Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

Water covers the floor. It’s coming from the bedroom. I knock on the door and call Annie’s name. Turning the handle, I push it open. A bedside light is on. Discarded clothes are bunched on the floor beside a wicker basket. A matching set of knickers and bra. Mauve. Fresh clothes are laid out on the bed, chosen for tonight.

I remember the bathroom from my night with Annie. White-tiled, it smells of perfume and potpourri. A frosted glass screen shields the bathtub and running taps. Flower petals have spilled over the edge and blocked the drain on the floor.

Annie is lying in the overflowing tub with one hand draped over the edge and a broken wine glass beneath it. Blood and vomit stain the water.

She’s alive. Convulsing.

Hooking my arms beneath hers, I struggle to lift her. Water sloshes over my clothes. I get her to her knees, all the while talking - telling her to hold on. Telling her it will be OK.

Half dragging her to the bed, I lay her on her side, pulling a duvet over her nakedness. Then I call three nines. Ambulance. Police. Name. Address. Number.

‘I think she’s been poisoned,’ I tell the dispatcher.

‘What did she consume?’

‘I don’t know. It could have been in the wine.’

‘Is she inebriated?’

‘No . . . I don’t think so . . . I’m not sure.’

‘What is her approximate height and weight?’

‘What?’

‘Her height and weight.’

‘Oh, ah, she’s five-six. Maybe nine stone.’

‘Did you have any of the wine, sir?’

‘No, I found her.’

‘Don’t touch the container.’

I go to the hallway and unlock the front door. Annie’s car keys and purse are sitting in a bowl. A light blinks on her answering machine. He counter says ‘2’.

I press ‘play’.

The first message is from a woman.

Hi, dear, it’s your mum. I guess you’re out! Penny is pregnant again. Isn’t she clever? Poor dear is sicker than a parrot. It must be a boy. They always make you suffer. Give her a call and cheer her up.

Clunk!

Message two.

Annie, it’s Joe, I’ve been at the school. I thought I’d see you tonight . . .

I press stop. Silence.

Back in the bedroom, I put my arms around Annie and listen to her shallow breathing. Her eyes are closed. What do I know about poisons? I did three years of medicine, but it wasn’t high on the agenda. Never induce vomiting if they’re convulsing - I remember that much. Fat lot of good . . .

Annie’s eyes are open. The skin around her lips is burned and raw. Her stomach is bloated and hard.

‘I knew you’d come back.’

Just gone ten. Dozens of people are standing on the footpath - residents, neighbours and passers-by - wearing dressing gowns, anoraks and woollen hats. A blue flashing light seems to strobe across their faces.

Four police cars are parked outside the row of terraces, alongside two ambulances and a scene-of-crime van. I’m standing in wet clothes beside one of the squad cars, unwilling to sit inside because it makes me look like a suspect. The detectives told me to wait. A police constable has been assigned to watch me. He is standing less than twenty feet away with his back to the onlookers and his eyes trained on me.

‘Why you all wet, petal?’ asks a voice. It belongs to a short black woman wearing the dark green uniform of a paramedic. She has a nametag pinned to her chest, ‘Yvonne’.

‘I found her in the bath,’ I say in a daze.

Yvonne raises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone finding me in the bath.’

She laughs and her whole body shakes. ‘She’s white, right? You don’t live in a place like this unless you’re white or you’re trying to act white. Know what I’m saying?’

‘Not really.’

Yvonne tilts her wide shiny face up at me. ‘Are you OK, petal? You want to sit down? I can get you a blanket. How about some oxygen?’ She motions to the ambulance.

‘I’m OK.’

‘Suit yourself.’ She blows her nose on a tissue and glances at the onlookers. ‘You know what they’re thinking?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘They’re wondering what’s happening to the world. That’s what they always say when the TV camera is shoved in their faces. “You just don’t expect it, do you? Not where you live. This is a nice neighbourhood. It makes you wonder what the world is coming to, blah, blah, blah. . . .” Isn’t that what they say?’

‘Yes.’

The front door opens and two paramedics appear wheeling a collapsible metal trolley. Annie is strapped to the frame with an IV in her arm, the bag held above her head.

‘That’s my ride,’ says Yvonne. ‘You take care now.’

The trolley slides into the ambulance and the doors close on Annie Robinson. I can smell her on my hands - the sweet-as-sugar school counsellor, with her bright red lipstick and her liquid brown eyes. Annie told me that nobody ever thought she was beautiful back in her schooldays but she’d blossomed into marriage and then become a pretty divorcée.

I wish Ruiz were here . . . or Ronnie Cray. I left my mobile in my car. It’s just down the street. I can call them. Someone has to pick up Charlie.

The sandy-haired constable intercepts me before I reach the Volvo.

‘What are you doing, sir?’

‘I’m just getting my phone.’

‘You were told not to move, sir.’

‘I just need to make a call.’

‘Step back to the police car, sir.’

One hand on his belt, he looks at me with cold indifference.

I adopt a voice that says I’m glad to co-operate in any way I can. I’ll write a letter of commendation telling his superiors about his conscientiousness, if he’ll just let me get my phone.

Unfortunately, my left arm swings of its own initiative. It looks like a Nazi salute and I have to grab it with my right hand.

‘Did you threaten me, sir?’

‘No.’

‘Are you mocking me?’

‘No, of course not, I have Parkinson’s disease.’

The tremors are seguing into jerkiness. My medication is wearing off. Using every bit of my concentration, I make a vain attempt to establish a single constant physical pose.

‘I’m Professor Joseph O’Loughlin. I have to call my daughter. I’m supposed to pick her up . . . My phone is in my jacket . . . on the front seat. You can get it for me. Here are the keys.’

‘Don’t approach me, sir. Put your hands down.’

‘They’re just car keys.’

The crowd are now focused on us. My apparent innocence has been transformed into suspicion and guilt.

‘Just take my keys, get my phone and let me talk to my daughter.’

‘Take a step back, sir.’

He’s not going to listen. I try to take a step back, but my neurotransmitters are losing their juice. Instead of retreating, I lurch forwards. In a heartbeat an extendable baton lengthens in the officer’s fist. He swings it once. I can hear it whistle through the air. It strikes me across my outstretched arm and my car keys fall.

The pain takes a moment to register. Then it feels as though bones are broken. In almost the same breath, my legs lose contact with the earth and I’m forced to my knees and then on to my chest. His full weight is pressed into my back, forcing my face into the cement.

‘Just relax, sir, and you won’t get hurt.’

With one cheek pressed to the cement, I can see the police cars and forensic vans and the watching crowd. Sideways. The spectators are wondering if I’m the one - the prime suspect. They want to be able to tell their friends tomorrow that they saw me get arrested, how they looked into my eyes and they knew I was guilty.

Louis Preston is talking to one of his techs. I shout his name. He turns and blinks.