Burn Out (Dr. Anne Vernon Book 1)

by Alan Scholefield

  Melville sat behind the desk/table, Anne sat in a corner to his left. Les brought in the prisoner, gave Tom Melville his medical records and left the room.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ Tom said and studied the file.

  Looking at the prisoner, Anne felt as though she had received an electric shock. He was in his late twenties and was big; six feet five or six, she thought, and as wide as a door. He was dressed in a dark green silk shirt, a pearl grey sweatshirt, black cords and dark blue boat shoes. Everything looked expensive.

  His hair was short and dark and slightly curly and sat close to his skull. There were contusions on his face, one eye was almost closed, his lips were swollen and in some places the skin was broken. His huge hands were also badly lacerated.

  There was a kind of muscular, highly strung, animal quality about him and she thought immediately of one of the old Tarzan films. She could imagine him swinging from jungle vines and out-swimming crocodiles.

  But his eyes worried her. They were a deep brown, the whites were bloodshot and they were swimming with tears.

  ‘Keleti,’ Tom said, ‘Janos Keleti. Czech?’

  ‘I was born in Hungary.’

  The words were shaped by swollen lips but Anne could hear that the timbre of his voice was low and that he was English and well-spoken.

  Tom rose and looked closely at the battered face. ‘Dr Symes made a careful record of your injuries. How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Sore.’

  ‘According to the police you damaged . . . let’s see . . . two chairs, a table, a filing cabinet, a typewriter . . . as well as a couple of detectives. You’ve got every right to feel sore.’

  ‘They started it.’

  ‘Okay. Sure. Now when you came in you chose to be segregated under Rule 43.’

  ‘They said I should.’

  ‘Who? The prison officers?’

  ‘For my own good. But—’

  ‘They were right. Alleged sex offenders have a hard time in prison.’

  ‘But I’m not a sex offender.’

  Tom held up his hand. ‘I’m not here to judge you. Just to help you and—’

  There was a sound of running feet and the door burst open. Les said, ‘Quick, doc, someone’s tried to top himself in C wing.’

  Tom threw back his chair. ‘He’s all yours,’ he said to Anne and then he was gone. The door slammed. Then burst open again. In a moment Les had locked the door in the open position. ‘Just in case. Can’t be closed now,’ he said, and ran.

  Without thinking Anne moved to Tom’s chair behind the desk. She said, ‘It’s not Janos Keleti, is it? I mean, that’s not the name anyone would know you by.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s Jason Newman, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She leaned back in her chair. ‘Once upon a time I’d have given you my right arm if you’d asked me for it.’

  He frowned. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No, but I know you. Do you remember playing in the South of England Junior Championships at Winchester, oh, ages ago? You won it.’

  ‘Sure. I beat Shackleton six-one, six-two in the final.’

  ‘But after that you played a mixed final. Your partner was Ruth someone. You were only thirteen, I think. I was fifteen at the time and one of your opponents. And you beat us six-love, six-love, and that was the time I decided that tennis wasn’t for me as a serious career. You don’t really remember, do you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘But you remember your score against Shackleton to the very game.’

  ‘Nobody remembers mixed.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s how I know you.’

  He tried to smile but the swollen lips were too painful.

  ‘And after that,’ she went on, ‘I was never on the same court with you. Never in the same tournament. God, you went round the tennis sky like a comet. Specially the British sky. I remember a few years later reading in The Times – that was after you’d made the Davis Cup team – that you were the greatest thing to hit British tennis since Fred Perry. And I said to myself: I played with him!

  She stopped abruptly. Tears were spilling out of his eyes and running down to his injured mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jason. I didn’t mean to upset you. Listen, I don’t know why you’re here – it’s my first day – but let me try to help you.’

  He sat in front of her, a huge man completely obscuring the chair. He lowered his head into his hands.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ he said. ‘I need help so badly.’

  Chapter Four

  The King’s Arms was in one of the narrow cobbled streets that ran down into the town from the castle. It was, as Tom Melville said, ‘A proper pub; no music, no formica, no one-armed bandits.’ There was a coal fire in the saloon bar, scrubbed pine tables, red velvet curtains, and the place smelled richly of ale.

  ‘But the great thing about it,’ he said as he carried their drinks to a corner table, ‘is that none of the prison staff use it.’

  They made themselves comfortable.

  Tom said, ‘Your cv said St Thomas’s. It was a pretty high-powered place when I was there. Now there’s talk of scrapping some of the teaching hospitals. Do you think it’ll go?’

  ‘I hope not. It’s a big part of my life.’

  ‘The problem is that these days you’ve got to know as much about financial control as gall stones, and we were never taught that. Human relationships. Man management. These are the buzz words now.’

  They were both drinking white wine and he held up his glass and said, ‘Here’s to your first day in wonderland.’

  She smiled. ‘Why wonderland?’

  ‘Because nothing is as it seems. We all appear sane enough on the surface, but underneath . . .’

  ‘Is there something I should know?’ It was said half jokingly.

  ‘Only that you need to be slightly crazy to work in it unless you’re doing some monograph on the Psychiatric Assessment of Dangerousness or Recidivism in Sexual Offenders.’

  His voice had taken on a cynical tone she had not heard before and she said, ‘Is that why you joined?’

  ‘Lord, no. Simple pragmatism.’

  She waited for him to continue but he sipped his wine and looked over her shoulder at the bar which, at six o’clock, was beginning to fill up.

  He seemed restless and she half expected him to start pacing the floor.

  He said, ‘Sorry it’s been such a jangled first day. Did you get the school thing sorted out?’

  The ‘school thing’ had happened while she was talking to Jason Newman. Les had put his plump face round the door and said there was an urgent telephone call for her.

  It was the head teacher of Hilly’s school warning her that a person looking like a tramp but purporting to be Hilly’s grandfather had arrived an hour early and was demanding his granddaughter.

  It had taken Anne some minutes of explanation and apology before things were put right. By that time the attempted suicide from C wing had been brought to the hospital. She was needed there and could not return to Jason.

  ‘It was your father, then?’ Tom said.

  ‘It was my father all right.’

  ‘In your cv you mentioned being brought up by him in Africa. Was he farming out there?’

  ‘He was in the Colonial Service. The very last of it. He’d gone out from England with a law degree and joined the legal section. When I was little he spent much of his time in court as a public prosecutor, later as a judge. Then when the sun finally set on the Empire he stayed on until the independent countries had their own judiciaries.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Lesotho mainly. I was born there, in Maseru. But we were also in Botswana and Malawi.’

  ‘I don’t know Lesotho but I’ve visited the Okavango a couple of times and travelled in the Kalahari.’

  ‘Wild life photography?’

  ‘That’s what most people think. No, just being there. Trekking in the wilderness. Sle
eping rough. Beholden to no one.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘My ex-wife came a couple of times. But she didn’t like it much.’ He grinned at the memory.

  They spoke about Africa for several minutes and then he said, ‘Is that where you learned your tennis?’

  ‘My father was keen, but with all the travelling he hadn’t anyone to play with. As soon as I could hold a racquet he used me as a kind of tennis wall.’

  ‘What made you give it up? I mean you seemed to have a terrific future. Pots more money than you can make here.’

  She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘To be a champion you’ve got to sacrifice everything, and I mean everything, including books and theatres and social life. In fact you shouldn’t even know you’re sacrificing them. You shouldn’t even know you’re missing an intellectual life. But growing up with my father gave me a side most players don’t have. Maybe you’ll meet him one day. Most people think he’s dotty but he’s pretty clever. And better read then anyone I know. All those years without tv, I suppose.’

  ‘Would he have wanted you to?’

  ‘Never. He wanted me to have a degree behind me; a profession. But it was my own decision to stop playing. It happened all at once. I thought . . . well . . . that there simply had to be more to life than hitting tennis balls and ending up—’

  ‘Like Jason Newman?’

  ‘No, Jason’s a one-off. I meant ending up teaching on some “tennis ranch” in Spain or Portugal where you talk tennis from breakfast to bedtime.’

  ‘How long is it since Jason stopped playing?’

  ‘About five years, I think. He burnt out early.’

  ‘Incredible that he wasn’t recognised by the police.’

  ‘Maybe they never watched tennis on tv. Not everyone does. And then the name Keleti. It didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘And it doesn’t take more than a day or two to become yesterday’s man. I’m no tennis buff and the only thing I remember about him is that he was a loud-mouthed brat on court. Some said he was worse than McEnroe.’

  ‘That’s a tragedy.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That he should be remembered only for his bad behaviour.’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but he had everything. He was the complete player: grass, clay, cement, it didn’t make any difference. And he had the one thing that every champion needs: a killer instinct.’

  She told him about the time she had played Jason in the mixed final in Winchester. ‘He was only thirteen but he wanted to win so badly you could smell it . . . No, not win . . .’ She paused, trying to produce an exact image. ‘It was as though he was trying to annihilate us . . . destroy us . . . But then afterwards we all met in the players’ lounge for a party and he was shy and gentle . . . It was strange.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘And today I watched him cry his eyes out.’

  ‘Prison does that to some people. Simple despair.’

  ‘He told me he’d had a row with his wife before he left the house. I think that’s what’s causing the anguish. I’m glad he’s . . . what is it? . . . two-ed?’

  ‘It’s two-ed up. You’re getting the jargon. You think he’s feeling guilty about his wife, rather than the girl he attempted to rape?’

  ‘I didn’t get on to the criminal charge. Should I?’

  ‘Why not? We’re supposed to evaluate him. Anyway, what you’ve got so far is the row with his wife and then he gets into a car, comes into Kingstown . . . where does he live, by the way?’

  ‘In a village about twelve miles from here. I can’t remember the name.’

  ‘Okay, he comes into Kingstown, wanders down to the playing fields beneath the castle and what then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you been down there?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve hardly been anywhere. I’ve been trying to get the house to rights.’

  ‘Of course. There are tennis courts too. Public ones. Do you think he might have gone down specially to pick up a girl?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been to play. I mean he wasn’t dressed for it and public courts wouldn’t be his style.’

  ‘Any girl would have been flattered if she recognised him.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’d better check on what my father’s been up to.’

  He walked her to her car. She said, ‘I told Jason I’d try to help, talk to him again. Perhaps ring his wife. Is that okay? God knows he needs it.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘This is supposed to be a new era in prison management. Openness is the watchword. He’s your baby. Do anything you want. Just let me know how things progress.’

  *

  She let herself into her house and thought once more what a beautiful place it was; Georgian, in a quiet terraced street, with its own walled garden at the back. She had never lived in a house like it and, without the money her father had put up, could never have expected to. Nor, to be honest, would ever have wanted to, not if it meant leaving London. A house like this in Westminster, yes. But not in a cathedral city. Its one blessing was that it wasn’t in deepest Shropshire, but only an hour from London.

  Her father’s share had come out of his savings, hers had come from the sale of her flat in London plus an interest-free loan from her lover.

  Even thinking about her flat, perched on the top of a five-storey house in Eccleston Square, brought a feeling of deep nostalgia. From one side she had a view of the square and the tennis court on which she had never played. On the other there was a view over Victoria, to the Grosvenor Hotel with its onion domes that would have looked more in place in Moscow. It was like living in the clouds.

  And that, of course, had made it untenable when her father returned from Africa. The stairs would have killed him. So forget it.

  Apart from missing London the main snag in her new life was sharing the house with her father. But again, like her job, there had been little room for manoeuvre. Even now, remembering how she had found him in his retirement cottage near Cape Town made her feel panicky.

  ‘You mus’ come quick,’ Watch had said on the phone. And she had. It had been a close run thing.

  She discovered that her father had recently collapsed three times at the remote cottage. Each time Watch thought he was dead, but after a series of deep gasps and a change in facial colour from lilac to suffused pink, which scared Watch out of his wits, he had recovered. The local doctor had diagnosed the attacks as Stokes-Adams.

  Anne knew that any one of them could have stopped his heart for good. The surgery and medical care to check the condition were out of sight financially. But his contributions had been paid to the NHS all the years he was abroad so Anne worked fast. She put the cottage on the market and brought him back to England to have a pace-maker inserted. He seemed to accept that the African adventure, which had lasted for most of his adult life, was over. That wasn’t the problem. It was the parting from Watch. There was talk of him coming over but it came to nothing and he returned to Maseru to live with his widowed sister.

  That was the past. That was finished.

  She gave a metaphorical shrug as she closed the door behind her. People were always saying what a pity it was that the nuclear had replaced the extended family. She had said so herself to Paul when she knew she was pregnant. Now she had a chance to put her feelings where her mouth was.

  ‘I’m home,’ she called.

  There was no response. She put her head into the sitting-room and the kitchen. No one. Halfway up the stairs she heard her father’s voice. She moved closer and was able to look through the partly-open bathroom door. Hilly was in the bath pouring water from one small plastic mug to another, her father was sitting on the loo, a book in his hands. He was reading aloud.

  ‘“Good heavens!” exclaimed the archdeacon, as he placed his foot on the gravel walk of the close’ – That’s the land near the cathedral, her father explained – ‘and raising
his hat with one hand, passed the other somewhat violently over his now grizzled locks—’

  ‘What are grizzled locks?’ Hilly said.

  Anne had probably asked the same question when she was a child, for her father had read Barchester Towers to her once a year until she almost knew it by heart.

  He had always travelled with a full set of Trollope which he read to her and which she then read herself. The back of the truck contained not only her school books but his library as well. There were no children’s books other than The Wind in the Willows and The House at Pooh Corner and some Kipling which had been included not because her father thought she might like something lighter but because he loved them.

  All over southern Africa, on bridges over rivers like the Zambesi and the Limpopo, the Kunene and the Orange, she and Watch had played pooh sticks.

  By the time she was fifteen she had read most of Trollope, several of the Icelandic Sagas, some Conrad and a selection of Kipling’s verse. She had not read a word of Enid Blyton and did not feel deprived.

  She rescued Hilly from her bath and put her to bed. School had apparently not been as bad as expected and had been considerably brightened by her grandfather’s rumbustious arrival.

  ‘Then we went shopping at the supermarket,’ Hilly said as Anne got her into her pyjamas. ‘Grandpa made a fuss.’

  ‘Oh? What sort of fuss?’

  ‘He wanted someone to pack the groceries. He said they always did that in Africa.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The lady said he wasn’t in Africa.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he was going to stand there until they bloody well did – that’s what he said – and lots of people were behind us and the lady shouted at him.’

  ‘The checkout lady?’

  ‘She said he was a stupid old man and Grandpa called her a silly twist. What’s a twist?’

  ‘I don’t know. And then?’

  ‘And then a man came and packed Grandpa’s things and we came home.’

  Her father was pouring himself a whisky and soda when Anne came downstairs. The autumn evening was mild but he had put on a heavy sweater and an old pair of striped morning trousers. He often said that the African sun had thinned his blood.