The Swap (17 page)

'You animal!' she said sweetly and then turned to test the water in the bath. She was, Harvey realised, far more at ease with this than he was. Which was unfair as he was the one who had been single and out there for the last . . . well . . . for ever really, and she was the one from the loveless marriage. He was meant slowly but firmly to show her what love could really be like now that she had left her evil husband. Instead, here she was unhooking her bra and letting it swing playfully from side to side, while he stood with his arms squarely folded over his belly, trying not to panic. He wasn't complaining, mind, it was just an observation.

In the end, she did lose her nerve and made him turn around while she stripped and when he looked again she was lying back under the foam with her hair up in a dishevelled bun, looking like one of those adverts for bathroom products at the back of the Sunday supplements, which Harvey always found it very hard to flick past.

'Shit, you're beautiful.' He reached for his belt and then paused to consider: which side to give her? Full frontal or his arse while he took his pants off? Tricky. But of course she was better at this: perhaps some people are just born good at sex, like with chess. She just put her head back against his pale green bath and closed her eyes with a long slow 'mmmm' of pleasure. She was a cat, he thought . . . only one that liked water . . . not a great image, but enough to calm him a little as he whipped his trousers off with panicked efficiency, tore off his pants, remembered at the last moment that he still had his socks on – that would have been an error – and tried desperately to decide how to get in. He went for the tap end. Not as romantic as snuggling in next to her but frankly he wasn't sure he'd fit. It's a fine line between eroticism and ludicrousness for most people and Harvey had found himself way too close to that line on a number of occasions. Once he was in she opened her eyes and looked at him with great sweetness. 'Look at us two,' she said softly, lifting a dappled foot and running it up Harvey's chest. He was glad of the bubbles because without them his penis would have appeared above the water, Jaws-like, rather earlier than was appropriate.

'Yeah, amazing.' Perhaps he'd leave the dialogue to her. He took the foot in his hands and kissed it, she squealed as he ran his tongue along the sole and a wave washed along from her end to his.

'I'm very ticklish, Harvey.'

'Are you?' He tested this claim by moving his hand from her foot up her leg, like silk in the soapy water. The back of her knee felt so soft and interesting to his fingers that he stopped there for a while and just stroked it gently, causing her to wriggle but not to squeal. He'd always liked legs; long or short, there were very few female legs that didn't stimulate his curiosity. He liked the funny knobbly bits of them, the ankle bones and the knees, the way they widened as you moved up them, the muscle lines that seemed to lead you, as if you were following some sort of map. If you looked closely at a woman's leg he believed it was possible to suggest that it was designed to lead you where you wanted to go. He explored her knee and then his hand followed the map of her body up the inside of her thigh and she closed her eyes and made a low very satisfactory sound.

There are some experiences in life that seem sent to haunt us and render us unhappy. Some because they are so terrible that they cannot be fully forgotten or left behind, others for the more bittersweet reason that they are so perfect we can never fully experience anything similar without drawing critical comparison. When Harvey awoke on Monday morning he knew that the previous night would, for him, forever be something he would strive to repeat, without any real likelihood of success. He woke early, needing to pee and with his mouth feeling as if it had been chemically corroded. In the bathroom, after the simple joy of a relieved bladder, he examined his mouth and found that his tongue was still purpled by the wine. Who drank this stuff, for Christ's sake? He fetched his toothbrush and scrubbed his tongue with it. But he did have to admit that the wine had been a help, in ways that beer might not have been. His penis, for all its cavalier behaviour earlier in the evening, had behaved itself when it mattered. They had stayed in the bath for a while, and he had had a bit of an explore. She was so soft. As he scrubbed now and spat purple liquid into the sink he thought about that: it had been like sliding his finger into warm butter. He snorted noisily at the crudity of this image and then stifled it, lest she hear him sniggering in the bathroom. Then they had both sat up and kissed and looked into each other's eyes for a while with their hands under water touching and exploring. It was very possibly the most erotic experience of his life. Was it better than the time he saw Jenny Butter-worth's knickers as she climbed over the stile when they were sixteen? Hard to judge really: it certainly went on a lot longer. Her hand discovered his penis, standing patiently to attention with a smile on its face. Returning the smile, she ran her fingers down it as if they'd been meeting like this for ages. Harvey, to his embarrassment, made a sort of whinnying noise as she did it. It wasn't a noise he had made before and it sounded almost pathetic with desire. It had been such a long time since he'd had any sort of sex and almost beyond memory since anyone had touched him with such tenderness. With a broadening smile she had slid forward a little so that their bodies could entwine, her face right against his and he could bring his hands up and run them foaming over her breasts. As he turned the toothbrush over and began to descale the roof of his mouth, he thought again of the sheer availability of her. He had wanted her since he first set eyes on her as she walked into the reunion, and while this wasn't in truth a very long time, an awful lot had happened since. Perhaps he had always wanted her. Perhaps she was meant to be his, destined. He spat again and imagined himself, not for the first time, on a silver surfboard crossing the infinite wastes of space. After a bit of fiddling about she had put one hand on his shoulder and, with her eyes never leaving his, had lifted herself up and forward and then slid downwards so that her knees were tucked outside his legs and his penis, directed by her other hand, slid neatly and perfectly inside her. He hadn't expected her to do this and it was so totally, electrically erotic that for a moment his penis considered simply exploding with emotion. Which is where the wine made up for its many disadvantages. With a final grimace at the mirror he made his way out and back to bed. But the thoughts in the bathroom had warmed him and stopped him feeling tired. So he woke her up.

'So, are we going to go?' They were sitting at his breakfast table and Harvey was wearing the slightly smug look of a fully satisfied man. He wouldn't previously have said that he owned a breakfast table because he always ate muffins and coffee on the train to work or sent Josh to McDonald's when he got there; except on Sundays when he allowed himself a fry-up at the local café, Sid's: not wanting to become too much of a health freak. And so breakfast had not entered his flat for many years. But it did so now and he was surprised by how easily such a major invasion could be carried out. It seemed a change into some past life, as if her presence had carried him back to another more innocent age before choc-chip muffins and lattés. There was bread and milk and tea and marmite and they laid all the elements out on the table exactly as if they were going to sit around and eat like grown-ups. They might even have had boiled eggs but didn't fancy it. But they could have done, that was the point. He had performed for her, he had satisfied her, he had fed her and he had entertained her in a tidy flat. As he sipped his tea, he did so with an air of almost complete complacency.

'Go?' he said.

'To Cornwall. Remember we spoke about it last night?' She had been sitting on his lap for a bit while the bread was toasting under the grill and he had wondered, as many men wonder, how women manage to smell so good first thing in the morning. But now she was sitting across from him and looking at him with eyes that seemed filled with a green warmth, as if she was radiating care and concern and support across the table.

'Oh yeah.' Of course, he was a murder suspect, he'd rather forgotten. 'Um, OK, but I think we should maybe plan it a bit, yeah? I mean, we can't go this morning – I've got a small delivery at the shop first thing. But we could go after lunch. Maybe stay the night and see Bleeder tomorrow. Why don't you come down to the shop about twelve and we'll go from there? What do you think?'

'You've got a delivery first thing this morning?'

'Yeah, so what?'

'Well, it's twenty past nine.'

So it was that Harvey arrived dishevelled and sweating at Inaction Comix. If he had had a car that worked at least there might have been some drama attached to a life-or-death race through the heaving streets; but by public transport he just got the same trains as usual only he swore and smoked more while he was waiting for them. But even all his efforts, including an heroic final run down Old Street from the tube to the shop were not enough and he arrived panting at ten thirty to find the delivery men gone and Josh standing looking very pleased with himself beside a large cardboard box. At least it wasn't Thursday. That was the only positive thought that Harvey could muster as he ignored his assistant's cheery greeting and stood, breathing hard and eyeing the box with a cold distaste.

'What have you bought?'

'All right, Harv? Good weekend?'

'What have you bought, Josh?'

'No problem opening up for you this morning, don't mention it.' The sarcasm was accompanied by an ingratiating smile, which rather spoiled its impact. Harvey was troubled by the smile. For, while most of the shop's merchandise arrived on a Thursday, the Monday van delivery was also important. Particularly significant was the fact that you could buy anything loose directly from the driver. This was how the shop got many of its more idiosyncratic items. The
South Park
keyrings that said 'you killed Kenny' in Spanish, for instance. Or the photobook of stills from the making of
Deep Throat
. These were items that Harvey liked to think gave the shop its specialness, its originality, that separated it from other comic shops. But there was one simple rule for these sorts of identity items: Josh was not allowed to buy them.

'I've told you if I'm not here, either ask them to wait or tell them to come back next week. Haven't I told you that, Josh?'

'You have.' Josh was beaming like a lighthouse.

'So what is in the box?'

'Bargain.'

'A bargain?'

'Yeah, you are going to flip.' Josh made no move to open the box and indeed was slowly backing behind the nearest comic rack.

'OK,' Harvey put his hands to his face for a moment and closed his eyes. 'Show me.' He slid the hands away.

Josh reached round the rack for the lid of the box with the air of a conjuror about to perform his greatest trick. Indeed, when he flung back the lid he even said: '
Voilà!
'

Inside were two thousand packs of Pokemon game cards.

'You won't believe what I paid for these, Harvey.' He chuckled with delight and then slipped quickly round the rack and ran for the door. 'Pokemon's coming back, Harv, we'll clean up.'

He just made it out and away down the street before Harvey could reach him. 'Bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard!' Harvey stalked back to the box, grabbed a handful of cards and hurled them into the air. Fucking Pokemon. All these years of resistance, of battle, of denial. And all that time like an insidious voice of temptation had been Josh: 'We need to move with the times, Harv'; 'We need to know what the kids want, Harv'; 'It's Japanese modern art, Harv.' And now he'd done it. One Monday morning and all Harvey's principles were shot to shit. And it was almost certainly a fait accompli. Josh would have paid cash for these. They always paid cash to the travellers who came on days other than Thursday. He'd have paid cash. Harvey leaned against the
Ninja Turtle
section and lit a cigarette. Then he walked through into the back room and unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk. The petty-cash box was at the bottom with the envelope containing the
Superman One
lying neatly on top of it. Had Josh opened it? It was hard to imagine Josh not opening a private letter. But Josh would also have been desperate to do the deal and get the salesman away before Harvey arrived. Harvey swore and smoked for a few moments. Surely even Josh would have mentioned it if he'd found a stolen copy of one of the rarest comics in the world in the bottom drawer? Relocking the drawer, Harvey sat for a while in his office, glad of the peace. Perhaps he should allow Josh to buy ludicrous things at great expense more often, then he might have some time to rest and to think. He had a cup of tea and thought about Maisie and wondered if she had got back to Croydon all right and whether she was now on her way to meet him. It was some time before he ambled rather aimlessly back into the shop again and he was startled to find he had a customer.

'Oh hello,' he said. He hadn't heard the door and he spoke more in surprise than in any desire to engage in conversation. The man, who had been leafing through the
Incredible Hulk
s, turned and grinned.

'Hello, Harvey.'

'Oh. All right?' Harvey said.

It was Jeff Cooper.

*

There was a long silence broken, for Harvey at least, only by the sound of a small, low fart of fear that escaped him as he stood rooted behind the counter. The last time he had seen this man was from a prone position as Jeff 's trainered foot connected with his stomach. Was this to be a repeat performance? Had Jeff returned to finish the murderous work that he had begun only one week ago? To Harvey's mind came the nightmare thought that things were moving in weekly cycles – Sundays: clean up; Mondays: get shitkicked. Fuck, what happened on Tuesdays? Before he could really work this new theory through, Jeff, who had been contemplating him as a cannibal might consider a missionary, now approached the counter and put both hands down flat on its grubby surface.

'Harvey Briscow,' he said and he smiled again. Harvey nodded nervously and attempted a grimace in return.

'Er, yeah,' he said, 'that's me.' Where was Josh? That was the question. Not that Josh would be any use in a fight but at least he might be a distraction, or at worst a witness. Would Jeff assault him in front of Josh? What if Harvey threatened to sue if he did? Jeff had done it in front of a whole party full of people in Cornwall . . . why hadn't Harvey sued him already? How did you sue people when they beat you up? He was sure he'd heard about it on television. His thoughts began to wander to afternoon advertisements for compensation lawyers, and to
Ally McBeal
, but Jeff 's voice dragged him back to the moment.

'And here I am. You and me, Harvey. Old friends reunited and with no need for a special website. You and me back together again.'

'Yeah, lovely.' Harvey was unsure that there was much to celebrate. He peered hopefully past Jeff 's visibly muscular shoulder in the unlikely fantasy that a customer might come in.

'Old friends, Harvey,' Jeff went on. 'Old friends who grew up together, went to school together. Old friends who meet for a reunion. Old friends who steal each other's wives, Harvey. Old friends, that's what we are.' Jeff was pausing between each line in frankly Pinteresque fashion.

Troubled by this rhetorical style, Harvey put his hand to his mouth for a moment. 'Look, Jeff . . .' His middle finger was under his nose and he noticed a pleasant aroma; he sniffed more closely and realised it was Jeff 's wife. 'Look . . .' He whipped the hand away. 'I think we need to discuss this. I mean, I haven't stolen anyone. I hardly know Mais . . . your wife. Yes, we were under a tree at the party but she was upset, I don't know what about, but I expect you do, and I put my arm round her. I shouldn't have but I did. The next thing I know you are going after me like Mike Tyson after a lamb kebab and I'm still bearing the scars.' He risked putting his hand up again – reasoning that Jeff was unlikely to vault the counter and sniff his finger – and indicated the still purpled patch round his right eye. He looked closely at Jeff and considered his options: run into the back room and lock the door was probably his best move, the counter being too high for him to jump and get out the front. But the office door was troublingly thin, even if he could lock it in time. Would Jeff break down a door? He looked again at the shoulder muscles and tried another smile. 'We are old friends, Jeff. You're right. And as such we shouldn't be fighting. We should talk. Look, would you like a cup of tea?' Once he was in the back room he could phone the police. How long would they take? Knowing this area it would be quicker to ring the undertaker direct. Jeff didn't move. He remained with his hands planted on the counter, spread unnaturally wide, neck forwards. He resembled a bird of some kind and Harvey filled the pause by speculating as to which breed. He had settled on an African vulture when Jeff spoke again.

'Who said anything about fighting, Harvey? Did you think I had come here to fight?' Some people can do melodrama and some can't. Harvey had never been much good at it and tended to mumble his lines, but Jeff was obviously a professional. He spoke with a clear and ringing menace that reminded Harvey of James Mason. There was just enough of the psychotic in the tone to make him return his hand to his face and bite at the skin around his thumbnail.