The Switch (8 page)

“Amnesia . . .” Tad almost admired Bob despite himself. The idea couldn’t have been simpler.

“Right.” Bob broke off another piece of chocolate. “Well, of course your mum was worried sick. She called in a whole army of doctors and I told them I wasn’t sure who I was and that I’d forgotten all my Ancient Greek and Latin and all that stuff and they said that I definitely had a concussion. I had to stay in bed while they did all these tests and they only let me out a couple of days ago. Now your mum—or I should say my mum—has brought me down to London to go shopping. We’re going on vacation in a couple of weeks . . .”

“A safari in Africa,” Tad said gloomily.

“That’s right! First-class flight. Five-star hotel. It’s like winning the friggin’ lottery!” He finished the chocolate and dropped the wrapper on the floor. “How about you?” he asked. “What do Eric and Doll have to say about the new Bob Snarby?”

“They think I’ve been sniffing glue,” Tad said.

Bob thought about this for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “I bet they have!” he said. “Yeah. That’d explain everything.”

Tad moved closer to the bed. “Listen to me, Bob,” he pleaded. “We’ve got to straighten this out . . .”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve got to tell them what’s happened. Your parents and my parents. If we both tell them, they’ll have to believe us and maybe they’ll be able to find a way to turn us back into ourselves.”

Bob stared at Tad as though he were mad. “But why should I want to do that?” he demanded.

“What?” Tad felt something cold reach out and touch the back of his neck.

“Why should I want to change back?” Bob said.

“Because you’ve got to!” Tad cried. “I can’t be you and you can’t be me. We’ve got our own parents and our own lives. We’ve got to put things back the way they were.”

“Forget it!” Bob exclaimed. “I’m better off now than I’ve ever been in my entire life, and if you imagine I’m going to let you spoil it, you’ve got another think coming.”

“It’s all wrong . . . !” Tad began.

“It’s perfect!” Bob shouted the words. “I never had a chance. I never had anything. Not from the day I was born. Eric and Doll, they made me what I was and I was stuck with it. And do you know what made it worse? All around me, in the newspapers, on TV, in the stores, I saw all the things I could never, ever have. Computer games and iPods. Fancy clothes. TVs and videos. I’d never have them—not in my whole life—just because of who I was . . .”

“That’s not true—”

“It is true! But you wouldn’t understand that. You had it all, didn’t you. It was all just given to you on a plate. Yeah—well, now you’re finding out what it’s like on the other side of the fence and I’m not surprised you want to switch back again. Only you can’t. Because I won’t let you.”

“You have to!”

“I won’t!”

Something inside Tad snapped, and before he knew what he was doing, he had thrown himself on top of Bob Snarby, his fists flailing, his face twisted with anger and hatred. He expected the other boy to defend himself, but Bob just fell back onto the bed with Tad on top of him, not even trying to push him off. Tad hit him, again and again, but his fists seemed to make no impact, slapping against the skin and sinking into the soft folds of flesh. He only realized now that Bob was shouting, calling for help. Suddenly the door crashed open. Out of the corner of his eye Tad saw a great bulk in a blue-and-gray uniform descending on him. Two hands reached out and grabbed him; one around his neck, the other under his arm. He was pulled off Bob and into the air as easily as if he were nothing more than a set of empty clothes.

“Are you all right, Master Tad . . . ?”

“Yes, Spurling. Thank you.” Bob got unsteadily to his feet. His shirt was rumpled and there were tears welling up in his eyes.

“Spurling . . .” Tad twisted around in midair, his feet six inches off the ground. As much as he squirmed and struggled, he couldn’t free himself from the chauffeur’s grip.

“Who are you?” Spurling demanded. “What are you doing here?”

Tad opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, before he could find the right words, Bob moved forward. “He was here when I came in,” he sobbed. “He was searching the room. I think he was looking for something to steal.”

“Tad, darling?” The voice came from outside the room and the next moment Lady Geranium Spencer appeared. She took one look at Tad and her face paled. “How frightful!” she exclaimed. “It’s a burglar!”

“Mummy . . . !” Bob Snarby ran into Lady Geranium’s arms. “He attacked me!” he wailed.

“Spurling! Call the police immediately,” Lady Geranium snapped. She pushed Bob away from her. “Do be careful, darling,” she continued. “You’re going to rumple Mummy’s hair.”

“Wait a minute!” Tad shouted. “You’re not his mother! You’re
my
mother!”

“I’m nothing of the sort!” Lady Geranium replied. “Oh, Spurling! Take him downstairs. I think I’m going to have one of my headaches.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tad opened his mouth to speak again, but Spurling shook him so hard that all the breath went out of him. There was nothing he could do as he was carried out of the room, half across the chauffeur’s massive shoulders.

Spurling carried Tad back downstairs, threw him into a closet and locked the door. Suddenly everything was black, apart from a tiny chink of light coming through the keyhole. Tad pounded at the door, then, realizing it was useless, sank to his knees. He heard something outside. He pressed one eye against the keyhole. Spurling was on the telephone, waiting to be connected. There was a movement and Lady Geranium appeared, hand in hand with the boy she thought was her son.

“We’re going out, Spurling,” she snapped.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come along, Tad!”

Inside the closet, the real Tad watched Bob Snarby turn around and gaze directly at him. Bob’s lips twisted in a cruel, triumphant smile.

And then he was gone.

The office was small
and square with a desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet and a low coffee table. There was no carpet. A single window looked out over a tangle of railway lines with King’s Cross Station in the far distance. Tad was sitting on his own. He had been here now for twenty minutes, but he still had no idea where he actually was.

After Bob Snarby had left with his mother, Spurling had unlocked the closet door. Of course Tad had tried to speak, to explain who he was, but after just two words the chauffeur had cut him off.

“You don’t talk to me. I don’t want to know. Keep your mouth shut—or else!”

Tad had known Spurling all his life. Only two weeks before, the man had been picking him up at school, carrying his suitcases for him. But it was a completely different creature who had pulled him out of the closet and who towered over him now. Behind the fancy uniform, the brightly polished buttons and the chauffeur’s cap, the man was a thug. He had the same lifeless eyes as Finn. Tad didn’t try to speak again. But he found himself wondering what such a man was doing working for his father.

With his arm twisted painfully behind him, Tad had been led out of the house and thrown into the back of a black Volkswagen station wagon. It must have been Spurling’s own car. Tad had never seen it before. They had driven in silence for about half an hour, passing King’s Cross Station. Then Spurling had suddenly swerved off the road, through an archway and into the parking lot of an office building. Tad hadn’t had time to see what the building was. They had gone in through a side door, up two flights of stairs. Tad had glimpsed one large room, full of people talking on telephones, tapping at computers, shuffling papers among themselves. But the chauffeur had led him away from there, along a corridor and into the room where he found himself now. As soon as Spurling had gone, Tad had tried the door. It was locked.

He wasn’t in a police station. At least, he didn’t think so. There had been no police cars near the building and anyway it didn’t have that sort of smell. But if it wasn’t a police station, what was it? Tad looked around, searching for clues.

The desk and the filing cabinet were locked, like the door, and told him nothing. There were two posters on the wall. One showed a syringe with the line SAY NO TO DRUGS. The other was an advertisement for Crime Stoppers. Tad gazed out of the window as a train trundled past. King’s Cross . . . somehow that meant something to him but he couldn’t remember what.

Then there was the click of a key turning in a lock. The door opened and a young woman came in, carrying a file.

“Hello,” she said. “My name is Marion Thorn. Please sit down.”

As Tad moved away from the window, he examined the new arrival. Marion Thorn was tall and slender with long black hair and dark skin. She was wearing a gray jacket and pants with a brooch, her only jewelry, pinned at the lapel. Her manner was businesslike, but she had a pleasant smile with the perfect white teeth of a movie star.

Growing more puzzled by the minute, Tad sat down.

“I imagine you’re wondering who I am,” Marion said. “The first thing is to assure you—I’m not the police.”

Tad was relieved but said nothing.

“What’s your name?” Marion asked.

Tad thought for a moment. “Bob Snarby,” he said.

“Bob Snarby.” Marion opened the file and wrote the name down. “You do realize,” she went on, “that Sir Hubert Spencer could have pressed charges. Breaking into his house, attacking his son . . . these are very serious offenses.”

“It wasn’t like that—” Tad began.

Marion held up a hand. “You’re very lucky, Bob. Sir Hubert is a very unusual man. A very kind man. He’s dedicated a lot of his life to helping young people like you. That’s why he decided to send you over to us.”

“Us . . . ?” But suddenly Tad knew where he was. Suddenly it all made sense.

“This office belongs to a charity,” Marion explained. “We’re called ACID.”

“The Association for Children in Distress,” Tad muttered.

“You’ve read about us?” Marion asked.

Tad almost wanted to laugh. How could he tell her that he had known about ACID all his life? “I read about you in the papers,” he said.

Marion Thorn nodded. “ACID was founded by Sir Hubert Spencer,” she explained. “We have a terrible situation in London. Children . . . out on the streets, some of them as young as eleven and twelve. They have nowhere to go. And there are terrible temptations.” She nodded in the direction of the poster. “Drugs. Crime. And nobody cares about them. Nobody wants to know.”

She paused and Tad was amazed to see real tears in her eyes. Marion took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “We go out and find these children,” she said. “We search the railway stations, the backstreets, the video-game arcades . . . and we bring them in. We help them and we want to help you, Bob. But first we have to ask you some questions. Do you mind?”

Tad shook his head. “Go ahead . . .”

Suddenly Marion Thorn was businesslike again. She spread the file on the desk and sat with pen poised. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirteen.”

“How long have you been in London?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“Are you homeless?”

“Yes.” Tad hesitated. He didn’t want to lie, but there was no way he could tell the whole truth. “I ran away from home.”

“Your mum and dad must be very worried about you.” Marion’s voice was reproachful now.

“They don’t care about me,” Tad replied. “I bet they haven’t told anyone I’m missing.”

“Can you give me their address?”

“They don’t have an address. They live in a caravan. They were in Crouch End when I left, but they could be anywhere now. I think they’ve gone north.”

“So nobody knows where you are. You have no friends or relatives? No social workers? Nobody to look after you?”

“I’m all on my own,” Tad said, feeling miserable.

“Good! Good!” Marion muttered.

Tad glanced at her. There was something in her voice that hadn’t been there before. She sounded almost hungry. And her face seemed to have changed too. Her dark eyes were gleaming as she made a hurried note at the bottom of the file. She looked up and saw Tad staring at her. At once she relaxed. “What I mean is . . . it’s good that we found you,” she explained. “ACID is always interested in young people with no families. That’s where we do our best work.”

“What exactly do you have in mind?” Tad asked.

Marion glanced at him curiously, as if there was something about him that didn’t quite add up. But whatever was in her mind, she dismissed it. “All we want to do is to get you off the street,” she said. “That means somewhere to live, a good meal inside you and a chance to earn some money to support yourself. ACID has a center just outside London where we run education programs for boys like you. That’s what it’s called . . . the Center. I’d like to take you there now.”

For some reason that he couldn’t understand, Tad was uneasy. Perhaps it was the look he had seen in Marion’s eyes a moment before. “What if I don’t want to go?” he asked.

And there it was again. A sudden hardness behind that smiling, beautiful face. “Then we’d have no choice but to hand you over to the police, Bob. The break-in at Sir Hubert’s was a very serious matter. I’m afraid it’s us or it’s prison.”

Tad considered. Marion reached out and clasped his hand. Her fingers were long, her nails perfect. “We only want to help, Bob,” she said. “Have you got anywhere else to go?”

And suddenly Tad was angry with himself. This was his parents’ charity! What was there to worry about? For the first time since the switch had taken place, someone was actually trying to help him, and instead of being grateful, he was almost being rude. He sighed. “I haven’t got anywhere else to go,” he said. “And I’m glad I was brought to you. You can take me to the Center.”

Marion smiled. She closed the file. “Good,” she said. “We’ll leave at once.”