The Swap - By Antony Moore Page 0,101

of his youth, mysteriously absent in London, had returned to the night sky. They steered each other in somewhat haphazard style along the seafront where the roar of the surf seemed so like the call of home that for a second Harvey almost thought of relocating the superhero café and going back to his roots. This brought to mind a song and he sang it with Steve in enthusiastic if misguided harmony. They carolled American-style harmonies together and then stepped down from the roadway onto the sand and Steve fell over and Harvey fell over Steve and then they lay and smoked on the sand for a bit until Harvey realised that it was bloody freezing.

'Come on.' He roused his friend who was in danger of sleep and, cursing now and stumbling, they made their way along the road and up the hill towards his hotel.

'Igothisway.' Steve said it as one word and, slapping Harvey brutally across the shoulder blades, moved away into the deep darkness of a small country town in winter.

'Yeah, and I go that.' Harvey nodded, confident on that point, and set off towards the deeper black of Porthminster Point for a third time.

Whatever magic carries drunks homeward also works with hotels and it was only a short time later that Harvey, grimacing with the effort of simply staying upright, found his way into the revolving door of the Atlantic Rollers. Revolving doors are difficult things at the best of times and this one seemed designed to confuse. First it wouldn't go at all, then it went very quickly and Harvey found his nose pressed to the glass panelling. Trying to right himself only made it go faster and as it completed its journey Harvey shot out of it, as if finishing a running race. As a bolt of light he flew into the foyer, across the polished wood floor and collided, pinball-like, with the counter.

'Ow. Fuck.' He put both hands on the top and gasped for air. 'Shit.'

'Mr Briscow?' The voice made him jump so high that he almost cleared the counter, then, in terror, he peered over it to find a small, bald, disapproving man sitting behind it holding his key.

'Er, yeah, thanks.' Harvey took it in trembling fingers and prepared to push himself off from the counter in the direction of the stairs.

'There was a message left for you earlier, sir.' The man said 'sir' as he might say 'bastard' and Harvey bristled.

'Yes, what is it?' He spoke not unlike James Bond: Sean Connery or Pierce Brosnan definitely. Without a word, the man held out a piece of paper and Harvey took it with the air of one who often receives messages in hotels. He might have said 'Ah, this will be from M' or he might not, afterwards he couldn't remember. What he did do was make it to the stairs and up them out of sight before he tore the folded paper open and read the message.

Dear Harvey,

I have had a very long think about things and I have decided I must go to Jeff. Everything Mr Simes and Charles Odd have said only makes me think that I may have completely misunderstood so much that has happened to him – and to you. I need to talk it through with Jeff and find out how this affects us. So much has happened. So much seems different from how it was in London. I don't know what happened in the past, I don't know, but you do and you must work it through with Charles. I would stay with you if I could and try to help, but I really need to think too. The last few days have been amazing. Everything about them feels unreal, dream-like. I think you must go and talk to the police now. Jarvin will listen to you and he will believe you as I believe you. I will ring you soon: back at your shop perhaps. Please don't think too harshly of me, I'm just so confused. I'll speak to you very soon, my dear. Love Maisie.

It was a long time that Harvey stood in the dim light of the hallway staring at the neat swirls of girlish script in his hand, grunting audibly to himself, before stumbling, half blind, up into the massing intestines of the hotel to his room and falling into a dead and painful rest.

He read the note again in the morning but still it made no sort of sense. He'd told