The Swap - By Antony Moore Page 0,21

loud as he picked up the red-handled kitchen knife from where it lay beside the body and sat down on the bottom step to remove his bloodsoaked shoes. These he wrapped neatly in the T-shirt from around his neck. Then, walking carefully in his socks, he made his way back up the stairs. He gave one last look down as he stood on the little landing step. Had he erased all his prints? His head ached and his knees felt as though he had been praying for days. He nodded, he couldn't think of anywhere else that he had put his hands. He mounted the final flight of steps, switched off the light and padded carefully over the damp carpet and into the kitchen. There he emptied his bucket and washed it out. He rubbed the kitchen knife over and over with the duster and returned it to the plastic bag. Putting the sponge cleaner and the dusters in the bundle with his shoes he took off the rubber gloves and put them carefully back under the sink. Then he stepped out into the garden, pulling the door closed behind him using his T-shirt to hold the handle.

The night smelled of the country and of the sea. He stood for a moment in his socks, almost too weary to walk back into the nettles and prickles of the garden, and looked up. A faint blue still sat at the corners of the evening and the stars were dim as if politely waiting for this last vestige of day to fade before they made their entrance. He breathed deeply of the clean air and was about to step into the jungle when behind him he heard a sound, just faintly, of a door closing. So he didn't step into the jungle. He ran like fuck.

Chapter Nine

'Is that you, dear?' The voice seemed to come from a dream of another world, another life that he had once had.

'No, it's your secret lover.' His own voice, too, sounded uncanny.

His mother chirruped happily, 'Come and have a chat, Harvey. I'm just brewing a pot of tea.'

'Yeah, I'll be down in a minute.' He ran to the stairs. Denim jacket, buttoned over bare flesh, was not a suitable sight for his mother. Nor were his sodden socks. Nor was the bloody bundle he carried in his arms.

'Don't just disappear, will you, darling? We want to see you.'

'No, Mum, I'll just grab a quick shower.' That used to work.

'Oh good idea, love, I'll put the immersion on, although you may have to wait for it to heat up completely but if you're only in there for a few minutes you might be all right, I'm not sure if your father . . .'

Harvey left this nuisance to continue by itself and headed for his room. The bundle he put into a carrier bag and placed beside his bed. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. 'Jesus Fucking Christ,' he said very slowly. Carefully he removed the jacket and laid that on the floor. He took off his socks and put them in the carrier bag and then slid it under the bed. After a few moments he made his way to the bathroom and ran the shower. It was cold but he stood under it anyway and scrubbed himself, picking and picking at his fingernails. When he was clean he went back to the bedroom, shut the door and lit a cigarette: the first since the nightmare had begun. Never in human history had that particular mixture of carcinogenic material and nicotine tasted so good. He dragged the smoke into his lungs as if it was feeding him, as if it was nourishment. Eventually he moved to the chest of drawers and found another black T-shirt distinguishable from the first only to a trained expert in comic imagery, and got dressed.

'So, what have you been up to today? Nothing dodgy I hope.' His father was in jocular mood and Harvey was not sure that he could cope.

'No, just having a bit of a look around.'

'Well, yes, you've probably forgotten the place, you haven't been down for so long.'

'Mmm.' Harvey had the newspaper and was pretending to read it, but as usual with his father this didn't seem to reduce the unwanted conversational gambits.

'I hope you have left my car as you found it?' Harvey ignored this altogether so his father moved on to more general topics. 'Did