boy staggered and almost fell, clutching his face with both hands. Susan turned and snapped something at Kane. She clipped him across the ear, before stooping to examine Ethan’s smarting cheek. Kane made to retrieve the ball, but Susan snatched it off him and stalked away with it under one of her arms and Ethan under the other. Kane dragged his feet after them, the sullen resentment of an older sibling towards a younger one glimmering in his eyes.
Harlan watched them enter one of the houses. Through the downstairs window, he saw them take off their coats and dump their bags. A television flickered into life. Ethan sat on a sofa in front of it, his face palely illuminated, while his brother followed their mother into the back of the house. Maybe Harlan was just seeing what he expected to see, but the boy’s expression seemed to speak of someone who’d known more sorrow than happiness, more anxiety than contentment. A kind of sick, guilty agony burned through Harlan. He hurried from the cafe, hurried all the way to the bank. There was just over ten thousand pounds in his account — his share of the equity from the house. He hadn’t wanted it, but Eve had insisted. He emptied his account, put the cash in an envelope and wrote ‘Susan Reed’ on it. Then he returned to the house and posted the envelope through the front door. Ten thousand pounds. Not much in return for the loss of a husband and father, but something. Before he could turn away, the door opened. It was Ethan. He looked curiously up at Harlan, his mouth a flat line.
Harlan couldn’t help but blink. Not wanting to scare Ethan, he smiled, but the smile felt unnatural, more like some strange kind of grimace. He pointed at the envelope. “That’s for your mum. Tell her I’ll send more as soon-” He broke off as, to his horror, tears spilled from his eyes.
“Are you okay?” asked Ethan.
Harlan nodded, quickly wiping his tears away. “I…I’m-” he stammered, his voice catching.
“Ethan!” The shout came from the rear of the house.
“That’s my mum. I have to go see what she wants.” 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 Sheridan.”
Harlan knew then that this was about much more than him. No way they’d send detectives to deal with a parole violation. Something big-time serious had happened, was happening, and he was under some kind of suspicion. He swept the sleeping-pills off the table into the tumbler and put it out of sight. Then, trampling banknotes underfoot, he opened the door just wide enough so that he could peer out. “What’s this about?”
“Can we come in and ask you some questions?” said DI Greenwood, a stocky man with a veteran’s moustache and steely, watchful eyes.
It was phrased as a request, but it wasn’t one. If Harlan said no, he knew he’d be in cuffs before he could blink. “Sure.”
Harlan opened the door fully. DI Sheridan, a poker-faced woman of about thirty, pointed at the banknotes. “Can you explain what that’s about?”
“Susan Reed threw them there.” Harlan saw no point in dancing around their questions. Susan, or something connected to her, was the only reason he could think of for the detectives to be here, which meant they almost certainly knew about his visit to her house. His mind raced over the possibilities of what might’ve happened, and quickly came to the conclusion that the most obvious likelihood was that Susan or one of her sons, or maybe the entire family, had been hurt or killed in suspicious circumstances.
“Why?”
“I tried to give them to her. She didn’t want them.”
“Do you mind if we take a look around?” said DI Greenwood.
Another question that wasn’t a question. Harlan shook his head. The detectives worked their way methodically through the flat, checking under the bed and in the wardrobe and cupboards, testing to see if the side of the bath could be removed, even lifting the sofa. Harlan knew what that meant. It meant someone was missing, which was a small relief because it also meant there was a chance no one was dead.
“Do you have a garage?” asked DI Greenwood.
“No.”
“What about a car?”
Harlan shook his head.
“Where were you last night between the hours of twelve and four o’clock?”
“I was working. But you already know that, don’t you? Otherwise I’m guessing I’d be down the station helping with enquiries, or maybe even being read my rights by now.”
“Tell us exactly what happened with Susan Reed,” said DI Sheridan, pen and notepad at the ready.
Harlan gave them the full story. “I know it was a foolish thing to do, but I had to do something to try and help
