Anyone For Tennis&;#063;

ANYONE FOR TENNIS?

Have you ever had a nervous breakdown? No, neither have I. I'm not even
sure I know
what one is. I imagine that everything gets on top of you and you feel
completely
overwhelmed and unable to cope. I've always considered myself rather
good when this
happens. If I feel I'm sinking I focus on one issue at a time until I
see light at the end of
the tunnel.

But then just before Easter I became concerned as to my own mental
health. I started to
develop the most morbid and irrational fears about hurting children
with knives. They
were no children in particular, my wife and I don't have any. And they
were no knives in
particular. I just had these vague, fuzzy pictures that kept coming
into my head. In the
end it got so bad that I daren't go near children in the street for
fear of harming them, and
I would lay awake at night worrying about it. I thought I was going
mad. I eventually
consulted my GP. I had a long chat with her and was relieved to find I
was not going mad
at all and in fact my symptoms were not that unusual. She said I was
suffering from a
common form of anxiety-induced depression, probably brought on by
overwork. She
wrote me a prescription for a mild sedative and sent me on my
way.

By Whitsuntide I was feeling much better though still a little
precarious, and I remained
worried in case the morbid thoughts might return. I discussed things
with my wife and we
both agreed that it would be best if I went somewhere for a few weeks
of complete rest.
Hillberry Hall can be found, if you look hard enough, in an isolated
valley deep in the
Forest of Dean. It doesn't actually use the words "retreat" or
"convalescent home" in its
brochure, but its clear aim is to provide peace, tranquility and
solitude. It seemed perfect.

I arrived at Hillberry Hall in the second week of July for a three week
stay. The Hall
itself was built in the late nineteenth century for a wealthy local
merchant. It was a large,
three-storey building, with fifteen guest bedrooms, and while it wasn't
dilapidated,
neither was it pristine. In fact it was homely, a friendly place, and I
felt welcome. And
though the Hall itself was only adequately maintained, the fifty acres
of surrounding
grounds were immaculately landscaped. I had a spacious room on the top
floor at the
back of the Hall and would spend many spare moments gazing out of my
window at the
tennis courts, the croquet lawn, and the glorious gardens, shimmering
below me in the
summer haze. As a hotel the Hall was run efficiently enough, although
as you might
expect the staff kept a low profile. Nonetheless, I quickly made
friends with Paul, one of
the groundsmen. Paul Tyler was younger than me, in his late twenties,
but our
relationship blossomed after a chance remark revealed our mutual love
of Somerset
County Cricket Club.

The summer was idyllic. There were several other guests at the Hall,
and the long
afternoons would fade into longer evenings as we spent endless hours
playing tennis or
croquet, or sometimes scratch cricket on the lawn. We would take tea on
the terrace then
later sip Pimms as we watched the sun setting over the distant Welsh
hills. At other times,
when I wanted my own company, I would read or walk in the grounds. I
would wander
wherever my fancy took me, knowing that in the extensive grounds I was
sure to find
some new and fascinating feature. One day it might be a statue, the
next a pond full of
carp, or perhaps a pergola. I would loose myself for hours, every step
filled with
enchantment and delight.

The days passed quickly and I began to feel much better. I felt much
more stable and my
concerns of the previous months seemed far away, as if they'd happened
to someone else.

On the Wednesday of my third week at Hillberry, I had a light lunch of
poached salmon
and salad, then set out to walk it off. Whilst out the previous day I'd
seen a high stone
wall some way in the distance and I wanted to know what was beyond it.
After twenty
minutes searching and some wrong turnings I found the wall, and a
wicker gate set into it.
I passed through the gate to discover that the wall was only one
boundary of a spectacular
walled garden. I passed an agreeable half-hour infusing the sights and
scents of the richly
hued roses, the dahlias and the carnations, all at the height of their
summer pomp. It was
only when I was about to leave that I noticed a door set into the far
wall, the wall that had
been facing me as I'd entered the garden. I made my way across to this
door, but found it
to be very solid and very locked. It looked like it had been locked for
a long time. The
walls surrounding the garden were at least ten feet high. Clearly I
would have to wait for
another day to discover what was on the other side. I shrugged my
shoulders and made
my way back to the Hall.

That evening, as a pre-dinner diversion, I went in search of Paul. I
found him in his
workshop, packing away his tools for the night and about to leave. I
asked him about the
locked door in the walled garden.

"Oh that" he said, "that's the old grass tennis court. I don't think
anyone's been in there
for years. We didn't bother with it once we'd had the new all-weather
courts built. It must
be a complete wilderness by now."

He reached over his workbench and selected a large iron key from
amongst several
hanging from hooks on the workshop wall.

"Here" he said, handing me the key. "Take a look around it if you want.
But don't come
back telling the gaffer that it's all overgrown or he'll be after me to
get it cleaned-up".

I thanked him and slid the key into my jacket pocket. I wished him
goodnight, then
strolled back to the Hall, contemplating a hearty dinner, an early
night, and the prospect
of an afternoon's exploration the following day.

I went to bed at ten o'clock. Ever since I've been taking my sedatives
I've slept for eight
hours every night. I thought it strange therefore when I woke and
glanced at my travel
clock to find it was ten-past-one in the morning. I tried to get back
to sleep but I was
clearly wasting my time. I got up, pulled back the curtains and pushed
the old-fashioned
sash window wide open. I sat by the window, in the dark, smoking
cigarettes. It was a
still, cloudless night. I smoked as I watched a colony of bats swooping
and playing in the
bright, full moonlight.

The longer I sat there, the more heightened my senses and alertness
became. The chances
of getting any further sleep in the next few hours were now
non-existent. I hesitated for a
moment, then pulled on my trousers and jacket and made my way
downstairs. Maybe a
late-night walk would tire me and clear my head.

I wandered aimlessly for a while, not really noticing where I was or
the direction I was
heading, so I thought nothing of it when I found myself at the gate to
the walled garden. I
entered and began to stroll the perimeter path. It wasn't until I was
passing the door to the
tennis court that I remembered the key in my jacket pocket.

I find it hard now to describe what I saw when I opened that door. You
will find it hard to
believe me. I can only do my best to portray it to you and you can only
make your own
judgement. The tennis court was not a wilderness, it was as well kept
as the rest of the
grounds. Two children were playing on the court. On one side was a boy
of about twelve,
and on the other a slightly younger girl, perhaps a sister or cousin.
They were dressed in
what I'd say were Edwardian middle-class childrens' clothing. They were
messing about
at tennis, as children do, but strangely, whenever the ball hit the
racquet it made no noise.
They were clearly shouting and having fun, but no sound of laughter
reached my ears.
The scene which lay before me was utterly silent.

I watched transfixed as, unnoticed by the children, a lean man of
medium height entered
the court by a gate at the side. The man was also dressed in Edwardian
clothes. He
walked purposefully towards the boy. The only two words I heard in that
whole terrible
night came when the girl noticed the man. "Please Papa" she said, her
voice small and
faltering, yet resonant in the silence. They were no longer laughing
and joking. As the
man reached the boy he drew a long-bladed knife from inside his jacket
and raised his
arm. That's when I must have lost consciousness.

I don't remember anything else till I woke up in here, but Paul came to
see me last week
and told me all about it. When they'd realized I was missing they
searched the house and
grounds until Paul remembered about the key. Even then, it took an hour
of hunting
through the tangled undergrowth. They found me in a dense thicket of
rhododendron,
squatting on my haunches, rocking back and forth and muttering
senselessly. With both
hands I clasped a rusty kitchen knife tightly to my chest.

In view of the bizarre circumstances the police had ordered a search of
the tennis court
area. In the course of this they found a fragment of bone which they
sent away for
analysis. When the bone was confirmed as coming from a human tibia they
started
digging. Just below the surface they found the remains of the skeletons
of two young
children.

"They'd obviously been there a long time and were nothing to do with
you" said Paul,
"but the weird thing was?..". He hesitated.

"Go on" I said.

"Well?.the skeletons, they were headless. They found no skulls. But
there were marks
on the spine where the necks would have been. The police think the
heads were somehow
hacked off."

The nurse will be here soon with my pills. Then it will be time for Dr
Simon's ward
round. As I told you, I've never had a nervous breakdown, so why won't
they let me out
of here?

THE END

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