Burn Out (Dr. Anne Vernon Book 1)

by Alan Scholefield

  ‘Isn’t he here?’ Anne said and realised as she spoke that it was a fatuous question.

  The woman lit a cigarette. She was very attractive, with a brownish skin and huge liquid brown eyes. Anne thought she detected a foreign accent and her looks suggested that she might come from the Mediterranean.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I was supposed to meet him here.’

  Anne and Hilly were standing in a light drizzle at the bottom of the steps. They could either go back to the car or climb the steps. Anne chose the latter.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’ The woman looked over her shoulder.

  ‘We were invited to tea.’

  ‘To tea? Tom?’ She gave a sudden sharp laugh. ‘I am Stephanie.’

  She spoke her name as though it was all the identification necessary. ‘I have been waiting nearly an hour.’

  ‘He may have been called to the prison. I’m Anne Vernon and this is my daughter Hilly. I work with Dr Melville.’

  ‘You are a doctor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dr Melville! It sounds . . . so formal.’

  The situation was becoming farcical, Anne thought.

  ‘You know this place?’ Stephanie indicated the house.

  ‘I’ve been before.’

  ‘Ah. But it is a terrible place to find, no?’ She crunched out her cigarette. ‘It is very . . . rural.’ She rolled the first ‘r’. ‘And so like Tom, don’t you think? He has romantic visions.’

  Anne could have said she didn’t know Tom well enough to judge whether he had romantic visions or not, instead she said, ‘I think we’ll take a raincheck on tea. Something must have happened to delay him.’

  ‘You think so? What kind of thing?’

  ‘I don’t know. A flat tyre perhaps. Or delayed at the prison.’

  Stephanie fidgeted with her lighter, flicking it on and off.

  ‘You like working at a prison?’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’

  ‘You like working with Tom?’

  ‘Come on, darling,’ Anne said to Hilly. ‘I think we’ll go.’

  Stephanie moved as though to stop them. Anne could see she was nervy, febrile.

  ‘Maybe it is best that you go. I must talk with him.’

  Anne did not like being dismissed yet did not want to stay; the whole scene was too much like a couple of female carnivores disputing the territory of an alpha male. She said, ‘Please tell him we came, but that there’s no problem. We can do it any time.’

  ‘Any time?’

  ‘Yes, any time.’

  As she turned to take Hilly down the steps she heard the noise of a car engine and Tom’s Land Rover came into view.

  Stephanie said, ‘Oh no, still that old thing!’

  She reached the Land Rover as Tom got out. She put her arms round his neck and kissed him. Tom, with a large paperbag in his arms, could not react one way or the other. After a moment he broke away and came to Anne. ‘Please go inside, I’ll be with you in a moment. And can you take this, it’s getting wet.’ He handed her the bag.

  Anne said, ‘Look, we can come back some other time.’

  ‘Please go in!’

  Feeling embarrassed and uneasy but unwilling to make a fuss, she took Hilly into the big open-plan room. It was cold and cheerless and she switched on a couple of lights.

  ‘I don’t want to be here,’ Hilly said.

  ‘Nor do I, darling, but there’s nothing we can do about it now.’

  ‘I don’t like this place.’

  ‘It looks better in the sunshine.’

  ‘Where’s Beanie?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Through the window she could see Tom and Stephanie standing in the light drizzle. By the jerky movements of their hands and arms they appeared to be arguing. Then she heard a heavy footstep and Harry Joyce came into the house and placed his gun against the wall. He was dressed as before in a waxed jacket and a deerstalker hat from which long grey hair protruded. His game bag was on his left shoulder and there was something in it that she assumed he had shot. The something gave a growl and she saw Beanie’s nose sticking out.

  ‘Tommy said I was to see you comfortable,’ he said in his rich, country voice. He turned to Hilly. ‘You the young lady what’s written a story about the little dog?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hilly said apprehensively.

  ‘She deserves a story.’

  He put the game bag down and Beanie crawled into view. She gave a series of defensive barks, bouncing up and down on her strong front legs while her back legs stuck out behind her like a tadpole’s tail.

  Joyce laid kindling in the big stone fireplace, lit a gas poker, and in a few moments there was a roaring fire.

  ‘May I pat her?’ Hilly said.

  ‘’Course you can,’ he said.

  While this had been going on Anne had kept her eye on the window. The argument seemed to be coming to an end. Stephanie took a few steps towards her car, came back towards Tom, repeated the process twice more, waved her arms about, then drove off fast, spinning the wheels on the wet grass. Tom stood looking after her then slowly turned towards the house.

  He ran up the stairs and entered the room. The dog began to scream. He pulled her ears and stroked her. ‘All right. All right.’ He turned to Anne and Hilly. ‘You’d think I was beating the daylights out of her but it’s only her way of saying hello. Thanks, Harry, that’s a lovely fire.’ Already the room looked more cheerful.

  Joyce nodded briefly, picked up his gun and clattered off across the verandah.

  ‘My apologies,’ Tom said. ‘I had a sudden craving for toasted muffins.’ He was rubbing his hands and pacing up and down. ‘It’s just the sort of day for muffins. So I went into town to buy some and got caught in a demo about those two little missing kids.’

  ‘Are you sure you want us to stay?’

  ‘Absolutely and positively.’ He turned to Hilly and said, ‘I know who you are. Your mother has spoken about you. I’m Tom.’ He put his hand out. ‘And that’s Beanie . . . but you’ve met her.’

  The dog had moved towards the fire. Hilly crouched down beside Beanie and began to stroke her.

  ‘Right,’ Tom said. ‘Tea and toasted muffins. Very Dickensian.’ From the bag he brought out a packet of muffins and gave them to Anne. ‘Here’s a toasting fork. You do the muffins and I’ll make the tea.’

  Anne sat on a cushion in front of the fire next to Hilly and the dog and toasted the muffins.

  ‘I haven’t done this since I was a kid,’ she said.

  ‘Muffins in Africa?’

  ‘My father’s clerk used to make them. We toasted them around fires in the bush when we were camping.’

  They ate the muffins with melting butter and dripping honeycomb and washed it all down with tea.

  ‘Can I give her a piece?’ Hilly asked Tom.

  ‘We’ve got to watch her figure if we ever want her to walk again, but I don’t see why not, just this once.’

  Bars of sunshine streaked the wooden panelling of the room. Hilly went to the door and said, ‘It’s stopped raining. Can I take Beanie onto the verandah?’

  ‘Sure. Take another muffin with you.’

  Hilly gathered up the dog and went out of the house. Anne and Tom were abruptly enveloped by an embarrassing silence. After a moment Tom said, ‘How’s the hygiene report going?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘When do you think you’ll finish it?’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘Good, good . . .’ He was looking past her at the wall as he spoke and she knew he was not concentrating on what she was saying.

  ‘More tea?’

  ‘No thanks. The muffins were lovely.’

  ‘Hygiene reports are difficult to do properly.’ He rose and began to fiddle with the fire. It was just as well her father wasn’t there, he hated people doing that.

  ‘I really think we should go,’ she said.

  ‘Go? You�
��ve only just come.’

  ‘I feel we’re in the way.’

  ‘How could you be in the way if I invited you?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘You mean Stephanie? If anyone intruded she did! God, of all the things to happen on a Sunday afternoon.’ He sat on the cushion by the fire, knees drawn up, and stared into the flames. ‘You know that phrase, out of the blue? That’s where she’s appeared from.’ He wasn’t talking to Anne as much as to himself. ‘I haven’t seen her for nearly six years and she just walks in and . . .’ He shook his head slowly and said, ‘Sorry about this, but it was a bit like seeing a ghost.’

  ‘It’s often like that when old friends suddenly materialise.’

  ‘Especially when you were married to them.’

  Restlessly he got up and began to clear the tea things. ‘I’ll do that,’ she said.

  ‘No. You’re a guest. It’s extraordinary the damage people do to each other when they fall in love. Have you found that?’

  ‘No, I was only ever in love once and he died.’

  ‘Hilly’s father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe it would have been different if Stephanie and I had had children, but somehow I doubt it.’ He carried the tray into the kitchen. ‘His name was Paul, wasn’t it?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You mentioned him once. What did he do?’

  ‘He was an architect.’

  ‘One day I’d like to hear about him if you – Jesus Christ!’ He ran to the window.

  Anne went cold. ‘Hilly!’

  ‘No, she’s all right. Look!’

  She joined him at the window. Hilly and the dog were on the grass. Hilly had a piece of muffin in her fingers and was offering it to Beanie. The dog had risen on all four legs and was stretching forward.

  As they watched, Hilly moved the piece of muffin slightly further away from her. Beanie tried to reach for it, took one pace, then collapsed.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Anne said. ‘Poor little thing.’

  ‘No, no!’ She felt his hand on her arm gripping tightly. ‘Watch.’

  Slowly Beanie pulled herself up again into a standing position and Hilly gave her the piece of muffin.

  ‘She’s never done that before,’ Tom said. He ran out of the house and down the steps. Anne followed.

  He went down on his haunches beside Hilly and questioned her: had Beanie done it by herself? How many times? Had Hilly lifted her up?

  Hilly looked at him in surprise and said, ‘She doesn’t like the wet grass on her tummy.’

  Tom looked as though he had been struck over the head. ‘My God, of course! Dachshunds hate cold, especially on their stomachs. Go on, try again.’

  She offered Beanie a piece of muffin. The dog rose to her feet, moved forward a step or two and took the food.

  ‘Hilly, you’re a genius!’ Tom scooped Beanie up. ‘What a clever dachshund!’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The house was in a close in an outer London suburb, one of a dozen new brick-built homes which would, Henry Vernon thought, have been described in the sales brochures as ‘superior’ or ‘Regency style’ or ‘executive’. They all had pillars, pediments, double garages (also with pediments) neat lawns and neat shrubs. Number 9 had all these as well as a teak-veneer front door framed by permanent-shine, brass-plated carriage lamps. When Henry pressed the bell, it chimed.

  The woman who came to the door was much as he had imagined her from her voice on the phone. Even though it was a wet Sunday afternoon when most people would have been slopping about in casual clothes, Clare Blackhurst was neatly dressed in a tweed skirt and a dark green jersey, her feet encased in sensible brogues. She was of medium height with auburn hair cut short. She wore no make-up and her long face was expressionless.

  ‘I’m Henry Vernon.’

  ‘Did we say three o’clock?’

  ‘I managed to get lost.’

  She moved aside and he entered the living-room. The day was cold and so was the room. It was furnished in oatmeals and greys and where a fire should have been burning there was a vase of pale silk flowers. The only excess was the restraint.

  Henry sat, Mrs Blackhurst stood. She said, ‘I think I had better tell you right at the start that I’m not happy about this meeting. I agreed against my better judgement only because you made certain accusations on the phone.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ Henry said in his best judicial tone. ‘But I accused you of nothing.’

  ‘Yes, you did. By implication you accused me of having no feelings; of trying to wipe Jason out of my life; of lacking sensitivity; of . . . well, of abandoning him.’

  ‘Did I really?’

  Henry had chosen a straight-backed chair in case he nodded off. He was feeling relaxed and benignant. He had driven up to London early and lunched at his club. The first person he had run into was Sir Godfrey Border, recently retired from the bench, who had been known as Herbaceous Border when they were at school together. They had had an excellent game pie with a bottle of the club claret and had reminisced about old times.

  Clare Blackhurst said, ‘You told me on the phone that Jason had no one. That isn’t true. What about Margaret?’

  ‘Abandoned him too. Gone home to Mum.’

  ‘And you’ve made it your business to interfere?’

  ‘Only by proxy. As I told you I’m a lawyer and I’m here on behalf of my daughter. Madam, I explained all this.’

  ‘You said he might be sent to a mental hospital.’

  ‘It’s a possibility, that’s all. One of the psychiatrists at Loxton is coming down in a few days’ time to help with the assessments.’

  The doorbell chimed once more.

  Mrs Blackhurst excused herself. She went to the foot of the stairs and in a low, well-modulated voice called, ‘John. Neville. Your father’s here.’

  From Henry’s chair he could see into the hall. Two small boys appeared at the bottom of the stairs. They were neatly dressed in their school uniforms and their pale faces were as expressionless as their mother’s. He was astonished there were children. The house was untouched by youth. No sound had come from upstairs, no tennis racquet, skateboard, bike, tracksuit top or bottom, had been in evidence. It was as though they had come from an isolation ward.

  The front door opened. He could not see the man on the step but heard Clare Blackhurst say, ‘I want them back early.’ There was a low response and then she said, ‘Goodbye, boys, have a nice time.’ The door closed.

  ‘I didn’t realise you had two sons,’ Henry said.

  ‘There’re quite a few things you don’t realise, Mr Vernon. You don’t realise how obnoxious it is for me to have someone picking over the entrails of my life like this.’

  ‘I haven’t heard that phrase for some time. In Africa the witchdoctors pick over the entrails of chickens.’

  Two pink spots of colour appeared on her otherwise monochromatic cheeks. ‘In fact, I object most vehemently.’

  He raised a hand as though to ward off the evil spirits the entrails had released. The claret was wearing off and he had to beware the return of his normal belligerent nature.

  ‘Madam, please restrain yourself. I am sure you are not so far gone in dislike of your brother that you would fail to assist even at a distance.’ His orotund tone was that of a judge summing up to the jury. ‘He is charged with a most heinous crime for which he could go to prison for several years. His wife has left him. His grandfather has written saying that neither he nor his mother will have anything to do with him. You are the only one of the close family who has agreed even to listen. I ask myself how it is that someone who brought fame upon a family name can be hated to the point of excommunication.’

  The word ‘excommunication’ slurred slightly on his lips but he was proud to have got it out.

  He fixed her with a glance, a special look he had developed when cross-examining witnesses.

  ‘Did you say that my grandfather had written?’

 
; ‘I understand it is a most brutal document.’

  ‘It would be.’ She cast around the room like a retriever then lifted the lid of a silver cigarette box. ‘I gave up six months ago. But there are still times when I want one.’

  It was the first indication that she was human and he said, hopefully, that he smoked a pipe, but she did not invite him to light up.

  ‘What is it you want of me?’ she asked.

  ‘Anything you can tell me about your brother, anything that will help.’

  ‘You said your daughter knew Jason.’

  ‘She played against him when they were in their teens. Admired him tremendously. Now she is in a position to help him and that is why I am here.’

  Suddenly she said, ‘Do you get on? I mean does she get on with you?’

  ‘You’d have to ask her, but my impression is that she does. We live in the same house and my granddaughter lives there too. Commonplace in Victorian times, rare now.’

  ‘I hated my father!’ She had gone across the room and was standing at the window, her arms folded across her flat chest. ‘Hated him, and despised my mother.’

  She stopped and the silence grew. Henry sat quite still. He knew what was happening, he’d seen it a hundred times in court; it was the need to communicate, to unload old resentments, old hatreds, old guilt.

  ‘You know who my father was, I imagine?’

  ‘Only that he was a Hungarian Davis Cup player who defected to the West during the uprising in fifty-six.’

  ‘Lajos Keleti,’ she said, half to herself. ‘Clare Newman. It’s strange how families change. If I have to talk about these things, I want a drink.’ She did not bring herself to ask him whether he wanted one but raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Perhaps a small brandy.’

  She gave him one then filled a large wine glass with sherry and drank half of it.

  ‘My father did it for the money,’ she said. ‘Today he might have made a decent living. Not then. All his life he was in debt. I’ve always thought that turned him into what he became.’

  ‘Which was what?’

  ‘A kind of one-eyed monster, literally and figuratively. He did only have one eye. Damaged the other playing tennis with Jason at night. At night! That’s how obsessed he was. And he was obsessed with the idea of Jason doing what he had never been able to do: become a champion. He lived tennis and slept tennis. It ruined my mother’s life and it ruined Jason’s.’