Bleed For Me

‘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 perfume 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