Ben Cheetham - Blood Guilt

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.

Harlan’s gaze returned to Kane. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions about the night Ethan was taken?”

“No,” said Kane, without taking his eyes from the screen. “But I dunno what I can tell you that I haven’t already told the cops.”

“Did the man who took Ethan sound like he was from around here?”

Kane shrugged. “He just sounded like a man.”

“Did you notice anything about him other than his voice?”

“Yeah, his wrists. They were really hairy.”

“Anything else? Did he smell of anything? Did his clothes or breath smell?”

“Yeah, he had this weird smell.”

“How do you mean, weird?”

Kane gave another shrug.

“Was it like cigarettes or alcohol?”

“I dunno what it was like, but it made my throat tickle. The cops got me to smell loads of different things. Paints and other stuff, but none of them had the smell I smelt.”

Harlan was about to inquire further about the smell, but his phone rang. He snatched it out, and a flush of adrenaline went through his veins when he saw Jim’s name. He pressed the phone to his ear. “Please tell me he’s talked.”

“He’s talked,” said Jim.

A hiss of relief escaped Harlan’s lips, drawing a curious look from Kane. “Thank fuck.”

“Before you go getting too excited, he hasn’t said anything about anything, he’s just agreed to cooperate with the line-up. We’re sending a car for the boy and his mother. It should be there soon.”

“I’ll let them know. Good work, Jim.”

“Don’t congratulate me. It was your idea to bring the old woman to see Nash. Besides, he’s still not opened up about Ethan or Jones.”

“But this is a start, and that’s a hell of a lot more than we had yesterday. We just need to find something to get the floodgates fully opened, then everything else will come pouring out. Maybe the line-up is that something.”

“Maybe. We’ll see. In the meantime, I’m gonna work on him some more. I’ll speak to you later.”

“What was that about?” Kane asked, as Harlan hung up.

Harlan told him. Kane’s tongue flicked at his lips, and a tightness came into his face. “There’s nothing to be scared of,” Harlan reassured him. “Nash won’t be able to see or hear you.”

“I ain’t fuckin’ scared of him. If he comes after me, I’ll batter the shit out of him,” Kane responded defensively, but his bravado rang as hollow as the tremor in his voice.

“I’d better go tell your mum.” Harlan hesitated to leave Kane alone with his fear. He wanted to say something more to reassure him, but he knew any such words would be flung back in his face. As if to prove how unconcerned he was, Kane nonchalantly resumed his game. “Thanks for talking to me,” said Harlan. The boy gave no sign of having heard. Harlan’s eyes strayed briefly to Ethan’s bed again, then he turned to make his way downstairs.

A strange pale look came over Susan’s face when she heard what was going to take place. Like Kane, there was fear in her expression, but it was tempered by an almost violent eagerness. “What do you think it means? Do you think he’s ready to spill his guts?”

“I don’t know,” said Harlan, not wanting to give false hope.

Susan lit a cigarette, and puffing intensely on it, began pacing the kitchen. At the sound of a car pulling up outside, she darted to the front window. “It’s a police car.” She lifted her head. “Kane, get down here.” A few seconds passed. No sound of movement came from upstairs. “What the hell’s he doing?” Susan ran to the bottom of the stairs. “Kane, get a bloody move on!”

“Take it easy on him,” said Harlan. “He acts tough, but he’s just a scared kid.”

“He’s scared? What about me? I’m going out of my fucking-” Susan broke off as Kane appeared and made his way downstairs with slow, reluctant steps. “Come on, come on,” she urged, thrusting his coat and trainers at him. He put them on and sloped after her, head hanging. She stepped out the front door, but he hesitated to follow. Her eyes swelled with frustration. “What the hell’s the matter with you? You understand what’s going on, don’t you?”

Kane nodded, without meeting his mother’s gaze.

“Then you know that every second you waste standing there may cost your brother his life. Now get in the car.”

Kane’s face crumpled as if he was about to cry, but he remained otherwise motionless.

“I said get in the fucking-” Susan caught her anger with a deep breath, before continuing firmly, but gently, “Please, Kane, do as I say.”

Kane glanced back at Harlan. “Will you come with us?”

For a second time that morning, Susan’s eyebrows lifted high. A little tremor of relief passed over Kane’s face as Harlan said, “Of course I will.” Avoiding Susan’s inquiring gaze, Harlan struggled into his shoes and followed Kane to the police car. The boy sat between him and Susan, nervously picking at his jeans, as the car drove blurringly fast to the edge of the city and beyond. Every once in a while, a voice crackled over the two-way radio, inquiring as to their location. Other than that and the driver’s response, the journey passed in silence. An hour and a half or so later, they pulled into a car park around the back of a police station on the outskirts of Manchester. Jim was waiting for them. He gave Harlan a surprised glance, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge him.

“This way, please.” Jim ushered Susan and Kane into the building. They made their way along a corridor to a room where DCI Garrett, DI Greenwood, DI Sheridan and several other detectives awaited them. A faint frown tugged Garrett’s brows at the sight of Harlan, but as his eyes moved to Susan a well-practiced smile of grave welcome chased it away. Slimy bastard, thought Harlan, approaching a two-way mirror, on the other side of which eight figures were lined up. All of them roughly Nash’s height and build. All of them wearing black balaclavas. They looked like a gang of terrorists.

Garrett held his hand out to Susan. She was slow to take it. “It’s good to see you again, Susan. And you, Kane. Has the procedure been explained to you?”

“No,” said Susan.

“It’s simple. One at a time, each of the men will approach the mirror and say, be quiet or I’ll kill you and your brother. All you have to do, Kane, is say if you recognise any of their voices.” Garrett gestured at the line-up. “We’re confident that one of those men is the man who took your brother, but-”