SWITCHED: The man who lost his body but kept his mind.

by Bernard Gallivan

  SWITCHED

  The man who lost his body but kept his mind

  B. Gallivan

  © B. Gallivan 2017

  B. Gallivan has asserted his rights under the

  Copyright Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be

  identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2017 by Blackhall Press, Edinburgh.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 1

  Zachary

  Zachary shook his head as he tried to clear his brain. He had just received a massive electric shock that had knocked him unconscious and he had only just come to. As well as being badly frightened, he was angry. He wasn't sure exactly how it had happened but was determined someone would pay for it. Jen would have been horrified if she had been there to hear him cursing those who were responsible.

  He didn't immediately try to sit up but spent a few moments checking that everything still seemed to be working. As his mind cleared, he even spent a moment wondering how long he’d been unconscious. He remembered he'd been watching the Nine O’clock News when the TV began playing up. Then, as he'd leaned over the television and had started pulling and pushing the wires in the hope that the problem was just a loose connection, he’d received an almighty electric shock that had propelled him clear across the room.

  Sitting up proved to be unexpectedly difficult and giving his head a shake to clear it, he raised his arm to look at the time. What he saw cleared his head in an instant. Instead of the expensive, gold Rolex with its beautiful expanding bracelet that normally encircled his wrist - a wedding present from Jen - there now sat a cheap, Christmas-cracker, digital watch. Even the strap was made of plastic. Then, drawn by the garish colour, his eyes took in a pair of cheap nylon slacks where his smart, tailored trousers should be. Only then did it hit him; while he was unconscious, someone had entered his room, stolen his watch and then robbed him of his clothes. But, with a strange twinge of conscience, the thief had re-clothed him in his own cast-offs. Savagely, he muttered, ‘Someone will pay for this.’

  But much worse was to come.

  The robbery had completely cleared his brain so it wasn’t long before he realized that the loss of his expensive watch and the acquisition of a dreadful pair of trousers were the least of his problems. For a start, he felt uncomfortably hot and seemed to be suffering from severe indigestion. He could hardly remember feeling so bad. Briefly, it crossed his mind that perhaps something had been wrong with the dinner he’d eaten earlier and it was now taking its revenge. With an effort, he got to his feet. Somehow, his muscles no longer seemed able to cope with the strain he was placing on them. Perhaps his initial diagnosis that the electric shock had not damaged him had been way off the mark. Concerned now for his well-being, he struggled over to the mirror paying scant attention to his surroundings as he did so.

  As he peered into the tarnished mirror behind the tired, old-fashioned-looking television set, he barely noticed either because of what he saw staring back at him. Where his sleek, familiar image should be, he was shocked to see a stranger. So startled by the sight was he, he actually leapt back in astonishment, giving his back a nasty wrench in the process. His next response was to turn to the stranger who, uninvited, had come into his room to rob him; but no one was there. Frightened and confused though he was, his brain recalled that the image of the stranger in the glass had leapt away from him just as quickly as he had removed himself from the mirror. Ignoring the twinge from his back, and in the classic cartoon-sketch manner he had seen and laughed at so many times before in the cinema, he sidled back up to the mirror – only this time he was not laughing. Gradually, the strange reflection revealed itself to be that of a balding, overweight, flashily though cheaply dressed caricature of himself.

  Stupidly, he even turned around once again to double check that he really was alone – which was when he first became aware of his surroundings. The lighting, or rather, the lack of it, was the first thing he noticed. Next, he took in the dreary decor of the room and its cheap, worn-out furnishings. With a sigh of relief, he realized this was not his room. For one brief moment, he thought he had uncovered the mystery to all the strange changes that were taking place but an even greater panic immediately replaced that initial reaction. The room might not be his, but where was his carefully honed body and his expensively attired image?

  In frustration, he cried out, ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’

  Every winter, for more years than he cared to remember, Zachary had spent three evenings each week working out in the exclusive fitness centre he belonged to, and every alternate evening, regardless of the weather, he jogged at least three miles. Sundays he never failed to attend church where he was an Elder, after which he reserved the rest of the day for his family. In the summer, he gave the fitness club a miss but, instead, jogged every day, except Sundays of course. In addition, he usually managed to fit in a game of golf sometime during the week. He ate sensibly; he enjoyed his work; and he had an active sex life; well, he used to have one until about a year ago. That was when Jen’s continuing tiredness began to concern her. He kept asking her to see a doctor but each time, she insisted she would soon be her old self again. As for himself, he was in wonderful health. Indeed, everyone commented on how young and fit he looked. He was justifiably proud of his youthful appearance, which was why he was now so shocked when contemplating the apparition the mirror reflected back at him.

  The person peering back at him with the same shocked expression Zachary imagined he must have on his face was neither fit nor young-looking. In fact, the person was the very antithesis of everything Zachary felt he was. The man had a bad complexion, a huge gut and he was definitely losing his hair. That said, there were many disturbing similarities between Zachary and the image he saw staring back at him. Disturbed, confused and, by now, thoroughly frightened, Zachary staggered over to the scruffy, uninviting bed and sat down before he fell down.

  Clearly, someone was playing an elaborate trick on him and a few likely candidates immediately sprang to mind. With a silent oath, he vowed to sort out the culprit when he eventually revealed himself. Even as he tried to make light and sense of the prank, his hands went to his stomach to feel the enormous gut he had acquired in the brief time he'd been unconscious. There was no doubt about it, the thing felt absolutely genuine. If it were padding, it was incredibly clever padding. He even pulled his shirt-front open the better to examine it but the sight of that unhealthy-looking band of soft flab around his once trim waist made him recoil in dismay. How could that be? Did those years of training count for nothing? What so recently had been an impressive six-pack was now no more than an overstuffed barrel. What would Jen say? She loved running her hands over his rock-hard stomach. This flabby nightmare would horrify her.

  Now he was away from the mirror and could no longer see what he had become, he was actually afraid to feel the balding hair on his newly acquired head lest the act of touching lent final proof to his new image. Instead, twin tears slowly ran down his cheeks. He was badly frightened and he did not like what was happening to
him. He did not like it one little bit.

  For some time Zachary sat in the same horrified, trance-like panic. Indeed, so traumatised was he by the experience, he was quite incapable of logical thought. All he could do was hope that soon he would wake up from this nightmare. Surely, it could be nothing but a nightmare. He prayed his indigestion and the nightmare had a common cause. Time passed but the only thing to change was his panic, which gradually eased and, finally, he began thinking logically.

  Because no better explanation occurred to him, he was still half convinced he must be the unhappy dupe of some clever hoax; a hoax he did not understand. Fortunately, he was a successful, wealthy man so, if someone could perpetrate this elaborate hoax on him, he had the means to undo it. That thought, at least, gave him a measure of reassurance. Even so, he was now determined to make life as uncomfortable as possible for whoever had worked this unpleasant magic on him. The culprit would soon discover he was not a man to trifle with. But, even as one part of his brain was furious with the hoaxer, another part gave grudging respect for the completeness of the hoax. The prankster had thought of everything.

  Still thinking murderous thoughts, he stood up and went to the door to look outside half expecting to see the perpetrator of the jape standing there, grinning from ear to ear, and possibly with camera at the ready to record his expression, but the car park was devoid of life. A few rather battered cars sat forlornly on the pot-holed surface and all around was a feeling of decay and depression. There were no people and definitely no cameras.

  Strangely, the car park and the general layout of this site looked similar to that of his motel but this, clearly, was not the well-thought-of motel into which he had booked. A battered sign stood at the entrance and Zachary struggled for a moment to make out the name on it. When, eventually, he managed to focus on it, he saw it was called ‘The Trusty Motel’. He had booked into the ‘Crossroads Motel’.

  That was when another explanation occurred to him. Perhaps someone had drugged him while he was unconscious and had brought him from his own motel to this run-down dump and he was still suffering from the after-effects of the drug they had given him. The idea that some drug-induced stupor was responsible for his changed appearance appealed to him. He noticed a battered old Vauxhall car standing outside his room and wondered what had happened to his brand new Ford. That, presumably, was still at the Crossroads Motel. Only marginally reassured, Zachary retreated into the scruffy security of the room.

  As he passed the mirror, he stole another quick look at his reflection in the hope that during his short trip to the fresh air of the outside world he had somehow become himself again. Unfortunately, he only needed the briefest of glances to tell him that he hadn’t. He hated the new image his confused mind was showing him and he had no desire to see any more of it than was necessary.

  Though it went against all his better instincts, he forced himself to search the pockets of the strange jacket he found slung over the back of a chair. In an inside pocket he found a cheap, imitation-leather wallet containing a large quantity of strange-looking money together with what professed to be a drivers’ licence. This one was not at all like his own plastic drivers’ licence that carried his photograph and doubled as an ID card. This one was green and was made of paper. Chalking up another point to the thoroughness of the joke, Zachary was not surprised to see his name on it. What did surprise him was the way his signature had been forged, and it really was quite a good forgery. He was intrigued to note, however, that rather than his own Edinburgh address, the address given was Croydon, a large town south of London. In another pocket, he found a variety of credit cards, all with his own forged signature, which made Zachary wonder if he could get his own back on the hoaxer by suing the arse off him for forgery. The truth was, he was ready to do murder by this time. He could take a joke as well as the next man but this went way beyond being funny. He also found a diary in another pocket which was full of cryptic, unintelligible notes that gave him little further information.

  While one part of his brain continued to believe he was suffering from the after affects of a drug, another part continued to search for a more satisfactory explanation. He knew it wasn’t possible for one’s appearance to change in an instant so, if he was not seeing a drug induced image of himself, that could only mean that much more than an instant must have passed since his unfortunate encounter with the television. Casting around, he spotted a newspaper sitting on the only chair in the room. Picking it up, he looked for the date. It was almost a relief to discover that the newspaper carried the date he believed it to be which eliminated that last theory. Only drug after-effects remained.

  Embarrassed to be doing so, Zachary tried on the jacket, which fitted him perfectly. Wondering at the coincidence, he marched out of the room. He wanted an end to this charade and he needed to find someone to blame for the cruel joke they were playing on him.

  Nigel Brookes, the gauche young man who was on duty at the reception desk, was surprised when Zachary burst into his mean, little office. He may not have been the brightest kid on the block but even he could see that something serious had upset one of his guests. He smiled nervously.

  Ignoring any pleasantries, Zachary said, ‘I demand to know who brought me here and when.’

  Zachary felt that the staff and management in the motel must have colluded in the joke, because how else could a large, drugged man be taken into one of their bedrooms? By adopting a tough tone, he hoped to browbeat the receptionist into an instant confession. After all, he was an important man used to power and when he spoke people usually jumped.

  But Nigel neither jumped nor looked embarrassed. He didn’t even look shifty. He simply looked perplexed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Storie, I don’t understand what you mean. No-one was with you when you arrived, or least-ways that’s what you told me when you checked in.’ He then had the cheek to grin conspiratorially. ‘If you want a bigger room you’re out of luck. They’re all exactly the same.’

  Zachary became angrier still. Obviously, the man was playing the part of the daft laddie. If he thought he would fall for that one, he had another think coming. He knew exactly how to deal with his type.

  ‘Right, I’m not wasting any more time with you. Either you tell me who brought me here or I’m going to call the police. You’ve got just five seconds.’

  Conspicuously, he pulled back the sleeve of his jacket to count out the seconds on his watch. Nor was he fazed when he saw that his newly acquired cheap watch carried no second hand.

  Given this ultimatum, Nigel became agitated.

  ‘I don’t think you need do that, sir. There’s bound to be a simple explanation for whatever is worrying you. If you like I’ll get the manager for you. I’m sure he’ll be able to sort it out.’

  ‘Do that.’ Zachary smiled an inward smile. As expected, it hadn’t taken much to get the fellow on the run. Now he’d make them squirm as they’d made him suffer. For the first time since regaining conscious he began to feel confident and in control of the situation. He’d soon have this little matter sorted out.

  Nigel spoke quietly but urgently into the telephone, casting anxious looks at Zachary as he did so. All the while, Zachary kept the same, stern expression on his face. It would not do to let up on the pressure. Finally, Nigel put the receiver down and smiled nervously at Zachary.

  ‘The manager will be here directly. Would you like to sit down while you wait, sir? Can I offer you a coffee or something?’

  Clearly, the manager had told his man to try to placate their disgruntled customer while he made his way over to reception. But Zachary was determined not to lose whatever tiny advantage he might have gained and refused everything. Instead, he continued standing and glowering in a most threatening manner at the unfortunate receptionist who now tried desperately to busy himself behind the desk, while pretending Zachary was not there.

  In the event it took the manager the best part of fifteen minutes to arrive, by which time Zachary was
ready to explode. He was also ready for a cigarette, which surprised him as he was a confirmed non-smoker. As he stood waiting, his hand, almost of its own accord, kept wandering to his pocket where he discovered a packet of cigarettes. It took a tremendous effort of will not to light up. The temptation continued to build as the minutes passed and the battle was almost lost when Nigel spoke.

  ‘Here’s Mr Gupta now, sir,’ he said as a large, somewhat ancient Mercedes Benz motorcar drove into the car park.

  Zachary watched as an over-weight Asian heaved his body out of the driving seat and, after carefully closing the car’s door behind him, ponderously approached the office. As he entered the shabby little room, the man was all warmth and good nature.

  Mr Gupta smiled benevolently at Zachary. ‘Now what is it that we have here?’ He spoke with such a strong accent, Zachary immediately knew the man had lived most of his life in the sub-continent.

  ‘It’s taken you long enough to get here,’ Zachary said and immediately held up his hand to forestall the explanation that sprang so readily to Mr Gupta’s lips. ‘But I’m not interested in that. I want you to tell me who’s behind all this?’

  Mr Gupta’s face registered surprise but he recovered quickly enough. ‘I am the manager and owner of this establishment, if that is what you mean, Mr ere...’ he looked at Nigel for help and the receptionist said, ‘…Mr Storie.’ Gupta smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, I am where the buck stops, as they say in America.’ He was the only one to laugh at his feeble attempt at a joke.

  Zachary waved his hand impatiently.

  ‘I’m not interested in who owns this dreadful place.’ Mr Gupta looked hurt and discomforted by such bluntness as Zachary ploughed on. ‘What I want to know is, who’s behind this stupid prank. Who brought me here.’