Blood Guilt Page 22

“Everyone lies sometimes.”

  “Yeah, sure, about small things. But not about things like that at a time like this.”

  “He was afraid of losing you.”

  Susan turned to Harlan, frowning. “What are you saying? That I should get back with him?” That same little quiver was in her voice.

  Harlan no longer had any suspicions about Neil. And looking into Susan’s sunken eyes, he could see she was desperately hoping he’d say yes. But he couldn’t bring himself to. The thought came to him that she deserved better than Neil. She deserved someone who could give her a future free from debt and worries about bailiffs coming knocking, a future where she wasn’t always just scraping by.

  Another thought rose to his mind: and who’s going to give her that, you?

  Maybe, he replied to it.

  And are you going to hold her through the night when all she can see is Ethan’s face? Are you going to be a father to Kane?

  Harlan didn’t need to think about the answers to those questions. He could never be there for them in that way, even if by some incredible stretch of improbability they’d have him. He thought back to when Tom was born. Eve had given up work. They’d just scraped by on his salary, but they were happy – happier, perhaps, than at any other time in their lives. He sighed. Maybe Neil was the right man for Susan. But then, who was he to say one way or the other? He gave a weak little shrug, dropping his eyes to his mug.

  Susan flinched at a knock on the front door. “Will you go see who it is? Don’t open the door. Just have a peep through the curtains.”

  Harlan crept into the living-room and did as she asked. It was Lewis Gunn. He returned to the kitchen and told Susan. The knock came again. She made no move to answer it. After a moment, she said, “Go see if he’s gone.”

  Again, Harlan peeped through the curtains. The preacher was walking away. “He’s gone.”

  “Thank fuck for that.” Pulling out another cigarette, Susan added a touch guiltily, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for everything Mr Gunn’s done, but…the thing is, I’m sick of listening to all his God bullshit. I keep wanting to say to him, what kind of fucking God would let this happen? How am I supposed to believe in a God like that?”

  “I remember thinking the same thing when Tom died.” The words were out before Harlan realised it. Straight away, he wished he hadn’t said them. He’d never really spoken about Tom’s death with anyone other than Eve. Not even Jim. Like Kane’s anger, his grief possessed him, and he possessed it. Part of him wanted – was desperate – to let go of it, but another part of him recoiled from anything that might cause him to do so.

  “Who’s Tom?”

  “He was my son.”

  “What happened?” Seeing the pained look that passed over Harlan’s face, Susan added, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  Harlan was silent a moment, then, almost whispering, as if he didn’t want to hear his own voice, he told Susan what’d happened. When he finished, he saw that she was looking at him with a new understanding on her ravaged face, as if what he’d said had completed a puzzle she’d been struggling to solve. “So you know how I feel,” she said with a softness he hadn’t heard before.

  “I know how it feels to lose a child. I don’t know how you feel, and I never want to find out.” Exhausted, more from talking about Tom than from his wound, Harlan lowered himself onto the sofa. “Do you mind if I close my eyes for a while?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Harlan slipped into an uneasy doze. He lay half-sleeping, half waking, drifting in and out of dreams he didn’t want to remember, thinking thoughts he didn’t want to think, cracking his eyelids every few minutes to check his phone. And with every time he saw that there were still no missed calls or new messages, a heaviness grew in his chest, until it seemed as if a concrete block was resting on it. The fingers of sunlight probing the curtains had been replaced by the cindery glow of streetlamps, when Susan’s raised voice brought him to full wakefulness. “How did you get this number?” she was saying. “No, I’m not fuckin’ interested...I don’t give a shit…Don’t fuckin’ ring here again.” She stamped into the living-room and slammed the phone back into its cradle. “Fucking bastard journalists,” she said to Harlan, her voice taking on that same edge of hysteria as earlier. “I’m going out of my fuckin’ head waiting to hear if my little boy’s dead or alive, and they’re calling me up for a fuckin’ quote.” She took out a cigarette and lighter. When the lighter wouldn’t ignite, she yelled, “Fuck,” and flung it across the room.

  Harlan retrieved the lighter, shook it and got the flame going. He held it out to Susan, and she sucked her cigarette into life. “Thanks,” she said, her voice a little calmer. As she smoked, Harlan took his next round of pills. Susan switched the telly on. The evening news was just beginning. Like a child watching a horror movie, she put her hand to her face and peered through her fingers. There was nothing new reported – the police were still searching the woods, still questioning an unnamed man. Susan switched the telly off and flung the remote aside. “Christ!” she groaned, her voice raw with emotion. “How much longer? How much longer?”

  Not much longer, thought Harlan, not if they’re going to find Ethan alive.

  Susan pressed her hands to her head as if to keep it from bursting. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  “You can take it,” Harlan said evenly. “You can take it because Kane needs you.”

  Susan took a breath and took hold of herself. She lit another cigarette, leaning back against the armchair, inhaling deeply. “Will you stay here tonight? I don’t want to be alone if…if they find anything.”

  Harlan nodded.

  “I’ll make you up a bed on the floor.”

  “The sofa will do me fine”

  “No it won’t. Not the state you’re in. There’s a fold-down mattress–” Susan broke off at a knock on the door, her eyes twitching with nerves. “Who the fuck’s that now?” she hissed in a low voice.

  The knock came again. It wasn’t like Lewis Gunn’s knock, it was loud and insistent. This time Neil’s voice accompanied it. “Susan it’s me,” he shouted. “I need to speak to you. Please let me in. I’m begging you. I just want a chance to explain everything.”

  Susan looked from the door to Harlan, as if seeking his permission to open it. He said nothing.

  “Please, Susan, please,” continued Neil. “I love you, and I love the kids. I’d never hurt any of you. You’ve got to believe me.”

  Susan rose to her feet, mouth working in mute uncertainty.

  “I’m so sorry, Susan.” There were tears in Neil’s voice now. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me. Please give me another chance.”

  She approached the door, put her hand on the handle, but didn’t lower it.

  “I won’t give up on us. You’re my life, Susan. I’d rather die than lose you. Do you hear me?”

  Susan pressed her forehead against the door, eyes closed.

  “I’d rather die, I’d rather die.” Neil’s words came in a sobbing murmur. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a car door clunking shut. Peering between the curtains, Harlan saw that Neil had got into his Volvo. The car began to pull away. Suddenly, Susan came to life, unlocking and opening the door, rushing out into the street. “Wait,” she called, but the car didn’t stop.

  She came back into the house, looking tentatively at Harlan. “What do you think I should do?”

  “I think it’s none of my business to say what I think,” he replied, returning to the sofa.

  “Christ, I hope he doesn’t do anything silly.” Susan sat down, but couldn’t keep still. “I want a drink. Do you want one?”

  “I probably shouldn’t, not with all the pills I’m on,” said Harlan, but it wasn’t the thought of the pills that made him hesitant, it was the memory of what’d happened the last time he’d drunk around Susan.

  “One won’t do you any harm. Come on, don’t make me drink alo
ne.”

  Harlan sighed. “Alright, just one.”

  “Is white wine okay with you?” Before Harlan could reply, she added, “It’ll have to be because that’s all there is.”

  Harlan shuddered involuntarily as, in a flash of remembrance, Robert Reeds words came back to him, I’ll have a lager, she’ll have a large white wine. Susan fetched two glasses of wine. The smell alone nauseated him, but he forced himself to swallow a mouthful. Susan drank quietly, her brow creased, seemingly grappling with some internal debate. Suddenly, as if she’d come to some decision, she gulped her glass empty, stood and returned the kitchen. There was the sound of glass clinking against glass as she poured herself a refill. Followed by the sound of tears bursting from her. Each low, racking sob jerked at Harlan’s heart. He considered going to her, but quickly decided against it. What would he do if he did? Hold her to him? Murmur reassurances into her ear? No. Those were things he couldn’t do. After several minutes, she stopped crying with a hitching breath. She returned to the living-room, her eyes dry, but red-rimmed and puffy. “Sorry,” she said.

  Harlan shook his head to indicate there was no need to be. They sat in silence, cradling their drinks. “Jesus,” Susan sighed, after a while. “How did my life get here?”

  How did my life get here? Harlan asked himself that same question almost every day. He’d had so many plans, so many things he was going to do with Eve and Tom. And now what did he have? Sweet-fuck-all, that’s what. For years he’d railed at the unfairness of life. And where had it got him? Here, that’s where. Here in this room, stuck up to his neck in a quicksand of guilt, where the more he struggled, the deeper he sank. So what was the answer? To just accept whatever life threw his way? The idea appalled him. Maybe there was no answer. Perhaps suffering was all there was left to life. Perhaps that was all there’d ever really been, even when he thought he was happy.

  Susan finished her drink and stood up. “I’ll fetch your bed.” She headed upstairs, returning a few minutes later with the mattress and an armful of bedding. She cleared a space on the floor and began to make up the bed.

  “Where’s your toilet?”

  “Upstairs. First door on your left.”

  Harlan slowly climbed the stairs, his stitches pulling with each step. As he reached the landing, a door to his right opened and Kane stepped out. He glared at Harlan a moment, his eyes like storm-clouds ready to burst. Then he jerked around and headed back into his room, slamming the door. Sighing, Harlan went into the bathroom. After emptying his bladder, he swilled the taste of the wine from his mouth at the sink. He opened the bathroom cabinet – deodorant, perfume, tooth-floss, Savlon, Valium. His gaze lingered briefly on the sleeping-pills, before he returned to the living-room. The bed was ready and waiting. Susan was sat at the kitchen table, refilling her glass. “Did you see Kane?” she asked.

  Harlan nodded.

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. Just went back to his room.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it? I mean, at least he didn’t take a swing at you or anything.”

  Harlan made a dubious little noise in his throat. He still had some faint bruises on his arms from the baseball bat attack. From the look in Kane’s eyes, Harlan suspected it was only a matter of time before he attempted a repeat performance. He yawned. The bed called to his tired body, but he hesitated to go to it, wondering if it was safe to leave Susan alone with her thoughts, the wine and the Valium. A thin smile curled the edges of her mouth. “Got to bed, and don’t worry, I’m not gonna do anything crazy,” she said, reading his mind.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Night. Call me if you need anything.”

  Harlan undressed stiffly and got under the duvet. He thought about the violence he’d seen lurking just under the surface of the Kane’s eyes. It worried him. But not enough to keep him awake. Not the way he felt. His eyelids came together like heavy curtains, snuffing out his consciousness.

  Something pried its way into Harlan’s mind – not a sound, but a feeling, a presence in the room. For a moment, he struggled against the glue of drug-aided sleep. His eyes rolled, his hands twitched across the duvet towards his face. The outline of a figure, faintly luminescent in the glow of the streetlamp, swam into focus. “Susan,” he said, slurring the word. But something – some crawling feeling of danger – told him it wasn’t her. He rubbed the blur from his eyes, revealing Kane. The deep, black pools of the boy’s eyes stared back at Harlan from the end of the bed. Tears glistened on his cheeks, but he made no sound of crying. His arms hung rigidly at his sides. Something he held in one hand caught the light. A blade! Harlan’s heart began to throb. He pushed up onto his elbows, grimacing as his stomach flexed. Kane moved the knife threateningly. Harlan dropped back onto the pillows. The knife returned to Kane’s side.

  For maybe thirty seconds, they faced each other silently. Harlan’s heart slowed to a steady thud. His voice was calm and clear, as he said, “Kill me. I won’t stop you. Go ahead, if that’s what you want. If you want to become like me.” He closed his eyes. He could hear the boy’s breathing, shallow and rapid. His own breath came slow and easy. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Kane had it in him to kill – he knew he did. Nor was it that he wanted to die. His desire to live, he realised suddenly, was stronger than it had been in years, maybe since Tom’s death. He merely felt that he owed Kane a chance to avenge his father’s death. And if he didn’t take it, if his anger and hatred didn’t consume him, then maybe their flame would begin to burn less fiercely.

  Another thirty seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. Harlan became aware that he couldn’t hear Kane’s breathing anymore. He opened his eyes. The boy was gone, like a ghost in a dream. A queasy, unreal feeling struck at him, as if maybe he was dreaming. But then he heard the creak of floorboards upstairs, and the feeling receded. Releasing a long breath, he let the curtains of sleep close over his eyes again.

  Chapter 19

  Harlan peeled back his bandage. The wound had seeped a little, probably from all the moving around he’d done the previous day. Susan’s lips formed a tight O. “Ow, that hurts just to look at.”

  He dabbed the track of stitches with wet cotton wool, followed by an antiseptic wipe. Then he applied fresh gauze and a bandage. After dropping the old dressings into the kitchen bin, he looked at his phone. He knew what he’d see – in the short time he’d been awake, he’d already checked it a dozen times – but felt compelled to do so anyway. No new calls or messages. “Come on, Jim,” he muttered. “Fucking call.” He felt better than the previous day. Stronger. More clear headed. Even after the incident with Kane, perhaps because of it, he’d slept the sleep of the dead. A sleep undisturbed by dreams or thoughts. As Susan turned strips of bacon in the pan, he lined up his pills on the table and began swallowing them one by one.

  “Kane,” Susan called upstairs. “Breakfast’s nearly ready. Are you coming down?”

  There was no reply. Susan gave Harlan a glance that said the silence was what she expected, but at that moment there came the sound of a door opening and footsteps descending the stairs. Her eyebrows lifted as Kane entered the kitchen, and without looking at her or Harlan, seated himself. She stared at him as if unsure whether to be puzzled or pleased by his presence. Eyes down, he sipped his tea and remained silent. She looked inquiringly at Harlan, as if he might know something about this development. He gave a slight shrug. Her expression unconvinced, she turned to scoop the bacon out of the pan. “There you go,” she said, placing a plate in front of Kane. “Nice and crispy. Just how you like it.”

  The boy gave a low grunt of thanks. After slicing some bread for Harlan’s bacon, Susan leant against the work-surface, smoking and watching her son eat. When he was finished, Kane took his plate to the sink. As he headed back upstairs, he flashed Harlan the briefest of glances. His face wore its usual scowl, but his eyes were shadowed with uncertainty, as though something inside him – something fundamental to his character – had been shaken.

>   “Well, well,” said Susan. “What was that all about?”

  Harlan gave another shrug.

  “Has something happened between you two?” persisted Susan.

  “No.” Harlan hated to lie to her, but neither did he want to risk upsetting the delicate balance of Kane’s mood. If he spilled about what’d happened, Susan would be upset and angry. Most probably, she would confront Kane. Maybe she would even change her mind about getting him psychological help. And perhaps she would be right to do so. But Harlan wanted to give the boy one more chance – a chance to deal with his hate internally, without having to go through the pain of therapy. He felt certain that last night had been some kind of turning point. Kane had faced the ultimate decision, and surely it’d made him realise what he was and what he wasn’t: he was a screwed up kid, but he wasn’t a killer. Of course, Harlan realised that if he was wrong it could cost him his life.

  “Well something’s happened,” said Susan, her forehead crinkling as she cast around her mind for what that ‘something’ might be. “Otherwise there’s no way in hell he’d have sat at that table with you.” She sighed. “I suppose I should be pleased. Perhaps he’s finally coming to realise, like I have, that hate always hurts the hater more than it does the hated.”

  Not always, thought Harlan. “Can I use your bathroom?”

  Susan waved her hand slightly, a preoccupied gesture that said, you don’t need to ask. Harlan headed upstairs. As he reached the landing, Kane opened his bedroom door. They faced each other silently, Harlan keeping his expression neutral, Kane still teetering on the edge of uncertainty. Finally, his voice reluctant and thick with guilt, as if he was betraying something or someone, the boy whispered, “So you haven’t told her?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s got enough on her plate right now. And besides, I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

  Kane’s mouth twitched, but no words came. He licked his lips agitatedly, then grunted – the same sound he’d made downstairs – and turned to go back into his room. This time, though, he didn’t close the door. He sat cross-legged on the threadbare carpet and began playing on a games console hooked up to a small television. Harlan’s gaze travelled the cramped bedroom, lingering on a mottled black damp patch above the window, before continuing to the bunk beds. The top one was a mess of crumpled sheets and magazines. The bottom one was made up with a faded duvet depicting some cartoon character or other. A few stuffed toys perched on its pillows, awaiting their owner’s return. Harlan felt a stab of sadness at the sight. It reminded him of the way he’d turned Tom’s bedroom into a shrine to a ghost. He wondered how long Susan would keep the bed like that if Ethan wasn’t found. The answer was as obvious as it was painful. The rest of her life. No body, no closure.