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Miller H Caldwell, click here
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More clerics fall ill.
Chapter 2
Troubled Water under a Bridge
Constant rain like bathroom shower-heads set on full, fell on roofs sending bubbling gushes of water into thirsty drains. The sky was lost in claustrophobic darkness. Now it was closing time. It had been one of those life supporting necessary but so inconvenient miserable days. Coloured umbrellas identified female pedestrians while golf and black ones kept the head and shoulders dry of the men as they headed, down-headed towards car parks and their homes. Those in cars leaned forward, mesmerised by the full throttle wiper blades out of time with Radio 1 or 2 and sometimes Classic FM.
Most pedestrians walked purposefully, watching for approaching puddles. Bus passengers looked down on them with some sympathy hoping the worst of the rain would have passed-by when they alighted.
That was why police could find no witnesses or even an explanation why a man lay on the muddy reeded bank beneath the town bridge. His life seemed to have ebbed away amid the constant ripples of water washing his face. None of the moving human ants glanced over the bridge.
Only his hair moved, flowing backward and forward at the vagrancies of the tide and his beard chattered but any sound was instantly silenced.
The in-shore lifeboat stationed further down the river was alerted. Another body in the river. Third this year but it was November. The average annual water death toll had just been achieved. Water always had its fascination; its alluring recreation and its death enticing Thanatos. They sped towards the fatal casualty. That would be what they would expect. They were prepared as ever.
The location was time saving. The body was under the bridge, not washed away. Reports of bodies in the water usually meant a search of the banks but this was an easy find. The coxswain threw the dregs of his coffee flask into the river. He slowed down his inflatable and approached the body slowly with respect and due reverence.
An ambulance stood-by the bridge with unnecessary flashing blue lights. The crew remained inside, dry, awaiting developments. Two policemen arrived and walked onto the bridge where the departing point of suicide began. But they knew the day’s drenching would have washed away any possible evidence at that site. They knew the autopsy would determine whether he jumped or was pushed; whether he was drunk, deranged or drugged.
The boat hook secured a grip on the man. As he was dragged off the grassy wet reeds, a groan was heard.
‘Easy, he’s alive Mark, be prepared.’
Mark was the crew’s first aid man. A paramedic in day-time, they always hoped he was available when life at sea was in question.
The man was dragged over the rubber bulwark and placed in the recovery position. Some water trickled from his mouth. His right leg was clearly broken below the knee.
‘Give me space,’ said Mark straddling the body. ‘He’s unconscious. Just as well, he’d feel the pain if he wasn't. There’s sure some life in him. Alert the ambulance.’
The inflatable sped towards the town slipway where the ambulance arrived. A crowd of passers-by forgot the rain to view some real life drama before their eyes. Their second dose of drama awaited them at soap-time that night but this was certainly not acting. They sensed a different atmosphere, less pacey than screen offerings.
Shinny foil wrapped round the man as he was transferred to a stretcher which was quickly secured inside the ambulance. The driver sped away with siren screaming and blue flashing lights to the A&E department of the local hospital while his colleague fought to keep him alive.
Alan welcomed medical social worker Lin Howie to his home. Her effervescent personality organised domestic support and the menial jobs fell from Alan’s hands. It gave him more time to concentrate on his sermons. The Royal Volunteer Service provided Massie, now a regular visitor to chat with his wife and Massie often brought some home baking. She read to Penny and opened her world to female companionship. On fair wind days she took Penny out for walks. Alan was on the road to recovery, he thought.
♦
Major Ivan Risk played the trombone. That piece of brass tubing which defied explanation to the uninitiated. A slide ventured up and down making different notes. Sometimes it stayed in the same place while a series of different sounds were heard. It had no keyboard or finger placing. But Ivan had mastered this instrument to make its melodic brass notes soft and warm or loud and harsh when the music dictated. Ivan was the doyen of the Salvation band. His militaristic uniform was immaculate and his instrument polished to catch sunlight on its shaft and emit the glory of the Lord.
But Ivan had a darker side. He also had a series of young music pupils. They came from different backgrounds and none were Salvationists, most adhering to no religion. The Moorov doctrine was applied to the Police charge when evidence emerged of inappropriate touching of both boys and girls. It was their collective evidence against his faltering words of defence that led to a three year prison sentence and a life on the sex offender’s register.
But that was ten years ago and the denomination had supported his resurrection, his seeking forgiveness and his firm faith. But music lessons were a thing of the dark past and no longer given. As a musician however, he was priceless. He was always on the front row when the Salvation Army Band was entertaining. After all, the movement of the trombone demanded space. That put him in the spotlight.
♦
Ward 8 was for men who were recovering from medical treatments. One patient had all is rotten teeth removed yet he was anxious to communicate with his fellow bed companions. It was a struggle to hear him, let alone understand what his toothless gums were saying. It led to many misunderstandings, resolved by inane smiles.
There were no misunderstandings when the leg plastered, head bandaged Imam regained consciousness. He was propped up resting in the sitting position in bed. He had not expected the approaching medic to stop in front of him.
‘So it’s Farook, isn't it? Farook Elahi?’ asked Dr Tony Scriven.
Farook lifted his eyes to the smartly dressed psychiatrist. Failure was etched on his face but he managed a minimal nod.
Tony smiled as he put his hand on Farook’s shoulder.
‘Salaam Alaikum.’
‘Alaikum Salaam,’ Farook replied.
With a mischievous smile he revealed he knew something of his patient.
‘Taxi driver I think. That you?’
‘Yes, Ali’s Taxis. Not running today.’
Tony laughed close to a snigger. His smile was not reciprocated. Farook was in a state of confusion. He had failed to end his life, like the unsuccessful bomber’s un-exploding suicide vest and yet he was being cared for and treated by those tasked to preserve his life. But for what purpose? Tony ventured straight to the point.
‘Well did you jump, or were you pushed?’
Farook shuffled around as much as he was able and set his dark eyes on the face of the psychiatrist.
‘Pushed into jumping. That’s what it was. The third option you didn't give me.’
‘So this was not a simple suicide attempt? You know, that was some height you fell. Many wouldn't have survived.’
‘The lucky ones,’ said Farook.
‘I see. Perhaps we can have an appointment before you leave.’
‘And when might that be?’
‘Physio will let me know. They’ll get you ready for departure. It might be a week yet. Head injuries, you know....they take time.’
Farook nodded as if an apology for his failed suicide was necessary.
‘Okay, I best be going. Stick in there, Farook, I might need your taxi one day.’
♦
Tony strolled back to his office. It was not far away but he enjoyed the fresh air, the reviving properties of the swaying trees, light breeze and floating white clouds on his mind. It cleansed his thoughts to prepare for the next patient but the waiting room was empty. No apparent pressures made him more thoughtful than usual.
‘Want a coffee?’ he asked his receptionist Madge.
‘I’ll get it doctor,’ she said rising from her computer screen.’
‘No, no. No patients waiting, I've got the time.’
Tony made his black coffee with a sensation of sugar, believing each day he stirred in one less grain.
‘It’s tea for you anyway, isn't it?’
‘Redboosh tea bag, on the shelf. Just on its own, thanks.’
Tony brought over her mug wishing he had not filled it to the brim. He moved with canny caution and succeeded to bring it to her desk. However when he lowered the mug to its coaster, he spilt some of her dark red hot liquid.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘That’s fine, don’t worry,’ she said taking a tissue from her patterned paper hanky cube on her desk.
‘Mail’s on your desk sir,’ Madge said perturbed that she had let him serve her.
The mail might take him comfortably through till lunchtime he thought as he kicked the door open with one eye on his coffee. Indeed there was a pile. But he was glad to see a couple of Journals in the mix. He sat down and took his first sip as he leafed through the collection. One brown envelope was out of the ordinary, though not uncommon. Court reports pre-sentencing came every now and then. He opened the letter. He lifted the phone.
‘Madge? This Court report. They have only given me a couple of weeks. Can you make an appointment for this patient, Lizzie Taylor?’
♦
Farook arrived at the clinic three days later.
‘Well, a wheelchair I see, not your taxi?’
‘No, not sure when I’ll be back driving yet,’ replied Farook.
Tony was pleased to see his patient seemed more optimistic, less gloomy. It augured well for a better consultation. Farook wheeled his chair in front of Tony prepared to face his mental daemons.
‘So tell me about that day,’ asked Tony.
‘It was a build up over many months. Pressures from my own people.’
‘What kind of pressures?’
‘I had a seventeen year old girl to teach to drive. Of course her father had to sit in the back of the car. You know, traditional Muslim. I told the girl I could not teach her to drive if she was going to wear her burkah. She could not possibly be observant as a driver. She was putting lives at risk as well as her own. I was not going to teach her in a burkah, and that was final.’
‘Eminently sensible I would have thought. What did the father say?’
‘He told me his daughter had a right to wear what she wished. I told him this was not Saudi Arabia. If he wanted to go there, then she could dress that way but she would not be allowed to drive at all then.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The girl still does not drive but her father has influence in our Mosque and doesn't like the way I am running it.’
‘All because of the driving incident?’
‘No that was the tipping point. You see I’m trying to make the Muslim British more British. Of course they say they are but they are clearly not. You don’t see Muslims playing at Wimbledon and not many play football or golf. They mix at school but at university they gather with their own. There is no inter-marriage, which you can expect with other faiths. They really don’t mix enough. They are certainly not encouraged to mix.’
‘So it’s a traditional, conservative Mosque you run.’
‘Traditional? Isn't it the same in the Church of England? You have the traditional church attendees all set in their ways. They don’t like the guitar playing youthful choirs. There’s friction. Just like us. The elders have the voting powers. In our Mosque I am only their religious leader.’
Tony had never been in a Mosque but it was certainly not the time to ask to visit when there was ill feeling around. Farook tried to cross his legs but he couldn't.
‘You all right?’ asked Tony.
‘Yes, but you want to know about that bridge don’t you?’ Tony nodded without saying a word. He was in no rush.
‘I really want to bring my people with me. So I did a twelve week course at the Charmley Muslim College.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘East Midlands. It’s a course to empower British Muslims to feel confident in their faith while drawing on the traditions and the values they see around them in Britain, their adopted home.’
‘I see. Like the Monarchy for example, they are big on that aren't they?’
‘Yes, the Queen and the Houses of Parliament with all its faults. At least it’s more democratic than the governments of most of our former colonial countries. The course had visitors from the Police, the Catholic Bishop of Birmingham and even a Rabbi. I had to keep that from my Mosque because they didn't want influence from other faiths.’
‘So you were away for twelve weeks? Did another Imam take your place?’
‘No I came back every Friday but the atmosphere was not good any longer. They did not want to hear my new ideas of a better outward approach. They started to make life awkward for me. You see Islamaphobia is growing but not as bad as in France or in America where the press stoke the flames of hatred. But recent extreme events in France, The Netherlands and Denmark make us nervous. People don’t realise Isis kills Sufis and established Sunni Muslims in Iraq and Syria.’
‘And don’t forget the persecuted Christian minorities in the Middle East.’
‘Exactly. There are many victims. I agree. But also young unemployed Muslims from my own Mosques have been setting out to join Isis. They had the backing of the elders and I had no power to stop them or report them. I could only silently pray that they would be caught before they left the country. That was the way our Mosque was being run. Run with a knife at my back. I saw no way out and I was not only losing influence but losing friends too. ....I needed to get away...get out.... out of this life and that is why I tried to end it. End it at the bridge.’
‘So what plans do you have now?’
‘I've had a few visitors from the Mosque. They are quick to forgive and grateful that Allah - blessings upon His Name - saved me. So I suppose I can return there and I’ll see if they will sack me as their Imam. It’s within their power to appoint a new Imam. So taxi driving and the Mosque ....I’ll give it another go.’
‘Good. I hope it goes well for you Farook. But I want to see you again. Perhaps in a few weeks. I’ll drop you a line. Are you comfortable with that?’
Farook smiled through his beard. ‘That’s what I like about the British. Are you comfortable with that? It does not translate well in my native tongue. It’s why we should be more British. I’ll be pleased to see you again.’
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Web Site:
Fault Lines
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Ron