The Switch (2 page)

The reason for this popularity—and also for his knighthood—was his charity work. At about the same time that he had set up Beautiful World, he had started a charity called ACID. This stood for the Association for Children in Distress and was based in London. ACID aimed to help all the young people who had run away or been abandoned in the city, giving them shelter and providing them with food or clothes. Tad himself had donated two pairs of socks and a Mars bar to the charity. He was very proud of his father and dreamed of the day when, maybe, he would be knighted too.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sir Hubert announced now as he sat himself down in his favorite armchair beside the fire with Vicious curled up at his feet. “We’ve got problems with our new Peruvian cocoa-leaf bubble bath. Not enough bubbles. We may have to do more tests . . .” He turned to Spurling, who was standing beside him. “Have you poured me a brandy, Spurling?”

“Yes, Sir Hubert.”

“Have you warmed it for me?”

“Yes, Sir Hubert.”

“Well, you can drink it for me too. I haven’t got time.”

“Certainly, Sir Hubert.” Taking the glass, the chauffeur bowed and left the room.

Sir Hubert turned to Tad, who was playing Scrabble with Lady Spencer. Tad was a little annoyed. He had a seven-letter word but unfortunately it was in Ancient Greek. “So, Tad,” he exclaimed. “How was school?”

“Jolly good, Father. I got the highest grade in French, English, chemistry, math and Latin. Second in—”

“That’s the spirit!” Sir Hubert interrupted. “Now. What have you got planned for the summer?”

“Well, I was thinking about going on safari in Africa, Father.”

“Didn’t you do that last summer?”

“Yes. But it was rather fun. One of the guides got eaten by a tiger. I got some great photos.”

“I thought you wanted to go to the Red Sea.”

“We could do that afterward, Father.”

“Oh—all right.” Sir Hubert turned to his wife. “You’d better take the boy to Harrods and get him some tropical clothes,” he said. “Oh—and some scuba-diving lessons.”

“And there is one other thing, Father.”

“What’s that, Tad?” There was a jangling sound from Sir Hubert’s top pocket and he pulled out one of his cell phones. “Could you hold the line, please,” he said. “I’ll be with you in . . . ninety-three seconds.”

Tad took a deep breath. “Rupert said he’d come up this week. You know—he’s my best friend. And we thought we might go to Maple Towers together.”

“Maple Towers?”

“It’s that new theme park that’s just opened. It’s got an amazing new ride—the Monster. Apparently it’s almost impossible to go on it without throwing up—”

“A theme park?” Sir Hubert considered, then shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”

“What?” Tad stared at his father. Perhaps unsurprisingly,
no
was his least favorite word.

“No, Tad. These theme parks seem very vulgar to me. Why don’t you go horse-racing at Ascot?”

“I’ll do that too, Father.”

“What about flying lessons? You’ve hardly touched that two-seater plane I bought you—”

“I will, Father, but—”

“No. I don’t want you going on those rides. They’re dangerous and they’re noisy. And all those people! You’re a sensitive boy, Tad. I’m sure they’re not good for you.”

“But, Father! Mother . . . !”

“I have to agree with your father,” Lady Spencer said. She looked at her Scrabble letters, which she had been studying for the past ten minutes. “Is
zimpy
a word?” she asked.

Tad was in a bad mood when he went to bed. Dressed in his brand-new silk pajamas, he flicked off the light and slid himself between the crisply laundered Irish linen sheets. The trouble was that he was a boy who had everything. And he was used to having everything. He expected it.

“It’s not fair,” he muttered. His head sank back into his goose-feather pillow. Moonlight slid across the wall and onto his pale, scowling face. “Why can’t I go to the theme park? Why can’t I do what I want to do?”

Suddenly Snatchmore Hall seemed like a prison to him. His parents, his great wealth, his school and his surroundings were just the shackles that bound him, and he wanted none of it.

“I wish I was somebody else,” he muttered to himself.

 

And 127 million light-years away, a star that had been burning white suddenly glowed green, just for a few seconds, before burning white again.

But Thomas Arnold David Spencer hadn’t seen it. He was already asleep.

Tad knew something
was wrong before he’d even opened his eyes.

First there was the sound, a metallic pattering that seemed to be all around him: frozen peas falling on a tin plate. That was what had woken him up. At the same time he became aware of the smell. It was a horrible smell—damp and dirty—and the worst thing was that it seemed to be coming from him. He moved slightly and that was when he knew that something had happened to the bed too. The sheets were wrinkled and rubbed against his skin like old newspaper. And the pillow . . . ?

Tad opened his eyes. His face was half buried in a pillow so utterly disgusting that he was almost sick. It was completely shapeless, stuffed with what felt like old rags. It had no pillowcase, and though it might once have been white, it was now stained with dried-up puddles of sweat and saliva, various shades of yellow and brown. Tad pushed it off his face, gasping for air.

He looked up, staring through the gray light. But what he saw made no sense. His brain couldn’t take it in. He lay there, unable to move.

Instead of the chandelier that should be hanging over his bed, there was a neon tube with a tangle of naked wires twisting out of a broken plastic fitting. The sound of the frozen peas, he now realized, was rain hitting the walls and the ceiling. He was lying in a small bed in the corner of a small room in . . . it had to be a caravan. He could tell from the shape of the walls. There was a window with no curtains, but he couldn’t see out because the glass was the frosted sort that you sometimes get in bathrooms or toilets. The room was very cold. Tad drew his legs up and the bed creaked and groaned.

The room was only a little larger than the bed itself, divided from the rest of the caravan by a plastic-covered wall with a door. Somebody had left some clothes crumpled in a heap on the floor. A pair of torn and soiled jeans poked out from a tangle of T-shirts, socks and underwear. There were also some comics, a battered ghetto blaster and a few toys, broken, missing their batteries.

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!

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.