her eyes twitching with nerves. “Who the fuck’s that now?” she hissed in a low voice.
The knock came again. It wasn’t like Lewis Gunn’s knock, it was loud and insistent. This time Neil’s voice accompanied it. “Susan it’s me,” he shouted. “I need to speak to you. Please let me in. I’m begging you. I just want a chance to explain everything.”
Susan looked from the door to Harlan, as if seeking his permission to open it. He said nothing.
“Please, Susan, please,” continued Neil. “I love you, and I love the kids. I’d never hurt any of you. You’ve got to believe me.”
Susan rose to her feet, mouth working in mute uncertainty.
“I’m so sorry, Susan.” There were tears in Neil’s voice now. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me. Please give me another chance.”
She approached the door, put her hand on the handle, but didn’t lower it.
“I won’t give up on us. You’re my life, Susan. I’d rather die than lose you. Do you hear me?”
Susan pressed her forehead against the door, eyes closed.
“I’d rather die, I’d rather die.” Neil’s words came in a sobbing murmur. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of a car door clunking shut. Peering between the curtains, Harlan saw that Neil had got into his Volvo. The car began to pull away. Suddenly, Susan came to life, unlocking and opening the door, rushing out into the street. “Wait,” she called, but the car didn’t stop.
She came back into the house, looking tentatively at Harlan. “What do you think I should do?”
“I think it’s none of my business to say what I think,” he replied, returning to the sofa.
“Christ, I hope he doesn’t do anything silly.” Susan sat down, but couldn’t keep still. “I want a drink. Do you want one?”
“I probably shouldn’t, not with all the pills I’m on,” said Harlan, but it wasn’t the thought of the pills that made him hesitant, it was the memory of what’d happened the last time he’d drunk around Susan.
“One won’t do you any harm. Come on, don’t make me drink alone.”
Harlan sighed. “Alright, just one.”
“Is white wine okay with you?” Before Harlan could reply, she added, “It’ll have to be because that’s all there is.”
Harlan shuddered involuntarily as, in a flash of remembrance, Robert Reeds words came back to him, I’ll have a lager, she’ll have a large white wine. Susan fetched two glasses of wine. The smell alone nauseated him, but he forced himself to swallow a mouthful. Susan drank quietly, her brow creased, seemingly grappling with some internal debate. Suddenly, as if she’d come to some decision, she gulped her glass empty, stood and returned the kitchen. There was the sound of glass clinking against glass as she poured herself a refill. Followed by the sound of tears bursting from her. Each low, racking sob jerked at Harlan’s heart. He considered going to her, but quickly decided against it. What would he do if he did? Hold her to him? Murmur reassurances into her ear? No. Those were things he couldn’t do. After several minutes, she stopped crying with a hitching breath. She returned to the living- room, her eyes dry, but red-rimmed and puffy. “Sorry,” she said.
Harlan shook his head to indicate there was no need to be. They sat in silence, cradling their drinks. “Jesus,” Susan sighed, after a while. “How did my life get here?”
How did my life get here? Harlan asked himself that same question almost every day. He’d had so many plans, so many things he was going to do with Eve and Tom. And now what did he have? Sweet-fuck-all, that’s what. For years he’d railed at the unfairness of life. And where had it got him? Here, that’s where. Here in this room, stuck up to his neck in a quicksand of guilt, where the more he struggled, the deeper he sank. So what was the answer? To just accept whatever life threw his way? The idea appalled him. Maybe there was no answer. Perhaps suffering was all there was left to life. Perhaps that was all there’d ever really been, even when he thought he was happy.
Susan finished her drink and stood up. “I’ll fetch your bed.” She headed upstairs, returning a few minutes later with the mattress and an armful of bedding. She cleared a space on the floor and began to make up the bed.
“Where’s your toilet?”
“Upstairs. First door on your left.”
Harlan slowly climbed the stairs, his stitches pulling with each step. As he reached the landing, a door to his right opened and Kane stepped out. He glared at Harlan a moment, his eyes like storm-clouds ready to burst. Then he jerked around and headed back into his room, slamming the door. Sighing, Harlan went into the bathroom. After emptying his bladder, he swilled the taste of the wine from his mouth at the sink. He opened the bathroom cabinet — deodorant, perfume, tooth-floss, Savlon, Valium. His gaze lingered briefly on the sleeping-pills, before he returned to the living-room. The bed was ready and waiting. Susan was sat at the kitchen table, refilling her glass. “Did you see Kane?” she asked.
Harlan nodded.
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. Just went back to his room.”
“That’s good, isn’t it? I mean, at least he didn’t take a swing at you or anything.”
Harlan made a dubious little noise in his throat. He still had some faint bruises on his arms from the baseball bat attack. From the look in Kane’s eyes, Harlan suspected it was only a matter of time before he attempted a repeat performance. He yawned. The bed called to his tired body, but he hesitated to go to it, wondering if it was safe to leave Susan alone with her thoughts, the wine and the Valium. A thin smile curled the edges of her mouth. “Got to bed, and don’t worry, I’m not gonna do anything crazy,” she said, reading his mind.
“Goodnight.”
“Night. Call me if you need anything.”
Harlan undressed stiffly and got under the duvet. He thought about the violence he’d seen lurking just under the surface of the Kane’s eyes. It worried him. But not enough to keep him awake. Not the way he felt. His eyelids came together like heavy curtains, snuffing out his consciousness.
Something pried its way into Harlan’s mind — not a sound, but a feeling, a presence in the room. For a moment, he struggled against the glue of drug-aided sleep. His eyes rolled, his hands twitched across the duvet towards his face. The outline of a figure, faintly luminescent in the glow of the streetlamp, swam into focus. “Susan,” he said, slurring the word. But something — some crawling feeling of danger — told him it wasn’t her. He rubbed the blur from his eyes, revealing Kane. The deep, black pools of the boy’s eyes stared back at Harlan from the end of the bed. Tears glistened on his cheeks, but he made no sound of crying. His arms hung rigidly at his sides. Something he held in one hand caught the light. A blade! Harlan’s heart began to throb. He pushed up onto his elbows, grimacing as his stomach flexed. Kane moved the knife threateningly. Harlan dropped back onto the pillows. The knife returned to Kane’s side.
For maybe thirty seconds, they faced each other silently. Harlan’s heart slowed to a steady thud. His voice was calm and clear, as he said, “Kill me. I won’t stop you. Go ahead, if that’s what you want. If you want to become like me.” He closed his eyes. He could hear the boy’s breathing, shallow and rapid. His own breath came slow and easy. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Kane had it in him to kill — he knew he did. Nor was it that he wanted to die. His desire to live, he realised suddenly, was stronger than it had been in years, maybe since Tom’s death. He merely felt that he owed Kane a chance to avenge his father’s death. And if he didn’t take it, if his anger and hatred didn’t consume him, then maybe their flame would begin to burn less fiercely.
Another thirty seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. Harlan became aware that he couldn’t hear Kane’s breathing anymore. He opened his eyes. The boy was gone, like a ghost in a dream. A queasy, unreal feeling struck at him, as if maybe he was dreaming. But then he heard the creak of floorboards upstairs, and the feeling receded. Releasing a long breath, he let the curtains of sleep close over his eyes again.
Chapter 19
Harlan peeled back his bandage. The wound had seeped a little, probably from all the moving around he’d done the previous day. Susan’s lips formed a tight O. “Ow, that hurts just to look at.”
He dabbed the track of stitches with wet cotton wool, followed by an antiseptic wipe. Then he applied fresh
