Ben Cheetham - Blood Guilt

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.

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?”