Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin)

by Michael Robotham

  ‘How goes the trial?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ve been given the afternoon off.’

  ‘Bonus.’

  ‘You free for lunch? We can talk about Charlie.’

  Talk is good.

  She chooses an Italian restaurant, San Carlo in Corn Street, not far from the Corn Exchange. I arrive first and take a table by the window where I can watch for her. I order her a glass of wine.

  Finally she’s here, dressed in a suede jacket, a scarf and a ribbed sweater. The waiters fall upon her like Elizabethan courtiers. She’s a beautiful woman. Good service is guaranteed.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she says apologetically. ‘I had to make sure Marco was all right.’

  ‘Marco?’

  ‘My witness.’ Her brow furrows. ‘He’s nervous. I don’t know if he’s sleeping.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘The Crown Prosecution Service has a safe house.’

  Her new haircut is sharp just below her jawline. I feel my mind taking a snapshot so I can study it later.

  ‘I’ve decided that jury trials are one big sociology experiment. You take twelve people who don’t know each other and have nothing in common and put them together for eight hours a day and then drip-feed them information, telling them not to discuss the case or read the papers or do their own research.’

  ‘You feel sorry for them.’

  ‘They saw the photographs of the fire today - three little girls and their parents - it was horrible.’ Julianne squeezes her eyes shut as if forcing the images to go away. They open again.

  ‘It’s not what I expected, you know. The trial. The defendants. Novak Brennan doesn’t look like a monster.’

  ‘There are no monsters.’

  ‘That’s what you tell Emma.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘I know, but I expected him to be different. I feel as though he’s become familiar over this past week. I’ve seen him every day - always immaculately dressed and polite. He nods and smiles to the court staff. He bows when the jury enters the room. He has these long lashes like a girl and the bluest eyes. Arctic blue. I can almost see the snow blowing across them. Makes you wonder.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘If he really firebombed that house . . . killed that family.’ She pauses, searching for words. ‘The other defendants look like thugs and bovver boys, grinning at each other and guffawing. Novak Brennan looks almost serene. He doesn’t fidget or squirm. He hardly shows any emotion at all, except when he glances at his sister in the public gallery. She’s been there every day.’

  ‘Which way are the jury leaning?’

  Julianne shrugs. ‘It’s too early to tell. So far it’s all been about the prosecution case.’

  She glances at the menu, giving me an opportunity to look at her without making her feel self-conscious.

  ‘Are you staring at me again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. So what are we going to do about Charlie?’

  ‘The police aren’t going to charge her.’

  Surprise on her face. ‘That’s great. What happened?’

  ‘Ronnie Cray sorted it out.’

  ‘You made some sort of deal.’

  I don’t answer. Normally, Julianne would fight against the idea, but this time she says nothing.

  ‘How is Sienna?’ she asks, switching her concern.

  ‘In a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Did she do it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she had a reason.’

  Our meals have arrived. In the lottery of ordering, Julianne has again triumphed. Her choice looks healthier and more appetising. She’ll eat half and push the rest around her plate.

  ‘So what are we going to do about Charlie?’ she asks between mouthfuls.

  ‘She made a mistake.’

  ‘She broke the law! I talked to the school counsellor today and she recommended a therapist. He has a practice in Bath.’

  ‘I’m a psychologist.’

  Julianne puts down her fork. ‘You’re her father. I’m sure there is some sort of conflict of interest there.’

  She’s right, of course, but I still baulk at the idea of my daughter talking to a stranger, revealing things that she wouldn’t tell her parents.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Robin Blaxland.’

  ‘I could check him out . . . ask about him.’

  ‘And not scare him off?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We still have to punish her,’ she says.

  ‘I saw the video of what happened. She tried to pay the driver but didn’t have enough money. She only panicked when he locked the doors. I think she was frightened it was going to happen again, the kidnapping.’

  ‘She should never have gone to the hospital without our permission.’

  ‘I know. Maybe we could ground her for a few weeks.’

  ‘School and home.’

  ‘Tough but fair.’

  I like talking with Julianne like this - discussing anxieties and tiny victories, the happenstances of family life. Her long fingers toy with the stem of her wine glass.

  ‘Do you want to go to dinner on Saturday night?’ I ask.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Harry Veitch.’

  My heart jerks like a hooked fish. Harry is an architect. Rich. Divorced. One of his houses was featured on Grand Designs, which I guess makes him a celebrity of sorts, or a ‘person of note’. He has a daughter Charlie’s age living with her mother. I can’t remember her name.

  ‘How long have you been . . . ?’

  ‘We haven’t.’

  ‘So this is your first date?’

  ‘It’s not a date.’

  There is an edge to her voice. She’s waiting for me to say something negative. I glance at my food, no longer hungry. I didn’t see this coming. Didn’t even contemplate it. Harry is older than I am - by at least ten years. He’s one of those big-boned former rugby players who struggle with their weight when they give up competing but never lose their self-belief.

  Julianne speaks. ‘Harry wants to thank me for helping him choose a colour scheme for one of his new houses.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say.

  There is a long embarrassed silence. The silence of separation. Worse - the silence of possible divorce. I can see the future flashing before my eyes. Julianne will marry Harry ‘big-boned’ Veitch and spend her new life choosing colour schemes for his McMansions. The girls will have a new father. At first they won’t like him, but Harry will bribe them and make them laugh. He’ll be jolly old Harry. Rich old Harry. Ho, ho, ho Harry. He laughs like that: ‘Ho, ho, ho.’

  ‘What did you say?’ asks Julianne.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You sounded like Santa Claus.’

  ‘Sorry. So where is he taking you?’

  ‘To a new restaurant. He knows the owner or the head chef - something like that.’

  ‘What about the girls?’

  ‘Charlie can babysit.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  Julianne arches an eyebrow. ‘Charlie’s old enough.’

  ‘I know.’

  She reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘You’ll have to let go one day.’

  Is she talking about the girls or herself?

  ‘I don’t want to let go.’

  Her pupils dilate slightly and she releases my hand, folding her arms beneath her breasts like a teenager. I’ve upset her now. She changes the subject.

  ‘Charlie says you kissed Miss Robinson.’

  ‘She gave me a peck.’

  ‘On the lips?’

  ‘Some people peck on the lips.’

  ‘I’ve always found that kind of creepy,’ she says playfully. ‘It was Miss Robinson who suggested Charlie see a therapist. Apparently, some of the teachers are worried about her.’

  ‘Miss Robinson didn’t mention anything
.’

  ‘That’s because she was flirting with you.’

  The silence stretches out and is far more uncomfortable than it should be after so many years of marriage.

  ‘Did Miss Robinson mention Sienna coming to see her?’

  Julianne shakes her head. ‘Maybe you should ask her. Take her for a drink.’

  ‘I don’t want to ask her out.’

  ‘She’s very pretty.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘She’s not you.’

  Julianne shakes her head and drains her wine glass. ‘This was nice, Joe. Don’t spoil it.’

  Summoning a waiter, she asks for her coat and leans towards me, accepting a kiss - a peck on the cheek, not the lips.

  Almost in the same breath she hesitates, looking over my shoulder.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  I follow her gaze. A man is standing on the corner, looking towards us. Pale and blade-faced, his dark oiled hair is combed back in vertical lines that cling to his scalp like the contours of a map. The tattoos on his forearms have faded with age into blue and black smears, but the most startling markings are ink lines drawn vertically down his cheeks like twin channels for his tears that extend from his lower eyelids to his jawline.

  Usually, I study people instinctively, reading their body language, their clothes, their fleeting expressions, trying to understand who they are or what motivates them and what they’re capable of. This time it is different. I don’t want to notice this man. I want to look away. I want to ignore him.

  Julianne is staring at him.

  ‘He was in court,’ she says. ‘I saw him sitting in the gallery.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Every day.’

  The school grounds are empty apart from a gym class running around cones on the playing fields with batches of students in the goal squares and on the halfway line. I ask at the main office for Annie Robinson and am directed to her office. The note pinned to the door says she’s in the hall, painting sets for the musical.

  Following a covered walkway, I pass several classrooms in the science block. Groups of students are wearing safety glasses and stand clustered around benches working with Bunsen burners and test tubes.

  The main body of the hall is in darkness. There are lights burning backstage. Nobody answers when I call. Climbing the side stairs, I step over cables and paintbrushes soaking in jars. Props are leaning on sawhorses and a large backdrop shows a Manhattan skyline with the skyscrapers in silhouette. Modern Millie meets the Big Apple.

  A dressing-room door is ajar. Racks of costumes are lined up along the wall. A movement is reflected in the mirrors. Miss Robinson leans over a sink sponging paint from her blouse. Her black skirt contrasts sharply with the paleness of her skin. I can see the outline of her nipples, small and dark, through the lace of her bra.

  She looks up from the running water, studying herself in the mirror. Her eyes meet mine. Pulling her shoulders back, she makes no attempt to cover her breasts.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I knocked. You didn’t hear me.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  She goes back to sponging her blouse. ‘I should have worn an old shirt,’ she explains. ‘This is my favourite blouse and now it’s ruined.’

  ‘Maybe you could soak it,’ I suggest.

  ‘Are you an expert on removing paint stains?’ She has a slight lisp when she pronounces her ‘s’s. ‘You can come in, Joseph, I’m sure you’ve seen a woman in a bra before.’

  It sounds like a question, but I can’t think of anything to say.

  Miss Robinson laughs and holds up the blouse to the light, sighing. ‘I’ve been painting the sets. I had a free period and thought I’d get it finished today, but it might take another session.’

  ‘I thought the musical had been postponed.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re still hopeful. The show must go on - as they say.’

  She slips the blouse over her arms and turns to me as she does up the buttons.

  ‘So what else can I do for you today - apart from giving you a cheap thrill?’

  ‘You were talking to Julianne about Charlie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she having problems?’

  ‘One of her teachers found her crying in a classroom. I thought it might help if Charlie talked to someone.’

  ‘A therapist.’

  ‘The school recommends a very good one.’

  I’m fascinated by her mouth; watching it move as she speaks. Her top lip is shaped like a stylised bird drawn by a child. Her bottom lip is fuller. I wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips. They have stopped moving and are slightly parted. Her head is cocked at an angle.

  ‘You’re staring at me,’ she says, covering her mouth self-consciously.

  ‘I’m sorry. I do that sometimes.’

  ‘It’s very unnerving.’

  ‘Can I ask you something, Miss Robinson?’

  ‘Only if you call me Annie.’

  ‘Has Charlie talked to you about the separation? You see, she hasn’t spoken to me or to Julianne. I thought maybe she was keeping a diary, or a scrapbook full of angry conversations in cartoon bubbles.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything to me.’

  ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘Have you asked her?’

  I make a sound that could be a sigh or a murmur of agreement. ‘We don’t have long conversations any more.’

  ‘Maybe you should think about the therapist.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Annie waits.

  ‘Was Sienna Hegarty seeing a therapist?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to talk about other students.’

  Businesslike, she makes her arguments about privacy and confidentiality. A counsellor must build trust, respect personal space, protect confidences . . .

  ‘I respect all of that, Annie, but Sienna is a murder suspect. The police think she killed her father. I know she was cutting herself. I strongly suspect she was being sexually abused. If Sienna was seeing a therapist, the police will want to talk to him.’

  Annie lowers her eyes, no longer certain what to do.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m trying to help her.’

  ‘Why?’

  There is an accusation in her tone, a scepticism that makes her less attractive.

  ‘Because I think Sienna is damaged and because she’s my daughter’s best friend.’

  ‘It’s more than that.’

  Her eyes are fixed on mine, searching.

  ‘Sienna was always at our place - staying for dinner or overnight, spending her weekends with us. Now I think she was avoiding going home. I should have realised.’

  As the words leave my lips I realise how they echo an inner voice that has been whispering to me ever since Zoe Hegarty’s visit. It’s as though I have a soundtrack playing in my head, along with images of a child waking each morning without seeing a world full of excitement and possibility. A child who didn’t go skipping down the stairs to greet each new day; who didn’t wear the bright, eager expression that said, ‘Hey, isn’t it great to be alive!’

  Annie steps closer, touching my shoulder. ‘You’ll go mad if you try to blame yourself for this.’

  There is a ripple in the space between us, when I imagine kissing her or her kissing me. And I can see my hands running over her naked skin and her small dark nipples.

  She steps away, faintly abashed. Whispers. ‘Such a ghostly girl, so pale and quiet.’

  ‘Was Sienna seeing a therapist?’

  She nods.

  ‘Did her parents know?’

  ‘No. She wouldn’t come to see me unless I promised I wouldn’t tell them.’

  ‘Did she tell you what was wrong?’

  Annie shakes her head. ‘She confided in one of the other teachers, Gordon Ellis, who urged her to talk to me.’ She looks around. ‘Gordon should be here
soon. You could talk to him.’

  The school bell is sounding. Charlie will be getting out of class.

  Annie turns back to the mirror, checking her hair and tugging at the collar of her blouse.

  ‘I think her parents may have found out,’ she says.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Her father came to the school and made a complaint to the headmaster.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to discuss it.’

  Excited voices drift from outside, the raucous clamour of students collecting books from lockers, preparing to go home. Annie looks at her watch. With a flourish, she picks up her paintbrush and tin of paint, heading back towards the stage.

  ‘If you talk to Sienna, will you . . . will you . . .’ She can’t think of what to say. ‘Tell her we’re missing her.’

  Charlie tosses her schoolbag in the back of the car and slides into the passenger seat. Her cheeks are pink with the cold and strands of hair have pulled from her ponytail. Without warning, she ducks down.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  A boy walks in front of the car. His gelled hair sticks up at odd angles and his trousers hang so low on his hips I can see his brand of underwear.

  Bless my little x-chromosome for giving me girls.

  Charlie raises her head. Checks that he’s gone. Sits up.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘He must have a name.’

  ‘Jacob.’

  ‘Is Jacob a good or a bad thing?’

  ‘Drop it, Dad.’

  ‘So you like him?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then why were you hiding?’

  She rolls her eyes. Clearly I don’t understand teenage love, which is obviously more complicated than adult love.

  On the drive home I try to make conversation - asking about her day - but her answers come in single syllables. Yes. No. Good. Fine.

  Finally she utters a complete sentence. ‘Did you see Sienna?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘As well as can be expected.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘She can’t remember everything that happened.’

  ‘Is that amnesia?’

  ‘Sometimes the mind blocks things out . . . as a defence.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘Maybe not yet.’

  There are so many questions I want to ask Charlie. Why was she crying at school? What’s making her unhappy? Is it the nightmares? Why won’t she talk to me?