‘We are a contemplative order here,’ said the monk. ‘It is not permitted for John to see anyone without good reason.’
‘I have good reason,’ said Macandrew, without elaborating.
‘I’d best tell Father Abbot you’re here,’ said the monk, deciding to pass the buck.
Macandrew was left standing in a long, covered cloister. There were several doors leading off into what he presumed would be the monks’ sleeping and living quarters. He looked out at the wet grass and noticed there was a fairy ring in it. He was wondering what the inmates would make of that when the shadow-faced monk returned, accompanied by a tall, thin man whom he introduced as, Father Abbot.
‘You wish to see Brother John, I understand,’ he said in a voice that suggested Irish rather than Scottish origins.
‘I do,’ agreed Macandrew. ‘I’ve come a long way.’
The Abbot held Macandrew’s gaze for a moment — long enough for Macandrew to wonder what was going on inside his head because his eyes gave no clue. Finally, he said, ‘John has been ill. He’s recovering well but what he needs most at the moment is peace and tranquillity. He has renounced his past life and I am reluctant to let anyone from it intrude on his recovery. If this were a matter of family crisis or bereavement it would of course, be different, but I suspect that this is not the case?’
Macandrew had to agree that it wasn’t.
‘You’re from the medical world. You want to ask him about his research, don’t you?’
Macandrew was taken aback. ‘I do.’
‘I’m going to have to deny your request,’ said the Abbot.
‘Doesn’t Dr Burnett have any say in the matter?’ Macandrew asked.
‘No,’ replied the abbot evenly. ‘I decide.’
‘John Burnett’s research could make the difference between a possible cure for one of my patients and spending the rest of her life in a mental institution. There is no one else doing the work.’
‘I know about Brother John’s research. He told me about it when he first came here.’
‘And the answer is still, no?’
‘Still no,’ said the abbot.
Eleven
Macandrew started back down the drive, reflecting on how much he disliked organised religion and its professional proponents. There was something about the look in their eyes which irritated him, a smug self-satisfaction in their self-delusional belief that they were in possession of all the answers. As he neared the gates of the abbey grounds he caught sight of a monk approaching from a path to the left of the car park. He was carrying two metal milk churns. He had his cowl pulled up and was looking down at the ground so that he didn’t see Macandrew standing there. On impulse, Macandrew called out to the white-clad figure. ‘Dr Burnett?’
The monk stopped and turned. Macandrew had anticipated him being startled but the look in his eyes was quite different. It spoke more of anguish than surprise. In that instant he knew he’d struck lucky. This man did not have the calm assuredness of Brother Francis or the Abbot. He’d found John Burnett by accident.
‘Yes?’ said the man uncertainly.
‘I’ve come a very long way to see you, Dr Burnett. Would you at least spare me a few minutes of your time?’
‘I’m no longer a doctor. That was all in the past. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work...’
‘At least, hear me out, Doctor. My name is Macandrew; I’m a neurosurgeon at Kansas University Medical Center. A few weeks ago I removed a malignant tumour from one of my patients; a Hartman’s tumour. I don’t think I need tell you what sort of state she’s in now.’
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ replied Burnett, avoiding Macandrew’s eyes, ‘nothing at all.’
‘These tumours were your special interest, Doctor. You know more about them than anyone else in the world; I’ve read your papers. Your work was going well. You were on the verge of being able to treat these patients and then suddenly, you give it all up... for this? That’s why I’m here. I had to find out, why?’
‘I was called to do other things,’ replied Burnett.
‘Called? Other things?’ questioned Macandrew. ‘What other things?’
‘I’ve been called to serve God.’
Macandrew said nothing but his eyes never left Burnett. Burnett briefly met his gaze but then looked away, aware of the silent accusation.
‘You don’t think you can serve God by doing what you’re best at?’ said Macandrew. ‘You don’t think you can serve God by saving a group of people from the mental institutions where they’ll undoubtedly spend the rest of their lives if you don’t?’
‘That is conjecture. There was never any certainty of success,’ countered Burnett.
‘But there was a chance,’ insisted Macandrew, ‘and a very good one by all accounts. Now there’s none at all because you’ve decided to “serve God” and, just for good measure, you took all your research notes with you so no one else could move things along. What the hell was that all about?’
‘You don’t understand!’ protested Burnett through gritted teeth and then with more control, ‘You just don’t understand.’
‘So, help me. Talk me through it. Make me understand. Convince me it’s a better idea to spend your time chanting Latin on your knees six times a day than working in your lab doing some real good.’
‘You’re deliberately twisting things,’ accused Burnett. ‘It’s a rare condition. We’re not talking about thousands of people.’
‘No,’ agreed Macandrew, ‘But there are a number and one of them just happens to be my patient. Her name’s Jane by the way.’
Burnett did not respond but Macandrew thought he detected a flicker of doubt in his eyes when he glanced up at him briefly. He continued, ‘There’s something special about these patients, isn’t there, Doctor? They aren’t really brain damaged at all in the conventional sense. There’s more to it. They become... other people?’
For the first time, Burnett looked Macandrew straight in the eye as if conceding the conversation had moved to another level. ‘So you know that much...’
‘One of our psychiatrists thought it might be a form of multiple personality disorder or whatever they call it these days but that didn’t quite fit what we were seeing...’
Burnett appeared to consider for a few moments before picking up the two milk churns. ‘I’m sorry, I really must be getting back,’ he said.
‘There’s one other thing that bothers me,’ continued Macandrew as Burnett started to move away, ‘Why did Ashok Mukherjee and Simone Robin give up too?’
No reply.
‘Were they called by God too?’ asked Macandrew, determined to sting Burnett into responding.
‘You really don’t understand any of this,’ said Burnett, without turning round, his voice full of exasperation. ‘You don’t understand and I can’t tell you.’
‘Why not, for Christ’s sake?’
‘That’s about right,’ said Burnett quietly. ‘For his sake.’
‘Fine,’ stormed Macandrew, ‘and a couple of mea culpas on your part will make the whole thing right. I’ll just tell my patient that,’ he said angrily. ‘Not that she’ll understand of course... she’s a thirty-eight year old woman who thinks she’s an eight year old girl. Still, don’t you worry about that; you’ve got hymns to sing... prayers to chant... Maybe you could put in a good word for her? Like I said, her name’s Jane, Jane Francini.’
Burnett stopped in his tracks and Macandrew felt that he might be on the edge of success. He said more calmly, ‘Think about it; that’s all I ask. If you change your mind about telling me what’s been going on I’ll be staying at the Bruntsfield Hotel in Edinburgh for another week.’
Burnett turned round and Macandrew sensed that he was wavering. He walked slowly towards him and, despite the failing light, could see the tortured look in his eyes.