I Married My Sister

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. It was Karma!

"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 fucking phone, because she wan't there. She was sitting on the Northern Line train, with a hurriedly-packed suitcase between her legs, and a hamster cage on her lap. She and the hamster were on her way to stay with her 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. TOOK WILFRED. I WILL BE BACK FOR MY OTHER STUFF LATER."

Mal 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 paid little attention to Gordon, seeing him as just another corporate nonentity, a 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 Gordon's sister Camille. She seemed perfect for him: Like her brother, she was weak-willed and easily manipulated. Plus she had a great bod. And being a married man would be a distinct advantage if Mal wanted to make Managing Director within five years. But within a few months of their wedding, he'd found that the hassle of marriage had outweighed its career advantages.

So Male had 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 knew what had finally spurred the indecisive Camille into action. It was because Mal had fired her brother last week. It was nothing personal, Silverman Brothers needed to cull the dead wood, and Gordon was dead wood, brother-in-law or no.

Mal 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 Dancing on Ice, and the latest Harry and Megan revelation.

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-in-law, 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, called Malcolm Lessiter. He's-"

"- my brother-in-law. And my boss. Or he was until he fired me last week. Yes. Yes. I know. If I'd have known I was going to get his body, and not just his assertiveness, I'd have chosen someone else, believe me. Well, you better swap us back, then, hadn't you?"

"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 call. 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'? Bollocks: you're just worried that you'll lose your job over this."

"Look, I'll level with ya. I'm pretty 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."

"No, there's good news there: 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. You should go on home, you couldn't handle being Malcom Lessiter right now at work. Tell you what, I'll drive. Just put your hands on the wheel."

Gordon remembered little of the journey home.

Gordon 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." Gordon 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."

Gordon burped, and found that she was right. Funny, he couldn't normally stand Chicken Jalfrezi.

Then he remembered: He wasn't Gordon, he was now Mal. Or at least his body was Mal's. He sat up quickly.

"Look, I better go," he said.

"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 fitter 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 decided to save his sister from that asshole. The details of how he'd go about it were somewhat fuzzy, admittedly, but he was determined to do something improve his kid sister's well-being while he had the opportunity.

"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 Thai meals." Gordon 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."

Gordon 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. You know, fuckday." She patted his bulging crotch playfully.

Gordon stood up quickly and faced away from her, he noticed the giant TV screen. That might distract her.

He picked up the TV remote. There were a lot of buttons.

"C'mon, don't you want a little make-up sex?"

Gordon stabbed at buttons on the remote frantically, but the TV screen stayed blank. "It's wrong. I mean I don't think we should."

Suddenly the TV came to life. It was tuned to a porn channel, with the volume at full blast. Loud grunts and squeals filled the room, and Gordon stared transfixed at a huge pair of jiggling, shiny tits. Then the camera panned down to show a slippery hairless pussy sliding up and down over a veined, rock-hard porn-sized dick.

Gordon spun 180 degrees round to avoid the sight. His hard-on poked out of his underpants.

"It's almost as big as yours, isn't it, Mal," Camille giggled.

Gordon 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! She's right! 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. That saved the day: Camille told him not to worry, it was probably food poisoning from the Chicken Jalfrezi. She led him back to bed, and tucked him in. She brought him hot water and some pills, 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 hadn't known Camille she was a little kid, so he couldn't say anything.

Gordon felt sleep coming over him again. With a yawn he asked, "are you pissed off with me for firing Gordon last week?"

"Not really, Mal. I don't think Gord was happy there. He was a bit lost there frankly. You probably did him a favour, gave him a kick up the arse. 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 three hundred-"

The manager stopped, looked around, continued in a whisper:

"-three hundred thousand pounds in cash? Surely you can see-"

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!