Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin)

by Michael Robotham

‘I’m going to try to make her happy,’ he announces.

  I can feel my arm hairs prickle and a chill run down my spine. Irrespective of his size and physical condition, I want to hit Harry now. I seem to be developing a taste for it.

  ‘I don’t want there to be any ill-feeling,’ he says, completely ignoring all the signs, my body language, my tone of voice, my fingers curling into fists. Then he mentions something about not treading on toes and there being no winners or losers.

  A guttural sound springs from my throat.

  ‘Pardon?’ he asks.

  ‘I said that’s bullshit.’

  ‘Oh!’

  His eyes widen.

  ‘Let’s face it Harry, you don’t give a flying fuck about my toes or my feelings.’ I’m talking through gritted teeth, trying not to attract attention. ‘You like trophies. You have a trophy house full of trophy cabinets full of your golf trophies and your squash trophies and your framed thank you letter from Margaret Thatcher for donating to the cause. Now you want my wife.’

  Harry blinks at me, completely lost for words. The colour rises from his neck to his face. I want to go on. It takes every bit of my willpower to stop saying what I want to say. I want to tell him that he’s not Frank Lloyd Wright or Norman Foster and that designing some telemarketing millionaire’s ski chalet at Val d’Isere is not going to get him a knighthood, just like pulling his trousers up high doesn’t make him look thinner and gelling his hair doesn’t make him look younger and the chunky silver bracelet is gangster chic rather than evidence that he’s comfortable wearing jewellery.

  I want to tell him these things but I don’t, because I’m not even interested in hating Harry the way I should. I’m not truly angry. I’m sad and I’m lonely and I’m fed up with not being able to help people who need me.

  Julianne appears beside him.

  ‘Wasn’t that terrific?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I reply.

  Emma lets go of her hand and comes to me.

  ‘I wonder what happened to Annie Robinson,’ says Julianne, looking at me. ‘She did all the sets and costumes and didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Maybe she had something more important,’ I say, but I can’t convince myself.

  ‘Charlie is going to the cast party.’

  ‘Will Gordon Ellis be there?’

  ‘It’s just for the kids. One of the mothers is getting them pizza. Can you pick her up later?’

  She gives me the address. ‘I told her eleven o’clock. I know she’s supposed to be grounded, but she was so good tonight and I don’t have the heart to play the bad cop on this one.’

  ‘I wanna go with Daddy,’ announces Emma.

  ‘No, sweetheart, we’re going home in Harry’s car.’

  ‘I want to go home with Daddy.’

  Julianne tries to convince her that Harry has a really nice car. ‘It has leather seats and that lovely smell, remember?’

  Harry puts his hand on her head. ‘I’ll open the sunroof, if you’d like.’

  Emma twists away and swings her arm. One of her fists collides with Harry’s groin. His body jack-knifes and he sucks in a painful breath. Still doubled over, he groans - or at least it sounds like a groan from a distance, but up close he clearly says, ‘Fuck me!’

  Emma hears it too. ‘Harry said a bad word.’

  Julianne tells her to apologise.

  ‘But, Mummy, it was a really really bad word.’

  ‘Tell Harry you’re sorry.’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘I know it was an accident, but you should still say that you’re sorry.’

  Harry still can’t straighten completely. ‘It’s OK. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘He said the f-u-c-k word,’ says Emma.

  ‘Don’t you ever say that!’ responds Julianne.

  Emma points at Harry. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He didn’t mean it.’

  ‘He should get in trouble too.’

  Harry interrupts. ‘Just let her go with her father.’

  ‘No,’ argues Julianne. ‘This is about setting boundaries. Emma has to learn to do as she’s told.’

  Emma clutches her stomach. ‘I feel sick. I think I’m going to vomit.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Julianne, who is fully aware of Emma’s dramatic displays of hypochondria (and even more dramatic feats of projectile vomiting).

  ‘Maybe she should go in Joe’s car,’ says Harry, thinking of the Lexus and his leather seats. ‘He could drop her home.’

  Julianne fires a look at him.

  Meanwhile, Emma drops to the ground and launches one of her famous ‘you’ll-have-to-drag-me-out-of-here’ tantrums. Julianne does her best to ignore her, but Emma’s limbs seem to liquefy and she’s impossible to pick up.

  We’re not so much drawing a crowd as dispersing it - driving parents towards their cars.

  Julianne looks at me. ‘Please just leave.’

  ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Nothing, but you’re making things worse.’

  The last thing I hear is Harry muttering under his breath. ‘For fuck’s sake, why couldn’t she just go with her father’ - and seeing Julianne give him her death stare.

  I almost feel sorry for him. Harry’s chances of getting lucky tonight just disappeared with the flying pigs.

  Annie Robinson’s mobile is turned off and she isn’t answering her landline. I drive the familiar roads, trying to come up with reasons why she would have missed the musical. She should have been on stage, taking her bow.

  I try her home number again. After eight rings the answering machine clicks in.

  Hi, sorry we missed you. Leave us a message after the beep.

  She’s a single woman living alone, which explains the ‘we’ and ‘us’.

  Beep!

  ‘Annie, it’s, Joe. I’ve been at the school. I thought I’d see you tonight . . .’ I pause, hoping that she might pick up. ‘The show was great . . . really good. And the sets were terrific . . . If you’re there, Annie, talk to me . . . I hope everything is all right . . . call me when you get this . . .’

  Pulling into Annie’s road, I see her car parked in front of her building. She doesn’t answer the intercom. I press the buttons on either side but nobody answers. Walking back to the street, I follow the footpath until I find a small alley leading between the houses to the canal. Picking my way along the grassy bank, I count the houses until I come to her walled garden.

  Hoisting myself up, I clamber over the wall, landing heavily on a climbing rose bush. Thorns catch on my clothes and I have to untangle the vines. The blue-and-white tiled table is still on the terrace. The two chairs are tilted so as not to collect rainwater.

  Pressing my face to the sliding glass door, I peer into the dark lounge and open-plan kitchen. I can see a neon clock blinking on the oven. The only other light is leaking from beneath Annie’s bedroom door. It seems to shimmer and cling to the floor. Why is that? Water. The room is flooded.

  I should stay outside. Phone the police. What if Annie has slipped over? She could be hurt or bleeding. I bang on the glass door and shout her name.

  This is crazy. I should do something. Picking up the nearest chair, I swing it hard against the door. It doesn’t shatter. I try again. Harder. The pane vibrates and disintegrates in a mosaic of crumbling glass.

  The living room is undisturbed. An IKEA catalogue lies open on the sofa. Annie’s shoes are under the coffee table. To the left the kitchen benches are wiped clean. Cups and plates rest on the draining rack. A shiny paper gift bag sits on the counter next to a bottle of wine. Open. Half drunk.

  Water covers the floor. It’s coming from the bedroom. I knock on the door and call Annie’s name. Turning the handle, I push it open. A bedside light is on. Discarded clothes are bunched on the floor beside a wicker basket. A matching set of knickers and bra. Mauve. Fresh clothes are laid out on the bed, chosen for tonight.

  I remember the bathroom from my night with Annie. White-tiled, it smells of per
fume and potpourri. A frosted glass screen shields the bathtub and running taps. Flower petals have spilled over the edge and blocked the drain on the floor.

  Annie is lying in the overflowing tub with one hand draped over the edge and a broken wine glass beneath it. Blood and vomit stain the water.

  She’s alive. Convulsing.

  Hooking my arms beneath hers, I struggle to lift her. Water sloshes over my clothes. I get her to her knees, all the while talking - telling her to hold on. Telling her it will be OK.

  Half dragging her to the bed, I lay her on her side, pulling a duvet over her nakedness. Then I call three nines. Ambulance. Police. Name. Address. Number.

  ‘I think she’s been poisoned,’ I tell the dispatcher.

  ‘What did she consume?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could have been in the wine.’

  ‘Is she inebriated?’

  ‘No . . . I don’t think so . . . I’m not sure.’

  ‘What is her approximate height and weight?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Her height and weight.’

  ‘Oh, ah, she’s five-six. Maybe nine stone.’

  ‘Did you have any of the wine, sir?’

  ‘No, I found her.’

  ‘Don’t touch the container.’

  I go to the hallway and unlock the front door. Annie’s car keys and purse are sitting in a bowl. A light blinks on her answering machine. He counter says ‘2’.

  I press ‘play’.

  The first message is from a woman.

  Hi, dear, it’s your mum. I guess you’re out! Penny is pregnant again. Isn’t she clever? Poor dear is sicker than a parrot. It must be a boy. They always make you suffer. Give her a call and cheer her up.

  Clunk!

  Message two.

  Annie, it’s Joe, I’ve been at the school. I thought I’d see you tonight . . .

  I press stop. Silence.

  Back in the bedroom, I put my arms around Annie and listen to her shallow breathing. Her eyes are closed. What do I know about poisons? I did three years of medicine, but it wasn’t high on the agenda. Never induce vomiting if they’re convulsing - I remember that much. Fat lot of good . . .

  Annie’s eyes are open. The skin around her lips is burned and raw. Her stomach is bloated and hard.

  ‘I knew you’d come back.’

  44

  Just gone ten. Dozens of people are standing on the footpath - residents, neighbours and passers-by - wearing dressing gowns, anoraks and woollen hats. A blue flashing light seems to strobe across their faces.

  Four police cars are parked outside the row of terraces, alongside two ambulances and a scene-of-crime van. I’m standing in wet clothes beside one of the squad cars, unwilling to sit inside because it makes me look like a suspect. The detectives told me to wait. A police constable has been assigned to watch me. He is standing less than twenty feet away with his back to the onlookers and his eyes trained on me.

  ‘Why you all wet, petal?’ asks a voice. It belongs to a short black woman wearing the dark green uniform of a paramedic. She has a nametag pinned to her chest, ‘Yvonne’.

  ‘I found her in the bath,’ I say in a daze.

  Yvonne raises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone finding me in the bath.’

  She laughs and her whole body shakes. ‘She’s white, right? You don’t live in a place like this unless you’re white or you’re trying to act white. Know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Yvonne tilts her wide shiny face up at me. ‘Are you OK, petal? You want to sit down? I can get you a blanket. How about some oxygen?’ She motions to the ambulance.

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ She blows her nose on a tissue and glances at the onlookers. ‘You know what they’re thinking?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’re wondering what’s happening to the world. That’s what they always say when the TV camera is shoved in their faces. “You just don’t expect it, do you? Not where you live. This is a nice neighbourhood. It makes you wonder what the world is coming to, blah, blah, blah. . . .” Isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The front door opens and two paramedics appear wheeling a collapsible metal trolley. Annie is strapped to the frame with an IV in her arm, the bag held above her head.

  ‘That’s my ride,’ says Yvonne. ‘You take care now.’

  The trolley slides into the ambulance and the doors close on Annie Robinson. I can smell her on my hands - the sweet-as-sugar school counsellor, with her bright red lipstick and her liquid brown eyes. Annie told me that nobody ever thought she was beautiful back in her schooldays but she’d blossomed into marriage and then become a pretty divorcée.

  I wish Ruiz were here . . . or Ronnie Cray. I left my mobile in my car. It’s just down the street. I can call them. Someone has to pick up Charlie.

  The sandy-haired constable intercepts me before I reach the Volvo.

  ‘What are you doing, sir?’

  ‘I’m just getting my phone.’

  ‘You were told not to move, sir.’

  ‘I just need to make a call.’

  ‘Step back to the police car, sir.’

  One hand on his belt, he looks at me with cold indifference.

  I adopt a voice that says I’m glad to co-operate in any way I can. I’ll write a letter of commendation telling his superiors about his conscientiousness, if he’ll just let me get my phone.

  Unfortunately, my left arm swings of its own initiative. It looks like a Nazi salute and I have to grab it with my right hand.

  ‘Did you threaten me, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you mocking me?’

  ‘No, of course not, I have Parkinson’s disease.’

  The tremors are seguing into jerkiness. My medication is wearing off. Using every bit of my concentration, I make a vain attempt to establish a single constant physical pose.

  ‘I’m Professor Joseph O’Loughlin. I have to call my daughter. I’m supposed to pick her up . . . My phone is in my jacket . . . on the front seat. You can get it for me. Here are the keys.’

  ‘Don’t approach me, sir. Put your hands down.’

  ‘They’re just car keys.’

  The crowd are now focused on us. My apparent innocence has been transformed into suspicion and guilt.

  ‘Just take my keys, get my phone and let me talk to my daughter.’

  ‘Take a step back, sir.’

  He’s not going to listen. I try to take a step back, but my neurotransmitters are losing their juice. Instead of retreating, I lurch forwards. In a heartbeat an extendable baton lengthens in the officer’s fist. He swings it once. I can hear it whistle through the air. It strikes me across my outstretched arm and my car keys fall.

  The pain takes a moment to register. Then it feels as though bones are broken. In almost the same breath, my legs lose contact with the earth and I’m forced to my knees and then on to my chest. His full weight is pressed into my back, forcing my face into the cement.

  ‘Just relax, sir, and you won’t get hurt.’

  With one cheek pressed to the cement, I can see the police cars and forensic vans and the watching crowd. Sideways. The spectators are wondering if I’m the one - the prime suspect. They want to be able to tell their friends tomorrow that they saw me get arrested, how they looked into my eyes and they knew I was guilty.

  Louis Preston is talking to one of his techs. I shout his name. He turns and blinks.

  ‘Louis, it’s me, Joe O‘Loughlin.’

  The constable tells me to be quiet.

  ‘I know Dr Preston,’ I mutter. ‘He’s the pathologist.’

  This time he comes towards us, dressed in his blue overalls. Tilting his head, he looks down at me.

  ‘What are you doing, Professor?’

  ‘I’m being sat on.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  Preston looks at the officer. ‘Why are you sitting on Professor O�
��Loughlin?’

  ‘He tried to escape.’

  ‘Escape to where exactly?’

  The constable takes a moment to recognise the sarcasm.

  ‘Let him up, Officer. He’s not going to run away.’

  I get to my feet, but my legs suddenly lock and I pitch forwards. Mr Parkinson is assuming control. The pills are in my coat . . . with my phone.

  Preston grabs hold of my forearm. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Annie Robinson is a friend of mine. I called this in.’

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘Yesterday. Lunchtime.’

  Preston looks back towards the terrace. ‘I have work to do.’

  ‘Just get my pills for me and my phone. They’re in my coat.’ I motion towards the car.

  Preston takes my keys. When he reaches the Volvo, he snaps on a rubber glove and makes a point of opening the rear door, reaching over the seat to get my coat. The inference is clear.

  He brings the bottle to me, but not my mobile.

  Taking two pills, I swallow them dry and watch as the two detectives head our way. One has a haircut where the sides of his head are buzzed almost bald.

  Preston peels off the glove. ‘Be extra careful, Professor, these guys aren’t your friends.’

  45

  Two detectives, little and large, a Detective Sergeant Stoner and his boss Wickerson who looks like a US marine. It’s gone eleven. I’m supposed to pick up Charlie but they won’t let me make a call.

  ‘She’s fourteen. She’s waiting for me. If something happens to her I’ll personally make sure you spend the rest of your careers briefing lawyers.’

  ‘Is that a threat, sir?’

  ‘No, I’m way past making threats. I’ve asked you nicely. I’ve begged. I’ve appealed to your common sense. Just let me make a call. She needs to get home.’

  Stoner and Wickerson discuss the matter privately. Finally, I’m handed a phone. I call Ruiz.

  ‘Want to hear something interesting?’ he says.

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m with the police. I need you to pick up Charlie.’

  I tell him about Annie Robinson and my arrest. ‘Just get Charlie. Make sure she gets home.’ I give him the address.