Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

The woman drove away with Rupert and later she left a bag of turnips and a marrow on our doorstep. I hated turnips. Still do. But my father made a big point of me eating them. ‘You earned them,’ he said. ‘It’s your reward.’

Gunsmoke’s head has dropped off my lap. His tongue touches my hand but he doesn’t have the strength to lick it.

A van pulls into Station Street, moving slowly as it searches for a house number. The name of the pet hospital is painted on the side, beneath a cartoon dog with a bandaged head and a paw in a sling.

Dr Bradley opens the rear doors. Grabs his bag. The sight of Gunsmoke catches him by surprise. Something else in his eyes: uncertainty.

He crouches next to me, puts a stethoscope on Gunsmoke’s chest. Listens. Moves it. Listens again. His eyes meet mine, full of a sad truth. All I need to know.

‘You couldn’t have saved him,’ he says. ‘His injuries . . . it’s best this way.’

His hand touches my shoulder. A lump jams in my throat.

‘Do you want me to take care of the body?’

‘No. I can handle it. Thank you for coming.’

The van does a three-point turn. He waves goodbye.

Grunting with the effort, I lift Gunsmoke in my arms and carry him through the house again, setting him down on the old rubber mattress he uses as a bed. Then I take a shovel from the shed and clear the leaves near the compost bin, picking out a spot between the flowerbeds.

I don’t know how long it takes to dig the grave. A couple of times I stop and lean on the shovel. My medication is wearing off and my left side keeps locking up, sending me sideways. I’m fine if I keep digging, but as soon as I stop it begins to show. When the hole is deep enough, I wrap Gunsmoke in his favourite blanket and lower him down, almost collapsing on top of him when I overbalance.

‘Too many treats, old friend, no wonder you couldn’t catch those rabbits.’

I’m not a prayerful man or a believer in an afterlife for animals (let alone humans) so there is nothing to say except goodbye before I shovel the first clods on his body. When I finish, I scatter leaves across the turned earth and put the shovel back in the shed. Then I go inside and pour myself a drink and sit at the kitchen table, too tired to climb the stairs, too angry to sleep.

The cold wakes me before dawn. Stiff. Sore. Trembling. I brush my teeth and splash hot water on my face and manage to shave. I won’t walk this morning. It doesn’t seem right. Instead I medicate and make coffee, sitting at the kitchen table, listening to Strawberry crunch her cat food.

If Gordon Ellis was having an affair with Sienna someone must have known. There would have been clues: emails, text messages, handwritten notes passed between them.

My answering machine is flashing. There are three messages.

The first is from Bill Johnson at the garage:

I found a door for the Volvo at the wrecker’s yard. It’s never going to close properly, but it should do the job. You have to nudge it with your hip. You can pick it up any time.

Clunk!

Annie Robinson.

Hi, Joe, it’s Annie. She leaves a long thought-organising pause: I don’t have your mobile number. I had a nice time the other night. I hope you did too. Call me when you get home. It doesn’t matter if it’s late. Bye.

Clunk!

Message three. Annie again.

Hi, again. I looked into that thing you mentioned . . . about Gordon. I found a few photographs from college. Hey, I was thinking about cooking dinner tonight. I promise I really will cook this time. Seven-thirty or earlier. You choose. Let me know if you can’t make it.

Clunk!

Just after eight, I shower and dress in casual clothes before walking up the hill to Emma’s school. The children are arriving, muffled up against the cold. Emma will be among the last. She sleeps like a teenager, cocooned in a duvet, ignoring every summons. I can picture Julianne dragging her out of bed and pulling clothes over her sleepy head.

Further along the street I see Natasha Ellis pull up in her Ford Focus. She lifts Billy from his booster seat and slips a rucksack over his shoulders. He’s wearing a woollen hat, pulled down over his ears, and carrying a faded Tigger. They walk hand in hand to the gate. Natasha crouches and hugs him and Billy solemnly hands her the soft toy. Then he turns and runs to a group of friends.

‘Mrs Ellis?’

She turns at the sound of my voice.

‘Hello. It’s Joe, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please call me Natasha. Nobody calls me Mrs Ellis. Makes me feel ancient.’

‘You’re certainly not ancient.’

She laughs brightly. ‘Gordon calls me Nat - but that makes me sound like a bug. Don’t you think?’

She’s wearing skinny-legged jeans, boots and a turtleneck sweater. Her cheeks are blushed with the cold.

‘I was hoping we might talk.’

‘I hope there’s nothing wrong.’

‘Do you know Sienna Hegarty?’

Natasha raises her eyebrows. ‘Of course. She used to babysit for us. I heard what happened. What a shock! I can’t believe she’d do such a thing.’

‘I’m trying to help her.’

‘That’s good. That’s the nice thing about village life - people support each other. Don’t you think?’

Her eyes cut sideways to me and lips part slightly. She wants to leave. My left hand is tapping against my thigh. A nervous gesture.

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Nearly two years.’

‘Happy?’

‘That’s an odd question.’

‘I’m sorry. You must miss not having your family around. You’re from Scotland, aren’t you?’

She drops into an accent. ‘Just a wee lassie from Edinburgh.’

‘Gordon told me you were childhood sweethearts.’

She smiles fondly. ‘It’s funny really. He tells people we were at school together, but that’s just because he wants people to think he’s younger than he really is. He was a teacher at my school. We met up after I’d left. I saw him at a rugby game.’

‘Gordon plays?’

‘Oh, Heavens no! Gordon isn’t the sporty type. He watches.’

‘You must have been very young.’

‘Eighteen.’

She’s lying to me.

‘That’s quite an age difference. What did your parents think?’

‘Oh, they love Gordon.’

‘So Billy’s not your son?’

‘No, Gordon was married before. His wife left him . . . walked out on Billy. Gordon still can’t understand why.’

Her eyes shift from mine and she gazes along the road.

‘Did you know Ray Hegarty?’

Her face clouds with concern. ‘Not really. I might have spoken to him on the phone when I called to arrange for Sienna to look after Billy. I don’t know if I would have liked him, you know - is that an awful thing to say, I mean, now that he’s dead?’

‘Why wouldn’t you have liked him?’

‘He sounded like a bully. Some of the things Sienna said . . .’

‘She talked about him?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Saying what?’

Natasha’s voice drops to a whisper, ‘He was very controlling. He wanted to choose the clothes she wore and to stop her seeing her boyfriend. I think he used to beat her . . .’ she hesitates. ‘And there might have been worse things. That’s why we had her babysit so often. We even let her sleep over. Have you seen Sienna? Is she all right?’

‘Holding up.’

Natasha nods and raises her hand, brushing hair from her eyes.

‘Did you know that Ray Hegarty made a complaint to the school about your husband?’

Colour fades in her cheeks and her features tighten. For a moment I think she’s going to deny everything or plead ignorance, but her mind works quickly.