Undefeated

by Reardon, Stuart

  Worried, upset, and more than a little desperate, he tried to call Nick’s number, but had to leave a voicemail.

  In the end, he Googled solicitors who might be able to help Anna, but no one wanted to go to a police station on New Year’s Eve. It took him two hours to find someone who agreed to help her. Two hours while Brendan wondered what was happening to Anna. Two hours while the police offices questioned the neighbours on either side of the property and those opposite: how long had Nick Renshaw been visiting Anna, what had they seen.

  Brendan believed what Anna had told him, but it didn’t seem that the truth would help her now.

  During the short ride to the police station, Anna stared at the side of the van. There were no windows, but she knew that all around her, the day was winding down, people preparing for the end of year party. They would be passing the fountains in Trafalgar Square, already covered with boards to stop people dancing in the icy water and catching hypothermia. The ambulance services would be busy enough as it was.

  Anna was desperate to see Nick, but ironically, his appearance at the police station would simply make her look guilty, guiltier. Tried by the media and already condemned. It was all so unfair. She wanted to cry, but the tears were locked away inside. She felt icy cold and her pulse was weak but racing; her skin felt clammy and she was dizzy. Anna’s medical training warned her that she was going into shock.

  She put her head between her knees and forced herself to breathe deeply.

  After a considerable wait at the police station, Anna was booked in, then taken to a custody cell. At various stages she completed a medical and mental health questionnaire, and was informed that the police could detain her for up to 24 hours.

  “Do you have a solicitor?”

  “Yes, no, I’m not sure.”

  The police officer seemed stoic, trudging through the paperwork.

  “If you have your own, it’s quicker. Once the officers have finished searching your premises, they’ll come back and question you.”

  Yes, Anna could have a duty solicitor, but it might take a while, especially on New Year’s Eve, especially when there were seven other people before her who required legal assistance. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, that the Club had already washed its hands of her—no help would be coming from them.

  Anna’s cell was cold and uncomfortable. There was a metal toilet and an inch thick, blue plastic mat on the bench. She sat shivering, unable to stop the tremors that wracked her body. All along the corridor she could hear the sound of drunks yelling and fighting and swearing. It felt like the grimmest place in the world.

  Fear settled inside her, a stone in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t even uncertainty—it was a cold, hard knowledge that her life, as it had been, was over. The photographs of her arrest would last forever, longer than her own lifetime. Her name would forever be associated with the doctor who fucked her patient. Those puny little details of truth—who cared about those?

  Anna’s future scrolled in front of her: humiliation, public shame, disgrace, dishonour. Her integrity, gone. Her livelihood, gone. Everything she’d worked for, gone.

  Someone yelled close to her cell and she startled. The shrieks grew louder as if someone was maddened by pain. On and on they went until Anna felt like screaming with them. It was terrifying and raw and she was so scared.

  The screams cut off suddenly, replaced by wild sobbing. Tears slipped down Anna’s cheeks and she didn’t know if she was crying for herself or the wretched man in the next cell. The noise increased as more drunks were brought in and it felt like she’d fallen into an insane asylum from two hundred years ago.

  How could these police officers stand it? The noise, the smell, the stench of despair and defeat?

  When she thought she couldn’t stand it any longer, an older lady in a Custody Detention Officer uniform brought her a cup of tea in a polystyrene cup.

  Such a normal, ordinary thing to do.

  Anna hated milky tea, but she was so cold and miserable that she was pathetically grateful.

  “Do you think I could have a blanket?” she asked politely, her face haggard, her hands shaking.

  The CDO gave her a sympathetic look.

  “I could get you one, but I’m not sure you’d want it.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Anna asked, wrapping her cold hands around the flimsy white cup.

  “Well, they’re riddled with scabies and impetigo, but it’s your choice.”

  Anna’s eyes widened as she cringed and shook her head.

  “You’ll be alright, luv,” the woman said in a kindly way as the metal door closed with a clang.

  But Anna wasn’t alright; she was barely holding it together. Tears continued to trickle down her cheeks hopelessly, and she was too tried and despairing to wipe them away. She’d held onto her bladder for hours until she was crying with the pain before she could bring herself to use the disgusting toilet. There was no paper.

  She wondered what Nick was doing and where he was. She wanted nothing more than to see him, to hold him, but also prayed that he wouldn’t come here.

  Her tired brain was tormented by the shrieks and wails surrounding her, the sound of retching and swearing as more and more drunks were brought in to sober up safely.

  There were no windows and her wristwatch had been removed, but when a small pre-prepared tray of supper arrived, Anna knew that she must have been there five or six hours. But still, no solicitor came and no one had any news for her.

  It was cold and dark, she was scared and alone. So scared, so alone.

  The misery was overwhelming.

  She wept.

  Nick grabbed his phone the moment the message came in. But it wasn’t from Anna, and his hope died. Instead, Brendan’s name flashed up again with an urgent warning.

  He’d been shocked and furious when he’d received the voicemail a short time before. Ignoring his teammates questions, he’d stormed out of the party and had texted Brendan immediately, saying that he was on his way.

  But Brendan’s message was clear.

  DO NOT, repeat DO NOT go to the police station!

  Do NOT go to Anna’s flat.

  You’ll make things worse.

  I need to meet you. Where’s safe?

  Brendan

  Desperate, Nick tapped out a message, arranging to meet Brendan at a small pub around the corner from the house he shared with the other players, but the place was packed and noisy. Reluctantly, he texted Brendan the address for the house instead, hoping that the journalists had given up and gone to do something more interesting than stalk his house on New Year’s Eve.

  There was one journalist lurking in a car, but he paid scant attention to Brendan, snapping a couple of photographs that were poorly lit, and simply showed a well-dressed man frowning. Not exactly a money shot.

  “How’s Anna?” Nick asked, grabbing Brendan’s arm.

  “Off the cloth!” Brendan snapped, slapping Nick’s hands away and shrugging out of his coat. “I’ve managed to find her a solicitor . . .”

  “What about the Club’s solicitor?”

  “Doesn’t cover her since she’s technically self-employed, and don’t interrupt. God, I need a drink.”

  Tense enough to punch a wall, Nick led Brendan into the kitchen-diner and poured him a gin and tonic, even adding a slice of lime. He’d drunk two of these already: low calorie, high kick.

  Brendan took a large gulp and slumped into a chair.

  “It was murder trying to find a solicitor on New Year’s Eve. I’ve got one, but he can’t be there until the morning. Still, marginally better than waiting for the duty solicitor, although I’m beginning to wonder.”

  “Are you joking? Anna has to stay in a cell all night?”

  Brendan’s eyes flashed with anger.

  “Do you think I like it? You’re not the only who cares about her. You try finding someone on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Sorry, it’s just . . .”

  “I know. The po
lice took her phone, tablet, laptop and searched the flat and office. They’re saying that she perjured herself during your court case.”

  “She didn’t!”

  “So there’s no incriminating evidence to find on any of her devices.”

  Nick flushed.

  “We . . . um . . . shared some photographs . . .”

  Brendan slapped his hand against his forehead.

  “Seriously? Sexting? What is wrong with you? When did it start?”

  “It was just a bit of fun while I was playing an away-game. And no, nothing happened until we met again in London.”

  “Well, that’s something. I have receipts for what the police took, but from what I’m told, there’s not much chance of getting them back in working order.”

  “Why not?”

  Brendan sighed.

  “Well, as I understand it, they’ll be given to the police super-hackers to get to any incriminating evidence and then tossed into an evidence room until the next millennium. Apparently, they send all the electronic devices to the hi-tech crime unit, Cy-comms or whatever it’s called. They’ll access every image, every message, every email. But that could take up to six weeks.”

  “Six weeks! It’s going to take six weeks to clear her name?”

  “At least.”

  “Shit!”

  “They’ll be able to read any deleted files, too.”

  Nick frowned.

  “That will only prove that she’s telling the truth. So that’s a good thing.”

  Brendan looked at him as if he was a rather dim student.

  “Nick, her reputation is already ruined. Have you even looked at the gossip sites?”

  He huffed impatiently as Nick shook his head.

  “Of course you haven’t. They’ve found out about her ex, Jonathan, the married professor; and your ex has been mouthing off, too. She’s having fun painting Anna as a homewrecker, and the newspapers are lapping it up. They’ve started describing Anna as someone with a track record of sleeping with inappropriate people. No offence.”

  “Shit, they know about her ex?”

  “Here, read this.”

  DOCTOR HEARTBREAK

  Home-wrecking doc, Anna Scott, has a bad track record of sleeping with men who are married or involved with other people. It’s been widely reported that she had intimate relations with rugby star Nick Renshaw while he was engaged to his long-term girlfriend, Molly McKinney. Dr. Scott is currently awaiting trial for perjuring herself about the nature of her relationship with the England Fullback while she was “coaching” him at his previous club.

  The sexy doc has also been caught on camera with Naughty Nick at his new club, Finchley Phoenixes, breaking a strict no-fraternization policy.

  “Rules don’t seem to mean much to either of them,” a source has been quoted as saying.

  It has since been revealed that Dr. Scott had an affair with a married man while he was mentoring her during her college years. Professor Jonathan Frankle, father of three, supervised Anna Scott when she was a student at Boston University. When their affair became public knowledge, the posh Prof was sent on a ‘research sabbatical’ for a year, while Dr. Scott was banned from the campus and forced to finish her PhD from home. Friends of Professor Frankle described Dr. Scott as “attractive but manipulative—a dangerous woman who slept her way to the top.” Staff at Boston University were approached, but declined to comment.”

  Other headlines were on a similar theme:

  LOVE SICK! SPORTS PSYCHOLOGIST’S SHOCKING PAST

  RUGBY DOCTOR’S SECRET SHAME

  Well, it wasn’t secret anymore.

  And three other sites had already picked up the news of Anna’s arrest.

  LIAR! SPORTS DOC IN ARREST SHOCK!

  ANNA’S A GONER! NAUGHTY NICK’S GIRLFRIEND ARRESTED

  Nick tossed Brendan’s phone aside in disgust.

  “This is such bullshit!”

  “With just enough shreds of truth to make it plausible,” Brendan added, picking up his phone.

  Nick threw him a furious look.

  “Hey! I didn’t say I believed it, but other people will. For now, at least.”

  “This is crazy! What can I do?”

  Brendan sighed and shook his head.

  “The story has already gone viral: sex, sport and celebrities. They’re probably hacking your phone as we speak.”

  “Who? The police?”

  “No, you muppet! Journalists! Hackers! Newspapers have hackers on call to get into ‘phones of interest’. Don’t you ever read the tabloids?”

  Nick pulled his phone from his pocket, staring at the device as if it might bite him. His eyes became angry as he re-read the last message he’d had from Anna hours earlier, before she was arrested:

  They know. There are photographers outside.

  Don’t come home tonight. Please.

  I love you.

  “Have you still got any, you know, private pictures or messages or voicemails from Anna on there?”

  Nick looked flustered and Brendan had his answer.

  “Delete them,” he advised. “It’s all you can do for her right now.”

  Nick’s heart sank as one by one he deleted all the sexy selfies that she’d sent him, all the pictures he’d sent her, all their sweet and funny text conversations were erased. He even memorized her number before deleting it. It was as if she’d never been in his life.

  And the thought of Anna being locked up all night killed him.

  “There must be something I can do?”

  Brendan shook his head sadly.

  “You’ve done everything you can. Just hope the hackers haven’t got hold of your sexting pics.”

  But Nick was too late, and once again the ghosts were coming back to haunt him.

  Before the police had even bagged and tagged the evidence, Nick’s second worst nightmare came true and the nude photos started showing up on websites. Nick felt sick as he saw the intimate photographs that Anna had shared with him and him alone, now available for anyone to see.

  Molly had done the same, except that she’d received a large pay-out for her tit pics. Along with a rumour that she’d be appearing on the next season of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.

  New Year’s Day 2016

  BREAKFAST ARRIVED, ANOTHER pre-packed airplane meal. Anna choked down as much of it as she could, because even though her stomach attempted to climb out of her throat, she felt weak and dizzy and knew that she needed to eat.

  She was relieved beyond words when she was told that her Brief had arrived and was waiting for her in an interview room.

  She felt grubby, soiled and defiled when she met her solicitor, an older man wearing a navy three-piece suit and an avuncular smile.

  “Miss Scott, I’m Damian Harris. I’ve been retained on your behalf by Brendan Massey.”

  “Oh? But you work for the Finchley Phoenixes?”

  “No, I’m from the law firm of Weston, Harris and Dempsey.” He cleared his throat. “As I understand it, the rugby club’s legal cover doesn’t stretch to those classed as self-employed.”

  A cold shudder went through Anna. The Phoenixes had cut her loose. She should have expected that.

  The interview began, and Anna was hyper-aware that it was being digitally recorded. Two police officers interviewed her. There was no good cop/bad cop, just two people who looked like they’d had a long night.

  The questions went on, going over and over the same ground:

  “How long have you known Nick Renshaw? When did you become intimate? Could anybody else vouch for that? Do you have an alibi?”

  An alibi for love? What did that look like? Anna had no idea.

  After ninety minutes of question and answer, Anna was left alone with her solicitor.

  “What will happen now?”

  “You’ll be released on bail with conditions. They’ll be deciding what those conditions are now. If there’s no evidence to find . . .” and he gave her a hard look, “there’
ll be no case to answer and the charges will be dropped.”

  “They won’t find anything because there’s nothing to find.” Anna sighed. “How long will it all take?”

  “I would imagine two to three months?”

  Anna gasped.

  “That long?”

  “That’s quite fast for the justice system. With a high profile case like this, they’ll want to get it done and dusted.”

  “My business will be ruined by then,” she cried softly.

  “You’ll be permitted to go about your business although there’ll be restrictions on any travel abroad, I’d imagine.”

  Anna shook her head.

  “I’m finished. I know it.”

  He patted her hand kindly.

  “What if they find me guilty?” she gulped.

  “As you’ve said, there’s no evidence to find.”

  “But what if . . . I mean, we had private sessions when he was with the Minotaurs. I didn’t record all of them!”

  “They need evidence,” he said, his voice gentle. “A custodial sentence is highly unlikely.”

  Anna felt faint.

  “What happens next, with the investigation, I mean?”

  “They’ll interview witnesses, neighbours in London, your neighbours in Manchester, and ask whether Mr. Renshaw ever visited you there; they’ll speak to your work colleagues and his; they’ll analyse your electronic devices as the police explained. Right now, we’ll concentrate on getting you out of here, Miss Scott.”

  “Did they say who told them that I’d committed perjury?”

  He shook his head.

  “They wouldn’t disclose who the informant was, but given what you’ve told me, I would suggest your partner’s ex-girlfriend is a likely candidate. Looking at the reports in the gutter press, I’d say she also seems as if she believes what she’s saying.”

  “How can she?!”

  “Hard to say. Delusional? Simply jealous?”

  Or just a bitter, scheming bitch.

  “Is Nick in any trouble?”

  “Unlikely. There’s no suggestion that he committed perjury as he wasn’t asked during the court case about his relationship with you. You say you had no communication with him prior to the trial and that it was his lawyer who asked you to appear as a character witness. Correct?”