The Switch (3 page)

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.

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.

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.

 

 

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 Sun
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.

But what would he do when he got there? If he knocked on the door, his parents wouldn’t even open it—not to a scruffy, fair-haired kid who probably looked like he’d come to steal the silver. They might even set Vicious on him! The thought of the dalmatian with its razor-sharp teeth was enough to make Tad tremble. He had nothing to prove that he was telling the truth. He didn’t even have his own voice!

The more he thought about it, the more he realized he had no choice but to stay where he was—at least for the time being. Perhaps when he woke up the next day, he would find he had switched back again. Perhaps Spurling would turn up in the Rolls-Royce and drive him home. Perhaps . . .

The truth was that Tad wasn’t used to making decisions for himself. He didn’t know what to do, and even if he had known, he would have been too afraid to try.

A movement caught his eye. Tad turned. And that was when he began to think he really had gone crazy.

There was a man standing on the other side of the carnival, partly hidden in the shadows. Or was it a man? He was less than four feet tall with hair reaching down to his shoulders. He had dark skin and wore a tunic that left his legs and arms bare. There were two streaks of blue paint on his cheekbones and a leather collar around his neck. He was an Indian, Tad realized. Some sort of pygmy.

The man was staring at Tad. Tad could see the lights of the carnival reflected in his dark eyes. Now he gestured with his head and walked slowly, deliberately, away. The message was clear. He wanted Tad to follow him.

Tad stepped forward, pushing through the crowd. He passed close to a hot-dog stand and caught the sweet, heavy smell of frying meat. The Indian had stepped out of sight and Tad quickened his pace, stepping over the cables and leaving the brightly lit center of the carnival. It was only now, in the darkness outside the ring of caravans, that he wondered if this was a good idea. Perhaps he was being led into some sort of trap. Perhaps the Indian had something to do with what had happened to him.

The chimes of the merry-go-rounds and the clatter of the other rides seemed suddenly very distant. The Indian had completely disappeared. Tad was about to turn around and go back when he noticed a vehicle that was set apart from the others. It was a real old-fashioned Gypsies’ caravan, lavishly painted with silver and gold leaf. Above the door hung a sign: