The Switch Page 9

  The thick smell of incense filled his nostrils and he was once again amazed by how the caravan seemed so much bigger inside than out.

  “Dr. Aftexcludor . . . ?” he called softly.

  There was a book, lying open on the table, next to the crystal ball. Tad almost got the feeling that it had been left there for him to find. Moving forward, he turned a page. The paper was old and heavy and really not like paper at all. Tad looked down and began to read.

  Two pages were exposed and there was a naked figure drawn on each one, two boys connected by a complicated series of arrows. The figures were surrounded by stars, planets and other astrological devices and some of the arrows pointed up toward these. The book was handwritten, the sentences tumbling into one another and slanting in different directions. Growing ever more uneasy, Tad realized what the book reminded him of. It was like something out of a fairy story. A book of spells.

  There were two words written in red, but the ink was so old that it had lost most of its color. Tad ran a finger across them. “The Switch.” Underneath, a line of writing twisted in a curve. “Janus. The star of change. Invoking its power. To effect the switch between two personalities . . .” Tad didn’t understand all of it, but he understood enough. Anger exploded inside him along with shock and disbelief. He picked up the ancient book and was about to throw it across the room when . . .

  “Master Snarby! How nice to see you again.”

  Tad whirled around. He hadn’t heard anyone come in, but now Dr. Aftexcludor was standing right behind him, dressed in a dark green velvet jacket and baggy pantaloons. The Indian, Solo, was with him, standing in the doorway, blocking it.

  “I’m not Bob Snarby!” Tad snarled. “I’m Tad Spencer. You know that. You’re the one who did it!”

  “Did what?” Dr. Aftexcludor looked the picture of innocence.

  “You know!” Tad pointed at the open book. “All that stuff you told me about ‘wishing stars’ was nonsense and you know it! You’re responsible. You’re some sort of—”

  Magician? Tad stopped himself before he actually uttered the word. It was ridiculous. Real magicians didn’t exist, did they? Not real ones. But after what had happened to him, he suddenly realized, anything was possible.

  “You did it,” he repeated weakly.

  “Why should I have wanted to?” Dr. Aftexcludor asked reasonably.

  “I don’t know. But . . .” Tad remembered now. “There was something you were going to tell me. Something about Solo.”

  “Ah yes.” Dr. Aftexcludor moved forward and sat down, cross-legged, at the table. He might have looked old, but his movements were still somehow those of a younger man. “I was going to tell you a story,” he said.

  “You said I wasn’t ready.”

  “Are you now, Tad? Do you want to hear it?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Aftexcludor nodded. “Yes. I think so. Draw closer, Tad, Bob, whatever you want to call yourself.”

  Tad sat opposite the old man. There was a crystal ball on the table and he found himself fixated by it, by the colors that seemed to swirl around inside it. Dr. Aftexcludor muttered something in the strange language that he had used before and Solo retired. Tad glanced at him as he disappeared into the next room.

  “You said Solo was an Arambayan Indian,” Tad said.

  “Yes. The last of the tribe.”

  Arambayan Indians. Moon fruit. Suddenly Tad knew what this was all about.

  His eyes were fixed on the crystal ball and he couldn’t have broken away if he had tried to. And now it was as if shapes were forming themselves out of the colors. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was all the smoke in the room that was somehow sending him to sleep, but it was as if he were looking through the reflection on a pool and into the world beneath. It was a forest. He had never seen so much green, believed there could be so many different shades. There were flowers, brilliant colors. He could smell them! And now he could hear the rushing of a great river as the images rose and drew him into them.

  And all the time he heard the voice of Dr. Aftexcludor, coming as if from miles away, telling him the terrible story that he was seeing with his own eyes.

  “The Amazon basin,” he began. “The rain forest west of Manaus. Denser and wilder than anywhere in the world. There are not many places where man has not at some time trodden on this wretched planet, Tad, but not in the rain forests. The rain forests are the last great uncharted territory . . . even if the bulldozers are doing their work and the lands are rapidly dwindling.

  “There was a tribe of Indians here called the Arambayans. They were not even discovered by white men until 1947, Tad, just after the war. Westerners found them and for a time did them no harm. They were visited by missionaries. And they began to trade—for there was a fruit that grew in the Arambayans’ land . . . a fruit that looked like a crescent moon and tasted of pineapples and lemon.”

  “The moon fruit!” Tad exclaimed, and saw it, hanging in clusters, brilliant yellow moons against a swath of dark green leaves.

  “The moon fruit,” Dr. Aftexcludor repeated. “Now, all would have been well except that the fame of this new and delicious fruit spread across the globe. And a man heard about it. He tasted it. And he decided that he wanted to buy it. All of it.”

  “Who was this man?” Tad whispered.

  “I’ll come to that. The trouble is, the Arambayans were a very suspicious people. You see, they’d always been very happy just the way they were. They were peaceful. They just got on with their lives, raising their families and growing their fruit. They sold enough to meet their immediate needs. But their needs, you see, were small.

  “They didn’t trust this man-from-over-the-seas, and they didn’t want anything to do with him. The more money he offered them, the less they trusted him. So when he offered to buy all their moon fruit, they politely but firmly said no.

  “Unfortunately the man wouldn’t take no for an answer. He still wanted the moon fruit. And so he did a terrible thing . . .”

  The crystal ball had gone dark now. It was showing Tad a tropical night sky. But now he saw lights gliding through the darkness. A helicopter. It landed on a rough strip hacked out of the jungle. Tad knew that he was watching something secretive, something wrong. The blades of the helicopter began to slow down and the pilot stepped out. Tad recognized him. It was his father’s chauffeur: Spurling.

  “I said that the Arambayans didn’t like war,” Dr. Aftexcludor continued, “but they did have enemies. There was a tribe on the edge of the territory who had always been jealous of them and it was to this tribe, the Cruel People, that the man-from-over-the-seas turned. Suppose they were to own the moon fruit, would they sell it to him? And at a reasonable price? A deal was struck. And one dark night the Cruel People were given what they needed to take what wasn’t theirs.”

  Spurling had heaved three wooden crates out of the helicopter. He was surrounded by black, painted faces now, their expressions ugly and menacing.

  “He supplied them with guns. Oh—it’s been done before, Tad! The Arambayans had blowpipes, bows and arrows, spears. But now their enemy, the Cruel People, had joined the twentieth century. They had guns. Automatic rifles. And fueled by alcohol and greed, they attacked their poor neighbors.”

  Dr. Aftexcludor fell silent, but the crystal ball told its own story. He saw the Arambayan village, a circle of straw-covered huts on the edge of a river. He saw the women with their children, the men swimming and laughing in the clear water. Then there was a shot. It came from the edge of the forest. A young boy, barely older than Tad, was thrown wounded to the ground and then the Cruel People were on them, swarming over the village as more shots rang out and the flames rose from the first of the houses.

  Tad covered his eyes. He couldn’t take any more.

  “It was my father,” he muttered. “It was Sir Hubert Spencer and Beautiful World.”

  “Solo was one of the very few who escaped alive,” Dr. Aftexcludor went on. “You might say he’s the last
of the Arambayans. I’ve looked after him ever since, but he has no real life . . .” His voice trailed away. “I’m sorry,” he said at length. “But you said you wanted to hear. You said you were ready.”

  “I know.” Tad felt an intense sadness, deeper than anything he had experienced in his life. It was as if a river were running through him. “I had to know,” he said at last. “And . . . I suppose . . . I’m glad I know now.”

  “Yes.”

  Tad stood up. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. “Good-bye, Dr. Aftexcludor,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Good-bye, Tad. And good luck.”

  Tad paused at the door. “There is one thing,” he said. “Will I . . . will you ever change me back into Tad Spencer?”

  Dr. Aftexcludor shook his head. “Only you can do that,” he said. “You can be what—and who—you want to be.”

  Tad left. He never saw Dr. Aftexcludor again.

  When Tad got back to the caravan, Eric and Doll Snarby had finally woken up and were once again tucking into a mountainous breakfast, this time consisting entirely of kippers. Tad had never seen so many kippers slipping and slithering over one another on one plate. Finn was sitting in a corner, smoking a cigarette.

  “My Bob!” Doll sobbed by way of greeting. “Back ’ome at last!” She picked up one of the kippers and used it to wipe her nose. “I been so worried about you!”

  “It’s true,” Eric added. “Your mum’s been worrying ’erself to death. Some nights she’s only managed nine pizzas.”

  “My little boy!” Doll sniffed.

  “And a dozen Mars bars. She ’ad a dozen Mars bars. But apart from that, she couldn’t eat a thing!”

  “Shut up, the two of you,” Finn snapped, and the Snarbys fell silent. Finn leaned forward and held something up, a narrow book with a blue cover. His eyes locked into Tad’s. “Where did you get this, you thieving vermin?” he demanded.

  Tad recognized the checkbook that he had taken from his own bedroom in Knightsbridge. His hand fell automatically to his back pants pocket.

  “It was in the back of the cab,” Finn explained. “Must ’ave slipped out your back pocket.”

  “It’s mine!” Tad said.

  “Yours, is it? That’s funny. ’Cause it ’asn’t got your name in it.” Finn opened the checkbook. “‘Thomas Arnold David Spencer,’” he read. He scratched his cheek, his nails rasping against three days’ stubble. “So who’s he?” he demanded.

  “Leave the boy alone, Finn,” Doll said.

  “You stay out of this, Doll, or by heaven, I’ll pull your leg off and kick you with it.” Finn turned back to Tad. “Who is he?”

  “He’s no one. Some rich kid. He’s the son of Sir Hubert Spencer. You know . . .”

  “Sir Hubert Spencer, Beautiful World?” Finn weighed the checkbook in his hand. “Pickpocketed it, did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did I tell you about stealing!” Eric Snarby leaned forward and slapped Tad hard on the side of his head. “If you’re going to steal something, make sure you can sell it. A checkbook’s no blooming good! Why didn’t you get ’is watch?”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute . . .” Finn was thinking. You could almost see the thoughts passing one at a time across his eyes. “The Spencers, they got a place down near Ipswich,” he muttered. “Snatchmore Hall or something . . .”

  “What—you going to burgle it?” Doll asked.

  “Not burgle it. No.” Finn raised the checkbook to his nostrils and sniffed it. He let out a pleasurable sigh. “A rich kid with his own bank account, that’s given old Finn a thought. Maybe burgling ain’t the right game for us. Maybe there’s an easier way . . .”

  “What you got in mind, Finn?” Eric demanded.

  “You wait and see,” Finn replied. “Just you wait and see.”

  PRIME STEAK

  Tad clung to the branch of the oak tree, his dangling feet only inches from the razor wire and broken glass below. Using all his strength, he swung one hand in front of the other and passed over the garden wall. If he dropped onto the ground now, he would break both his legs, but just as he remembered there would be, a great pile of grass clippings had been left, close to the wall. Tad gritted his teeth, then let go with both hands. He fell, hit the pile and sank to his waist in the cut grass. Fortunately, the weather had been dry. The grass was old and soggy, but not the mush he had feared.

  He stood up inside the grounds of Snatchmore Hall, the home that had once been his.

  He made his way quickly toward the house, taking care not to be seen. As he drew closer, he ducked behind trees or ran crouching from bush to bush. At last he came to the edge of the lawn with the swimming pool to one side and the side entrance to the house just ahead. As he paused, catching his breath, there was a sudden movement and he ducked back out of sight. A car had started up and was rolling down the driveway toward the main gate. Tad caught sight of Spurling behind the wheel. And where was the grim-faced chauffeur off to now? he wondered. Looking for more children to invite to the Center? Or perhaps selling more weapons to wipe out another uncooperative Indian tribe?

  The car passed through the electronic gates, which swung smoothly shut behind it. At least that was one less danger to have to worry about. He had already seen Mrs. O’Blimey leave the house to go shopping. Mitzy was on vacation. Lady Geranium Spencer would still be in bed.

  That just left Bob Snarby. On his own.

  Tad had to cross about a hundred yards of open ground to reach the safety of the house and he was once again grateful for this new body of his. He could cover the ground in less than a minute. He tensed himself, then darted forward.

  And stopped.

  Finn and he had planned all this carefully, taking into account the electronic gates, the wall, the video cameras and the trip wires concealed in the garden. But they had forgotten the last security measure in the house—and now it was too late.

  Vicious had sprung out as if from nowhere. The oversize dalmatian stood in front of him, its hackles rising, its lips pulled back to reveal its specially sharpened teeth. There was a savage hunger in its eyes as it padded forward, its paws barely seeming to touch the ground. Tad remembered the last intruder to come across Vicious, the 107 stitches the man had needed. When he had left the hospital, he had looked like a jigsaw puzzle.

  Tad looked around. He was right out in the open, with nowhere to run. If he turned and tried to make it back to the trees, the dog would be on him before he had taken three paces. It was about to spring. Every single part of the creature was poised for the attack. Tad closed his eyes and prepared for the worst.

  “You can be what—and who—you want to be.”

  It was as if the words had been whispered in his ear. They were virtually the last words that Dr. Aftexcludor had spoken to him, and remembering them now, Tad suddenly had an idea.

  He opened his eyes and held out his hand, palm down, showing it to the dog.

  “Vicious . . .” he muttered.

  The dog growled again.

  “Good old Vicious! Don’t you know me, boy? It’s Tad! You remember me!”

  The dog looked at him blankly. And it didn’t stop growling.

  “You know it’s me!” Tad insisted. He tapped his chest. “I’m in here. I know it’s not my body, but it’s still me. You’re not going to hurt me, are you!”

  And then the dalmatian wagged its tail! It recognized him!

  Tad let out his breath in a huge sigh of relief. Vicious was drooling now, expecting an éclair. Tad pointed with one finger. “Basket!” he commanded.

  “Basket!” Tad said again.

  The dog turned and ran into the house. Tad watched it go with a sense of elation. It wasn’t just that he had survived the encounter. It was something more. Despite his new face, his new clothes, even his new smell, he now realized that deep down there was still a part of him that was Tad Spencer. And always would be.

  With more hope and excitement than he had felt in weeks, Tad ran the
rest of the way and went in through the kitchen door.

  He had known it would be open. Mrs. O’Blimey was always forgetting to lock it, and as Tad had suspected, the kitchen was empty. There was a second door on the other side and he went through it, passing into a small, bare room filled with television monitors, video recorders and other equipment; the security room of Snatchmore Hall.

  Tad sat down in front of a console. Set in the panel opposite him was a color television screen showing a wobbling image of the main gates. Next to it was a grid with ten numbered buttons and a microphone. Tad punched in a code: 1-10-8.

  There was a buzz and the gates swung open.

  Tad kept his eyes on the screen. A battered white van had appeared with IPSWICH SLAUGHTERHOUSE—LOVELY FRESH MEAT painted on the side. Finn had stolen the van the day before and it was, of course, he who was behind the wheel. As he drove through the gates and onto the driveway, he leaned out of the window and gave a thumbs-up sign to the closed-circuit camera. Tad pressed the buttons again and the gates closed.

  He was waiting for Finn by the kitchen door when the van arrived. Finn killed the engine and got out. “Any trouble?” he demanded.

  “No,” Tad replied. “The chauffeur’s out. There’s no sign of the servants. And Mum . . . I mean . . . Lady Geranium must still be in bed.”

  “Good boy! Good boy!” Finn reached into the van and pulled out a sack. Perhaps it really had been used for carrying meat once, as it was old and stained and smelled horrible. “Right. Let’s go,” he said.

  The two of them set off on tiptoe through the house. Everything felt unreal to Tad—just as it had when he’d broken into the mews house in London. To be in his home yet at the same time an intruder, breaking the law . . . it made him dizzy just to think about it. But he couldn’t tell Finn that. In fact, it almost amused him, pretending that he was here for the first time.

  “What a place! What a place!” Finn whispered as they crossed the main hall and made for the stairs. There was a little antique table leaning against a wall and Finn stopped beside it. He picked up a silver cigarette box and held it to the light. “Worth a few bucks,” he whispered.