Ben Cheetham - Blood Guilt

His gaze travelled blankly around the cramped segregation cell where he’d been kept for his own protection since word somehow got out that he used to be a copper. Four, three, even two years ago, his sharply chiselled features would’ve assumed an expression of disgust verging on hatred, as he took in the drearily oppressive walls, the barred window with its plastic curtains, the stark fluorescent light, the small television, and the stainless steel integrated toilet and sink unit. But at some point — he couldn’t remember exactly when — a kind of resigned acceptance had kicked in. Just do the time and let everything else go, he’d told himself. Only he hadn’t been able to let everything else go. Each night at lights out, he’d focused on the continuous din of his fellow inmates calling to one another, vainly trying to stay in the here-and-now. But his mind was stuck in a loop, constantly being drawn back to the moment of drunken rage when he’d deprived a wife of her husband, and two young boys of their father — he’d found out at the trial that the man he killed had two sons, aged four and eight. At the time, he’d become so filled with self-hatred that he contemplated suicide. Even now, thinking about it made him unconsciously clench his hand and pummel it into his thigh.

A guard opened the windowless steel door and wordlessly motioned for Harlan to follow him. They made their way along a corridor lined with cells to a heavily barred door. Several more corridors and barred doors brought them to the reception area, where after having his ID verified and signing a bundle of forms, he was handed his street-clothes, his personal belongings, an envelope from the housing advisor, forty quid and a travel voucher. After getting changed, he was escorted to the outer door. And then, suddenly, he was outside in the car-park. He stood there a moment with the cod-medieval battlements of HM Prison Leeds looming behind him, just breathing in the morning air and feeling the sun on his face.

“Harlan!”

Harlan blinked in surprise at the sound of his name being shouted. He wasn’t expecting anybody to be waiting to meet him. Recognising the deep, smoke-roughened voice, he looked in the direction it’d come from and saw Jim Monahan approaching. Jim hadn’t changed, except maybe he’d gained a few pounds. “Jim, what are you doing here?”

“What do you think? I wasn’t about to let you walk out of here alone.”

“But how did you know I was getting out today?”

“Eve told me. She was going to come herself, but she didn’t think you’d want to see her.”

“She was right. Me and Eve, we’re the past, and wallowing in the past wouldn’t do either of us any good.” Harlan’s voice was full of conviction, but a vague flicker of disappointment showed in his eyes. From inside the prison came the muffled clang of a door closing. A shudder passed through Harlan. “Where are you parked?” Jim pointed and Harlan started towards the car.

After they’d driven a couple of streets and the prison had been blocked from view, Harlan asked, “So how is she?”

“She sounds good.” Jim gave him a hesitating glance. “You know she’s living with someone?”

A sudden deep ache filled Harlan’s chest. “I do now. That’s good. I’m glad. Glad she’s happy and getting on with her life.” Even in his own ears, his voice sounded too controlled to pass as natural. The policeman in him would’ve characterised it as revealingly unrevealing. For the first time in years, he found himself wanting a smoke. “You got a cigarette?”

Jim handed Harlan a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He sparked up and leaned his head against the head-rest, gazing out the window. The streets looked grubby and unwelcoming; the buildings drab and depressing. People were rushing around, each caught up in their own little world, their faces as cheerless as their surroundings. He sighed. “Some shit never changes.”

“So where do you want to go?”

“The housing advisor sorted me out a flat.” Harlan took a sheet of paper out of the envelope and showed Jim the address.

Jim frowned. “Bankwood House, Callow Mount. That’s a shithole of a tower-block in a shithole neighbourhood.”

“Yeah, well you should’ve seen my last place.”

“Tell you what, why don’t you doss down at my place? Just until you’ve had a chance to find your feet.”

“What about Garrett? He’s not gonna be impressed if he finds out you’re associating with an ex-con.”

Jim grinned. “Aw, fuck him.”

“Thanks for the offer, but it wouldn’t be fair on you. Besides, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t be around that right now.”

“Around what?”

“Y’know, police talk.”

“Oh right, so I’m the past too, am I?”

Harlan made no reply. They headed out of Leeds, following the signposts for Sheffield. Jim made a couple of attempts at small-talk, but when Harlan’s responses were brief or non-existent, he gave up and they rode in silence. An hour or so later, they pulled into the car-park of a tower-block, one of a cluster of six clad in various shades of green and brown, like towering trees of concrete and steel. A gang of sullen youths, all bling, white trainers, tracksuits and baseball caps loitered against a graffiti-tagged wall. In the centre of the car-park a stripped car squatted on its wheelless axles.

“Well, here we are,” said Jim. “Home sweet home.”

Harlan collected his few belongings from the backseat. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem. You want me to come up with you?”

“I think I’d rather be alone right now.” Harlan managed a smile. “Besides, from the looks of those kids, leave your car here and you’ll be lucky if it’s still got wheels when you get back.”

“Listen, Harlan, I know you feel you need to make a clean break, but if you change your mind about my offer, or if you just want go out for a drink, or whatever, give me a call.”

“I will. See you, Jim.”

As Harlan headed into the stairwell, the youths cast knowing glances at his sallow, sun-starved face and the prison-issue plastic bag that contained everything he owned. He caught the lift to the twelfth floor. The first thing that struck him on entering his flat was the acrid stink of cleaning chemicals. Behind which lurked a faint tang of something else, something coppery sweet. He knew what the smell meant. Someone had recently died in the flat, and their body had lain undiscovered long enough to begin decomposing. He made a quick tour of his new home: whitewashed walls; cheap, thin carpets; a bedroom with a bed and bare mattress; a tiny kitchen; an equally tiny, windowless bathroom; a living-room with a hard-looking sofa, a fold-up table and two chairs. He opened a grimy, weather-stained window as wide as it would go, then pulled a chair over to sit in the current of air. He thought of Eve living with someone else. Loving someone else. And again an ache filled his chest. “Let it go,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Let it go, let it go…”

Harlan quickly settled into a routine that left little time for reflection. Seven nights a week, at eight o’clock he started work at the warehouse where his parole officer had found him a job loading and unloading delivery vehicles. It was long hours of arduous, mind deadening work, but that was fine with him. He slept — more often than not with the help of a Valium — from seven in the morning till two in the afternoon. That left six hours until his next shift. Those empty hours were the most difficult. Sat in his flat with only the sound of the wind shrieking against the windows for company, time seemed to stretch out like an elastic band before him. So he took to walking the streets, but that didn’t stop him from thinking, didn’t stop his mind from endlessly looping back. A feeling was growing in him. He tried to ignore it, but as the weeks drifted by it strengthened almost to a compulsion. He had to find the woman. He had to see her. Not speak to her, just see her, see how she was doing.