Blood Guilt Read Online Free Page B

Ethan bent to pick up the envelope. “Bye.” He shut
the door.
    “I’m sorry,” murmured
Harlan, before turning and moving slowly away.
    He headed to work, even
though there were a couple of hours till his shift started. The foreman was
happy to let him start early, just so long as he didn’t expect to be paid
extra. He threw himself into the work with even more than his usual fervour,
blotting out Susan Reed and her sons’ faces through a blank repetition of
monotonous movement. But after work, lying in bed, he saw them again, and it
burned him worse than battery acid.
    Harlan was floating on
the edge of a Valium-induced haze, when a hammering at the front door jerked
him upright. Groggily, he pulled on his jeans and made his way to the door. The
instant he opened it, a wad of banknotes hit him in the face. “I don’t want
your fucking blood money!” hissed Susan Reed, her face contorted into sharp
lines of rage. Harlan made no attempt to dodge out of the way as she drew her
arm back to fling another fistful of fifty-pound notes at him. “You think you
can buy away your guilt? Well you fucking can’t. It’s yours for the rest of
your pathetic little life, and I hope it eats at you every second of every
day.” Susan stabbed a trembling finger at Harlan. “Come near me or my boys
again and I’ll fucking kill you. You hear me, you bastard?”
    Without waiting for a
response, Susan turned and stalked away. Leaving the money scattered over the
carpet, Harlan made his way to the sofa and dropped onto it as if his body was
impossibly heavy. So that was that. There could be no redemption. She would
give him no chance.
    Harlan’s mobile phone
rang. It was Jim. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you since last night,” he
said. “Has she been to see you yet?”
    “If by she you mean
Susan Reed, then yes.”
    “Shit. She phoned me
demanding to know where you live. Sorry, Harlan, but I had to tell her,
otherwise she was threatening to tell your parole officer what you did. Just
what the hell were you thinking? If she reports you, you could get sent back to
prison.”
    I already am in prison ,
thought Harlan, a prison that holds me captive more securely than any
manmade structure could . He said with a fatalistic calmness, “Maybe that’d
be for the best.”
    “What are you talking
about? Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?”
    “No, I don’t want you
to come over. And don’t ring me again either.”
    Harlan hung up. He
returned to bed and lay awake, embracing the guilt, letting it consume him. The
phone rang several times. He ignored it. When the sun softened to twilight he
got up, haggard and sunken-eyed. Mechanically, he dressed and ate.
Mechanically, he made his way to work.

 
    Chapter 3

 
    After work, on his way
back to the flat, Harlan bought a bottle of whisky. He poured a shot and
swallowed it – the first drop of alcohol he’d put to his lips since that
tragic, fatal day. Jesus Christ, it tasted good. Then he popped all the Valium
he could find out of their blister-strips and lined them up on the table.
Finally, he propped a photo in the centre of the table of himself, Eve and
Thomas. They were on a seaside pier, Eve hugging Tom, Harlan hugging both of
them. Behind them the sea sparkled in the sunlight. All three of them were
smiling. Harlan stared at the photo, a sheen of tears over his dark eyes. He
was still staring at the photo an hour or so later when someone knocked at his
door. He ignored the knocking. It came again, louder and accompanied by a
terse, insistent voice. “Mr Miller, if you’re in there, open up. This is the
police. We need to talk to you.”
    Harlan’s first thought
was, so she’s reported me , but then faint lines of doubt marked his
forehead. Even if he was right, his parole officer would’ve surely been in
touch to get his side of the story before sending some uniforms around to pick
him up. “Who’s we?”
    “DI
Scott Greenwood and DI Amy