Body and Soul

by Roddy Murray

  Bobby led the way to room B. Inside it, a number of people were waiting around the equipment beside the table and they at least looked up and nodded to Frank. He nodded back but didn't smile. It looked like that was forbidden in D section.

  "If you like to jump up on the table as usual we will get you all connected up. You know the drills by now. We will need you to doze off so if you could just swallow this mild sedative that should do it."

  One of the men in white lab coats handed him a small pill and a glass of water. Frank popped the pill in his mouth and washed it down with a sip of water then returned the glass.

  "Thanks," said the man in a broad American accent.

  Frank hopped onto the table and the team started to connect him to the apparatus. He noticed as they worked and spoke to him and to each other that they were all Americans. It made no difference to him he thought. If that's where the money came from he didn't mind working for the Yankee dollar. As they were finishing the connections and checking the screens at the side of the room, Frank felt the sedative start to take effect. First of all he found his concentration on what was happening around him fading a bit, then his head slipped to one side a few times, then he was asleep. He dreamed of chess and exercising in a gym, of going through basic training again, of women, of fights and then of nothing at all. Somehow though he was aware that he was dreaming of nothing. It was a strange sensation but he could do nothing about it. He was conscious but aware of his brain being unconscious at the same time. He could hear nothing, feel nothing and sense nothing.

  Then he must have gone into a deeper sleep because the sensation ended and he was conscious of nothing. Then he dreamed some more. This time his dreams were about shouting at his group on the seafront at Ayr, as they coughed and wheezed through a workout on a cold, winter's morning before they headed for work. He noticed Charlotte was in the group. "Strange," he thought, but kept on shouting and berating them all.

  Then Frank began to wake up. He was groggy at first and felt dreadful. It wasn't just that his mouth was dry and his head was sore. No, there was something else not well about him. He had a pain in his stomach and his neck. It felt like it had been there for a while but he knew that couldn't be the case. He was more than just drowsy from the sleeping pill. He felt deep down tired like he had been exercising for days or fighting a cold or the flu and losing. He raised his head slightly from the pillow with difficulty and looked round expecting to see Dr Bobby but he wasn't there. In fact none of the team were there in the room with him. The only person there was a security guard he had never seen before.

  "Take it easy," the guard said in a definite, American, southern drawl. "Just take your time and get your breath back."

  Frank noticed the instruction was said without any friendliness or concern. He looked round the room as far as he could see it from the table and noticed the two way mirror was on the opposite side now. At first he thought the table must have been turned around but the main entrance door was still in the same place. The only explanation he could come up with was that he was now in Room A. For some reason Bobby and his team must have put him into the neighbouring room to recuperate. Again he tried to raise his head but it hurt too much and his whole body was too drained to achieve even this simple task. "Christ," he thought to himself, "they had really got their money's worth out of him this time."

  He waited till he felt slightly more awake even if he didn't feel in any better health and tried to raise his head again. This time he managed to raise it off the table and look down his body to the other end of the room. Something immediately struck him as he did so. He was no longer wearing the blue sweater and grey trousers he had been wearing when he arrived that day. Wait a minute he thought. Someone's changed my clothes while I slept. He looked down again and saw that he was wearing a smart tweed jacket with a hound’s-tooth checked shirt underneath. On his lower half he had a pair of brown cords. I hate brown cords, he thought to himself. Then he realised something else. In order to see the trousers he had to lift his head above the level of a definite beer gut. "What the fuck?"

  How long had he been asleep, he wondered. What had they done to him? He had to stand up and find out what was going on. He tried but was still too weak.

  "Just relax buddy, the doc will be alone to explain what happens next," the guard said. "Till then just relax."

  "I'll relax you in a minute," thought Frank but knew he would have to feel a whole lot better to floor this guy but looked forward to the prospect. For now he had enough to worry about. He had gone to sleep feeling as fit as a fiddle wearing a blue sweater and grey trousers, close to his natural fighting weight. He had now woken up wearing an admittedly expensive looking jacket and cords ensemble and feeling like shit. He also appeared to have put on enough weight to need the cords to be five sizes larger than the slacks he had put on that morning. Nothing made sense. He had to find Bobby and ask what the hell was going on. He tried to sit up with enough determination this time to move most of his torso before giving up.

  "Look McCoard, you ain't going anywhere till the doc says so. I know you like causing trouble and if you want it that's fine by me. Got to say you let yourself go since you were in the forces. Wouldn't take much to put you down now."

  Frank tried to speak but his throat was too dry. Who the fuck was McCoard?

  With a superhuman effort to clear his throat he managed to rasp out: "Who the fuck is McCoard? My name's Chisholm, Frank Chisholm."

  "Look buddy, all I know is that your badge says Blaine McCoard and the picture is a dead ringer, so you're McCoard. Either way you ain't moving till the doc gets back and he says I’ve to ensure that, whatever it takes. Get my drift?"

  Frank hadn't a clue what this clown was talking about but if he wanted a scrap Frank would oblige just as soon as he could move.

  "The name's Chisholm, you arsehole," he managed to say.

  He felt the guard grab the back of his head roughly and with his other hand hold the security badge in front of his face.

  "You're McCoard," he said. "Says so here buddy, just under that fat face of yours."

  He let Frank's head fall without supporting it and it hit the table painfully.

  Frank was confused. The badge had a picture of a completely different guy on it. The guard was either blind or stupid. The picture showed a man who slightly resembled him in terms of age perhaps, but was overweight and a bit jowly. At least one other chin was showing under the main one.

  "That looks nothing like me, you stupid bastard. I want to see Dr Robert Bartleman and I want to see him now."

  There was a strange tone to Frank's voice that was not simply explained by the dryness in his mouth. Just speaking felt strange and if he didn't know any better he would have said there was a hint of an accent there too. He had been here too long he thought to himself.

  Before he had time to think about it any further he felt his head being grasped again and saw the guard shove the badge in front of his face again.

  "Look wise guy, your badge looks like this and," he let the badge go and held up a small shaving mirror in front of Frank’s face, "you look like this too. I wouldn't like to look like you either but them's the breaks. If you don't settle down and stop calling me names I might forget to be so nice to you."

  Again the guard dropped Frank's head with a bump. This time he didn't notice. He was stunned. In the mirror he had expected to see that loveable rogue Frank "the tank" Chisholm's face but instead had seen the same face as was on the badge. A chubby stranger wearing a tweed jacket andhound’s-tooth check shirt. For a minute sheer panic set in. Frank still couldn't move very much but he knew something was badly wrong. How could he have turned into someone else? It was impossible. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that he was still dreaming but he knew he wasn't.

  He lay there for some time trying to figure out what had happened but he could not. He felt less drowsy now but the whole situation made him sick with fear. There was still an underlying sense of bei
ng ill somehow which wasn't going but he knew he was getting the ability to move back in his body and legs. He had to think this through and he had to find Dr Bobby fucking Bartleman. If he could get enough strength back in his legs he could maybe...

  Before he was able to come up with a plan he heard the door opening behind him and one of the men in white lab coats came back in.

  "How are you feeling?" he asked, again without any trace of concern in his voice.

  "Actually I'm not feeling myself at the moment," Frank replied hoping he could get some information from this guy with a little bit of charm and humour.

  "That's hardly surprising all things considered." the American replied. He looked over at the guard and said, "You can have a break now. Mr McCoard will be harmless for a while yet."

  The guard looked at Frank, smiled then left the room.

  "Now I want to tell you a little story," began the man in the lab coat. "Once upon a time there was a very important man who was really quite ill. He had some powerful friends who needed him to live a long and prosperous life. There was another man who was a thick ex-airborne soldier who happened to match the important man in many ways. The man's friends found a way of swapping them over so that the important man got a healthy body and lived happily ever after and the poor old soldier didn't. Any of this ring a bell?"

  Frank struggled to believe what he was being told but Dan Bartleman continued. "The poor soldier got a body dying of cancer and was flown back to the States where he very soon died, tragically, before he could even see his wife and kids again. This made them very sad indeed but he had been well insured so they were able to live happily ever after too. The important man was also able to go to the States and start a new life with a beautiful new wife and continue to make lots and lots of money for his friends. In time his friends found people who were a perfect match for them and so they were able to live considerably longer and happier than they could previously have imagined."

  Frank didn't like what he was hearing. He still hoped it was a dream but it was seeming more and more like a nightmare all the time.

  "You're telling me you swapped my body with someone else. Someone dying of cancer," he managed to gasp out.

  "Yes, although now that we have been successful he is no longer dying of cancer. You are! Sorry Frank, you just happened to be the perfect match for a very important person within my corporation. I can't afford to lose them and their ability to make money. So you lucked out."

  That explained the illness Frank had felt when he woke up again. They hadn't wheeled him to another room. They'd stolen his personality and shoved it into the dying body of a fat American businessman. The fat

  businessman was presumably relaxing in Frank's body so he could go on making money for these people. Frank had been afraid before but now he was spitting mad and made a grab for Dan's arm. Although he caught it he was way too weak to do anything and Dan, aged as he was, batted the hand away without difficulty.

  "Now, now Frank," he said. "You are not the man you once were. Even when you get the hang of your new body it won't be a match for Claude, who will be making sure you get safely back to the states whether you like it or not. I warn you, from his background, he might rather enjoy you trying to put up a fight."

  Frank sank back onto the table, crushed for the moment by his predicament. He couldn't even grab and hold onto this old man, never mind sort out the useful looking guard he now had in tow. Amazing as the old man's story had been it seemed to be the only way of explaining things. He felt ill, was now overweight and looked different to the man he had shaved that morning. He was even wearing a stranger's clothes. Cords for Christ sake. None of this was good.

  Claude returned and sat down again, picking up a magazine as he did so.

  "Make sure Mr McCoard remains here till his transport arrives. Dr Bartleman will be back then. I gather there was a delay with the ambulance so you may have a bit of a wait." After that the old man in the lab coat left the room

  Frank assumed Claude had nodded. He certainly didn't say anything. If he thought he was guarding someone called McCoard then maybe Claude wasn't up to speed on exactly what had happened. Maybe Frank could persuade him to help. He looked out of the corner of his eye at his jailer and decided that was unlikely. If Claude had a decent streak in him it was well hidden even assuming Frank could convince him of the truth. No, it looked like Claude was going to be loyal to his bosses whatever. Frank would need a different plan to get out of this fix and quickly.

  Chapter Twenty

  Blane slowly opened his eyes and looked up. Bobby Bartleman was standing on one side of him and his uncle Dan on the other. There was one other person in the room. Nick the security guard.

  "Just relax and take things easy," Bobby said. "How do you feel?"

  "Surprisingly good. And pain free," said Blaine whispered, still drowsy from the sedative.

  "You now have to make some adjustments mentally and get used to your new... surroundings."

  Blaine tipped his head slightly and looked down at his body, or what he could see of it, which wasn't much. He expected to see the round shape of his stomach but could not. He tried to sit up but was still too sedated to move much. He managed to move his hands slightly and felt his waist and the belt of his trousers. There was an unfamiliar feeling to the process. He knew he was still groggy from the drugs but there was more. The shape of his waist was quite different and the belt had a pattern to it, proving it was not the one he had fastened that morning. Slowly he moved his hands over his stomach and chest and had a moment of panic. Bobby took his hand and held it for reassurance.

  "How does it feel, son?" asked Dan. "How do you feel?" "Still groggy I guess," replied Blaine. "But there is no pain and I feel... healthy somehow."

  "Good, good," said Dan. "Everything went smoothly son. The transfer was a huge success."

  "Both ways?" asked Blaine.

  "Sure of course. The donor switched too. He's fine. Just waking up slowly like you."

  "Can I meet him?" asked Blaine.

  "That wouldn't be wise at the moment," Bobby chipped in. "You both have a lot to come to terms with. Maybe in a week or two. Maybe not. For now just take your time and get used to your new host."

  Bobby reached for a syringe which lay on a nearby table and, after ejecting a small spray to test it, he administered the contents into Blaine’s arm.

  "This will speed up the recovery from the sedative. Now we know you’re okay."

  Dan nodded at Nick the security guard who casually left the room.

  Whatever had been in the syringe had a rapid effect on Blaine. After a further five minutes he was able to raise his head and look down at the new body he was inhabiting. Although the sensations he felt were utterly strange in some ways, in others it was very much what he had expected. The pains from his cancer were gone. He felt a wellbeing throughout his body that he had not known since his early days at university, playing soccer. He moved his hands and looked at them. They were no longer flabby and pasty in colour. The arms attached to them were toned and he could already feel the raw power they possessed. He moved his feet and legs slightly and although he couldn't see them yet, he could feel the same strength there too. Whatever they had had to pay this poor sap to give up his healthy body was money well spent for Blaine and nowhere enough for the donor.

  After ten minutes or so he was able to sit up with Bobby's help. At first he was a little light-headed but that soon passed. He was able to move his arms and legs freely now and liked the feeling of power and health.

  Another five minutes or so and he managed to stand with Bobby on one side and Dan on the other. They walked him round the room a couple of times as if trying to sober up a drunk. After two and a half laps of the room Blaine was able to walk slowly on his own. As he walked he noticed the room he was in now was a mirror image of the one he had entered. This must be Room B he thought. He made his way to the bathroom, knowing from his previous visits that there was a mirror there. Bobby
followed him at this point, concerned about Blaine’s reaction to the first sight of his new face. Blaine slowly moved to a position in front of the mirror and stared open mouthed. Gone were the fat jowls and baggy eyes he was used to. Instead there was a face clearly of similar age to him. But this one had no spare flesh at all. The broken nose might take a bit of getting used to, he thought, but he could live with the rest. The big question was, could Delores?

  He turned to Bobby and Dan and smiled, giving them a thumbs up. Bobby breathed an audible sigh of relief and turned to Dan with a smile. Dan was beaming from ear to ear.

  "He's an ugly son of a bitch," laughed Blaine, "but he'll do."

  "We'll have you back at the reins of Nebus in no time," said Dan still smiling at how well his plans were going.

  The three men made their way to Bobby's office with much back patting and joviality stemming from a collective sense of relief. At the office Bobby gave Blaine a quick medical check, which confirmed what he already knew to the n'th degree: Frank's body was as fit as a fiddle.

  They discussed the next stage in detail. The three of them would head off to Glasgow the next day and spend the night there. Delores would fly in and join them there. Bobby would explain what had taken place to her and gauge her reaction. Assuming she was still on board she would join Blaine and head off for two weeks R & R at a health resort Nebus owned in the Highlands. All being well Blaine could then start to take up the reins again at Nebus. Initially by email and fax with Delores doing any actual talking, till his accent was under control again.

  Blaine was nervous about meeting up with Delores again but overall he was too pleased at the way he felt to care. He was pain-free, strong and fit like never before, or at least not for a long time. And now he was not going to die young. He felt completely euphoric and knew it had nothing to do with any drugs or medication this time. His life would go on now, one way or another. He had been reprieved from a death sentence and everything and everyone else was secondary to that fact.