Bleed For Me

21

Robin Blaxland lives in a semi in the shadows of St Saviour’s Church in Bath. After dropping Charlie at the cottage I drive back into town, pulling up outside a neat front garden, glowing under the streetlights.

I ring the bell. Three children open the door, shoulder to shoulder. The eldest is about eight. She has glasses, milky white skin, red hair and freckles - the Royal Flush of embarrassing attributes for a child. Her younger brothers look alike enough to be twins.

A woman follows them down the hall, wiping her hands on an apron. Three pregnancies past her optimum weight, she has a pretty round face and the same red hair as her daughter.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for your husband.’

‘Of course, just one moment. Janie, go and get your daddy.’

Janie scampers up the stairs. The two boys stare at me. One has a bruise on his forehead and a sticking plaster above his eye.

‘You’re in the wars.’

‘He ran into a tree,’ says his brother. ‘It was sooo funny.’

‘Shush,’ says their mother.

I notice suitcases in the hallway. One of them is open and still being packed.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ I ask.

‘Skiing. We leave in the morning.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Italy.’

‘The Dolomites?’

She mentions a resort that I haven’t heard of before.

Her husband appears on the stairs. Robin Blaxland is three sizes smaller than his wife and is wearing braces that cross at his back and are clipped to his trousers. He blinks at me from behind frameless glasses.

‘I’m Joseph O’Loughlin. I left messages for you. You didn’t get back to me.’

He blinks again. ‘How did you get this address?’

I lie to him. ‘From the school.’

‘I didn’t know the school had my private address.’

‘Yes.’

Blink. Blink.

‘I wanted to talk about Sienna Hegarty.’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment on a patient.’

‘You heard what happened?’

‘Yes, of course, but our sessions were private. It’s a matter of patient confidentiality.’

‘I’m preparing a psych report on Sienna for a bail hearing.’

Blink. Blink. The information is being processed.

‘You’re a psychologist?’

‘Yes.’

Finally he steps back, inviting me upstairs to his study on the first floor. I can hear the children being called to dinner by his wife.

‘What branch of psychotherapy do you specialise in?’ I ask.

‘I studied under a Jungian.’

‘Dream analysis?’

‘Among other things. I also offer hypnotherapy and cognitive behavioural therapy. How is Sienna?’

What should I tell him? She’s confused. Frightened.

‘She hasn’t been entirely forthcoming. There are three missing hours in the timeline. Was she with you that afternoon?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t have to check your diary?’

‘The police have already asked me that question.’

He sits up very straight in his chair as though posing for a photograph.

‘Who organised for Sienna Hegarty to come and see you?’

‘Her school counsellor.’

‘Annie Robinson?’

‘Yes.’

‘How often did she come?’

‘Once a week.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Nearly three weeks ago. She missed our last appointment.’

‘What day was that?’

‘After school, Monday at four-thirty.’

‘Did Sienna normally come on her own?’

‘Yes. I think she caught the bus.’

‘What about the first time she came to your office?’

‘A male teacher brought her in. I think his name was Ellis.’

Mr Blaxland wants to cross his legs but the office is so small our knees are almost touching. He has psoriasis on his joints. I can see the flaking skin on his elbows below his folded shirtsleeves.

‘What did Sienna talk about?’

‘We covered all the areas of her life: her family, her friends, how she felt about things.’

‘She was cutting herself.’

‘Yes, we were looking at different coping mechanisms.’

‘Did Sienna ever talk about her father?’

‘Of course. They didn’t get on particularly well.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘They fought. She felt he was too hard on her . . . too strict. He frightened her. Sienna had a recurring dream in which a dark-haired man came into her room. She didn’t see his face and sometimes he didn’t have physical form, but she knew he represented something evil, hovering over her.’

‘And she used the term “evil”?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘It just seems unusual.’

Was it Robin Blaxland’s terminology or Sienna’s?

‘What else can you tell me about this dream?’ I ask.

‘The most recurring feature was her belief that she was awake and conscious, but unable to move, unable to turn on the light, or to call for help. She talked of being “caught” in the dream and hearing a “rushing sound” in her ears.’

‘A false awakening?’

‘Just so.’

Sienna had mentioned the ‘rushing sound’ when I spoke to her at Oakham House.

‘Could she recognise this man?’

‘No, but it was a manipulative figure.’

‘Could the dark-haired man be her father?’

‘I don’t know if this dream figure related to a real person or even a compilation of several real people. Perhaps it reflected some part of Sienna’s own personality - a darker side.’

‘How often did she have these dreams?’

‘Every night, she said. Sometimes she woke and discovered her bedroom had been ransacked. Clothes and belongings were spread across the floor.’

‘Did she ever tell you she was being sexually abused?’

He hesitates. ‘No, but I suspected as much.’

‘You didn’t report your concerns?’

‘I had no proof,’ he says defensively.

From the chair where I’m sitting I can see along a hallway to an open bedroom door - a child’s room with an alphabet chart on the wall and toys spilling from a chest.

‘Did Sienna ever talk about school?’

‘Of course.’

‘What about her teachers?’

Mr Blaxland drums his fingers on his knee. ‘Nobody in particular.’

‘What about Gordon Ellis, her drama teacher?’

‘He was obviously very concerned about her.’

‘Did she talk about having a boyfriend?’

‘Yes. I got the impression he may have been a little older.’

‘Why?’

‘She talked about going away with him for the weekend. I thought it was odd because she was so young.’

‘Did she say where?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know if it happened. Sienna was the sort of girl who often said things to shock me.’

‘Did you know she was pregnant?’

Genuine surprise flares in his eyes. Blink. Blink. In that moment I catch a glimpse of something. Disquiet. Embarrassment. He had missed a truly important detail.

‘Did you tape your sessions, Mr Blaxland?’

‘No.’

‘Did you take notes?’

‘I have always found it more useful if I concentrate completely on what my patient is saying. I sometimes make a note afterwards.’

‘But not always?’

A slight recoil but not in his eyes. ‘No.’

I scan his face, looking for a hint that he’s hiding something.

‘Perhaps you could make your notes available to me . . .’

‘I’ve made myself available. That should be sufficient.’

There are footsteps on the stairs. Mrs Blaxland glances through the stair rails. ‘Your dinner is getting cold, Robin.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, rising slowly. ‘Thank you for your time.’

Collecting my coat at the front door, I pause.

‘How much?’ I ask.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your sessions - how much did you charge Sienna?’

‘My standard rate - forty-five pounds for fifty minutes.’

‘Where did she get the money?’

‘I have no idea.’

It’s after eight and the day is ending, but I feel as though I’ve accomplished something. The temperature has dropped even further and beads of dew have formed on the parked cars. All except one - a dark coloured four-wheel drive parked further down the street.

The windows are tinted and I can’t see anyone inside until I fumble for my own keys and notice a watch face illuminated on a wrist. The driver is checking the time.

I pull out and turn right into London Road. The traffic is heavy until I reach the outskirts of Bath. The radio is playing. Evening talkback. Brian Noble. ‘The voice of the Lord’ is his catchphrase and sums up his general attitude to his callers.

. . . the Home Secretary this week labelled Bristol one of the five worst crime ‘hotspots’ in Britain, but I’m pleased to report that the Old Bill has responded magnificently, announcing a blitz - not on crack dealers or armed robbers, but on drivers who don’t wear seatbelts.

We have Muslim Imams in this country preaching hatred and violent jihad, yet our police are issuing speeding tickets and seatbelt fines.

And what else are our finest doing? They’re standing outside Bristol Crown Court failing to protect people from being pelted with eggs and abuse.

Now whether you agree with the views of Novak Brennan or not, he deserves to be able to walk into court without being egged by thugs and vandals who call themselves anti-racism protesters or refugee advocates. Shame on them . . .

Headlights loom in my rear-view mirror. Large. Close. Flashing on high beam. Someone in a hurry.

I slow down. Move to the side. They stay behind me. Maybe there’s something wrong with the Volvo. The tail lights might not be working. I could be blowing smoke. None of the warning lights are showing. My temperature gauge is normal.

We’re bumper to bumper. I touch the brakes. He won’t back off. High-beam lights fill my mirrors, making it hard for me to see the road.

Unconsciously, I’m accelerating, trying to pull away. A long sweeping left-hand corner is followed by a right-hand bend where Combe Hay Lane passes through a copse of trees. There’s nowhere to pull over.

I’m travelling too fast, gripping the wheel too tightly, my eyes smarting at the brightness, seeing phantoms leaping from the ditches and from behind trees. I try to remember what lies ahead. There’s a farm track on the left with a turning circle for tractors. It’s two hundred yards away. I’ll pull over. Let the car pass.

We’re inches apart. I touch the brakes. Indicate. I don’t want him crashing into me. The nearside tyres leave the asphalt and dig into the softer edges. I almost lose control and wrench the wheel to the right. The Volvo fishtails and veers wildly across the road, heading for a ditch. I have to correct again.

Ahead I see the approaching lights of a car. The headlights behind me suddenly disappear. As the oncoming car passes, I see a vehicle for a brief moment in the rear-view mirror. Big and boxy, it could be a Range Rover. Black. Just a driver - he must have turned off his headlights.

He flicks them on again and the high beam blasts my corneas burning a white spot that won’t go away.

The Volvo leans heavily on the bends and surges over dips. The trees and hedges are like passing shadows. I’ve missed the farm track. There’s a turn-off to Combe Hay a hundred yards ahead. I can’t make the turn at this speed.

Fifty yards. Forty. I hit the brakes hard. Swing the wheel. Brace for the impact. The Volvo skirts the far ditch but makes the turn and skids to a halt on loose gravel. I expect to see the Range Rover shoot past, but instead it makes the same manoeuvre, far more expertly, stopping twenty yards behind me.

Shouldering open the door, I scream at his idiocy, my heart pounding. Shielding my eyes against the brightness, I take three steps towards the car. There’s no response. The doors remain closed, the engine running.

‘What’s your problem?’ I yell.

No response.

I glance at the Volvo. Nothing appears to be wrong. The tail lights are working.

Hesitating, I can think of a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t move any closer. I’m alone. I’m unarmed. I don’t have a tyre iron to take out his fucking windows.

Finally, I take a step back, reach into the car and pull out my mobile.

‘You see this? I’m calling the police.’

The waiting car rocks forward suddenly and stops. What’s he doing?

I start punching in 999, glancing at the glowing screen. At the same moment, the car accelerates in a roar of horsepower and spinning wheels. It’s heading straight for me.

I don’t have time to run. I throw myself across the seat and pull my legs inside as the driver’s side door is ripped from its metal hinges with a crunching finality.

The sudden backdraught blows dust around the interior of the Volvo. Then there’s silence. No sound except my breathing.

I climb out and look down the empty road. My crumpled car door is lying thirty yards away in the ditch. The Range Rover has gone. Walking across the road, I retrieve the door, loading it in the back of the Volvo. Then I put in a call to Ronnie Cray.

‘Sounds like something out of Duel,’ she says.

‘Duel?’

‘Spielberg’s first classic. This ordinary guy - Dennis Weaver - is driving through the desert and he gets terrorised by this big truck that’s like the Freddy Krueger of trucks.’

‘Are you taking this seriously?’

‘Yeah. Course. Did you get a number?’

‘No.’

‘Did you get a make?’

‘It looked like a Range Rover. Black.’

‘Did you get a description of the driver?’

‘I couldn’t see anything.’

‘Not much I can do. Where were you going?’

‘Home.’

‘Where were you coming from?’

‘I was talking to Sienna Hegarty’s therapist.’

‘You think it’s connected?’

‘Maybe. What do you think?’

‘It was probably just a joy-rider, winding you up.’

‘What about my car door?’

‘You’re insured. Make a claim.’

She’s about to hang up. ‘Hey, Professor, maybe you should stop asking so many questions.’