Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin)

by Michael Robotham

  ‘If you want my advice,’ he adds, ‘you need to keep getting laid.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s pretty self-explanatory.’

  ‘You think sex will cure me?’

  ‘Sex is messy, sweaty, noisy, clumsy, exhausting and exhilarating, but even at its worst . . .’

  He doesn’t finish the statement. Instead he looks at me closely. ‘So who is she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your bit on the side.’

  I want to deny it, but he grins, showing me the boiled sweet between his teeth.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘Is it written on my forehead?’

  ‘Something like that. Who is she?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  We lapse into silence. I’m thinking of Annie Robinson. I can still see the freckles on her shoulders and feel her breath on my face. One arm lay across my chest and her breasts were pressed against my ribs. I always feel empty after sex, sad and happy at the same time.

  ‘Hey, did I tell you,’ says Ruiz, ‘I heard a guy being interviewed the other night on one of those sex-therapy shows. The interviewer asked him to describe in one word the worst blowjob he ever had. You know what he said?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fabulous.’

  Ruiz’s face splits into a mess of wrinkles and his eyes glitter. We’re laughing again. He’s happy now.

  Wind buffets the plane as it takes off and rises above the clouds. Rain silently streaks the windows.

  By the time I get home it’s after nine. The house is dark. Quiet. Opening the front door, I turn on the hall light and walk through to the kitchen expecting to hear Gunsmoke thumping his tail against the door.

  He must be in the laundry. Perhaps he didn’t hear me. Opening the back door, I call his name. He doesn’t come bounding down the path, licking at my hands. The old rubber mattress he uses is unoccupied.

  Retrieving a torch from the laundry, I search the yard. Maybe he dug a hole beneath the fence or somebody could have opened the back gate. When he was a puppy he got out of the yard and went missing for a day. One of the neighbours found him sitting by the bus stop, waiting for Charlie to get home from school. He must have followed her scent.

  A noise. I stop moving and listen. It’s a soft whimpering sound from the direction of the compost bin. The torch beam sweeps cautiously across the ground and picks out something shiny in the grass. My fingers close around it - the tag from Gunsmoke’s collar.

  I call his name. The whimpering grows louder.

  I see him then. His front legs are hog-tied and his neck is pinned to the tree by an arrow that sticks out at a right angle. Torchlight gleams on his matted fur, slick with blood.

  His head lolls forward. Instead of eyes he has weeping wounds. Acid or household cleaner has been poured across his face, dissolving fur and flesh, blinding him permanently.

  Dropping to my knees, I put my arm around his neck, cradling his head, trying to take pressure off the arrow which is holding his body upright. How in God’s name is he still alive?

  He swings his head to the left and licks my neck. A groan deep inside reveals how much he must be hurting.

  Gunsmoke, my dog, my walking companion, my housemate, my hopeless guard dog . . . Why would someone want to hurt him?

  Leaving him for a few moments, I go to the shed and pull out a hacksaw from the box beneath the bench. Gently, I put my hand between the Labrador’s body and the tree, feeling for the arrow. Then I use the hacksaw to cut through the shaft.

  Wrapping Gunsmoke in a blanket, I carry him through the house to the car.

  What car? The Volvo is still at the workshop.

  On the verge of tears, I sit on the front step with the Labrador’s head on my lap. Fumbling for my mobile, I call directory enquiries and ask for an animal hospital. The nearest one is in Upper Wells Way, about three miles away. I count the rings and then it clicks to an answering machine - a recorded message gives the business hours and an emergency number.

  I don’t have a pen. I repeat the number to myself, trying not to forget it.

  I hear it ringing. A woman answers.

  ‘I need your help. Someone shot my dog.’

  ‘Shot him?’

  ‘With an arrow.’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll get my husband.’

  I can hear her calling to him and he shouts back. Under my breath I’m whispering, ‘Please hurry. Please hurry. Please hurry.’

  ‘This is Dr Bradley. Can I help you?’

  I try to speak too quickly and start choking on a ball of saliva that’s gone down the wrong way. I’m coughing in his ear.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asks again.

  ‘The problem is someone tortured my dog and shot him through the neck with an arrow.’

  Questions need answering. Where is the arrow now? How much blood has he lost? Is he conscious? Are his eyes fixed and dilated?

  ‘I can’t see his eyes. They poured something caustic into them. He’s blind.’

  The vet falls silent.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘What’s your address?’

  Dr Bradley is on his way. I lean my head back on the door and wait, feeling for Gunsmoke’s heartbeat. Slow. Unsteady. He’s in so much pain. I should put him down, end his misery. How? I couldn’t . . .

  Growing up I was never allowed to have a dog. I was away at boarding school most of the time so my parents couldn’t see the point. I remember one summer finding a Jack Russell cross trapped on a ledge above the incoming tide. We’d rented a house near Great Ormes Head, overlooking Penrhyn Bay, and after lunch one day my sisters took me for a walk to the lighthouse.

  I ran on ahead because they were always stopping to pick wild-flowers or to look at the ships. I heard the dog before I saw it. I lay on my stomach and peered over the edge of Great Orme, holding on to clumps of grass in my fists. Foaming white water spilled over jagged rocks, swirling into the crevices and evacuating them again. Grassy banks divided the crumbling rock tiers, which dropped at irregular intervals to a narrow shingle beach. On one of the lower tiers, I noticed a small dog, huddled on a ledge about twenty feet above the waves. He had a white face with black markings like a pirate patch over one eye.

  I ran back to the holiday house. My father, God’s-Personal-Physician-in-Waiting was enjoying an afternoon siesta, sleeping beneath The Times on a hammock in the garden. He didn’t appreciate being woken, but came grudgingly. My pleas for him to hurry washed over him like water.

  The girls had gathered on the headland, talking over each other and offering advice until my father bellowed at everyone to be quiet while he tried to think.

  Tow-ropes were collected from the garage and a harness fashioned from an old pair of trousers. I was the lightest. I was to go down the slope. My father wrapped the rope around his waist and sat with his back to the headland, bracing his legs apart, digging in his heels.

  ‘Go down slowly,’ he said, motioning me onwards.

  It wasn’t the thought of falling that scared me. I knew he wouldn’t let go. I was more worried about the dog. Would it bite me? Would it squirm out of my arms and fall into the waves?

  The Jack Russell did none of these things. I could feel it shivering as I opened the buttons of my shirt and pushed it inside. I yelled out and felt the pressure on my waist. The rope dragged me upwards while I clung to tufts of grass and used rocks as footholds.

  The Jack Russell was soon tearing around our garden, chasing after ribbons and balls. I wanted to keep him. I figured I’d earned the right. But my father sent two of my older sisters into Llandudno where they put up notices in the cafés and at the supermarket and the post office.

  Two days later an old woman came and collected her dog, whose name was Rupert. By then, emotionally if not technically, he belonged to me. She offered a reward - ten pounds - but my father said it
wasn’t necessary.

  The woman drove away with Rupert and later she left a bag of turnips and a marrow on our doorstep. I hated turnips. Still do. But my father made a big point of me eating them. ‘You earned them,’ he said. ‘It’s your reward.’

  Gunsmoke’s head has dropped off my lap. His tongue touches my hand but he doesn’t have the strength to lick it.

  A van pulls into Station Street, moving slowly as it searches for a house number. The name of the pet hospital is painted on the side, beneath a cartoon dog with a bandaged head and a paw in a sling.

  Dr Bradley opens the rear doors. Grabs his bag. The sight of Gunsmoke catches him by surprise. Something else in his eyes: uncertainty.

  He crouches next to me, puts a stethoscope on Gunsmoke’s chest. Listens. Moves it. Listens again. His eyes meet mine, full of a sad truth. All I need to know.

  ‘You couldn’t have saved him,’ he says. ‘His injuries . . . it’s best this way.’

  His hand touches my shoulder. A lump jams in my throat.

  ‘Do you want me to take care of the body?’

  ‘No. I can handle it. Thank you for coming.’

  The van does a three-point turn. He waves goodbye.

  Grunting with the effort, I lift Gunsmoke in my arms and carry him through the house again, setting him down on the old rubber mattress he uses as a bed. Then I take a shovel from the shed and clear the leaves near the compost bin, picking out a spot between the flowerbeds.

  I don’t know how long it takes to dig the grave. A couple of times I stop and lean on the shovel. My medication is wearing off and my left side keeps locking up, sending me sideways. I’m fine if I keep digging, but as soon as I stop it begins to show. When the hole is deep enough, I wrap Gunsmoke in his favourite blanket and lower him down, almost collapsing on top of him when I overbalance.

  ‘Too many treats, old friend, no wonder you couldn’t catch those rabbits.’

  I’m not a prayerful man or a believer in an afterlife for animals (let alone humans) so there is nothing to say except goodbye before I shovel the first clods on his body. When I finish, I scatter leaves across the turned earth and put the shovel back in the shed. Then I go inside and pour myself a drink and sit at the kitchen table, too tired to climb the stairs, too angry to sleep.

  27

  The cold wakes me before dawn. Stiff. Sore. Trembling. I brush my teeth and splash hot water on my face and manage to shave. I won’t walk this morning. It doesn’t seem right. Instead I medicate and make coffee, sitting at the kitchen table, listening to Strawberry crunch her cat food.

  If Gordon Ellis was having an affair with Sienna someone must have known. There would have been clues: emails, text messages, handwritten notes passed between them.

  My answering machine is flashing. There are three messages.

  The first is from Bill Johnson at the garage:

  I found a door for the Volvo at the wrecker’s yard. It’s never going to close properly, but it should do the job. You have to nudge it with your hip. You can pick it up any time.

  Clunk!

  Annie Robinson.

  Hi, Joe, it’s Annie. She leaves a long thought-organising pause: I don’t have your mobile number. I had a nice time the other night. I hope you did too. Call me when you get home. It doesn’t matter if it’s late. Bye.

  Clunk!

  Message three. Annie again.

  Hi, again. I looked into that thing you mentioned . . . about Gordon. I found a few photographs from college. Hey, I was thinking about cooking dinner tonight. I promise I really will cook this time. Seven-thirty or earlier. You choose. Let me know if you can’t make it.

  Clunk!

  Just after eight, I shower and dress in casual clothes before walking up the hill to Emma’s school. The children are arriving, muffled up against the cold. Emma will be among the last. She sleeps like a teenager, cocooned in a duvet, ignoring every summons. I can picture Julianne dragging her out of bed and pulling clothes over her sleepy head.

  Further along the street I see Natasha Ellis pull up in her Ford Focus. She lifts Billy from his booster seat and slips a rucksack over his shoulders. He’s wearing a woollen hat, pulled down over his ears, and carrying a faded Tigger. They walk hand in hand to the gate. Natasha crouches and hugs him and Billy solemnly hands her the soft toy. Then he turns and runs to a group of friends.

  ‘Mrs Ellis?’

  She turns at the sound of my voice.

  ‘Hello. It’s Joe, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please call me Natasha. Nobody calls me Mrs Ellis. Makes me feel ancient.’

  ‘You’re certainly not ancient.’

  She laughs brightly. ‘Gordon calls me Nat - but that makes me sound like a bug. Don’t you think?’

  She’s wearing skinny-legged jeans, boots and a turtleneck sweater. Her cheeks are blushed with the cold.

  ‘I was hoping we might talk.’

  ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘Do you know Sienna Hegarty?’

  Natasha raises her eyebrows. ‘Of course. She used to babysit for us. I heard what happened. What a shock! I can’t believe she’d do such a thing.’

  ‘I’m trying to help her.’

  ‘That’s good. That’s the nice thing about village life - people support each other. Don’t you think?’

  Her eyes cut sideways to me and lips part slightly. She wants to leave. My left hand is tapping against my thigh. A nervous gesture.

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Nearly two years.’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘That’s an odd question.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You must miss not having your family around. You’re from Scotland, aren’t you?’

  She drops into an accent. ‘Just a wee lassie from Edinburgh.’

  ‘Gordon told me you were childhood sweethearts.’

  She smiles fondly. ‘It’s funny really. He tells people we were at school together, but that’s just because he wants people to think he’s younger than he really is. He was a teacher at my school. We met up after I’d left. I saw him at a rugby game.’

  ‘Gordon plays?’

  ‘Oh, Heavens no! Gordon isn’t the sporty type. He watches.’

  ‘You must have been very young.’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  She’s lying to me.

  ‘That’s quite an age difference. What did your parents think?’

  ‘Oh, they love Gordon.’

  ‘So Billy’s not your son?’

  ‘No, Gordon was married before. His wife left him . . . walked out on Billy. Gordon still can’t understand why.’

  Her eyes shift from mine and she gazes along the road.

  ‘Did you know Ray Hegarty?’

  Her face clouds with concern. ‘Not really. I might have spoken to him on the phone when I called to arrange for Sienna to look after Billy. I don’t know if I would have liked him, you know - is that an awful thing to say, I mean, now that he’s dead?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you have liked him?’

  ‘He sounded like a bully. Some of the things Sienna said . . .’

  ‘She talked about him?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Saying what?’

  Natasha’s voice drops to a whisper, ‘He was very controlling. He wanted to choose the clothes she wore and to stop her seeing her boyfriend. I think he used to beat her . . .’ she hesitates. ‘And there might have been worse things. That’s why we had her babysit so often. We even let her sleep over. Have you seen Sienna? Is she all right?’

  ‘Holding up.’

  Natasha nods and raises her hand, brushing hair from her eyes.

  ‘Did you know that Ray Hegarty made a complaint to the school about your husband?’

  Colour fades in her cheeks and her features tighten. For a moment I think she’s going to deny everything or plead ignorance, but her mind works quickly.

  ‘I blame myself,’ she says.

  ‘Why’s
that?’

  ‘I should have seen how close Sienna was getting to Billy . . . and to Gordon. She had a crush on my husband. One night when Gordon dropped her home, she tried to kiss him.’

  ‘Is that what Gordon told you?’

  ‘That’s what happened.’ Steel in her voice. ‘Gordon was very upset. He told her parents and the school. She couldn’t babysit for us after that. That’s why we use Charlie.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘That’s why Charlie has been babysitting Billy. She’s lovely. Billy adores her. Is there something wrong?’

  I can’t answer her. The photographs on Charlie’s Facebook page; she was lying on a bed playing with a small boy. Billy. I replay the scenes as though I’m looking through the camera lens, watching my daughter, seeing how she responds.

  I’m staring at Natasha. Sometimes I don’t realise how Parkinson’s can lock up my features, creating a living mask. It’s making her uncomfortable. She edges away from me, moving towards her car.

  ‘Your husband argued with Ray Hegarty.’

  A flash of anger sparks in her eyes. I can see a pulse beating in her neck and her hands are opening and closing nervously on her car keys.

  ‘You’ll have to talk to Gordon.’

  ‘Was he home that night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You sound very sure.’

  ‘It was my birthday. He bought me flowers and made me dinner.’ She unlocks her car, fumbling with the keys, almost dropping her purse.

  ‘Your birthday - that’s lovely. How many candles did he put on your birthday cake?’

  Her head turns and she peers at me with a cold fury that lays something to waste inside of me. Her voice comes out in a dry rasp.

  ‘Stay away from my family!’

  28

  Julianne and Emma turn the corner. Emma is wearing a woollen hat with ear-flaps that tie under her chin.

  Tugging at her mother’s arm, she complains that she’ll be late.