Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

Annie steps closer, touching my shoulder. ‘You’ll go mad if you try to blame yourself for this.’

There is a ripple in the space between us, when I imagine kissing her or her kissing me. And I can see my hands running over her naked skin and her small dark nipples.

She steps away, faintly abashed. Whispers. ‘Such a ghostly girl, so pale and quiet.’

‘Was Sienna seeing a therapist?’

She nods.

‘Did her parents know?’

‘No. She wouldn’t come to see me unless I promised I wouldn’t tell them.’

‘Did she tell you what was wrong?’

Annie shakes her head. ‘She confided in one of the other teachers, Gordon Ellis, who urged her to talk to me.’ She looks around. ‘Gordon should be here soon. You could talk to him.’

The school bell is sounding. Charlie will be getting out of class.

Annie turns back to the mirror, checking her hair and tugging at the collar of her blouse.

‘I think her parents may have found out,’ she says.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Her father came to the school and made a complaint to the headmaster.’

‘What about?’

‘I’m not allowed to discuss it.’

Excited voices drift from outside, the raucous clamour of students collecting books from lockers, preparing to go home. Annie looks at her watch. With a flourish, she picks up her paintbrush and tin of paint, heading back towards the stage.

‘If you talk to Sienna, will you . . . will you . . .’ She can’t think of what to say. ‘Tell her we’re missing her.’

Charlie tosses her schoolbag in the back of the car and slides into the passenger seat. Her cheeks are pink with the cold and strands of hair have pulled from her ponytail. Without warning, she ducks down.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

A boy walks in front of the car. His gelled hair sticks up at odd angles and his trousers hang so low on his hips I can see his brand of underwear.

Bless my little x-chromosome for giving me girls.

Charlie raises her head. Checks that he’s gone. Sits up.

‘Who is he?’

‘No one.’

‘He must have a name.’

‘Jacob.’

‘Is Jacob a good or a bad thing?’

‘Drop it, Dad.’

‘So you like him?’

‘No!’

‘Then why were you hiding?’

She rolls her eyes. Clearly I don’t understand teenage love, which is obviously more complicated than adult love.

On the drive home I try to make conversation - asking about her day - but her answers come in single syllables. Yes. No. Good. Fine.

Finally she utters a complete sentence. ‘Did you see Sienna?’

‘Yes.’

‘How is she?’

‘As well as can be expected.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘She can’t remember everything that happened.’

‘Is that amnesia?’

‘Sometimes the mind blocks things out . . . as a defence.’

‘Can I see her?’

‘Maybe not yet.’

There are so many questions I want to ask Charlie. Why was she crying at school? What’s making her unhappy? Is it the nightmares? Why won’t she talk to me?

‘Did you know Sienna was cutting herself?’ I ask.

Charlie doesn’t respond.

‘You knew?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘She couldn’t really explain.’

‘Was she unhappy?’

‘I guess.’

Staring out the window, she beats an edgy rhythm on her thigh.

‘How did Sienna get on with her dad?’

‘She said he was a Nazi.’

‘He was pretty strict.’

‘Way strict.’

‘Is that why she spent so much time at our place?’

Charlie nods. We’re halfway home, driving through farmland that has been ploughed into rich brown furrows tinged with green on the ridges. Seeded. Growing.

‘What did you think of Mr Hegarty?’

‘He was OK, I guess.’

‘Just OK?’

‘Whenever I stayed at Sienna’s he got us a DVD and pizza. Sometimes he used to watch a movie with us.’

‘Did he ever make you feel uncomfortable?’

‘Like how?’

‘When you were staying at the house - did he ever look at you, or brush against you, or say something to you that made you feel like you didn’t want to be there?’

Her voice drops to a whisper and something slithers south in my chest, settling at the base of my stomach.

‘Sienna always told me to lock the bathroom door. One night I was getting out of the shower and the doorknob turned, but the bolt was across. I asked who it was. Said I wouldn’t be long.’

‘What happened?’

‘The doorknob turned again.’

Helen Hegarty holds the crumpled search warrant in her fist and steps aside. Heavy boots move with intent, going from room to room. Cupboards are opened, drawers pulled out, books feathered, CD cases prised open, rugs lifted . . .

For Helen this must seem like one more indignity added to a steaming pile - a dead husband, a traumatised family, bloodstains on her floorboards, fingerprint dust on her sills . . .

On the other side of the village, not far from the cottage, a long unbroken line of police officers shuffles across open ground. Uniformed. Silent. They call it a fingertip search, but nobody is crouching on hands and knees.

Charlie notices.

‘What are they doing?’

‘They’re looking for something.’

‘What are they looking for?’

‘Evidence.’

DCI Cray is on the bridge, her fist clenched around a cigarette, rasping orders. She’s dressed in a parka jacket and Wellingtons. They’re using police dogs to trace Sienna’s footsteps through the undergrowth.

Dropping Charlie at the cottage, I go back to the Hegartys’ house where Helen has retreated outside, leaving the police searchers to do their worst. Pulling a cardigan tight around her chest, she lights a cigarette and ignores the stares of neighbours who have gathered to watch. Not embarrassed. Past caring.

‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

‘I confiscated them from Zoe.’

Her son Lance is prowling the garden, thinking dark thoughts. The moment I step through the gate he confronts me, chest to chest, lips curled. A Union Jack tattoo flexes on his bicep.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m just checking on your mum.’

‘You’re working for them.’

‘I don’t work for the police.’

‘Bullshit!’

Helen puts a hand on his forearm and the effect is remarkable. The frenetic energy drumming in his head seems to evaporate. Lance turns away. Paces the garden. Punches his thigh.

‘He doesn’t know what to do,’ whispers Helen. ‘He thinks he should be the man of the house . . . looking after us.’

Something topples and breaks upstairs. She glances at the window and flinches. Then she gazes past me, as though imagining another life. Different choices.

Upstairs she has three shelves full of self-help books like The Secret , Lose Your Friends and Find Yourself , Chasing Happiness and The Choice is Yours . Yet all this advice on forgiving herself and learning from her mistakes had simply depressed her even more with their messages of urgent hopefulness and relentless positivity.

Pulling a crumbling tissue from her sleeve, she has to squeeze it together to wipe her nose.

‘Sienna didn’t like you working nights.’

Helen shakes her head. ‘We needed the money. Ray’s new business took a while to get off the ground.’

‘That must have been hard.’

‘You do what has to be done.’

‘Did Ray and Sienna fight a lot?’

She shrugs. ‘They were like oil and water. One morning I came home and found her sleeping in the shed. Ray thought she’d run off.’

‘When was that?’