Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin)

by Michael Robotham

  ‘I have visions of handbags at ten paces.’

  ‘I need your help. My pills. The police won’t let me have them. I can’t function.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  I go back to waiting and writhing and being watched by the drunk. If I lock my left and right ankles together I can sometimes get my legs to remain still. But making one part of me stop means the energy finds somewhere else to spasm.

  An hour passes and the young constable unlocks the door. He has a glass of water and my bottle of pills. I can get the tablets on my tongue, but keep spilling the water. I swallow them dry and sit on the bench, waiting for the jerking to subside.

  ‘Your lawyer is on his way,’ says the PC.

  ‘I don’t have a lawyer.’

  ‘You do now.’

  Two hours pass. I’m taken upstairs to an interview suite. Even before I arrive I recognise the profanity-laden south London accent of Eddie Barrett, a man who can make a smile seem like an insult. Ruiz must have called him.

  Eddie is a defence lawyer with a reputation for bullying and cajoling witnesses and juries. Years ago he earned the nickname ‘Bulldog’, which could be due to his short body and swaggering walk, or his passionate embrace of all things British. (He has ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ as his ringtone and is rumoured to wear Union Jack underwear.)

  ‘Well, well, look who got himself arrested - the Hugh Grant of the head-shrinking profession. Should I call it a profession? I guess if it’s good enough for prostitutes . . .’

  Like I’m in the mood for this.

  Eddie reads my expression and tells me to sit down. Taking a seat opposite, he splays his thighs like his bollocks are the size of grapefruit. ‘Let’s make this quick, Britney, I’m missing out on my beauty sleep. I hope you didn’t make any admissions . . . sign any statements.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Are they treating you OK?’

  I nod and glance at his watch. It’s after midnight. He must have driven down from London.

  ‘OK, here’s the plan, Oprah. Your case is listed for the morning. We won’t plead. I’ll make an application for bail, which should be a formality. Do you have any savings?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Family who can put up a surety?’

  ‘My parents, maybe.’

  ‘Good.’

  Eddie starts making notes on a pad. He asks me about Julianne and the girls, my job and whether I’m involved in any charities.

  ‘Have you ever been arrested?’

  ‘Once. It was a misunderstanding.’

  Eddie rolls his eyes and scrubs out a note.

  ‘Can’t you get this stuff dismissed?’ I ask.

  ‘You didn’t piss in a phone box, Professor.’

  ‘He broke into my house.’

  ‘And you tried to remove his head.’

  ‘Surely we can cut a deal?’

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas any more.’

  Eddie stands and readjusts his hanging bits before tossing his raincoat over his arm.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’

  ‘Right now, I want to find a king-sized bed, a twelve-ounce Porterhouse and a mini-bar. You’ll be paying for all of them.’

  Picking up his briefcase, he lifts the flap and inserts the notepad before doing up the buckle.

  ‘By the way, the guy you hit needed thirty stitches and a blood transfusion. I hope he had it coming.’

  31

  Bristol Crown Court looks almost whitewashed in a burst of sunshine grinning through a gap in the clouds. Resting my forehead against the window of the police van, I watch clusters of shivering workers smoke cigarettes in doorways.

  The van has to stop at a police checkpoint. Barricades have blocked off either end of the street, guarded by officers in riot gear standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Protesters, carrying placards and banners, have been funnelled on to the footpath and kept well away from the entrance to the courthouse.

  Glancing ahead, I can see another group at the far end of the street forming a makeshift honour guard for a larger prison van. Some of the crowd are carrying political posters and placards with slogans about ‘taking back our country’. They’re a strange mixture of shaven-headed youths with tattoos, middle-aged men in zip-up jackets and pensioners still wearing war medals. Among them is a woman with a baby in a sling and a grandmother carrying a picnic basket and vacuum flask.

  My eyes pick out a familiar face in the crowd. It takes me a moment to place it. Lance Hegarty is in the front row, taunting refugee advocates and pro-immigration protesters. The crowd surges forward, trying to follow the prison van. The police link arms and force them back.

  A woman yells, ‘We love you, Novak!’

  Someone else shouts, ‘It’s a stitch-up! A state fucking conspiracy!’

  TV crews and reporters record the moment, filming from the safety of no man’s land, between the groups of protesters.

  Large wooden doors swing open and the prison van pulls down a narrow concrete ramp. The prisoners disembark and walk single file into the bowels of the building.

  I’m driven down the same ramp and forced to wait as the doors close behind us. A police officer takes me inside to a holding cell. Other prisoners have lawyers to talk to. I can’t see Eddie Barrett anywhere.

  ‘O’Loughlin,’ yells a guard. ‘You’re second up.’

  Twenty minutes later I’m being led down corridors and upstairs before emerging directly into the courtroom. The dock is set off to one side and separated by glass partitions. Opposite is an empty jury box. Half a dozen lawyers in black robes and horsehair wigs are standing at the bar table like crows hovering around road kill. Eddie Barrett is not among them.

  A hush falls over the courtroom as the judge arrives, climbing three steps to the bench. The bailiff calls the courtroom to order. Judge Spencer is in attendance, looking down from his enormous leather chair like a headmaster who has summoned miscreants to his study. His round face is blotched with blood vessels that break across his nose and cheeks in a claret-coloured blush.

  ‘If it pleases Your Honour, my name is Mellor, I appear for the Crown. We have an application for bail and two matters for mention. If we can dispense with them first you can proceed with the trial.’

  The judge turns to the clerk. ‘Has the jury been informed?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  At that moment Eddie Barrett pushes through a heavy door and swaggers to the bar table.

  ‘Barrett for the accused, Your Honour.’

  ‘Have you had an opportunity to talk to your client, Mr Barrett?’

  ‘I have, Your Honour.’

  Eddie’s hair is still wet from the shower and one untucked shirt-tail flaps up and down as he pulls out a chair.

  ‘We’re happy to waive the reading of the charge, Your Honour, and won’t be entering a plea at this time, but we do wish to discuss the issue of bail.’

  Nobody has addressed me or even acknowledged my presence.

  Mr Mellor speaks.

  ‘The prosecution doesn’t object to bail, Your Honour, but we will be seeking a substantial surety and other guarantees. This was a savage, unprovoked assault, which has left a young school teacher with severe facial injuries. The victim is still in hospital and may require plastic surgery.’

  Eddie is on his feet. ‘My client was defending himself and his property after an intruder entered his house illegally.’

  ‘The victim was unarmed.’

  ‘He was trespassing.’

  ‘The injuries are horrific.’

  ‘I haven’t seen a medical report.’

  Judge Spencer interrupts. ‘You’ll get your chance to speak, Mr Barrett.’

  Eddie holds up his hands in surrender, his short blunt fingers pointing to the ceiling.

  ‘Carry on, Mr Mellor.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour. The prosecuti
on will also be seeking a protection order. The defendant has threatened and harassed Gordon Ellis and his wife. We ask the court to order that Mr O’Loughlin not approach either of them at their home or their places of work . . .’

  Unshaven and exhausted, I can barely keep up with the arguments and feel no emotion other than abject humiliation. Eddie Barrett is waxing lyrical, describing me as a fine, upstanding member of the community, a university professor, married with two daughters . . . an unblemished record . . . close ties to the community . . . a history of public service . . . blah, blah, blah.

  No mention of the separation.

  ‘This is a case of a home invasion. The defendant found an intruder hiding in his house. It was dark. He was frightened. He acted to protect himself and his property.’

  Eddie pulls out a handkerchief and waves it like a white flag. It’s a nice touch.

  ‘This is an outrage. A travesty. To incarcerate a man whose privacy has been violated. A man who has selflessly served the community . . .’

  Judge Spencer raises his hand. ‘All right, Mr Barrett, you’ve made your point. Save the speeches for the trial.’

  At that moment I sense I’m being watched and glance over my shoulder. The public gallery is deserted but there is a blind spot to the right of the main doors, an area of shadow big enough to hide a person.

  Someone pushes through the door, throwing light into the dark corner. Julianne is watching me. Her hair is brushed back from her face, the fringe falling diagonally across her forehead. She’s wearing a dark trouser suit she bought when she worked in London.

  I raise my hand, but she turns away and pulls open the door.

  Judge Spencer has finished. Eddie Barrett signals me to the edge of the dock.

  ‘Can you raise twenty thousand?’

  ‘That’s a lot.’

  ‘It could have been worse.’

  ‘Call Ruiz. He’ll know what to do.’

  This time I’m placed in a different holding cell. Three men sit on separate wooden benches against the walls. All of them are wearing suits, but only one of them leans forward to stop the jacket from creasing.

  I recognise them from photographs. The nearest is Gary Dobson. Next to him is Tony Scott and sitting slightly apart from them is Novak Brennan. I know what I’ve read about them. Scott is six foot tall, shaven headed, a veteran football hooligan who has served time for assault and robbery. Dobson is shorter, stockier and ten years younger with convictions for car theft, drug possession and assaulting a police officer. Both men drank at the same pub and were activists for the BNP.

  Brennan was a party candidate at the recent council elections. He narrowly missed winning a seat on Bristol City Council because the Labour Party withdrew its candidate and urged its supporters to vote for the Liberal Democrat, ensuring the BNP couldn’t win the contest.

  Brennan looks younger in the flesh, with barely a line on his face. His trademark thick dark hair is brushed back from his forehead and he has laughter lines around his eyes. Unlike his fellow accused, his suit doesn’t look like a straitjacket.

  Scott and Dobson acknowledge my arrival by making eye contact. Brennan is picking at his manicured nails, elbows on his knees. I take the bench opposite. The walls have been recently painted. Without the graffiti I have less to read and more time to think.

  I find myself staring at Brennan. His eyes lift and meet mine, locking on to a place inside my head. I glance away, staring at the floor.

  I’m holding my breath. When I realise, I exhale too quickly.

  ‘How’s the trial going?’ I ask.

  The three of them are staring at me now.

  ‘I just got bail,’ I explain. ‘I’m waiting for someone to post it.’

  ‘Big fucking deal,’ says Scott, shaking his head.

  Brennan continues to stare at me as if he’s trying to examine my conscience.

  ‘Congratulations,’ says Dobson, who seems happier to talk to someone. ‘What didn’t you do?’

  He laughs.

  Brennan takes a moist paper cloth from a small travel pack in his pocket and begins carefully wiping his fingers one by one, almost polishing his fingernails.

  ‘You must be getting sick of being in that courtroom,’ I say.

  He raises a forefinger, signalling me to stop. ‘Do you know the first lesson you learn in a place like this?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You learn to keep your mouth shut just in case the person they put in the cell with you is a snitch who’s going to claim later that he heard you say something you didn’t say.’

  His accent is slightly Irish. The North. Belfast maybe.

  ‘I’m not a snitch.’

  ‘Oh, so you brought references did you?’

  ‘No, I mean . . .’

  ‘Best you not say anything.’

  I nod and he goes back to cleaning his hands.

  Julianne told me that he didn’t look like a monster. I wanted to tell her that they rarely ever do, bad people. They don’t have a rogue gene or a tattoo on their foreheads and, despite what people seem to think, you can’t ‘see it in their eyes’.

  A few minutes later Brennan, Scott and Dobson are led upstairs and their trial resumes. Julianne will be there. Her witness gives evidence today. The survivor.

  32

  Two hours later I step outside the crown court registry office alongside Ruiz, who posted my bail.

  ‘Where did you get twenty grand?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You put up your house.’

  ‘More fool them - it’s falling down.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘Just make sure you turn up for the hearing or I’ll track you down myself and kill you.’

  We’ve spent the last hour waiting for the paperwork to be approved while I recounted what happened yesterday - first with Sienna, and then Gordon Ellis. As I told him the story, I could see every turn in the road, every dip and curve, every fuck-up. When I reached the point where Ellis claimed to have slept with Charlie, I could feel the temperature rise in Ruiz.

  ‘It’s not true,’ he told me. ‘Charlie’s too bright for that.’

  ‘I know. I wish I could have been thinking more clearly at the time. Instead I wanted to kill him.’

  ‘Yeah, well, don’t go publicising the fact.’

  We’re standing on the steps. The street outside is empty except for police and a handful of protesters who have stayed behind. Ruiz unscrews the lid from his sweet tin and pops a boiled lolly on his tongue.

  ‘You medicated?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘You should get some sleep.’

  ‘I have to talk to Julianne. She’s working today. Translating.’

  I glance towards the courthouse and try to push away the memory of her watching me standing in the dock. The look she gave me. Blank. Empty.

  ‘Which court is she in?’

  ‘The Novak Brennan trial.’

  Ruiz seems to taste something in his mouth that turns sour and unpleasant. He spits the sweet into the gutter where it shatters against the concrete.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You know Brennan?’

  ‘Yeah, I know him. We go way back.’

  ‘I just spent an hour in a holding cell with him.’

  ‘Then you might want to shower.’

  Planting his hands in his coat pockets, Ruiz stares indolently into the pearl-grey sky, but his gaze has turned inward, replaying past events in his head. Clearing his throat, he begins talking about his years in Northern Ireland when he was seconded to work with the Royal Ulster Constabulary, monitoring intelligence on IRA terror cells operating on the British mainland but controlled from Belfast.

  ‘A prostitute called Mae Grace Brennan died of a drug overdose in a bedsit on the Antrim Road in 1972. It was just after Bloody Friday. She was dead two days before the neighbours broke into her flat. They found Novak and hi
s sister living in filth. Novak was three, Rita only nine months. The baby was so undernourished she had bleeding sores on her buttocks and back. Novak could barely walk.

  ‘Brother and sister were made wards of the court and fostered. A Methodist minister and his wife adopted them, but the die was cast early when it came to Novak. He had behavioural problems which saw him expelled from school and given counselling from the age of seven. When he was ten he killed the family cat by throwing it against a wall after it scratched him. Four years later, he beat up the minister’s wife so badly that she had to be hospitalised.

  ‘The family gave up and Novak and Rita were taken back into care. Four months later they ran away and finished up on the streets of Belfast. It was 1983, just before I started my secondment.

  ‘That December the IRA set off a car bomb outside Harrods and killed six people - three of them coppers. I knew one of them. Inspector Stephen Dodd. He died on Christmas Eve. We were trying to trace the men responsible and the trail led to Belfast.’

  Ruiz registers the passing of a police car. The windscreen catches the light like a camera flash and two men in uniform watch us as though we’re middle-aged suicide bombers.

  ‘What happened to Novak and Rita?’ I ask.

  ‘They lived on the streets, in squats, deserted factories and freight cars. Then Novak came up with a honey-trap scam. Rita used to dress up in a short leather skirt and boob tube, wandering up Adelaide Street, drawing attention from the johns. She lured them into a dark alley, unzipped them and got on her knees. That’s when Novak crept forward and tapped Rita on the shoulder, aiming a knife at their soft bits and demanding money.

  ‘He stole wallets, credit cards, sometimes clothes. Later he graduated to blackmail by taking Polaroids and threatening to post them home if the john didn’t stump up more cash. Nothing shakes money from a tree like a photograph of an underage girl giving a married man a blowjob.

  ‘Soon they had plenty of cash and rented a place. Set up house. Stayed clear of the social. It seemed like a perfect set-up.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Rita attracted the wrong customer one night. A biker by the name of Nigel Geddes plucked her off the street before Novak could intervene. Geddes took Rita to a gang party where she was raped every which way by at least a dozen bikers. When they discovered she was a virgin they laughed. What were the chances, eh?