Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

‘I don’t think so, Harry.’

‘Why’s that, do you think?’

‘Because all we have in common is Julianne and eventually, if we become friends, you’ll feel it’s all right to talk about her with me and it’s one thing to lose her and another thing completely to discuss her like she’s a shared interest.’

Harry tugs harder at his earlobe. ‘You made her very sad, you know.’

‘I also made her happy for twenty years.’

‘I guess people change.’

Jesus wept!

‘I’m going to try to make her happy,’ he announces.

I can feel my arm hairs prickle and a chill run down my spine. Irrespective of his size and physical condition, I want to hit Harry now. I seem to be developing a taste for it.

‘I don’t want there to be any ill-feeling,’ he says, completely ignoring all the signs, my body language, my tone of voice, my fingers curling into fists. Then he mentions something about not treading on toes and there being no winners or losers.

A guttural sound springs from my throat.

‘Pardon?’ he asks.

‘I said that’s bullshit.’

‘Oh!’

His eyes widen.

‘Let’s face it Harry, you don’t give a flying fuck about my toes or my feelings.’ I’m talking through gritted teeth, trying not to attract attention. ‘You like trophies. You have a trophy house full of trophy cabinets full of your golf trophies and your squash trophies and your framed thank you letter from Margaret Thatcher for donating to the cause. Now you want my wife.’

Harry blinks at me, completely lost for words. The colour rises from his neck to his face. I want to go on. It takes every bit of my willpower to stop saying what I want to say. I want to tell him that he’s not Frank Lloyd Wright or Norman Foster and that designing some telemarketing millionaire’s ski chalet at Val d’Isere is not going to get him a knighthood, just like pulling his trousers up high doesn’t make him look thinner and gelling his hair doesn’t make him look younger and the chunky silver bracelet is gangster chic rather than evidence that he’s comfortable wearing jewellery.

I want to tell him these things but I don’t, because I’m not even interested in hating Harry the way I should. I’m not truly angry. I’m sad and I’m lonely and I’m fed up with not being able to help people who need me.

Julianne appears beside him.

‘Wasn’t that terrific?’

‘Brilliant,’ I reply.

Emma lets go of her hand and comes to me.

‘I wonder what happened to Annie Robinson,’ says Julianne, looking at me. ‘She did all the sets and costumes and didn’t turn up.’

‘Maybe she had something more important,’ I say, but I can’t convince myself.

‘Charlie is going to the cast party.’

‘Will Gordon Ellis be there?’

‘It’s just for the kids. One of the mothers is getting them pizza. Can you pick her up later?’

She gives me the address. ‘I told her eleven o’clock. I know she’s supposed to be grounded, but she was so good tonight and I don’t have the heart to play the bad cop on this one.’

‘I wanna go with Daddy,’ announces Emma.

‘No, sweetheart, we’re going home in Harry’s car.’

‘I want to go home with Daddy.’

Julianne tries to convince her that Harry has a really nice car. ‘It has leather seats and that lovely smell, remember?’

Harry puts his hand on her head. ‘I’ll open the sunroof, if you’d like.’

Emma twists away and swings her arm. One of her fists collides with Harry’s groin. His body jack-knifes and he sucks in a painful breath. Still doubled over, he groans - or at least it sounds like a groan from a distance, but up close he clearly says, ‘Fuck me!’

Emma hears it too. ‘Harry said a bad word.’

Julianne tells her to apologise.

‘But, Mummy, it was a really really bad word.’

‘Tell Harry you’re sorry.’

‘It was an accident.’

‘I know it was an accident, but you should still say that you’re sorry.’

Harry still can’t straighten completely. ‘It’s OK. It doesn’t matter.’

‘He said the f-u-c-k word,’ says Emma.

‘Don’t you ever say that!’ responds Julianne.

Emma points at Harry. ‘What about him?’

‘He didn’t mean it.’

‘He should get in trouble too.’

Harry interrupts. ‘Just let her go with her father.’

‘No,’ argues Julianne. ‘This is about setting boundaries. Emma has to learn to do as she’s told.’

Emma clutches her stomach. ‘I feel sick. I think I’m going to vomit.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Julianne, who is fully aware of Emma’s dramatic displays of hypochondria (and even more dramatic feats of projectile vomiting).

‘Maybe she should go in Joe’s car,’ says Harry, thinking of the Lexus and his leather seats. ‘He could drop her home.’

Julianne fires a look at him.

Meanwhile, Emma drops to the ground and launches one of her famous ‘you’ll-have-to-drag-me-out-of-here’ tantrums. Julianne does her best to ignore her, but Emma’s limbs seem to liquefy and she’s impossible to pick up.

We’re not so much drawing a crowd as dispersing it - driving parents towards their cars.

Julianne looks at me. ‘Please just leave.’

‘What have I done?’

‘Nothing, but you’re making things worse.’

The last thing I hear is Harry muttering under his breath. ‘For fuck’s sake, why couldn’t she just go with her father’ - and seeing Julianne give him her death stare.

I almost feel sorry for him. Harry’s chances of getting lucky tonight just disappeared with the flying pigs.

Annie Robinson’s mobile is turned off and she isn’t answering her landline. I drive the familiar roads, trying to come up with reasons why she would have missed the musical. She should have been on stage, taking her bow.

I try her home number again. After eight rings the answering machine clicks in.

Hi, sorry we missed you. Leave us a message after the beep.

She’s a single woman living alone, which explains the ‘we’ and ‘us’.

Beep!

‘Annie, it’s, Joe. I’ve been at the school. I thought I’d see you tonight . . .’ I pause, hoping that she might pick up. ‘The show was great . . . really good. And the sets were terrific . . . If you’re there, Annie, talk to me . . . I hope everything is all right . . . call me when you get this . . .’

Pulling into Annie’s road, I see her car parked in front of her building. She doesn’t answer the intercom. I press the buttons on either side but nobody answers. Walking back to the street, I follow the footpath until I find a small alley leading between the houses to the canal. Picking my way along the grassy bank, I count the houses until I come to her walled garden.

Hoisting myself up, I clamber over the wall, landing heavily on a climbing rose bush. Thorns catch on my clothes and I have to untangle the vines. The blue-and-white tiled table is still on the terrace. The two chairs are tilted so as not to collect rainwater.

Pressing my face to the sliding glass door, I peer into the dark lounge and open-plan kitchen. I can see a neon clock blinking on the oven. The only other light is leaking from beneath Annie’s bedroom door. It seems to shimmer and cling to the floor. Why is that? Water. The room is flooded.

I should stay outside. Phone the police. What if Annie has slipped over? She could be hurt or bleeding. I bang on the glass door and shout her name.

This is crazy. I should do something. Picking up the nearest chair, I swing it hard against the door. It doesn’t shatter. I try again. Harder. The pane vibrates and disintegrates in a mosaic of crumbling glass.

The living room is undisturbed. An IKEA catalogue lies open on the sofa. Annie’s shoes are under the coffee table. To the left the kitchen benches are wiped clean. Cups and plates rest on the draining rack. A shiny paper gift bag sits on the counter next to a bottle of wine. Open. Half drunk.