Ben Cheetham - Blood Guilt

Harlan returned to the sofa and finished his sandwich. There was a knock. Raising a hand to indicate Susan should stay put, Harlan answered the door. “Alright, mate,” said a rugged-faced man. “I’ve had a look at your roof and someone’s done a right bodge job. They’ve slapped a load of bitumen over your busted slates. I ain’t got nothin’ with me to fix it properly today, but I can put another coat of bitumen on it. That’ll keep you dry for a few days, until I can get back.”

Harlan glanced inquiringly at Susan. She nodded, and he said to the roofer, “Do it.”

Harlan sat listening to the roofer working and Susan busying herself in the kitchen, and trying not to listen to the remorseless ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. The faint acrid smell of bitumen mingled with the scent of whatever Susan was cooking, making him feel a touch queasy. Tick, tick, tick. The clock seemed to be getting louder with every passing second. The sound of it got inside him, reverberating along his bones, echoing in his skull. How much longer? How much longer would Nash hold out? How much longer could Ethan survive? Tick, tick, tick. Even in his weakened state, he fidgeted restlessly. He wanted to do something, even if that something was only scouring the streets for Ethan or handing out leaflets. But he knew he didn’t have the strength for it. All he had the strength to do was sit and wait and listen. Tick, tick, tick…

His mobile phone rang. He snatched it out. A number he didn’t recognise flashed up. Heart hammering, he answered it. “Mr Harlan Miller?” said an unfamiliar male voice.

“Yes.”

“My name’s Guy Farrell of C and G Solicitors. I’m calling on behalf of Jamie Sutton’s-”

“Get off the fucking line, and don’t tie this phone up again. You hear?” Without waiting for a reply, Harlan hung up.

“Who was that?” asked Susan, poking her worry-lined face into the room.

“No one important.”

Harlan closed his eyes, massaging his temples. The details of Ethan’s abduction and everything that’d happened since reeled through his brain, like a movie on endless repeat. Occasionally he pressed pause to examine some minutiae or other, trying to figure out if it was the piece that would solve the puzzle. The piece that would deliver Ethan to him. But the solution remained maddeningly elusive. He felt as helpless and impotent as when Tom died. It made him want to shout, to scream, to weep. Tick, tick, tick. His fingers dug painfully into his temples. His eyes snapped open at a knock on the front door. He rose to answer it.

“All done,” said the roofer. He started to bang on about prices and materials, but his words barely registered on Harlan’s brain. He just kept nodding, until the man turned and got into his van.

Susan called Harlan and Kane to the kitchen. Relieved to get away from the clock, Harlan mechanically shovelled pasta down his throat without tasting it. Kane ate as if he were in a trance. He answered with only the slightest of nods when Harlan asked if he’d emptied out the pan. Once his plate was empty, he rose without asking permission to leave the table, and returned upstairs. Susan didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t seem to care. She wiped and re-wiped the work-surfaces, rubbing almost frantically at invisible stains. Harlan watched her, knowing what was coming. She stopped suddenly, and her head dropped onto her arms on the work-surface. Her shoulders quaked in time to her muffled sobs. Harlan rose and put his hand on her back. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, willing her the strength to go on. Her head jerked up at a knock on the door.

“I’ll go see who it is,” said Harlan. Peering through the living-room curtains, he saw the dishevelled figure of Neil. “Persistent son-of-a-bitch,” he murmured, with a wry smile of appreciation.

“Who is it?” Susan hissed from the opposite doorway.

Before Harlan could say, Neil’s voice rang out as if in answer. “Susan, it’s me. I know you’re in there and…and I know you still have feelings for me. If I’m wrong, tell me and I’ll leave you alone.”

No you won’t, thought Harlan.

“Please, Susan. I just want to talk. Just give me five minutes. Five minutes for everything we’ve been through together. That’s all I ask.”

Susan moved slowly towards the door, as if Neil’s words were reeling her in.

“I told you I won’t give up on us. Not until you-” Neil broke off as Susan opened the door. His mouth worked silently, as if all the words he wanted to say to her were blocking each other’s way in their desperation to get out. “T…thank you,” he managed to stammer. The look of almost pathetic gratitude written across his face faded as he noticed Harlan. In its place, jealousy vied with nervous hostility. “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s stopping me from going out of my fucking mind, that’s what,” Susan said sharply. “Actually, you know what, to hell with this.” She started to shut the door, but Neil jammed his foot against it.

“I’m sorry, Susie. It’s just that I was surprised to see him. I didn’t think you’d ever let him in your house.”

“Neither did I, but things change.”

“Take your foot out of the door,” Harlan said to Neil.

“It’s okay,” said Susan, reaching for her coat. “I’m going out. I shouldn’t be long. If anyone phones-”

“I’ll call you straight away.” Harlan gave Neil a hard look of warning. The younger man’s eyes dropped away from his. Neil held his hand out for Susan, but she walked past him without taking it. Like an eager puppy, he trotted after her.

Harlan lay on the sofa. There was no sound from upstairs. The house was silent, except for the ticking of the clock. The painkillers were wearing off, but he didn’t reach for more. Instead, he focused on the pain, using it to deaden his psychological agony. Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. The daylight began to drop, but still Susan didn’t return. Whatever Neil was saying, she was obviously listening. A piercing scream clawed the throat of the silence. Heart lurching, Harlan jerked to his feet. An electric shock of pain almost sent him reeling back onto the sofa. Clutching his wound, he climbed the stairs as fast as his leaden legs could manage. Another scream rang out as he entered Kane’s bedroom. The boy was laid fully clothed on his bed, eyes closed, face contorted in terror. A sheen of sweat glistened on his flushed face. Harlan shook him gently. “Kane.”

“I saw him,” Kane gasped, half-sitting up, eyes popping wide. “I saw him at the window.”

“Saw who?”

“That man from the line-up.”

“No you didn’t, you were dreaming. It was only a nightmare.”

Harlan’s words smoothed the lines of fear from Kane’s face. He dropped back onto his pillows. Harlan’s nose wrinkled at the room’s warm, mildewy air. He moved to open the window. A tang of bitumen wafted in on the cool breeze. “Are you okay now?”

Kane nodded. “Where’s my mum?”

“She had to go out. She’ll be back soon. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

Harlan headed for the kitchen and a glass of water. He swallowed his pills, then sat perfectly still, waiting for them to kick in. Another half an hour ticked by. A new kernel of worry began to form in his mind. Where the hell was Susan? He was about to reach for his phone to find out, when Kane rushed into the room and exclaimed, “I know who it is.”

“What do you mean, you know who it is?”

Kane’s words tumbled out in a breathless rush. “He’s the man I saw at my bedroom window.”

“You had another dream.”

Kane shook his head frantically. “I don’t mean now. I saw him there ages and ages ago. He came to fix our roof.”