Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

She laughs like a drain.

Clunk!

Message three is from my mother, reminding me about my father’s birthday next week.

Please don’t send him any more Scotch. I’m trying to get him to cut down. Oh, I almost forgot, you’ll never guess who I saw in Cardiff last week. Cassie Pritchard. You remember Cassie. We took that holiday with the Pritchards to the Lake District when you were fourteen? You and Cassie got on so well together . . .

(If memory serves, Cassie Pritchard pushed me out of a rowing boat and I almost died of pneumonia.) ... the poor thing has broken up with her husband in a messy divorce. Now she’s on her own. I have her phone number. You should give her a call. Cheer her up. Hope the girls are well. Send them my love.

Clunk!

I hold down the erase button. Wait for the beep. The counter resets to zero.

I look at my watch. It’s not quite ten. There’s still time for an evening stroll to the Fox and Badger, the village pub. Collecting my coat, I step out the door and turn along the High Street.

A few minutes later I pull open the heavy door. Smell the beer fumes. The pub is noisy and energetic, full of lumpy bodies and flushed faces. Locals. Regulars. Most of them I recognise, even if I don’t know their names.

There is a fireplace that must be ten foot wide and four feet high with a box-shaped wood stove and newly chopped faggots stacked alongside. Side by side above the hearth, a fox and a badger (just their heads) peer forlornly at proceedings.

A smaller fireplace in the lounge bar has a brace of pheasants above the hearth and a sticker that reads: ‘If it’s called the tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?’

Half a dozen youngsters have taken over a corner of the lounge beneath a string of fairy lights and the pheasants. Some of the girls look underage in tight jeans and short tops. Bratz dolls grown up.

The publican, Hector, raises his eyes and pours me a Scotch. One drink won’t hurt. I’ll start my new regime tomorrow. Show Mr Parkinson who’s the better man.

Hector is the unofficial convenor of the local divorced men’s club, which meets once a month at the pub. I’m not a natural joiner and, since I’m technically not divorced, I’ve avoided most of the meetings but I do play in the pub’s over-35s’ football team. There are fifteen of us - a number that allows for frequent substitutions and prevents avoidable heart attacks. I play defence. Right back. Leaving the faster men to play up front. I like to imagine myself more in the classic European-style sweeper role, threading precision long balls that split the defence.

We have nicknames. I am known as ‘Shrink’ for obvious reasons. ‘Hands’ is our goalkeeper - a retired pilot who had a brain tumour - and our star striker, Jimmy Monroe, is called ‘Marilyn’ (but not to his face). They’re a reasonable bunch of lads. None of them asks about my condition, which is pretty obvious from some of my miskicks. After the game, we nurse our bruises at the Fox and Badger, sharing non-confessional personal stories. We don’t confide. We never disclose an intimacy. We are men.

I finish my drink and have another, nursing it slowly. At eleven o’clock Hector signals last orders. My mobile is vibrating. It’s Julianne. I wonder what she’s doing up so late.

I press the green button and try to say something clever. She cuts me off.

‘Come quickly! It’s Sienna. Something’s wrong! She’s covered in blood!’

‘Blood?’

‘I couldn’t make her stay. We have to find her.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘She just ran away.’

‘Call 999. I’m coming.’

I grab my coat from a wooden hook and pull open the door, breaking into a trot as I thread my arms through the sleeves. The pavement slabs are cracked and uneven under my feet. Turning down Mill Hill, I pick up speed, letting gravity carry me towards the cottage in jarring strides.

Julianne is waiting outside, a torch swinging frenetically in her hand.

‘Where did she go?’

She points towards the river, her voice cracking. ‘She rang the doorbell. I screamed when I saw her. I must have scared her.’

‘Did she say anything?’

She shakes her head.

The door is open. I can see Charlie sitting on the stairs clutching her pillow. We gaze at each other and something passes between us. A promise. I’ll find her.

I turn to leave.

‘I want to come,’ says Julianne.

‘Wait for the ambulance. Send Charlie back to bed.’

I take the torch from her cold fingers and turn at the gate. The river is hidden in the trees, eighty yards away. Swinging the torch from side to side, I peer over the hedges and into the neighbouring field.

Reaching the small stone footbridge and a wider concrete causeway, I shout Sienna’s name. The road - unmade, single lane, with hedgerows on either side - leads out of the village.

Why would she run? Why head this way?

I keep thinking of when I dropped her off. The boyfriend. She skipped into his arms. Maybe there was a car crash. He could be injured too.

The beam of the torch reflects off the evening dew and creates long shadows through the trees. I stop on the bridge. Listen. Water over rocks; a dog barking; others follow.

‘Sieeeeenna!’

The sound bounces off the arch of the footbridge and seems to echo along the banks of the narrow stream. They call it a river, but in places you can jump from one side to the other. Emma catches minnows here and Gunsmoke cools off after chasing rabbits.

I call Sienna’s name again, feeling an awful sense of déjà vu. Two years ago I searched this same road, looking for Charlie, calling her name, peering over farm gates and fences. She was knocked from her pushbike and kidnapped by a man who chained her to a sink and wrapped masking around her head, allowing her to breathe through a rubber hose. The man was caught and locked away, but how does a twelve-year-old recover from something like that? How does she set foot outside her house, or look a stranger in the eyes, or trust anyone again?

I have never forgotten the sense of panic that tore through my soft organs like a spinning blade when I knew Charlie was missing, when I searched and couldn’t find her.

A scurrying sound to my left. Footsteps on dead leaves. I swing the torch back and forth. Soft crying. I listen for the sound again. Nothing.

My left arm is trembling. Swapping hands, I move the beam of light slowly along the banks, trying to find the source of the sound, wishing it into being, solid and visible. It came from somewhere on the far bank, in the trees.

Scrambling down the side of the bridge, I slide into the water. Sinking. Mud and sediment suck at my shoes. I reach down and almost overbalance, catching the torch before it topples into the river.

Wading to the far bank, I discover brambles growing to the water’s edge. Thorns catch on my clothes and skin. Head first. Crawling forward. I can’t hear crying any more.

Game birds flushed from the undergrowth explode into the clearing making my heart pound against the walls of my chest. Unhooking the last of the vines from my clothes, I stand and listen.

The weak moonlight is deceptive. The trees become people. Branches become limbs. An army marching through the darkness.

I can’t find her - not in the dark. I should be fitter. I should be sober. I should have better eyesight. I should take my time or I’ll walk straight past her.

The torch swings in another arc and picks up a flash of white before continuing.

Go back!

Where?

There she is! Huddled between the roots of a tree like a discarded doll. Still in her black dress. Water lapping at her bare legs. She’s on the far bank. I chose the wrong side. I’m in the river now, falling rather than jumping, wading towards her, my scrotum retracting in the cold.