Burn Out (Dr. Anne Vernon Book 1)

by Alan Scholefield

  ‘Drink?’ he said.

  ‘I had one with my new boss.’

  ‘That sounds chummy. What’s he like?’

  ‘I don’t know. He could be nice. He’s certainly restless.’

  ‘Are you going to enjoy yourself?’

  ‘I’m not sure “enjoy” is the right word.’

  She told him about the suicide drama. ‘They’re paranoid about suicides because they always get into the press. How was Hilly?’

  ‘She’s been marvellous. I don’t think much of her school though. The head teacher’s a bloody twit.’

  Anne decided not to go into that. ‘She says you had a problem at the supermarket.’

  He opened his blue eyes very wide in the look of mendacious innocence which she knew of old. ‘Problem? No problem at all. Just another bloody twit who didn’t known her job.’

  He lit a pipe and began to suck at it. It sounded as though he was under water.

  ‘What would you like for supper?’ she said.

  ‘I had mine with Hilly. Smoked haddock and poached eggs.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. Is there any haddock left?’

  ‘Enough for you.’

  He came into the kitchen.

  ‘No one could make this like Watch,’ he said.

  She ate with relish and when she’d finished she filled the sink with hot water.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Washing up, of course.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  She gestured at the piles of dirty dishes stacked neatly on a work top.

  ‘I’m going to do them in the morning,’ he said. ‘One good burst a day. The problem with women is that they’re always wiping things and washing things. No organisation. Once a day!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Annie, if I’m going to be a housemother then let me be one.’

  ‘I hate you doing this sort of thing.’

  ‘Fair’s fair. You go out and win the bread. Anyway it’s good for the character. Now, I want you to show me exactly how you work the dishwasher and the clothes washer.’

  She felt a sudden sense of alarm. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I—’

  ‘Annie!’

  ‘Okay, okay. If you really want to learn.’

  She showed him, and then they took their coffee into the sitting-room. She told him about Jason Newman.

  ‘The tennis player?’

  ‘I played against him once.’

  ‘I know. You wrote me about it. I thought for a moment you had met God.’

  ‘I had in a way. But today I was in shock at first. You don’t expect a childhood hero to turn out an attempted rapist.’

  ‘You’re making a hell of an assumption aren’t you? You’ve got him guilty and he hasn’t even been tried yet. A word of advice. Rape cases are notoriously difficult. Attempted rape even more so. There’s gang rape and marital rape and date rape and male on male and female on female – don’t look surprised, there is – and anal and oral and now the bloody feminist lobby has grabbed the rape question and is running with it when anyone who can rub two thoughts together knows that it’s partly the feminists who are responsible for the increase.’

  She opened her mouth but he held up his hand. ‘So be careful with your assumptions.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  He made a gurgling noise on his pipe and began to bang it out on the side of the fireplace, the sound of which effectively drowned what she was saying.

  ‘I remember once in Maseru I had a chap up before me for rape. Big chap. And the plaintiff was big as well. Had a backside on her like a mare. Anyway, it was supposed to have happened in a car. So I adjourned for an inspection in loco. Car turned out to be a Fiat Topolino. You remember them? About the size of this armchair. I said no one was going to be raped in a thing that size unless she cooperated and I dismissed the case.’ He stood up. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘How’s the book going?’

  ‘It’s coming along.’ He kissed her.

  ‘You’re a tendentious man,’ she said. ‘You only say these things to annoy me.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Nonsense. Anyway, you’re the boss now. You can tell me to shut up.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  He paused in the doorway. ‘Oh, by the way, that chap what’s his name, the one with the flashy car . . .’

  ‘Clive?’

  ‘He phoned. Said would you ring him back?’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘When Hilly and I were having our supper. Just after six.’

  ‘He said he was going to. I completely forgot! You might have told me earlier.’

  ‘Sorry. But it didn’t sound urgent. I’ll lock up.’

  She lay in a foam bath and dialled Clive’s number. She got the answering machine. She began a message. ‘Clive, it’s me. Sorry I wasn’t in when you phoned but it’s been a hell of a day and I’ve only just got back . . .’

  Why was she lying?

  ‘I’ll try to ring you early tomorrow or from work if I get a chance. ’Bye, darling.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘I’m not saying it was your fault, squire,’ Billy Sweete said. ‘Not saying that at all.’

  He was lying on the top bunk, Jason was still fully dressed and sitting on a chair at the small square table. The cell was dark, the lights had gone off a long time before, now there was only the ghostly blueish glow of the nightlight, just enough so the screws could look in at the prisoners.

  Sweete said, ‘You going to sleep sitting there or what?’

  Jason hardly heard him. He was just a voice; words; no sense to them. They mingled with the night sounds of the prison; the coughing and the hawking, the whimpering in dreams, the tapping of messages, the calling of names, the crying, the shouting.

  Jason heard Sweete turn over on his bunk and knew he was looking down at him.

  The terror – wild, hysterical – had quietened now to an all-pervasive fear. He could feel it as a permanent knot in his bowels.

  ‘I couldn’t blame you,’ Sweete went on in his gloomy, nagging voice. ‘I’m not saying that. What I’m saying is it was a liberty.’

  There was one thought hammering away at Jason’s brain until he felt sick with it: why hadn’t she come?

  ‘You know why don’t you?’ Sweete said.

  That penetrated. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why they two-ed you up? Put you in with someone else. Me for that matter. Bloody liberty.’

  ‘I thought they always made you share a cell.’

  ‘Not no more. Single cells now. All done up with toilets. You wanted to be here when we still had slop buckets, mate. Na, the reason’s safety.’

  ‘Safety?’

  He spoke the word but only half registered the meaning.

  ‘They done that because they was afraid you’d top yourself.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Listen, you’re Rule 43 remand, right? One of the worst places for it.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘You say that. But you never know.’

  Jason shivered. No, he thought, you never knew.

  ‘I was in Winchester nick with a bloke who topped himself. Sharing a cell with him. That didn’t stop him. Waited till I was asleep and then he done it. I woke up. There he was.’

  Sweete sat up and swung his legs over the bunk.

  ‘People have got rights. That’s my way of thinking. If a bloke wants to top himself that’s his right. I ain’t going to stop him. I mean, say I was you. Famous tennis player once. I might say to myself: what’s it worth, all the aggro? They going to crucify me for what I done, so why not do it first?’

  He came down from the bunk and sat on the other chair. A match flared briefly as he lit a rollup. Jason had the impression of a woman; long hair, thin face, medium build.

  ‘You know how they do it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Top themselves.’

  He shook his head. He did not want to know. A fearful scenario was be
ginning to run through his mind.

  ‘On the central heating radiators. People think you got to go high to tie on a window bar or something. Then step off a chair. That’s not the way. Watch, I’ll show you. See these? Shoelaces. That’s all you need. You tie ’em together, so. Then you ties the ends to the radiator, like that. Then you kneels down and puts your head through the loop . . . I ain’t going to, just in case . . . then all you do is lean forward and the laces, they cut into your neck, here and here, and it’s like turning off a tap. Doesn’t take more than a minute. And no strangling. They say it’s gentle, just like going to sleep.’

  He stood up and untied the laces. ‘Any time you want to borrow them, just say.’ He gave a snuffling laugh and climbed back onto his bunk. ‘You ever going to sleep?’

  Jason lowered himself onto the hard mattress. He kept his eyes wide open because whenever he closed them he saw her; mouth wide open; the scream ripping the silence.

  ‘You was famous once, wasn’t you?’ Sweete said.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I hear the press boys are at the gates.’

  Jason had heard that too.

  ‘You going to sell your story?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must be soft. I would. Fifty grand, I’d tell ’em anything they wanted. Then you know what I’d do? I’d . . . I’d buy . . . Jesus, I’d get hold of . . .’ His voice was suddenly hoarse.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never you mind, old sport.’

  He was silent for a long time.

  Then he said, ‘I never reckoned tennis much. Not like football. What makes a person take up tennis? I mean it’s not a proper sport is it?’

  *

  No one would have said that to his father.

  I die for tennis, he used to say. You die too. Otherwise you nothing. No good for nothing.

  That’s when his father still had the club. It was one of the most beautiful clubs in the south of England. Once they’d played championships there. That’s when Jason was a kid. He’d been a ball boy.

  Not everyone would die for tennis. Not his grandfather. He hadn’t been much impressed. Nor by Lajos. It’s only a game, he had said to his son-in-law. It’s something to enjoy. It’s not a profession for the boy.

  And his father had said, What the fuck he know about it?

  Four grass courts. Six hard. A clubhouse. Hot showers. A bar. His father had always wanted to put in a restaurant like a club he knew outside Budapest.

  It give class.

  But he never had the money.

  Crack . . . crack . . . crack . . .

  Jason could hear the sounds even now. The tennis wall. Hour after hour. Day after day. Weeks . . . months . . .

  You practise, his father had said. You stay until I say you stop.

  For God’s sake – his mother talking – look at his hands. They’re bleeding.

  You mind your business. He my son. He my business.

  And the ball machine.

  Plock, plock, and the balls would come shooting out.

  Swing – swing through – No! Not like that! You not controlling racquet. You must have strong hands. Fast hands. Exercise make strong.

  Plock, swing through, plock, swing through . . .

  The sun beating down . . . dizziness . . . Come on! You never going to be great player unless you practise.

  He practised.

  What about other things, Lajos? School? Learning?

  This is better than school.

  He’s going to grow up knowing nothing about books or music or anything.

  He going to be great player.

  What for?

  Because I say so.

  His sister had watched angrily. She was bright. She studied hard. No one gave a damn.

  At meals, his father’s voice: You say he ignorant? Listen. Tell your mum: what is Eastern grip. Here is racquet. You show your mum.

  Like this.

  How you know?

  Like shaking hands with the racquet.

  What it do?

  Good for ground strokes and volleys.

  Where you use it?

  Grass. Fast courts.

  Okay, show your mother Western grip. Say what you learn.

  The palm of the hand behind the handle.

  What for?

  I . . .

  Come.

  I . . .

  And then the slap and the tears and his mother protesting.

  Shut up! Now, say. What for? Is for heavy top spin. Say it.

  Heavy top spin.

  And where you use?

  Slow courts. Clay.

  You see?

  But his mother watched with pain-filled eyes. She cried a lot, he recalled, in those days.

  Winter.

  Sweeping frost from the courts. And always his father’s voice. Bend knees . . . bend! Lock wrist! So . . . volley . . . and volley . . . no! Not so weak! Stiff. Otherwise no control.

  And the legs going . . . and the feet going . . . and the arms going . . . and the hands going . . .

  Tears.

  You seven years old! You not baby no more!

  *

  Anne was woken by the phone again. This time she was flustered, panicky, because she had only recently got to sleep. For a moment she thought she had the duty, then the present reasserted itself. She was in her bed in the new house.

  As she picked up the phone she saw the time was 12.15. Only one person would ring as late as that.

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘Clive?’

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘It’s a quarter past twelve.’

  ‘I’ve only just got in from—’

  ‘—from a meeting.’

  ‘How did you know?’ He laughed.

  ‘I guessed. It’s not difficult.’

  ‘I phoned earlier.’ There was an edge to his voice. Clive didn’t like people not being in when he wanted them.

  ‘I know. My father told me.’

  ‘I don’t think he likes me.’

  ‘Of course he does.’

  ‘Strange way of showing it. “She’s not here!” That’s all he said.’

  ‘Telephones aren’t really his scene. They rarely worked well in the bush and they were mostly party lines with people listening in half the time. So he used to make Watch do the answering.’

  ‘It’s a bit off-putting. Makes me feel like a kid again with parents getting in the way – and all that that implies.’

  ‘Well, don’t let it. Anyway I’m sorry I wasn’t here. First day at work.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Fine, considering.’

  ‘Considering what?’

  ‘That it was my first day.’

  ‘First days are always a bugger.’

  She thought of Clive in his penthouse apartment at Chelsea Harbour and suddenly wished she was there. No need to get up early. No need to worry about anything. Let Clive take care of things. He liked taking care of things. Liked organising, arranging. There were times when she liked being taken over, times when she didn’t. And that confused Clive.

  In her mind’s eye she saw his reflection in the glass wall of the apartment: tall, powerful, prematurely bald. There was something slightly dangerous about Clive. On the surface he seemed normal enough, but if you weren’t dangerous you didn’t make the sort of money Clive made, or control the lives of so many people.

  She imagined him, mobile phone in hand, looking out over the tiny marina with the floating gin palaces, to the dark slick of the Thames. She found it difficult to visualise him without the phone. He used it everywhere like a spare hand: walking about, in the car, even in bed. She had got to the stage now where she would not go to a restaurant with him unless he left it in the car. He had grudgingly agreed.

  ‘How’s Hilly getting on in her new school?’ he said.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  Sometimes he liked to play sexual games on the phone but tonight she was t
oo sleepy.

  ‘A nightie. I’m in bed.’

  ‘The black one?’

  The black one was a present from Clive and had come from Janet Reger and had cost more than Anne made in a month.

  ‘That’s special.’

  ‘I wish I was in bed with you, darling.’

  ‘I wish you were too.’

  There was a pause. She knew he was waiting for her to continue this line of talk but she couldn’t think of anything to say. So she said, ‘I bet you’re standing by the windows.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Did you take over anyone today?’

  ‘You make it sound like a criminal offence.’

  ‘It was only meant as a joke, darling.’

  ‘I suppose I did in a way. Basically, I bought a substantial share in a foundry.’

  He told her about a new acquisition for the Clive Parker Group of Companies. Something about die castings. She could not keep up with Clive. He was into so many things: building, property, shipping, fast-food restaurants, haulage, bottled gas, even video cassettes. Now die castings, whatever they were.

  He said, ‘Listen, darling, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to call New York. Are you working this weekend?’

  ‘No, but I promised to take Hilly out on Saturday.’

  ‘Sunday then. I’ll pick you up around eleven.’

  ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘Have a bloody good lunch for a start.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘What d’you think? Jesus, I wish I was in bed with you right now. We could be—’

  ‘Watch it. Remember what happened to Prince Charles when he talked dirty on the phone.’

  ‘But who would be listening to us?’

  ‘God?’

  ‘More like his opposite number. See you at eleven.’

  It was to be a regular Sunday. They always did the same things. Sometimes she wished . . .

  In a couple of seconds she was asleep.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Well, this is nice,’ Tom Melville said, as he entered Anne’s room. He was holding two steaming mugs of coffee. She took one gratefully. It was now mid-morning and she had not stopped since arriving for work a little after eight.

  ‘I was scared stiff you mightn’t like it,’ he said, indicating the green pastel walls on which the autumn sunlight was falling. He went over to her shelves. She had brought in a few books. He flicked a finger against the spine of one. ‘A new Cecil & Loeb. You are being good! And a Bluglass.’ He touched a huge tome on forensic psychiatry.