Page 52 of Deep Waters

Harry arrived home after ten, almost twelve hours after he’d left the house that morning. It seemed like longer. How was it possible for so much shit to have gone down in a single day?

His parents had argued against him going back on his own, pleading with him to spend the night with them, but he needed to do it. There was a real and terrible possibility that he might never set foot on the deck of his boat again. He couldn’t risk losing his home, too. Harry was afraid he might quit Nyemouth entirely after what had happened today.

The flat was emptier than he had even known when he closed the front door behind him and turned on the lights. The cosy living room and kitchen were cold. This morning’s washed-up coffee cups stood on the drainer. The wall clocked ticked gently. There was his kettle, microwave and toaster. So many familiar items, but they didn’t stop him from feeling like he’d walked into an alien environment.

The urge to run threatened to engulf him. He could turn right around and go back to his parents, but Harry knew that if he did that, there might be no return.

He pulled his phone from the pocket of the grey jogging bottoms the police had given him. All his own clothes were in their evidence bags. They’d provide him with the cheap trousers, a sweater and a pair of plain black sneakers at the station. The washing label in the sweater was stiff and grazed his skin. The fucking thing had been irritating him all afternoon. He rived the top over his shoulders and tossed it on the floor by the back door. He would burn it in the morning, along with the rest of this shit.

Turning back to his phone, he dialled Christian’s number. He answered on the third ring.

“Harry.” Christian didn’t try to hide the urgency in his voice. “Thank God. How are you? Where are you?”

“I’m at home. I just got in. I…” He clutched the worktop, his eyes roamed around the room, and he didn’t know what he wanted to say. “Can you come around?”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Thanks,” he said, relieved. “Just give me ten minutes or so. I’ve got to get out of these clothes. Take a shower.”

“I’ll come for half-past. Is that okay?”

He exhaled, leaning against the counter. “Perfect. And, Christian…be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon.”

Don’t worry. That was an impossibility.

Harry kicked off the awful shoes and slipped down the joggers. He threw them in a heap at the back door and went along to the bathroom. He avoided his reflection as he waited for the water to heat up. He didn’t want to see how bad he looked. The pain inside was awful enough. He didn’t need to see it etched across his face.

He climbed into the stall and shoved his head beneath the faucet. He grabbed the shower gel and lathered up his body, keeping his eyes closed. If there was any residue of Tom’s blood remaining on his body or in his hair, he didn’t want to see it swirl around the drain. He kept a nail brush in the shower to help scrub the smell of fish and diesel from his hands. Harry located it by touch and attacked his nails with blind fury, scouring until the tips of his fingers were raw.

When he left the shower and vigorously rubbed himself with a clean towel, it did not seem enough. After all he had done, he did not feel clean. He wondered if he ever would again.

It seemed unlikely.

He put on a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt and was combing his damp hair when there was a knock at the front door. He hurried to answer, falling into Christian’s embrace when he opened it. Christian, holding a shopping bag, still managed to hug him the way he needed.

“It’s okay,” Christian whispered, pressing his face against Harry’s neck. “I’m here.”

Harry’s eyes prickled with tears. He’d thought he was cried out. Crying. He felt it was all he had done today. His tear ducts were raw. Christian held him for over a minute before guiding him inside. He locked the door behind them.

Harry let out a humourless snort. “The police told me I should be careful, not to take any risks, and I answered that door without even checking who was there.”

“You’ll remember next time,” Christian said, following him to the kitchen.

Jesus. This time last night they’d sat in this very room enjoying their takeaway dinner with little to worry about. It frightened him how quickly things could change.

Christian emptied the bag onto the table. There was a bottle of Scotch. “I figured you might need something strong,” he said. He produced a loaf of bread and a packet of pre-cooked chicken breast. “And food. Have you eaten?”

Harry shook his head. “I had a couple of biscuits at my parent’s house. My mam kept plying us with tea. I feel like I’ve got it coming out of my ears.”

Christian stroked the side of his face. “Sit. Let me fix you something. If you only eat a few mouthfuls, it will do you good.”

“Okay. Thanks. I wanted to speak to you earlier. I saw you at the station, but there was no opportunity.” He fetched two tumblers from a cupboard, sat at the table and set about opening the whisky.

“You were gone by the time they took my statement,” Christian said. “I think they wanted to keep us apart until they got the facts from each of us, just to be sure our stories matched.”

“Do you think they suspect us? Suspect me of murdering my own cousin?” Anger rose in his throat.

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