‘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.