Mantrapped (32 page)

The sound of the TV came from the living room and Doralee was glad to get away from the bullying stranger in her bed. The Trisha body sat with her short arms clasped round her legs, dinky little toes with the chipped orange varnish matching the henna hair. She was wearing one of Peter's white T-shirts, in which Doralee thought she looked very fetching, and watching a ball game on TV. Doralee felt twin surges of affection. One because the Trisha body suddenly seemed soft and kind and a source of comfort, and she wanted to be close to it, and the other because the expression on the Trisha face as she raised it to Doralee's was so like the Peter she remembered and loved. But also because she wanted to write her book and must not miss these opportunities. 'Tell you what,' said the Trisha body, 'I have to redo these toenails. Do you have any varnish? Can you show me how? I don't suppose for one minute it's easy.'

Doralee sat close to the Trisha body so their bodies touched, and she picked up the little Trisha foot - it was white and pretty in spite of the little cluster of fine varicose veins at the ankle - and admired it. Feet are so personal, she thought. They contain all the character of the owner. She would write an article on the subject of feet: there were probably people out there who read soles as well as people who read palms.

Doralee made a quick note in what she now in her head called her SSS (Switched Soul Syndrome) notebook, then went to the bedroom, removed the T-shirt she wore to bed, found the cream silk negligee with lace trimmings Peter had, rather to her surprise, bought her the previous Christmas. It was just not her kind of thing. Now she understood better why it hung near the front of the cupboard, and why although allegedly never worn there were a couple of coffee stains down the front. The Peter body watched from the bed, scene of so many passionate couplings, without apparent affect.

Doralee, seductive (she hoped) in cream silk, returned to the office with her little box of nail accessories - remover, pale pink varnish, clear second coat, cuticle cream, scissors, clippers, cotton buds - and sat at the end of the couch. The Trisha body stretched a leg flirtatiously but went on watching the ball game, as Peter would sometimes do if he woke in the night and not even sex could get him back to sleep. Doralee took the little foot in her hand and stroked it. Trisha took no notice. Doralee took one of the big toes in her mouth, and gazed up at Trisha, using the sort of gawping, goggling expression that girls used in the porno films she and Peter would watch in foreign hotels.

Trisha did not react, other than to seem vaguely irritated, but Doralee felt hurt, rejected and humiliated. She made herself try some more, hoping for a response, taking the flesh of the nipple between thumb and forefinger and tweaking, but there was no denying it, the breasts against her forearm felt flabby and collapsed and old, not full and firm, as her own were. She felt revolted by herself, rather than by Trisha. Trisha was just human.

Doralee gave up and went back to bed, taking off the negligee so it fell to the floor, a pale silk circle of fabric which bore witness to thwarted hopes and lost love. Trisha went on watching TV, having lost interest in her toenails. Doralee cried softly under the bedclothes, but then got up and made notes on her iMac. She must not let personal humiliation stand between her and her future. Tomorrow she would put Peter and Trisha in the same bed. It would hurt but it had to be done. It might be that Soulcrossers - was that a good word to describe this new breed of people? could she compare the first switchings to the arrival of humans in the Neanderthal world? - were hard wired for fidelity and could only do it with each other. They only mated and bred with their own kind. If so, as more and more of them evolved, or transpired, or came from outer space, or whatever they did, and took over, the planet could look forward to a more tranquil future. But it would, she supposed, be the end of art. That could be a chapter to itself.

The next morning everyone behaved themselves. The Peter body refrained from smoking. The Trisha body ate the vitamin spread and abjured the lemon curd. They laughed and joked about mediums and hypnotists, but seemed prepared to make the outings, to wear conventional clothing, and even to hope that the treatments would work. No mention was made of Doralee's nightly visit. The morning sun shone from a clear sky: it seemed a day without pollution, and the city spread out below was sharp and clear and detailed, like an aerial photograph developed just right. Doralee called the domestic agency to say she did not need a cleaner that day: she was told she would have to pay for the missed appointment, since so little notice had been given, but for once she did not argue. She would be rich enough, soon enough, not to worry.

She nipped out for the morning paper and saw the Kleene Machine was open again, and the customers coming and going. That was good. She went back up and settled down with the paper. Unplanned time off like this was precious and rare and she meant to make the most of it.

George the porter called up from downstairs. He had the driver from Kleene Machine there. He'd left a pink shirt for Mr Brandon at No. 5. But George was sure it was one of Peter's. Could Ms Thicket check her cupboards to see that she didn't have No.5's shirt by mistake? A Canadian plaid? Not George's favourite, but dear to Mr Brandon. Then everything went to pieces. The Trisha body grabbed the phone and squeaked, 'That bastard from Kleene Machine! Do you know what he did to my wife's dress? Don't let him get away! I'm coming down!' And the Peter body lurched to his feet with a roar, spilling the coffee all over Doralee's supplement so that she squealed in surprise.

The Trisha body leapt for the door and the outside world and Doralee could almost feel the sudden burst of energy which went with her like a current in the air, leaping from the Trisha body to the Peter body, and back again, like short-circuiting electricity. The Peter body followed. Doralee could see she should follow, though oddly, as their energy increased, hers seemed to deplete, as lights will dim all over a city when there is a sudden call on power.

She could see she needed to follow them down, but she was reluctant to do so. She could not face any more trouble. She mopped up the spilt coffee and checked that she had her key before she left the room. She dreaded what she would find. Perhaps they would trash the lobby as they had trashed the Kleene Machine. Then she would certainly sell up and move house. Another chapter, perhaps.
Soulcrossers, berserkers and me
.

She took the lift down and came out on the lobby and was met by a tableau which was to be engraved in her memory long after the notes for the book which was never written had been deleted from her computer. George stood beside the desk, as if paralysed, holding a shirt on a wire hanger in his hand. It was pink and button-down, with red splashes down the front, and was not Peter's. Half the plastic wrapping had been torn away. Mr Kovac was lying on his side on the floor, a splodge of red growing on his very white shirt, the friendly smile still on his face. Perhaps it was painted on, thought Doralee. But he was dead. You could tell, though she had never seen a dead body before. They had a kind of completed, over, look about them. Unmistakeable. The Trisha body was dead too. She lay on her back, hands flung up above her head, in the same position Peter slept at night. Half of her head had been blown away. Bits of red spattered George's desk as well as the shirt. A van was driving off. A shudder of bullets clattered across the tall, wide windows of High View's lobby, bursting and exploding glass. The Peter body stood next to George, with his mouth wide open, swaying. The crashes, pings and tingles of falling debris died away. The three left living were untouched.

Doralee was the first to move. Everything was very quiet. No one came running from Wilkins Parade to help. No doubt they knew which side their bread was buttered. When trouble came they kept out of the way. She called the emergency services from the landline on George's desk. She had left her mobile upstairs. No one answered for two long minutes. Peter pulled himself together and took his watch out and began to time the delay, tapping his foot. A few passers-by stood as if paralysed, staring. 'Can we check your number please? This is in the customer's interests and in case of hoax calls.'

The Peter body grabbed the phone and shouted, 'Give me the fucking phone.'

It was evident to Doralee that body and soul had been restored to one another, but leaving Peter rather more forceful than when he had begun. Perhaps he would end up editor. And that was the real Trisha lying dead on the floor. Doralee felt tears well up in her eyes. Poor, valiant, unlucky Trisha.

'There's been a drive-by killing,' Peter was now saying, out of call-centre mode, and to someone he seemed to take seriously. 'All three services, please… two dead, no one else hurt. Drug-related, I would assume… that's the man. But there's a woman here too. No, I don't know who she is. An innocent bystander. A stray bullet, would be my guess.'

The paramedics came first and were impatient to take the bodies away and get on with their busy schedule, and would have done so before the police arrived if they could. They were anxious to save paperwork. Doralee and Peter gave the police their witness statements, as the ambulance drove off to answer another call, promising to return when they could, and the police set up their crime scene.

'Poor woman, poor woman,' said Doralee. 'I think she lived above the dry-cleaner's. She must have called by to deliver my mattress-cover, and then this has to happen!'

She was sorry to have to abandon the book, but it would seem like pure fantasy now and not marketable. But being a witness to sudden death could keep her in the public eye, and in copy, for quite a while. The police would not take too much time on the case - gangland killings were frequent. And at least she had Peter back. They went back to finish breakfast, just the two of them, shocked and shaken but together. Doralee shoved the butter plate towards him. 'Eat what you like,' she said. 'It's your body.'

Home and normality is restored

We went to live with Ron, husband and father. He'd asked us and we went. Of course we did. He loved us after all. He'd missed us.

That was 1976, one of the long hot summers of the century. An anti-depression had settled over the country, bringing with it endless still days and blue skies. The sun set warm and secure each evening, orange light glowing against the old brick walls of the barn.
Red sky at night, shepherd's delight
. I thought this would be home for ever.

The house, which was set amongst parched fields, had been left empty for years. It had nearly fallen down altogether but now we were building it up. We plastered and wallpapered together, making good. Ron and I slept on a mattress on the floor: one night in that first week we heard giant thump thump thumps down the stairs. I thought it was some ill-omened monster, ghost of past and future, but it turned out to be only rabbits, mistaking our home for their burrow. The children slept safely upstairs. I had never been so happy. The moon shone through windows fringed with creeper.

The white cat came with us, of course. But she never quite forgave me. I had failed to look after her properly. She went to live next door, where there were carpets and no children, but sometimes she would come and sit in our garden in a friendly fashion, and stare at me as if she had a great deal to say, a great tale to tell, if only she had the words.