Transmigration (6 page)

 

 

The funniest thing of all was that he didn't want to die. Condemned to
death anyway, and trying to kill himself in every way he knew, he still
fought it.

 

 

He was through the demolition lot now, and the remaining streets were
quiet. Already accepting the fact that he would never reach his rooms,
he wondered how his execution could be accomplished now.

 

 

When the end came, it was really too simple. There was no time to fight
himself, warn himself. Tired, a little unsteady through drink, he leaned
on the railing as he climbed the steps to Mrs. MacDonald's house. But
what he leaned on was not the railing, it was the gate to the basement
entrance, and the gate was unlatched.

 

 

He missed the stone stairs and plunged headfirst to the well beneath,
landing on the top of his head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2: JUDY

 

 

He was in bed, and he had never felt better in his life. Never before
had he known quite such comfort, such luxurious well-being. Although he
had thought he had had no pain, it was suddenly clear that his life, or
at least his last ten years or so, had been lived against a background
of minor discomfort; an imperceptible malaise that had dulled everything
for him.

 

 

He was, however, exceedingly hungry, and this puzzled him.

 

 

Obviously, this was life after death. He had felt himself die. Yet not for
a moment, certainly not after feeling the pangs of hunger, did he think
he was in heaven, despite his physical well-being. Heaven, he believed,
must be a place of the spirit, and there was nothing spiritual about
this incarnation.

 

 

Incarnation? Reincarnation?

 

 

Caution and a hint of fear made him keep his eyes closed. When he opened
them he must face an incredible situation. He had died, and he was
alive. He did not waste time speculating on the nature of the miracle
that had occurred.

 

 

One very strange thing was the strong, impression that he was not
alone. He was with someone, and their closeness was something beyond
understanding. Without moving, he knew no one was touching him, and he
could hear no one in the room. Yet he was not alone.

 

 

At last he did open his eyes; He was in a bedroom dimly lit by street
lighting outside (so at least a few hours had elapsed). The startling
thing was that the bedroom was not unfamiliar. Beside the bed was the
radio he had fixed the previous day . . . What was he doing in Judy's
bedroom, in Judy's bed?

 

 

He leaped from the bed, switched on the light, and looked in the
dressing-table mirror.

 

 

Staring back at him was Judy.

 

 

He was Judy.

 

 

He staggered and clutched the dressing-table to steady himself. The
mechanics of his possession of Judy's body was something he didn't even
think about. He was in the grip of a sick horror that he had become a
girl. Spinning round, he put out the light so that he could no longer see.

 

 

He had told Anita he did not hate women, and it was true. Nor did he
despise them. Rather, he idolized them. They were not merely a sex apart
but a race apart, a species apart. Communication with them, except across
a wide gulf, was impossible. That was the nature of things. His brief
near-intimacy with Anita was as uncharacteristic and untypical as the
drinking spree.

 

 

The miracle of being alive after death, in another body, he took for
granted, because it had happened. But he could never take for granted,
could never accept, could never endure life as a girl. It was an
emotional reaction, and, being emotional, it required no reasons. He
required no reasons,

 

 

He had to get out.

 

 

Lying down in bed again, he closed his eyes. He tried not to be aware of
Judy's body, was careful not to touch it with Judy's hands. Irrationally,
that seemed like a kind of lesbianism.

 

 

There was no denying one main fact: in dying he had made a mental escape
from death, alighting into a receptive mind, a weak mind. That, then, was
part of the talent he had as a freak. He could hop into another body under
extreme stress -- and what could be more extreme than the moment of death?

 

 

Baudaker would be very interested, probably delighted.

 

 

But Fletcher -- he still thought of himself as that -- was not. He had
been given, as an alternative to slow death, life as a thirteen-year-old
girl. And he didn't want it.

 

 

Had his body been found yet? Possibly not. There was no light in the
bricked-up, unused basement sink. If the gate had swung shut, the body
might not be seen until the next day.

 

 

Why not do the thing again, and do it right? He was perfectly prepared
to take a second dive into the same dark sink, deliberately this time,
and with no thought of escape. Last time he had desperately wanted to
live. And this was the result. Next time he would die with the fixed
thought in his mind that a creature like himself ought to destroy itself,
because it was of no use to itself and could never be of use to others.

 

 

Without warning, the door opened slightly. "Are you all right, Judy?"
Mrs. MacDonald murmured, not loudly enough to waken her if she was
sleeping.

 

 

"Yes, Mother," said Fletcher, and then remembered Judy always called
her Mum. But Mrs. MacDonald withdrew her head and closed the door.

 

 

Hearing himself speak in Judy's light soprano, pleasant though it was,
caused further revulsion in Fletcher, as if he had lost his manhood and
heard himself speak in the unnatural tone of the castrato. He made un his
mind irrevocably: there was no question of accepting this fate. He would
fall to the basement again, and next day the police would have to assume,
since there was no other reasonable explanation, that Fletcher and Judy
had been talking, leaning on the railing, when it gave way. Fletcher
didn't consider it worthwhile to create a more plausible story for them.
If you really wanted to die, instead of bitterly spitting your life
in the faces of people who had wronged you, it made not the slightest
difference what you left behind.

 

 

He got up and put on the light again. In bed he felt no pain, but standing
up he was aware of the soreness in Judy's thigh, the stiffness of her ankle.

 

 

His hand on the doorknob, he realized he could hardly go downstairs
and outside in Judy's flimsy nightgown. He would have to dress Judy's
body. That was how he thought of it, though it was his body too.

 

 

Ashamed and disgusted, as if he as Fletcher had found Judy unconscious
and undressed her while she was helpless, he plucked at her nightdress
and found it nearly impossible to force himself to touch either it or
Judy's body, although he wanted only to dress it for death . . .

 

 

"And what about me?"

 

 

He controlled Judy's voice -- he had proved that. He also controlled
her actions. Yet she spoke: she used her own voice to speak aloud to
him. She was still there.

 

 

He had known it all along, really. That was what he had sensed before
he opened his eyes: not the presence of another person in another body,
but another person in the same body.

 

 

So his plan was impossible. Any human being had every right, he fully
believed, to kill himself or herself. In practice this was never in
doubt. Suicide was a legal offense only if you botched it. However,
he had no right to kill anyone else, even Judy.

 

 

"I'm glad you realize that, anyway," she said drily. "Though I don't
like that bit about 'even Judy.' Now you know you can't kill me and you
still want to get out of me. So far, we're in complete agreement."

 

 

"You hate it as much as I do?"

 

 

He didn't use her voice. It was unnecessary. She knew what he was
thinking.

 

 

--Not as much, no. After all, I've gained certain advantages in the deal.

 

 

--Advantages?

 

 

--Haven't you noticed? What was the matter with me, Mr. Fletcher? I was
mentally retarded, is that it? I never really knew why I had to go to
a special school. I never really knew anything, I suppose.

 

 

He tried to hide his thoughts, but failed.

 

 

Using her voice again, she said: "Oh, that would be awful! If my life were
really to be as you showed me just now, I think I'd agree to end it all
and let you kill us both! But I don't think it will be like that, now."

 

 

--You don't?

 

 

His thought was guarded. It was possible, he discovered, to shut his
thoughts off from Judy and merely speak mentally to her, in words,
like two people using their voices.

 

 

--You do, judging by that barrier you've iust put up, she retorted. But
I think you're wrong. You've opened my eyes, and I don't think they'll
ever be closed again.

 

 

--You certainly don't think like the old Judy.

 

 

--Mr. Fletcher, the old Judy couldn't think at all. Poor little kid
. . . I'm really sorry for her. But all this is a waste of time. You
want to die rather than be me, and frankly it does seem the best thing.

 

 

She was cheerfully brutal, like a dentist saying: "All these will have
to come out."

 

 

--You used to like me, Fletcher observed, slightly piqued.

 

 

--I still like you, but you must admit you've no right to be anything
but dead. And remember, I saw right into your thoughts. You can't go on
this way.

 

 

--No.

 

 

--I wonder what made you hate women so much? I didn't catch that.

 

 

"I don't hate women[" he prolested, using her voice.

 

 

--Not exactly. You think they're unclean.

 

 

--Nothing like that, I . . .

 

 

--Well, you feel you have to keep away from them. I've just realized
. . . What a cheek! . . . you liked me when I was a kid, but lately
you've been trying to keep out of my way. Really, Mr. Fletcher, in your
own way you were more mixed up than me.

 

 

--I know.

 

 

--Funny, I thought you were wonderful.

 

 

--And now you know the truth.

 

 

--Oh, don't be such a drag. I still respect you. How could I help it?
You're such a good man.

 

 

There it was again, from Judy this time and not Anita. It was equally
incomprehensible, more incomprehensible, because Judy had seen into his
mind, and Anita had not.

 

 

What I mean is, said Judy, quite willing to explain, you'd never do
anything bad. You'd always do the right thing. I don't think I'm going to
be religious, like you, but if it makes people like you it's a good thing.

 

 

There were about fifty different things he couldn't understand, and the
most immediate among them was Judy's attitude. At once she liked him,
respected him, treated him as a not very bright child, was curious about
him, and casually thought the sooner he was dead the better.

 

 

--Yes, that's right, she observed.
--It's not really funny if somebody's dead but won't lie down, is
it? Anyway, you still insist you don't want to go on like this.

 

 

--Right.

 

 

--Then I think I know how we can both get what we want.

 

 

--You do?

 

 

He tried to keep unflattering surprise out of his thought, but she
caught it.

 

 

--Please don't go on regarding me as an idiot, Mr. Fletcher, and a
female idiot at that. I'm really quite smart now. Of course, I've no
means of comparison, and although I know I'm about five thousand times
smarter than I was, that wouldn't necessarily make me a genius now. But
I can think of things, get ideas, even ideas that might work.

 

 

--How do you think We could both get what we want? How would you go
about it?

 

 

--Create a situation where we must fight to live. I want to live. I'll
fight. I'll survive. You want to die. So you won't fight me for my
body. You'll leave me to save it.

 

 

--What's your plan?

 

 

--Tell me what you fear.

 

 

--What I fear?

 

 

--What you can't stand.

 

 

--Choking, drowning . . .

 

 

--That's no use. I can't either.

 

 

--Heights . . .

 

 

--Heights?

 

 

--It's not a pathological fear. At least, I don't think so. If I'm ten
floors up behind glass, in a solid building, I can bear to look down,
though I'd rather not. But even twenty feet up, on a flat roof without
a parapet, I . . .

 

 

--That's it, she observed with satisfaction.
--Mr. Fletcher, prepare to meet thy doom. No, it's not very funny,
is it? Do you know the new skyscraper in Westfield?

 

 

--I've seen it. I've never been near it.

 

 

--I've been up at the top with Mum, visiting a friend of hers. Anybody can
go up in the lift. There's an outside parapet. Anybody can go out there.

 

 

--Go on.

 

 

--No. It's strange, I can keep things from you. I can think things and
not tell you. I don't think I should tell you about this. Let's go to
the skyscraper and get to the top, and you leave it to me.