How had he gotten here? Tad tried to think, tried to remember. He had gone to bed like he always did. Nothing had happened. So how . . . ? There could only be one answer. He had been kidnapped. That had to be it. Someone had broken into Snatchmore Hall, getting past the wall, the moat, the security system and the dog, had drugged him while he was asleep and kidnapped him. He had read about this sort of thing happening. His father would have to pay some money—a ransom—but that was no problem because Sir Hubert had lots of money. And then he would be allowed to go home.
The more Tad thought about it, the more relieved he became. In fact, it was almost exciting. He’d be on the television and in all the newspapers: MILLIONAIRE’S SON IN RANSOM DEMAND, BOY HERO RETURNS HOME SAFE. That would certainly be something to tell them when he got back to school! And when the kidnappers were finally caught (as of course they would be), he would have to go to court. He would be the star witness!
Tad glanced at his watch, wondering what time it was. The watch was gone. That didn’t surprise him. It was a Rolex, solid gold, with a built-in calendar, calculator and color TV. His mother had given it to him a year ago to thank him for tidying up his room when Mrs. O’Blimey was out sick. The wretched kidnappers must have taken it. (They also seemed to have taken his silk pajamas—he was wearing only pants and a black T-shirt that was several sizes too big.) Tad lowered his hand—then raised it again. Was he going crazy . . . or was his wrist thinner than it had been? With an uneasy feeling in his stomach, he closed his third finger and his thumb in a circle around where his watch had once been. They met.
Tad began to tremble. How long had he been in the caravan? Could it have been weeks—even months? How had he managed to lose so much weight?
Cautiously, he swung himself out of the bed. His bare feet came to rest on a carpet so old and dirty that it was impossible to tell what color it had once been. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. Tiptoeing, one step at a time, he crossed the room, making for the door.
His hand—the hand was thinner too, just like his wrist—closed around the doorknob and slowly he turned it. The door was unlocked. Tad opened it and stepped into a second room, larger than the first and shrouded in darkness.
This room was dominated by a large fold-down bed—he could just make out its shape as his eyes got used to the gloom—and now he realized there were two people inside it, buried beneath a blanket that rose and fell as they breathed. One of the figures was snoring loudly. Tad was sure it was a woman. Her breath was rattling at the back of her throat like a cat flap in the wind. The man next to her muttered something in his sleep and turned over, dragging the cover with him. The woman, still asleep, groaned and pulled it back again. Tad stepped forward, his foot just missing an empty whiskey bottle on the floor. The wall on the other side of the room was nothing more than a ragged curtain, hanging on a rail. He had to get to it before the two people—his kidnappers—woke up.
He forced himself to take it slowly, making no sound. He was helped at least by the rain. It was coming down more heavily now, striking the metal roof of the caravan and echoing throughout, the noise masking the sound of his own footsteps as he edged around the bed. At last he reached the curtain. He padded at the material until he found a gap and, with a surge of relief, passed through.
He found himself now in the third and last section of the caravan. It was without a doubt the most disgusting part of all.
It was a kitchen, shower and toilet combined, with all the different articles of those rooms jumbled up together. There were dirty pots and pans stacked up in the shower and used, soggy towels next to the sink. A roll of toilet paper had unspooled itself over the oven and there were two grimy bars of soap, a razor and a toothbrush on top of the stove. Unwashed plates, thick with food from supper the night before, lay waiting on a shelf over the toilet while the oven door hung open to reveal two washcloths, a sponge shaped like a duck and a hairbrush that was matted with curling black hair. All the walls and the ceiling were coated with grease and there were pools of water and more hair on the floor. Tad was amazed that anyone could live like this. But it wasn’t his problem. He just wanted to get out.
And there was the front door! He was amazed that it was as easy as this. All he had to do was get out the door and run. He would make it to the nearest telephone and call the police. Tad took one step forward. And that was when he saw the other boy.
The boy was thin and pale and about a year younger than Tad. He had long fair hair that hung in greasy strands over a rather sickly-looking face dotted with acne. His right ear was pierced twice with a silver ring and a stud shaped like a crescent moon. The boy could have been handsome. He had bright blue eyes, full lips and a long, slender neck. But he looked hungry and dirty and there was something about his expression that was pinched and mean. Right now he was standing outside the caravan, staring at Tad through a small window.
Tad opened his mouth to cry out. The boy did the same.
And that was when Tad knew, with a sense of terror, that he wasn’t looking at a window. He was looking at a mirror. And it wasn’t a boy standing outside the caravan. It was his reflection!
It was him!
Tad stared at himself in the mirror, watched his mouth open to scream. And he did scream—a scream that wasn’t even his voice. His hands grabbed hold of his T-shirt and pulled it away from him as if he could somehow separate himself from the body that was beneath it.
His body.
Him.
Impossible!
“Whass all this racket, then? Whass going on?”
Tad spun around and saw that the curtain had been pulled back. Before him stood a man, wearing a pair of stained pajama bottoms but no top. His naked stomach was dangling over the waistband, a nasty rash showing around the belly button. The man’s face was pale and bony and covered with a gingery stubble that matched what was left of his hair. His eyes were half closed. One of them had a sty bulging red and swollen under the lid. There was a cigarette dangling from his lips and Tad realized with a shiver of disgust that he must have slept with it there all night.
“Who are you?” Tad gasped.
“Whaddya mean who am I? What the devil are you talking about?”
“Please. I want to go home . . .”
The man stared at Tad as if he was trying to work him out. Then suddenly he seemed to understand. A slow, nasty smile spread across his face, making the cigarette twitch. “You been at the glue again,” he muttered.
“What?” Tad’s legs were giving way beneath him. He had to lean against the wall.
Then a voice called out from the other side of the curtain. “Eric? What is it?” It was a woman’s voice, loud and shrill.
“It’s Bob. ’E’s been sniffing the glue again. I reckon ’e’s ’ad an ’ole tube full. And now ’e doesn’t know ’oo ’e is or where ’e is.”
“Well, slap some sense into ’im and throw ’im in the shower,” the voice cried out. “I want my breakfast.”
“I’m not Bob,” Tad whimpered. “There’s been a mistake.”
But before he could go on, the man had grabbed hold of him, one hand closing around his throat. “There was a mistake all right!” the man snarled. “And what was it? Model airplane glue? Well, you’d better get your head in order, you little worm. ’Cause it’s your turn to wash up and make breakfast!” And with that, the man threw Tad roughly into the corner, spat out the cigarette and went back into the bedroom, drawing the curtain behind him.
Tad stayed where he was for a long time. His heart was racing so fast that he could hardly breathe. He looked at his hands again, his stomach, his legs. With trembling fingers, he touched his cheeks, his eyebrows, his hair, tugged at the two pins in his right ear. He let his hands fall and gazed at his palms. He knew, even without understanding why, that he had never seen those hands before. They weren’t his hands.
Somehow, something horrible had happened. He had gone to sleep as Tad. But he had woken up as Bob.
&n
bsp; A few minutes later the curtain was drawn back and a woman came out.
She was one of the ugliest women Tad had ever seen. For a start, she was so fat that the caravan rocked when she moved. Her legs, swathed in black stockings, were thin at the ankles but thicker than tree trunks by the time they disappeared into her massive, exploding bottom. She had arms like hams in a butcher shop, and as for her face, it was so fat that it seemed to have swallowed itself. Her squat nose, narrow eyes and bright red lips had sunk into flabby folds of flesh. Her hair was black and tightly permed. She wore heavy plastic earrings, a wooden necklace and a variety of metal bangles, brooches and rings.
She took one look at Tad and shook her head. The earrings rattled. “Gawd’s truth!” she muttered to herself. Then suddenly she lashed out with her foot. Tad cried aloud as her shoe caught him on the hip. “All right, you,” the woman exclaimed. “If you’re not going to ’elp, you can clear out. Go out and be sick or something. That’ll straighten you out.”
“Please . . .” Tad began, getting to his feet.
“I told you that glue was no good for you. But would you listen? No! You get yourself dressed . . .” The woman snatched a handful of clothes from the top of the fridge and threw them at Tad. “Now get out, Bob. I don’t wanna see you again until you got your act together.”
“No. You don’t understand . . .”
But the woman had clenched her fist and Tad realized she didn’t want to know. Clutching the clothes, he scrabbled for the door, found the handle and turned it. Behind the woman, the man had appeared, now wearing a knit shirt and jeans and smoking a fresh cigarette. He saw what was happening and laughed. “You show ’im, Doll!” he called out.
“Shut up!” his wife replied.
Tad fell through the door and into his new world.
THE CARNIVAL
Tad was standing in the middle of a carnival that had been set up on a patch of lumpy ground near a main road. There were about a dozen rides and the usual shooting galleries and sideshows. But everything was so old and broken down, with flaking paint and broken lightbulbs, that it didn’t look like fun at all. The carnival was completely encircled by a cluster of caravans and trucks, some with electric generators. Thick cables snaked across the ground, joining everything to everything in a complicated tangle. There was nobody in sight.
Although the rain had eased off, it was still drizzling and this, along with the gray light of early morning, only made the scene more wretched. Tad felt the water dripping down his arms and legs and remembered that he was almost naked. Hastily he sorted through the clothes the woman had thrown him—a pair of jeans, faded and torn at the knees, a sweater, socks and sneakers. Holding them up in front of him, Tad knew at once that they were much too small. There was no way they could possibly fit him. But when he did finally pull them on, they did!
Tad looked back at the caravan. It was one of the largest in the carnival. Once it had been white, but rust had eaten away most of the paintwork and dirt covered what little was left. The door was still firmly shut, but there was a buzzer next to it and below that a slip of paper under a plastic cover. It read:
ERIC AND DOLL SNARBY
Doll. That was what the man had called the woman. Next to the nameplate somebody had added three letters, gouging them into the side of the caravan.
BOB
Tad ran his finger along it and swallowed hard. Bob Snarby. Was that who he was?
“I am not Bob Snarby! I’m Tad Spencer!”
But even as he spoke the words, he knew that they weren’t true. Like it or not, something had happened, and for the time being anyway, he was this other boy. He was also very hungry. The smell of bacon was seeping out under the caravan door. He could almost hear it sizzling in the pan. He had no money and no idea where he was. But breakfast was cooking on the other side of the door. What choice did he really have?
Tad opened the door and went back in.
Doll Snarby was sitting, wedged behind the table, with a mountain of eggs, bacon, sausages and toast in front of her. As Tad came into the room she pronged a whole fried egg on her fork and slipped it into her mouth, a trickle of grease dribbling down her chin. Eric Snarby was at the stove, a new cigarette between his lips. He had a bad cough. In fact he was spluttering as much as the bacon in the pan.
“So you come back in, ’ave you,” Eric coughed. “Just like you to shove off when it’s your turn to do the cooking.”
“Don’t be cruel to the boy,” Doll Snarby shouted. She reached out and jabbed Tad hard in the ribs. “That’s my job!”
“I suppose you want some bacon?” Eric asked.
“Yes, please,” Tad said.
“Oh! Please!” Eric sang the word in a falsetto voice. “’Aven’t we got airs and graces today.” He coughed again, spraying the bacon with spittle. “’E’ll be saying ‘thank you’ next an’ all!”
“Leave the little maggot alone,” Doll said. She slid an empty plate in front of Tad.
Tad looked down. The plate was coated in grease and dried gravy from the night before. “This is dirty,” he said.
Doll scowled. “Well, there’s no point washing it, is there!” she said reasonably. “You’re only going to put more food on it.”
Eric Snarby slid two lumps of bacon, a fried egg and a piece of fried bread onto Tad’s plate. Doll picked up two pieces of toast, emptied half a jar of marmalade between them and pressed them into a sandwich. Eric had made himself a cup of tea and sat next to his wife.
She sniffed at him. “You smell!” she exclaimed.
“So what?” he replied, the eye with the sty twitching indignantly.
“Why don’t you ’ave a barf?” his wife complained.
“Because we don’t ’ave a barf,” Eric Snarby replied. “And I’m not going in the shower. Not till you take out your panties!”
Tad tried not to listen to any of this but instead concentrated on his breakfast. He had never seen food like it. Back home at Snatchmore Hall, breakfast would have been freshly squeezed orange juice and a croissant, perhaps lightly scrambled eggs on a square of whole-wheat toast and three pork sausages from Fortnum & Mason. This food was disgusting. Tad was sure he would only be able to manage a few mouthfuls and he was amazed to find himself eating it all. After that he drained a whole mug of tea and only felt a little queasy when he found a cigarette end nestling in the dregs at the bottom.
“Feeling better?” Eric Snarby asked.
“A bit.” Tad had almost said “thank you” but stopped himself at the last minute. Doll Snarby shifted on her seat and the next moment there was an explosion as she let loose a jet of stale air. Tad was horrified but Eric just grinned.
“Whew!” he exclaimed. “That nearly put out my cigarette!”
Doll grunted with satisfaction. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her dress and stood up. “All right,” she said. “Let’s get to work.”
“Work?” Tad blinked.
“Don’t you start, Bob,” Doll yelled, casually striking the back of Tad’s head with her hand. “You pull your weight or you don’t eat.”
“Come on! Get off your backside.” Eric slapped him again from the other direction. “Let’s get down to business.”
It turned out that the Snarbys ran the Lucky Numbers booth at the carnival and Tad spent the rest of the morning helping to rig it up. First there were the prizes to be set out: large stuffed gorillas hanging comically from one hand with a half-peeled banana in the other. Then the booth itself had to be washed down, the electric lightbulbs hung and a few loose planks of wood hammered into place. The work was easy enough—but not for Tad. He had never done anything like this before and found it almost impossible. He got a stiff neck from carrying the toys, a handful of splinters from washing the booth and had only managed two bangs with the hammer before he had hit his thumb and gone off howling. Eric Snarby watched him with disgust. At noon, he shook his head, rolled another cigarette and went back into the caravan. There he found Doll, reading The Su
n and munching a bag of chocolate cookies.
“What is it?” Doll wasn’t pleased to see him.
“It’s the boy. Bob.” Eric lit the cigarette and sucked in smoke. “There’s something about ’im. ’E’s not ’imself.”
Doll blew her nose noisily, then looked around for a handkerchief. “Of course he’s not himself!” she exclaimed. “What do you expect with ’alf a tube of airplane glue inside ’im!”
Eric Snarby nodded and bit his lip. He seemed about to go, but then he stopped and looked up and suddenly there was fear in his eyes. “What ’appens if Finn wants him again?” he asked.
“Finn.” Now it was Doll’s turn to go pale. Even as she spoke the word, she seemed to shrink into herself, her rolls of flesh quivering.
“Suppose Finn wants the boy?” Eric persisted.
Both the Snarbys were silent now. Eric’s cigarette was so close to his lips that it was actually burning them, but he didn’t seem to notice. Smoke crept up the side of his face like a scar. Doll Snarby was clutching the last chocolate cookie. Suddenly it exploded in her hand, showering her husband with crumbs.
“Bob’ll be all right,” she said. “Finn’s not due back for a couple of days. By the time he gets here, Bob’ll be fine.” She took a deep breath and lashed out with one hand, catching her husband by the ear. As he squealed in pain, she drew him close. “Just keep ’im away from the glue,” she hissed. “Elmer’s, Duco, apoxy, the lot! And Finn won’t notice a thing!”
The carnival was busy that night. The rain had stopped and the people had come out, milling around the stalls and lining up for the rides. By then, Tad had learned two things, overhearing the conversation of the other booth owners.
First it was Friday. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since he had gone to bed at Snatchmore Hall as Thomas Arnold David Spencer. And second, the fairgrounds had been set up in a place called Crouch End, not too far from his parents’ second London home. Tad could run away. Surely he would be able to find his way home.
The Switch Page 2
