Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

‘That was pretty weird,’ says Charlie, appearing on the stairs again. She’s dressed in her flannelette pyjamas, a pair so stretched at the waist they hang on her hips. ‘Did you want to hit him?’

‘Why would I want to hit Harry?’

‘Isn’t that what boys do when they’re jealous?’

‘No, not always. Hardly ever. And I’m not jealous.’

‘So you’re OK?’

‘I’m good.’

She gives me the same sort of questioning look I got from her mother. Leaning against the wall, I close my eyes and try not to picture Julianne and Harry in the car, in conversation.

‘So what do you think of Harry?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘He’s okay, I guess. He cooks Coca-Cola-flavoured chicken and has a cool car.’

‘Coca-Cola-flavoured chicken?’

‘It tastes better than it sounds.’ She hesitates, tugging at her bottom lip with her front teeth. ‘He’s not a loser, Dad.’

At that moment I feel something stretch and break inside me. Not something vital or essential, but a single strand that floats broken in the wake of Charlie’s words.

Emma wanders out of her room. She wants a story. This will mean reading two stories and making a third one up involving stuffed animals and the ‘tickling spider’ that lives in my pocket.

Later, when she’s finally asleep, Charlie and I watch a movie which isn’t age appropriate according to the British Board of Film Classification, but a few swear words and a token fight won’t scar her emotionally. The elephant in the room is Sienna. Charlie hasn’t mentioned her but I know she wants to ask.

The credits are rolling. She stares at her feet.

‘Kids were talking yesterday.’

‘At school?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What were they saying?’

‘That Sienna has been charged with murder.’

‘That’s true.’

Charlie shakes her head adamantly. ‘She didn’t do it.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes, I do. She was scared of her dad. She didn’t like him. But she wouldn’t kill him.’

‘People don’t always do what we expect.’

I’m thinking of Julianne and not Sienna.

Charlie hikes up her pyjamas. ‘Are you going to help her?’

‘There’s nothing I can do.’

‘Yes, you can.’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘But you know people.’ She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her pyjamas. Still they shine. ‘You can find the person who did it.’

‘I’m not a detective.’

I know what she’s suggesting, but she’s asking too much.

‘You’re tired. Go to bed. Get some sleep.’

I hear the stairs creak as she climbs them. She pauses on the landing, speaking in a stage whisper.

‘Goodnight, Dad.’

Perched on the edge of the Bristol Channel, surrounded by nineteen acres of grounds and ringed by trees and an iron-spiked fence, Oakham House is called a Regional Secure Unit. In the old days it would have been an asylum or a special hospital, but no matter what label they assign it now, the stigma remains.

Walton, the nearest village, is half a mile away, Bristol another ten. That’s the one abiding feature governing the construction and placement of any psychiatric unit - out of sight, out of mind. It has been that way for more than two hundred years.

Sienna is sitting at a window with one leg propped on the sill, hugging her knee, while her other leg dangles to where her toes brush the floor. She’s wearing a dress that is too big for her and a shapeless woollen cardigan. A strand of dark wool has pulled from the sleeve and she worries it with her fingers, rolling it back and forth under her palm.

Condensation has misted the window. She reaches out and draws her finger through it. Outside, the Bristol Channel is dotted with whitecaps, which my father calls ‘white horses’, although I’ve never understood why.

I stand in the doorway of the lounge watching Sienna. Her movements are almost exaggerated in their slowness and everything about her body language seems to be passive and resigned.

I say hello and she rewards me with a huge smile.

‘I thought you’d come.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I just knew. I was sitting here thinking how nice it would be to talk to someone, and here you are.’

The statement is so matter-of-fact that I can almost believe she willed me into being. She reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and pulls out three small fruits with dark orange skin.

‘Do you know the difference between a tangerine and a clementine?’

I shake my head.

‘Tangerines aren’t as sweet.’ She hands me one. ‘Fresh fruit is really good for you. It will help you with that.’

She motions at my left hand where my thumb and forefinger are pill-rolling. I fight the urge to put the hand in my pocket.

‘So why do you shake?’

‘It’s nothing.’

Sienna looks disappointed. ‘That’s your first lie.’

‘How do you know I’m lying?’

‘I can tell.’

I press my thumb into the tangerine. The skin peels easily, filling the room with citrus smells.

‘I want to talk about what happened the other night.’

Almost immediately I sense her mind trying to flee. No longer looking at me, she squeezes the peel in her fist.

‘I know you’re scared.’

‘I want to go home.’

‘I know, but first you have to answer some questions. The court wants me to prepare a psych report.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘They want to know if you’re likely to hurt yourself or hurt someone else.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

She turns to the window again, as though frightened of missing someone arriving.

‘I can’t make you talk to me, Sienna, which means you’re in control of this conversation. I’m not going to get upset or irritated if you don’t say anything. I’m not going to get angry or annoyed. The very worst that can happen is I walk out of here and say you weren’t able to speak to me.’

I can see her visibly relax. She pops a segment of tangerine into her mouth and crushes it between her teeth.

‘So, tell me how you’re feeling.’

‘Lonely. Homesick.’

‘You’ve been charged with the most serious crime imaginable.’

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘You told the police you wanted him dead - you wished for it.’

‘That’s not the same thing. That’s just using words.’ Her rope-like curls sway against her cheeks. ‘Robin says I’m supposed to separate bad memories into coloureds and whites - just like the washing - and run them through the machine. Wash them away. Put them on a heavy wash and spin cycle. I laughed when he told me that, but Robin makes it sound so normal.’

‘Who’s Robin?’

‘My therapist.’

Robin Blaxland. Annie Robinson arranged for Sienna to see him.

‘Did you talk to Robin about your father?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Will you talk to me?’

Again she shrugs.

I ask her to sit on the sofa, lean back and close her eyes. Breathe deeply.

‘Feel your nostrils opening slightly as you inhale. The air feels cooler as you breathe in and warmer as you breathe out. Feel the change in temperature. How your breath fills your lungs.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m just going to talk. If I ask you something that upsets you, or makes you frightened, I want you to raise your right hand. Just lift your fingers a little and I’ll know to stop. That’s our special signal.’

Sienna nods.

‘Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you born?’

‘Bristol.’

‘You’re the youngest.’

‘Yeah.’

‘How old is Zoe?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘And Lance?’

‘Twenty-two.’