Bleed for Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

the girls look underage in tight jeans and short tops. Bratz dol s grown up.
    The publican, Hector, raises his eyes and pours me a Scotch. One drink won’t hurt. I’l start my new regime tomorrow. Show Mr Parkinson who’s the better man.
    Hector is the unofficial convenor of the local divorced men’s club, which meets once a month at the pub. I’m not a natural joiner and, since I’m technical y not divorced, I’ve avoided most of the meetings but I do play in the pub’s over-35s’ footbal team. There are fifteen of us - a number that al ows for frequent substitutions and prevents avoidable heart attacks. I play defence. Right back. Leaving the faster men to play up front. I like to imagine myself more in the classic European-style sweeper role, threading precision long bal s that split the defence.
    We have nicknames. I am known as ‘Shrink’ for obvious reasons. ‘Hands’ is our goalkeeper - a retired pilot who had a brain tumour - and our star striker, Jimmy Monroe, is cal ed
    ‘Marilyn’ (but not to his face). They’re a reasonable bunch of lads. None of them asks about my condition, which is pretty obvious from some of my miskicks. After the game, we nurse our bruises at the Fox and Badger, sharing non-confessional personal stories. We don’t confide. We never disclose an intimacy. We are men.
    I finish my drink and have another, nursing it slowly. At eleven o’clock Hector signals last orders. My mobile is vibrating. It’s Julianne. I wonder what she’s doing up so late.
    I press the green button and try to say something clever. She cuts me off.
    ‘Come quickly! It’s Sienna. Something’s wrong! She’s covered in blood!’
    ‘Blood?’
    ‘I couldn’t make her stay. We have to find her.’
    ‘Where did she go?’
    ‘She just ran away.’
    ‘Cal 999. I’m coming.’
    I grab my coat from a wooden hook and pul open the door, breaking into a trot as I thread my arms through the sleeves. The pavement slabs are cracked and uneven under my feet.
    Turning down Mil Hil , I pick up speed, letting gravity carry me towards the cottage in jarring strides.
    Julianne is waiting outside, a torch swinging frenetical y in her hand.
    ‘Where did she go?’
    She points towards the river, her voice cracking. ‘She rang the doorbel . I screamed when I saw her. I must have scared her.’
    ‘Did she say anything?’
    She shakes her head.
    The door is open. I can see Charlie sitting on the stairs clutching her pil ow. We gaze at each other and something passes between us. A promise. I’l find her.
    I turn to leave.
    ‘I want to come,’ says Julianne.
    ‘Wait for the ambulance. Send Charlie back to bed.’
    I take the torch from her cold fingers and turn at the gate. The river is hidden in the trees, eighty yards away. Swinging the torch from side to side, I peer over the hedges and into the neighbouring field.
    Reaching the smal stone footbridge and a wider concrete causeway, I shout Sienna’s name. The road - unmade, single lane, with hedgerows on either side - leads out of the vil age.
    Why would she run? Why head this way?
    I keep thinking of when I dropped her off. The boyfriend. She skipped into his arms. Maybe there was a car crash. He could be injured too.
    The beam of the torch reflects off the evening dew and creates long shadows through the trees. I stop on the bridge. Listen. Water over rocks; a dog barking; others fol ow.

    ‘Sieeeeenna!’
    The sound bounces off the arch of the footbridge and seems to echo along the banks of the narrow stream. They cal it a river, but in places you can jump from one side to the other.
    Emma catches minnows here and Gunsmoke cools off after chasing rabbits.
    I cal Sienna’s name again, feeling an awful sense of déjà vu. Two years ago I searched this same road, looking for Charlie, cal ing her name, peering over farm gates and fences.
    She was knocked from her pushbike and kidnapped by a man who chained her to a sink and wrapped masking around her head, al