Finders Keepers

Ohmigod, Ohmigod, oh no, oh no, this can’t be happening, not here, not now. She closed her eyes and concentrated fiercely. I don’t care about Margaret, she means nothing to me, I feel nothing for her.

But it was no use. She could feel it happening. And when she opened her eyes, she could feel a fringe tickling her forehead and she was looking through thick tortoiseshell frames. She was looking through someone else’s eyes. Margaret’s eyes.

Nobody else had noticed. Their eyes were still closed, but it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d been watching her. This had happened before and no one had been aware, except her.

Actually, there was one other person whose eyes were open. The person who looked like Amanda. Who wasn’t even really a person, just some sort of automatic fake-Amanda, programmed to act like her. Flesh and blood, but more like a robot than a human being.

‘Your mother has to go now, Margaret,’ the medium said. ‘But she’ll come back another time to talk to you again. Do you have anything to say before she leaves?’

There was a silence. It took Amanda a few seconds before she realized she had to respond for Margaret.

‘Uh. bye.’

‘She is gone,’ Cassandra said.‘And I’m afraid there are no other spirits waiting to speak with us tonight. But do not despair. This is just the beginning. The spirits have been called, and they will respond. We will meet again on Monday evening.’

Amanda-Margaret rose quickly. She had to let Ken know what had happened to her. But that woman Dahlia clamped a hand on her arm.

‘You poor dear, I feel so sorry for you. Why don’t we go out and have a nice cocktail together?’

‘Sorry, no — I can’t,’Amanda said, pulling free with some effort. She turned — and saw Ken with Other- Amanda, walking out the door. She took off after them, and ran out of the apartment. only to see the lift doors closing behind them. Frantically, she looked for the stairs. She flew down the four flights, but when she arrived at the hallway she was greeted by an open lift, with no one inside.

She went outside, with absolutely no idea where she was going. Her heart — Margaret’s heart — was pounding furiously, and she took deep breaths to keep her rising panic under control. She heard voices behind her and hurried around to the side of the apartment building, where no one would see her. She had to collect her thoughts, work out what she was going to do.

She found a bench and sat down. That was when she realized that Margaret’s handbag was still slung across her chest. She opened it and found a wallet. Inside the wallet there was a driver’s licence. In the dark the photo wasn’t clear, but she could make out a name — Margaret Robinson — and an address. There were keys in the bag too. So Margaret probably came here in a car. but there were more than a dozen cars parked on either side of this street. How would she know which one was Margaret’s?

And what did it matter even if she could identify Margaret’s car? Amanda didn’t know how to drive.

She explored the pockets in the wallet. Well, that was a relief — there had to be at least fifty dollars in it. She had an address, keys, and money for a taxi. So at least she could get home.

She walked down to the first major street and flagged down a taxi. Giving the driver the address she’d found, she leaned back in the seat and considered her situation. So, now she had become a depressed and badly dressed woman living a sad and lonely life. Why couldn’t she ever snatch the body of someone cool?

At least Margaret didn’t live in a dump. The taxi pulled up in front of a modern building in a decent part of town. Amanda paid the driver and got out. One of the keys unlocked the front door, and she found the name Robinson on one of the postboxes in the hall. Noting the apartment number, she took the lift up to the third floor.

In the seance, Margaret had talked about being so alone. That meant she probably didn’t have flatmates. That was good — Amanda wouldn’t have to start communicating like Margaret straight away. Another key opened the apartment door. Feeling along the wall, she located a light switch and pushed it.

She was pleasantly surprised by what she saw. She’d imagined Margaret living in a place that looked as depressing as she did. But this apartment was very nice. It wasn’t a grand, fancy place, but it was modern, well- furnished, and even trendy. There were hanging plants, a colourful rug on the floor, pictures on the walls. A big framed poster from a rock concert hung over the sofa. Funny — Margaret hadn’t seemed like the kind of person who went to rock concerts. There was a framed photograph on an end table, showing five good-looking people in their twenties on what looked like a tropical beach. Friends of Margaret’s? But then why was she so lonely?

Amanda moved into what she thought would be a bedroom. She was right, and once again, it was a stylish room. There was a bright blue and white duvet on the big four-poster bed, big fluffy pillows, and a large white dressing table with a matching chest of drawers. A huge full-length mirror was on the wall, and there was a big walk-in wardrobe. That got Amanda’s full attention. She went inside, switched on the light and gasped. Margaret had clothes, and lots of them. On a wall were shelves covered with shoes. Checking things out, Amanda could see that the clothes and shoes weren’t the best brands. Most were from discount stores that sold cheaper versions of the hot new looks, but the things she found were a lot better looking than the awful baggy sweater and wrinkled skirt she had on now.

Why was Margaret wearing this? Just because she was in mourning for her mother? It seemed to Amanda that you didn’t have to dress like an old bag lady just to show you were sad about your mother’s death.

She wandered over to the mirror and examined herself. Taking off the glasses, she found her reflection disturbing. Not just because Margaret was so drab — it was something else. That pasty skin — it didn’t look natural. She rubbed Margaret’s cheek, and then looked at her hand. It was stained with white powdery stuff. Peering closer at her reflection, she saw a spot of normal-looking skin on the cheek.

Hurrying into the bathroom, she took a washcloth and scrubbed her face. More powder came off, and more real skin was visible. It wasn’t just ordinary skin either. Margaret had a nice golden tan! Why had she covered it? Maybe she thought it would look wrong to have a tan so soon after her mother’s death.

It wasn’t just puzzlement that made Amanda scratch her head. It had been itching for a while now, and after scratching harder, she realized why. Margaret was wearing a wig.

This was getting weirder and weirder. When Amanda lifted the wig off, Margaret’s own hair turned out to be a much nicer shade of light brown with some blonde streaks — the kind that must have been put in by a good hairdresser. The hair had been flattened down by the wig, but once Amanda poked at it with a comb for a while, she could see that Margaret had a cute laye red bob. And when she took off the baggy skirt and sweater, she discovered that Margaret had a good figure too.

Rummaging in Margaret’s chest of drawers, she found skinny jeans and a tight-fitting top. A box on top of the dressing table contained lots of makeup, all good brands. She applied eyeliner, mascara, a little blusher and a rose-pink lipstick. Then she stepped back from the mirror and examined herself again.

Margaret was cute! If she’d looked like this at the seance Amanda would never have felt so sorry for her, not even with her sad story. Well, OK, she might have felt a little sorry for her because her mother had died, but not so much that she’d do a body-snatch.

She went back into the living room and looked at the photo on the end table again. Now she recognized Margaret as one of the attractive young people on the beach. That was probably where she’d got her tan. She took the wallet out of Margaret’s bag and examined the driver’s licence again. She could see the photo clearly now, and Margaret looked pretty much like Amanda had just made her look. So Amanda hadn’t given her a makeover — this was how Margaret normally dressed. Exploring further, she found a couple of credit cards in the wallet too.

It dawned on her that it might not be so awful being Margaret Robinson for a little while. She wouldn’t mind living in this apartment. And she was twenty-five years old! She could go to clubs and hang out in places that would never let a fourteen-year-old in.

And there was something else — if she remained in this body up to Monday, robot-Amanda would have the operation in her place! Yes, there was a lot about this situation that could work to her advantage.

A phone rang. It sounded like a mobile, so she dived back into Margaret’s handbag.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Margie, it’s me.’ The voice was a woman’s.

Amanda tried to sound casual. ‘Oh, hi. How are you?’

‘Fine. Well, burning up, actually. It’s ninety-nine degrees here, and our air conditioner’s broken.’