The Switch

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  BEAUTIFUL WORLD

  THE CARAVAN

  THE CARNIVAL

  DR. AFTEXCLUDOR

  FINN

  NIGHTINGALE SQUARE

  HOME

  FACE-TO-FACE

  ACID

  THE CENTER

  BREAKOUT

  GREAT YARMOUTH

  PRIME STEAK

  DARK THOUGHTS

  ROLLER COASTER

  THE MIRROR MAZE

  TOGETHER

  ALSO BY ANTHONY HOROWITZ

  The Alex Rider Adventures

  The Diamond Brothers Mysteries

  Horowitz Horror

  More Horowitz Horror

  Groosham Grange

  The Devil and His Boy

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.

  Published by The Penguin Group.

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3,

  Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.).

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

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  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd).

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd).

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  Johannesburg 2196, South Africa.

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

  First published in Great Britain by Walker Books Ltd.

  Copyright © 1986 by Anthony Horowitz.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-69946-7

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Jill, with love

  BEAUTIFUL WORLD

  The white Rolls-Royce made no sound as it sped along the twisting country road. It was the middle of summer and the grass was high, speckled with wild poppies and daisies. Sunlight danced in the air. But the single passenger in the back of the car saw none of it. His head was buried in a book: My 100 Favorite Equations. As he flicked a page, he popped another cherry marzipan chocolate into his mouth, the fourteenth he had eaten since Ipswich. The automatic window slid open and yet another chocolate wrapper was whipped away by the wind. It twisted briefly in the air, then fell. By the time it hit the ground, the Rolls was already out of sight. And Thomas Arnold David Spencer was a little nearer home.

  Thomas Arnold David—Tad for short—was thirteen years old, dressed in gray trousers that were a little too tight for him, a striped tie and blue blazer. He had short black hair, rather too neatly combed, and deep brown eyes. He was returning home from Beton Academy on this, the first day of summer vacation. It was typical of Tad that he should have started his homework already. Tad loved homework. He was only sorry he hadn’t been given more.

  The Rolls-Royce paused in front of a set of wrought-iron gates. There was a click and the gates began to open automatically. At the same time a video camera set on a high brick wall swiveled around to watch the new arrival with a blank, hostile eye. Beyond the gates, a long drive stretched out for almost half a mile between lawns that had been rolled perfectly flat. Two swans circled on a glistening pond, watching the Rolls as it continued forward. It passed a rose garden, a vegetable garden, a croquet lawn, a tennis court and a heated swimming pool. At last it stopped in front of the fantastic pile that was Snatchmore Hall, home of the Spencer family. Tad had arrived.

  The chauffeur, a large, ugly man with hooded eyes, crumpled cheeks and a small snub nose, got out of the car and held the door open for Tad. “Glad to be home, Master Spencer?”

  “Yes, thank you, Spurling.” Tad’s voice was flat, almost emotionless. “Rather.”

  “I’ll take your suitcases to your room, Master Spencer.”

  “Thank you, Spurling. Just leave them on the bed.”

  Tad went over to the swimming pool, where a bored-looking woman was lying on a sun lounger, gazing at herself intently in a small mirror. This was his mother, Lady Geranium Spencer.

  “Good afternoon, Mother,” Tad said. He knew not to kiss her. It would have ruined her makeup.

  “Oh, hello, dear.” His mother sighed. “Is it vacation already?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. I thought it was next week. What do you think of the nose?”

  “It’s jolly good, Mother. They’ve moved it a little, haven’t they?”

  “Yes. Just a teensy-weensy bit to the left.” Lady Spencer had visited no fewer than six plastic surgeons that spring and each one of them had operated on her nose, trying to give her the exact look she required. Now she was sure she had at last gotten it right. The only trouble was that she wasn’t allowed to sneeze until Christmas. “How was school, darling?” she asked, putting the mirror away.

  “It was fine, thank you, Mother. I had the highest grade in the class in French, English, chemistry, math and Latin. Second in Ancient Greek and geography. Third in—”

  “Ah! Here’s Mitzy with the tea!” his mother interrupted, stifling a yawn. “Just what I fancied. A teensy-weensy tea.”

  The front door of the house had opened and a trolley, piled high with cakes and sandwiches, had appeared, seemingly moving by itself. As it drew closer, however, a tiny woman could be seen behind it, wearing a black dress with a white apron. This was Mitzy, the family’s servant for the past forty years.

  “Hello, Master Tad!” she gurgled breathlessly as she heaved the trolley to a halt. It was so heavy it had left deep tire tracks across the lawn.

  “Hello, Mitzy.” Tad smiled at her. “How are you?”

  “I can’t complain, Master Tad.”

  “And Bitzy?” This was Mitzy’s husband. His real name was Ernest but he had been given his nickname after he’d been blown to pieces by a faulty gas main.

  “He’s still in the hospital.” Mitzy sighed. “I’m seeing him on Sunday.”

  “Well, do give him my regards,” Tad said cheerfully, helping himself to a smoked-salmon roll.

  Mitzy limped back to the house while Tad ate. Lady Spencer cast a critical eye at her son. “Have you put on weight?” she asked.

  “Just a little, Mumsy. I’m afraid you’re going to have to buy me a completely new uniform for next term. This one’s much too tight.”

  “What a bore! That’s the third this year.”

  “I know. The elastic on my underpants snapped during the headmaster’s speech. It was rather embarrassing . . .”

  Just then there was a loud bark and a dog bounded across the lawn toward Tad and his mother. It was a dalmatian—you could easily tell that from its black-and-white coat—but it was like no dalmatian you had ever seen.

  For a start, it was huge. Its teeth were incredibly sharp and its mouth, instead of grinning in the friendly way ordinary dalmatians do, was twisted in an ugly frown. The reason for all this was that the Spencers had taken the unfortunate dog to a vet who had turned it into a killing machine, filing both its teeth and its claws until they were needle-sharp. The last burglar who had tried to break in had needed 107 stitches when Vicious had finished with him. In the end the police surgeon had run out of thread and had been forced to use glue.

  But Vicious recognized Tad. Panting and whimpering, the dog sat down and raised a paw, its eyes fixed on the
tea trolley.

  “Hello, Vicious. How are you?” Tad reached out with an éclair. The dog leaped up and half of Tad’s arm disappeared down its throat as Vicious sucked the éclair free.

  “You spoil that dog,” his mother remarked.

  After tea, Tad went up to his room, taking the elevator to the third floor. Spurling had carried his suitcases up and Mrs. O’Blimey, the Irish housekeeper, had already unpacked them. Tad sat down on his four-poster bed and looked around contentedly. Everything was where it should be. There were his two computers and fourteen shelves of computer games. There was his portable television plugged into his own video recorder and satellite system. His favorite books (Dickens and Shakespeare), bound in leather and gold, stretched out in a long line over his butterfly collection, his stereo and interactive CD system and his tank of rare tropical fish. Then there were nine closets containing his clothes and next to them a door leading into his private bathroom, sauna and Jacuzzi.

  Tad stretched out his arms and smiled. He had the whole summer vacation to look forward to. As well as the country house in Suffolk, there was the villa in the south of France, the penthouse in New York and the mews house in Knightsbridge, just around the corner from Harrods. He unbuttoned his jacket and took it off, letting it fall to the floor. Mrs. O’Blimey could pick it up later. It was time for dinner. And soon his father would be home.

  In fact Sir Hubert Spencer didn’t get in until after nine o’clock. He was a large, imposing man with wavy silver hair and purple blotches on his cheeks, nose and hands. He was dressed, as always, in a plain black suit cut from the very finest material. As he strode into the room and sat down he pulled out an antique pocket watch and glanced at the face.

  “Good evening, Tad,” he said. “Good to see you. Now. I can give you nine and a half minutes . . .”

  “Gosh! Thank you, Father.”

  Tad was delighted. He knew that his father was a busy man. In fact, business ruled his life.

  Ten years ago, Sir Hubert Spencer had set up a chain of shops that now stretched across England, Europe and America. The shops were called simply Beautiful World and sold soaps, shampoos, body lotions, sun creams, vitamins, minerals, herbs and spices . . . everything to make you feel beautiful inside and out. What made these shops special, however, was that the ingredients for many of the products came from the Third World—yak’s milk from the mountain villages of Tibet, for example, or crushed orchids from the tropical rain forests of Sumatra. And all the shops carried a sign in large letters in the window:

  NONE OF OUR

  PRODUCTS

  ARE TESTED ON

  ANIMALS

  Sir Hubert had realized that people not only wanted to look good, they wanted to feel good too. And the better they felt, the more they would spend and the richer he would become.

  Sir Hubert never stopped. He was always developing new products, finding new ingredients, dreaming up new advertising ideas, selling more products. It was said that while he was being knighted by the queen, two years before, he had managed to sell her ten gallons of face cream and a lifetime’s supply of Japanese seaweed shampoo. He had appeared on the front page of all the newspapers after that. Because, despite his great wealth, Sir Hubert was very popular. “Good old Sir Hubert!” people would shout out if they saw him in the street. “He may be stinking rich, but he’s all right.”

  The reason for this popularity—and also for his knighthood—was his charity work. At about the same time that he had set up Beautiful World, he had started a charity called ACID. This stood for the Association for Children in Distress and was based in London. ACID aimed to help all the young people who had run away or been abandoned in the city, giving them shelter and providing them with food or clothes. Tad himself had donated two pairs of socks and a Mars bar to the charity. He was very proud of his father and dreamed of the day when, maybe, he would be knighted too.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Sir Hubert announced now as he sat himself down in his favorite armchair beside the fire with Vicious curled up at his feet. “We’ve got problems with our new Peruvian cocoa-leaf bubble bath. Not enough bubbles. We may have to do more tests . . .” He turned to Spurling, who was standing beside him. “Have you poured me a brandy, Spurling?”

  “Yes, Sir Hubert.”

  “Have you warmed it for me?”

  “Yes, Sir Hubert.”

  “Well, you can drink it for me too. I haven’t got time.”

  “Certainly, Sir Hubert.” Taking the glass, the chauffeur bowed and left the room.

  Sir Hubert turned to Tad, who was playing Scrabble with Lady Spencer. Tad was a little annoyed. He had a seven-letter word but unfortunately it was in Ancient Greek. “So, Tad,” he exclaimed. “How was school?”

  “Jolly good, Father. I got the highest grade in French, English, chemistry, math and Latin. Second in—”

  “That’s the spirit!” Sir Hubert interrupted. “Now. What have you got planned for the summer?”

  “Well, I was thinking about going on safari in Africa, Father.”

  “Didn’t you do that last summer?”

  “Yes. But it was rather fun. One of the guides got eaten by a tiger. I got some great photos.”

  “I thought you wanted to go to the Red Sea.”

  “We could do that afterward, Father.”

  “Oh—all right.” Sir Hubert turned to his wife. “You’d better take the boy to Harrods and get him some tropical clothes,” he said. “Oh—and some scuba-diving lessons.”

  “And there is one other thing, Father.”

  “What’s that, Tad?” There was a jangling sound from Sir Hubert’s top pocket and he pulled out one of his cell phones. “Could you hold the line, please,” he said. “I’ll be with you in . . . ninety-three seconds.”

  Tad took a deep breath. “Rupert said he’d come up this week. You know—he’s my best friend. And we thought we might go to Maple Towers together.”

  “Maple Towers?”

  “It’s that new theme park that’s just opened. It’s got an amazing new ride—the Monster. Apparently it’s almost impossible to go on it without throwing up—”

  “A theme park?” Sir Hubert considered, then shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “What?” Tad stared at his father. Perhaps unsurprisingly, no was his least favorite word.

  “No, Tad. These theme parks seem very vulgar to me. Why don’t you go horse-racing at Ascot?”

  “I’ll do that too, Father.”

  “What about flying lessons? You’ve hardly touched that two-seater plane I bought you—”

  “I will, Father, but—”

  “No. I don’t want you going on those rides. They’re dangerous and they’re noisy. And all those people! You’re a sensitive boy, Tad. I’m sure they’re not good for you.”

  “But, Father! Mother . . . !”

  “I have to agree with your father,” Lady Spencer said. She looked at her Scrabble letters, which she had been studying for the past ten minutes. “Is zimpy a word?” she asked.

  Tad was in a bad mood when he went to bed. Dressed in his brand-new silk pajamas, he flicked off the light and slid himself between the crisply laundered Irish linen sheets. The trouble was that he was a boy who had everything. And he was used to having everything. He expected it.

  “It’s not fair,” he muttered. His head sank back into his goose-feather pillow. Moonlight slid across the wall and onto his pale, scowling face. “Why can’t I go to the theme park? Why can’t I do what I want to do?”

  Suddenly Snatchmore Hall seemed like a prison to him. His parents, his great wealth, his school and his surroundings were just the shackles that bound him, and he wanted none of it.

  “I wish I was somebody else,” he muttered to himself.

  And 127 million light-years away, a star that had been burning white suddenly glowed green, just for a few seconds, before burning white again.

  But Thomas Arnold David Spencer hadn’t seen it. He was already asleep.
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  THE CARAVAN

  Tad knew something was wrong before he’d even opened his eyes.

  First there was the sound, a metallic pattering that seemed to be all around him: frozen peas falling on a tin plate. That was what had woken him up. At the same time he became aware of the smell. It was a horrible smell—damp and dirty—and the worst thing was that it seemed to be coming from him. He moved slightly and that was when he knew that something had happened to the bed too. The sheets were wrinkled and rubbed against his skin like old newspaper. And the pillow . . . ?

  Tad opened his eyes. His face was half buried in a pillow so utterly disgusting that he was almost sick. It was completely shapeless, stuffed with what felt like old rags. It had no pillowcase, and though it might once have been white, it was now stained with dried-up puddles of sweat and saliva, various shades of yellow and brown. Tad pushed it off his face, gasping for air.

  He looked up, staring through the gray light. But what he saw made no sense. His brain couldn’t take it in. He lay there, unable to move.

  Instead of the chandelier that should be hanging over his bed, there was a neon tube with a tangle of naked wires twisting out of a broken plastic fitting. The sound of the frozen peas, he now realized, was rain hitting the walls and the ceiling. He was lying in a small bed in the corner of a small room in . . . it had to be a caravan. He could tell from the shape of the walls. There was a window with no curtains, but he couldn’t see out because the glass was the frosted sort that you sometimes get in bathrooms or toilets. The room was very cold. Tad drew his legs up and the bed creaked and groaned.

  The room was only a little larger than the bed itself, divided from the rest of the caravan by a plastic-covered wall with a door. Somebody had left some clothes crumpled in a heap on the floor. A pair of torn and soiled jeans poked out from a tangle of T-shirts, socks and underwear. There were also some comics, a battered ghetto blaster and a few toys, broken, missing their batteries.