Bleed For Me

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 cafes 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.’