Blood Guilt (37 page)

“I could never hurt
Ethan,” Neil retorted fervently.

“No, what I think you
mean is, you haven’t got the balls to hurt Ethan yourself. That’s why you
needed Yates. You needed him to kill Ethan.” Violent twitches pulled at Neil’s
face, twisting one side of it like a stroke victim, as Harlan continued, “What
were you planning to do? Feed Yates some bullshit about the police being onto
him and panic him into killing the boy? But you didn’t even have the nerve to
make that call, did you? At least, not until I backed you into a corner.”

Neil slammed his foot
on the break, throwing Harlan against the dashboard. Both him and the tyres
screamed in protest. Gasping in the stink of burning rubber, he clutched his
wound. Something was bulging out of it, hard and bulbous. Too winded to speak,
he twisted towards Neil, expecting him to make a run for it. But Neil was
crumpled against the steering-wheel, tears coursing down his cheeks. “I love
her,” he sobbed through clenched teeth. “I love her more than my own life. I
told her that, and she chucked it back in my face, said she didn’t feel the
same way. Said she was sorry. Sorry!” He spat the word out like vomit. “She
didn’t love me. She pitied me. Do you know how that feels? To be pitied by
someone you’ve offered everything you have? Of course you fucking don’t.” He
ground his head against the wheel, groaning, “What was I supposed to do? What
was I supposed to do?”

You were supposed to
try and convince her she was making a mistake
.
And if that
didn’t work, you were supposed to cry, shout and beg, maybe even threaten to
kill yourself
.
But you weren’t supposed to do this, you pathetic little
fuck
. That was what Harlan wanted to say, but there was no time, and
besides he didn’t have enough breath in his lungs for it. “Take me to Ethan.”
Neil was too deep in self-pity to hear Harlan’s hoarse voice. Trembling with
the effort, he grabbed Neil’s ear and yanked him upright. “I said take me to
Ethan.”

Neil winced, but made
no attempt to remove Harlan’s hand. “He’s in there.” He pointed at a boarded up
window on the second floor of a scaffolding-encased block of flats that
appeared to be largely uninhabited. All the neighbouring windows were also as
dark as the night sky, except for the flickering bluish glow of a TV coming
from the flat below. “Looks like Paula’s in.”

“What about Yates?”

“I can’t see his car.
It could be parked around back.”

“Get out.”

“Aren’t you going to
wait for the police? Martin used to box. He’s a bit slow on the uptake, but
he’s fast with his fists. You’re in no fit state to–”

“Shut up and do as I
say.”

Neil got out of the
car. Grimacing, Harlan did likewise. His body felt heavy as a sack of coal.
Neil was right, he was in no fit state, but he couldn’t take the risk that harm
might come to Ethan while he waited out here. Leaning on the car, he limped
around to the boot and opened it. “Now get in there.”

Neil shook his head.

Harlan put the knife to
Neil’s throat. “Fucking do it.”

Neil’s tongue flicked
nervously across his lips, but he held his ground. “You need my help to get into
the flat. I know where the key’s hidden.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ll show you. Look,
we’re wasting time. Martin might be up there right now, wondering what’s going
on and what to do with Ethan.”

For a tense moment, the
two men looked at each other. Knowing he didn’t have the strength to force Neil
to do as he demanded, Harlan gestured at the flats with his knife. “Move.” As
they approached them, he held onto Neil’s arm, more for support than to prevent
Neil from making a break for it. He caught a glimpse through a crack in some
curtains of a woman he assumed to be Paula. She was slumped low in an armchair,
sipping from a can of lager, eyes vacantly staring from under a fringe of
peroxide blond hair, black at the roots. She looked thirtyish, but it was
difficult to tell with all the makeup pasted on her face. Her heavy-set body
was squeezed into pink leggings and a matching vest-top. A Celtic band tattoo
encircled one fleshy bicep. There was no anxiety in her face, no sign that
Martin had told her about Neil’s silent phone call. Drawing hope from this,
Harlan hurried past the window into a gloomy, piss-stinking stairwell.

When they reached the
second floor landing, which was lighted only by the glow of the streetlights,
Harlan leant heavily against a wall, struggling to find his breath. Neil
approached a door, felt above its frame and found a key. Harlan held out his
hand and Neil handed over the key. Harlan raised a finger to his lips. As
quietly as possible, he unlocked and opened the door. A faint damp smell wafted
out. The hallway was almost pitch-black. He stood listening for a few seconds.
Not a sound. He tried a light-switch, and wasn’t surprised when nothing
happened. Neil nudged him and pointed to a torch on the floor. That decided him
– Yates wasn’t there. He picked up the torch and switched it on. Its pale beam
illuminated a dingy blue carpet and matching wallpaper, which was peeling away
in places. There were two closed doors in the right wall. A third door stood a
few inches ajar at the far end of the hallway.

“Which room?” whispered
Harlan.

Neil shrugged. “This is
the first time I’ve been here.”

Pushing Neil ahead of
him, Harlan approached the first door. It opened onto a tiny room with bare
floorboards and mould-studded white walls. Several bulging black bin liners
were piled in one corner. What looked like bed sheets stained with excrement
and vomit had spilled out of one of them. Just inside the door was a chest of
drawers with no drawers. Brown medicine bottles and silver blister packs
cluttered its surface. Harlan read their labels. Blackcurrant flavoured Codeine
Linctus, Diazepam and Traveleeze travel sickness tablets. He glanced darkly at
Neil. “You’ve been drugging him.”

“Not enough to hurt
him, just enough to keep him subdued. I know what dose to give from working at
the hospital.”

“They don’t give
Diazepam to kids.”

Neil blinked away from
Harlan’s hard, condemning eyes. With the tip of his knife, Harlan prodded Neil
towards the second door. When he saw the drawn bolts that’d been crudely fitted
to the top and bottom of the door, his heart began to pound. He quickly
unlocked them. The first thing he saw as he opened the door was the drawings.
The lower portion of the room’s walls was covered in colourful childish
pictures of houses, vehicles, trees, people, animals and cartoon characters.
‘Mummy’ ‘Kane’ and ‘Ethan’ was written above the heads of three figures holding
hands. Against the opposite wall, underneath a window that’d been boarded up
from the inside as well as the outside, stood a bucket containing a stinking
stew of piss and shit. The sight yanked Harlan’s mind back to the dungeon where
Jamie Sutton had been held, and he felt a dark tide of rage and revulsion
rising. It surged up his throat like choking flames when he saw the mass of
crumpled blankets on a mattress. Comics, colouring pens, crisp packets,
chocolate bar wrappers and Coke cans littered the bed and threadbare carpet.

For several barely
drawn breaths, Harlan stared at the bed as though turned to stone. Then, from
deep within the blankets, came a flicker of movement. Forgetting his pain, he
dashed forward and pulled the sheets away to reveal Ethan’s face, very pale,
but alive. Alive! Oh God, the relief. It hit him like a punch to the gut,
forcing his breath out in a rush. The boy was wearing filthy Spiderman pyjamas.
He’d lost weight, making him look as if he might break at the merest touch, but
there was no sign of any injuries. His eyes were closed, the eyeballs moving
rapidly beneath their lids. A frown rippled across the smooth surface of his
forehead. His dry, cracked lips twitched in a silent scream, but he was unable
to pull himself from the depths of whatever nightmare he was trapped in.

“Ethan,” said Harlan.
No response. He repeated the boy’s name louder, tapping his cheek. Ethan’s
eyelids flickered and a soft moan escaped his lips, but he still didn’t wake.
Harlan put the torch down, its beam facing the doorway. Gently sliding one arm
under Ethan’s neck and the other behind his knees, he attempted to lift him.
The boy was light as a pillow, but he felt heavy as lead to Harlan. His whole
body shook with the strain. His head swam in a flood of dizzy agony.

“Here, let me help,”
offered Neil, stepping forward.

“Don’t fucking touch
him!” hissed Harlan, flashing him a look of violent wrath. It was then that he
saw the figure wearing a balaclava stood behind Neil. The figure was about
Harlan’s height and build. In one hand – the backs of which were covered with
curls of dark hair – he held some kind of old-fashioned revolver with a long
barrel, which was aimed at Harlan.

“Put him down.”

Harlan recognised the
voice immediately. It was the same voice he’d heard over Neil’s phone. He
lowered Ethan back onto the mattress and stood with his body shielding him,
hands spread.

The eyes staring
tensely out of the balaclava flicked towards Neil. “What the fuck’s going on?”
their owner demanded to know. “Who’s he?”

“He’s the one I told
you about,” said Neil.

“The ex-copper?”

Neil nodded. “Put the
gun down, Martin.”

“Don’t use my fuckin’
name.”

“He already knows your
name. He knows everything.”

“What? How the fuck–”

“I told him.”

Martin’s eyes popped
wide. “Why?”

A sigh heaved from
Neil. “Does it matter?”

“Course it fuckin’
does. Now tell me or I’ll blast a hole in your face.”

“Do that and you’ll go
down for murder as well as kidnapping,” said Harlan.

“They’ll have to catch
me first.”

“You’re already caught.
The police are on their way.”

Martin cocked his head,
listening. “Then why don’t I hear no sirens, eh?”

“Sirens would warn you
they were coming. I know how they work, and believe me, right now this
building’s being surrounded by armed units. If you want to get out of here in
one piece, I suggest you do as Neil says and put the gun down.”

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.”