Tom said, ‘The officer on duty says he wasn’t in the cell at the time. He was out on the landing watching tv.’
Jason said, ‘I wouldn’t know. I was asleep.’
Anne said, ‘It must have been his cellmate. Who else could it have been?’
‘It happens all the time,’ Tom said. ‘Anyone could have flicked a cigarette into the cell hoping it would set something alight. It’s part of the whole business of their frustration and tension.’
He left Anne alone with Jason.
She said, ‘I’ve spoken to your lawyers. A Mr Brinkman was handling your case, wasn’t he?’
‘Yeah. Kenneth Brinkman.’
‘I’m sorry to tell you, he’s been made redundant.’
‘Redundant? Oh, Christ!’
She waited for him to say something more but he remained silent. She had the feeling that his psyche, like a burrowing animal, had gone down deep into his subconscious leaving only part of it in her presence.
She said, ‘Don’t you think it might be a good idea to sell your story? You’ve had offers, haven’t you? It would give you money to pay for a good defence lawyer.’
He clenched and unclenched his hands.
She said, ‘I heard there was a posse of press people at the gates wanting to get in touch with you.’
He said bitterly, ‘All they want is the dirt.’
‘Has your wife been to visit you yet?’
He shook his head.
‘Listen, Jason, would you like me to contact her and tell her about the lawyer?’
He’s your baby, Tom Melville had said. Do anything you want.
‘God, yes! The phone’s still engaged all the time.’
‘Then give me her address as well as the telephone number.’ She took them down then said, ‘Isn’t there anyone else who could help? Didn’t you mention a sister?’
‘Clare? She’d never help. Hates the sight of me.’
‘Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?’
He did not reply.
After a moment she said, ‘Anyone else?’
‘Only my mother. Oh . . . and my grandfather . . .’
‘There you are, you have people who could help.’
He pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘It’s from my grandfather. Read it.’
‘Dear Jason (she read), This morning’s paper mentioned your problems. I realise this is a bad time for you but it comes as no surprise. I always thought something would happen to you on the basis of your past behaviour. Your mother makes no progress nor will she ever. God knows who will look after her when I’m gone. Clare certainly won’t, she’s said so often enough and I believe her. So this letter is really to say to you: don’t look to us for help, and don’t involve us in any way. You have brought this upon yourself and now you must live with it, just as we must live with our tragedy. Thank God your mother will never know.’ The letter was signed M.R. Thorpe.
‘That’s your grandfather? He doesn’t sound like any grandfather I’ve ever known.’
She was fishing but he did not rise.
Instead he said, ‘Are you going to send me to a hospital?’
‘Of course not. Your lungs will feel tight for a few days and your throat will be raw. But there won’t be any permanent damage.’
‘I don’t mean that sort of hospital. I mean a mental hospital.’
‘Why on earth would we do that?’
‘For tests?’
‘But we’re doing the evaluations here.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘What makes you think a thing like that, Jason?’
‘I was told that sex offenders often go to mental hospitals.’
‘We don’t call them that any longer . . . secure hospitals.’
‘Okay. Secure hospitals. Same thing isn’t it?’
‘Well, anyway, why would you think—?’
‘What if you thought – or what if the court thought . . . You have to give evidence of mental problems don’t you? I mean they won’t just send me without . . . I don’t . . . I’d rather die . . . I know how to—’
‘Jason!’
‘—kill myself!’
‘Stop it!’
His hands were shaking.
She said, ‘What’s started you worrying about a secure hospital? Have you been listening to other prisoners? Well don’t. You’re you. People have looked up to you, hero-worshipped you – me included. No one’s ever looked up to the others. You’re not like them. At least I don’t think you are.’
Later, when she went to report to Melville, he said, ‘They get like that sometimes. Simple paranoia. It comes from fear and desperation and rumours and misinformation and God knows what else. It’ll pass. It comes in cycles, sometimes they overlap, sometimes they follow on. All we can do is what we’re doing.’
He was looking at a spread of photographs on his desk.
‘Deshka River, Alaska,’ he said, indicating a rushing stream and snow-topped mountains. ‘I was there in the summer when the king salmon were running. Wonderful place. Never saw another human being, but lots of black bears and moose and even a grizzly. And a billion mosquitoes. That’s me in a beekeeper’s veil and gloves.’
He was a different person from the one who had taken her on the alternative tour and acted so decisively with Jason. But it was about Jason she wanted to talk, not about mosquitoes in Alaska.
As though sensing this, he looked up from the photographs and said, ‘Don’t get too involved. It doesn’t do any good.’
*
Henry Vernon, BA LLB Cantab., sixty-seven years old, late of the British Colonial Service in Africa, was making a kite. Hilly was hovering, giving advice.
‘That won’t stick,’ she said.
‘Won’t stick? What d’you mean won’t stick?’
‘You’re using paper glue.’
‘You’re an expert on glues, are you?’
‘We make things at school.’
‘Have you ever made a kite before?’
‘No.’
‘So much for your advice.’
‘Have you ever made one before?’
‘Of course.’
‘When?’
‘A long time ago. But kites don’t change. They are immutable. Hand me the string, please.’
‘What’s immutable?’
Anne’s voice came from the kitchen, ‘Breakfast you lot.’
It was Saturday morning, the sun was shining brightly, and there was no work and no school.
As they sat down in the big warm kitchen, Anne said, ‘What’s the wind like?’
‘Not bad,’ her father said. ‘Could be better.’
‘I don’t like muesli,’ Hilly said.
‘I don’t blame you,’ Henry said. ‘Bloody health food will be the end of us. All my life “experts” have been telling us this is good for you and that is bad for you and then a few years later, just the opposite.’
‘It is good for you,’ Anne said.
‘Bosh and piffle.’
Hilly began to stir the spoon round and round in the milk. ‘Did you ever fly a kite?’ she asked her mother.
‘When I was little. There’s a mountain near Maseru called the Mountain of Night. Its African name is Thaba Bosio, and Grandpa and I climbed up there and flew kites a couple of times.’
‘Where will we go?’ Henry said.
‘What about near the castle?’
They set off about ten and drove past the prison. ‘That’s where I work,’ Anne said to Hilly.
‘It looks pretty grim,’ Henry said. ‘But those old Victorian gaols all do. How’s Newman taking it?’
‘Badly. He thinks we’re going to put him in what used to be called a mental asylum.’
‘And are you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment. Some of the other prisoners have filled his head with worries. If only his wife came to see him he wouldn’t be quite so . . . well, paranoid I suppose. I’ve promised to try and contact her.’
‘Do
you think that’s wise?’
‘It’s only fair.’
‘I don’t see that it’s got anything to do with you. You shouldn’t get involved.’
‘That’s what Tom Melville said. Look, I’m supposed to evaluate him. I’m not a trained psychiatrist. I need all the help I can get – and so does he.’
She told him about the letter from Jason’s grandfather.
‘That only reinforces my view. They sound like a rum lot.’
‘But don’t you see; I’ve got a reason, a personal reason. I know him. I can’t just abandon him when he’s got no one else.’
‘He’s got a solicitor, hasn’t he?’
‘Hardly.’ She told him what had happened.
Henry said, ‘And so you come riding up on your white charger.’
‘It’s not the first time!’ Her tone was acid.
He knew what she meant. Without her prompt arrival in South Africa he might have been dead by now. ‘All right, have it your way.’
They came to the municipal park below the castle. It was a large space with tennis courts, three soccer pitches and an area of equal size set aside for informal activities like walking and jogging – and flying kites. One side was bounded by the river, another by the rocky buttress on which stood the castle.
There was a slight northwesterly breeze blowing and the three of them went to the far side of the park near the tennis courts. Anne and Hilly ran the kite back and forth and at last it climbed groggily into the air.
‘Lord, I’m unfit,’ Anne said. ‘I’ll have to do something about that.’
‘Take up tennis again,’ her father said. Then he and Hilly moved away as the kite dipped and climbed. Anne turned to watch the tennis players. There were six courts and all were in use. The players were across the age range from a middle-aged mixed four on one court, to two small boys slugging it out on another.
Ever since she had parked on the road that ran under the castle walls and strolled across the grass, Anne had had the feeling she had been here before.
She walked round the courts to an area of nettles and blackberries. They covered what looked like large broken slabs of concrete and small piles of broken bricks. But they were not obvious under the trailing arms of the blackberry bushes.
Frowning, she turned away and found herself being stared at by a little old man with a mongrel dog.
‘Lost something, love? Jack’ll find it, won’t you old chap? He loves finding things.’
The man was short and gnarled and gnomish.
‘No, nothing. I thought . . . I was wondering about these concrete slabs. Was there a building here once?’
‘Tennis club. But that was years ago. People came from all over.’
‘That was the clubhouse?’
‘Castle Tennis Club. Smart. Oh, yes. Very smart. Grass courts and hard courts. Even played competitions here. They played the Sussex Championships one year.’
‘Did it . . . was the clubhouse painted white with wide steps?’
‘You remember it? I thought you’d be too young.’
She smiled. ‘That’s a nice thing to say. I think I came here once with my school. But I seem to see . . . did it have a thatched roof?’
‘Indeed it did. Oh, yes. And that was the trouble. When the fire started, up she went! All over in an hour or so.’
‘When was that?’
‘It only seems like yesterday to me. It does when you’re old. But to someone like you it would be a long time ago. Twelve . . . fourteen years . . . I don’t know. Could be more; could be less.’
‘And the club never started up again?’
‘Never. There was some story at the time but . . .’ he tapped his head. ‘Memory. Jack’s got a better memory than me. Never forgets where he buries his bone. Do you, old chap? All I know is the council took it over. Now anyone can play. Better I suppose. Except . . .’ he lowered his voice, ‘the people who came here had real style. Not like this lot.’
She thanked him and was about to turn away when he said, ‘Is that your little girl?’
She followed his gaze. Hilly was running with the kite to the far side of the playing fields. She couldn’t see her father.’
‘Yes.’
‘I saw you come. Three of you.’
‘My father’s with her. He’s somewhere over there.’
‘You want to be careful, miss. Specially after what’s happened.’ He turned away and pulled on the dog’s lead.
She looked again at the weedy growth. Some of the bricks beneath it were blackened. Her memory was sharper now. She could remember playing in a junior competition but she could not have won or the memory would have been clearer. It must have been soon after she started school in England.
She began to walk round the courts the way she’d come. She could no longer see Hilly. Her father was standing behind the stop-netting, watching.
‘Where’s Hilly?’ she said.
‘I thought she was with you. She said she was coming over.’
You want to be careful, miss. Specially after what’s happened.
‘Oh no!’
She ran round the side of the courts. The playing fields were suddenly emptier than they had been. There was no sign of Hilly.
She saw a group of boys with a football. ‘Have you seen a little girl with a kite?’
They shook their heads.
She ran on. The noise of the weir was loud now. The river was high and the water foamed white as it dropped into the weir pool.
‘Hilly!’
The river bank was lined with tall trees and there was a good deal of secondary growth.
‘Hilly!’
She ran up the line of the trees in the direction of the weir.
‘Have you seen a little girl with a kite?’ she said to a fisherman on the bank.
‘Sorry.’
She ran on.
And then, out of the corner of her eye she saw something move. She whirled. Hilly was running diagonally across the field with the kite trailing in the air behind her.
Anne raced towards her. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Here!’ Hilly was affronted. ‘You left me. So did Grandpa.’
Anne was about to fling her arms around her and then thought better of it. There was no need to overdramatise something the child wasn’t even aware of.
‘Let’s find Grandpa,’ she said.
On the far side of the playing area, under the castle, a large white Volvo drew up. It had a stripe on its side and she realised it was a police car. A man and a young woman got out and began to walk across their line in the direction of the tennis courts. They passed about thirty yards away. The girl was in her teens. She was small but full-breasted, and pretty with dark hair. Her face was spoiled by a petulant mouth.
‘I know that lady,’ Hilly said.
‘Don’t point.’
‘But I do.’
‘Where on earth do you know her from?’
‘The supermarket,’ Hilly said. ‘Grandpa called her a twist.’
Chapter Nine
Heat drained him. He hated it; hated playing in it.
You were born in a heatwave, his mother always said.
The day was hot, tropical. Sussex burned. The concrete courts were like furnaces.
Playing the tennis wall, hour after hour. Another hour with his father. The heat making him light-headed.
Swing through the ball . . . place feet properly . . . look at feet . . . You not preparing . . . feet is everything . . . feet . . . balance . . . swing . . .
Hands covered in band-aids, each finger a white cylinder, racquet grips slippery with sweat . . .
You lazy, now I make you run.
Backwards and forwards, side to side, whipping across the court.
Bend knees for backhand! Think! Use brains!
Plock . . . plock . . . plock . . .
Over and over again.
Goodnight, Lajos.
Goodni’, Mrs Johnson. Goodni’, Mrs Powell.
; Don’t keep Jason too long in this heat. He looks tired.
We finish now.
And then the boy standing at the stop-netting. A boy from the town. Not a member’s son. A nobody.
Would Jason like a game?
No. He was going home now.
Was he scared of getting beaten?
Lajos listening.
You know who is this? This my son, Jason Newman. He going to be Wimbledon champion. You still want to play?
Yes.
Okay. You play.
That’s how it had started. It was clear in the memory bank. The heat. The fading light. The empty courts. Just the two of them.
And his father.
The boy’s name was Gary. He was half Jason’s size. Jason had never seen him before. Later he found out that his father was caretaker at a school. There was no court at the school. No tennis wall. There was a garage door with a painted netline. His father called it a lower-class school.
Jason could not handle Gary. He didn’t play properly, not the way he, Jason, had been taught to play. He didn’t serve and come to the net. He dinked and cut and lobbed and spun and sliced and dropped.
It was like cheating.
He was small. Jason’s serve was big. Gary stood back and jumped in the air and pasted the serve down the lines.
His legs were short, Jason’s were long but dead. Gary ran down everything.
Try! Jason’s father shouted. You not trying!
He was angry. At the change-overs he flicked Jason with a towel. You are coward.
The harder Jason tried the worse he played. Gary beat him easily. They didn’t play a third set.
Jason’s father said: You tanked. I teach you not to tank. I beat it into you. You not my son.
When his mother came to search for them it was nearly midnight. Jason was sweeping the courts. His father was sitting in the umpire’s chair, smoking and watching the boy under the bright halogen lights.
For God’s sake what are you doing to him? He isn’t ten years old!
She began to shake the chair.
Her husband jumped down and struck her in the face. It was the first time Jason had seen that.
Don’t, he cried. Oh, don’t . . .
*
‘What’s all the noise about, Jason old cock?’
Jason opened his eyes.
‘Don’t what?’ Billy Sweete said. ‘What don’t you want them to do?’
Burn Out (Dr. Anne Vernon Book 1) Page 7
