Ben Cheetham - Blood Guilt

Over the next few days Harlan and Eve hardly spent a moment apart. They bathed together, ate together, slept together. She dragged him out to restaurants, to the cinema, even to an art gallery. It felt both unnerving and exhilarating to him, doing normal things as if he was a normal person. Sometimes in the middle of a meal or whatever, he’d find himself staring off into the distance with eyes that were adrift in a sea of guilt. At other times, he’d wake in the middle of the night, lathered in sweat, chest heaving, grinding his teeth, trying to push Eve away. But she wouldn’t let him. She’d hold him to her, stroking his hair, shushing him as if he was a child that needed calming, until his body relaxed back into the bed. Occasionally, when the guilt burned and bit so deep he felt like bashing his head against the wall, he’d shout, “This is wrong!”

To which Eve’s reply was always the same. “Love’s not wrong.”

Gradually, as days turned into weeks, normality started to feel less unnatural to Harlan. The attacks of guilt became more and more infrequent. He went a minute without thinking about what he’d done to Robert Reed and what was happening to the family that’d survived him, then five minutes, then fifteen, then half-an-hour. One day, as he and Eve sipped coffee in the cafe of a department store where they’d been shopping for cushions and curtains and other items to make the flat more homely, it suddenly struck him that he hadn’t felt even a twinge of guilt all day. He lowered his cup, his throat so tight he couldn’t swallow. “You’ve got that look on your face again,” said Eve, reaching for his hand.

Harlan flinched from her touch, jerking to his feet so hard he nearly knocked the table over. “I’ve got to get out of here.” His voice trembled with urgency. “I’ve got to get back to the flat right now.”

“Calm down, Harlan. Sit back down and let’s talk about this.”

Harlan shook his head, turning to leave. Gathering up the bags of shopping, Eve hurried after him, pausing to pay the bill, not waiting for her change. She caught up with him at the store’s entrance and gasped, “Wait! Slow down.”

Harlan ignored Eve. As if he was being pulled along by an invisible chain, he ran through the streets to his car. One image kept wrenching at him — Susan Reed hammering at the door of his flat, calling his name. Calling to him for help. When he got to the car, Eve was no longer behind him. He didn’t wait for her. He jumped into the car and accelerated tyres squealing out of the car-park. He drove back to his block of flats like a man possessed, and sprinted up all twelve flights of stairs. Breathing raggedly, he arrived at his floor fully expecting to see Susan stood at his door. She wasn’t there, of course.

Harlan’s shoulders sagged as though from unbearable weariness. Feet dragging, he entered the flat and crumpled onto the sofa. He sat with head hanging and eyes closed. Half-an-hour later, when Eve came into the flat, he looked at her and said, “I’m sorry.”

A faint, tender smile passed across Eve’s features. “There’s no need.” She sat down next to him and gently took hold of his wrist. “We’ll get through this. I promise you. We can get through anything as long as we’re together. Say it to me.”

Reluctantly, without much conviction, Harlan repeated Eve’s words. “Say it again and really mean it,” she said, placing her hands on either side of his face and holding his gaze with her own. He took breath and said it, and this time he felt the words in his heart and head, reassuring him, calming him.

They held each other for a while, then they set about preparing a meal. “You know what we should do,” said Eve. “We should get out of the city for a few days. Go to the east coast. You remember that little B amp;B we used to stay at?”

Harlan remembered, but he made no reply. The mere thought of leaving the city was almost enough to tip him back over into the seething storm of guilt.

“I know you’re not comfortable with the idea,” continued Eve, “but I really think it would do you the world of-” She broke off at a knock on the front door.

Harlan stiffened as though the sound frightened him. He looked towards the door, eyes standing out of their sockets.

“You want me to see who it is?” Eve tried to sound casual, but a note of unease crept into her voice, as though, despite her best efforts, she was starting to be infected by Harlan’s mood.

Harlan shook his head. He knew who it was. He knew it in his bones. His movements tense, he approached the door and opened it. And there she was, Susan Reed. She looked even thinner than she had done on the television, almost anorexically so. Her hair was greasy and uncombed. There were bluish smudges like bruises under her eyes. Her arms were hugged across her stomach as though she was in pain. For what seemed a long moment, she stared silently at Harlan, then she said, almost murmuring, “Can I come in?”

Catching a faint tang of alcohol on Susan’s breath, Harlan stepped aside. Warily, as if entering enemy territory, she moved past him. He bit back an urge to apologise as she paused at the kitchen door, looking at Eve, who’d turned noticeably paler under her makeup. Their faces set into hard masks, the two women faced each other a few seconds. A bitter little smile of understanding tugging at the corners of her mouth, Susan continued into the living-room. “Nice place you’ve got here,” she said without a hint of sarcasm.

This time Harlan couldn’t hold his apology in. “Sorry.” The word came out in a tortured whisper.

Susan made a contemptuous hissing noise, as if to say, yeah sure you are.

“What do you want?” Eve asked, her voice polite but cold.

Susan shot her a savage glance, as if she considered her presence to be some kind of betrayal. “I want to speak to your boyfriend or husband or whatever he is alone.”

Eve folded her arms. “Well you’re going to have to say what you’ve got to say in front of me, because I’m not going anywhere.” She turned to Harlan. “Am I?”

Harlan struggled to return Eve’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Eve, but I think you should leave. I’ll call you later.”

Eve stared at Harlan a moment, the hurt plain on her face. She leaned in close to him and her voice came in an aggrieved but concerned murmur. “Just remember what I said. You owe yourself. You owe us.” Then she snatched up her coat and handbag and left.

An uneasy silence descended between Harlan and Susan. He motioned for her to sit on the sofa, but she shook her head. “Do you want a cup of tea or something?” he asked. Again, she shook her head. She fidgeted with her hands, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for something.

At last, Susan began, “I need-” But she broke off, struggling to bring herself to say what was on her mind. Swallowing a breath, she forced herself to look Harlan in the eyes. “I need your help.”

“I’m willing to do anything I can to help you.”

“Do you mean that? You’ll really do anything.”

Susan’s voice carried an edge that made Harlan hesitate a second before nodding. “I just don’t see what I can do that the police aren’t already doing.”

“You can talk to William Jones.”

“What would be the point of that? The police obviously don’t think he’s involved.”

“Yeah, well they’re wrong,” Susan returned with a sneering scowl that mingled contempt with barely suppressed rage. “That fucker’s hiding something.”

“What makes you think that?”

“’Cos I saw him. I saw that sick pervert watching my Ethan and the other kids come out of school. And I saw him in the park with his paints and things, painting pictures of the kids in the playground.”