4 comments/ 52726 views/ 6 favorites I Married My Sister By: NoJo Hi, smutlovers. I just wanted to set your expectations here before you waste a lot of precious jerkoff time on this story. First off, there's no sex. Almost. Certainly nothing explicit. Men, you won't get hard. Women, I don't actually know what goes down there, so I can't say what will happen to you. My guess is that your pussy will remain at approximately the same diameter throughout the story. PM me after you've read it if I'm wrong. Second, if you've read any of my Humor and Satire stuff before, like Cindy Heller or Dr Yekkl, you may be expecting more of my Zucker Brothers/Mel Brooks kind of crazy humor. Well, 'fraid not. I'm a little more restrained as I approach my senility. Third, its pretty long, 'prox 10,000 words. As this is still in my word processor, I can't tell you if it'll be four or five chapters. But it's a real story, with a structure; it's not just a sequence of scenes. So you sort of have to read the whole thing to appreciate it. So, what the f&*# will you get besides eyestrain?? You'll get a nicely plotted farce, with a sort of sci-fi feel, about a guy who changes bodies with his brother. So he's ended up married to his sister. I forget the details. If you're one of the .001% of people here who've read anything the late great Bob Sheckley, you'll know exactly what to expect. Have fun. Joe. ________________________________________ SUBJECT A: CROTCHET, GORDON L. Gordon Crotchet, emulating Rodin's Thinker in pose if not physique, sat in his toilet and pondered the paint catalogue. As usual, he could see the advantages of any of the hundreds of colours over any other, and as usual, he was unable to make a decision. For even such a simple problem as choosing which colour to paint his kitchen, he was inert with hesitation. Which was almost certainly why, he reflected with a sigh, he was still a virgin at thirty-five. Women don't tend to go for ditherers, Hugh Grant notwithstanding. Suddenly angry, he stood, snatched at a yard of toilet paper, wiped his arse vigorously. "I'll probably just end up getting Magnolia again. Who am I kidding?" To his astonishment, this habitual rhetorical question received a reply for a change: A gruff little voice snarled "Not me, that's fer sure!" Gordon, gasped in terror, instinctively pulling up his pants and flushing the toilet. "Wh- who are you? WHERE are you??" "I'm not a who, I'm a what. Get me out of here." It was the toilet brush. Gordon pulled it out of its plastic holder, and held it up to his face. "Excuse me, did you just say something?" "Yeah. Now, listen, and listen well. I mean listen good. I am your Guardian Angel. And don't ask me why I've been embodied as a toilet brush, let's just say its Karma for some bad advice I gave during my last assignment." Gordon seated himself calmly on the toilet. He was surprised at himself for dealing with this sudden fracture in reality so tranquilly. "So you're my guardian angel." "Sort of. Or your conscience, if you prefer. There is a technical term, but it's long. Too long for me to tell you. Funnily enough it happens to be the longest word in the universe." "A conscience. Like Jiminy Cricket." "If you like. Only you're not a stupid wooden puppet, and I'm not one of the seven plagues." "That was locusts. Jiminy Cr-" "SHADDAP! You're what we consciences call a Passive Offender. You fuck up your life by refusing to take responsibility for your actions. You think that by never making a choice you'll never get the blame for anything. And look how you've ended up." "I've ended being rebuked by my own bog-brush." "Damn right. Lucky for you the Management decided you're not a hopeless case, although I have my doubts. Anyhow, that's why they sent me here. I'm here to help you get your marriage back on the rails. I'm here to help you get Jean back, kid." "Who the hell is Jean?" "Jean! Your wife." "My wife? I'm not married. "Not married? 'Course you're married. Oh shit. Wait. Waitasec." Gordon waited. "Are you Gordon B. Cropes, of 14, Spondula Drive?" "No, I'm Gordon L. Crotchet. Of 14, Spadena Mansions. "Oh, great. That's just great. I told those fuckin' imbeciles in dispatch, if they wanna upgrade their systems, do it after the Christmas rush. Sorry, kid. Well, it's been nice talkin' to ya." "Hang on! Mr-- Mr Toilet Brush? Hello?" Silence. "Wait! All that stuff you were saying about me. It's true, it's all true! You're right. I need help, I'm unable to take responsibility for anything! Help me. Help me. Please. Please..." He shook the brush in anguish. But the toilet brush behaved as most toilet brushes do, that is to say, it remained stubbornly inanimate. Gordon felt desolate. A teardrop welled up in his eye, almost resolved to take the plunge and trickle down his cheek; but instead, in characteristic Gordon style, it merely clung hesitantly to his eyelash. Gordon cleaned the bowl with the brush, wondering vaguely whether it was all a dream, and also why the brush had spoken exactly like Danny De Vito. "Mind you", he thought, "if my head was used to wipe shit off toilet bowls, I'd probably end up talking like Danny De Vito too". ________________________________________ Gordon sat in the Northern Line tube, on his way to the office. Then he suddenly remembered that he'd been fired, and therefore there was no reason for him to be there. It wasn't just due to habit; he was distracted: that imaginary conversation in the toilet (for that's what he now presumed it was) kept replaying in his head: You think that by never making a choice you'll never get the blame for anything. And look how you've ended up. "Excuse me?" The man sitting opposite him lowered his Daily Telegraph. "I'm sorry, I must have spoken my thoughts aloud." "Oh, don't apologize, I quite understand. You pathetic little wimp. See, I do it too." The man returned to his newspaper. ________________________________________ An icy wind blew down Farringdon Road, blowing the crowd of commuters headlong towards the womblike safety of their nightless, weatherless offices. Gordon ducked into a doorway. His mobile phone was ringing. It was a familiar voice. "Hi, Kid. Sorry about the mix-up earlier. It's all straightened out." "Mr Toilet Brush?" A passer-by glanced at him curiously, without slowing. Gordon lowered his voice: "Where are you calling from?" "About a quarter of an inch from your brain. It's me. I've materialised as your mobile phone. Good news: We're going to fix you up. We're going to make a new man out of you. And by the way, I have a name. It's Skizzix." "Skizzix. How-" "Shut up and Listen. How it works is this: You're suffering from Chronic Assertion Deficit Disorder. Very common amongst the English. In severe cases like yours it can lead to all sorts of complications, divorce, losing your job, etcetera etcetera. Now, we can restore your assertiveness, but -- and pay attention to this bit -- only by removing a surplus from someone else. Someone's gotta pay." Gordon paced the street, listening intently. "You mean someone has to lose their assertiveness in order for me to gain it. I don't see why." "That's because you know shit about the Conservation of Assertiveness. It's a basic law of physics. The Total amount of Pushiness in the Universe remains a Constant." "Okay, who's the unlucky guy?" "Well, here's where it gets good. You see, that's up to you." Gordon stood at the pedestrian crossing. He looked up. Green man. He started to cross the street. "You mean..?" "Yes, I mean. It's your first test, don't you see? The first step towards becoming decisive. So, who's it gonna be? You must know someone who could withstand losing a little determination and can-do. Oh, and by the way, you have ten seconds to decide. Starting now." The lights changed. Gordon walked at a snail's pace, searching his mind furiously for a candidate. A car hooted at him loudly, making him jump. He dropped the phone. The driver laughed, wound down his window, and called out to him. "Hey, Gordon? What're you doing here?" Gordon picked up the phone. He looked at the car. At the driver. "Okay, Skizzix, I've got someone. His name is..." ________________________________________ SUBJECT B:LESSITER, MALCOM V. The phone by the bed was ringing. Mal appraised his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he shaved. Not bad. Not bad at all. The phone was still ringing. Camille was still in bed, right next to it. Lazy cow. "Camille! Answer the fucking phone!" But Camille didn't answer the phone. She was on the train to move in with a girl-friend in Totteridge. Mal found the tear-stained note by the phone. "GOOD BYE FOR EVER, YOU FUCKING ARSEHOLE. YOURS SINCERELY, CAMILLE XXX. P.S. I WILL BE BACK FOR MY STUFF LATER." He smiled sardonically. He'd been planning to tell her that it was all over anyway. Mal had met Camille Crotchet through her brother, Gordon. Mal initially saw Gordon as just another straggler in the rat-race, someone he would quickly pass on his inexorable rise through the ranks of Silverman Brothers Finance. But then he met his sister Camille. She seemed perfect for him: Like her brother, weak-willed and easily manipulated. Plus she had a great bod. And being a married man was a distinct advantage if Mal wanted to make Managing Director within five years. But he'd found that the hassle of marriage had outweighed its career advantages. So he'd decided to split, as soon as he'd found somewhere to move. But now, she'd solved this problem for him; he could stay here. He was vaguely curious as to what had finally spurred the indecisive Camille into action. Maybe his firing Gordon last week had something to do with it. "Who knows. Who cares." He made himself an espresso and turned his mind to work. He revved the engine of his car, a BMW bristling with all the extras, making a cloud of steam in the chill Winter morning air. Mal glanced at the thermometer on his dashboard. Three degrees. He turned up the heating, and tuned the radio to Classic FM. The traffic was heavy that morning. It took him forty-five minutes to reach Farringdon. He watched the crowd of commuters pour out of the station as he waited impatiently at the lights. Look at them! Faceless, aimless, mindless cannon-fodder. God he was glad to have got his own private office, away from their ceaseless nattering about Big Brother and the latest tabloid news. Look at that idiot, crossing the street, half-asleep. Mal hooted. The man dropped his phone. But suddenly he recognized the "idiot". It was his brother, Gordon. And Gordon had recognized him. And then Mal was no longer in his car; he was standing in Farringdon road, stooping to pick up a phone. He looked at the phone as he held it in his hand. That wasn't his phone. And that wasn't his hand. ________________________________________ It took Gordon a moment to realise something had gone dreadfully wrong. Here he was, driving his car to work as usual, when it occurred to him that he didn't even own a car. And then the car radio spoke to him. It was Skizzix. "Gordon. Hi. Look. There's been another mix-up. You've temporarily swapped personalities with this other guy. Malcolm Lessiter. He's--" "—my brother. And my ex-boss. Yes. Yes. I know. Well, you better swap us back, then, hadn't you? If I'd have known we were going to exchange bodies, I'd have chosen someone else, believe me." "Yes. Well. There's a teeny problem there. Wait." Gordon waited for Skizzix to continue. He heard muffled shouting, as though Skizzix were dealing with another client. He guessed it was Mal. "Okay, I'm back. Yes. A problem. It'll take a couple of days to sort out." Gordon exhaled. "I see. A couple of days. And meanwhile?" "Meanwhile it's vital that you don't let on to anyone that anything's wrong. I mean, really vital. Otherwise I don't know if I can restore your identities." "'Really vital'? Why? I think you're just worried that you'll lose your job over this." "Look, I'll level with ya. I'm new to this. In fact you're only my second assignment. But I'm serious about keeping it quiet. If they find out, the first thing the management will do is devolve the two of you." "Devolve?" "Yeah. You know, devolve you into some kind simpler organism. Like a threadworm. Or maybe a slug. If you're lucky, you might become an accountant. Nah, just kiddin', most likely a slug. Or possibly-" "Look. I don't want to know. Just, just do what you can." "Oh, I will, don't worry about that. Listen. If you keep this quiet, I promise you, I'll make it up to you. In the meantime just act normal, go to work, then go on home. Not your home of course, Malcolm Lessiter's home." "Home. Yes, to my wife, who's also my sister." "Nope: Your wife left you this morning. She couldn't stand you any longer. She's moved out for good." Gordon parked the car. "Excuse me, I suddenly feel - tired," he said. "It's the shock. Call in sick, and go home. Tell you what, I'll drive. Just put your hands on the wheel." Gordon remembered little of the journey home. ________________________________________ Mal awoke in a strange bed, to the sound of jangling keys. A woman switched on the bedroom light. "Don't get up. I won't be long. I'm picking up my stuff." "Camille?" "Who did you think it would be? The Truth Fairy?" "Tooth Fairy." Mal sat up groggily. He farted, loudly. "What the hell did I eat?" he asked himself. "Well, how the hell should I know? You probably ordered take away Chicken Jalfrezi to celebrate my going." Mal burped, and found that she was right. Funny, he couldn't normally stand Chicken Jalfrezi. Then he remembered: He wasn't Mal, he was Gordon. And he didn't belong in Mal's flat. "Look, I better go." "I told you, don't bother. I'll only be a minute." Camille tried to reach a suitcase from the top of the wardrobe. Gordon jumped out of bed and helped her get it down. He was annoyed to find that Mal's body was a lot firmer and stronger than his own. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror of the wardrobe. He was transfixed. He studied Mal's muscled body, until Camille's derisive snort checked him. He looked at her. She'd aged in the last few months. "God, what's happened to you?" he blurted. "You look terrible." "That's fucking rich." Christ, look what Malcolm had done to her. A sudden protective impulse overtook Gordon. He would save his sister from the clutches of the Bad Guy. "Sorry. I mean, can't we talk about it, Camille?" He put the case on the floor. She didn't thank him, but he detected a slight weakening of her resolve. Of course: She was a weak-willed Crotchet like him. Camille sat on the bed. And started sobbing. Gordon sat next to her, and touched her shoulder gingerly. She sobbed louder. He removed his hand. "Look, Camille. Please give me another chance. I know I've been a bastard up to now. But I'm going to make sure that I behave myself with you from now on. Just give it, say, two days. After that, we can talk about it. I promise." Camille looked up at him, hopefully. "Promise promise?" "Promise promise." "No more 'Thai meals'?" "No more meals." He wasn't sure what exactly she was referring to, but he had a pretty good idea. She stood and took off her coat. "I need a drink." Malcolm didn't like the way she said that; like she said it often. Camille disappeared into the kitchen. He heard a bottle being opened, and a clink of glass. She took her time in the kitchen. Longer than it took to pour a drink. She returned, walking unsteadily. She kicked off her shoes and flopped down onto the bed heavily next to him. She lay for a minute, then propped herself up against the pillow. He could smell brandy and perfume. She began to unbutton her blouse. Gordon found to his dismay he was watching her -- and getting hard. "Well?" "Well what?" "It's Thursday. Aren't you going to fuck me?" He stood up quickly and faced away. "Let's watch TV." "What's the matter? C'mon, don't you want a little make-up sex?" Gordon stared at the wall opposite. "It's wrong. I mean I don't think we should." "You know, for once, I think you may be right. Here." She held out the remote for him. He turned and took it. His hard-on poked out of his underpants. He ran into the bathroom and shut the door. "Mal? What is it?" she called. "Nothing. I feel sick." "You're acting really weird." Gordon rushed to the toilet bowl and bent over it. His eye caught a toilet brush beside it. He snatched it and hissed: "Skizzix! Skizzix! Answer me, dammit!" He paced the room, throttling the toilet brush. He noticed his reflection, and slowed. He pushed down his underpants. "Jesus Christ! I'm hung like a fucking horse!" He saw that Camille had been watching him from the doorway, unsure whether to laugh or call a doctor. He started babbling incoherently, which saved him: Camille told him not to worry, it was probably food poisoning. She led him back to bed, and tucked him in. She brought him hot water and aspirin, and plumped up his pillow. "Now you lie there, silly. Better?" "Yes. Thanks." "Love me?" "Yes." Yes, he thought, Gordon had always loved his Kid Sister. But just not in that way. Or had he? "Don't worry, babe. Go to sleep." She lay down next to him. She twisted her hair round her finger while she watched TV. He'd always liked her hair. He remembered when they were little kids, how he'd cried during her first visit to the hairdressers. He'd picked up the cuttings off the floor and tried to put them back onto her head. He wished he could remind her about that. But of course Mal didn't know about it, so he couldn't. Gordon felt sleep coming over him again. With a yawn he asked Camille if she was angry that he'd fired her brother from Silverman's. "Not really. I don't think he was happy there. He wasn't getting anywhere. You probably did him a favour. I only wish he'd forgive me." "Forgive you? What for?" "For marrying you, of course." Gordon thought about that one. Too complicated. He fell asleep. ________________________________________ Mal hurled the mobile phone onto the pavement in disgust. It was well made, it didn't break. He wasn't happy about this. He'd screamed abuse at Skizzix, oblivious to the frightened stares of the passers by, until he'd finally given up. So. He had to be Gordon for two days. Right: He'd get his own back. Oh, yes: He'd abuse Gordon's body so much that when Gordon got it back he'd wish he'd never been born. He paced quickly down Bridge Approach till he reached the riverside. He sat on a bench and opened Gordon's wallet. "Driving licence. Ugh." Mal had seen Gordon's photo. "Ah. Credit Cards. Good. No, I've got an even better idea." He stuffed the cards back in the wallet and made his way purposefully back up towards the City. He guessed that Gordon would probably bank at the Barclays near Silverman's main office. ________________________________________ "You want to withdraw everything, Mr Crotchet?" "That's right." "Please hold on a moment." The manager came out. "Mr. Crotchet, I can't believe what I've just heard. You're not displeased with our service in any way, are you?" "I- want - to- withdraw -- all my money. Now. D'you understand?" "But think, Mr. Crotchet. In the first place, we don't keep that amount of money here. In the second place, do you think it's a good idea to walk around with ninety-" The manager stopped, looked around, continued in a whisper: "-ninety thousand pounds in cash? Surely you can see-" I Married My Sister Mal raised a hand. "Wait a minute. How much did you say?" "Actually it's slightly more. If you add the super-low-high-saver deposit account, and the dividends from the..." As the manager rattled on, Mal grinned. So Gordon was a bit of a miser! Of course; it figured, counting the interest and the severance pay: Five years, two of them as a middle-manager at the same premium-paying finance house, never spending more than a tiny fraction of his income, probably... And now, here he was, no job, lots of money, no wife, no commitments! Mal ambled out of the bank, having finally managed to withdraw ten thousand pounds of Gordon's savings in fifty pound notes, which he'd stuffed casually into various pockets of Gordon's Navy blue Parka. He stood in the sunshine. Across the street, caffeinated office workers were pouring out of Silverman Brothers for their five-minute lunches of Pret a Manger sandwiches. Then Mal said something he hadn't said for years: "Now. What shall I do today?" ________________________________________ It's amazing what a really good suit and haircut can do for a man. And Mal had spared no expense on either. Heads turned as he strolled blithely through Covent Garden. He noticed a gorgeous woman emerge from the Nicole Farhi store. He decided to follow her. Outside the Ivy restaurant, the woman met two men and another attractive lady. Two businessmen with a couple of high-class escorts, Mal decided. They went inside. The Ivy is one of the most exclusive restaurants in London. Nobody gets in without booking at least a month in advance. The stone-faced Maitre-de-table eyed Mal up and down, quickly, almost imperceptibly. He opened his mouth. Mal pressed four fifty-pound notes in his hand. He looked around the restaurant. "Put me next to those four, would you, please?" ________________________________________ Mal eavesdropped on the four at the next table. The two men spoke in American accents. Perfect; he and they spoke the same language: Money. He waited till one of the men went to wash his hands. Now was his chance. In the lavatory, Mal spoke: "I'd like to make you a proposition." The American eyed him warily. He'd been warned about English guys. But Mal went on: "I'm assuming that those ladies are on expense. Now, I'm very much taken with the dark-haired one. Here's two thousand pounds in cash for her." When they got back to their tables, the American whispered something to the woman. She excused herself, and sat down at Mal's table, and gave him a questioning smile. Four hours and four bottles later, he left with the woman. He took her to Claridges. At the front desk, he insisted on paying cash, up front. She watched him as he counted out the notes. "Don't worry, there's still enough for you." Her eyes widened. He brandished a sealed pack of fifties. "A thousand. Is that enough?" "If you want to be out of here in an hour, yes." He produced two more packs. "Let's make it three." ________________________________________ "Shocking. Shocking. No fucking discipline." Mal stared disapprovingly at his naked body in the mirror. He didn't particularly mind that the swap had given him a worse deal than Gordon in the cock department; he knew that sex was about style, not size. And in any case, he'd be back to his well-endowed self in a couple of days. But he really didn't like the way Gordon had let himself go. The hooker didn't care. He was just another pair of Prada's and a month's rent on her Mayfair flat to her. He emerged from the bathroom and watched as she removed her coat. He had a tinge of regret at having been so impulsive earlier. Suppose she turned out to be... ...She was eyeing him. He guessed that she'd guessed his thoughts. She fixed her eyes on him while she unzipped her dress and let it drop to the floor. Quickly but unhurriedly she undid her bra. She stood in stockings and suspenders. "Walk around me. Come on. Take a look." She posed like a proud goddess. He circled her slowly, staring in awe at her perfect form. "You've almost got your money's worth already, haven't you?" His cock answered her in the affirmative. "Thank fuck my dick works, at any rate," he said as he pushed down her panties. "Excuse me?" He kneaded her arse. "Oh nothing. This is a new one, I just got it this morning. You're my test drive, as it happens." She cupped his balls in her cool hand and ran a fingernail slowly down his chest. "Let's see how it handles the corners." ________________________________________ In the middle of the night the alarm clock whispered to Gordon. "Psst. It's me. It's Skizzix." He became fully awake. Camille lay nestled against him. She was naked. His cock stirred. Her hand was resting lightly on it. He froze. Had they been- "-don't just lie there! Get up! Get dressed! Quick!" Minutes later Gordon stood shivering in the cold night air outside, in urgent whispered conversation with a letter-box. "What do you mean, another problem?" "'Fraid so, kid. Management have found out. They've dispatched a cleanup agent. So whatever you do, for Chrissake don't arouse suspicion with anyone. Anyone. Get it?" "Oh." "Wait, there's worse: I've been fired. They found out I lied about my age on my job form. See I'm only thirty thousand years old. I figured that with my male pattern baldness, they'd assume I was older, see. Fuckin' minimum age rules. Anyhow. That's why it's going to take a little longer to swap you and your brother back." "How much longer?" "Just until you're both dead. Then we simply switch souls on the balance sheet. See, my firm only does Corporeal accounting. Free-floating souls don't have to be declared. Not like the Buddhists. If you were dealing with the Buddhists, then you'd really be fucked for all eternity, I can tell ya." "..." said Gordon, and fainted. ________________________________________ Gordon opened the passenger door of his BMW for Mal. "No you don't! Move over. I'll drive. It's my car." Gordon shifted over to passenger seat and folded his arms. "Not any more," he muttered under his breath. It was Skizzix who'd set up the meeting. He'd old them to try and be grownups about their new situation, and work on the finances and the details some place quiet. Then he told them he was leaving them, probably for ever. They drove to Regent's Park, found an isolated bench, and sat down. Both had brought briefcases, which they now rested on their laps. They looked like a couple of spies about to exchange military secrets. Mal yawned and stretched. "Shall we start, then?" "Okay. I've made a list..." So began the first of a series of clandestine briefing sessions, where Mal and Gordon would exchange information on their lives, from PIN numbers and lists of tangible assets, down to the most personal memories, allergies, idiosyncratic quirks. The most pressing problem for Gordon was Camille. He'd managed to convince her that they should abstain from sex, on the pretext that this would somehow help rebuild their relationship. "Well, I have to tell you mate, if she doesn't get a good poke once a week, she'll get suspicious pretty soon. Now here's what you need to do..." Mal enjoyed watching Gordon squirm as he was exposed to the full details of Camille's sexual habits and proclivities. But if Mal had known how badly he was actually taunting him, he probably would have smashed his face in. For Malcolm, sexual morality was simple: Homosexuality, paedophilia, incest were all equally abhorrent and should all be capital offences. Adultery, well, that was another matter. "..oh, yeah, twice a month, she expects it up the Mild and Bitter, the harder the better. Oh, and here's the key to the handcuffs. Don't lose it." Gordon hung his head. "Oh God. There's only one thing for it. I've got to-" "- divorce her, yes. And the quicker the better. Now. Onto the important stuff. I hope you've called the office and told them you've got flu or something." "Yah. Stomach bug." Gordon clutched his stomach and winced involuntarily, though he felt fine. "Well, next week, you're going back. But before that, tell them you're rehiring me. As of Monday. Believe me, you won't last a minute without me." Gordon looked up at Mal mistrustfully, but Mal was watching a young woman pushing a baby on a swing in a nearby playground. She seemed familiar. "And just how do I explain this sudden change of heart?" Mal turned to Gordon, annoyed. "I dunno. Tell them you made a mistake. Jesus, no bloody initiative. No wonder you've not got a promotion in five years. And by the way, that reminds me, I'll need a raise." ________________________________________ The rest of the week went amazingly smoothly. Gordon and Mal would meet every day at the bench in Regent's Park, and go through a Q&A session. The nights were hard for Gordon; he didn't get much sleep, trying to resist acting on his feelings for Camille. He'd considered checking into a hotel, but Mal told him that would just make her suspicious. And he still hadn't plucked up the courage to discuss the divorce. Meanwhile Gordon was finding that he was growing to respect his brother more each day. Gordon's relatively simple and trouble-free childhood was in stark contrast to Mal's tough upbringing in the East End. He began to understand that Mal's ruthlessness and determination, which he'd loathed and coveted at the same time, was simply a will to survive in a harsh world. ________________________________________ At eight AM on Monday, Malcolm Vernon Lessiter pecked his loving wife Camille on the cheek and headed off for work. Only one other person in the world knew that he was not her husband, but her brother, Gordon Leon Crotchet. Camille hummed as she put the breakfast dishes away. For the first time in ages she felt happy. And without the booze. She'd found a new respect for the man she'd married. He'd changed in so many ways: He was attentive, respectful and kind. He no longer grabbed the controls and switched channels in the middle of Big Brother. He noticed her new dress. He'd even remembered that her birthday was next week, without her having to drop any hints. There was only one problem: he seemed to have become shy and diffident in bed. While she found this coyness sweet at first, she was beginning to worry a little how long this would continue. But right now, this small failing was easily outweighed by all the other improvements. The doorbell rang. It was a young woman. Camille knew her, her name was Sally; she lived in the flats next door. She'd didn't like her, she was a busybody. "Hello, there -- Camille, isn't it?" "Yes, that's right. And you're Sally. What can I do for you?" "Well, it's a bit awkward. You see, I take my little Benny to the playground over in Regent's Park in the mornings, see? Before the traffic starts. He's teething at the moment, and he's ever so grumpy. I think fresh air is important for a small-" "-I'm sorry to be rude, but I've got a lot of clearing up to do..." Sally peered past Camille into the immaculate lounge. "Yes. Well. I just wanted to say that I've seen your husband there. He's been meeting someone there every day this week." "God. I knew it. I fucking knew it. The bastard. Come in." Sally entered, her eyes twinkling. "What did she look like? The woman he was with? I bet it was that slut of a secretary of his." "Oh, no! It wasn't a woman. It was a man, dear." "A man?" Camille sat down on the arm of the settee, nearly missing. "Why," Sally asked innocently. "Aren't things-- you know -- are you having problems?" "We haven't had sex for over a month. We normally do it every week. On Thu-hu-hursdays..." She began bawling. Sally shut the front door. She was in her element. She put the kettle on. "You know, I know someone who had the same problem with their hubby. He went off with his hairdresser. You think you know someone..." Camille stopped. "No. No it's too ridiculous. You don't know my husband." "Well, perhaps it's all innocent. Have there been any other signs? Has he gone vegetarian, for instance?" "Well he's started doing the dishes." "There you are! Guilt. Guilt and neatness. Classic signs. Yes I'm afraid you 'no longer hold any attraction' for your husband, dear. Best have it out with him when he comes home." "But -- but supposing I'm wrong? I'd look like an idiot. And he's been so nice the last few days." "Well, if you want to be sure, give this man a call. He's very discreet. And he's reasonable." Sally handed Camille a business card: "V. Vickers, Private Investigator". ________________________________________ Gordon stood at the window of his office and watched the busy street below. He didn't hear the knock. He was startled when a woman spoke. "Excuse me, Mal, Henson will be here in half an hour. I think we need to get started now." He turned. He hadn't seen her before, but he recognized her from Mal's description: She was Linda Josephs, a bright and efficient, serious-looking woman in her late twenties. She was also, according to Mal, mercilessly ambitious. His exact words were a 'ball-buster'. She had latched onto Mal, seeing him as a fast-track to the higher echelons of the company. "Get started. Yes." She sat down and perched a leg over her knee. Gordon stared. "They're Schiaparelli's." She stood and hoisted her skirt to show off her Schiaparelli's better. She took out a pen and notebook, and gave him a quizzical stare. "Well?" Gordon tried to remember what Mal had told him about the Monday morning briefings, but he'd completely blanked. He was saved by another knock at door. It was Mal. Good Morning, Gordon," said Gordon. "You're looking -- fitter." "Good Morning, Mal", said Mal. "Thanks. I've started working out. I should have started years ago. Shocking the way people let themselves go." "Er, Have you met my secretary, er..." "Linda, isn't it?" Mal prompted him. "Yes. Look," she said to Gordon, "unless this is really important, I think he'd better wait." "It is important. It's about Henson." Linda crossed her legs the other way. Mal looked meaningfully at Gordon. "Oh. Yes. Linda, You'd better wait outside. Maybe you can do some filing, or something." Linda opened her mouth and shut it. She flounced out. "Well done. You've just ruined your chances of licking hot melted chocolate off her tits. Did I tell you that's what she's into? Anyway. I just realized you don't know about Henson..." Half an hour later Gordon walked into the biggest client meeting of his life. It went well. Meanwhile at the coffee machine Linda wondered how come Mal seemed to be paying a lot of attention to this new guy, Gordon. "He's not new. He used to work here. He's a rehire." "Funny," said someone else, sipping her espresso. "Mal was the one who had him fired in the first place." Linda spoke. "They were really pally. Mal complemented him on his physique, for God's sake. D'you think Mal might be a swinger?" "This guy Gordon's got something on him, that's for sure." Later that morning, Linda walked into Gordon's office without knocking. Gordon was staring out of the window again. "Busy?" He wheeled round. "Er, not really. Look, sorry about earlier." "I want to know what's going on. Between you and Gordon Crotchet." "I don't see that it's any of your business." Gordon was pleased with himself. A week ago, he would have been intimidated. "Mal, tell me: Are you gay?" "Not that I know of. Ah. I know what you're thinking. Well, Gordon's my brother." Linda looked at him. "That hasn't answered my question." "No, I'm not gay. We're just good friends." As he said it, he realized it was true. "Oh. Okay then. It's just that I was sort of hoping that was the reason- the reason that- well you know what I'm talking about, obviously." "Obviously. But pretend I don't for a minute." "Well, I know I can be a bit- a bit wild during sex, and I know some men can get a bit..." "Terrified?" "I was going to say 'a bit put off', but-" "Look. You have to realise something. Mal's someone who likes to be in control. He's like a lot of men. But you know, some men actually like women who are a bit more..." He trailed off, ogling her shapely legs, wistfully. Linda was a little perturbed at her boss describing himself in the third person, but she decided to play along. "Well," she said slowly, "if Mal treated Linda with a little more respect, maybe Linda could change a little bit for him..." Suddenly Gordon felt a pang of jealousy for his adulterous brother. "Linda, I have to tell you. Mal's not your type. He'll never change. You're more -- you're more Gordon's type." As soon as he said it, he felt ridiculous. As if this lovely, smart woman would go for- "Well. I guess that's made it pretty clear. To be honest, I'm a bit relieved. Between you and me, I never really fancied you. I was only doing it for my career, you know." Gordon didn't believe her. She was softer than she acted. He felt he somehow knew her true character pretty well. Certainly better than Mal did. She left the room. He took momentary pleasure in daydreaming that Linda would take a fancy to his brother, Gordon. Until he remembered that he was Gordon, and he'd just succeeded in putting her off him. "Oh, fuck it." ________________________________________ Gordon and Mal sat in the garden behind St Bride's church, eating sandwiches and discussing their first half day at their new jobs. Aside from Gordon's little chat with Linda, things were going pretty smoothly so far, as far as work was concerned. Mal stretched. "I tell you, I could have done with another day like last Thursday." "You would have run out of my money in another two days." Mal chuckled. "Probably. But I have to tell you, there's something to be said for just chilling for a bit. Taking a holiday. Like that guy over there, the tourist." Mal pointed at a man with a camera round his neck and a London guide. Gordon looked. The tourist noticed them. He walked away. So what, he thought. He'd done his job, anyway. The tourist found a phone box. Inside, he opened a notebook and located a phone number. "Mrs Lessiter? It's me, Mr. Vickers. I've got the name of the man your husband is seeing. His name is Crotchet. Gordon Crotchet. Yes, Madam, I know. It's your brother." Vic Vickers put the phone down. A little old woman tapped on the glass of the booth, and signalled to him. She needed change. He stepped outside. "It's okay, madam, I've finished. How much do you need?" The woman smiled at him. She held out a hand to show him a few coins. They dropped to ground. "Oh, silly me, I'm so sorry!" Vic Vickers stooped to pick them up for her. He never got up. The lady picked up the notebook from the ledge and made a call. "Hello, yes, Agent Maddox here. We may have another personality swap on our hands. Sector 488. Yes. Check it out. At a guess I'd say it could be Skizzix' work." On the pavement by the phone box, Agent Maddox noticed a slug crawling along slowly. She quickly squished it with a sensible shoe. "Sorry about that, Mr Vickers. I just don't like slugs." ________________________________________ Camille was in the bedroom when Gordon arrived home. She was wearing her bathrobe. It was going to be a rocky evening, he expected: This was the night he was going to tell her about the divorce. She beamed at him. "Hello, you!" "Hello, Camille! Having a bath?" She shook her head, suppressing a giggle. "Nope." Gordon threw his coat onto the bed. "God, I'm knackered." I Married My Sister Why did she have to be so bloody cheerful tonight? She looked sly. "Why didn't you tell me about your little secret?" Gordon wheeled around. "Secret? What secret?" "Gordon." Gordon felt sick. So it was all up. He snorted wryly. At least once he'd been devolved into a threadworm life would be simpler. And he wouldn't have to break his sister's heart. "Why didn't you tell me you'd been seeing him? And got his job back." "What? How- how did you know?" "He's just told me. On the phone. Well, I called him actually. Anyway once I told him I knew you and him were speaking again, he told me everything." "Everything?" Gordon's voice was faint. "Yes, about how you'd decided to try and break the ice. And how you wanted him to come back and work for you. And how you even gave him your secretary." "I gave him my secretary..." He was too relieved to care that Mal had thrown that one in. "Darling, I have a confession to make. I had you followed. I thought- I thought you were- I thought.." Her face screwed up as she tried to hold back the tears. Gordon instinctively went to comfort her. And then she started wailing. "Darling, I-m sorry! I never should have doubted you! I'm sorry!" He stroked her hair. "Shh. There, there. It's alright." She wailed even louder. "And now I've spoilt it all! I was going to give you such a nice surprise when you got home!" "Surprise?" For answer, Camille let the bathrobe slip to the floor. She was wearing thigh-length boots and a studded leather corset. Still bawling hysterically, she jumped onto the bed and went down on her hands and knees facing the wall. Gordon found himself watching her wiggling arse as she rummaged under the bed for something. She brought it out; it was a riding crop. She stood and whipped it ineffectually, still sniffling. Tears, mascara and snot streamed down her face. She attempted a smile, failed miserably. He brought her a tissue and wiped her face gently. She blew her nose loudly into it, thanking him. "Better?" "Mm. Bit." "You've still got something here." He dabbed a little smudge of mascara from her cheek. They looked into each others' eyes. "God Cammie, you're so beautiful." He kissed her on the lips. The kiss grew slowly, steadily and inexorably more fervent. They held onto each other, their tongues entwined; they half-fell onto the bed. Gordon was insane with passion. He rolled her swiftly onto her front, straddled her, tore at the clasps of her corset. "There's too many of them!" "Slow down. Take your time." Gordon slowed his trembling fingers, and began undoing the clasps, slowly. He kissed her between her shoulder blades. She rested her head on her arms and sighed blissfully. "You know, Mal. You just called me Cammie." Gordon sucked the nape of her neck. "Mm." "You know, the only other person who's ever called me that is my brother. The only one. Isn't that funny?" Gordon froze. He rolled over next to her. "Yeah. Funny." He stared at the ceiling. "Camille. I don't know how to say this. I want- I mean I think we should..." The doorbell rang. There was a loud thumping at the front door. Gordon jumped up. They heard a voice outside. "Gordon! Open up! Quick!" Camille said, "Bloody hell, it's my brother! What's he want?" Gordon scrambled off the bed and ran to the front door, opened it a crack. Mal burst in. "Listen! Gordon.." "Shhh! Camille! In the bedroom!" Gordon hissed. Mal resumed in a whisper. "Skizzix just spoke to me. He said they're on our tail. The -- the 'management' or whatever. And they know about us. But he said he could do it. He can change us back!" Gordon's mind reeled. Mal continued: "How it works, is that we both have want to do it. Not just one of us. Okay?" Gordon glanced towards the bedroom. "Okay..." "He can do it tomorrow. He'll meet us at exactly nine o clock in the evening, you and me have to be together in the same place when he does it, and-" He stopped. Camille had stepped out of the bedroom. Her hair was tousled. One shapely breast had popped out of the half-undone leather corset. Her face was flushed. Mal went pale. He turned to Gordon. He noticed lipstick on his mouth. Mal wheeled round abruptly and stormed out. Camille ran to the door, her spike-heeled boots clicking on the parquet floor. "Gordon, wait!" They heard a car door slam and a screech of tyres. ________________________________________ Mal swerved heedlessly through the twisting side roads round Hampstead. By the time he calmed himself enough to become aware of his pounding heart and dangerously high blood pressure, he noticed that he'd driven to Linda's flat. He buzzed her on the intercom. "It's me. Gordon. Gordon Crotchet. I need to talk to you about Mal. It's urgent." She let him up to her flat, curious and somewhat suspicious. "Hello Gordon. I've got someone with me." A bearded man in his fifties was seated at a small dinner table, set for two. He stood and shook hands with Mal, introduced himself as Linda's father. Mal took off his coat and pulled up a third chair. "Er, d'you want some wine?" He nodded. Linda's father recommended the Medoc. He was a psychoanalyst. He spoke with a soft, soothing German accent, like Einstein's. Mal drained a glass, helped himself to another. "Now. What's this about?" "It's -- it's about Camille." Mal emptied the bottle into his glass. It only half filled it. Linda's father fetched another bottle from the kitchen and filled Mal's glass to the brim. As he suspected, Mal emptied it immediately. "Camille? You mean Mal's wife. Your sister." "My sister. Yes." "Is she alright?" "You tell me. You fucking tell me. I can't stop seeing that last image of her. All sweaty, with her tit hanging out of that- bondage outfit." Linda's father pressed the tips of his fingers together. "And tell me: How did that make you feel? Seeing your sister like that, I mean?" "Well, er- What's your name again?" "Heinrich. But call me Henry." "How do think I felt, Henry? I was shocked. No, 'shocked' isn't the word. I was appalled. Appalled. I was devastated and appalled." "Excuse for being a little- indelicate here, Gordon, but perhaps you may have had some other feelings as well." Mal peered at Henry through his upheld empty wineglass. "Yes. You're right, mate. I was fucking jealous. Not to mention horny as hell." Henry sat back in his chair. He'd made a breakthrough with his patient. Mal waggled his glass until Linda had filled it. "Yes, ironic, isn't it. I fucked that woman nearly every day for six months, and- nothing." He pointed at his groin. "Down there. Oh, I would get hard. I'd come every time. Don't get me wrong." Linda poured herself a glass of wine. But she didn't have a glass. Wine poured into her lap, but she was too shocked to notice. However, Henry nodded reassuringly to her. "Sexual Fantasy", he mouthed silently. "Yes. I came every time. But I was going through the motions. I didn't- she wasn't-" "She wasn't man enough for you perhaps?" Henry asked pointedly. "What the fuck are you talking about? I'm not a poof." "And why do you feel such a strong resentment of -- 'poofs', as you call them?" "I'm just saying: I'm not." "Of course you aren't," said Henry gently. Linda mimed a limp wrist and nodded vigorously at her father. "Look. It's very simple. I don't like the idea of a man fucking his own sister, it's simple." Henry rocked back on his chair and looked up the ceiling. "And yet part of you finds it -- how shall I put it, 'titillating'. Admit it. You wanted to be in his place. It should have been you in bed with her, shouldn't it? She should be married to you, not your brother!" "Exactly. Abso-" Malcolm drained his fifth glass of Medoc, "-fucking lutely." Henry put a hand on Mal's shoulder. "Gordon. The bond between a brother and a sister is strong. Almost as strong as a mother and her son. Or a father and his daughter." Linda rubbed her nose. "The love they feel from earliest childhood blossoms sometimes in adolescence into a different kind of love, which society has deemed to be less pure." "But-" Henry raised a hand. "Let me finish. But even if that love remains as it was, the innocent love of childhood, it's very common for feelings of jealousy to emerge when your 'childhood sweetheart', as it were, marries another. Especially when, as sometimes happens, the one she chooses to marry may be less than kind and loving to her than her brother." Mal was silent. He'd suddenly thought of how cold he'd been to Camille all this time. How miserable he'd made her feel. He started to cry. "I want her back! She's mine! I love you, Camille." Linda and Henry both stood and held him. "Accept it, Gordon, she's never coming back to you. She's chosen her path. You have to let her go. But that will never destroy the love you feel for each other." Mal sighed. In his drunken state, he began to see that perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps Camille and Gordon really would find some kind of happiness together. While he would... well, he would try to forget. "Thanks. I feel better now. There's just one thing..." "Yes?" "Why the fuck do you keep calling me Gordon? My name's Malcolm." ________________________________________ Gordon dialled his home number for the tenth time, but Mal was either out, or not answering. Gordon imagined the worst. A horrible thought came unbidden to him that if Mal had taken his own life, things would in a way become a lot simpler. Then he shuddered as he realised that, if anything, things would be simpler still if it were the other way around. "No answer? Gosh, I hope he's okay." Camille was wearing a floral dress that made her look about six years old. She did it to stop being reminded that every birthday made her another year older. Last week Gordon had arranged to have today off work, so that he could take his sister out for a real birthday treat. Through Silverman's client entertainment division he'd managed to book a table for three at the Ivy that evening. He'd planned to bring Mal, but all that had changed now, of course. Now, his main concern was Mal's whereabouts. He realised it was now out of the question that Mal would show his face at the restaurant, let alone agree to swap personalities. How could he ever forgive either of them? But suddenly, the phone rang. Camille and Gordon raced for it. Camille got there first. "Oh, hi, Mum." Their faces fell. Alice, their mother, was a formidable thing, chair of the local Women's Institute, who had divorced her husband for being, she had told the judge, "extremely tiresome and tedious in the bedroom". It had left her with a large house and a small opinion of marriage, especially husbands. It was a credit to Mal that, using every iota of his charm, he'd won her over against all odds. She'd seen in him the drive and ambition she herself possessed, and which both her own children unfortunately lacked. After Camille put the phone down, she said, "Mum says 'hi'. And she's coming to the meal tonight. And before you say anything, she sounded lonely. Oh, Mal, you know how Mum is, I couldn't say no." Although Gordon wasn't Mal, he certainly knew how Mum was. And that if he'd been first to the phone, the outcome would have remained the same. Mal had ended up staying the night at Linda's. He'd been too drunk to drive. In fact he had collapsed fully clothed on the sofa. Linda had removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket. He awoke hung over and confused, to the sound and smell of the coffee grinder. The first thing he said was "It's her birthday today. I have to get her a present." Linda was sitting in a nightdress at the breakfast table. "Good morning." "Good morning." "Remember last night?" "Er, no." Mal automatically felt his cock for signs. "Well, I suppose that's a good thing. Daddy's giving us a lift into work. Come on, hurry up and drink your coffee." "I told you, it's her birthday. Camille. I have to get her a present, or she and Gordon will never speak to me again." He took out his mobile phone. "Fuck. No battery." "Don't you remember anything about last night?" "No. Only up to the bit where I saw Camille dressed up in an Anne Summers outfit. I jumped to conclusions. Mal would never do anything to her. He's too nice." Poor guy, she thought. Still in denial. Gordon, Camille and Alice sat silently in the cab, lost in their own thoughts: Gordon had made up his mind, for sure this time, that he was going to divorce Camille. But not on her birthday. That would just be too cruel. Camille wondered where her brother had got to. She didn't worry unduly. He wasn't the type to bear a grudge. But she was still puzzling over what had upset him so much. She could only assume that he was a bit of a prude. Alice was frowning and looking out of the window. "So many black people everywhere nowadays", she muttered to herself. ________________________________________ "Look, right next to us. It's that politician chap, the one in the all the newspapers a few years ago," said Alice, nudging Camille, who pretended to study her menu closely. "If that's his wife I'm the Cutty Sark." "Please, Mum, keep your voice down a bit, people are looking," she begged. Alice raised her voice: "Don't be silly. People come here to spot celebrities. Take those people there. Americans. They probably think I'm some distant relative of the Queen." Gordon tried to change the subject. "Mum, what do you reckon to the lobster soup?" "Don't call me 'Mum', please, Malcolm." The Americans turned to look. The meal promised to be excellent. But Gordon was not feeling hungry. In fact he felt sick. "It's a shame your brother couldn't be here, Camille. And I thought he and Malcolm had made up." Mal coughed. "Yes, there's an awful lot of stomach flu going around." Alice sipped her soup. "Yes, Stomach flu." Camille and Gordon exchanged glances. Had she swallowed the story? It was impossible to tell. "You know," Alice went on, "I tried calling him last night. You know what I think?" "What?" said Gordon. "I don't think he has stomach flu at all. I don't think he was home." She smirked. "I think he was seeing someone." Gordon sat back in his chair. "Do we know that lady who just came in?" Alice asked. "I'm sure she just gave me a little wave." The Maitre-de-table found the lady's name. "Ah, yes, table for one. Please come this way, Mrs Maddox." Mrs Maddox beamed at them as she passed their table. "Why, it's Gordon, isn't it! Gordon Crotchet! How nice to see you again." "He's not-" Camille began, but Mrs Maddox had gone. Gordon suddenly felt a chill terror. He excused himself inarticulately and almost ran out of the restaurant. "He's left all his soup, look", said Alice, and began to finish it off for him. A cab drew up outside the restaurant. A man and a woman emerged. Gordon, breathing quickly, looked up at them. It was Mal and Linda. Mal was carrying a package under his arm. "Mal! What's the matter? Are you Ok?" "She's inside." "Who?" "I saw her come in. She- she knew me. She called me Gordon. She's here to turn us into a Slugs." "C'mon, Mal," said Linda. "We'll help you." "No," shouted Mal. "You go in, Linda, we'll be in a second." He shook Gordon. "Look. Gordon. Let's do it. If you want to, that is. I- I'll understand if you don't." "But, you saw- Camille and me..." "Did anything happen? I mean did anything really happen?" "No. Of course not. But, can you- will you-" "I want my life back. I want Camille back. Please." Mal held out his hand. Gordon took it. Mrs Maddox appeared next to them. She beamed. She turned to Gordon. "Crotchet, Gordon L?" Gordon nodded. "Lessiter, Malcolm V?" Malcolm nodded. Still holding hands, they braced themselves for slugdom. Mrs Maddox screwed up her face in a hideous snarl and shouted: "SKIZZIX! AGENT SKIZZIX!" A small dog turd by a lamppost answered. "Agent Skizzix reporting, Ma'am." "Well," said Mrs Maddox impatiently. "Get on with it, then." "Yeah, of course. Get on with it. But, you'll keep your promise, won't you? My old job back?" "Yes, yes," said Mrs Maddox impatiently. "But don't fuck this one up, or so help me I'll bust you back to primordial soup." The dog turd seemed to smile. "Okay, boys. You've got your wish. So long." Gordon looked at Mal. And it was Mal he saw. Mrs Maddox had vanished. The turd remained. Mal took the package from under Gordon's arm. "It's my birthday present to her. A boxed set of 'Sex in the City'". They went into the restaurant. The first thing they heard was Alice's voice, regaling the head waiter. "I'm sorry, but if you can't seat five, we shall be forced to take our custom elsewhere! And don't think that we'll pay for it either!" Alice took a giant gulp of wine and bit into a roll to ensure she got her money's worth. "I'm sorry Madam, but as you can see, we're fully booked..." The woman dining with the politician at the next table leaned over and whispered something to him that made him grin lasciviously. He quickly stood, asking for their coats. "Here," said the woman. "You can push this table next to theirs. Then they'll have enough room." She gave Gordon a big wink. Linda noticed. "Friend of yours?" "Never seen her before in my life." Mal whispered in his ear. "Yes you have. Last Thursday." "Oh. Last Thursday. She's the one-" "-you took for a test drive in your new car." Alice sat down. "What's this? New car, new haircut, a new lady friend? What have you done with my son Gordon?" "You know, Mum," said Gordon, studying the menu. I think I'll have the lobster soup. I'm starving." END