to stay more than a few months. Messrs. Blackburn and Frost rarely appeared at the office, preferring to work with clients in their own homes, dealing with compensation claims that never turned out to yield much for the company or the claimants. However, Monica always thought the Blackburn & Frost pace of things suited many of the elderly people they served much better than a more energetic company would have done. To Monica it was ideal and she knew that a twenty-eight she was fortunate to have found a position she could remain in until she retired.

Now her tea had cooled Monica took a deep slurp and began what she really enjoyed doing in the morning: gazing out of the window at the busyness of Kingsley Road. Spring would soon be here but for now it was still darkish in the morning and as she looked to the window it was her reflection that first greeted her. She knew it well enough, the too slender nose, the rather broad forehead, the chin coming to a point, the patchy skin and the failed hair style which was now growing out to leave dark brown roots to her highlights and her quite long hair only permed wavy for the last six inches.

Monica wondered why she made the effort. It had been over that temp, Gary his name was, then it turned out not only was he not truly interested in Monica but that he was also seeing Lorraine, another of the transitory members of Blackburn & Frost's staff. Monica laughed to herself as she remembered that Saturday after Gary had met her for a coffee and she had considered running out and buying some skinny jeans until she had actually seen Lorraine walking by in a pair, and, as she later discovered, probably readying herself for a more productive rendezvous with Gary that evening. Monica did not mind being passed over, it had happened often enough, she even joked to anyone who listened that she was attempting to break the record for the largest number of first dates. It was just that she wished men like Gary were more honest, it was the fact that they tried not to hurt her feelings which ironically wounded her more.

Then Monica got that sensation again. It had come first almost a week earlier when she was sat in this very café, probably with many of the same people as were here now. She had been gazing at a couple walking passed the café, not arguing but having some kind of animated discussion. Then it hit her, she felt something like vertigo, then, as that sensation faded, it was as if she had slipped into a daydream. She looked around her to see that she was in a café but very different from the one she had entered. Rather than the mixture of builders, bus drivers and old people, there was a whole set of business types dressed in smart suits and raincoats. As was usual when she went to a café Monica found she was looking out the window but the scene was very different to Kingsley Road, it was busy in a very different way. It lacked the people waiting at bus stops or hurrying passed with pushchairs. Instead there were more like the people in her café and taxis filled the streets.

The street outside seemed vaguely familiar and she guessed it was somewhere in London, probably in the West End or maybe the City, rather than out in the western suburbs where she worked. Two men stopped close to the window and for an instant her view was blocked but their dark suits made the glass a mirror. Monica was used to seeing herself reflected in windows, it was almost as if she felt their watered down images less challenging than seeing herself in the mirror. However, she knew for certain that this was some kind of dream when she saw the face reflected. It showed a woman with long, dark hair, probably not far off her natural shade, but so smooth and shiny; Monica knew she could never get hers to obey her as well as that. The woman's skin was smooth, just lightly accentuated rather than concealed beneath make-up. Monica had experimented with the concealment method the previous year but had abandoned fearing it was making her blotchiness worse. For now, Monica wondered why she was dreaming of this woman.

On this first occasion Monica had suddenly wondered if somehow she was having a vision, whether at twenty-eight she had been granted 'second sight' and, as on some of the TV series she watched, she was being told something important about this woman so that some disaster could be avoided. With a determination Monica had looked around her to take in as much as she could. She had looked down at the woman's clothes and found she wore a tailored white blouse, simple but smart. Her skirt was chocolate brown of a material that to the touch felt like a wool blend. It reached to a hand's breadth above the knee, far shorter than anything Monica herself wore. Over it all was a three-quarter length black leather coat with buttons. It was fitted at the top and flared out a little past her waist. Its length was just a thumb longer than the skirt so stockinged legs emerged from beneath it until they disappeared into black knee-length boots with broad but thin heels of a couple of inches.

Monica wondered whether she could locate this woman. She guessed she had to be prosperous to afford clothes like this, and, more than that, filled with a confidence to carry them off, especially, as seemed to be the case, she seemed to be intending to head from the café to work. Monica realised she should try to find out the woman's name. She looked around for a bag and located one beside her holding a laptop computer. Next to that was a leather handbag, seemingly selected to match her jacket and boots. This quickly revealed the woman's driving licence. As Monica read the name, though, she knew that either she was being given an essential message or this was simply some fantasy. It read 'Monique Lucie Chase', so similar to her own name, yet so different.

On that occasion Monica had then suddenly jolted back to the café, unharmed but bewildered. She had ordered a jam doughnut, worried that with the cold her blood sugars had fallen and she had kind of passed out. Then Monica had thought that maybe she was over tired. She was owed a stack of leave by her company, but was always loath to take it, given how much especially Mr. Blackburn depended on her. She had looked up the name in the telephone directory but had held back from telephoning any of those under 'M.' or 'M.L. Chase' though there were not that many, even in London. Monica just could not see herself calling and saying 'Hello, you don't know me, but if you're a Monique Lucie Chase, I dreamt I was you and something is going to happen to you I'm sure, but I am not certain what.' In fact she had got an appointment with her doctor as soon as she could during her lunch break and by the end of the week was taking the sleeping tablets he had prescribed.

This time, as the café around her faded, Monica realised that the tablets had not worked or maybe over the week she had become immune to them or perhaps this was something mystical or spiritual and this time she would get more information about this Monique and what was going to happen to her. At the last moment Monica tried to stop it happening, but as the vertigo sensation came over her, she knew she was powerless to do so.

Monica had to admit it was not too unpleasant. She guessed it could be worse and she could be being given foresight of scenes of destruction and carnage. In the intervening week she had become more convinced that the London connection meant the woman was going to be killed in a terrorist attack, then again she might simply get run over by a van as she stepped out of the café. As she entered the vision fully, this time Monica acted with a purpose. She shot a glance at what the woman was wearing. The weather outside was still grey but a little better than the last time. A different leather coat, longer and with steel buttons against the dark grey leather, hung over the back of her chair. Today a scooped suede dress replaced the blouse and skirt, it was a dark grey-blue with three bright steel buttons down the left side of the top and again of the skirt, pulling the dress snug to Monica's, sorry, Monique's body. It was offset by a magenta silk scarf and dark maroon ankle boots with a slender heel.

The outfit was not like anything Monica would have worn, but she had to admit that it felt comfortable and the body it wrapped felt good. She seemed to remember a massage and some sauna, both things Monica had never experienced. Monica glanced in the window to see her lipstick matched the scarf but then chided herself for wasting time. She returned to the laptop bag, eager to open some files but she guessed she would need a password to access any. Tucked in with the computer though were a couple of letters one was to this Monique outlining things like her leave entitlement and expense allowance at the legal firm that she worked for - CMHD. Monica knew it as a leading company in the City of London. Now this narrowed things down. She would have to think of some strategy to approach this woman, but at least the facts she now possessed had made it easier to ensure she got the right woman.

Monica hesitated, partly worrying that her glimpse into this woman's life would soon come to an end, partly concerned what it meant if it did not. A new thought came to Monica's mind: maybe having such a lucid dream indicated something was wrong. Did she have a brain tumour or some other malady that was causing her to see these things? Monica tried to pull herself together. She quickly powered up the laptop. For user name she typed 'MLChase' and then tried 'Password' but that failed. She guessed that she could spend the rest of the day trying words. She decided to try two more goes, partly to test whether this was a dream. When she typed 'Lucille', the name of her cat when she was a child, and the screen sprung to life to remind her of meetings and reports that were due, Monica knew this had to be a fantasy.

Monica decided though, that while she was here though she might as well explore the computer as far as she could and began running through the woman's calendar. That Friday evening something called 'Doing Dinner' was noted; it was repeated a month later and the one after that. The entries sparked something and Monica remembered the advert she had seen in a magazine in the doctor's waiting room. It was one of these singles clubs 'for professionals'. She guessed that while this Monique might look this sophisticated it did not mean that everything came to her that easily. Maybe also if this vision was just some fantasy from her own consciousness then it was telling her to be a bit more proactive.

The whole vision did not seem eager to leave so Monica continued exploring her mind's creation's identity. She opened the handbag again, this time a dark red leather cylindrical one. and pulled out the purse it held. There were the usual banknotes but it was the picture of a woman, seemingly a younger Monique, and a man and a woman that struck Monica. Could they be Monique's parents, was something going to happen to them?

Maybe what she was being shown or the message she was supposed to be finding out was not related to this Monique, maybe she was only the tool that Monica was supposed to see things through. Monica put away the purse and looked around the café. There were various business people, but suddenly the man moving away from the till, carrying an espresso reminded her of her husband; the way he walked and held himself, even the drink he held was just the way Robert would have had it. Her husband? Where had that thought come from? Monica had never even lived with a man, well except as a house share and that was with three of them at university. She had certainly never come close to being married and yet, in this vision she had these memories of a husband and she sensed they were not positive ones. This was beginning to be intriguing. With that thought Monica was stripped her from Monique's body and dumped back into her own.

"Are you alright?"

Monica heard the question but was uncertain whether it came from herself or was real.

"Can you hear me?"

Monica realised it was a man's voice. She looked up to see a smartly-dressed man, probably in his late forties, standing over her.

"Erm, yes. I guess I am."

"Are you sure?" The man asked and slid into the chair that Monica had last seen occupied by the builder. "You seemed to be having a fugue."

"A fugue?"

"Yes, it's not really a technical term, it's when your consciousness goes somewhere else. It can be dangerous if it happens when you're driving or operating heavy machinery."

"Yes, yes, I suppose that was what was happening. I drifted off."

"I am sure it was more than that."

"Yes, you're right. Are you a doctor?"

"Yes, kind of, a psychotherapist; I deal with both the physical and mental sides. I'm Dr. Jake Harcourt."

"Right, Harcourt like the 19th century politician?"

"Yes, spelt the same, but, the mind, not politics was my field." Harcourt said rather hastily.

"Okay. So this is your speciality and you noticed me falling into this fugue?"

"Well, it's not the first time. Do you remember we met outside your office last week? I am doing some work with a patient who lives above the shops farther down that road and you fell to the pavement as I was coming by. Don't you remember? I asked you at the time to describe your symptoms. You took my card."

Monica struggled to remember anything of what Dr. Harcourt was talking about. She knew she had felt tired for a long time, but had she really fainted out there on the street? Given the visions she had been experiencing since then she could not put it past her body to have done something like that and then make her forget it entirely.

"Did I put it in here?"

"You probably did."

Monica scrabbled in her bag but it took only a few moments to find that Harcourt's card was caught up under the open zip of the bag. Not for the first time did she tell herself she needed a new one. She pulled it out and it confirmed some of what Harcourt had said.

"What does this mean? I've not got something wrong with me?" Monica asked suddenly feeling that now someone medical was involved it had to be severe.

The doctor gave a warm smile that did a lot to reassure Monica. "Not what you're probably thinking. It's most likely a temporary condition, liable to pass in a few months. Usually it is brought on by stress, some kind of tension. You've not experienced some emotional upheaval recently? The death of someone close? An anniversary of something, maybe?"

Monica shook her head. "No and my job's not even taxing; I work in a law firm."

"You're a barrister, a solicitor?"

"No, no, a legal secretary."

"Right." Harcourt said, seeming a little surprised. "You are active socially though?"

"I lead a quiet life all round."

"Now, now, I doubt that's true, a reasonably young woman like you. What are you, thirty-eight, forty, forty-five?"

"I'm twenty-eight in fact." Monica tried to snap but there was really no strength in her to contest the man's mistake.

"Well, even more then. I guess you go out to clubs, meals, drinks, parties; maybe you've been burning too much of the midnight oil."

"No, nothing like that, I prefer the quiet life." Monica emphasised wondering why she had to defend that decision and who from.

"Okay. Mmm, this seems strange. There is another explanation, something that is uncommon but certainly seems to be on the rise, especially in big cities like London."

"What is it? Something in the air, in the water?"

"No, no, it's people, well, certain people. They like to call themselves 'mind controllers'..."

"Mind controllers?" Monica said incredulously.

"Yes, that's their term. Think of them as being on the dark side of hypnotism. It's comparatively easy to learn how to hypnotise someone these days, it's all on the internet. Combine that with certain drugs ranging from the average date rape kind to things that have spilt on to the market from military experiments and you find that if someone takes against you or has the money to employ the right people, well, then..."

"Then what?"

"Well, they 'control' or rather manipulate people. Often it's sexual. They, quite often men, though there's women too, anyway they see someone they want to sleep with, someone who's not interested and then they tweak with their perceptions so they see this particular person as the most desirable one on the planet. Sometimes it's about sexual orientation. Say you're a lesbian and the woman you desire is straight, well you get one of these controllers to adjust her orientation and then you're free to hit it off with her."

"It sounds pretty feasible. I've heard enough stories about people doping your drink and you waking up not knowing where you are. I guess there's more going on beneath the surface. That doesn't seem to be the situation in my case. Unless one of the senior partners has hypnotised into having sex with him and then forgetting about it." Monica surmised, alarmed that so much could be going on in her life that she had little recognition of.

"You're right. That does not seem likely for you. However, there is another form of attack used on people by these controllers. It is kind of to do with revenge. Imagine you have a very successful person that you envy or, say, is your rival for a promotion. Well, what would happen if they were suddenly mind controlled to forget all their expertise or suddenly lacked confidence or simply lost the enthusiasm they once had for their job or their appearance or just began behaving strangely? Well, then, voila, you have removed your rival very easily and it's incredibly hard to prove. The rival is seemingly still very happy, just much less of a challenge. It's a lot lighter on people's consciences than having the rival murdered. Within a few months everyone's saying, 'well I knew X didn't really have the skills necessary to succeed in this business; Y's so much better'."

"So you think I was someone's rival and I was ..." Monica hesitated as something clicked. "And someone did this mind control thing so I forgot how good I was or something? I can't see that working. Who is my rival? One of the temps at Blackburn & Frost?"

"Ah, don't forget, this might be the life you ended up with. The one where you were someone's rival could be in some completely different field of work, a very different location."

"Well, it's little revenge on me. I've ended up with a good job. You know unemployment's rising."

"Not for Law graduates."

"I didn't get that good a grade."

"The average, erm, the average I expect."

"Yes, I suppose so, a little better than that, I suppose." Monica confessed.

"Are you married?" Harcourt asked suddenly.

"No, and what has that got to do with anything?"

"Ah, well, you may have been or you may have had a boyfriend that someone else was keen to get their hands on. In that case they could have you mind controlled and then move in on him when, for no apparent reason, you simply uprooted and moved away."

"I can't imagine that. I'm not very successful with men."

"That may simply be what you've been programmed to think."

"Okay."

Monica's mind was reeling with what Harcourt had been saying. However, it all seemed rational. Maybe she should tell him about the details she had seen when she was in these 'fugues'. Then, though, she noticed the clock and knew she had to move quickly if it was not to be the first time she was late for work.

"Dr. Harcourt, thank you for talking with me. You've given me a lot of ideas, but I've got to get to work now."

"That's fine. Yes, watch yourself though. Call me if you want to talk over anything."

"How much do you charge?" Monica asked, suddenly suspicious that Harcourt had simply been seeking business.

"I get more than enough in research grants. My time with you would be free. For two reasons, first, if you are a case of someone who has suffered mind control, I am eager to oppose people who abuse their powers in this way and would seek to reverse whatever had been done to you; second, and only if you consented, I would use you as a case study in my next book. You'd be kept anonymous, of course."

"Okay." Monica felt suddenly reassured. "I guess that's fine. I will find a time and call you. I have a few more things to tell you that you might feel confirm what you've been suggesting has happened to me."

Monica hurried from the café and was able to make up sufficient time that she was not late reaching work. Her day was too busy to really think through Dr. Harcourt's comments and how she would react to them. However, on the bus home and again when she slid into a warm bath she began thinking through what he had said. She realised that she should take these turns, these fugues as Harcourt had called them, seriously. If he was right they could be stopped comparatively easily. Then again, they might be the augury of something more sinister and Monica imagined Harcourt would be able to detect that and advise her on the route to take for medical treatment.

That all seemed straight forward. Other things, though, seemed more peculiar: Harcourt's talk of mind controllers. It seemed fantastical. Then again, surely if she had been mind controlled the person doing it would have made it so she was sceptical of seeking a remedy. This just brought her around in circles. Of course she could see no reason why she would be the target of such an assault in her current life, but surely that was the point, it was in the different life, the one she had been removed from where the motive would lie. What if, rather than as she had imagined, her visions had not been a warning of something to happen to that Monique Chase, they, in fact, were glimpses of her former life breaking through as the controller's mental wall? If that was what had happened, then she could certainly understand that a leading City lawyer could have been a target of nefarious action.

The name was so like her own, Monique; Monica. Could she have been a Frenchwoman living in the UK? The surname was the same, but that meant little, as these days, especially in the professions, women kept their maiden names, if only just for work purposes. Was it simply that it had been easier for the mind controller to keep the surnames consistent? It was all too bewildering. Now Monica felt she had to talk to her parents, surely they were a tangible aspect that would allow her to check up on her background. No mind controller could have invented them. Surely it would be too much to pay actors to pretend to be her parents? Then again, if this had all been sparked by some financial scandal, possibly involving millions of pounds, then maybe it was feasible.

Monica had never been particularly close to her parents and she had often wondered if she had been a 'mistake' they regretted. Yet, they were her own flesh and blood; maybe she could insist on them having a DNA test to prove it. Monica shook her head, now she was being silly. She moved to pull herself from the bath, but then remembered that they would not be at the end of the telephone anyway. They had won some cruise for the month. She was not even certain when they were due back. Monica knew she had the name of the ship somewhere, but tomorrow would suffice for looking for it. It was not that urgent anyway; perhaps Dr. Harcourt could resolve everything and dismiss all these worries she was having.

"Dr. Harcourt, thank you for seeing me."

"Thank you for coming Monica. I am glad you decided to do so."

The doctor turned to his receptionist, who to Monica's surprise had proven to be a young man rather the harridan of a middle-aged woman she expected to find in that role.

"Tom, if you could bring us some teas. Tea would be fine, Monica?"

"Yes, yes, that would be great."

Tom disappeared from the room and Monica cast a quick glance around it. The surgery was small, a couple of nicely refurbished offices on the ground floor of a 1930s block of flats; simply a waiting room and the doctor's consulting room. It was all pale grey carpets and abstract prints.

Harcourt seemed to notice Monica's gaze. "Yes, it's very simple, but I prefer to meet with my patients somewhere more informal, like a café or their own homes. Given that many of the conditions I tackle are stress related, bringing them to a place with medical overtones can simply add to the situation. You'd be happy to conduct our subsequent meetings at your own home? You live alone? We can go elsewhere if you prefer. I find hotel lounges often very suitable."

Tom re-entered and put the tea on the small table between them. Harcourt thanked him. Monica took a cup and sipped from it.

"Yes, erm, yes, home would be fine. It's a bit of a mess, but yes, I live alone."

"That's fine. We'll discuss all the arrangements at the end of the session. Right, today, I am going to do some diagnostics so I know what we're tackling. As I said, your fugues might simply be the result of stress and that can be dealt with easily through working on some relaxation techniques. On the other hand, if your mind has been manipulated, controlled for some reason we can began dealing with that too. Now, last time we met you said that you had something to tell me about the fugues. You're happy for me to record this for future reference."

Monica nodded, it was what she had expected. Harcourt clicked on a tiny silver recorder and then looked back at Monica.

"Yes, doctor, that's right. Erm, though I find it difficult to comprehend that I might have been the victim of one of these controllers, erm, well it's the visions, that's what I've been calling them, the fugues, they show me things through the eyes of another woman."

"Right. How many times has this happened?"

"Erm, with the one two nights ago, that's three. You saw the one in the café last week and there's was one a few days before that."

"How long do they last?"

"Erm, the first couple must have been about five-ten minutes. It was difficult to tell, obviously I had no chance to note the time, erm, the duration. The one this week was longer, probably twenty to thirty minutes. I know because when I came out of it the programme I was watching had ended."

"Okay. And you'd say you always see things through the eyes of this other woman?"

"Yes, she's called Monique Chase, which is weird, or maybe not, because it's almost my name; her middle name is Lucie, whereas mine is Lucy. She's a lawyer and I work in a law firm."

"As a secretary, I remember."

"A legal secretary, it's a bit more than that."

"Yes, of course. Is her law firm your firm?"

"No, it's in the City of London; it's called CMHD."

"Yes, I've heard of it."

"Well, in fact I found out that they are now Maskell HD; there was some sort of buy-out last year."

"So your vision is not current?"

"Yes, but I didn't know that until this week."

"This woman, this Monique, how does she appear? Like you?"

"No, not really. I guess with that name she's French. Her clothes seem stylish, but that's not surprising given the pay rates in the City law companies."

"But her face?"

"No, she's beautiful, lovely skin, her hair's longer and darker than mine. Her features are even, her forehead is broad, well you can see more of it, she doesn't have a fringe and her chin comes to a delicate point."

"Right, so, not terribly unlike you."

Monica gave a snort of derision. "I wish!"

"What else can you tell me about this woman?"

"Erm, not much more. I've not seen where she lives. I get the feeling its somewhere East of Central London, possibly Docklands, but I've not seen her there. I think she was married."

"She has a ring?"

"No, she doesn't wear one, but I sensed her thoughts about a husband. I guess he cheated on her or something. She saw a man who reminded her of him. I guess that means she's divorced. She's dating as well; she's a member of that 'Doing Dinner' club and she had a date in the last vision, not through the club, just one-on-one."

"So, are you a member of 'Doing Dinner' too?"

Monica laughed. "No, it's for professionals anyway and I wouldn't know what to say; it's probably too expensive. I don't need a man anyway, I am a success myself."

"It can be nice to share success with someone, can't it? I guess this Monique's not too worried about giving up her independence to win some man is she?"

"I don't know. I suppose not."

"Overall her life sounds quite nice: good job, stylish clothes, attractive men: something you'd aspire to?"

"Erm, I don't know. I've never really thought about anything like that."

"Okay for now we'll accept that she might be some kind of daydream person for you. She's like you, even the name is similar, but with the French connection; she works in law but has a high-powered job."

"So you're saying that I am just making this a full blown fantasy in my mind? Yet, it's so real, I can feel and taste everything she does. And anyway, I have no need for daydreams, I'm happy: I've got my flat, I've got work."

"Yes, a lucid dream, it's certainly one explanation. For all of us it is often exciting to step into a different role, one possibly a little more glamorous. How many men do you think pretend they're James Bond firing rockets at the cars in front of them when they're stuck in a jam on the M25? A moment ago, rather than agree that you actually look a little like this Monique you said 'I wish'. Can you see that?"

"She might just be the fantasy me."

"Yes, but she might also be something stronger than that."

"Okay." Monica conceded without absorbing what Dr. Harcourt was moving on to. For now she was focused on feeling rather embarrassed that she was causing herself difficulties through daydreaming. "So, it seems I've got to learn a way to stop my daydreams taking over too fully. It was the length of the last fugue which worried me, I thought, what happens if one day I don't snap out of it?"

"Well, that could be difficult. However, I must remind you that that is only one possible explanation, one diagnosis. I am trying to pursue two lines at once here. It may be a daydream, some kind of fantasy for you, but then some bits seem rather too mundane for fantasy. You see her, you see yourself as her, I should say, in a café, you see yourself having dinner, not being swept off her feet in some huge castle or a Caribbean beach. As yet, I have no evidence, but it might be that this woman was you and one of these mind controllers put a block on your memories of that period or aspects of your life."

"And this, this 'block' is breaking down?"

Dr. Harcourt nodded. "It's quite possible. From what you have said it may have been in place for a few years. The skills of mind controllers vary considerably. Some could make you forget that you were ever human and you'd think you'd always been a cat; some would convince you that you were a harem slave. However, sometimes even strong mind controllers lack the time to construct such a forceful change. Occasionally the individuals being controlled have a strong will which chips away at the block or the new identity that has been created. In your case, I have the feeling they had to do it quickly; they compromised. Sometimes it is best to give the victim something radically different from what they knew before; sometimes it is built on stronger foundations if they keep some details the same. I think that second approach is the one they may have adopted with you. Your initials are the same, you have the same surname, you work in the law. Do you speak French?"

"Erm, well I studied it at college before my degree, but that's been ten years, I doubt I could remember much of it. I haven't been to France since I was a child."

"Yes, but if you suddenly understand a French word you would just imagine that you had dragged it up from you schooling. I think this Monique has a French background so they put in that bit about you studying French in case some of the language leaked out. Most British people don't know any foreign languages so it would disrupt anything if one day you picked up a French newspaper left on the bus or something and found you understood it. They're clever and they want to sew up as many threats to their construct as possible. I think whoever did this, he or she was punching slightly above their weight as a mind controller, and they were hurried, they used some cunning tricks to create something quickly."

"So you're sure I was mind controlled?"

"No, no, sorry, I am getting ahead of myself. I was just thinking through the implications; the nature of what we will be tackling if it had been the case. However, I have quite a lot of work to do in the meantime to confirm my diagnosis one way or the other."

"But what you might be saying, hypothetically is that this life I know may not be real?"

"No, it is real, you're living it, but it's more that many of your memories may be false, planted there by someone. They are unlikely to have been able to erase your true ones, they're probably just concealed behind some wall. Wouldn't you like to uncover the real you, especially as she seems to be doing so well in life?"

"I guess so. It would be hard to find out that my life as I see it is somehow untrue."

"Well, it is better to handle it than for the alternative to happen."

"The alternative?"

"You've already hinted at it a little earlier. To put it bluntly the concern is that you wake up one morning entirely as Monique Chase; the wall collapses and you've got no idea how you've ended up in Monica's shoes."

"So that's likely to happen? This other life will take over?"

Harcourt smiled reassuringly. "Possibly, it's just a possibility. That is if it was your real life and this is not just a fantasy becoming a little too strong in your mind. It might be nothing more than your subconscious telling you that you need changes in your life."

"Changes in my life? It's fine. What would I need to change?"

"Parts of your identity may think differently, parts of you may be yearning for a new job, new clothes and certainly new sexual partners."

Monica gave an expression that suggested that was a little too much.

"Don't dismiss it. Our sexual identity is the one which is most likely to be suppressed in our minds because of our own feeling of inadequacy, of what society might think, parental attitudes, all sorts of things. But it doesn't go away and it is always going to be making itself felt some way."

"I suppose so." Monica admitted a little sheepishly. "I've not had a sex life to talk of since I graduated."

"Well, then, a reaction from the mind might be a consequence of that." Harcourt said with a soothing tone. "For now, we are running ahead of ourselves. To determine what is going on, whether its daydream or some tampering, I need to know more about what you've seen when in a fugue. Let's go back to the dinner date. What did you say?"

"Well, I didn't really know if I was driving it or if I was just witnessing it."

"Were you able to take independent action?"

"Erm, yes, I guess so. I ate some of the food. It was something I didn't recognise, something nouvelle cuisine I guess. I had some wine too. I suppose I must be able to drive what I am seeing to some extent. The second time, the second time I had a fugue I accessed her laptop because I wanted to find out things about her. I even found I knew her password, which is one reason why I thought it had to be a dream."

"Okay, that's interesting. Tell me more about the date. Did you just sit there and say nothing?"

"Erm, no. Well, it was difficult."

"Why?"

"Well, I felt like I fancied the man."

"Right and that was a problem?"

"Of course. I just freeze up; I know I'll say stuff that will be all wrong. That's why I don't get many second dates."

"Did you feel that in the fugue, after all it wasn't really you was it?"

"Erm, no, I suppose not. I was a bit embarrassed from the start because of the dress, I, she, was wearing. Well, it felt like I was wearing it, it felt good. It was tight, kind of silver with brocade black patterns across it; it was strapless but she had a top over her shoulders, you know lace, black but translucent."

"Sounds very nice."

"Well, it'd look wrong on me, I know that."

"Would it? You've said before that this Monique looks quite like you."

"Look here, are you trying to convince me that I'm that woman or was that woman? I can't believe it."

"For now, I'm not trying to convince you of anything. I am increasingly thinking, however, that you could have once been that woman. There seem to be too many similarities between you and her."

"But I can't have been that woman. I don't have her body, her clothes, and I imagine I don't have her skills. I can accept that this might be a daydream, and that despite what I feel on the surface, parts of my brain want something else, but it seems mad to think I could have been her."

"Okay, I accept this is a challenge, but from what you are saying, I am beginning to think now that these are more than daydreams. The fact that they engage all of those senses suggests you were there."

"What do you mean? I can't zap myself to the City for coffee or dinner as it was this last time and back again."

"No, I mean 'were there' as in the past, not now, but at a time when CMHD was the name of company you worked for, not now when that name has changed."

"Okay, so you're saying it's influenced by what happened in my past?"

"Yes. How long have you been working for your present company?"

"I've been there, erm, coming up to four years."

"Before that?"

"Well, I was unemployed for quite a long time. I wasn't keen to go back home after university, but I got some money from my gran that tided me over then I got temp jobs before I came to Blackburn & Frost."

"Right, imagine you were born in France, maybe with one parent who was British. Your English is good. You study law there or maybe in the UK. You meet a nice man, also a successful lawyer. Your husband comes to work in the UK, you come with him and with your legal mind, get an excellent job. Maybe you're already here and meet him through work. Anyway, he does something and there's a bitter divorce. As his wife you're in line for a big divorce settlement and that may be a very large sum. Someone else feels they should be getting a slice of it. Maybe the in-laws who don't get on with you, maybe a sibling or another relative of your husband's, maybe his mistress, perhaps someone who just sees a chance to snatch the money. Maybe your ex-husband simply remains resentful. Anyway, whoever it is, rather than have you killed, they come up with something a bit more clever. What happens if you disappear into the population of London? Tens of people disappear here every day, never to be seen again. A dead body means an investigation, but a woman walking off gets much less attention. So, they make you forget your life, they weave a new identity similar but different to the life you lived. They shunt you into a back water somewhere to live out your life thinking yourself to be Monica Chase, secretary, rather than Monique Chase, City lawyer."

"Whoah. Okay. It sounds like a great plot for a novel, but that can't be my life."

"Well, it might not have been, but seems like a feasible explanation. If you'd met as many playthings of mind controllers as I have done, you would believe it could be true. For now, it is just one possible scenario."

"Right, what do I do now? I just want my life back."

"Which one?"

"This one of course. I don't want to keep fading off into daydreams or something else. If the fugues get longer then I'll simply be sitting in the corner staring blankly thinking I'm living the life of a high flying lawyer."

"It might not be that easy. You are asking me to repair a dam which has sizeable cracks in it. It is likely that more of Monique's life will start flooding through."

"So you can do nothing?"

"No, I didn't say that. What I feel is that we have to adopt a strategy. If a head of water builds up behind a weir, you don't stand there waiting for it to flood over the top, you open one or two of the sluice gates and let the water out in a controlled way. That's what I plan to do with you."

"Okay." Monica was a little reassured, Dr. Harcourt's suggestion seemed sensible, it would allow her to dissipate this Monique identity and get back to her own life full-time. "How are we going to do that?"

"Well, hypnosis. It's not what you see in stage shows, it's been a medical approach for decades now."

Monica knew that to be the truth and had earlier wondered if it was a method Dr. Harcourt might use.

"Have you been hypnotised before?"

Monica shook her head.

"Right, well, it's not difficult. Are you happy sitting there? Do you need some water; to use the ladies?"

"No, no, I'm fine."

Monica tried to clear her mind. Now that Harcourt had suggested it, she was keen to get on as soon as she could. Part of her was curious about what it would feel like.

"Are there any risks?"

Harcourt gave his disarming smile again. "No, for now I'm going to simply explore what you're seeing. I'll take you into a fugue, but this time I'll control it so I can bring you out whenever I think you are ready. If you can remember, try to get as many details as possible. Notice the date, where you are, whether Monique has any distinctive features that you share."

"Okay." Monica was a little apprehensive about going into a fugue, but realised that she needed to face up to that if she was ever going to have the problem resolved.

"Sit back."

Monica rested back in the comfortable chair. Harcourt lifted his pen.

"Now, concentrate just on the tip of the pen. Just look at that."

The doctor rocked the pen back and forth gently and Monica found it easy to keep focus on it.

"Now, I'm going to count back down from twenty and as I do, feel yourself slipping deeper into a trance. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen ..."

Monica gasped, she knew she must be in a trance or at least a fugue triggered by Harcourt. Partly it was the way she felt. Her skin was soft and warm, as if she had recently had a bath. There was a delicious scent of perfume which she suddenly realised was coming from herself. This evening she wore a snug sweater dress of some stretchy material, tighter knit than wool and in dark maroon. The front had a wide curve just cresting the top of her breasts and as she lent back on the wine bar's leather sofa she realised that she was almost bare to the small of her back. Three narrow strips of cloth ran over her back, cleverly revealing a lot of skin but concealing the straps of the bra she could feel beneath.

Her feet wore high-heeled shoes of maroon leather, distinctive with three metals rings on each from which the narrow straps stretched out round her feet. Her legs felt strange but then she realised that she was wearing stockings. Monica had worn tights as a girl but in adult life it had been socks of various lengths and thicknesses which had dominated what covered her legs. Distractedly, Monica ran her hands along the stockings sensing that the garter belt beneath her dress.

Monica tried to concentrate, to work out all the things Harcourt had advised her to concentrate on. The room was reasonably busy but the design meant that she could not hear what the couples and small groups around her were saying. On the low wooden table in front of her was a fashion magazine. She wondered if it was hers; it seemed to be in French. She was tempted to flick through but then realised the date on it was the vital clue. As Harcourt had suggested, it was in the past, over four years to be precise. Monica easily dismissed that as her daydreaming mind responding to what the doctor had said, but deep in her lurked her fears of his other theory that she was reliving a past that on the surface of her mind she had been forced to forget.

In front of her sat an almost empty glass of rosé wine. She picked it up and drank it quickly. She rarely drank wine and certainly nothing as fresh or tasty as this. There was another, empty, glass next to it and Monica wondered whose it was. Then she realised, this must be another date that she was on. Suddenly she sat up nervously. She tried to remember all the things she had been reading recently about not putting men off, how not to talk too much, how to sound both interested and interesting.

Then she saw a man walking in her direction. He looked very like the one she had seen in the previous fugue, the one in the restaurant. Monica looked away embarrassed that he might see her. She saw her reflection or rather Monique's reflected back at her in the dark windows of the wine bar's front. It was unnerving to see someone else's face when you expected your own. Again she admired the complexion, the light but pleasing make-up and the wonderful long sleek hair. She wondered if she could try something similar, get her hair looking a little like this at least. She tried to fix the shade of the lipstick and the eyeshadow in her mind too.

"Are you ready, Monique?"

For an instant Monica kept looking then realised she was being addressed. Quickly she turned back to the source of the voice. It was that man again, the one from the previous fugue. Of course, Monique's success rate was probably a great deal better than her own and this was a follow-up encounter.

"Erm, yes." Monica stuttered.

Monica looked at the man as she stood up, wishing she knew his name. Not thinking she would need it again, she had taken no notice of it. Nervously she toyed with her simple silver 'y' necklace the tail of which hung down a little way between her breasts. He was dressed smartly but in a relaxed way, a collarless white shirt sat beneath a black cotton jacket above moleskin trousers and rather pointed boots. He had to be around Monica's age and had strong features, signs of having been in the sun or the wind on his cheeks and a burst of sandy hair erupting from his head. He was unlike any man Monica had ever been with; maybe he resembled someone off the sailing team or the mountaineering lot from university that she had pulled out from deep in her memory. Then again, Monica reminded herself this was supposed to be a daydream and not founded too firmly in reality.

"Don't forget your bag and jacket."

"Oh yes, of course."

To her ears, the voice coming from her mouth sounded a little strange, there were undertones of a French accent which fuzzed her consonants. It did remind Monica that however much it was her experiencing this scene, that she was going so via another woman's body. Monica looked around and snatched the velvet clutch bag and the black bolero leather jacket, that she realised had to be Monique's, from the sofa.

"Here, let me."

The man took the jacket and eased it on to her Monique's body.

"Thank you." Monica said, smiling. She could not remember how long it had been since a man had done that for her, if ever.

The end of her words were cut off by the man's lips pressing warmly against hers and the tip of his tongue slipping between her teeth. It felt good as did the sensation of the man's hand pressed into the small of her back prolonging the kiss. Monica's mind scrambled with thoughts. This was nice and part of her wondered how she could extend the fugue. She was worried she would be snatched back at some pleasurable moment. More worrying though, was what she would do if she was not. In the next few minutes she had a lot to find out to determine whether this man was just walking her to the taxi rank or expecting to come home for coffee and, dare she think it, sex. How many dates had they had? Had the first one she had witnessed been the first they had been on and in this mad world of daydreaming how much time had passed since 'then' and 'now' anyway?

Monica guessed the next step was to follow him. A taxi waited for them outside the wine bar and she guessed he had called it on the way back from the toilet so that there was no delay. She slipped inside wondering what would happen now. With a degree of panic she realised she could come unstuck if he expected her to give her address to the taxi driver. The only place she could think to take him was back to her own little flat in West London and in this body she did not even have the keys to get in there and anyway would 'she', herself as Monica, be there? She tried to think back to exactly when she had moved in, it had to be around this time. Fortunately as these concerns spiralled desperately through her head the man gave an address in Docklands and the taxi powered away. Monica had located some keys in her purse and guessed that if she was clever she could quickly determine whether it was her who was expected to open the door to the place. For the moment though there were other things to distract her as the man sneaked his hand around her back and pulled her in close for more kisses. His other hand slid sensuously up between her stockinged legs and pressed the silk of her panties so pleasurably against the lips of her pussy, which for the first time, she realised was well awake.

At least now Monica had some idea of this man's expectations. His tongue was lovely and smooth, tasting of the wine they had drunk and oh, it was nice to feel his breath on her neck. Normally by now Monica would have been panicking, worrying about the kind of signals she was giving out, but then again this was not even her body, she was just hitchhiking in it and that felt so nice that she had no wish for it to cease.

Within fifteen minutes they were in what had turned out to be her flat. Monica had little time to take in all the details, but realised it was spacious and decorated in a sparse, contemporary style. By now she was heated by the impression the man had made on her body in the car. Each moment which passed she was worried that Dr. Harcourt would snatch her back from this and she became eager to at least get this man inside her before that happened. She did not let him proceed further than the small hallway and leaning back against the wall pulled him on to her. Her dextrous fingers quickly released his cock and its hard flesh butted against the skirt of her dress. Confidently she hitched it up, glad that it clung to her waist so freeing her hands to explore this man further.

The man had pushed her panties aside and a couple of his fingers had slipped into her pussy finding no resistance as they eased inside her, readying the way for what she could see in the low light was a sizeable tool.

"Ride me, here, now." Monica mouthed breathlessly into the man's ear, not knowing where the words were coming from, seemingly dredged from deep inside her.

The man obeyed. As, with his teeth, he released a breast from the overstretched dress and locked on it with his mouth, his cock followed where his probing fingers had been and penetrated deep into Monica. She gasped at the novel sensation of having this much man inside her, but loved the way it pinned her to the wall, allowing little room to move and certainly permitting no escape. Soon he was thrusting into her and Monica found she had no ability to halt the moans and then yelps which began issuing from her throat. She was stunned as she realised that that sensation starting in her hips and growing out from her erect clitoris was the start of an orgasm. She had to confess that she had forgotten how good this felt and chided herself for missing out on this pleasure for so long. As he shuddered to his own climax, Monica levered him out of her body and headed for the kitchen, uncertain how she knew where it was.

In moments she was on the granite-topped work surface. She sat there with her legs spread and kicked off her shoes.

"Take these off." Monica commanded, though partly worrying she would annoy the man by being too demanding.

Monica had no idea what she was planning to do. Surely even after a rough encounter in the hallway now was the time to snuggle up and try and stop him calling a taxi back. However, some greater need, Monique's need presumably, was for something else. The man seemed to need no further direction. He reached below the raised skirt and unclipped the stockings then began removing them slowly. Again Monica thought to herself that it might be good to get some for herself. However, her thoughts were again derailed by the sensation of the man's head sliding up between her thighs. Monica gave a shiver of excitement as his tongue engaged with the tip of her clitoris and new, so delicious feelings began to electrify her body. Monica knew that if he could keep doing things like this to her, it was going to be a long night ahead. She massaged her own nipples through her dress and bra feeling how erect they were, pressing in such a pleasant tantalising way against the silk bra cups. As another orgasm began sending out its telltale signals Monica found herself howling her delight.