The Swap

by Antony Moore

  'No. But that is how you thought of her . . . as odd?'

  'Yes. She had a reputation, you know.'

  'A reputation?'

  'Yes. She was a bit . . . well, odd. She let men sleep with her, or so they said. I wouldn't know, of course, too young. But she didn't wash very much. She shouted at people in the street . . . ranted.' Harvey tried to put into words what Mrs Odd had been. She was just a part of local life really, to the point that he'd never really analysed what she represented. In a small town there were always people like that, weren't there? Strange, local legends really. 'I suppose she would have been a witch,' he said after a pause, 'in another time, I mean. Sort of crazy and very there, you know, always around, wandering about, wearing weird clothes, muttering. I can imagine her cursing wells or whatever in like medieval times, yeah? But in the 1980s she was just a bit . . . well, odd. A bit eerie. You didn't want to get too close to her in case she sort of infected you.' That didn't sound very good. 'I mean, now I'd be sympathic, right? But then you just wanted to keep clear of her really. And you kind of laughed at her.' And you would have done too, Mr High and Mighty Policeman.

  'Yes.' Jarvin nodded thoughtfully and Harvey felt the eyes change so that when he met them it was he who looked away. 'A very difficult sort of person to have for a mother.'

  'Yeah, yeah, I guess.' Harvey had always thought of his own mother as the most difficult sort to have, but he had to admit that maybe Bleeder's had the edge. 'I suppose now Blee . . . Charles would have gone into care or something. But then, he just sort of had to cope, kind of thing.'

  'And of course what friends he did have would be very important to him. I doubt he would have invited many to his house.' The look continued and Harvey smiled vaguely into the middle distance. 'So if you do remember anything about your visit to the house, it might be useful, Mr Briscow . . . Perhaps you could ring me if anything does come to mind . . .' He turned slightly to Allen who silently fished in his pocket and wrote a number on a card. The two men rose and moved to the door. Never had Harvey been happier to say goodbye.

  'Oh, and perhaps you could just let me have your parents' telephone number so I can tick them off my list.'

  'What? No!'

  'You'd rather I didn't call them?'

  'No, I said so. They'll be upset. I'll call them . . .'

  'Why would they be upset, Mr Briscow?'

  'Because they're not at ease with the police.' Harvey got creative. 'They are easily frightened, especially my father. You must let me ring them and explain. They're old, they are easily scared . . .' Where was all this coming from? Anything less like his parents and the unbridled joy they would feel at being involved in a murder inquiry was hard to imagine. He had a vision of his new parents, old and broken, cowering in their home, starting at sudden noises. If only life was really like that. 'I will ring them and check about what happened. Honestly.' If you will just fuck off I'll do it now.

  'All right and perhaps you'd ask them to ring me on that same number.' The piece of white card with the number had been placed in Harvey's hand and he was holding it up in front of him as if it was attached to the string of a kite.

  'Ring you. Well, I don't know. All right.' He could think of no reason to deny Jarvin this. As he had with Josh earlier, he now toyed with the idea of killing Jarvin and his assistant. It would certainly make things easier for a few minutes. But he looked at Allen and put the idea away: he was bloody enormous. The two men made their way out of the shop calling their valedictions. Harvey waved a vague hand, with a white card in it, and then ran back into the office and grabbed the phone.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Two customers shambled into the shop as Harvey began to dial and he frowned at them suspiciously. One thing he didn't need right now was trade. They were both familiar patrons, who he knew would spend a lot of time and very little money in his shop. He considered throwing them out but then decided it was easier simply to shut the door and leave them to it. Criminality was uncommon among comicbook fans: they all wanted to be on the side of righteousness.

  The number was engaged. Which was, when he thought about it, inevitable. What was it about parents that meant they could annoy you even when you were miles away, even without knowing they were doing it, unconsciously without any premeditation? Normally, when he rang, he prayed that the number would be engaged, and it never was. There was always that long set of rings, just so long that he began to believe that they might be out or away or dead or something, and then always, just as he was about to put the handset down and beam with relief, his mother would come on the line and in her little tiny voice, the one he didn't recognise, the one she saved for other people, would say 'Hello', as if she had never spoken on the telephone before and she might be punished for it. And he would grunt, 'Hi, Mum' and she would alter into someone quite different from that all-right-sounding little person, 'Harvey darling!' and they would be off on the first game, which was her trying to find out about his life and him trying to prevent her, which segued swiftly into the second game, which was her trying to keep things going even without any information to work with and him trying to bring things to a close without actually being rude. But now, of course, when he needed to speak to her she was busy with someone else. And, of course, she continued to be for some time. (It did not occur to him that his father might be using the telephone, his father was not good with telephones.) Josh would be returning with his bananas very soon, and this was a call that demanded privacy. The way Jarvin's voice had carried from the shop made Harvey wonder if he really was alone in the back room, especially if he started shouting, which in any call to his parents was a strong possibility. And also was Jarvin telling the truth? What if he already had his parents' number? It was in the book, for Christ's sake. What if he was just playing with Harvey, testing him out? What if he was the person engaging his mother? He redialled with renewed vigour, but the most irritating woman in the world continued to say 'The number you are calling is engaged, please hang up and try again.' He had been aware of a desire to kill this woman for some time, ever since she had first appeared unannounced on the normal beep beep noise that signalled an unattainable number. He hit redial every twenty seconds or so and got her each time, then about every third minute it struck him that he might have misdialled the first time and might even now be ringing a wrong number while his mother talked things over with Jarvin, so he dialled from scratch again. He was just beginning to wonder if his memory was playing tricks with him – was this really his parents' number at all? Perhaps he had just made it up from thin air – when it rang.

  'Hello?' Harvey's joy at finally getting through was instantly removed by the sound of his father's voice.

  'Dad, hi.' Where was his mother?

  'Harvey, don't ring us during the daytime, it costs a fortune. Ring after six o'clock.'

  'Yeah, OK, Dad, but . . . look, is Mum there?'

  'Why do you want her? Has there been a tragedy? Because if there hasn't I'm putting the phone down, it's sinful to waste money like this.'

  'Dad, shut up and get Mum, I need to ask her something.'

  'What?'

  Jesus Christ. 'I need to know her plans for your funeral. Just get her, will you?'

  'All right, but keep it short, boy. You can't be making that much money from that shop of yours . . .'

  Harvey listened to the sound of his own breathing, heavy and ragged in the handset, then heard distantly: 'It's your son. He's presumably won the pools and rung us to celebrate . . .' and his mother's chirrup of delight, 'Is it Harvey? Oh Donald, how lovely . . .' and then at last her voice on the line, 'Hello?' all questioning and full of expectation. Harvey briefly wondered what her mind had formed for itself in the time it took her to get to the phone. He so rarely rang during the day that presumably she was optimistic: he was getting married, that was the most likely. He'd got a job in a bank maybe second.

  'All right, Mum?' The impatience of ringing meant that he hadn't thought to plan the conversation.
He'd just have to wing it.

  'How are you, darling? Are you all right?' He could feel the worry and longing mingling in her voice. He shook his head and heard his voice take on its usual guarded tone.

  'Yeah, not bad. Just wondered if you were OK.'

  'I'm fine, we're both fine. It's lovely to hear from you . . .'

  How could that be a question? But it seemed that it was.

  'Yeah, just thought I'd give a ring to let you know I got home safe the other day, yeah?'

  'Yes, dear, that's kind of you.' Harvey could hear his mother's effort not to say, 'But you've not bothered before in the last twenty years.'

  'And er . . . I had the police round. Thought you'd want to know about that . . . have you spoken to them at all . . . ?' He couldn't think of any subtle way of introducing it.

  'The police! Donald, Harvey's had the police round.'

  'Well, there you are. Drugs, I suppose.' His father's voice came to Harvey as a distant presence, but approaching, and he pictured him moving through from the sitting room into the hall to listen in.

  'Actually, I was hoping for a quiet chat with you, Mum,' he said rather desperately.

  'Oh yes, dear . . . he wants a quiet chat, Donald. You'd better stay in case he needs your advice. Now, darling, what did they want? Was it about drugs? Because if it was, frankly I'm not surprised. I remember when you bought that T-shirt with a cannabis leaf on it from the beach shop. Your father took it back but we were both so worried and now, well—'

  'I was eleven, Mother, for Christ's sake. I thought it was a peace symbol, and anyway it was a T-shirt, not a crack pipe. Besides, it's not about drugs.'

  'It's not about drugs, Donald,' his mother translated.

  'Tell him it's better to tell the truth and get it over with. No point in lying.'

  Harvey literally wiggled with irritation. 'Fucking hell, Mum, how have you stood him all these years? What kind of mad world does he inhabit? Why would I ring up to lie? Why would I ring up at all? Why did I ring up at all? Jesus fucking wept.'

  'Language, Harvey. He says it's not about drugs, Donald.'

  'I know he does but what is it about, then? Has he been arrested for murdering Mrs Odd when he was down here? 'Cause if so he'll get no help from me.'

  Mrs Briscow was giggling, 'Your father says have you been arrested for murdering Mrs Odd, Harvey? Remember the old lady who was killed when you were here. You knew her son – now what was his name? What was his name, Donald? Charles, that's it. You knew him, Harvey, you must remember . . .'

  Harvey wondered if it was possible to commit suicide with a telephone handset. He attempted it by bashing it against the side of his temple several times.

  'Harvey? Harvey, what's that noise?'

  'Nothing, Mother, just the sound of a final nail entering a coffin . . .'

  'What, dear?'

  'Never mind. Look, it is sort of about the murder, yes.' He hurried on over the gasp and the sound of his mother passing on this information to his father. 'Because I knew Charles, the police wanted to know about what happened that day. It was Sunday and I remember what I did: I went for a walk in the morning and in the afternoon I was out again walking. I took the car for a bit, and then I was up in my room and then I went out for a drink, you remember?' Harvey was quite glad that he had never pursued the life of crime that he had sometimes fantasised for himself, he could sense a lack of aptitude, a certain amateurishness in his work.

  'Oh, but you didn't get back until quite late, darling, and we hoped you might stay in but you went out very late with your friends.' His mother clearly remembered very well.

  'OK, fine, but you remember I went for a walk that afternoon, yeah?'

  'Well, I remember you went for one in the morning, dear. And you came back for lunch and then you borrowed your father's car, didn't you, in the afternoon and I remember you came back very dirty and I had to wash your clothes for you, they were under your bed where they didn't belong. But I don't remember you ever saying where you'd been . . . Donald, Harvey wants to know if we remember where he went on Sunday, the police need to know.'

  'Why?' Harvey heard his father's voice close to the handset and suspected that he had been listening for himself.

  'Yes, why, Harvey? Why do they want to know?'

  Why do you bloody think, you stupid woman? 'It's just routine, they're checking on everyone who was at the reunion.'

  'They're checking on everyone at the reunion, Donald.'

  'Well, we can't give him an alibi if that's what he wants. He went out and he came back. That's all we can say. What he was doing I don't know. It seems a very long time to be out for a walk, anyone would think he didn't want to come home.'

  'Yes, Harvey, you were out a long time for just a walk. I wonder what you were doing all that time.' His mother was clearly trying to guess, really just as if he hadn't told her, as if he wasn't there at the end of the phoneline to ask. He shook his head more quickly and did the wiggle again.

  'Look, there's no need to wonder, I've just told you, I was walking. I just need you to tell the police that.'

  'You want us to tell the police? Oh Harvey, what have you done? Why on earth would the police want to ask us?'

  Oh Christ. 'I haven't done anything, that's the point, Mother. If I had done anything I wouldn't be ringing you . . .'

  'Oh, but the police don't need alibis for no reason, Harvey. You must have done something, mustn't you? He does need an alibi, Donald, the police are going to ring us.'

  'Well, he'll get no alibi from me. I'll not tell a lie to a policeman, nor to anyone else. He must take his medicine if he's done wrong, simple as that.'

  'Yes, your father's right, Harvey. If you've done wrong you must say so and tell the truth.'

  Harvey closed his eyes very tight and put his fist holding the telephone against his face for a moment. He could die here. He could die right here and then it would all go away.

  'I haven't done wrong, Mum. That's the whole point. I haven't done anything. I just need you to tell the police what I'm telling you, that I went out in the car and went walking in the afternoon. It's as simple as that.'

  'But why would they need to ask us unless you'd done something you shouldn't, Harvey? It doesn't make sense.' Harvey had pictured his parents in Nazi Germany more than once. He often felt that they had missed their calling.

  'Just tell them that, all right? I have to give you their number.' He still held the piece of white card in his hand and he looked at it now and found that it had been twisted and bent until it had torn. He read the number into the telephone while his mother flapped about and tried to find the pen that was beside the phone in plain view, so plain, in fact, that Harvey could see it in his mind's eye and direct her to it; and then dropped it on the floor and had to put the phone down while she got it and then his father got to it first and insisted she recite the number to him rather than writing it herself, and she said it wrong and then his father got it wrong so that by the end he was bellowing the number at the top of his voice, each digit separated by either a blasphemy or an obscenity, or in many cases, both. Finally she read it back in her 'I'm rather useless, aren't I?' voice, brought on by his own and his father's critical remarks about her notetaking, and, by unexpected intervention of grace, got it right.

  'Brilliant.' Harvey was literally sweating with effort. 'So ring him, his name is Chief Inspector Jarvin, J.A.R.V.I.N. No, I don't know what time he'll be there, just give him a bell and . . .' He paused for a moment. 'Look just between us, Mum, I wouldn't mention that evening, after I got back, you know me lying in my room and and you washing my clothes and stuff, I wouldn't mention all that if I was you. Just tell him I went for a walk and went up to my room and then went out for a drink. Stick to the facts, yeah?'

  'Yes all right, Harvey, don't worry, we can manage.'

  His mother was speaking with the forced competence she sometimes took on when she was offended at being treated like a fool. Harvey took note of this tone. 'I should ring h
im right away, Mother, OK? And try and get it right.'

  'Yes, dear, I'm quite sure I can handle that without any problem, thank you.'

  Harvey put the phone down and reopened the door to the shop. The two customers were still there, just as he had left them, and he drummed his fingers loudly on the counter until they were encouraged to go. The call hadn't gone as badly as he'd thought it would actually.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sunday was the day of rest for Harvey, although in truth most days were fairly restful, so Sunday was really the day of more rest than usual. It meant he had the chance to lie around his flat thinking and listening to the washing machine going round and round cleaning his one set of bedclothes in preparation for another testing week for them. It also meant he could catch up with his telephoning and stay in touch with his friends. So on this particular Sunday he rang various people including several of the old crowd, of whom he asked tentative and subtle questions about the reunion and was met with ribaldry regarding Maisie and hilarious reminiscences about the fight at Steve's house. After several of these he stopped shouting, had a shower and spent some time examining his stomach in the bathroom mirror. Because the mirror was at head height this involved standing on the toilet and leaning backwards. It was, he decided, after several moments' consideration, definitely larger than the last time he did this: about three Sundays ago. A resolution to lay off beer and to eat better in future was only slightly weakened by the memory that he had made exactly the same vow the last time.

  Sunday was also the day he sometimes rang his mother and the thought that he had already done it on Saturday and therefore didn't need to do it again was a warming and harmonising one. The fact that he wouldn't see Josh today was equally satisfying. Josh had returned with a large bunch of unhealthy-looking bananas and had proceeded to make custard on the gas ring; this had boiled over because the gas was set too high and the custard had spilled onto the floor. Josh had collected it carefully with a spoon and a piece of paper, returned it to the pan, and allowed the same thing to happen again. Harvey had taken the spoon from him and attempted to knock him on the head with it. Scalding custard had sprayed off the spoon and he had got some in his eye. He could still feel a slight pain in his right eye – the same one that he had been punched in – as he wandered around his flat. So not seeing Josh was all to the good.