Bleed For Me

by Michael Robotham

  I’m more concerned about her other ‘foibles’, which is a polite way of describing her neuroses. Last week she launched her dinner plate across the table because a meatball ‘touched’ her macaroni. What was I thinking, putting them on the same plate!

  I have learned some remarkable things since becoming a father and I appreciate how much there is still to learn. I know, for example, that a pound coin can pass harmlessly through the digestive system of a four-year-old. I know that regurgitated chicken-flavoured ramen noodles and tomato sauce will ruin a silk carpet; that nail polish sticks to the inside of a bath and too much beetroot turns a toddler’s urine a neon crimson colour.

  There is also a mysterious person living in our house called Notme, who is responsible for leaving wet towels on the floor, empty crisp packets on the sofa and chucking buckets of toys around the bedroom. I got so sick of cleaning up after Notme that I made a dummy out of old pillows, dressed it up and hung a sign on his chest saying, ‘Notme’.

  Emma thinks it’s hilarious.

  When I discovered locks of her beautiful hair floating in the toilet bowl and more evidence in her bedroom, I demanded to know who did the cutting.

  ‘Not me,’ said Emma.

  I looked at Charlie.

  ‘Well, it’s not me.’

  I went to the dummy. ‘Listen, Notme, did you cut Emma’s hair?’

  Emma looked on nervously.

  ‘Notme says he didn’t do it,’ I announced.

  ‘Did he really say that?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘Oh.’

  After that she confessed and took her punishment like a five-year-old.

  Charlie won’t be home for another hour. In the meantime I make Emma a snack and listen to her sound out words on her spelling list. Then she goes into the garden and chases Gunsmoke, wanting to tie a bonnet on his head. The Labrador lopes, stops, waits and lopes off again.

  Julianne phones at a quarter past four. The trial has been adjourned. She’s meeting someone for a drink and will be home at six-thirty. I listen to her voice and imagine that by ‘home’ she means coming back to me. It’s a nice thought, if hopelessly optimistic.

  At five o’clock I turn on the news. A blonde newsreader with Bambi eyes stares unblinkingly from the screen.

  A fire investigator today described how he found five bodies in a Bristol boarding house, three of them children, all belonging to the same family of asylum seekers.

  The camera cuts to an equally well-groomed reporter, struggling to record a piece to camera as the wind tosses her hair.

  Giving evidence at a murder trial at Bristol Crown Court, Fire Officer Jim Sherman told the jury that the house was well alight by the time the first fire crews arrived at the scene.

  The family, who were all sleeping upstairs, were trapped by the blaze, except for Marco Kostin, aged eighteen, who managed to climb out of a second-floor window and jump to safety.

  Fire officers discovered traces of petrol in the downstairs hallway of the house and evidence that a fuel-filled bottle had been thrown through the front window.

  The footage changes and reveals police manning barricades and forcing back protesters outside the court.

  Amid extraordinary security, the three accused arrived at the court this morning where they were heckled by protesters and cheered by supporters. British National Party candidate Novak Brennan waved briefly to the crowd as he and his fellow accused, Tony Scott and Gary Dobson, were led into court. Scott and Dobson are former BNP activists with links to neo-Nazi organisations. All have pleaded not guilty to charges of murder and conspiracy to commit arson with the intent to endanger life.

  Emma wants to watch something else because this is ‘boring’.

  ‘You might see Mummy,’ I tell her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was there today.’

  Her brow creases and she concentrates on the TV for twenty seconds, before announcing, ‘Nope, I can’t see her.’

  Losing interest, she tries to wake Strawberry, who is curled up on a chair.

  Charlie should be home. I try to call her mobile but get her voicemail. Perhaps she missed the bus.

  When the phone rings I’m sure it’s her. Instead a male voice asks for ‘Charlotte’s father’.

  My insides seem to liquefy. Nobody ever calls her Charlotte. He’s a constable from Bath Police Station and he begins explaining that Charlie has been arrested for assaulting a minicab driver and failing to pay a fare.

  ‘There must be some mistake. She’s on her way home from school.’

  ‘I’m holding her student card.’ He reads her full name.

  The rushing sound in my ears is partly relief. Mistakes can be rectified. At least she’s safe.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asks Emma.

  ‘To pick up Charlie.’

  I put a coat over her Snow White dress and lace up her boots. I look at my watch. Julianne should be here soon. I decide not to call her.

  Bath Police Station is in Manvers Street, just up from the railway station. It takes fifteen minutes to drive, during which I have to field Emma’s questions, wishing somebody could answer mine. What on earth was Charlie doing?

  I find her slouching on a plastic chair in the custody suite, schoolbag between her knees. The only other person in the room is a middle-aged Indian man holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose.

  Charlie looks at me briefly and lowers her eyes to her scuffed shoes. She’s been crying, but the overriding emotion is frustration rather than sorrow.

  ‘What happened?’

  Her answer comes in a rush.

  ‘I was going to see Sienna, but I didn’t have enough money. I thought I did, but it cost too much. And then he got angry.’ She points to the Sikh cab driver. ‘I was three pounds short. Three lousy pounds. I said I’d get him the money. I gave him my phone number. My address. But he wouldn’t let me go.’

  The driver interrupts. ‘She called me a Paki bastard. Such a foul-mouthed girl. Truly terrible.’ His head wobbles.

  ‘He had his hands all over me!’

  ‘She broke my nose!’

  ‘I hardly touched him.’

  ‘She’s a thug.’

  ‘And you’re a pervert!’

  A policeman intervenes. Constable Dwyer has gelled red hair that makes his head look like it’s on fire. He wants to talk to me privately. I tell Charlie to be nice and to look after Emma. She gives me a death stare - already accusing me of taking sides against her.

  The constable explains the facts. The driver, Mr Singh, picked Charlie up from school during last period after she phoned for a minicab. He dropped her outside the Royal United Hospital, where Charlie couldn’t pay the fare. According to Mr Singh, she tried to run away and he had to lock the doors. She then assaulted him.

  ‘He has a security camera in his cab,’ says the constable.

  ‘Can I see it?’

  Constable Dwyer raises a hinged section of the counter and leads me to a desk with a computer. The wide-angle footage is grainy and poorly lit, shot from low on the dashboard. Instead of being focused on the driver, it is aimed at the passenger seat, revealing Charlie’s legs and a flash of her underwear as she reaches for her seatbelt.

  The PC fast forwards to the argument. I can hear Charlie offering to pay and giving her address. When she tries to get out of the car, he locks the doors and she panics.

  ‘Is he allowed to imprison her?’ I ask.

  ‘He can make a citizen’s arrest.’

  ‘She’s fourteen!’

  I glance at the computer screen again. ‘That’s an odd place to put a camera, don’t you think? What was he trying to film?’

  Mr Singh overhears the remark and takes offence.

  ‘I’m not the criminal here!’

  ‘Perhaps I should look at your other CCTV tapes,’ says Dwyer.

  Mr Singh puffs up in protest.

  ‘I want her charged.
And I want my medical expenses paid . . . and compensation for loss of earnings.’

  My mobile is vibrating. It’s Julianne.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘We won’t be long.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  What am I going to tell her?

  ‘I’m at Bath Police Station. I’ll be home soon.’

  ‘Where are the girls?’ Her voice has gone up an octave.

  ‘Charlie has been cautioned for assaulting a cab driver and failing to pay the fare.’

  Silence.

  Maybe I should have said nothing.

  ‘It’s all right. It’s under control.’

  Finally she speaks - her questions coming in a rush. When? Why? How?

  ‘Stay calm.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down, Joe. Where’s Emma?’

  ‘She’s with me.’

  Emma is sitting on Charlie’s lap, playing a clapping game. I notice the ink stains on Charlie’s fingers. She’s been fingerprinted. That’s ridiculous.

  ‘What’s ridiculous?’ asks Julianne.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You just said something was ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Got to go.’

  ‘Don’t hang up on me.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I confront PC Dwyer. ‘Why has my daughter been fingerprinted? ’

  ‘It’s standard procedure. We take DNA samples and fingerprints to confirm a suspect’s identity.’

  ‘She’s fourteen.’

  ‘Age isn’t an issue.’

  ‘This is a joke!’

  Dwyer’s amiable veneer has disappeared in a heartbeat. ‘Nobody is laughing, sir. I ran a check on your daughter. This isn’t the first time she’s been in trouble.’

  He’s talking about the shoplifting incident. I want to tell him about the kidnapping and how Charlie was trussed up in tape and left breathing through a hose. No wonder she panicked when the driver locked the doors on her. But I know Charlie is listening and I want her to forget her ordeal rather than have it brought up again.

  ‘She had a formal caution last time,’ says Constable Dwyer. ‘This time the matter will be referred to the CPS.’

  Mr Singh seems happier. His nose has stopped bleeding. I fancy punching it.

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘A court summons will be sent by post. If it doesn’t arrive, she’s in the clear.’

  I look at the driver. ‘What if I offered to pay your medical bills ... and compensation?’

  His head rocks and he points to his nose.

  Dwyer recovers a remnant of his former warmth. ‘It may not go any further, sir. Take your daughter home.’

  Charlie picks up her schoolbag and I take Emma’s hand. Pushing through the doors, we descend the steps and follow the glow of streetlights to the car. Charlie drags her feet as though carrying bricks instead of books. Emma has fallen into a worried silence.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ I ask.

  Charlie doesn’t raise her head. ‘Don’t blame me. If that dickhead wasn’t so uptight . . .’

  ‘Mind your language.’

  Emma is quick. ‘What’s a dickhead?’

  ‘Nobody. I’m talking to Charlie.’

  We sit in silence for half a mile. Charlie finally answers.

  ‘I called the hospital but they wouldn’t tell me anything about Sienna.’

  ‘So you decided to catch a cab?’

  ‘I didn’t realise how much it was going to cost.’

  Charlie is animated now, marshalling her arguments, defending herself.

  ‘There were all these stories going round school. They’re saying that Sienna killed her Dad, that she’s been arrested, that she’s tried to commit suicide.’

  ‘We don’t know what happened yet.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘I saw Sienna when she came to the cottage. I saw the blood.’

  Emma is listening intently from her booster seat. How much does she understand?

  ‘I don’t think we should talk about this now.’

  Charlie won’t let it go. ‘You’re treating me like a child.’

  ‘Maybe because you’re acting like one. You’ve been arrested. God knows what your mother will say.’

  ‘Don’t tell her!’

  ‘It’s too late. She called me.’

  Charlie groans. ‘Now she’ll get all sad and she’ll spend days looking at me like she’s a seal pup about to be hit with a club.’

  ‘She’s not that bad.’

  ‘Yes she is. She’s sad enough already.’

  Is she sad?

  Julianne is standing in the doorway of the cottage as I park the car. She opens her arms for Emma, who runs up the path. Charlie takes longer to retrieve her bag and open the car door.

  ‘We still need to talk about this.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  I hate that word - ‘whatever’. She’s telling me I don’t understand. I’ll never understand. I’m too old. I’m too stupid. I have no taste in clothes or music or friends. I don’t own the right language to talk to her. I don’t dread the same things or dream the same dreams.

  I’m caught in that in-between place, unsure whether I can be a father or a friend to Charlie, knowing I can’t be both.

  Right now she is like a separate nation state seeking independence, wanting her own government, laws and budget. Whenever I try to avoid conflict, choosing diplomacy instead of hostility, she masses her troops at the border, accusing me of spying or sabotaging her life.

  She walks up the path and steps around Julianne, going straight upstairs to her room.

  Julianne calls out to me. ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘Sienna.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later.’

  The door closes and I sit on the low brick wall across the lane, beneath the overhanging branches. Gazing at the cottage, I can sometimes make out silhouettes behind the curtains. Right now Julianne is getting Emma ready for bed. Next will come the brushing of teeth, the reading of bedtime stories, a kiss, a hug, a thirsty summons, and one final hug before the light is turned down.

  I know the script. I know the stage directions. I no longer have a walk-on part.

  8

  It’s six thirty-five. Still dark outside. Sometimes I wake like this, aware of a sound where no sound belongs. The terrace is old and full of inexplicable creaks and groans, as if complaining of being neglected. Footsteps in the attic. Branches scratching against glass.

  I used to sleep like a bear, but not any more. Now I lie awake taking an inventory of my tics and twitches, mapping my body to see what territory I have surrendered to Mr Parkinson since yesterday.

  My left leg and arm are twitching. Using my right hand, I pick up a small white pill and take a sip of water, raising my head from the pillow to swallow. The blue pill comes next.

  After twenty minutes I take another inventory. The twitches have gone and Mr Parkinson has been kept at bay for another few hours. Never vanquished. Till death us do part.

  At seven o’clock I turn on the radio. The news in scolding tones:

  Scuffles broke out yesterday outside the trial of three men accused of firebombing a boarding house and killing a family of five asylum seekers. Riot police were called to quell the fighting between anti-racism protesters and supporters of the accused, who have links to the British National Party.

  Police have promised extra security when the trial resumes this morning at Bristol Crown Court.

  The second bulletin:

  A decorated former detective has been brutally murdered in his home in a village outside of Bath. DCI Ray Hegarty, who spent twenty years with Bristol CID, bled to death in his daughter’s bedroom.

  Forensic experts spent yesterday at the eighteenth-century farmhouse, where they took bedding and carpets, while detectives interviewed neighbours and family members. Investigators are waiting to talk to the victim’s teenage daughter who is under police guard in hospital.

  The we
ather forecast: patchy cloud with a chance of showers. Maximum: 12 °C.

  Gunsmoke can hear me coming down the stairs. He sleeps outside in the laundry, an arrangement he resents because the cat sits on the windowsill almost goading him.

  ‘A short walk today,’ I tell him.

  I have work to do - a lecture at the university. Today my psychology students will learn why people follow orders and act contrary to their consciences. Think of the Holocaust, Abu Ghraib, black prisons and Guantanamo Bay . . .

  I make mental notes as I walk across Haydon Field. I shall tell them about Stanley Milgram, an assistant professor of psychology at Yale University, who in 1963 conducted one of the most famous experiments of them all. He organised a group of volunteers to play the roles of teachers and students and then set up an ‘electric shock’ machine. The students had to memorise a pair of words and were ‘punished’ for any wrong answer with a shock from the machine.

  There were thirty levers, each corresponding to fifteen volts. With each mistake, the next lever was pulled, delivering even more pain. If a teacher hesitated they were told, ‘The experiment requires that you go on.’

  The machine was a fake, of course, but the teacher volunteers didn’t know that. Each time they pulled a new lever a soundtrack broadcast painful groans, turning to screams at higher voltages. Finally there was silence.

  Sixty-five per cent of participants pulled levers corresponding to the maximum 450 volts, clearly marked ‘DANGER: LETHAL’.

  Milgram interviewed the volunteers afterwards, asking them why, and was told they were just following orders. Does that sound familiar? It’s the same excuse offered down the ages. The man in the white coat or the military uniform is seen as a legitimate authority figure. Someone to be believed. Someone to be obeyed.

  Gunsmoke is lying in a shallow watercourse at the edge of the river where silt has formed a beach. He drinks, pants and drinks some more. Crossing the bridge, I walk up Mill Hill. The Labrador catches up, dripping water from his chin. His pink tongue swings from side to side.

  As I near the terrace, I see a young woman sitting in a wheelchair. Dressed in jeans and a sweater, her dark hair is pulled back from her face into a tight ponytail.

  ‘Mr O’Loughlin?’