Bleed for Me (14 page)

Cray sits in a tal office chair with a wonky wheel. Her feet are propped on a milk crate.

‘I have a hypothetical for you . . .’ She laces her fingers together on her chest. ‘Psychologists like making excuses for people.’

‘We explain human behaviour.’

‘OK, enlighten me. I can understand why a teenage girl might fight off her attacker. She might pick up a weapon. She might lash out and run off. Terrified. Traumatised. Is that true?’

‘It’s feasible.’

‘But would the same girl clean her hands in the bathroom sink and neatly fold the hand-towel? Would she then take the weapon with her and try to dispose of it by throwing it from a bridge?’

I don’t answer. Cray doesn’t wait for me.

‘Seems to me that any teenage girl who did that would be pretty clear-headed. I would even cal her lucid. Maybe even calculating.’

‘You found the blade.’

‘We did.’

‘You searched beneath the bridge before.’

‘We missed it the first time. I’m charging Sienna Hegarty with murder.’

There’s no hint of triumphalism in her tone. Instead I sense an underlying sadness that her instincts had been right.

‘What possible motive?’ I hear myself say.

‘She wanted him dead.’

‘It’s that simple.’

‘Simple or hard, I don’t differentiate, Professor. You try to understand human behaviour. You try to explain it. Not me. I know we’re smal er than goril as, bigger than chimps, worse than both of them and, for al our rationality, our rules and laws, our baser drives are stil straight out of the jungle.’

13

Bristol Youth Court is a two-storey annexe in a dirty concrete building shared with the probation service and the family court. Through the vertical blinds I can see a double-decker bus rumbling past the window. The upper-deck passengers seem to float fifteen feet above the ground.

Sienna sits with a youth justice worker, whose name is Felicity and who looks like one of those solid, organised, capable girls who achieve everything with the minimum of fuss.

Normal y so careful with her grooming, Sienna’s hair needs washing and her fingernails are bitten to the quick. Felicity whispers encouragement to her, but Sienna might not be listening. She toys with the hem of her denim skirt. I notice a scar on her knee.

‘How did that happen?’ I ask.

‘It was on my twelfth birthday. I fel out of a tree.’

‘Was it broken?’

‘In three places. I don’t remember the fal ing part. It was in the playground at school.’

‘At Shepparton Park?’

‘Yeah. A boy cal ed Malcolm Hogbin dared me to climb a tree. Malcolm Hogbin spent most of year seven cal ing me names and scrawling graffiti on my locker.’

‘So you took the dare?’

‘Pretty stupid, huh?’

She picks at her fingernails.

Felicity leans closer and whispers. ‘So you understand what’s going to happen today? They’re going to read the charges and then your lawyer wil ask for bail. The magistrates might ask you some questions. Speak clearly. Hold your head up.’

‘Then can I go home?’

‘They have to decide.’

‘But I want to go home.’

‘Mr D’Angelo wil talk to them.’

‘I don’t want to go back to that other place.’

‘Wait and see.’

Sienna looks at me for support. Her whole body reacts with a start when a court usher cal s her name. She holds her stomach, as though about to vomit. Taking her arm, I lead her into a room that looks more like an office than a court. The tables, benches and chairs are al on the same level and a large flat-screen TV dominates one wal , opposite a coat of arms.

Helen Hegarty is sitting in the front row next to Lance. Zoe’s wheelchair is partial y blocking the central aisle. Sienna gives her a little wave and a smile.

Three magistrates sit side by side at a large oak table, dressed in layman’s clothes. Two women and a man, they look more like librarians than court officials.

Sienna takes a seat beside Mr D’Angelo, her solicitor, who seems to know everyone in the room, chatting to the prosecutor and the court clerk as though swapping stories about their plans for the weekend.

The charges are read aloud, mentioning Ray Hegarty’s ful name and giving the time, date and place of his death. The word ‘murdered’ brings a sob from Helen, who is somewhere behind me. Sienna seems to be shrinking under the gaze of the magistrates. I keep thinking of Alice in Wonderland meeting the Queen of Hearts.

‘Is your name Sienna Jane Hegarty?’

She nods.

‘And your date of birth is twelfth September 1995?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you live at home with your mother?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you understand the charge?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can sit down now, Sienna.’

Then the lawyers start putting their arguments for and against bail. The prosecutor has bright red lipstick and monotone clothes. She wants Sienna kept in ‘secure accommodation’

because of her history of ‘self-abuse’. Mr D’Angelo argues that she should be al owed home because of her age and her previous good record. Sienna’s head swings from side to side as if she’s watching a bal hit back and forth across a net.

The middle magistrate - the only man - has skin the colour of putty and a wheezing voice.

‘Do you want to go back to school, Sienna?’ he asks.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What are your favourite subjects?’

‘English and drama.’

‘If you couldn’t go back to school, what would you do?’

Sienna shrugs. ‘Whatever I was told.’

The magistrates smile.

‘Do you help your mum around the house?’ asks the female magistrate on the right.

‘Sometimes.’

‘Do you do any of the cooking?’

‘Not real y.’

The magistrate glances at a piece of paper in her hands. ‘You’ve been charged with a very serious offence, Sienna.’

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘That’s not what we’re here for today.’

‘But I didn’t—’

Mr D’Angelo puts his hand on Sienna’s shoulder and she flinches as though scalded. ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he tel s her.

‘But I want them to know.’

‘That happens another day.’

‘Why can’t it be now?’

The magistrates confer, speaking in whispers that are barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning.

The senior magistrate announces their decision. Because of Sienna’s history of self-harm she is to be remanded to a youth psychiatric care unit until a proper assessment can be made of her mental state.

Mr D’Angelo stands. ‘Professor Joseph O’Loughlin, a clinical psychologist, is in court today. He knows the accused. Perhaps he could be heard?’

The magistrates confer again briefly.

‘Professor O’Loughlin can prepare a psych report. How long does he need?’

Mr D’Angelo turns and leans on the back of his chair, whispering, ‘You wil ing to do this?’

‘I think I’ve just been volunteered.’

‘How long do you need?’

‘Three weeks.’

The magistrates agree and re-list Sienna’s case at the Crown Court. Sienna turns to me. ‘Can I go home?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why?’

‘They want to send you to a hospital.’

‘I’ve been to hospital.’

‘This one is different. They’re worried you might harm yourself.’

Sienna shakes her head.

‘So I can’t go home?’

‘Not yet.’

She grabs my wrist. ‘Don’t let them lock me up. You have to tel them. I didn’t do it.’

14

Julianne has her dinner tonight with Harry Veitch. I’m looking after the girls. I shower and shave and search for a clean shirt. Eventual y I’m forced to settle on something Emma bought me for Father’s Day, which makes me look like Wil y Wonka.

Julianne opens the door. ‘You real y
are
having a mid-life crisis.’

‘I ran out of shirts.’

‘What about the washing machine?’

‘I forgot to turn it on.’

‘How you doing for underwear?’

‘My days-of-the-week boxers wil last me til Monday.’

She steps back and checks herself in the hal way mirror. She’s wearing a mid-length skirt and boots with a white blouse and the earrings - black pearls on silver clasps. I bought them for her thirtieth birthday.

‘You don’t have to babysit.’

‘I know. I miss them.’

‘I thought you might want to spy on me.’

She gives the mirror her Mona Lisa smile, which annoys me.

‘Unless I’m cramping your style,’ I say. ‘You might want to bring Harry back. I could leave early . . .’

She’s not going to rise to the bait. Reapplying her lipstick in the mirror, she makes a popping sound. That’s one of the things I have always loved about Julianne - she abides by the philosophy that the important thing about lipstick is not the colour but to accept God’s final word on where your lips end.

‘How is the trial?’ I ask.

‘They seem to waste so much time arguing over what evidence is admissible and not admissible. The jury gets sent out. The judge makes a ruling. Then they troop back in again.’

She adjusts her hair. ‘Stacey Dobson gave evidence yesterday. She’s the sister of Gary Dobson - one of the accused. The day before the firebombing she made a complaint to the police that she’d been raped. She said four men had lured her into a van and taken her to a house. They were asylum seekers and she named Marco Kostin.’

‘And they raped her?’

‘No, she made it al up. She and Marco were sweet on each other. They’d been out a few times.’

‘Why would she make up a story like that?’

‘Stacey thought she was going to get into trouble for staying out late. Her parents were angry. They cal ed the police and Stacey was too frightened to recant. Eventual y she told the truth, but Marco’s house was firebombed the next night.’

‘As payback.’

‘That’s what the prosecution is arguing.’

Julianne notices Charlie sitting at the top of the stairs and quickly changes the subject. ‘The girls have eaten. There are leftovers if you’re hungry.’ Raising her voice slightly, ‘Charlie should be doing her homework.’

She glances up the stairs again. Empty now.

A car pul s up outside. Harry drives a black Lexus, which he replaces every year. Julianne grabs her handbag but stops before she reaches the door.

‘My pashmina - I left it on the bed.’

‘I’l get it.’

‘No, I’l go.’

She hurries upstairs while I watch Harry get out of his car and adjust his trousers, touching his hair. The Lexus lights up from every corner as the central locking engages.

He rings the doorbel . I don’t want to talk to him but Julianne hasn’t returned.

‘Harry.’

‘Joseph.’

A touch of concern appears in his eyes, like a slight fever.

‘Julianne won’t be a moment. She’s getting something upstairs.’

‘Right. Good.’ He rocks on his heels. ‘This is a little embarrassing.’

‘Why?’

‘Wel , you know . . . you being here.’

‘It’s stil my house, Harry.’

‘Of course.’

I step to one side, al owing him in, trying to sound relaxed and friendly, when in reality I want to take a swing at his jaw or sink my fist into his stomach, which looks soft and flabby.

Maybe I should warn him about Julianne’s little foibles - how she likes dunking chocolate biscuits in her tea and how she always has to wear something blue, and that when she plays Monopoly she insists on being the boot.

Harry hasn’t asked to see the owner’s manual. He doesn’t know that she likes having her feet massaged and hates having her earlobes licked. That she thinks al professional sport is manufactured drama with overpaid actors and trying to explain the offside rule with salt and pepper shakers, silverware and a loud voice is not going to make it any easier for her to understand.

Why should I? Why should I give him any help at al ?

Harry’s hair is neatly parted on the right and I can smel his aftershave.

‘She’s great, isn’t she?’ he says, referring to Julianne.

I can’t believe it. He wants to talk about my wife. When he’s known her for twenty-six years and been married to her for twenty - then we can talk.

‘She shouldn’t be long,’ I say. ‘She’s just taking her medication.’

‘Medication? Is she il ?’

‘No, of course not, not real y.’ I lower my voice. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it. Upsets her.’ I glance up the stairs. ‘You could do me a favour.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Don’t let Julianne order dessert. See if you can talk her out of it. It’s the sugar. She craves it but she shouldn’t have any. Too much and . . .’

‘What?’

I hold a finger to my lips. ‘It’s not a big deal - just keep her away from the dessert trol ey.’

Harry nods. ‘I wil . Definitely.’

He looks positively grateful, eager to help. I should feel guilty. Jealousy is a terrible thing. I know al the psychological triggers. The fear of losing control, the fear of loss, the fear of abandonment, neglect and loneliness . . . But the most destructive thing about jealousy is that it kil s what it values - the love you want to save won’t survive the constraints of jealousy.

There is no entitlement. Love is either equal or a tragedy.

Julianne appears. The pashmina is wrapped around her shoulders. She smiles at Harry and looks at me questioningly.

‘Is everything al right?’

‘Fine.’

‘Don’t let Emma stay up to late.’

‘I won’t.’

‘That was pretty weird,’ says Charlie, appearing on the stairs again. She’s dressed in her flannelette pyjamas, a pair so stretched at the waist they hang on her hips. ‘Did you want to hit him?’

‘Why would I want to hit Harry?’

‘Isn’t that what boys do when they’re jealous?’

‘No, not always. Hardly ever. And I’m not jealous.’

‘So you’re OK?’

‘I’m good.’

She gives me the same sort of questioning look I got from her mother. Leaning against the wal , I close my eyes and try not to picture Julianne and Harry in the car, in conversation.

‘So what do you think of Harry?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘He’s okay, I guess. He cooks Coca-Cola-flavoured chicken and has a cool car.’