Bleed For Me

35

The South Bristol Crematorium and Cemetery is perched on a ridge overlooking Ashton Vale where rain clouds are threatening. Umbrellas hover above the mourners and beads of water cling to the panels of the hearse like costume jewels stuck on a black dress.

Ray Hegarty has a guard of honour and six police pallbearers. Ronnie Cray is among them, resplendent in her full dress uniform, sitting alongside the Deputy Chief Constable and a handful of other top brass.

Some of the regulars from the Fox and Badger have come to pay their respects, including Hector the publican and his daughter Susanne. The villagers are sitting together behind Helen, while the other side of the chapel is taken up by retired or serving police officers. Annie Robinson is also here, looking hung-over despite the dark glasses and bright lipstick.

Helen Hegarty is just visible in the front pew, between Lance and Sienna, who has been allowed out of Oakham House for the funeral. Zoe’s wheelchair is partially blocking the central aisle, squeezed between the coffin and the pews.

Watching Sienna through the bowed heads, I can tell she’s lost weight and isn’t sleeping. She knows that people are staring at her, wondering whether she killed her father and why she did it. Pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, she sinks down, trying to disappear completely.

The silence is a miasma, weighted with the inaudible breathing. I wish someone would play some music. Anything would be better than shuffling feet and seats creaking beneath buttocks.

High above us a tiny bell jangles once, twice, three times and the music starts. A hymn sung by a Welsh choir, played through the sound system.

I don’t like funerals. I know how stupid that sounds, but it’s not because of the bleedingly obvious. Whenever I come to a place like this I can’t shake the idea that death is something that can be transmitted like a disease or inhaled like a spore. What if it sprouts inside me like that Russian guy who inhaled a seed and had a fir tree growing in his lungs? What if I’m witnessing a dress rehearsal of my own fate?

When the service is over, the pallbearers carry Ray Hegarty’s coffin through a guard of honour to the graveside. Draped in a flag, it bears a framed photograph of a young man in a PC’s uniform, clear-eyed, square-jawed, ready to take on the dark side.

Sienna follows the coffin, glancing up occasionally as though looking for someone among the mourners. She makes eye contact with Annie Robinson and looks away.

Helen Hegarty moves with sure steps and dry eyes. Perhaps she is saving her tears for a less public occasion or has shed enough by now. Her long hair is unpinned and I notice how grey she has become and how the twin notches between her eyebrows have grown deeper.

The wind has sprung up, slapping the artificial grass against the side of the coffin. Words of comfort are ripped away and carried across the cemetery. Hats are held in place. Coats flap against knees. In a different part of the cemetery I spy a couple crouching to replace flowers at a child’s grave. A vase and a picture frame are cemented to the base of the headstone to stop them blowing away. A favourite toy has been pinned beneath wire like a butterfly in a display case.

Afterwards I intercept Ronnie Cray as she walks towards the parking area.

‘I want to apologise for my conduct the other day.’

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are stained by the wind.

‘I feel as though I’ve let you down,’ I add.

Still she doesn’t speak.

‘I guess this is a bad time.’

She sighs. ‘You’re one of the good guys, Professor, but you’re heading for a serious fall. I can’t afford to be associated with someone like you.’

‘I understand.’ I feel like I’ve swallowed a bubble of air. ‘Can I just ask you one question - is there a link between Novak Brennan and Ray Hegarty?’

Her eyes narrow. ‘Are you suggesting Ray was bent?’

‘No.’

‘Why ask the question?’

‘I saw Lance Hegarty outside the Crown Court. He was with Brennan’s supporters.’

‘I guess the lad is entitled to have his opinions,’ she replies. ‘Is that all you want to ask me?’

‘Gordon Ellis went to university with Novak Brennan.’

‘That’s a statement not a question.’

‘Ellis got into trouble with a bookmaker. Owed him a lot of money. The bookmaker sent someone to remind Gordon of his responsibilities. The messenger spent three months in hospital and now talks through a hole in his throat.’

‘Gordon Ellis beat him up?’

‘No, but I’ve seen the man who did. He’s been looking after Rita Brennan during the trial.’

‘The sister?’

‘Yes.’

I describe the tattoos on his cheeks, like black tears. Cray seems to be sucking on the information like it’s one of Ruiz’s sweets.

‘Is that it?’

‘I think it’s worth investigating.’

‘First you were trying to convince me that Sienna was the intended victim. Now you’re telling me that Novak Brennan organised a hit on Ray Hegarty. Why would he do that?’

‘I just want you to keep an open mind.’

‘Oh, I know all about keeping an open mind, Professor. Yours is so open that all your ideas fall out. I’ve just got to be careful not to step in them.’

The funeral is over. Mourners are blown back to their cars by the wind. No wake has been planned. Ronnie Cray and her colleagues will no doubt retire to a watering hole and raise a glass to Ray Hegarty - swapping anecdotes about him and contemplating their own mortality.

Sienna is being allowed home for a few hours. Her chaperone is a mental health nurse with gelled hair, stovepipe jeans and a skinny black tie. His name is Jay Muller and his handshake - a brief pressure and release - tells me nothing.

‘Call me Jay,’ he says. ‘You’re a psychologist?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re doing the report on Sienna?

‘That’s right.’

Jay claps his hands together as though he’s won a guessing game. I ask him how Sienna has been coping.

He leans closer, about to share his professional opinion. ‘Sleep is the problem. False awakenings. She dreams of waking up only she can’t move or make a sound. She describes being trapped in her body, unable to call out or press the emergency bell. Then there’s the “screaming” in her head.’

‘Screaming?’

‘It’s more like a rushing sound, she says, but it’s deafening.’

‘Has she mentioned her father?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Can I see her today?’

Jay has a habit of picking at the corners of his lips as though scraping away food encrusted there. ‘I got no problem with that, as long as Mrs Hegarty agrees. I’m taking Sienna back to Oakham House at six.’

On the far side of the parking area, Lance Hegarty leans against the side of a black limousine, smoking a cigarette. Sienna is somewhere inside behind tinted glass while Helen and Zoe are outside the chapel saying goodbye to the Deputy Chief Constable.

Walking up the slope towards Sienna, I prepare to confront Lance. The last time I saw him he was hurling abuse outside the Crown Court.

‘You’ve got some damn nerve, coming here,’ he says, stepping in front of me and pushing his face into mine. His eyes are flecked with tiny red veins. ‘You’re working for the police.’

‘Wrong.’

‘You got her locked up.’

‘I’m trying to get her out.’

Lance spits a gob of phlegm near my shoe.

‘I saw you yesterday,’ I tell him. ‘You were outside the Crown Court. I didn’t have you pegged as a neo-Nazi thug.’

‘I’m a patriot.’

‘The last refuge of the scoundrel.’

Lance doesn’t understand the reference. ‘You know nothing about me.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. You left school at sixteen and signed to play football for Burnleigh, but a knee injury ended your career. Two years ago you were arrested and deported from Croatia after a World Cup qualifier. Seven months ago you bashed a Pakistani student because you saw him kissing a white girl. You’re a thug, Lance. And you’re a racist. I know you’re angry. You’re pissed off that you couldn’t protect your sisters from your father. You’re angry at yourself because you didn’t stand up to him, the bully, the abuser. But what frightens you most, Lance, is the nagging little voice in your ear that keeps saying you’re just like him.’

Blood rises. Fingers close into fists.

‘I’m nothing like my father.’

For a moment I think he’s going to hit me, but the car window glides down. Sienna’s eyes have a strangely androgynous cast. White headphones are plugged into her ears, leaking a tinny hiss.

‘We need to talk,’ I say.

She nods her head to the beat of the music. ‘I’m sick of talking.’

‘I still have questions.’

‘Nothing matters any more.’ Her voice is flat, almost devoid of emotion.

The window is gliding up. Unless I say something now, I’ll lose the opportunity.

‘I have a message from Charlie.’

The window stops. Sienna pulls the earphones from her ears. ‘Is she OK?’

‘She misses you.’

‘I miss her too.’ Her tongue flicks out and withdraws, moistening her bottom lip. ‘Tell her I’m sorry.’

‘You could tell her yourself.’

Sienna pushes the earbuds back into place, flooding her mind with music. The window glides to a close.

Helen Hegarty has finished saying her goodbyes. The compassion and sympathy have worn her down and I can almost see her mask slipping as she pushes Zoe’s wheelchair towards the car. She wants this day to finish.

‘I was hoping I might drop round to the house . . . to talk to Sienna.’

‘She’s only home for a few hours.’

‘I know.’

Helen glances at the limousine and sighs, ‘She won’t talk to me. Maybe she’ll talk to you.’

I help Zoe into the car, lifting her easily. She puts her arms around my neck, holding me tightly, making it easier for me to carry her. She sits alongside Sienna, taking her hand. Sienna doesn’t react.

Having folded the wheelchair and placed it in the boot, I watch the limousine being driven away, stunned by how much misfortune can befall one family. A crippled daughter. A slain father. A racist son. A child charged with murder. There is no truth in the cliché that luck evens itself out. Maybe in games of chance, but not in real life.

An arm slips through mine, hooking around my elbow. It is such a familiar touch that I expect to see Julianne.

‘I’m so sorry about last night,’ says Annie Robinson. ‘I shouldn’t have turned up like that. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘You didn’t call me.’

‘I didn’t call a lot of people.’

‘You’re angry.’

‘It’s been a difficult few days.’

She brushes her cheek against mine. ‘Come and see me. I’ll show you the photograph of Gordon and Novak Bennan.’