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CHAPTER 2

No way.

Absolutely no fucking way.

None of this is real.

It can’t be.

It just can’t.

People don’t go around swapping bodies. It’s not fucking possible.

Simple as that.

It’s. Not. Fucking. Possible.

You’re dreaming, dickhead. Like the time you guzzled nine pints of rough cider in the Borough Arms and woke up on the kitchen floor convinced you were engaged to the dark-haired lass out of the New Seekers.

Maybe, but I only had a couple last night. One in the Kings Head and one in the Volunteer. I remember drinking up and leaving just as News At Ten was coming on.

A couple too many, obviously. Once this nightmare’s over it might be wise to think about climbing on the wagon for a month or two.

But I wasn’t drunk! I’m bloody sure I wasn’t. When I got back to the flat I did the washing up, and I can never be bothered with that when I’m three sheets to the wind. Afterwards I made myself a cheese sandwich. I was going to have pickle on it but the jar was empty. Then I read forty pages of The Sot Weed Factor before I went to sleep. And I did have a dream, something to do with a King Crimson LP I used to own. I woke up at half-six, right on the dot. I couldn’t find any clean socks so I rinsed a pair under the tap and walked around in them so they’d be reasonably dry when I left for work...

What sort of dream is it when you can recall everyday events in such clear-cut detail?

I pinch the freckled skin above my left wrist. It hurts.

Not a dream, then.

But it’s got to be some sort of hallucination. Because if it isn’t…

That’s it! Ruth drugged me or hypnotised me so I’d be in no fit state to chase after her and raise the alarm. The contraption she took from me must be worth even more than Derek was led to believe.

So why are my mental processes unimpaired? If there was a narcotic in my bloodstream I don’t think I’d still be able to reel off in my head the names of every king and queen since the Norman Conquest like I’m doing now, together with the dates marking the beginning and end of each reign. As for being in a trance, shouldn’t I have come out of it once I’d sussed what was going on?

Then there’s those two women. I’m not imagining them. I know I’m not.

I flex fingers that can’t be mine, but obey my mental commands as though they’d been doing that all my life. Every chromosome in this body feels like it belongs to me, and always has done.

Which is just fucking crazy.

As a last resort I look up at the sky, hoping the clouds have turned green or that they’ll part to reveal a fleet of flying saucers piloted by bug-eyed monsters intent on enslaving the human race.

But everywhere looks depressingly normal. The only thing out of kilter is me.

How did she do it?

Why did she do it?

Why did Ruth pick me?

Save the post-mortem for later, Rich. You’ve got a more urgent problem to deal with.

The Good Samaritans are exchanging worried frowns. No doubt this is because for the last minute and a half the girl in front of them has been acting like she’s escaped from somewhere.

And now it hits me.

I’m a girl.

I’m female.

I’ve got tits and a vagina.

I’m a she.

I’m a her.

I’m a girl.

She’s made me into a fucking girl.

Yeah, and one who doesn’t know her address, her date of birth or her own husband’s Christian name. You’d better scarper before that pair start to wonder if they should call for help.

Merciful God, it gets worse.

Ruth is a married woman.

This body has been fucked.

Bloody hell, she could be–

Don’t even look that road up in the index, Rich.

I’m a girl.

Girls have got feet, haven’t they? Use the damn things.

Get out of here! NOW!

I take a step forward and stumble as I fail to allow for the high-heeled ankle boots I’m wearing.

Inconsiderate cow. She might at least have put on a pair of trainers.

Why am I thinking like this? I’ve just changed sex, for fuck’s sake. It’s not as if I’ve walked out of a barber’s with a bad haircut. So why haven’t I gone stark raving mad?

I’m a girl.

One of the taxi drivers waiting beside his vehicle at the back of the line rushes across and extends a hand to steady me.

“Keep your fucking maulers to yourself!” I snarl at him.

Jesus Christ, was that really me?

Is that how I sound? Just like her?

I’m a girl.

I really am a fucking girl.

“No need to get your knickers in a twist, darlin’,” he says from what seems like several miles away. ”I was only trying to help.”

How can any of this be happening?

And here comes the icing on the cake, for my outburst has served no purpose but to attract the attention of everyone within hearing range. When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?

I’ve got to put as much distance between myself and this place as I can. Suppose a police car stops to see what all the fuss is about? How am I going to talk my way out of that one, feign amnesia? Brilliant idea — until I remind myself that Richard Nixon was a more convincing liar than Richard Brookbank.

I’m a girl.

Hold on to your hat, Rich, because the storm’s about to break…

“Are you on your own, dear?”

“I don’t think she’s very well.”

“Ooh, I know. Look, the poor thing’s white as a sheet.”

“Someone ought to ring for an ambulance.”

“I’ll go. There’s a phone in the café next to the Keppels Head.”

That settles it.

“I’m all right! Honestly, I am!” I shout over the hubbub, wincing at the girlish timbre of my new voice. “It’s only a hangover, nothing to worry about.”

Which has raised me right up in their estimation.

As if it matters! Just get the fuck away from here!
 
 
Acutely aware of the extra weight at my chest — to say nothing of the eyes boring holes in my back — I hobble past the taxi rank with no goal in mind but to reach the main road. My hips swing wildly as I move, and with my centre of gravity dragging me forward and down my arms dangle like some demented she-ape’s. I must appear to have all the style and grace of Dick Emery in drag.

I’m a girl.

Somehow I make it as far as The Hard without falling flat on my face or twisting an ankle. But my feet ache as though I’ve been on them for hours, Ruth’s bra straps are chafing my shoulders and I’m rapidly getting drenched. If this isn’t Hell it’s a bloody fine imitation.

Perhaps that explains it. She shot me after all, and now I’m condemned to wander the earth in the guise of my murderess until my sins have been expiated and my spirit can rest in peace.

How am I supposed to do that? Where do I start?

Use the tongs when you’re lifting it out. Don’t let it make contact with your skin.

Of course! It wasn’t a gun Ruth pressed against the back of my neck, it was that silvery object Lantern Jaw found in the Almandine package! It must have recorded my brainwaves and transmitted them into her body.

But that’s incredible. A machine small enough to be held in the hand, requiring no external power source, and yet it has the capacity to hold the entire contents of someone’s mind? To think that such an advanced piece of technology was lying around in 20 Store for days, and none of us knew.

To think that it exists at all.

Who made that device, and what’s their agenda?

Just as important, how many more of those things are out there? How many people aren’t who we think they are?

No point overloading my synapses trying to solve riddles like these when it’s bucketing down and I’m standing in the open with water streaming down my forehead into my eyes. If I don’t want to catch my death of cold and experience the hereafter for real I’d better find some shelter while I work out what on earth I’m going to do next.

I’m a girl.

I’m a fucking girl.

Two hundred yards or so to my right, the bridge carrying the railway over St George’s Road promises a temporary respite from the downpour. First I have to get there, and in these heels it proves to be no simple undertaking. But after four or five minutes of a balancing act that would have had Blondin applauding I’m out of the rain, and in my present predicament I’ll grab any small mercies that come my way.

Without thinking, I rake my fringe back from my face. The femininity of the gesture isn’t lost on me. Can my subconscious behaviour be adapting to my change of gender so soon? Or doesn’t it need to? Maybe the device only transferred my memories, leaving the rest of Ruth’s brain functions intact.

Is part of me actually her? Has part of me always been her?

If so, how big a part?

Get a grip, Rich. You’ve nothing to gain by wasting time pondering the cognitive implications of a scientific breakthrough you can’t begin to understand.

I’m a girl.

I fumble through my pockets, desperate to find something I can use to help get me out of this mess — or failing that, the cigarette I’d sell my soul for. The only item I come across is a small metal key.

The bitch has left me without a penny.

But wait a minute...

To the bole of the key is taped a piece of paper. Upon it, written in thin blue biro, is an address.

Flat 806, Belvedere House, Clarendon Road, Southsea

I know where that is! I passed it most mornings on my way to lectures when I was a fresher billeted at the Bembridge Hotel. Eleven stories high. Broad steps fringed with potted palms rising to the main entrance. 24-hour concierge. Floodlit rear car park. Close enough to the sea front, the South Parade Pier and Palmerston Road shopping centre for residents to take full advantage of the facilities there, yet not so near they’re in danger of being outpriced by unscrupulous tenants sub-letting the flats to holidaymakers. Ideal for young professionals climbing the management ladder — those who don’t swallow hard at the thought of paying upwards of  £100 per month in rent.

But is it a trap?

Whatever reason Ruth had for stealing my body, it must have been a compelling one. Maybe she’s a gangster’s moll on the run from a mob of vicious hoodlums, or a spy being tailed by a Soviet agent who has orders to stab her with a poisoned umbrella.

Hang on, this is Ruth Pattison we’re talking about. The girl who used to copy the answers to long division sums. The girl who only won a prize for best scrapbook because she had an uncle stationed in West Germany who sent her dozens of photographs and magazine clippings. The girl who believed in all seriousness that the council employed a man to walk along Stockton Road every night to see which of the bulbs in the catseyes needed changing.

The girl who packs a revolver.

The girl who has at her beck and call two gorillas who look like they eat steel girders for breakfast.

The girl who knows how to operate a gizmo that can shift a person’s consciousness from one body to another.

But why switch with me? Why not a wealthy businessman or a politician, someone with power and influence? Let’s face it, the old codger selling newspapers on the corner of Edinburgh Road would have been a more astute choice than Richard Brookbank.

Unless I’m her patsy.

If she plans to rob a consignment of gold bullion or bump off a world leader all she has to do to escape the long arm of the law is swap back and leave muggins here to take the rap for any dastardly deeds she might have perpetrated. Any attempt on my part to tell the truth will be laughed out of court as the worst defence since Guy Fawkes pleaded that he was only trying to warm the Houses of Parliament up a bit.

In which case why didn’t she force me to go with her? It’s not as if I could have offered up much of a struggle. Wouldn’t it have made far more sense to leave me gagged and bound in the boot of a car while she went ahead with her nefarious wrongdoings rather than give me the key to her flat and trust I’d get there under my own steam? How did she know I wouldn’t run yelling and screaming down the gangway and end up falling into the harbour? Or make such a song and dance about being trapped in the wrong body the men in white coats would have carted me off to the funny farm before you could say Randle P McMurphy?

I’m a girl.

But if I cross Belvedere House off my list of options, what remains?

Go to the authorities?

Why not? They’ll probably put out an APB and start erecting road blocks the moment I’ve finished my story. They might even pay for me to stay in a 5-star hotel while they hunt her down. What they definitely will not do is shut me away for the rest of my life in a room with rubber wallpaper and bars on the windows.

Find a hostel for homeless women?

I wouldn’t know where to begin.

Sleep rough?

In this weather? Fuck that for a game of soldiers.

I could always sell her ring. The proceeds would keep the wolf from the door long enough to give me some breathing space.

Oh yeah? And what exactly do you think you’ll achieve by sitting around moping in a crappy B & B counting your freckles until the money runs out and you’re back to square one? Like it or not, you need Ruth to find you if she’s going to reverse the process — and there’s only one place she’ll know to look.

Belvedere House it is, then. The best part of two miles from here. In the pouring rain. With high heels.

Thanks, Ruth. Thanks a fucking bunch.

Another thought occurs to me. What if all that about a restaurant in Warsash was bullshit, and I open the door to find a hairy-arsed husband parading around in his birthday suit in anticipation of a spot of nookie before I cook his spag bol? How am I going to put him off, say I’m sorry but I’m really not feeling myself this afternoon?

Yet I’ve stared death in the eye today. I can handle some bloke waving his cock at me.

Gritting my teeth, I head back into the deluge. And with each halting step taking me half a yard closer to an unguessable future, the one fact about which there can be no debate reverberates ceaselessly inside my head.

I’m a girl.

I’m a girl.

I’m a girl…
 
 

 
 
Halfway along the corridor, the number I both yearn for and dread:

806.

This is the moment of truth, Rich. As they say, shit or bust.

I insert the key in the lock. My mouth is dry, and my nerves are torn to shreds. Anything could be waiting for me in there.

If ever I needed a cigarette it’s now.

The door opens on silence and darkness. I close it quietly, leaning back against the frame until my breathing becomes easier and my hands have stopped shaking enough for them to find the light switch and turn it on.

I can tell at once that no one lives here. The only items of furniture are the zebra-striped sofa, the velour armchair and the low coffee table in front of the gas fire. The plain white walls and polished hardwood shelves are free of paintings, ornaments or other accoutrements such as mirrors or posters. Impressions in the woodland green carpet betray the recent presence of a cabinet or a sideboard and perhaps a bookcase, whilst the faint tang of lemons suggests that the flat has been thoroughly cleaned at some point during the last few days.

This is the best result I could have hoped for.

But I can’t relax. During the long, arduous slog from The Hard — a journey made all the more protracted by my tendency to stand and gawp whenever I saw my reflection in a shop window, so that the clock in the foyer showed ten past four when I finally staggered in from the rain — I had plenty of time to analyse my situation. None of the conclusions I’ve drawn give me grounds for very much in the way of optimism.

It seems clear that Ruth stole the device she was later to use on me, then hid it in 20 Store until the heat died down and she was able to retrieve it without inviting suspicion. (That in itself rules out the possibility of her wanting my body so she could use my security pass to gain access to the dockyard, for she must have had at least one contact there already.)

Yet if her overall intentions remain obscure, where yours truly is concerned they’re much easier to predict. A machine that allows its operator to become anyone they meet has got to be pretty hot property. The people it belongs to aren’t going to leave many stones unturned in their efforts to get it back. That means Ruth will almost certainly have decided I know too much for her to risk the chance that I’ll talk; however ludicrous my story might sound to a judge and jury, if it reaches the ears of anyone connected with that thing they’ll be able to put two and two together straight away. Once we’re back in our own bodies Ruth’s best bet will be to tell her goons to do me in and make it look as if I’ve topped myself out of guilt. She’s probably already written my confession and suicide note.

What’s left of the Brookbank family name will end in notoriety and disgrace. For the first time since I watched the doctor pull a sheet over his face, I’m glad my father isn’t alive.

That’s the real crime you committed today, you thieving fucking tart.

Close to exhaustion, I limp over to the armchair and sit down to remove Ruth’s high-heeled ankle boots. Anger and resentment conspire to fling them into the farthest corner of the room.

How dare she do this to me?

How dare she?

It wasn’t much of a life: a job I hated; a squalid bedsit; no girlfriend nor any realistic hope of getting one; no sense of contentment I didn’t find at the bottom of a glass.

But it was mine to piss about with, not hers.

Cool it, Rich. You’re up to your ears in shit, and you won’t climb free of it by losing your temper. You’d be better off snapping out of this victim mentality and making a comprehensive inventory of the flat in an effort to find something you can use to turn the tables against her.

I take off the leather jacket, but decide to suffer the discomfort of my soaking wet jeans; the curvature stretching out the material of my sweatshirt is enough of a distraction without the addition of a stranger’s bare thighs, knees and calves. In any case, performing such mundane tasks as hanging clothes up to dry would imply a degree of acceptance I’m not ready to concede.

Feeling more comfortable now that I can place my feet flat on the floor, I pad through the open alcove I can see leads into the kitchen. As I suspected, it confirms that the flat is unoccupied. The cupboards, drawers and work surfaces are completely devoid of cooking utensils, cutlery, crockery or glassware. The refrigerator isn’t only empty, it hasn’t even been plugged in. As for consumables, there’s not so much as a digestive biscuit.

Interesting, and not a little unsettling. Since I can’t imagine Ruth wanting her body back half starved, I can only presume she doesn’t plan to be away all that long.

A sliding door gives access to the bathroom, which is in the same pristine condition. And now the nagging whisper in my bladder mutates into a full-throated roar.

Nothing for it but to take the plunge, Rich. When you’ve got to go...

I unbuckle my belt, pull down my zip and drag the moist denim over my hips.

“Oh, that’s the fucking limit, that is,” I complain out loud. “Pink? PINK? She woke up this morning thinking today’s when I swap bodies with Richard Brookbank, I wonder what colour undies I should wear?”

But my voice fails me utterly when I peel back the flimsy material to reveal the alien anatomy beneath. It makes no difference to me that half the adult population of the world see something similar every time they pass water. They were born with it — and except in a strictly academic sense none of them can imagine being constructed any other way.

My fingers thread the sparse gingery down at the base of my abdomen, but go no further. I have no desire to explore the secrets inside those puckered lips, no auto-erotic impulse propels me to probe for potential pleasure points. Show me a red-blooded male, deprived of regular sex, who says he hasn’t at one time or another dreamed about being a woman with a cunt he can poke about in to his heart’s content and I’ll show you a liar. Show me one who genuinely wants the fantasy to be made real and I’ll show you a guy who needs a therapist.

I remember to sit down before urinating, but still try to ease my non-existent cock and balls under the rim. It appears that some masculine reflexes are more ingrained than others.

I rinse my hands and shake the excess water from them — naturally there are no towels or soap — feeling increasingly uneasy. The bedroom is the only place left to investigate; if I draw a blank there I’m not sure what I’ll do.

Go out and root around in dustbins for sharp objects or lumps of wood? Bring back a heap of shingle from the beach? How can I have got to this age without knowing the first thing about defending myself?

Then I notice the mirror bolted to the wall above the washbasin. I fight it every step of the way, but there’s nothing I can do to prevent my eyes being pulled towards the glass.

“Jesus fucking Christ…”

The girl staring back at me moves her lips when I do. My hand pushes my fringe away from my forehead, and so does hers. We blink, and even breathe together.

That face is my face.

She is me, and I am her.

I’m a girl.

Shoving to one side an irrational fear that if I study my reflection for much longer it’ll become as familiar to me as the one I had until this morning, I head back through the kitchen to the living room. The bedroom door is to the right of the window. My bosom heaving, I grasp the handle.

This could be the last throw of the dice...

A single bed stands against the far wall. Upon the bare mattress rests a beige shoulder bag from which protrude a purse and an A4 manila envelope.

Is this the break I’ve been looking for? It’s got to be.

Don’t count your chickens, Rich. Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.

The purse feels full! I twist it open, and pour out several pounds in loose change. There’s also a wad of  £5 notes tied with an elastic band.

Hallelujah! At least I can buy some fucking cigarettes!

Yeah, and you might want to add a flick knife and a sawn-off shotgun to your shopping list.

Yet as I unroll the fivers and find to my astonishment that I’m holding nearly  £300 in my hands — more cash than I’ve ever seen in my life — alarm bells are ringing, and they’re getting louder. This much money can’t have been left behind by accident. Ruth meant me to find it. The question is, why?

I stuff the notes and coins back in the purse, then turn my attention to the envelope. I’m not all that surprised to see the name RICHARD BROOKBANK written in small capital letters in the top right-hand corner.

This is it, Rich. Here’s the bit where she tells you what’s going on.

Or maybe not.

The first document I slide out is a copy of the lease to this flat, signed by Ruth and a certain A Wilson on November 20th. The agreement lasts until May 19th 1979, and the receipt stapled to the top of the sheet confirms that the rent for the whole period has been paid in full.

Six months? How many stunts like this one does she intend to pull, for Christ’s sake?

I empty the rest of the envelope’s contents onto the mattress. They include a passport, valid until 1983, in the name of Ruth Maria Hansford-Jones, born in Northcroft-on-Heugh, County Durham on September 2nd 1955. Her next of kin is her husband Timothy, of 11 Hollybush Lane, Sarisbury, Hants.

Timothy?

Give me strength…

I look closely at the photograph on the back page. The girl it features has straight, honey blonde hair; it’s several inches longer than mine, and the centre parting is much neater. But there’s no question that her face is the one I now wear.

She wasn’t an impostor.

She really was who she claimed to be.

And now she’s me.

Pity I won’t be there when she takes off my desert boots and sees those socks…

Ruth’s ‘O’ and ‘A’ level certificates, awarded when she was a pupil at Holbrook Girls’ School in Chislehurst, Kent. An unused cheque book sent out by the Guildhall Square, Portsmouth branch of Martin’s Bank, and an interim statement showing an initial balance of  £1000 deposited yesterday. A Post Office savings account with funds totalling  £485.57. A Visa card with a credit limit of  £250. A full driving licence...

The truth smashes into me with the force of a runaway train.

Ruth has bequeathed to me her entire identity. She isn’t coming back at all. She’s provided me with everything I need to take up a new life as her.

What the fuck makes her think I can get away with that? Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t pretend to be a real girl for more than five minutes without being caught out.

Why is she doing this? What’s the point?

It’s too much to take in. I sit on the bed and put my head in my hands as it gradually sinks in that unless I find Ruth and persuade her to change her mind I’ll be stuck like this for good.

And I haven’t the foggiest idea where she might have gone.

After a few minutes I get up and walk over to the window. Outside, rain is still slanting across the glass, blurring the patterns of yellow-orange lights stretching towards Fratton and Portsmouth’s northern suburbs.

Two hundred thousand people in this city. Many of them will be heading home from work, thinking only of a hot meal, a favourite television programme, a few pints at the local pub or maybe a night on the town followed by a curry and a disco. Tomorrow there’s the weekend shopping to get in and the pools coupon to check. On Sunday they’ll have friends round for lunch, or go for a drive in the country if the weather improves. Boring, repetitive lives.

How I envy each and every one of the lucky bastards.

My freckled fingers reach for the catch. I could end this in the space of a few heartbeats. Eight floors should be more than enough to make tomato purée out of my vital organs.

Is that it, then? Did all those pledges you made at the top of the gangway mean nothing? Go on, take the easy way out, just like you always do. But remember this: when you’re lying on the ground in a pool of blood waiting to die — and it might not be as quick or as painless as you assume — the last thought to flutter through your head will be that you’ll never know why Ruth acted as she did.

Yet if I play along, it’ll mean that every morning for weeks or maybe even months to come I’m going to wake up and realise I’m a girl.

I can’t face that. I’ll go under.

Listen to yourself bleating on. You’ve got four fully functioning limbs and no obvious health problems. You’ve got a roof over your head for the next six months and not far short of two grand to spend. Best of all, you’ve got the intelligence and imagination to track her down. So you’ll be doing it without a dick. Big fucking deal.

I take a step back, ashamed at my lack of inner strength. Amputees, terminal cancer patients, those who’ve been disfigured by burns or have lost their sight, the vast majority of them manage by simply getting on with life. If they can cope, I should be able to.

Besides, I want to see Ruth’s jaw drop when I turn up out of nowhere.

Okay, now you’ve got that out of your system you can concentrate on figuring out where she’s taken herself off to.

And time is of the essence. She might be a couple of hundred miles away by now; she could be in the departure lounge at Heathrow preparing to board a flight to New York. Two thousand quid won’t last long if I have to jet around the globe in search of my body.

Think!

It all comes down to why she chose me. What can she do as Richard Brookbank that she can’t as Ruth Hansford-Jones? Which doors are open to him but closed to her?

17 Ladybank Grove?

Unlikely. All she had to do was turn up at the front door and tell mum she wanted to get in touch with me. From that moment on she’d have been treated as practically one of the family.

Where, then?

I’ll make it easy for you. Hart Street school. Miss Sutton’s class. She told us to sit together right at the back because you always came top in tests and I was always second.

Northcroft-on-Heugh. It’s the one thing that links us.

Except that I haven’t visited my home town in nearly three years, and there isn’t a single person living there I’d count as a friend or a close relative.

But where else am I to start looking for her?

God, what if when she’s finished being me she swaps again and dumps my body at the bottom of the North Sea? How will I react if I read my obituary in the local paper? Would I have the guts to go to my own funeral, loitering at the grave like a ghost?

This is no good. I need to make a decision, and fast. Do I set off for Northcroft now, knowing I’ll have to travel overnight and waste three or four hours kicking my heels in the buffet on Newcastle station waiting for the first train to New Stranton, or postpone my departure until tomorrow when I’m feeling less tired? Should I not limit this evening’s objectives to those I can more easily accomplish, such as a packet of fags and a bottle of something to put me to sleep?

And as I sink into alcohol-induced oblivion, how will Ruth be making use of her time?

Footsteps sound in the corridor outside. They fade, and I remember to breathe again.

That tips the balance. I can’t stay here a moment longer than is necessary. If I’m going to turn into a cowering wreck whenever anyone walks past the door I’ll be a basket case well before the morning comes. Then it won’t matter whose body I’m in.

Are you ready, ma’am?

As ready as I’ll ever be.

Why, Ruth? What’s so important it was worth changing sex for?

Only one way to find out.

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To Be Continued...