Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

‘When?’

‘When you were little and I took you to school.’

Sienna finds it funny and squeezes his hand tighter.

‘Did you hear about Daddy? I’m trying to be sad, but I’m not.’

Three fifteen. Waiting at the school gates with dozens of mothers and grandmothers. I’m the only male here beyond the age of Huggies. I tend to stand apart because I’m not good at making small talk or remembering their names. I link mothers to their children: Jasper’s mum or Sophie’s mum.

One woman approaches. Young and pretty, with short auburn hair, she buries her hands in the pockets of a Barbour jacket, which looks two sizes too big for her. She’s probably a nanny.

‘Hello, I’m Natasha.’

‘Joe.’

‘Your Emma and my Billy are in the same class.’

She’s not a nanny after all.

‘And you have Charlie,’ she adds.

‘How do you know Charlie?’

‘My husband teaches at Shepparton Park.’

Before I can ask her husband’s name, the school bell rings and laughter and young voices fill the playground, jostling for their bags. It takes me a moment to spot Emma, whose schoolbag makes her look like a turtle walking on her hind legs.

I call her name. She raises her eyes. There’s that smile.

She holds my hand - something Charlie doesn’t do any more. I loop her bag over my shoulder and shorten my stride.

‘How are things, Emm?’

‘Good.’

‘Learn anything to today?’

‘Mrs Graveney said we were getting a male teacher.’

‘Is that so?’

‘I thought the postman was going to teach us how to put letters in mailboxes.’

I try not to laugh. ‘That’s a different sort of mail.’

She looks at me crossly. ‘I know that now .’

We reach the terrace and Emma changes out of her uniform into a Snow White dress she has been wearing obsessively for the past two months. By now the neighbours will think she’s strange, but it’s not worth arguing over. I’m sure she’s not going to be wearing it when she accepts her Nobel Prize.

I’m more concerned about her other ‘foibles’, which is a polite way of describing her neuroses. Last week she launched her dinner plate across the table because a meatball ‘touched’ her macaroni. What was I thinking, putting them on the same plate!

I have learned some remarkable things since becoming a father and I appreciate how much there is still to learn. I know, for example, that a pound coin can pass harmlessly through the digestive system of a four-year-old. I know that regurgitated chicken-flavoured ramen noodles and tomato sauce will ruin a silk carpet; that nail polish sticks to the inside of a bath and too much beetroot turns a toddler’s urine a neon crimson colour.

There is also a mysterious person living in our house called Notme, who is responsible for leaving wet towels on the floor, empty crisp packets on the sofa and chucking buckets of toys around the bedroom. I got so sick of cleaning up after Notme that I made a dummy out of old pillows, dressed it up and hung a sign on his chest saying, ‘Notme’.

Emma thinks it’s hilarious.

When I discovered locks of her beautiful hair floating in the toilet bowl and more evidence in her bedroom, I demanded to know who did the cutting.

‘Not me,’ said Emma.

I looked at Charlie.

‘Well, it’s not me .’

I went to the dummy. ‘Listen, Notme, did you cut Emma’s hair?’

Emma looked on nervously.

‘Notme says he didn’t do it,’ I announced.

‘Did he really say that?’

‘Really.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘Oh.’

After that she confessed and took her punishment like a five-year-old.

Charlie won’t be home for another hour. In the meantime I make Emma a snack and listen to her sound out words on her spelling list. Then she goes into the garden and chases Gunsmoke, wanting to tie a bonnet on his head. The Labrador lopes, stops, waits and lopes off again.

Julianne phones at a quarter past four. The trial has been adjourned. She’s meeting someone for a drink and will be home at six-thirty. I listen to her voice and imagine that by ‘home’ she means coming back to me. It’s a nice thought, if hopelessly optimistic.

At five o’clock I turn on the news. A blonde newsreader with Bambi eyes stares unblinkingly from the screen.

A fire investigator today described how he found five bodies in a Bristol boarding house, three of them children, all belonging to the same family of asylum seekers.

The camera cuts to an equally well-groomed reporter, struggling to record a piece to camera as the wind tosses her hair.

Giving evidence at a murder trial at Bristol Crown Court, Fire Officer Jim Sherman told the jury that the house was well alight by the time the first fire crews arrived at the scene.

The family, who were all sleeping upstairs, were trapped by the blaze, except for Marco Kostin, aged eighteen, who managed to climb out of a second-floor window and jump to safety.

Fire officers discovered traces of petrol in the downstairs hallway of the house and evidence that a fuel-filled bottle had been thrown through the front window.

The footage changes and reveals police manning barricades and forcing back protesters outside the court.

Amid extraordinary security, the three accused arrived at the court this morning where they were heckled by protesters and cheered by supporters. British National Party candidate Novak Brennan waved briefly to the crowd as he and his fellow accused, Tony Scott and Gary Dobson, were led into court. Scott and Dobson are former BNP activists with links to neo-Nazi organisations. All have pleaded not guilty to charges of murder and conspiracy to commit arson with the intent to endanger life.

Emma wants to watch something else because this is ‘boring’.

‘You might see Mummy,’ I tell her.

‘Why?’

‘She was there today.’

Her brow creases and she concentrates on the TV for twenty seconds, before announcing, ‘Nope, I can’t see her.’

Losing interest, she tries to wake Strawberry, who is curled up on a chair.

Charlie should be home. I try to call her mobile but get her voicemail. Perhaps she missed the bus.

When the phone rings I’m sure it’s her. Instead a male voice asks for ‘Charlotte’s father’.

My insides seem to liquefy. Nobody ever calls her Charlotte. He’s a constable from Bath Police Station and he begins explaining that Charlie has been arrested for assaulting a minicab driver and failing to pay a fare.

‘There must be some mistake. She’s on her way home from school.’

‘I’m holding her student card.’ He reads her full name.

The rushing sound in my ears is partly relief. Mistakes can be rectified. At least she’s safe.

‘Where are we going?’ asks Emma.

‘To pick up Charlie.’

I put a coat over her Snow White dress and lace up her boots. I look at my watch. Julianne should be here soon. I decide not to call her.

Bath Police Station is in Manvers Street, just up from the railway station. It takes fifteen minutes to drive, during which I have to field Emma’s questions, wishing somebody could answer mine. What on earth was Charlie doing?

I find her slouching on a plastic chair in the custody suite, schoolbag between her knees. The only other person in the room is a middle-aged Indian man holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose.

Charlie looks at me briefly and lowers her eyes to her scuffed shoes. She’s been crying, but the overriding emotion is frustration rather than sorrow.

‘What happened?’

Her answer comes in a rush.

‘I was going to see Sienna, but I didn’t have enough money. I thought I did, but it cost too much. And then he got angry.’ She points to the Sikh cab driver. ‘I was three pounds short. Three lousy pounds. I said I’d get him the money. I gave him my phone number. My address. But he wouldn’t let me go.’