‘I’m Zak…’ Zachary was about to give his name away when he remembered that the police were supposed to be looking for him. ‘…Leith,’ he said. Earlier, on his way to Seafield, he had passed through the district of Leith and the name just sprang to his lips.
‘It’s coming back to me,’ Freddy lied. ‘Remind me, where did we meet?’
Zachary knew some of Freddy’s history and could have mentioned any one of a dozen different places. Instead, he said, ‘I used to work in your father’s garage. Now do you remember?’
Freddy slapped his forehead. ‘Of course. Zak Leith. Now I remember.’
As Freddy continued with his deceit, Zachary smiled resignedly. It seemed no one in this dimension knew him. He was well and truly on his own. No, that wasn’t quite true; there was still that woman who claimed to be his wife, not forgetting the police and that fellow Sinclair.
As quickly as possible, Zachary extricated himself from Freddy and his dream world on the promise that he would give the Frontera very serious consideration. He then drove back towards the centre of Leith looking for somewhere to park as he went. He needed a coffee and a telephone, in that order. He also needed another cigarette.
After another coffee, this time bought in a run-down little café he found in Junction Street, Zachary rang the telephone number he found next to his name on the sheet he had torn from the Trusty Motel’s register. After a few moments, a woman answered his call. She sounded like the woman he had spoken to the previous evening. Least ways, she spoke with the same strong London accent. He could not imagine what any woman married to the other Zak Storie would look like but she sounded nice. Somewhat cynically, he thought she was probably as big a slob as he now was.
‘This is Zachary,’ he said in answer to her query.
‘Zak, is that really you? You sound different. Is everything OK? So you got away all right, did you? Where are you? You could have knocked me down with a blooming feather when that policeman rang last night. He rang me again this morning, you know. They finally cottoned on to you being the Zak Storie the Met are looking for and he wasn’t pleased, I can tell you.’
She was full of questions and information but never stopped long enough for an answer. He could not fail to note the anxiety in her voice.
When she finally stopped talking, he laughed to reassure her but only because he still had no idea of the extent of the trouble he was in. ‘Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Well I must say you’re taking it all very cool like, what with going into a police station when you knew you was wanted for murder and embezzlement, not to mention that little matter with Sinclair and his men. You really are Zak, are you?’ She suddenly sounded doubtful.
‘What did you say?’ It came out before he could stop it.
‘I only asked if you really are Zak. It’s just that you sound different, that’s all.’
‘Of course I’m Zak,’ he said, suddenly unable to hide the impatience in his voice. ‘But tell me again about the murder and embezzlement bit. What are the police saying about me?’ It took all his powers of self-control not to shriek the question.
‘It was in all the newspapers the day before yesterday but I don’t think they’ve got anywhere yet. I burnt most of the photographs I had of you and hid the rest before the police came around so they don’t know what you look like yet. Mind you, it won’t be long before they get one from your brother or someone. All they’ve got are some drawings, which ain’t up to much.’
‘Yes, but what did the newspapers say. I haven’t caught up with any of them yet.’ He was finding it hard to speak. Indeed, it was all he could do not to panic and to shriek down the phone to tell her to stop her stupid prattle. What did he care about photographs when he was in such serious trouble? This was far worse than he could possibly have imagined. God, what sort of man had he become? Not only was he a useless slob, it seemed he was a murderer and a thief as well.
‘They just said Victor and Ethel Prentice gave a large sum of money to an insurance agent to pay for a policy he’d sold them. They didn’t say it was you but it had to be you, didn’t it? Then it said you’d done a runner with their money and a bit later someone murdered the Prentices in their home. They haven’t accused you of anything yet, luv. They’re just saying they want to speak to you.’
‘I did all that,’ he said half under his breath, but not so quietly that the woman, whose name he still did not know, could not hear him.
‘What, are you saying you did it, Zak? Only a couple of nights ago you swore to me that you hadn’t been anywhere near the old couple.’ There was horror in her voice.
‘No, of course I didn’t do it,’ he blustered, once again not sure who he now was. ‘What I meant was, it sounds like an awful lot I’m supposed to have done, that’s all. My god, I’m in a shed-load of trouble, aren’t I?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’ She sounded aggrieved, and who could blame her. ‘There’s no denying you nicked that cash and then went and lost it on the gee-gees, but you’re going to have to think of some way to prove you were in Manchester when the Prentices were killed. Mind you, none of that’ll matter if Sinclair’s boys catch you first. You know what they’re like. They’ll break both your arms and legs just for starters to persuade you to pay back what you owe them.’
Zachary felt a cold hand gripping tight around his heart. He was indeed in trouble. But what worried him most was not knowing if he really had killed that old couple for their money. Of course, he would never have owned up to it had he done it and now there was probably no way of ever knowing the truth.
At that moment, he heard the pips in the telephone start and he realized he was just about out of time. There was so much more he wanted to ask but he had no more change. ‘I’m sorry, that’s the last of my change. I’ll give you another ring later.’
‘Yes, but where are you?’ she called out just as the phone went dead.
He went back into the café where, throwing caution to the wind, he bought another cup of coffee. He needed to think this one out. Of one thing he was certain; the car had to go. It had finally outlived its usefulness and was now a threat to his continued freedom. He also needed to change his appearance. Something else that gave him concern was the speed with which he was running out of money. It had seemed a lot when he had first looked in his wallet but with the price of everything, it was disappearing at an alarming rate. It certainly wouldn’t last very much longer. Finally, he needed to find out what the newspapers were saying about him.
He borrowed the local yellow pages from the café owner and checked it for fancy dress outfitters. As it happened, there was one not very far away in Leith Walk, he discovered. He had been to a few fancy dress balls in his other life and it was his experience that, as well as costumes, such outfitters usually sold items such as face paints and hair dyes. Being in the motor trade, he also knew the best way to get rid of a car so that it became unrecognisable to the police. It meant being without transport until he could pick up an alternative but he would definitely be safer without it in the long run. In any case, the wreck was only fit for the scrap heap. If he got rid of it that night, he could lay low until the heat came off. The problem was, he had no idea how he would survive without money. All he could do was plan for the moment and hope things would eventually become clearer. It was definitely time for another fag.
Chapter 3
Zak
Zak was accustomed to living on his wits and as the room slowly came back into focus, instinctively he knew something had gone horribly wrong. Then, as his brain started working again, a partial explanation dawned on him. He was useless with anything electrical and should never have touched those damned wires. Jeannie was always laughing at his pathetic DIY skills so he should have done the sensible thing and asked a member of the motel staff to sort it out for him.
As these things tend to do, it had started innocently enough. The television had started playing up while he was lis
tening to the evening news; something he did not normally do. In fact, if there were anything else on television, he would always watch it instead. That evening, however, he had changed his routine because there was a good chance he would have a starring role on said News. Which was why, when the television started flickering on and off, not wanting to miss something that might be of vital importance to him, he tried to sort it out, as anyone would. He heard a funny buzzing sound coming from behind the set and even as he stood there scratching his head and wondering what to do, the damned set flickered one last time and the screen went blank. Anxious to get the programme back he began pushing and pulling the wires behind the set without first switching off the power and it wasn’t long before the inevitable happened. The shock threw him onto his back into the centre of the room where he lost consciousness.
Wondering if his spell of bad luck would ever end, Zak carefully began moving his arms and legs. It was almost a disappointment to discover that other than a mild tingling sensation all over, he appeared to be uninjured. On the plus side, he seemed to have fixed the fault. The television now seemed fine. Shaking his head to clear it, he sat up, which was when he noticed the first of what would become a whole procession of inexplicable changes.
He had been listening to the Nine O' Clock News but a completely different programme now appeared to be playing. Nor did he recognise the person fronting the programme. He checked his watch in case he’d been unconscious for longer than he thought but it was still only ten minutes past nine. If that was correct, he’d been unconscious for a few seconds only. As he looked away he did a double take and, with a fascination that gnawed away at the pit of his stomach, his eyes returned to the wristwatch.
‘Where the bloody hell did that come from,’ he said.
The watch that now encircled his wrist was one he had never seen before. Where, for the past few years, a cheap Timex digital watch had sat, there was now an expensive and impressive-looking Rolex. From the smooth movement of the second hand even he knew this was no cheap imitation. Shaking his head again, but this time in disbelief, he got up and went across to the television set and began changing channels. He was a regular watcher of TV, Jeannie might have gone further and described him as an addict, but he now failed to recognize any of the programmes and nor did he recognize the presenters. It was at about this time that he received the most decisive shock of all. Looking up, he saw himself in the mirror.
The television set just happened to be placed directly in front of a large mirror and, glancing up, he saw his reflection as he stood fiddling with the TV. The sight both shocked and frightened him. Staring back at him with an equally horrified expression was someone who resembled him, but it was an image of himself he did not recognize. The face was the same, except that it was smoother and thinner, and it definitely had a better colour but the hairstyle was completely different, as were his clothes. He normally grew his thinning hair rather long to disguise his incipient baldness but the hair he saw on the reflection in the mirror was both short and abundant with no hint whatsoever of impending hair loss; even the cut was different, being in a style that was popular twenty years earlier. His hand instinctively went to his head to feel what he assumed must be a wig, but what he felt could only be his own; it was all quite natural. For some reason his clothes reminded him of those his father might have worn. None of what he saw made sense and he was badly frightened. In a state of shock and before he fell down, he staggered back and sat on the edge of the bed. His legs had turned to jelly.
Fighting down a growing panic, Zak forced himself to stay calm while he thought the situation through. Obviously, there must be a sensible explanation for what was happening to him he reasoned, and being a TV addict, he recalled a once popular television programme where a man kept leaping forwards and backwards in time. The fellow assumed different personae in the process to help solve a variety of personal problems confronting the characters whose bodies he temporarily had taken over. One part of his brain kept telling him that such a thing might be all very well in the world of film and television, and even if it made for entertaining viewing, such things didn’t happen in real life. In any case, as far as he was aware, he had not actually changed his location, his person, or his time. All he had done was, somehow, change his clothes and his hairstyle.
Even as he tried to minimise the changes, he knew he was deluding himself. What had happened to the news and the other television programmes? Why was his hair thicker and his body fitter than he could remember either being for many years past? Also, how had he acquired an expensive Rolex wristwatch? He pondered the questions for some time but the only explanation that made any sense was that he must still be in some sort of dream-like state. That was when he actually pinched himself. He seemed to remember that that was what one was supposed to do in such circumstances.
He watched with interest as the angry, red mark spread across his arm. But what did that prove? If he really was dreaming, what was to stop him dreaming an angry, red blotch showing up on his arm? It was at about this time that he remembered his tattoo. Many years earlier, someone had challenged him to get it done and in a moment of drunken madness, he had won the bet. Ever since, he had lived with the shame and embarrassment of having a naked woman indelibly painted into his arm; a woman whose bits would bounce every time he flexed his once firm but now floppy bicep. When he peeled up the sleeve of his shirt to examine his own piece of living art he nearly freaked out. The tattoo was not there. Indeed, the skin was so smooth; clearly, it never had been.
Stupidly, he even peeled back the shirtsleeve on his other arm in case he had made a mistake. Even as he did so he felt like the man who returns to where he parked his car only to find it gone but is convinced of his loss only when he is actually standing on the very spot his car once occupied. Naturally, the tattoo was not on his other arm, either. Proving he still had a sense of humour, it occurred to him that it would have been spookier still if the tattoo had somehow changed arms. Funnily enough, it was that thought which finally convinced him he could not be dreaming. If he were dreaming, the tattoo would surely have changed arms.
He was probably responding better to all the changes he was experiencing than was his other self not least because all the changes, so far, were for the better. Also, with so much tangible proof all around him, he was forced to the conclusion that he must be awake. He might be awake but the reality he was experiencing was not what he remembered or expected. That was when another thought came to him. Could the electric shock somehow have jumbled his brain? But that didn’t make sense, either. He knew exactly who he was and what he was doing in the hotel. There was no doubt in Zak’s mind; he was in hiding from the police as well as from Connor Sinclair and his thugs.
From his early teens, Zak had always been one of the lads. That was when he had convinced himself that studying and hard work was for mugs. He laughed at those who followed a nine-to-five-drudge.
‘Why can’t they see what fools they are,’ he often said.
He might be getting a bit long in the tooth these days, but his opinions were the same. In what passed for a career, if he had worked hard at anything it had been gambling, not that he was any good at it even after the huge amount of money and time he had invested in it. For Zak, gambling was an addiction and no other activity in his life was pursued with anything like the same diligence. Without gambling, life for Zak lacked flavour. He had briefly been employed in various, run-of-the-mill jobs during his less-than-average life but those jobs had been taken only when it was absolutely necessary to supplement and fund his addiction. Nor had all those jobs been entirely within the law. Until recently, however, Zak had never done anything seriously criminal. Even he had his standards.
While he sat there trying to make sense of his new situation, he became aware of a need. He was a thirty-a-day man and his brain was telling him it was time to light up. He patted his pockets to locate his ever-present packet of fags, which was when he first noticed his expensive trousers
. Even he could see they were expensive though they were old-fashioned to look at and lacked the colour and style of his own slacks. Unable to find his cigarettes, he looked around his room trying to spot them, which was when he properly became aware of his new surroundings. The room was clean, bright and cheerful and was quite unlike the tatty, depressing room into which he had booked earlier in the day. Even before he spotted the wardrobe, he eyes lit on the discretely displayed NO SMOKING sign. This was definitely not his room. Which begged the question; if not his, then whose and whose clothes was he now wearing? He padded across to where he could see a jacket draped around a chair to see if they were in one of the pockets but again failed to find them. Irritated not to have something to occupy his hands he returned to the bed to consider his predicament. Strangely, he felt none of the cravings he normally felt whenever he needed a cigarette.
‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ he cried out in frustration for the second time that evening.
He could trace his present difficulty back almost a year. That was when an unusually persistent spell of losing began. He was a regular customer at Connor Sinclair’s betting shop where he usually managed to compensate for his regular small losses with the odd big win; but a year ago it had all started going horribly wrong. The big win simply refused to come and suddenly Zak found himself in way over his head. When his debt reached £1,000, the big man, himself, had summoned him into his presence.
Zak was in fear and trembling when Leo Snell, one of Sinclair's muscular enforcers, first approached him.
‘The boss wants to see you,’ he said in a way that allowed no refusal. Then, spotting the lighted cigarette Zak held between his fingers he added, ‘and put that bleedin' thing out if you know what’s good for you.’
SWITCHED: The man who lost his body but kept his mind. Page 5
