So frightened was Zak, he instantly dropped the cigarette to the floor intending to stub it out with his foot but before he could do so, Leo snarled, ‘Don’t do that in ‘ere. Pick it up and put it out in an ashtray.’ Thoroughly cowed, Zak hastened to obey. Then, as if fearing Zak might try to make a break for it, Leo placed one massively powerful hand on his shoulder and guided him into the great man’s presence.
Zak was surprised to discover that Connor Sinclair was actually a small, neat, Irish man, which gave a completely new meaning to the name of Sinclair’s chain of betting shops, The Punt. Being such a faithful customer, Zak assumed he would be well known to Sinclair. What he failed to realize was that, as far as Connor was concerned, he was just another stupid punter who provided the bookie with all the comforts of life. On the other hand, Connor Sinclair was very well known to Zak, if only by reputation. The bookie was even better known to the police in Croydon, a crowded town to the south of London, from where Connor managed his various business enterprises. In police-speak, Connor had ‘form’.
The highly lucrative betting shops Connor operated were the envy of the many small-time hoodlums of diverse nationalities and colours who were all striving to establish an illegal stranglehold in the district and Connor was obliged to use force to protect what was his. To help him, he employed twice as many men as was strictly necessary to run the type of legitimate business he, ostensibly, operated and behind every nimble-brained operative who directly served his many customers, there lounged a large-boned, heavily muscled assistant. Connor had developed a mean reputation in the area and anyone crossing him thought long and hard about doing so a second time.
Surprisingly, the interview had gone rather well. Connor had been most sympathetic to Zak’s predicament and had even given him time to pay off the debt while, at the same time, extending Zak’s credit limit to £4,000. Connor was nothing if not a student of human nature and he ‘made’ Zak the moment he clapped eyes on him.
With money to burn, Zak diligently applied himself to extricating himself from the mess he was in but his luck refused to turn. Before he knew it, he had once more reached his credit limit and was, once again, called in to see Sinclair. While still feigning sympathy, Connor showed the more steely side of his nature when he waved under Zak’s nose the document he had been asked to sign when Sinclair had given his valued customer a reprieve at their last meeting, a document Zak had not dared read before signing since that might well have been interpreted as an insult by his generous host. Too late, Sinclair explained the criminally high interest rates Zak had agreed to pay on the credit extended to him. Because the interest applied to all debts, including the original £1,000, Zak now owed considerably in excess of £5,000.
When, later that day, he confessed all to Jeannie, in whose arms he had broken down, Zak cursed his stupidity and vowed he would never again gamble. Jeannie, of course, had been wonderful. But then, she always was. How he had won the love of such a woman he still could not fathom but won it, clearly he had. Apparently, she saw something in him that others did not and in his more honest moments, when he tried to assess himself, he was forced to admit it was something even he failed to see. Not only was she loving, happy and generous, she was also a real head-turner. With Jeannie on his arm, Zak was the envy of all men. To help her man pay off part of the debt, she’d even agreed to pawn most of her jewellery as well as some of her nicer bits of furniture. That was when Zak, with a determination he had not felt in years, got himself a job as an insurance salesman.
After attending an induction course, much to his surprise, he began to enjoy the job and even seemed to be good at it. To prove to Jeannie he really had changed, he was prepared to work all hours and gradually started paying off the debt. He even managed to redeem most of Jeannie’s jewels and furniture. And that was when a heaven-sent opportunity was presented to him; least ways, that was what he thought it was at the time. Since then he had come to realize it was anything but.
It all started when he went to the home of a naïve old couple in nearby Streatham with the intention of selling them a policy. He quickly realized that while the old couple were of modest means, they still had more money than sense and though he tried to steer them in a sensible direction, they insisted on buying his most expensive policy. Indeed, the more he pointed out the unsuitability of that particular policy for their needs, the more they set their hearts on it. When he told them they were neither young enough nor wealthy enough to benefit properly from the policy, they refused to listen, believing he was trying to pull a fast one on them. In the end, because Zak was only human, and a flawed human at that, and also because he guessed he would lose the sale completely if he did not let the couple have their way, much against his better judgement he sold it to them. When all was said and done, it was their money and they could spend it as they liked. Frustratingly though, the damned policy didn’t even give him the best commission.
After putting the final touches to the sale, Zak was feeling pretty irritated with the old man, a certain Victor Prentice; a man who knew it all, or so he thought and Zak could hardly believe his ears when the silly old duffer asked whether he should make the cheque out to the insurance company or to Zak himself. Desperate to clear his debt with Sinclair, this was a temptation too far and without thinking through the full implications of what he was doing, he quickly agreed that making the cheque out to him would be the best way forward. That way, Zak explained, he could make any last minute adjustment and make sure the very best arrangements were in place for the couple. Even then, Zak continued to persuade himself he was not acting illegally. It was certainly never his intention to steal the money. That, indeed, would have been wrong.
With a cheque for £10,000 burning a hole in his pocket, Zak toyed with the idea of putting it into his empty deposit account for a week or so to earn some interest before using it for its legitimate purpose but quickly rejected that idea when he discovered how low current interest rates were; the advantage would be minimal. What he needed was a safe way to make the money work for him. That was when he discovered the odds-on certainty running in the 2.30 race at Doncaster. The horse had never lost; added to which, it was running in a small field. Naturally, the odds reflected the near certainty of the result but even so, with such a large bet placed on it, it would generate a few, much needed, hundreds of pounds for him.
Of course, he should have known better. Indeed, he had not stopped cursing himself ever since. Not only had he betrayed Jeannie’s trust, he should have realized that with his luck running the way it was, the horse was sure to lose; and lose it did.
‘The bleedin' animal run like an old camel,’ he had many times since cried piteously into his beer.
With no way to pay for the insurance policy and with a prison sentence for embezzlement hanging over his head, he had done ‘a runner’. After a hurried meeting with Jeannie, in great panic, he had jumped into his old banger and had driven up north before the inevitable alarm bells went off. He then spent a week hiding out in a cheap B&B just outside Manchester and only then did he ring Jeannie to let her know where he was. That was when she told him the police wanted to speak to him; though not entirely for the reason he expected.
It seemed that the old couple, Victor and Ethel Prentice, presumably following advice given to them by a friend or a relative, had quickly got in touch with the insurance company to enquire about their policy. The insurance company denied all knowledge of the matter but did mention that their employee was now missing. Without delay, the pair had put the matter into the hands of the police. All this Zak guessed would probably happen but he was shocked when Jeannie went on to tell him that the very next day following the involvement of the police, the old people were discovered battered to death in their own home.
‘You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you, Zak?’ Jeannie asked, genuine concern in her voice.
Stunned, Zak vehemently denied any involvement. ‘Of course I didn’t, luv. How could you even think it?’<
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‘I’m sorry, Zak. It’s just that the police think you did it to stop the Prentices telling anyone you’d scarpered with their insurance money because you didn’t know they’d already shopped you.’
‘God damn it, I’ve been up here in Manchester ever since I left you.’ By now, he was thoroughly frightened by the dramatic and unexpected turn in events. ‘I couldn’t have done it. When did you say they were killed?’
‘Two nights ago, Zak,’ Jeannie said, relief in her voice.
‘There you are then. I was up here in Manchester at the time.’
‘Can anyone vouch for you?’
‘Of course they can; my landlord for one.’ And that was when Zak stopped short. His landlord was certainly aware that Zak was renting a room from him but the pair had only met the once when Zak had first arrived and had paid the man. Zak had not clapped eyes on him since and he was fairly certain his landlord had not seen him, either. As far as his landlord was concerned, Zak could have been anywhere in England in the meantime. Also, because Zak was in hiding, he had made it his business to avoid all unnecessary contacts. When he came down to it, he had no alibi whatsoever.
If that were not bad enough, Jeannie went on to tell him that, as well as the police, Leo Snell together with Bill Hancock, another of Connor Sinclair’s more lethal debt collectors, had been around to their house in Disraeli Street asking for him. That really was bad news. Hoping the police would realize their mistake when they found the real murderer, Zak feared Sinclair and his gang far more than he feared the police. Concerned suddenly that Sinclair might well have contacts in Manchester, Zak moved further north until he arrived at the Trusty Motel on the outskirts of Carlisle where the accident with the television set occurred.
Inside his room, Zak knew exactly where he was supposed to be and how he’d got there but with so many weird things going on around him, he was now thoroughly confused. It was all getting too much for him. As he sat on the edge of the bed, quite suddenly, he felt hot and began to gasp. Realizing he was beginning to panic, he felt an overwhelming need to leave the claustrophobic atmosphere of his room. Without even bothering to grab up the strange jacket, he stumbled out of the room and into the cool night air. As he took a long deep breath, he heard the door click shut behind him.
The design of the Trusty Motel was a throw-back to one that was once popular in the USA of the sixties. The door to his room opened onto a large, semi-circular car park and when he had arrived earlier that evening, he had parked his old banger directly in front of his room. Now, as he stood on the wooden walkway, which extended in a semi-circle along the front of the little complex, he failed to recognize the car parked where his should be. In place of his old, clapped-out Vauxhall, there now sat a brand new Ford. He knew it was a Ford from the badge on the front but he could not tell what model it was since it looked nothing like the usual run of Fords with which he was familiar. There was a foreign look about it, he decided. Also, where earlier the car park in front of the row of identical, small rooms had been almost empty, it was now quite full.
As he calmed down and took in the view before him, even the car park seemed different. He remembered it being pot-holed and dirty. This one was neatly covered with smooth tarmac and was spotlessly clean. The tired and peeling paintwork he remembered on the front doors to each cabin, as well as on the small, wooden handrail separating the cabins from the car park, was now fresh and bright. With these new discoveries came another panic attack and he clung onto the handrail to stop falling over. He forced himself to breath slowly and deliberately. Some guests a few rooms along, on their way out to an evening appointment, looked anxiously at him and called out to ask if he felt all right. Zak waved reassuringly back at them.
‘I’m fine thanks. It’s just a dizzy spell, that’s all.’
‘If you go along to Reception, they’re sure to have something you can take,’ the woman called back brightly.
Zak smiled and nodded, and watched as the couple drove off. Then, becoming aware of the chill in the night air, he shivered and turned to go back into his room. He tried the door handle but it refused to move. He patted the pockets of the trousers for a key but found none. He was locked out. Until he had a better idea about what was going on, he was reluctant to speak to anyone, but that choice was no longer his. If he wanted to get back into his room, he would have to speak to someone in Reception. Before doing that he desperately needed a cigarette but not having one, resignedly, he began walking towards the reception office on the other side of the complex.
He didn’t recognize the girl on Reception, but that hardly surprised him. She was probably the night relief. He began by apologising for locking himself out of his room but even before he finished his carefully prepared explanation, the girl interrupted him.
‘That’s all right, Mr Storie. Guests do it all the time. Number 13, isn’t it?’ With that, she opened a drawer under her counter and pulled out a set of master keys.
How had she recognised him? He was quite certain they had never met but she immediately seemed to know him. What was going on? She was about to come around to the front when he had a brainwave.
‘Can you check the car registration number I gave you when I booked in, luv? I think I might have made a mistake.’
The girl smiled condescendingly at him. ‘I’m sure you didn’t, Mr Storie, but if it makes you feel better, it was …’ and opening her guest register she read off a completely strange number; least ways it was strange as far as Zak was concerned.
‘Yes, that’s the one,’ Zak said, unable to meet her eyes. What was happening? He wanted to scream out his distress and confusion but all he could do was raise a feeble smile. Hopefully, he said, ‘You don’t sell cigarettes here, do you?’
‘I’m sorry, we don’t, Mr Storie. I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘Only when I’m feeling a bit stressed out,’ he lied. Jeannie kept telling him they would kill him, but what the hell, you had to die of something, didn’t you? ‘Is there anywhere around here I could buy some?’
‘I think there’s a newsagent on the way into town who sells them but you should try stopping altogether, Mr Storie. They’re very bad for you, you know. In any case, you do realize you’re not allowed to smoke in your room, don’t you?’ She spoke like a school teacher.
‘Yeh, well, as I said, I only smoke occasionally, luv, so it’s not important.’
Shrugging, the girl came around the desk and leading the way back to No. 13, she opened the door for him.
Zak repeated his apology for disturbing her but she smiled brightly and said, ‘It wasn’t any trouble at all, Mr Storie. Have a good night and remember what I said about not smoking.’ With that she left him.
Stumbling back into his room, he began searching for his cigarettes. His brain insisted that, by now he should be in desperate need of a lungful of nicotine even if his body did not. To his frustration, there was no sign whatsoever of his fags. That was when he once again spotted the “No Smoking” notice behind the door. He was totally at a loss to know what was going on but one thing he did know, he would never have booked himself into a no-smoking room. Whether or not he could smoke in his room was the first question he asked, after the price, of course.
On the way back to his room, he had noted that the Ford in front of his room did indeed bear the number the girl had quoted to him a few minutes earlier. Because his mind was still riveted on cigarettes, the fact that he now appeared to own a magnificent new car had far less impact than might otherwise be the case. As far as he was concerned, the car was just another place where the other person might keep his cigarettes. Picking up the car keys he saw lying next to the bed and making sure the door was on the latch this time, he went back out to search for his lost cigarettes. Once again he failed to find any and a few minutes later, in utter misery, he returned to his room where he flung himself down onto the bed. In a thoroughly confused and frightened state of mind, Zak decided his best course of action was to get some rest and
hope that this strange quirk of his imagination would resolve itself after a good night’s sleep.
He was wrong; the next morning brought no relief; sleep had changed nothing. Getting out of bed, he went across to the mirror and took off the borrowed pyjamas. The man who looked back at him appeared to be at least ten years younger than he was. This man had no paunch, no bags under his eyes, his body was firm and well exercised and there was no sign of a tattoo. He padded across to the jacket he had so carelessly thrown across the chair and searching through its pockets, he found a wallet, a diary and a bunch of credit cards. In the back of the wallet was something claiming to be a driving licence but it was unlike any he had seen before. His name was on it but it carried a completely strange home address in Edinburgh. The credit cards in their good quality leather holder carried his familiar, distinctive signature.
Opening the diary to its first page, he discovered lots of new information. Many relevant details, including his name, address, home and business telephone numbers, date of birth, National Insurance Number and passport number were entered. He even discovered his car registration number there.
Still in his underpants, Zak went across and sat on the bed again. He was not a man given to wild flights of fancy, believing that no matter how bizarre the circumstance, the simpler the explanation, the more likely it was to be the right one. He now asked himself if he was only imagining his previous existence. He thought long and hard about the question but his past seemed so clear and focused and contained so much detail, such a possibility seemed most unlikely. The entire structure and fabric of his past life as well as the lives of the many people he knew was so detailed and interconnected it was inconceivable he could have dreamed it. Also, if his other life was a figment of his imagination, surely he would have dreamt up a far more flattering one. At the very least, it would have included winning the lottery after a triple rollover. The person he now was, imagined or real, was clearly much more successful than he was. His own memories were vividly clear but he had no memories whatsoever of the man he saw facing him in the mirror.
SWITCHED: The man who lost his body but kept his mind. Page 6