Blood Guilt

  BLOOD GUILT

  Ben Cheetham

  Copyright © Ben Cheetham 2011

  All Rights Reserved

  http://bencheetham.blogspot.com/

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  Prologue

  With cold, sweaty hands, Harlan Miller unconsciously reached into his pocket and pulled out his Marlboros. Shooting nervous glances all around the room, he withdrew one and moved it towards his mouth. It was a sterile-smelling room, furnished with a desk, a phone, three chairs, and a doctor’s examining-couch. On the walls hung some framed medical certificates, and a picture of a sperm wriggling its way into an egg with the words ‘It takes more than this to be a parent’ underneath. It wasn’t until Eve gave him a frowning look and hissed his name that Harlan noticed the cigarette. “Sorry,” he said, returning it to the packet. Managing a strained little smile, Eve reached to give his hand a squeeze.

  Harlan jerked around at the sound of someone entering the room. As soon as he saw the doctor’s face, he knew it was bad news. He’d always had a talent for reading people. It was part of what made him so good at his job. He had a sudden urge to jump up and run from the room. As if sensing this, Eve tightened her grip.

  The doctor sat down, looking first at Eve. “I’m afraid it’s good news, bad news time. The good news is, you have no fertility problems.” His gaze shifted to Harlan. “The bad news is, you have a very low sperm count and a high percentage of your viable sperm are abnormal.”

  A tightness rose in Harlan’s throat, giving his voice a husky edge. “What do you mean, abnormal?”

  “They have misshapen heads or tails, which severely reduces their chances of reaching the egg.”

  “So basically what you’re saying is I’m infertile.”

  “You’re not completely infertile, but as things stand you’re going to find it very difficult to conceive.”

  Harlan shook his head in stunned bewilderment. “But I never had a problem before.”

  “You’re thirty-five now. Fertility goes into decline after thirty.”

  “Is there anything he can do to improve his fertility?” asked Eve.

  The doctor started talking about diet, vitamins and exercise, but Harlan wasn’t listening. He was thinking about Thomas, about the way he’d looked the last time he saw him. He’d looked perfect, except his cheeks were very pale and the edge of a bruise was visible on his forehead by his hairline. It was a freak accident, a doctor had explained. Kids fall like that all the time. They usually walk away unharmed, or at least they walk away. Not Tom, though. Eve had told Harlan that Tom never even cried out when his head hit the ground. He’d just lain with closed eyes, motionless as a doll.

  The urge to leave came over Harlan again, stronger than before, irresistible. It pulled him to his feet, wrenching his hand out of Eve’s. “Harlan,” she called after him as he hurried from the room. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back, didn’t reply. Eve caught up with him on the steps of the clinic. “Wait. For Christ’s sake, wait! Where are you going?”

  Harlan avoided Eve’s eyes as if he had something to be ashamed of. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t stay in there any longer.” He took a shuddering breath. “Jesus, I can’t have children anymore.”

  “That’s not what the doctor said,” Eve gently pointed out. “He said it’d be difficult, not impossible. There’s still a chance.”

  “What chance? My sperm are crippled. How are you going to get pregnant if the little fuckers can’t even swim to the egg?”

  Eve tried to put her arms around Harlan. “Come back inside and talk to the doctor.”

  He shook his head, pulling away. “I just need some time alone.”

  For hours Harlan wandered the city’s streets. He bought a litre of Scotch and drank it like water. Somehow or other, he found his way to the playground where the accident had happened. He sat on a bench, zombie-eyed, just staring. He watched parents watching their children. That will never be me, he thought, and a sense of crushing loss almost as painful as when Thomas died hit him, wrenching a sob from his throat. Noticing that he was drawing glances from the people around him, he stood to leave. His mobile phone rang. Jim Monahan’s name flashed up on its screen. Harlan stared at his phone, trying to decide if he was up to taking the call. Probably not, he decided, but the pain was so intense he knew he’d better do something to distract himself from it.

  Taking a steadying breath, Harlan put the phone to his ear. “What’s up, Jim?”

  A voice roughened by years of smoking replied, “We’ve got a body. Man about thirty or thirty-five years old.”

  “Homicide?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where?”

  Jim told Harlan the address, and Harlan told Jim he’d be there as soon as possible. He left the park and hailed a taxi. It was a bright, cold afternoon, but during the drive dirty white clouds moved in, obscuring the sun. When the taxi arrived at the address, a uniform waved it to a stop. Harlan flashed his ID and the uniform stepped aside. The street was clogged with police vehicles. Another uniform stood at the end of a large detached house’s driveway. Forensic bods in white suits were visible through the house’s windows. Jim was waiting at the front door, wearing his usual alert but world-weary veteran’s expression. On seeing Harlan, he said matter-of-factly, “You look like shit.”

  “I’m fine. So, what’s the story?”

  “Married couple. Name Lee and Susan Burke. Mrs Burke says they were in bed having sex when–”

  “A married couple shagging on a weekday afternoon,” Harlan broke in doubtfully, following Jim into the house. Somewhere overhead a woman was sobbing hysterically.

  A crooked smile tugged at the corners of Jim’s mouth. “Yeah, I know. That’s what I thought too. Anyway, she says they were doing the business when they were disturbed by the sound of breaking glass downstairs. Mr Burke went to investigate while Mrs Burke phoned us.”

  Mr Burke was lying naked face down in the kitchen, limbs splayed like a dried starfish, his back a bloody latticework of cuts and stab wounds. Glass from a broken window was scattered over the lino and the corpse. The half-brick that’d been used to smash it lay against the foot of the opposite wall. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty…” a forensics guy was saying, as he counted the stab wounds. A raw breath of air that smelled of snow blew into the room and everybody shivered, except the dead man and Harlan. The whisky sloshing around inside his otherwise empty stomach insulated him from its touch.

  “She’s lying,” said Harlan, blearily studying the corpse.

  “What makes you think that?”

  With his foot, Harlan rolled the body onto its side. “Hey!” said the forensics guy. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Harlan ignored him. “There’s glass on and around the body, but not under it. Which means the window was smashed after he died. And which also means Mrs Burke is a lying, murdering bitch.”

  Harlan spoke loudly – loud enough for anyone within fifty feet to hear – with a harsh slur in his voice. When he finished, the house was silent. Everyone in the room – uniforms, forensic bods, photographer – stared at him. He lifted his eyes and called at the ceiling, “That’s right, lady, don’t waste your time blubbering. Call a lawyer because you’ll need one.”

  “Detective, can I speak to you outside,” said Jim.

  “Sure.”

  Somewhat unsteadily Harlan
stepped over the body, leaving a partial footprint in the blood pooled on the lino as he headed for the backdoor. Frowning, Jim followed him. “What the hell were you trying to do in there?” he demanded.

  “My job.”

  “Yeah, well you won’t have a job much longer if you keep this up. When word of this gets back to the DCI, you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t bring you up on disciplinary charges.”

  Harlan’s lips curled into a sneer. “Aw, fuck Garrett.”

  A few flakes of snow hung in the air. Several of them turned to droplets of water on Harlan’s bottle as he took a hit from it. “Jesus, Harlan,” said Jim, “put that away before someone sees it.”

  Harlan returned the bottle to his pocket, then started back towards the house.

  Jim placed his hand on his partner’s chest. “I can’t let you go back in there.”

  “Are you saying I’m not fit for duty?”

  “I don’t want to get into an argument. We’ll talk about this later.”

  “The fuck we will. We’re gonna talk about this right now.”

  “Look, Harlan,” sighed Jim, “I don’t know what’s going on with you today, but this isn’t the time or place to get into this. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go home and sleep this off and when you wake up you’re going to phone this number.” He scribbled down a number on a notepad, tore out the sheet and handed it to Harlan.

  “What’s this?”

  “The number of a therapist.”

  “A therapist.” Harlan said the word as if he had a nasty taste in his mouth. “What do I need a therapist for?”

  “Because Garrett might go easy on you if he knows you’re trying to get your head straightened out. Her name’s Linda Harris. She helped me get through my divorce.”

  Harlan stared at the number, forehead rutted into lines as deep as the sadness in his eyes. “There’s no getting through this, Jim.” Crumpling the sheet of paper into a ball and tossing it aside, he stepped around Jim.

  “Where are you going?” Jim asked, as Harlan headed down the side of the house.

  “Where do you think? Home.”

  “One of the uniforms will give you a lift.”

  “I’d rather walk.”

  Shoulders hunched, breath steaming the air, Harlan made his way along the street. Tears misted his eyes. He swiped them away savagely before they could fall. He finished his whisky in one long swallow, and the pain retreated to lurk like a stalker in the shadows at the back of his mind. He thought about the dead man. What was his name? Lee Burke. Yes, that was it. He’d got it in the back. No defensive wounds. Probably died instantly without pain. “You’re one of the lucky ones,” he murmured, as the snow came down in larger powdery flakes. By the time he got home, the pavement was white.

  Harlan stared at the house – a semi, nothing spectacular, a family home. He’d used to love its solid, suburban comfort, its large child-friendly gardens. Now he hated it for the same reasons.

  Heaving a breath, Harlan entered the house. He made his way upstairs, pulled down the loft ladder and climbed it. The box was in a far recess of the attic. His thoughts flashed back to the day he’d put it there. That day, like so many other days during the first year after Tom’s death, he’d spent hours in his son’s shrine of a bedroom, crying. Eventually, Eve had come into the room and said, “Enough is enough, Harlan, Tom’s gone and it was no one’s fault and there’s nothing we can do about it except get on with our lives.”

  Her words had felt like a betrayal. Harlan remembered how he’d bitten his lip to keep from speaking, afraid that if he opened his mouth all the things he’d wanted to say so many times before might come spilling out. Things that he knew were unfair, yet which he couldn’t help but think. Things like: you were his mother, you were supposed to be watching him, making sure he came to no harm. Things that, if voiced, would destroy what little was left of their relationship.

  “I love you, but you’re killing me,” Eve had continued. “If you carry on like this, it’ll be the end of us.”

  Harlan had known she meant it, and suddenly his anger had disappeared and panic had risen in him at the thought of losing the only thing left for him to love. “You’re right,” he’d said. “I’ve got to stop doing this.”

  That same day Harlan had cleared out Tom’s bedroom and taken down every photo of him in the house. “You don’t need to go that far,” Eve had said, shocked.

  “Yes I do,” he’d replied. “If I’m going to put this behind me, I can’t be surrounded by things that remind me of him.”

  So Harlan had pushed the memories down. Down and deep. He’d locked them away and swallowed the key, and for a while it’d worked. They’d got on with their lives, even trying for a baby. Trying and trying but not succeeding. After a year, Harlan had started to get scared. “Maybe we should see a doctor,” he’d suggested to Eve. She’d agreed.

  Harlan didn’t want to look inside the box, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself. With hands that would’ve trembled but for the alcohol flooding his veins, he pulled away the masking-tape and opened it. Thomas’s rosy-cheeked face beamed up at him from a photo-frame. He had Harlan’s intense dark eyes and thick brown hair, and Eve’s full lips and cute snub-nose.

  Harlan’s breath came out in a sudden gasp, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. The tears welled again. This time he couldn’t stop them. They fell onto the photo, onto Thomas’s favourite teddy-bear, onto his lucky pyjamas. He slumped forward, pressing his face into the box’s contents, inhaling deeply, smelling the remnants of his son. He was still in the same position an hour later when Eve poked her head into the attic. “Harlan?” she said.

  His mouth twitching with resentment, Harlan raised his tear-stained face to glare at Eve. His anger was almost tangible, filling the space between them like invisible tentacles ready to strike. “Go on, say it,” said Eve, her voice flat, emotionally drained. “Say what you’re thinking. It was my fault, right? I should’ve been watching him more closely.”

  “Yes!” The word came out in a loud hiss, like a release of pent up steam.

  They stared at each other. Harlan was struck suddenly by how much Eve’s face had changed since Tom’s death. Everything about it – skin, smile, eyes – had once been soft. There was no softness now. Her face was thinner, worn into hollows beneath the cheekbones, her eyes were sharp, and lately her mouth had assumed what seemed to be an almost permanently downturned position. She looked older – not old, but not young anymore either – and very tired. Like that day in Tom’s bedroom, the tentacles of Harlan’s anger suddenly withered and sucked back in on themselves. He made to speak, to apologise, but before he could do so Eve ducked out of sight. He hurried after her into their bedroom.

  “I’m sor–” Harlan started to say, but he broke off as Eve pulled a suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe. “What are you doing?”

  Eve didn’t reply. She started flinging clothes into the suitcase. When Harlan caught hold of her arm, she jerked around to glare at him with such implacable fury that he released her and took a step backward. She stormed past him into the bathroom, returning with an armful of cosmetics to dump into the suitcase. As she hauled the suitcase downstairs, Harlan said, “Please, Eve, don’t do this. I’m sorry. I should never have said what I did.”

  Eve paused at the front door, turning to Harlan. “Why not? It’s what you think, isn’t it?”

  He dropped his gaze from hers, his broad shoulders slumping like a defeated boxer’s. Sighing, Eve continued a shade more softly, “I should’ve done this months ago, but I stupidly kept telling myself there was still a chance we could make it in time. Now I know what you really think. And no amount of time will be enough to change that. It’s over, Harlan.”

  As Eve turned to head for her car, Harlan’s mind reeled with conflicting desires. Part of him desperately wanted to try and stop her. Another part told him to let her go. After all, whether or not she was right, what future did she have to look forwar
d to with him? Maybe in time he could come to terms with Tom’s death. But he’d always be sterile. And as far as he was concerned, a childless future was no future at all. No, better to let her go while she was still young enough to start a family with someone else.

  Harlan watched Eve get into her car, watched her pull away. Then he too left the house. He didn’t close the front door behind himself. He didn’t care if the place got ransacked and trashed. All he cared about was getting so drunk he’d forget everything, even his own name. The snow came down in swirling flurries, settling in a rapidly thickening layer on the ground. He almost slipped over several times on his way to the pub.

  It was a Friday, and despite the weather, the pub was busy. A large group of men and women occupied several tables in the centre of the bar. From their flushed faces and loud, laughing voices, it was clear they’d already knocked a good few back. As Harlan made his way past them, he tripped over an outstretched foot and staggered against a table, knocking over a glass of wine.

  “Fuckin’ watch it!” yelled a shaven-headed man about Harlan’s age, wearing a t-shirt that showed off bulging tattooed biceps. The kind of tough guy type Harlan used to deal with every day of the week when he was walking the beat.

  “Shit, I’m soaked through!” said a woman at the man’s side, springing up. She was a little younger, thirty or so, bottle-blond, a pretty face hidden behind too much makeup. White wine streamed down her figure-hugging dress. “Look at my dress, it’s ruined.”

  “Sorry,” said Harlan, taking out a handkerchief and proffering it her.

  Standing, the man slapped his hand away. “You trying to touch her up or something?”

  The man fixed Harlan with a practised hard stare. He was a couple inches taller than Harlan and more heavily built. But his muscles were running to fat, whereas Harlan’s were whipcord tight beneath his clothes – the result of a youth spent in sweaty boxing gyms. Harlan held his gaze, not aggressive, but letting him know he wasn’t about to be intimidated. The man blinked, obviously not used to someone standing up to him.