by Tony Moyle
Nash Stevens woke with the mother of all hangovers. When he’d finally convinced himself it was safe to do so, he opened his eyes and tried to focus on the ceiling of his posh hotel bedroom. The blurred wallpaper did nothing to help him piece together the prior evening’s events that had led to his present state. He stretched out his hand, fumbling to find the pint of mineral water that he placed religiously next to his bed for lunchtimes like these. After all, it was part of the lifestyle to be ignorant of mornings. Only some of the glass’s contents made their way into his mouth, whilst the rest was used to unintentionally wash his chest and some of the pillowcase. As one hand attempted unsuccessfully to unify glass with table, the other went to massage his throbbing head.
John Hewson woke up and didn’t know whether he had a hangover or not. Above him was an unfamiliar, pale blue ceiling and, unsure of his whereabouts, he, too, tried to retrace the evening’s events. Or at least he would have done if his attention hadn’t been drawn to his arms moving without his permission. ‘I hate mineral water, why would I drink mineral water? Not just drink it, but also throw it on myself. Why am I rubbing my head? My head feels fine.’
Nash stumbled out of bed but, rather than falling in a heap on the floor as gravity had a right to expect, some strange instinct stopped him before face met carpet. In the gloom he felt his way to the bathroom, crouched over the toilet, and threw up twice as a combination of being suddenly vertical and the previous night’s vodka and cannabis overdose caught up with him. Feeling the need to wash his mouth out, he stood at the sink and caught the reflection of his bloodshot eyes and unshaven face in the mirror.
John felt himself being pulled out of bed. He was quite comfy and not altogether convinced that his body would make it. He felt himself fall, but quickly made his legs fight the sensation. ‘Why don’t I turn the lights on? It’s dark in here. I better feel my way along the wall.’ As he reached the toilet he unexpectedly sank to his knees. ‘Hey, look at all of those colours coming out of my mouth. Oh God, that’s grim, I need to wash that away. How do I look this morning?’ A smack of realism rose like a cold sweat as the mirror reminded him where and who he was.
“Hey, mate, I really need your help,” came a voice out of Nash’s mouth that wasn’t his own.
Nash couldn’t believe that his lips had moved entirely of their own accord and that it was the same voice he’d heard last night. Quickly, he put his hands over his mouth hoping to stop any encore. ‘I thought it was just the drugs. What’s happening to me?’ A muffled sound tried to escape through Nash’s fingers. It was happening again. Gingerly, and with a strange sense of intrigue, he moved one hand away.
“Look, you’re not imagining this. I know you are going to find this hard to believe but I have possessed you. My name’s John Hewson.”
Nash replaced the hand slowly but this time there were even louder muffles and his teeth were trying to bite his hands.
“Look, I need to use your body for a while to find some friends of mine.”
“Stop talking,” replied Nash under his breath.
“I know you’re not going to accept this but I might as well tell you now. It’s only marginally weirder than finding out someone has possessed you.”
“I’m not listening to you. I don’t care what you say, I’m just not listening,” he answered, audibly humming a song out loud.
“Look, there’s no time for this. My friends have been reincarnated as some sorts of animals and if I don’t find them, the whole Universe will collapse!” shouted John, interrupting Nash’s innate[PP1] melody.
Nash picked up the two empty bottles of pills that were on their sides in the bathroom cabinet and scanned the labels for possible side effects.
“It’s not the drugs, although I’m sure they’re not helping. It’s real, look.”
John concentrated all his efforts on Nash’s left arm, picked it up and slapped Nash across the face with it.
“Owww!” shouted Nash, his face stinging from the blow.
John couldn’t feel a thing.
“This is the weirdest trip I’ve ever had,” whispered Nash, rubbing his face. “I need to find Herb.” He left the bathroom and searched for the door to the corridor. Without meaning to, he turned the lights on as he went.
‘Who’s Herb, and for God’s sake, turn those bloody lights on?’
Nash hurried down the corridor, glancing at each door in search of room number three hundred and five. Hammering on it with both fists he waited several minutes and numerous heavy knocks before a short, fat, balding, elderly man opened the door.
“What’s wrong with you? It’s twelve o’clock, far too early to be getting up,” he yawned in a deep Scottish accent whilst rubbing his eyes in a vain attempt to focus them. “Why are you standing in the corridor in just your pants?”
‘Who’s he?’ asked John, this time without the necessity of opening Nash’s mouth.
“Look, it’s Herb, my manager. Now shut up.”
“Who are you talking to?” replied Herb quizzically.
“It’s the voice in my head again, I can’t shift it.”
“Look, you’d better come in before the paparazzi get a photo of you in just your grits,” replied Herb, beckoning him inside.
Herb was one of those old-fashioned rockers, famous for his rock and roll lifestyle more than his actual musical ability. He had the air of a man who had taken too many drugs and too much alcohol but was absolutely convinced he was just getting started. Teetering on the edge of his mid-sixties it was unclear how much of his appearance was from the natural ageing process and how much was due to the visual effects of an extremely enjoyable life. Contrary to his arthritically ravaged body, there was still a faint twinkle in the man’s eyes that sent the message, ‘I could be rebellious at any moment, if only I wasn’t so knackered.’ Inside his room the TV had been pushed over to the open window and lay on its side, dented but fully functional. Herb had attempted to throw it out in a spontaneous moment of drunken rock and roll, but by the look of his stooped walk he may have put his back out in the process.
Herb swaggered around in a pair of overly small jeans which openly presented several layers of stomach fat that each competed to be the first over the edge of his belt. Faded tattoos covered the entirety of his naked, hairy chest other than a spot where a two-inch scar ran across his left breast. It wasn’t incorrect to say ‘breasts’ for Herb. A good bra technician would have done wonders for eliminating his back pain. Herb collapsed out of breath onto a settee, reached for a packet of cigarettes, and sparked one up with an old-fashioned Zippo.
“So, what’s going on, then, Nash? Is it the drugs?”
“No, it’s not the drugs. I didn’t have anything major last night.”
“That’s what I mean. You didn’t have enough drugs, that’s the problem.”
“Sad, wasted, fat loser.”
“Look there it goes again. I’m telling you this is real, Herb.”
“What’s it saying now?” asked Herb.
“Ah, he said…nice tattoo,” replied Nash, not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings.
“Tell him you’re going to take a few weeks off.”
“No, I’m not taking some time off,” replied Nash to himself.
Herb found it quite off-putting to have a conversation with someone who was arguing with themselves.
John would have to work out how to control Nash a lot faster than he was currently managing, if he was going to have any chance of getting on with what he was supposed to be doing. Brimstone had told him that possession wasn’t easy. He didn’t know the half of it. What he’d worked out so far was if he concentrated his entire soul on one part of Nash’s body he could take control of just that function. The issue for John, as with all men on the planet, was multitasking. It was no good just controlling a foot if the rest of the body was doing something completely different. It was time to concentrate for the moment on Nash’s mouth and work the rest out later.
“Herb, I need
to take a couple of weeks off,” said John.
“No, I don’t. I’m fine, I just need something to relax me,” slurred Nash, fighting to regain control.
“Well, which one is it, Nash? Make your bloody mind up,” replied Herb.
“Time off,” said John before Nash had a chance to respond.
Nash’s hands leapt to his mouth to stop himself talking against his will.
“So you do want some time off, then?” clarified Herb.
“Yes,” replied a muffled John.
Nash’s head shook vigorously in denial.
“Hold on, now you’re saying yes and suggesting no,” replied Herb, completely baffled.
“No,” shouted Nash before he could be contradicted.
“Look, you’re obviously quite confused. We haven’t got another gig for three nights so I suggest you go back to your room and take something to relax you. I’ve got a couple of tranquillisers somewhere you can take,” said Herb, getting up gingerly with his hand on his back and going over to rummage in his suitcase.
“Look, I don’t know why you’re inside me, but I want you out. Right now,” whispered Nash to himself.
“It’s not exactly a holiday for me, you know. The only way I can leave you is if you help me. I need to get to Switzerland. Like it or not, believe it or not, you’re stuck with me and all of our fates are now interlinked. If I fail then we all fail.”
“No way. If you don’t get out of me right now, I’m going to, I’m going to…”
“You’re going to do what exactly? It’s not like you’ve got much choice, my friend,” said John, concentrating his effort on Nash’s tongue which he used to blow a raspberry.
“Oh very pleasant. I’m just trying to help,” said Herb as he passed Nash two huge green pills that would tranquillise a hippo. “Take these, lie down and I’ll come and check on you later.”
John wasn’t entirely sure what effect these pills were likely to have on either of them, and he certainly wasn’t going to hang around to find out. As Nash left Herb’s room a struggle broke out in the corridor. Nash’s left leg and the rest of his body seemed to be heading for his bedroom, whilst his right leg had decided to head full pelt for the lift at the other end of the corridor. Nash collapsed to the floor under the impending pain of the splits. In response to this surprise tactic, one of his arms pulled itself along the carpet towards his bedroom as the other hand tried to impede its progress. Two cleaners, who had been standing chatting over a cleaning trolley, stopped and watched the one-man commotion with interest.
“Look, this is getting us nowhere!” Nash shouted out.
“You’re right, until we can agree on this, no one’s going to win. Okay, I promise I won’t try to stop you anymore.”
Nash sprinted towards his room and got halfway there before John double-crossed him. With the precision of a professional boxer, a clenched fist punched him squarely in the jaw, sending him crashing to the ground again. Taking advantage of Nash’s disorientation, John swivelled him around and hopped one-legged towards the lift. Blood gushing from Nash’s nostrils, he regained his senses and grabbed hold of the lamp that was fixed to the corridor wall.
The more youthful of the two cleaners gazed vacantly at the sight of a man trying to hop in one direction whilst gripping the wall light for dear life with the other. The other cleaner was staring at John. Not at Nash. At him. Her eyes shone with a faint, pale blue sheen and were transfixed at the point where John had taken up residence in Nash’s heel.
“Nie niepokoi, John. Pozwalany on bierze ego lek,[PP2]” said the cleaner in a deep, ugly voice that he hoped wasn’t her own.
John understood. Even though he didn’t speak Polish, he understood every word.
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING, BUT HELP ME, YOU STUPID BITCHES!” Nash shouted at both of them.
The teenage cleaner, breaking out of her own trance, attempted to pick up her walkie-talkie to signal for help, but was quickly stopped and led away by her colleague. They exchanged dialogue in Polish and both quietly moved away from the scene.
“Okay, Nash, let’s have it your way. Let’s go to your room, I won’t stop you this time, I promise,” said John, pleased that his friends and family hadn’t overheard that sentence as he’d not have lived it down.
“You promise? You won’t hit me in the face again, which hurt like hell, by the way.”
“Believe me, you’ve no idea how much hurt there is in Hell. Anyway, it hurt me as well,” John lied. “I promise I’ll not stop you.”
Nash tentatively made his way back to his bedroom. When he got through the door, which he had left unlocked and open, he went straight for an unopened bottle of mineral water. Placing both pills in his mouth at the same time, he washed them down with the remaining water and lay back on the bed to await the results.
John was no longer concerned about the effects that the pills might have. The cleaner had clearly indicated that no harm would come to him, however strange that seemed to John. He had no reason to trust her, but deep down some compulsion insisted on it. What concerned him most was how he was going to manage to find Sandy and Ian if he couldn’t even influence his body to go down to reception. Not for the last time he questioned whether he’d made the right decision to take on Brimstone’s task. Maybe this was what was meant by ‘damned if you do and damned if you don’t’.
Whilst Nash lay on his bed, John decided to explore. It was very hard to explain how John occupied Nash’s body. Through vein, organ, nerve and sinew he slithered, each time at the speed of a heartbeat, moving like a virus that was condemned to only one part of Nash’s body at a time. Although these journeys were smooth and unnoticed by the host, they still didn’t allow any sort of control. If he was going to gain any, he would need to occupy every part of Nash at once.
The answer seemed to present itself whilst John was exploring Nash’s left knee. John had spent all his strength focusing his soul on the one thing that he wanted to move. So if he wanted to punch Nash, as he had in the corridor, he’d move all of his efforts to a hand, leaving all other parts of Nash to him.
“You idiot,” thought John.
“What are you doing now?” inquired Nash, already feeling exceedingly groggy from the effects of the pills.
“The brain. That controls everything, it’s the nervous system.”
“Stop right now!” exclaimed Nash.
Although unaware of it, John’s timing had been impeccable. Whilst Nash was tranquillised, his thoughts and senses had been weakened and for the first time it allowed John to move his soul into Nash’s brain, who was powerless to stop him. In time the thin fog of his soul crept across Nash’s body with the same effect that a warm drink has on a cold day. Now he had the helm of a boat and not just the crow’s-nest.
John sat bolt upright like an uncoiling spring. No resistance was forthcoming. He swung his legs out of bed and onto the floor. Again nothing stopped him. He got up and got dressed in the most practical clothes that he could find, which wasn’t easy given the rock-style fashion that Nash appeared to favour. Settling for some stonewashed jeans, cowboy boots, Iron Maiden T-shirt, a leather jacket, and all topped off with a pair of dark sunglasses, he was ready to reveal yet another new persona.
“Where are we going?” thought Nash, newly relegated to cabin boy on a vessel he was recently in full control of. Well, almost in full control of anyway.
“Now don’t panic, old boy. We’re just popping out to save the world,” replied John. “I promise I will do my very best to leave you in one piece at the end of it.”
John had no idea whether this was feasible or not. But he did feel genuine responsibility for Nash: after all, it was John who was borrowing him. Keeping Nash unharmed wasn’t going to be easy, and from what Brimstone had told him it wasn’t solely down to him. The strength of Nash’s soul was also going to be tested.
John made his way to the lift and pressed the zero button, crossing his fingers that this would be a more pleasant exper
ience than his last visit to a level zero. The mirrors on three sides of the lift reflected the fourth incarnation of himself in a matter of days and he had to say he liked this one best of all. This is what he imagined cool felt like, experienced for the first time in his life. Little did he know how much he was going to live to regret not finding his way into Edward Reece, a geeky, plain and uninteresting civil servant.
In the lobby of the hotel a scrum of photographers were lying in wait for the lead singer of ‘The Wind-up Merchants’, which today just happened to be John Hewson. A hundred flashbulbs went off as he came out of the lift into a throng of journalists forcing questions and microphones at him.
‘Nash, how famous are ‘The Wind-up Merchants’?’
‘We’ve just had a number one single, number one album and a sell-out tour,’ replied Nash sleepily.
“Nash, how’s the Prime Minister’s daughter?!” shouted one of the hacks. “Any reaction to the PM’s comments that he’s going to have you arrested?”
“What was she like?” shouted the most seedy of the contingent.
“What are they talking about, Nash?”
‘Oh yes…and I slept with the Prime Minister’s seventeen-year-old daughter. The pictures ended up in all the newspapers and now her father wants me dead,’ replied Nash, prouder of this achievement than any of those by his band.
“Brilliant, just brilliant. I’m on a secret mission to locate something impossibly difficult to find and I’m in the body of a man being tracked by every paparazzo in the country and probably the police as well. Congratulations, John, that’s the way to be inconspicuous,” he whispered, forcing his way through the mass of bodies, out of the hotel and into one of the waiting taxis. “Heathrow Airport, and go quick.”
- CHAPTER TWELVE -
FLIGHT 237
Just after three o’clock in the afternoon, Herb got to Nash’s room to find it empty. There was no sign of Nash and his stuff was still strewn around the bedroom where it had been thrown. Herb casually picked up the hotel phone on the bedside table and called reception.
