Bleed for Me (13 page)

Fol owing a covered walkway, I pass several classrooms in the science block. Groups of students are wearing safety glasses and stand clustered around benches working with Bunsen burners and test tubes.

The main body of the hal is in darkness. There are lights burning backstage. Nobody answers when I cal . Climbing the side stairs, I step over cables and paintbrushes soaking in jars.

Props are leaning on sawhorses and a large backdrop shows a Manhattan skyline with the skyscrapers in silhouette. Modern Mil ie meets the Big Apple.

A dressing-room door is ajar. Racks of costumes are lined up along the wal . A movement is reflected in the mirrors. Miss Robinson leans over a sink sponging paint from her blouse.

Her black skirt contrasts sharply with the paleness of her skin. I can see the outline of her nipples, smal and dark, through the lace of her bra.

She looks up from the running water, studying herself in the mirror. Her eyes meet mine. Pul ing her shoulders back, she makes no attempt to cover her breasts.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I knocked. You didn’t hear me.’

‘Obviously.’

She goes back to sponging her blouse. ‘I should have worn an old shirt,’ she explains. ‘This is my favourite blouse and now it’s ruined.’

‘Maybe you could soak it,’ I suggest.

‘Are you an expert on removing paint stains?’ She has a slight lisp when she pronounces her ‘s’s. ‘You can come in, Joseph, I’m sure you’ve seen a woman in a bra before.’

It sounds like a question, but I can’t think of anything to say.

Miss Robinson laughs and holds up the blouse to the light, sighing. ‘I’ve been painting the sets. I had a free period and thought I’d get it finished today, but it might take another session.’

‘I thought the musical had been postponed.’

‘Yes, but we’re stil hopeful. The show must go on - as they say.’

She slips the blouse over her arms and turns to me as she does up the buttons.

‘So what else can I do for you today - apart from giving you a cheap thril ?’

‘You were talking to Julianne about Charlie.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she having problems?’

‘One of her teachers found her crying in a classroom. I thought it might help if Charlie talked to someone.’

‘A therapist.’

‘The school recommends a very good one.’

I’m fascinated by her mouth; watching it move as she speaks. Her top lip is shaped like a stylised bird drawn by a child. Her bottom lip is ful er. I wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips. They have stopped moving and are slightly parted. Her head is cocked at an angle.

‘You’re staring at me,’ she says, covering her mouth self-consciously.

‘I’m sorry. I do that sometimes.’

‘It’s very unnerving.’

‘Can I ask you something, Miss Robinson?’

‘Only if you cal me Annie.’

‘Has Charlie talked to you about the separation? You see, she hasn’t spoken to me or to Julianne. I thought maybe she was keeping a diary, or a scrapbook ful of angry conversations in cartoon bubbles.’

‘She didn’t say anything to me.’

‘It was just a thought.’

‘Have you asked her?’

I make a sound that could be a sigh or a murmur of agreement. ‘We don’t have long conversations any more.’

‘Maybe you should think about the therapist.’

‘Maybe.’

Annie waits.

‘Was Sienna Hegarty seeing a therapist?’

‘I’m not al owed to talk about other students.’

Businesslike, she makes her arguments about privacy and confidentiality. A counsel or must build trust, respect personal space, protect confidences . . .

‘I respect al of that, Annie, but Sienna is a murder suspect. The police think she kil ed her father. I know she was cutting herself. I strongly suspect she was being sexual y abused. If Sienna was seeing a therapist, the police wil want to talk to him.’

Annie lowers her eyes, no longer certain what to do.

‘Why are you here?’ she asks.

‘I’m trying to help her.’

‘Why?’

There is an accusation in her tone, a scepticism that makes her less attractive.

‘Because I think Sienna is damaged and because she’s my daughter’s best friend.’

‘It’s more than that.’

Her eyes are fixed on mine, searching.

‘Sienna was always at our place - staying for dinner or overnight, spending her weekends with us. Now I think she was avoiding going home. I should have realised.’

As the words leave my lips I realise how they echo an inner voice that has been whispering to me ever since Zoe Hegarty’s visit. It’s as though I have a soundtrack playing in my head, along with images of a child waking each morning without seeing a world ful of excitement and possibility. A child who didn’t go skipping down the stairs to greet each new day; who didn’t wear the bright, eager expression that said, ‘Hey, isn’t it great to be alive!’

Annie steps closer, touching my shoulder. ‘You’l go mad if you try to blame yourself for this.’

There is a ripple in the space between us, when I imagine kissing her or her kissing me. And I can see my hands running over her naked skin and her smal dark nipples.

She steps away, faintly abashed. Whispers. ‘Such a ghostly girl, so pale and quiet.’

‘Was Sienna seeing a therapist?’

She nods.

‘Did her parents know?’

‘No. She wouldn’t come to see me unless I promised I wouldn’t tel them.’

‘Did she tel you what was wrong?’

Annie shakes her head. ‘She confided in one of the other teachers, Gordon El is, who urged her to talk to me.’ She looks around. ‘Gordon should be here soon. You could talk to him.’

The school bel is sounding. Charlie wil be getting out of class.

Annie turns back to the mirror, checking her hair and tugging at the col ar of her blouse.

‘I think her parents may have found out,’ she says.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Her father came to the school and made a complaint to the headmaster.’

‘What about?’

‘I’m not al owed to discuss it.’

Excited voices drift from outside, the raucous clamour of students col ecting books from lockers, preparing to go home. Annie looks at her watch. With a flourish, she picks up her paintbrush and tin of paint, heading back towards the stage.

‘If you talk to Sienna, wil you . . . wil you . . .’ She can’t think of what to say. ‘Tel her we’re missing her.’

Charlie tosses her schoolbag in the back of the car and slides into the passenger seat. Her cheeks are pink with the cold and strands of hair have pul ed from her ponytail. Without warning, she ducks down.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

A boy walks in front of the car. His gel ed hair sticks up at odd angles and his trousers hang so low on his hips I can see his brand of underwear.

Bless my little x-chromosome for giving me girls.

Charlie raises her head. Checks that he’s gone. Sits up.

‘Who is he?’

‘No one.’

‘He must have a name.’

‘Jacob.’

‘Is Jacob a good or a bad thing?’

‘Drop it, Dad.’

‘So you like him?’

‘No!’

‘Then why were you hiding?’

She rol s her eyes. Clearly I don’t understand teenage love, which is obviously more complicated than adult love.

On the drive home I try to make conversation - asking about her day - but her answers come in single syl ables. Yes. No. Good. Fine.

Final y she utters a complete sentence. ‘Did you see Sienna?’

‘Yes.’

‘How is she?’

‘As wel as can be expected.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘She can’t remember everything that happened.’

‘Is that amnesia?’

‘Sometimes the mind blocks things out . . . as a defence.’

‘Can I see her?’

‘Maybe not yet.’

There are so many questions I want to ask Charlie. Why was she crying at school? What’s making her unhappy? Is it the nightmares? Why won’t she talk to me?

‘Did you know Sienna was cutting herself?’ I ask.

Charlie doesn’t respond.

‘You knew?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘She couldn’t real y explain.’

‘Was she unhappy?’

‘I guess.’

Staring out the window, she beats an edgy rhythm on her thigh.

‘How did Sienna get on with her dad?’

‘She said he was a Nazi.’

‘He was pretty strict.’

‘Way strict.’

‘Is that why she spent so much time at our place?’

Charlie nods. We’re halfway home, driving through farmland that has been ploughed into rich brown furrows tinged with green on the ridges. Seeded. Growing.

‘What did you think of Mr Hegarty?’

‘He was OK, I guess.’

‘Just OK?’

‘Whenever I stayed at Sienna’s he got us a DVD and pizza. Sometimes he used to watch a movie with us.’

‘Did he ever make you feel uncomfortable?’

‘Like how?’

‘When you were staying at the house - did he ever look at you, or brush against you, or say something to you that made you feel like you didn’t want to be there?’

Her voice drops to a whisper and something slithers south in my chest, settling at the base of my stomach.

‘Sienna always told me to lock the bathroom door. One night I was getting out of the shower and the doorknob turned, but the bolt was across. I asked who it was. Said I wouldn’t be long.’

‘What happened?’

‘The doorknob turned again.’

12

Helen Hegarty holds the crumpled search warrant in her fist and steps aside. Heavy boots move with intent, going from room to room. Cupboards are opened, drawers pul ed out, books feathered, CD cases prised open, rugs lifted . . .

For Helen this must seem like one more indignity added to a steaming pile - a dead husband, a traumatised family, bloodstains on her floorboards, fingerprint dust on her sil s . . .

On the other side of the vil age, not far from the cottage, a long unbroken line of police officers shuffles across open ground. Uniformed. Silent. They cal it a fingertip search, but nobody is crouching on hands and knees.

Charlie notices.

‘What are they doing?’

‘They’re looking for something.’

‘What are they looking for?’

‘Evidence.’

DCI Cray is on the bridge, her fist clenched around a cigarette, rasping orders. She’s dressed in a parka jacket and Wel ingtons. They’re using police dogs to trace Sienna’s footsteps through the undergrowth.

Dropping Charlie at the cottage, I go back to the Hegartys’ house where Helen has retreated outside, leaving the police searchers to do their worst. Pul ing a cardigan tight around her chest, she lights a cigarette and ignores the stares of neighbours who have gathered to watch. Not embarrassed. Past caring.

‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

‘I confiscated them from Zoe.’

Her son Lance is prowling the garden, thinking dark thoughts. The moment I step through the gate he confronts me, chest to chest, lips curled. A Union Jack tattoo flexes on his bicep.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m just checking on your mum.’

‘You’re working for them.’

‘I don’t work for the police.’

‘Bul shit!’

Helen puts a hand on his forearm and the effect is remarkable. The frenetic energy drumming in his head seems to evaporate. Lance turns away. Paces the garden. Punches his thigh.

‘He doesn’t know what to do,’ whispers Helen. ‘He thinks he should be the man of the house . . . looking after us.’

Something topples and breaks upstairs. She glances at the window and flinches. Then she gazes past me, as though imagining another life. Different choices.

Upstairs she has three shelves ful of self-help books like
The Secret
,
Lose Your Friends and Find Yourself
,
Chasing Happiness
and
The Choice is Yours
. Yet al this advice on forgiving herself and learning from her mistakes had simply depressed her even more with their messages of urgent hopefulness and relentless positivity.

Pul ing a crumbling tissue from her sleeve, she has to squeeze it together to wipe her nose.

‘Sienna didn’t like you working nights.’

Helen shakes her head. ‘We needed the money. Ray’s new business took a while to get off the ground.’

‘That must have been hard.’

‘You do what has to be done.’

‘Did Ray and Sienna fight a lot?’

She shrugs. ‘They were like oil and water. One morning I came home and found her sleeping in the shed. Ray thought she’d run off.’

‘When was that?’

‘She was eleven.’ Helen squints and stares past me down the lane. ‘Some kids want to grow up so quickly, you know. Sienna couldn’t wait to get away.’

‘From Ray?’

‘From home.’ She looks at me miserably. ‘I tried to be a good mother, but Sienna can be a terror - bunking off school, staying out late, drinking . . . I blame the boyfriend. Ever since he came on the scene she’s stopped listening, you know. Now one of her teachers has made a complaint against her. Accused her of making nuisance phone cal s.’

‘Which teacher?’

‘Mr El is. Teaches her drama. I told Sienna to leave the man alone.’

‘Why would she be cal ing Gordon El is?’

‘Mr and Mrs El is have a little boy. Sienna used to babysit him, but that stopped a few weeks ago.’

‘Why?’

‘Ray says he saw Mr El is kissing Sienna one night when he dropped her home from babysitting.’

‘What did Sienna say?’

‘She said nothing happened. She said Ray was mistaken. Mr El is was just leaning across her to open the car door. Ray said she couldn’t babysit any more. It caused a huge row.’

Another police car pul s up in the lane. Ronnie Cray emerges and walks quickly down the path to the front door. She signals to me, wanting me inside.

Apologising to Helen, I fol ow the DCI through the house to a workshop in the back garden. An old motorcycle, partial y disassembled, takes up much of the floor space. One entire wal above the workbench is hung with every tool imaginable. Beneath the bench there are clear plastic drawers containing nails, screws, brackets, nuts and bolts, as wel as welding equipment and soldering irons. On the opposite wal , a series of shelves hold grease guns and cans of motoring oil. This is a proper workshop kept neatly ordered by a man who perhaps dreamed of being a craftsman but settled for something else.