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Miller H Caldwell, click here
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Chapter 5
Chapter 5
It takes a worried Imam
Tony enjoyed his weekend. It was the third time, every second week, he had gone with a group of walkers. He had joined the local Active Ramblers only two months before and if he was not golfing, he loved the great outdoors without a sliced swing or an errant golf ball. There was a group of ten sometimes more meeting at an arranged spot with haversacks full of high energy biscuits and bananas. Bottles of water too, saw them through the day. And at the end of the walk, a pub was always nearby where they enjoyed their glass, before returning home. Tony could then look forward to a long warm soaking bath to unwind and prepare for the week ahead.
♦
Major Paul Risk’s referral came via the Relate organisation. He and his wife had sought sexual counselling advice as their marriage had been torn apart by his sexual conviction and now abstinence was the constant feature of their relationship. The sessions had been initially positive with tasks taken home to employ then report at the next session. But the tasks were not enjoyed. There was little commitment shown by Paul to his wife Irene. He was beginning to look elsewhere. Divorce was on the cards although it had never been Irene’s wish to separate from her husband. Paul stormed out of the session making threats of a sordid nature and case worker Margaret reported the matter to the police. They in turn saw no evidence to charge him but suggested he make an appointment at Tony’s practice and he did.
Major Paul Risk was no longer a shining light in the Salvation movement. Shunned by some members as a bad example to married bliss, he had drifted from the very group that had rescued him after prison. He felt isolated and in search of his true identity, in search of a meaningful life.
♦
Tony had another session with Farook in his diary. He was not familiar with the ways and culture of Islam but he knew mental health had universality about it. It was not like an influenza epidemic, arriving abruptly then disappearing. It was more selective. It permeated life from an early age increasing by age, often rejecting the help it cried out for. Farook was one such example. But so too were those in the isolated professions but the clerics had begun to surface from his clients list, as a group in particular need of treatment.
Tony’s pen fell from behind his ear when his secretary announced Farook’s arrival. He came in like a sheep eyeing the collie. He was offered a seat. The inevitable open question began the session.
‘So how have you been Farook?’
Farook’s eyes gave more information than his voice. They were downcast, deep in thought as how to respond. When he did, it was not a particularly unusual disclosure he heard.
‘I’ve been having a recurring dream,’ he said in a guilty tone.
‘A daytime or night-time dream?’ His clients often deflected their situations by interpreting their conditions as dreams. This seemed to be another of those experiences Tony thought.
‘Both. It happens a lot. It’s about a thick wall. It’s in front of me. I can’t see over and I can’t break it down.’
‘And you want to destroy it?’
‘I don’t know. I want to see over but I can’t. If it means breaking it, then that’s what I’ll do but the dream does not let me.’
Tony took a note of what he was being told. His pad showed not narrative but a picture, a drawing of the dream.
‘And tell me does the wall have an end? Can you get around it that way?’
‘No, I can’t see the end of the wall. It bends round out of sight. I can never reach its end, if it has one.’
‘What do you think is behind the wall?
Farook found the question as hard as any theological riddle.
‘I think I’d see a garden with many people. Sometimes walking round smelling the sweet scent of flowers and talking, yes talking. Too hard to hear exactly what they are saying but talking sometimes about me, I’m sure, I hear my name being discussed. There is a group of Muslims at the far side.’
Tony’s drawing was starting to lack precision. ‘Tell me Farook, pretend you are the wall. What would you feel, what might you hear and what can you see?’
Farook’s posture changed. He looked away but not out of the window. It seemed he had created a wall beside him. He was seeing his dream another way.
‘The wall is strong. It has firm foundations. But is it protecting me from the other side .......or the other side from me? I don’t know but it’s a broad wall. I could certainly walk on it.’
‘And what’s the wall made of Farook?’
Farook pursed his lips as if to ask if such a question mattered.
‘It’s solid. Solid stone. It’s an old wall.’
‘Now, try to imagine you are inside the garden. What are you doing?
This question was tricky for Farook. Their faces were not clear. Had Tony got to the crux of the dream or what could he possibly deduce from all he had told him so far? Farook struggled to reply. His hands were tight together, his knuckles grew whiter deprived of a steady flow of blood. His knuckles clicked. He jerked.
‘I don’t like being inside the garden,’ was all Farook could muster. A few seconds passed in silence. The room stood still. The rough-edged rasping of a rook outside was all Farook could hear. He wished he could be that bird no matter how demonic it sounded.
‘Inside the wall...’ continued Tony.
Farook took out his handkerchief. He wiped his perspiring brow.
‘They are chasing me. They have angry faces....’
‘The Mosque members?’
Farook simply nodded.
Tony went over to his coffee machine and offered Farook a cup.
‘Tea please, thanks,’
‘So you are not attending the mosque as often?’
‘No, not at all for the time being.’
‘No Imam. No prayers?’
‘Oh no, many can step in for me. It is as if I am ill, you see.’
‘And are you?’
‘To them I am...and...I suppose I am too.’
‘Tell me, why?’ the doctor asked.
‘I can’t cope. Maybe something is going to happen and I feel I am the cause. So I avoid them. I go for walks. I dress in a western fashion. I am searching for something. An explanation perhaps.’
‘That’s the thoughts and behaviours you are telling me. What about your feelings, Farook?’
‘Feelings’, he pondered. A moment of reflection was required to move on from his heart felt thoughts and behaviours.
‘Feelings...well.. anxious ...I think... perhaps fearful.’
‘And can you cope with these feelings?
‘No, you don’t understand my culture. No matter what good or bad befalls a Muslim person, it is the Will of God, Insha’Allah.’
♦
Tony loosened his tie and yawned. He had little idea how to take forward his growing clerical clients. Group therapy was no panacea for such an ingrained set of beliefs. He took the rest of the day off.
And he hit his golf ball with great venom. He felt the tension escape from his shoulders as he breathed in fresh air. He strode down the fairway with no cares in the world. It was perhaps not his best round. Too many bogies when a par was achievable but a birdie at the par four hole of the backward nine gave him a moment of smug satisfaction. As his limbs exercised, unknown to him, his psyche was at work untangling the future of his disparate collection of clerics.
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Web Site:
A Clerical Murder
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Ron