Julianne answers the door dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. Her dark hair is cut short in a new style, which makes her look younger. Sweet. Sexy. Her loose shirt shows hollows above her collarbones and the outline of her bra beneath.
She kisses Charlie’s cheek. It’s practised. Intimate. They are almost the same height. Another two inches and they’ll see eye to eye.
‘What took you so long?’
‘We stopped for pizza,’ answers Charlie.
‘But I’ve kept your dinner!’
Julianne looks at me accusingly. It’s my fault.
‘I’m sorry. I forgot.’
‘You always forget.’
Charlie steps between us. ‘Please don’t fight.’
Julianne stops herself. Softens her voice. ‘Upstairs. Have a shower. Don’t wake Emma. I just got her to bed.’
Emma is our youngest and has started school in the village, looking tiny in her blue tunic and grey socks. Every time I see her walking out the school gate with her friends, I think of Gulliver and the Lilliputians.
Charlie dumps her schoolbag into her mother’s arms and makes the stairs seem steep as she goes up to her room. Julianne unzips the schoolbag looking for school notes or reminders. She’s wearing the silver earrings I bought her in Marrakesh.
‘I like your hair,’ I say.
‘Charlie says I look like a lesbian.’
‘That’s not true.’
She smiles and arranges the coats on the coat rack in the passage.
This is what our conversations are like since we separated. Brief. Polite. No deeper than a puddle. We were married for twenty years. We’ve been separated for two. Not divorced. Julianne hasn’t asked me. That’s a good thing.
We no longer shop together, go to movies, pay bills, buy cars, book holidays or attend dinner parties as a couple, but we still talk and do parent-teacher nights and family birthday parties. We talked today. I made her laugh, which is always my fallback when I’ve got nothing else. Humour and anti-depressants are my antidotes to Mr Parkinson, who was the third person in our marriage, the other man, who stayed with me after the separation and now is like an unwelcome relative hanging around for the reading of the will.
‘How’s the trial going?’ I ask.
‘They haven’t needed me yet. They’re still choosing a jury.’
Nine months ago, Julianne quit her high-flying corporate job in London, to be closer to the girls. Now she’s working as an interpreter for the police and the courts, occasionally getting late-night calls because victims, suspects or witnesses have to be interviewed.
They’ve asked her to interpret at a murder trial in Bristol. Three men are accused of firebombing a boarding house, killing a family of asylum seekers. The newspapers have labelled it a ‘race-hate trial’ and politicians are calling for calm.
Julianne has finished tidying the hallway. I linger, rocking on my heels, hoping she might invite me to stay for a cup of tea and a chat. Occasionally, she does and we spend an hour talking about the girls, planning their weekends and itineraries. It’s not going to happen tonight.
‘I guess I’d better go.’
‘Are you going to sit outside again?’ She doesn’t make it sound like an accusation. ‘I saw you last night.’
‘I went for a walk.’
‘You were sitting out there for two hours, on the wall, beneath the tree.’
‘It was a nice evening.’
She gazes at me curiously. ‘You don’t have to guard us, Joe.’
‘I know. It was an odd day yesterday.’
‘Why?’
‘I missed the girls.’
‘You’re seeing them most days.’
‘I know, but I still missed them.’
She gives me a melancholy smile and holds the door. I lean close and she lets me kiss her. I hold my cheek against hers.
Stepping outside, I walk down the path and turn. Julianne is standing motionless in the doorway, the light framing her body and creating a halo around her head that disappears as the door closes.
2
Home now is a small two-storey terrace in Station Road, less than half a mile from my old life. Trains stopped running through Wellow in 1956 but there’s still an old station building at the end of the street, which someone has converted into a long narrow house with a covered verandah where the platform used to be.
The tracks were ripped up long ago but it’s possible to trace the route of the railway line to a red-brick viaduct with a grand arch, which is the signature photograph of the village.
My terrace is darker than a cave because the windows are so small and the rooms are full of faded oriental rugs, wobbly side tables and old-lady furniture. Charlie and Emma have to share a bedroom when they sleep over, but Emma often crawls into my bed with me, forcing me downstairs on to the sofa because her core body temperature is akin to nuclear fusion. I don’t mind the sofa. I can watch late-night movies or obscure sports that don’t seem to have any rules.
There are three messages on my answering machine. Message one is from Bruno Kaufman, my boss at the university.
Joseph, old boy, just reminding you about the staff meeting Thursday. Peter Tooley wants to cut the post-grad programme. We have to fight this. Call me.
Clunk!
Message two. Charlie:
Are you picking me up? Remember we have rehearsal. Hey, I got a joke. There’s this tray of muffins being baked in the oven and one muffin says to another, ‘Man, it’s getting hot in here.’ And the other muffin says, ‘Holy shit! A talking muffin.’
She laughs like a drain.
Clunk!
Message three is from my mother, reminding me about my father’s birthday next week.
Please don’t send him any more Scotch. I’m trying to get him to cut down. Oh, I almost forgot, you’ll never guess who I saw in Cardiff last week. Cassie Pritchard. You remember Cassie. We took that holiday with the Pritchards to the Lake District when you were fourteen? You and Cassie got on so well together . . .
(If memory serves, Cassie Pritchard pushed me out of a rowing boat and I almost died of pneumonia.) ... the poor thing has broken up with her husband in a messy divorce. Now she’s on her own. I have her phone number. You should give her a call. Cheer her up. Hope the girls are well. Send them my love.
Clunk!
I hold down the erase button. Wait for the beep. The counter resets to zero.
I look at my watch. It’s not quite ten. There’s still time for an evening stroll to the Fox and Badger, the village pub. Collecting my coat, I step out the door and turn along the High Street.
A few minutes later I pull open the heavy door. Smell the beer fumes. The pub is noisy and energetic, full of lumpy bodies and flushed faces. Locals. Regulars. Most of them I recognise, even if I don’t know their names.
There is a fireplace that must be ten foot wide and four feet high with a box-shaped wood stove and newly chopped faggots stacked alongside. Side by side above the hearth, a fox and a badger (just their heads) peer forlornly at proceedings.
A smaller fireplace in the lounge bar has a brace of pheasants above the hearth and a sticker that reads: ‘If it’s called the tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?’
Half a dozen youngsters have taken over a corner of the lounge beneath a string of fairy lights and the pheasants. Some of the girls look underage in tight jeans and short tops. Bratz dolls grown up.
The publican, Hector, raises his eyes and pours me a Scotch. One drink won’t hurt. I’ll start my new regime tomorrow. Show Mr Parkinson who’s the better man.
Hector is the unofficial convenor of the local divorced men’s club, which meets once a month at the pub. I’m not a natural joiner and, since I’m technically not divorced, I’ve avoided most of the meetings but I do play in the pub’s over-35s’ football team. There are fifteen of us - a number that allows for frequent substitutions and prevents avoidable heart attacks. I play defence. Right back. Leaving the faster men to play up f
ront. I like to imagine myself more in the classic European-style sweeper role, threading precision long balls that split the defence.
We have nicknames. I am known as ‘Shrink’ for obvious reasons. ‘Hands’ is our goalkeeper - a retired pilot who had a brain tumour - and our star striker, Jimmy Monroe, is called ‘Marilyn’ (but not to his face). They’re a reasonable bunch of lads. None of them asks about my condition, which is pretty obvious from some of my miskicks. After the game, we nurse our bruises at the Fox and Badger, sharing non-confessional personal stories. We don’t confide. We never disclose an intimacy. We are men.
I finish my drink and have another, nursing it slowly. At eleven o’clock Hector signals last orders. My mobile is vibrating. It’s Julianne. I wonder what she’s doing up so late.
I press the green button and try to say something clever. She cuts me off.
‘Come quickly! It’s Sienna. Something’s wrong! She’s covered in blood!’
‘Blood?’
‘I couldn’t make her stay. We have to find her.’
‘Where did she go?’
‘She just ran away.’
‘Call 999. I’m coming.’
I grab my coat from a wooden hook and pull open the door, breaking into a trot as I thread my arms through the sleeves. The pavement slabs are cracked and uneven under my feet. Turning down Mill Hill, I pick up speed, letting gravity carry me towards the cottage in jarring strides.
Julianne is waiting outside, a torch swinging frenetically in her hand.
‘Where did she go?’
She points towards the river, her voice cracking. ‘She rang the doorbell. I screamed when I saw her. I must have scared her.’
‘Did she say anything?’
She shakes her head.
The door is open. I can see Charlie sitting on the stairs clutching her pillow. We gaze at each other and something passes between us. A promise. I’ll find her.
I turn to leave.
‘I want to come,’ says Julianne.
‘Wait for the ambulance. Send Charlie back to bed.’
I take the torch from her cold fingers and turn at the gate. The river is hidden in the trees, eighty yards away. Swinging the torch from side to side, I peer over the hedges and into the neighbouring field.
Reaching the small stone footbridge and a wider concrete causeway, I shout Sienna’s name. The road - unmade, single lane, with hedgerows on either side - leads out of the village.
Why would she run? Why head this way?
I keep thinking of when I dropped her off. The boyfriend. She skipped into his arms. Maybe there was a car crash. He could be injured too.
The beam of the torch reflects off the evening dew and creates long shadows through the trees. I stop on the bridge. Listen. Water over rocks; a dog barking; others follow.
‘Sieeeeenna!’
The sound bounces off the arch of the footbridge and seems to echo along the banks of the narrow stream. They call it a river, but in places you can jump from one side to the other. Emma catches minnows here and Gunsmoke cools off after chasing rabbits.
I call Sienna’s name again, feeling an awful sense of déjà vu. Two years ago I searched this same road, looking for Charlie, calling her name, peering over farm gates and fences. She was knocked from her pushbike and kidnapped by a man who chained her to a sink and wrapped masking around her head, allowing her to breathe through a rubber hose. The man was caught and locked away, but how does a twelve-year-old recover from something like that? How does she set foot outside her house, or look a stranger in the eyes, or trust anyone again?
I have never forgotten the sense of panic that tore through my soft organs like a spinning blade when I knew Charlie was missing, when I searched and couldn’t find her.
A scurrying sound to my left. Footsteps on dead leaves. I swing the torch back and forth. Soft crying. I listen for the sound again. Nothing.
My left arm is trembling. Swapping hands, I move the beam of light slowly along the banks, trying to find the source of the sound, wishing it into being, solid and visible. It came from somewhere on the far bank, in the trees.
Scrambling down the side of the bridge, I slide into the water. Sinking. Mud and sediment suck at my shoes. I reach down and almost overbalance, catching the torch before it topples into the river.
Wading to the far bank, I discover brambles growing to the water’s edge. Thorns catch on my clothes and skin. Head first. Crawling forward. I can’t hear crying any more.
Game birds flushed from the undergrowth explode into the clearing making my heart pound against the walls of my chest. Unhooking the last of the vines from my clothes, I stand and listen.
The weak moonlight is deceptive. The trees become people. Branches become limbs. An army marching through the darkness.
I can’t find her - not in the dark. I should be fitter. I should be sober. I should have better eyesight. I should take my time or I’ll walk straight past her.
The torch swings in another arc and picks up a flash of white before continuing.
Go back!
Where?
There she is! Huddled between the roots of a tree like a discarded doll. Still in her black dress. Water lapping at her bare legs. She’s on the far bank. I chose the wrong side. I’m in the river now, falling rather than jumping, wading towards her, my scrotum retracting in the cold.
‘It’s only me, Sienna,’ I whisper. ‘It’s OK, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine.’
My fingers frozen and numb, I feel for a pulse on her neck. Her eyes are open. Flat. Cold.
I put her arm over my shoulder and slide one hand beneath her thighs and another behind her back.
‘I’m just going to pick you up now.’
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t resist. She weighs nothing, but I’m unsteady. Carrying her back along the bank, I walk blindly because I can’t point the torch properly. All the while, I’m talking to Sienna, whispering between heavy breaths, telling her not to worry.
My ankle snags on a root, sending me sideways. At the last moment I take the impact on my shoulder, protecting Sienna’s head.
A sudden surge of panic rips the calmness. She hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t moved. She might be dead. She might never be able to tell me who did this to her.
The bridge. The arch. I have to free my arm and use a sapling to pull both of us up the bank to the edge of the road. Sienna hangs limply from my other arm, a dead weight, being pulled across the ground.
‘Stay with me, sweetheart. We’re almost there.’
One last effort, I drag her to the edge of the bridge and lever myself over the wall, holding her body to stop her tumbling back down the slope. There are torches dancing between the trees, coming towards us. Blue flashing lights decorate the sky above them.
I put Sienna down gently, cradling her head against my chest. Breathing hard.
‘I told you we’d make it.’
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t blink. Her skin is cold, but I can feel a pulse beneath my fingers.
‘There they are!’ someone yells.
A powerful light illuminates every detail of the scene. I hold up my hand to shield my eyes.
‘She needs a doctor.’
I glance down at Sienna and notice the blood. I thought it was mud on her thighs and hands, but she’s bleeding. Her eyes are open, staring blindly past me.
A paramedic crouches beside me on the bridge, taking Sienna and laying her on the tarmac with a coat beneath her head. He yells instructions to his partner. Pulse. Blood pressure. Good signs.
Another set of hands helps me to stand, holding me up, making sure I don’t fall. One of them is asking me questions.
Did I find her in the water? Was she conscious? Did she fall? Is she allergic to any drugs?
I don’t know.
‘She’s my daughter’s best friend,’ I say through chattering teeth.
What a stupid statement! What difference does that make?
Julianne’s
face appears in front of me. ‘He’s shivering. Get him a blanket.’
Her arms wrap around me and I feel her warmth. She will not fail. She will not let me go.
The ambulance reverses down the hill. The back doors open. A litter slides from within. Sienna is rolled on to a spinal board and lifted on the count of three.
‘We have to take you to the hospital, sir,’ says a paramedic.
‘My name is Joe.’
‘We have to take you to the hospital, Joe.’
‘I’m all right - just out of breath.’
‘It’s a precaution. Do you know this girl?’
‘Her name is Sienna.’
‘You can ride with Sienna. Try to keep her calm.’
Calm? She’s catatonic. She’s a statue.
Wrapped in a silver trauma blanket, I’m half pushed and half lifted into the ambulance. Julianne wants to come with me, but she has Charlie and Emma to think about.
The right door closes.
‘Call me,’ she says.
The left door locks shut. A hand hammers a signal and we’re moving.
‘Did she take anything?’ asks the paramedic.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘No.’
He shines a pencil-torch in her eyes and slips an oxygen mask over her face.
The siren wails, chasing us through the darkness. Sienna is lying completely still, her limbs muddy and pale, her stomach rising and falling with each breath.
I keep seeing her in the beam of the torch - a spectral figure with her brown hair hanging in a fringe across her face. She was looking at me as though she’d seen something terrible or done something worse.
3
It has just gone midnight and the sky is a black sponge. Police vans are parked outside the Royal United Hospital and four paramedics are kicking a coffee cup around the ambulance bay, scoring goals between the bins.
My feet move unsteadily, as though unsure of the depth of the ground. Ushered through swinging doors, I follow a young triage nurse to a consulting room. She takes my wet clothes and hands me a hospital gown and a thin blue blanket.
Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin) Page 3
