The Swap - By Antony Moore Page 0,95
you want to talk, I mean, you know, no problem.' He was drinking fast, this really wasn't his territory. Is this how policemen did it? He felt more like some sort of amateur psychologist. Bleeder was sipping his peppermint cordial with every appearance of pleasure and made no immediate response. But then suddenly he stood up. Harvey, though unnerved, was also thrilled; he was leaving, thank Christ for that.
Bleeder looked down at him for a long moment and then said: 'I think we should walk too, don't you, H? I feel like I need to move, this is hard to talk about over a pub table.' He set off down the path and Harvey watched his arse with less enthusiasm. Bony butt, he thought. It was also Bleeder's round, of course. Harvey shook his head at this display of bad manners, threw his head back, poured the rest of his drink down his throat and got up. For a second his own arse entered his mind and he wondered how it would appear as he followed the path to the gate. He attempted a sexy wiggle, stumbled and almost fell over the pink toadstool. 'Ridiculous bloody thing,' he muttered and then sped up to catch Bleeder as he walked away down St Ives high street.
Chapter Thirty-three
They walked for a while back the way Harvey and Maisie had come that morning. Bleeder set a faster pace than Maisie and also he didn't hold his hand, so Harvey enjoyed it less and wished they could stop. However, he could see that discussing murder in the high street with numerous Cornish people – a type renowned for their inquisitiveness – milling about, was not really such a wise idea, so he followed meekly as Bleeder led them back towards the headland. Perhaps they could go in the hotel bar or something, find a quiet corner, get it over with. In truth, he'd have been happy to stay in the pub garden, have another beer, watch Bleeder go and order peppermint cordial in front of a room full of drunken comedians, that would have been fine. But he followed Bleeder's narrow arse and watched it make its slightly mincing journey through the busy streets and out onto the quieter, open road that led to the headland. There Bleeder paused and waited for Harvey to join him, then side by side they walked down through the gorse towards the waiting whale rocks.
'So the time has come for us to speak, H. I guess I always knew it would.' Bleeder had slowed now and Harvey, relieved, came to a full stop.
'Er, yeah, OK. It's good to talk.' Harvey put on an attempt at a cockney accent when he said this last sentence, remembering Bob Hoskins. He glanced ahead at the rocks and felt a warm glow of memory. He'd shagged up there.
'To speak about the past, both distant and recent. To talk it all through . . .' Bleeder's voice was fading in the breeze. 'To finally let it all out. It is something I have been doing in different ways for many years. I have had psychoanalysis, H. I have been through that process, and I have trusted it to bring me here, to this point where I can stand with someone I once knew, in a place where we grew up, and feel not anger, nor bitterness, but hope. Dare I say it, I can almost feel pity.' He looked at Harvey with an expression that did seem pitying and Harvey reached for his cigarettes. He hardly knew what to say. Psychoanalysis? Jesus, he knew Bleeder was mad. There followed a similar performance around lighting the cigarette although it didn't last as long as it had earlier because the wind had dropped and Harvey had got slightly better at it. Once he had taken a long drag to chase any hint of fresh country air from his lungs, he said: 'Er, yeah, OK, Charles, we can talk but I wouldn't get too many hopes up, yeah? I mean, I don't do that much of this, you know?' He gave a sort of laugh at the end in the hope that Bleeder would smile and they could maybe just have a bit of a joke instead, but Bleeder did not. He nodded in a way that Harvey found rather patronising and then turned to gaze into the distance.
'I suppose I should say that for a long time I hated you the most, H. More than