Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

The driver interrupts. ‘She called me a Paki bastard. Such a foul-mouthed girl. Truly terrible.’ His head wobbles.

‘He had his hands all over me!’

‘She broke my nose!’

‘I hardly touched him.’

‘She’s a thug.’

‘And you’re a pervert!’

A policeman intervenes. Constable Dwyer has gelled red hair that makes his head look like it’s on fire. He wants to talk to me privately. I tell Charlie to be nice and to look after Emma. She gives me a death stare - already accusing me of taking sides against her.

The constable explains the facts. The driver, Mr Singh, picked Charlie up from school during last period after she phoned for a minicab. He dropped her outside the Royal United Hospital, where Charlie couldn’t pay the fare. According to Mr Singh, she tried to run away and he had to lock the doors. She then assaulted him.

‘He has a security camera in his cab,’ says the constable.

‘Can I see it?’

Constable Dwyer raises a hinged section of the counter and leads me to a desk with a computer. The wide-angle footage is grainy and poorly lit, shot from low on the dashboard. Instead of being focused on the driver, it is aimed at the passenger seat, revealing Charlie’s legs and a flash of her underwear as she reaches for her seatbelt.

The PC fast forwards to the argument. I can hear Charlie offering to pay and giving her address. When she tries to get out of the car, he locks the doors and she panics.

‘Is he allowed to imprison her?’ I ask.

‘He can make a citizen’s arrest.’

‘She’s fourteen!’

I glance at the computer screen again. ‘That’s an odd place to put a camera, don’t you think? What was he trying to film?’

Mr Singh overhears the remark and takes offence.

‘I’m not the criminal here!’

‘Perhaps I should look at your other CCTV tapes,’ says Dwyer.

Mr Singh puffs up in protest.

‘I want her charged. And I want my medical expenses paid . . . and compensation for loss of earnings.’

My mobile is vibrating. It’s Julianne.

‘Where are you?’

‘We won’t be long.’

‘Is everything all right?’

What am I going to tell her?

‘I’m at Bath Police Station. I’ll be home soon.’

‘Where are the girls?’ Her voice has gone up an octave.

‘Charlie has been cautioned for assaulting a cab driver and failing to pay the fare.’

Silence.

Maybe I should have said nothing.

‘It’s all right. It’s under control.’

Finally she speaks - her questions coming in a rush. When? Why? How?

‘Stay calm.’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down, Joe. Where’s Emma?’

‘She’s with me.’

Emma is sitting on Charlie’s lap, playing a clapping game. I notice the ink stains on Charlie’s fingers. She’s been fingerprinted. That’s ridiculous.

‘What’s ridiculous?’ asks Julianne.

‘Pardon?’

‘You just said something was ridiculous.’

‘It’s nothing. Got to go.’

‘Don’t hang up on me.’

‘Bye.’

I confront PC Dwyer. ‘Why has my daughter been fingerprinted? ’

‘It’s standard procedure. We take DNA samples and fingerprints to confirm a suspect’s identity.’

‘She’s fourteen.’

‘Age isn’t an issue.’

‘This is a joke!’

Dwyer’s amiable veneer has disappeared in a heartbeat. ‘Nobody is laughing, sir. I ran a check on your daughter. This isn’t the first time she’s been in trouble.’

He’s talking about the shoplifting incident. I want to tell him about the kidnapping and how Charlie was trussed up in tape and left breathing through a hose. No wonder she panicked when the driver locked the doors on her. But I know Charlie is listening and I want her to forget her ordeal rather than have it brought up again.

‘She had a formal caution last time,’ says Constable Dwyer. ‘This time the matter will be referred to the CPS.’

Mr Singh seems happier. His nose has stopped bleeding. I fancy punching it.

‘So what happens now?’

‘A court summons will be sent by post. If it doesn’t arrive, she’s in the clear.’

I look at the driver. ‘What if I offered to pay your medical bills ... and compensation?’

His head rocks and he points to his nose.

Dwyer recovers a remnant of his former warmth. ‘It may not go any further, sir. Take your daughter home.’

Charlie picks up her schoolbag and I take Emma’s hand. Pushing through the doors, we descend the steps and follow the glow of streetlights to the car. Charlie drags her feet as though carrying bricks instead of books. Emma has fallen into a worried silence.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’ I ask.

Charlie doesn’t raise her head. ‘Don’t blame me. If that dickhead wasn’t so uptight . . .’

‘Mind your language.’

Emma is quick. ‘What’s a dickhead?’

‘Nobody. I’m talking to Charlie.’

We sit in silence for half a mile. Charlie finally answers.

‘I called the hospital but they wouldn’t tell me anything about Sienna.’

‘So you decided to catch a cab?’

‘I didn’t realise how much it was going to cost.’

Charlie is animated now, marshalling her arguments, defending herself.

‘There were all these stories going round school. They’re saying that Sienna killed her Dad, that she’s been arrested, that she’s tried to commit suicide.’

‘We don’t know what happened yet.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘I saw Sienna when she came to the cottage. I saw the blood.’

Emma is listening intently from her booster seat. How much does she understand?

‘I don’t think we should talk about this now.’

Charlie won’t let it go. ‘You’re treating me like a child.’

‘Maybe because you’re acting like one. You’ve been arrested. God knows what your mother will say.’

‘Don’t tell her!’

‘It’s too late. She called me.’

Charlie groans. ‘Now she’ll get all sad and she’ll spend days looking at me like she’s a seal pup about to be hit with a club.’

‘She’s not that bad.’

‘Yes she is. She’s sad enough already.’

Is she sad?

Julianne is standing in the doorway of the cottage as I park the car. She opens her arms for Emma, who runs up the path. Charlie takes longer to retrieve her bag and open the car door.

‘We still need to talk about this.’

‘Whatever.’

I hate that word - ‘whatever’. She’s telling me I don’t understand. I’ll never understand. I’m too old. I’m too stupid. I have no taste in clothes or music or friends. I don’t own the right language to talk to her. I don’t dread the same things or dream the same dreams.

I’m caught in that in-between place, unsure whether I can be a father or a friend to Charlie, knowing I can’t be both.

Right now she is like a separate nation state seeking independence, wanting her own government, laws and budget. Whenever I try to avoid conflict, choosing diplomacy instead of hostility, she masses her troops at the border, accusing me of spying or sabotaging her life.

She walks up the path and steps around Julianne, going straight upstairs to her room.

Julianne calls out to me. ‘Did she say why?’

‘Sienna.’

‘We’ll talk about it later.’

The door closes and I sit on the low brick wall across the lane, beneath the overhanging branches. Gazing at the cottage, I can sometimes make out silhouettes behind the curtains. Right now Julianne is getting Emma ready for bed. Next will come the brushing of teeth, the reading of bedtime stories, a kiss, a hug, a thirsty summons, and one final hug before the light is turned down.

I know the script. I know the stage directions. I no longer have a walk-on part.