Ben Cheetham - Blood Guilt

Martin barked out a harsh laugh. “You must think I’m stupid. There’s no way in hell I’m putting this-” He broke off with a sharp exclamation as Neil lunged for the gun. The muzzle flashed, there was a concussive bang. Harlan felt the bullet go by his head. He staggered sideways, the smell of gun powder stinging his nostrils, ears ringing, momentarily dazzled. When his vision cleared after a few seconds, he saw that Neil and Martin were locked together. Martin’s free hand was pummelling Neil’s face with short, powerful punches. Neil had Martin pressed against a wall. Both his hands were on the gun, yanking at it, prising Martin’s fingers off the grip. As suddenly as they’d come together, the two men staggered apart. Only now, Neil was holding the gun. Gasping for breath, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, he pointed it at Martin.

“Don’t,” cried Martin, flinging up his hands.

“Don’t,” echoed Harlan. “You pull that trigger and your life’s over.”

Neil looked at Harlan. And when Harlan saw his eyes he knew what he was going to do.

“It already is. Tell Susan I’m sorry,” said Neil. Then he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His head snapped back. Fragments of skull, brain matter and clotted hair splattered across the wall, oozing down over Ethan’s drawings, making it look as if some kind of massacre had taken place. Neil briefly rocked on his heels, smoke trickling from the shattered remains of his mouth, before dropping the gun and pitching backward.

Harlan’s eyes darted between the gun and Martin. Martin’s eyes did the same. Harlan gave a slight shake of his head. For a moment, time seemed to hold its breath. Then both men went for the gun. Martin was faster. He snatched it up and brought its butt down on Harlan’s head. A corona of white light flashing over his vision, Harlan collapsed onto his face. He felt Martin press the gun against the back of his head. So this is it, he thought, this is how I die. “Don’t hurt the boy,” he said in a pained, ragged whisper. Hoping to buy some time, he added, “You can still go through with your plan.”

“How the fuck’s that possible?”

“I was lying about the police.”

“You mean they’re not outside.”

“They don’t know about any of this. No one else does.”

Martin mulled these words over for a few precious seconds. “So let me get this straight, all I have to do is kill you and I’m in the clear.”

“Or I could take Neil’s place as your partner. Think about it, I could tell the police I followed him here and found Ethan.” Harlan knew there was no logic in what he was saying, but every word kept him and, more importantly, Ethan alive another breath. “That way, I’d be able to claim the reward, then we could split it.”

“And what’s to stop you telling the coppers the truth once I don’t have my gun pointed at your head?”

“You have my word of honour.”

“Your word of honour.” Martin snorted with laughter. “Your word of fuckin’ honour! That’s classic, that is. Nice try, mate, but I’m afraid I’ll have to turn down your-” He was interrupted by a shrill female voice calling to him from the landing.

“Martin! Martin!”

Scowling, he bellowed back, “What the fuck do you want?”

“I saw some people creeping about outside. I think it’s the coppers.”

The scowl turned into taut-lipped grimace. Martin pressed the gun barrel even harder into Harlan’s head. “You fuckin’ lying bastard,” he hissed. “I ought to blow your fuckin’ brains out just for the hell of it.”

Harlan closed his eyes and pictured Tom — the dark eyes peering out from beneath a tousle of equally dark hair, the cute snub-nose and full, smiling lips. He saw him more clearly than he had done in years. So clearly he could almost reach out and touch him. A sense of calm stole over him. If this really was it, he was ready.

“Ach! You’re not fuckin’ worth it,” spat Martin.

Harlan felt him take the gun away. He heard him sprint out the room, slam the door and shoot the bolts. Before he had time to feel relief or anything else, he heard a low whimper from beside him. Twisting his head, he saw that Ethan was awake — awake and staring at Neil, eyes like huge marbles as they took in the destroyed face, the widening slick of blood. He could almost hear the hiss of the image branding itself on the boy’s brain. From somewhere he found the strength to rise, enfold Ethan in his arms and turn him away from the corpse. The boy whimpered again and struggled weakly, but he subsided into trembling stillness as Harlan stroked his hair, shushing him and soothing, “It’s okay, Ethan. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Like a mantra, he repeated the words, until he heard booted feet in the hallway. “In here,” he shouted.

The bolts clicked. The door jerked inwards. Two officers wearing bullet-proof vests and armed with pistols entered the room. “Show us your hands!” bellowed one of them.

Overcome by a sudden reluctance to let Ethan go, Harlan hesitated to do so. He knew it was illogical, but he had the feeling that he was the only one who could protect Ethan, the only one who could truly keep him safe.

“Do it now!”

Harlan held onto the boy.

A female detective appeared. “It’s okay, he’s with us,” she told the armed officers, ushering them out of the room. She turned to Harlan and said softly, “I need you to let go of Ethan. We have to get him…we have to get both of you to hospital.”

“Have you got Yates?” asked Harlan.

The detective nodded. “And his girlfriend. They gave themselves up without a fight.”

Harlan turned his head and murmured in Ethan’s ear, “Close your eyes.” He waited for Ethan to do so, before adding, “Promise me you’ll keep them closed until you’re a long way away from here.”

In a heartbreakingly small voice, Ethan said, “I promise.”

“Good boy.”

Harlan nodded at the detective. At a gesture from her, a uniform came to scoop up Ethan and carry him away. Harlan struggled to stand, but the detective held up a hand to stay him. “There are paramedics on their way up.”

Harlan slumped back onto the mattress. The detective looked dispassionately at Neil’s nearly faceless corpse. “Who’s he?”

“He’s nobody,” said Harlan. “Nobody at all.”

Harlan waved away the nurse when she offered him a newspaper. He wasn’t interested in what the media had to say about the personal histories of him, Neil Price or anyone else. And there was nothing they could tell him about the hard facts of the case that he didn’t already know. Jim had filled him in on the few details he’d been uncertain about. At first, after abducting Ethan, Yates had kept him gagged, bound, blindfolded and ear-muffled. In such a state of sensory deprivation, it was impossible for the boy to say where he’d been taken or how long he’d been held there for. All he knew was that every once in a while someone came to feed him food, liquids and tablets. At some point it seemed that, as Harlan suspected, he was moved to another place. Ethan had a vague, dreamlike memory of being lifted and carried. It was after that that he woke to find himself free of his bonds in the room where Harlan had found him. From then on, the man in the balaclava looked in on him once every day or two.

There were other details. Things Yates told the police that contradicted what Neil told Harlan — things like how the whole sorry caper was Neil’s idea from start to finish. But Harlan wasn’t concerned with the truth or falsity of such claims. That was for the police and courts. All he was concerned with now was tying up the loose ends of his present life — his non-life — and moving forward. He’d given Susan the closure she needed, now it was her turn to do the same for him