Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin)

by Michael Robotham

  Unconsciously, I’m accelerating, trying to pull away. A long sweeping left-hand corner is followed by a right-hand bend where Combe Hay Lane passes through a copse of trees. There’s nowhere to pull over.

  I’m travelling too fast, gripping the wheel too tightly, my eyes smarting at the brightness, seeing phantoms leaping from the ditches and from behind trees. I try to remember what lies ahead. There’s a farm track on the left with a turning circle for tractors. It’s two hundred yards away. I’ll pull over. Let the car pass.

  We’re inches apart. I touch the brakes. Indicate. I don’t want him crashing into me. The nearside tyres leave the asphalt and dig into the softer edges. I almost lose control and wrench the wheel to the right. The Volvo fishtails and veers wildly across the road, heading for a ditch. I have to correct again.

  Ahead I see the approaching lights of a car. The headlights behind me suddenly disappear. As the oncoming car passes, I see a vehicle for a brief moment in the rear-view mirror. Big and boxy, it could be a Range Rover. Black. Just a driver - he must have turned off his headlights.

  He flicks them on again and the high beam blasts my corneas burning a white spot that won’t go away.

  The Volvo leans heavily on the bends and surges over dips. The trees and hedges are like passing shadows. I’ve missed the farm track. There’s a turn-off to Combe Hay a hundred yards ahead. I can’t make the turn at this speed.

  Fifty yards. Forty. I hit the brakes hard. Swing the wheel. Brace for the impact. The Volvo skirts the far ditch but makes the turn and skids to a halt on loose gravel. I expect to see the Range Rover shoot past, but instead it makes the same manoeuvre, far more expertly, stopping twenty yards behind me.

  Shouldering open the door, I scream at his idiocy, my heart pounding. Shielding my eyes against the brightness, I take three steps towards the car. There’s no response. The doors remain closed, the engine running.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ I yell.

  No response.

  I glance at the Volvo. Nothing appears to be wrong. The tail lights are working.

  Hesitating, I can think of a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t move any closer. I’m alone. I’m unarmed. I don’t have a tyre iron to take out his fucking windows.

  Finally, I take a step back, reach into the car and pull out my mobile.

  ‘You see this? I’m calling the police.’

  The waiting car rocks forward suddenly and stops. What’s he doing?

  I start punching in 999, glancing at the glowing screen. At the same moment, the car accelerates in a roar of horsepower and spinning wheels. It’s heading straight for me.

  I don’t have time to run. I throw myself across the seat and pull my legs inside as the driver’s side door is ripped from its metal hinges with a crunching finality.

  The sudden backdraught blows dust around the interior of the Volvo. Then there’s silence. No sound except my breathing.

  I climb out and look down the empty road. My crumpled car door is lying thirty yards away in the ditch. The Range Rover has gone. Walking across the road, I retrieve the door, loading it in the back of the Volvo. Then I put in a call to Ronnie Cray.

  ‘Sounds like something out of Duel,’ she says.

  ‘Duel?’

  ‘Spielberg’s first classic. This ordinary guy - Dennis Weaver - is driving through the desert and he gets terrorised by this big truck that’s like the Freddy Krueger of trucks.’

  ‘Are you taking this seriously?’

  ‘Yeah. Course. Did you get a number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you get a make?’

  ‘It looked like a Range Rover. Black.’

  ‘Did you get a description of the driver?’

  ‘I couldn’t see anything.’

  ‘Not much I can do. Where were you going?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Where were you coming from?’

  ‘I was talking to Sienna Hegarty’s therapist.’

  ‘You think it’s connected?’

  ‘Maybe. What do you think?’

  ‘It was probably just a joy-rider, winding you up.’

  ‘What about my car door?’

  ‘You’re insured. Make a claim.’

  She’s about to hang up. ‘Hey, Professor, maybe you should stop asking so many questions.’

  22

  Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my feet argue for a moment, curling inwards and not wanting to press flat on the rug. I have to concentrate, forcing my toes to the floor, then my heels. Slowly the spasms ease and I can reach the bathroom.

  The mirror is cruel this morning. I pull at the skin beneath my bloodshot eyes and examine my tongue. For the past two nights I have had a black Range Rover with blazing headlights chasing me in my dreams. Each time I’ve woken with my heart pounding and my fists clenched on an imaginary steering wheel.

  Strawberry is weaving between my bare legs, nipping at my toes, wanting to be fed. I follow her downstairs and fill her bowl, listening to the sound of Gunsmoke beating his tail against the back door and whining with excitement. At least one creature celebrates my getting up each morning.

  The phone rings. Ruiz shouts to be heard above aircraft noise.

  ‘Hey, Professor, you ever wondered why when you park in a totally empty airport car park someone always comes and parks next to you?’

  ‘It’s one of life’s great mysteries.’

  ‘Like pigeons.’

  ‘What’s so mysterious about pigeons?’

  ‘They’re always the same size. You never see baby pigeons or old-age pigeons.’

  ‘You don’t get out enough.’

  ‘I’m just a thinker.’

  The jet has passed. A boiled sweet rattles against his teeth. ‘Hey, there’s someone I want you to meet.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Edinburgh.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I’ll explain when you get here.’

  A part of me wants to resist the idea. I don’t want to travel. I want to stay close to home - particularly after what happened two nights ago - but I set Ruiz on the scent and he wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.

  ‘I’ll book a flight and get back to you.’

  Firstly, I call Bill Johnson at the local garage and ask him to pick up the Volvo and find me a new door. I tell him that I’ll leave the keys under the seat. Hanging up, I turn on my laptop and go online to book a flight to Edinburgh. Finally, I call Julianne and ask if I can borrow her car.

  ‘What’s wrong with yours?’

  ‘It doesn’t have a door.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  I can imagine her eyes rolling towards the ceiling in a well-worn expression of un-surprise.

  ‘One more thing - I’m going away tomorrow. Just for the day. I won’t be back in time to pick up Emma.’

  ‘I’ll get one of the other mothers to take her home.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Fifteen minutes later, I let myself into the cottage. Breakfast dishes are rinsed in the kitchen sink. Julianne’s car keys are on the mantelpiece. I’m about to leave when I remember that I wanted a photograph of Sienna. Charlie used to have one pinned to the corkboard above her desk. I hope she won’t mind me borrowing it.

  I climb the stairs and open her bedroom door, which has a ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign with a note written underneath: ‘That means you, Emma!’ Given that Emma can’t read yet, it seems rather superfluous, but I’m sure the message has been passed on orally.

  Charlie’s pyjamas are pooled on her unmade bed. Her desk is near the window. Her laptop is open. I scan the corkboard and spy a strip of passport-sized photographs taken at a photo-booth. Charlie and Sienna are sitting on each other’s laps, pulling funny faces. The last picture is of Sienna leaning towards the lens as though reading the instructions, unsure if the camera is going to flash again.

  Elsewhere the noticeboard is decorated with Po
st-it notes, pictures, newspaper clippings and reminders. One snapshot shows Charlie and Sienna on a Ferris wheel at the Wessex Show. It was published on the front page of the Somerset Standard.

  Charlie’s laptop is ‘sleeping’. I press the spacebar and the hard drive begins spinning. The screen illuminates. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I should respect her privacy. At the same time, I keep thinking of Sienna and her secrets and of Charlie crying at school and of our post-game conversation on Saturday.

  Clicking open the history directory, I scan through the websites Charlie has been ‘surfing’. Most of them I recognise: her Facebook page, iTunes, YouTube, Twitter . . .

  She has set up a profile on MSN, a message application that allows her to communicate with friends online. There are no text conversations recorded. Charlie must have ticked a box in the settings to delete old messages.

  I look at her Facebook page - the photo albums. There are shots of her last school camp, a friend’s party, our weekend in the Lake District, chasing Gunsmoke through the garden after he stole one of her trainers. Some of the photographs make me smile. Others tug at unseen strings in my chest.

  Opening a new ‘album’ I discover two photographs where I don’t recognise the context. Charlie is lying on a large bed, playing with a young boy. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, she is lying on her front, resting on her elbows. The collar of the T-shirt dips open at her neck, revealing little yet I still find it disconcerting.

  The next image shows her lying on her back with the little boy balanced on her knees. I wonder who took the shots. Someone she felt comfortable with. Someone she trusted.

  Looking at them, I can imagine Charlie as a young woman, a mother, married with a family. It’s strange because, normally, I still picture her as being a little girl in her Dalmatian pyjamas and red cowboy boots, putting on ‘shows’ in the garden.

  Clicking off the site, I close the lid of the laptop, sending it back to sleep.

  Shepparton Park School. Mid-morning. The headmaster Derek Stozer is a tall, slope-shouldered man with a lumpy body and the makings of a comb-over. I’ve only met him twice - including at a prize-giving day when he mumbled through his formal welcome speech and made fifteen minutes last longer than a wet weekend in Truro.

  His secretary, Mrs Summers, is like an over-protective wife who dotes on him.

  ‘You should have called for an appointment,’ she says. ‘He’s a very busy man.’

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry.’

  ‘What’s the nature of your inquiry?’

  ‘It’s personal.’

  She blinks at me, expecting more. I smile. She’s not happy. Leaning across her desk, she whispers into an intercom. Eventually, I am escorted down a carpeted corridor, past honour boards and trophy cabinets.

  Derek Stozer rises from his chair and hitches his trousers before shaking my hand.

  ‘Professor O’Loughlin, how can I help you? Is this about Charlotte?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh?’ He gazes at me along his nose.

  As soon as I mention Sienna Hegarty his mood changes and he mumbles something that might be ‘terrible business’ or could be ‘ermine fizziness’. He points to a chair and resumes his own.

  ‘I’ve been asked to examine Sienna and to prepare a psych report for the court. In the course of interviewing her family, I became aware that Ray Hegarty made a complaint to the school a week before he died. I believe it related to a member of your staff. I’ve since learned that this same member of staff has complained about harassing phone calls from Sienna.’

  The headmaster doesn’t react immediately. After a moment of reflection, he clears his throat. ‘From time to time parents and students have issues with teachers. It’s not uncommon.’

  ‘Mr Hegarty claimed he saw this particular member of staff kissing his daughter.’

  There is a longer silence. Mr Stozer stands and stretches his legs, wandering between the window and his desk, clasping his hands behind his back.

  ‘Mr Hegarty was mistaken. I have talked to the member of staff involved, who assures me that nothing untoward occurred. This member of staff admitted failing to appreciate that a student had developed a crush on him. It was a harmless infatuation. The member of staff immediately distanced himself from the girl and submitted a report.’

  ‘Did he kiss her?’

  ‘No, that’s not what happened.’

  ‘What did happen?’

  ‘I am led to believe that the girl tried to kiss him. He spurned her advances and reported the matter immediately. I was aware of the incident before Mr Hegarty raised it with me.’

  ‘Sienna was his babysitter.’

  ‘And he should never have allowed this. It was a mistake. He admitted as much. It was a failure of judgement.’

  ‘You investigated?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you talk to Sienna?’

  ‘I organised an internal review of the staff member’s actions and performance. I delegated the task to a senior member of staff - the school counsellor.’

  ‘Miss Robinson?’

  ‘She’s trained to talk to students about delicate issues.’

  Why didn’t Annie tell me any of this?

  Mr Stozer continues: ‘Sienna denied anything had happened. She said her father was mistaken.’

  ‘And you believed her?’

  ‘Yes, Mr O’Loughlin, I believed her. And I believed Mr Ellis and I believed Miss Robinson.’

  The last statement is delivered with far more authority than I thought Stozer capable of.

  ‘I don’t see what relevance any of this has,’ he adds. ‘Sienna Hegarty was a model student. She wasn’t being bullied. She wasn’t struggling academically. She enjoyed coming to school. She was a healthy, happy teenager—’

  ‘If Sienna was so healthy and happy, why did Miss Robinson suggest she see a therapist?’

  ‘Many young girls experience problems when they go through adolescence - I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. I’m led to believe that Sienna Hegarty was having difficulties at home.’

  ‘But not at school?’

  ‘If you’re trying to suggest that her state of mind or her actions had anything to do with this school, I would take serious issue . . .’

  He doesn’t finish the statement but the steel in his voice seems to stiffen his resolve. Marching to the door, he turns and says, ‘I have a staff meeting to attend, Professor. If you have any more questions I suggest you put them in writing to the school governors.’

  When I cross the river, I don’t turn on to Wells Road but continue along the south bank until I reach Lower Bristol Road. Keeping to the inside lane, I drive slowly and try to pick out the signs on the cross streets.

  Danny Gardiner said he dropped Sienna on the corner of Riverside Road and Lower Bristol Road. I pull up a little past the intersection, parking in the forecourt of a used-car dealership. A balmy wind, smelling of the river, sends litter swirling in the gutters.

  There are shops and businesses on both sides of the road - a video store, a fish and chip shop, a British Gas showroom, a hairdresser, a florist, sex shop, a minicab office and an off-licence. According to Danny Gardiner this was the first time he’d ever dropped Sienna here.

  ‘Spare some change, guv?’

  A stick-thin black man in a woollen hat holds out his hand with a fingerless glove. Nearby is a shopping trolley of his possessions. I fumble in my pocket. Find a pound. He looks at the coin as though it’s an ancient artefact.

  ‘You lost?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have a good day.’

  ‘You too.’

  Stepping around his shopping trolley, I push open the door of the hair salon. A young woman in her mid-thirties is washing a customer’s hair in a sink.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘What do want, petal? I don’t do men’s hair.’

  Moving closer, I show her a passport-sized photograph of Sienna. I’ve folded the strip
of images so that only one is showing.

  ‘Have you seen this girl?’

  She dries her hands on a towel and studies it for a moment.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A friend of my daughter’s.’

  ‘Is she missing?’

  ‘She’s in trouble. Do you work on Tuesdays? She was here a couple of weeks ago - about six o’clock, wearing a black dress.’

  The hairdresser shakes her head. ‘Don’t remember her.’

  ‘Thanks anyway.’

  I step outside. The flags are snapping above the car dealership. Next door at the florist shop, a dark-haired woman in jeans and a flannel shirt is moving buckets of flowers, arranging them to best effect. I show her Sienna’s photograph but she says that she closes early on Tuesdays.

  ‘Maybe you’ve seen her on other days?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she says, looking at me suspiciously.

  I move from business to business, hoping somebody might remember Sienna. She looked quite striking in her flapper dress, still wearing her stage make-up. The sex shop is closed up, barricaded behind metal shutters. A sign says it opens late, seven days a week.

  Next comes the minicab office on the corner, which is little more than a waiting room with half a dozen plastic chairs and a control booth behind a plywood partition and small glass window. A woman is waiting. Dressed in a long overcoat and high-heel shoes, she’s young. Pretty. She’s wearing too much make-up and has lipstick on her teeth.

  The controller is on the phone. Morbidly obese, he has three chins and has to sit two feet from the desk to accommodate his stomach.

  He meets my gaze. Keeps talking.

  ‘. . . yeah, the skinny faggot wanted three-to-one . . . yeah . . . fucking dreaming, I told him so . . . yeah . . .’

  He screws a finger into his opposite ear and examines his fingertip.

  ‘. . . that’s my point, Gaz, you can’t trust the fuckers . . . you got to show them who’s boss, you know . . . otherwise someone’s gonna get seriously fucked up . . . later, Gaz.’

  He hangs up. Talks on the two-way radio.

  ‘. . . yeah, Stevo, it was George Street . . . number eighteen . . . bottom buzzer.’