The Changeling

By Annette Siketa

'They adjourned to the dining room and sat in constrained silence. Try as he might, Bollard could not wipe the smile off his face. Fate - or so he believed, had delivered an enormous piece of luck that was ripe for exploitation. He now had such a hold on Fry that, should he order him to walk around Trafalgar Square with a duck on his head, he would have no choice but to comply'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annette Siketa
• Release date: Oct 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005554231

Annette Siketa

For those of you who have not yet made my acquaintance, my name is Annette Siketa, and I am totally blind. Were you aware that most blind and visually impaired people are extraordinarily perceptive? To sighted people, this ability must seem like ESP, and I suppose to a certain extent, it is. (I'm referring to the literal meaning of Extra Sensory Perception, not the spooky interpretation.) To compensate for the lack of vision, the brain and the other four senses become sharper, so that we can discern a smell or the identity of an object. I promise you there's no trickery involved. It's simply a matter of adapting the body to ‘think’ in another way.Being blind is no barrier to creativity. Like most things in this world, life is what you make of it, and after losing my sight due to an eye operation that went terribly wrong, I became a writer, and have now produced a wide variety of books and short stories, primarily of the ghost/supernatural/things that go bump in the night genre.So, how does a blind person write a book? On the practical side, I use a text-to-speech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use and navigate around a computer, including the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.comOn the creative side...well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what where & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before, even the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now is it?By this point you’re probably going bonkers with frustration – hee hee, welcome to my world! Do not remove the blindfold. Instead, allow your imagination to compensate for the lack of visualization, and this will give you an idea of how I create my stories. Oh, if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind.

Book preview

The Changeling

by Annette Siketa.

Copyright 2022 by Annette Siketa.

No part of this book may be reproduced or manipulated in any manner whatsoever, without the express permission of the author. All rights reserved. Please respect the authors’ rights. Only through honesty can the insidious practice of illegal copying be curbed.

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Contents

Chapter I. In Theory.

Chapter II. The Candidate.

Chapter III. A Question of Opportunity.

Chapter IV. Let Me Out!

Chapter V. A Bully Bested.

Chapter VI. The Butterfly.

Chapter VII. Revelation.

Chapter VIII. The Snooty Detective.

Chapter IX. Trouble & Strife.

Chapter X. Trapped.

Chapter XI. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Chapter XII. Truth, Lies, and Consequences.

Other Books & Freebies.

Chapter I. In Theory.

The crowd roared as 'Kid Horrigan' skipped forward , punched Tornado on the nose, and then strutted around the boxing ring as if he owned it. At over six feet tall and with shoulders like a bull, there was nothing kid-like about him. The epithet would have been more suited to his opponent, Tommy Tornado, whose short thin legs and knobbly knees were more suited to climbing trees.

Moving closer, Tommy put up his fists as if ready to resume the fight. You weren't supposed to do that, he hissed. It's not part of the deal. Clinches and short-jabs only.

Sorry, whispered Horrigan, but your nose keeps getting in the way. I'll buy you a pint at 'The Pig & Whistle' afterwards. Okay?

Nah. Not the 'pig'. Me missus drinks there, and if she thinks I'm getting something she ain't, she'll beat the living daylights out of me. Make it 'The White Swan' near London Bridge.

I know the barmaid. Very tasty if you know what I mean. Now, you'd better start moving around. The crowd is getting restless.

In Box B just beyond the ring, John Bollard stifled a yawn. If that little runt had any pep, he'd slip under the 'kid's' arm and give him an uppercut.

His companion, Anthony Fry, who had been studying the 'tornado's' footwork, or more accurately the lack thereof, smiled. He's already had several chances to flatten the 'kid'.

Bollard let out a bored sigh as he rolled his cigar to the other side of his mouth. And still five rounds to go.

I doubt he'll last that long, replied Anthony. To judge from the derisory jeers behind him, three young men shared his opinion.

Anthony Fry was forty-five, rather short, and always impeccably dressed. Even his pyjamas were monogrammed. At first glance, one might have thought him a surgeon or a clerk in the Foreign Office. In reality, he was the owner of the world-famous Fry's Liniment & Ointment Company, which he had inherited upon his father's death some fifteen years earlier.

Now semi-retired, he had a curious aversion to discussing the company unless absolutely necessary. Not that he was ashamed of people applying his products to chilblains, aching joints, and other parts of the body. Rather, he would have preferred that the founders had built-up the business from a less delicate source, such as developing chunks of the East End of London when it was little more than grassland.

Though always courteous in female company, he found women rather tiresome. He loathed false modesty and coquettishness, and had little time for 'social climbers'. He had never married and was content to remain a bachelor all his life.

By comparison, John Bollard exuded a confidence that bordered on arrogance. He was a few years younger than Fry and walked with a swagger that some might have called 'cocky'. He owned sheep stations in Australia, and whilst not the biggest importer of merino wool into England, he could certainly claim to be fourth or fifth.

He usually spoke volubly and laughed with a bark. Tonight however, he was in a rather subdued mood, for after only six months of marriage, his pretty young wife, Beatrice, had curtailed connubial bliss by visiting her sister for a month.

Though selfish to the core, Bollard had been unable to cope without her, and so he had packed a bag and ensconced himself in Fry's luxurious apartment at the Bachelor Hotel. Even the fight tickets, which on this occasion were as scarce as hen's teeth, and which Fry's butler, Wilkins, had obtained at great personal risk, did little to raise Bollard's spirits.

You know, said Fry thoughtfully, that little boxer typifies my theory of lost opportunity.

Bollard looked at him warily. It was not uncommon for his friend to promulgate radical, even abstract ideas. What theory?

"That the gap between success and failure is not always as wide as it seems. Failure does not necessarily imply ineptitude, or success a tremendous capability. We are all made of the same stuff. The problem is that most people fail to recognise when opportunity knocks.

If we could take a simple man and dangle an opportunity before him until he grasps it, it would teach him that the notion of failure is just a state of mind.

I don't agree, responded Bollard, lighting a fresh cigar.

Oh? Why not?

Because only the blind or the incredibly stupid would fail to see an opportunity - no matter how trivial.

My dear chap, history is littered with missed opportunities. What would have happened if Mary Queen of Scots had ignored the advice of the odious Bothwick? Why, we might be speaking Scottish and wearing kilts.

Not so. You are confusing chance with opportunity.

Fry's response was drowned out by a sudden roar from the crowd. Horrigan had slipped, crashed into Tornado's fist, reeled backwards for a moment, and then fell on his backside. Bollard and Fry jumped to their feet. One of the young men behind them berated the ointment king for blocking the view.

An old woman approached the ring and prodded the 'kid' with her umbrella. Get up! Get up you fat lump! I got my old man's beer money riding on you!

What did you say? asked Bollard, resuming his seat.

I think I'll conduct an experiment, answered Fry.

What kind of experiment? mused Bollard, watching the woman being dragged away.

To learn how many times an opportunity is presented before a person seizes it. But, we must find the right candidate.

Bollard suddenly awoke to the fact that he had missed something important. Candidate? he repeated.

Yes. Look at the people around us. Is it not representative of human kind?

Huh, more like the great unwashed.

"And yet every