Bleed For Me

‘You’re right. It’s not funny. It’s tragic. Gordon said this might happen.’

‘What might happen?’

‘He said that people sometimes make up stories because they’re jealous or they’re hurt. It happened at his last school. He had to leave.’

‘He told you that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did he say what happened?’

‘He said one of the girls made a complaint and said that he’d kissed her. She took it back but it was too late. The school told him he had to leave.’

Why would Gordon tell Charlie something like that?

She goes back to looking at the game.

‘Sienna was having sex,’ I say.

‘So?’

‘You knew?’

A shrug. Indifferent. ‘A lot of girls are having sex, Dad. Maybe not the full monty, but they’re doing plenty of other stuff.’

Glancing at me sideways, she checks to see if I’m shocked. The silence stretches out, punctuated by the scoring of a goal and celebrations on the sidelines.

‘You want to ask me, don’t you?’ A slight smile plays on her lips. My daughter is challenging me. Every fibre of my professional being says I shouldn’t rise to the bait. I should end the conversation now. But a small pilot light of parental concern flares in my chest. I have to know.

‘Are you having sex, Charlie? I don’t mind. What I mean is, I’d be a little worried. You’re underage. Too young.’

She shakes her head. Disappointed. Proven right.

‘Can we go home now?’ she asks.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Here’s the thing, Dad. I can say no and I could be lying or I could be telling you the truth. That’s a fifty-fifty chance of disappointing you. Or I could say yes and definitely disappoint you. The odds aren’t in my favour, so I figure I’ll just say nothing.’

‘I want you to answer.’

‘And I want another horse.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘We both want something we’re not going to get.’

She tosses her ponytail over one shoulder and gazes at me resolutely. ‘I’m a good kid, Dad. Trust me.’

And that’s it - end of conversation. I drive her home, aware more than ever before that she is her mother’s daughter and equally mysterious.

21

Robin Blaxland lives in a semi in the shadows of St Saviour’s Church in Bath. After dropping Charlie at the cottage I drive back into town, pulling up outside a neat front garden, glowing under the streetlights.

I ring the bell. Three children open the door, shoulder to shoulder. The eldest is about eight. She has glasses, milky white skin, red hair and freckles - the Royal Flush of embarrassing attributes for a child. Her younger brothers look alike enough to be twins.

A woman follows them down the hall, wiping her hands on an apron. Three pregnancies past her optimum weight, she has a pretty round face and the same red hair as her daughter.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for your husband.’

‘Of course, just one moment. Janie, go and get your daddy.’

Janie scampers up the stairs. The two boys stare at me. One has a bruise on his forehead and a sticking plaster above his eye.

‘You’re in the wars.’

‘He ran into a tree,’ says his brother. ‘It was sooo funny.’

‘Shush,’ says their mother.

I notice suitcases in the hallway. One of them is open and still being packed.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ I ask.

‘Skiing. We leave in the morning.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Italy.’

‘The Dolomites?’

She mentions a resort that I haven’t heard of before.

Her husband appears on the stairs. Robin Blaxland is three sizes smaller than his wife and is wearing braces that cross at his back and are clipped to his trousers. He blinks at me from behind frameless glasses.

‘I’m Joseph O’Loughlin. I left messages for you. You didn’t get back to me.’

He blinks again. ‘How did you get this address?’

I lie to him. ‘From the school.’

‘I didn’t know the school had my private address.’

‘Yes.’

Blink. Blink.

‘I wanted to talk about Sienna Hegarty.’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment on a patient.’

‘You heard what happened?’

‘Yes, of course, but our sessions were private. It’s a matter of patient confidentiality.’

‘I’m preparing a psych report on Sienna for a bail hearing.’

Blink. Blink. The information is being processed.

‘You’re a psychologist?’

‘Yes.’

Finally he steps back, inviting me upstairs to his study on the first floor. I can hear the children being called to dinner by his wife.

‘What branch of psychotherapy do you specialise in?’ I ask.

‘I studied under a Jungian.’

‘Dream analysis?’

‘Among other things. I also offer hypnotherapy and cognitive behavioural therapy. How is Sienna?’

What should I tell him? She’s confused. Frightened.

‘She hasn’t been entirely forthcoming. There are three missing hours in the timeline. Was she with you that afternoon?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t have to check your diary?’

‘The police have already asked me that question.’

He sits up very straight in his chair as though posing for a photograph.

‘Who organised for Sienna Hegarty to come and see you?’

‘Her school counsellor.’

‘Annie Robinson?’

‘Yes.’

‘How often did she come?’

‘Once a week.’

‘When did you last see her?’