It seemed the best place to end life. I took out the blades and started to cut my arm. See?’
Tony looked at his arm sporting some three parallel scars; none approached a vein.
‘So when did this all start?’
‘I don’t know. It’s been a long time coming. I’ve not been enjoying playing.’
‘Do you think you have lost your tone, your embouchure, your...eh.....’ Tony poured the milk still thinking what a clarinet’s properties might be or require.
‘Lost it? No the exact opposite. Note perfect I’ve always been. I read music like enjoying a Dostoevsky novel.’
‘I see.’
‘But something told me it was time to give way to the feelings I was experiencing. It was dramatic I know but I had to tell them I’d no longer play the damn instrument.’
‘How long have you been playing it?’
‘All my life, since I was a kid.’ Tony scribbled away.
‘Tell me about your parents. Did they play?’
‘No, neither of them was musical. I was an only child. Spoiled me, I suppose. How would I know any differently? I whistled a lot. At primary school the teacher had me in the choir. She said I was musical, had an ear for that sort of thing. My parents encouraged me needless to say. So I guess I was about ten when they wanted to take me into the junior orchestra. I started with a trumpet but I really liked the clarinet. I was good and I knew it, too bloody good. That’s the issue.’
Ivan put on a high pitched female voice. ‘Isn’t he good? I’ve never heard the clarinet played so well. Is that Ivan playing? You must be very proud of your son.’ And my parents always said I played perfectly. Perfectly, bloody perfectly every time.
‘A lot of pressure,’ said Tony.
‘Yeah.’
‘And what happened yesterday?’
Ivan had difficulty relating his childhood to what had happened the day before, but it was becoming very clear to Tony.
Praise for children was a double-edged sword he knew. It had been encouraged over the last few decades but on closer inspection it was creating in a child’s mind their need for constant perfection. In adulthood it continued for Ivan and when he realised he was at the cutting edge of perfection, he had nowhere else to go. His musical journey had reached the buffers.
When Ruth told him that no one could ever better his playing, he did not take it as a compliment. He knew complements ratchet up the praise. His music knew no restrictive bounds. Never again would he play. His perfect notes would never improve. They would never be heard again. Tony felt sure of that.
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 club 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 of 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 with 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, revealing he was 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.’
‘Those are 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 the growing number of his 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.
6
The Open Door
Tony filtered his mail, making a stack of some of the prepaid reply letters he was anticipating. The other letter which took priority was a hospital referral. Actually it stemmed from a hospital assessment. Priority was always given to such referrals. They had potential to be serious and/or demanding. Quick intervention for effectiveness was of paramount importance. Yet he could not prevent his inquisitiveness. The first letter was from Farook.
‘Salaam Alaikum.
‘Yes, I like the idea. It would be good to meet other clerics. It is what I really want, you know, achieving better integration of the Muslim community. A good way to start. Put me down for the group.’
Tony spread the letter on his desk and weighed it down with a polished stone. The paperweight came from the beach at Nolton in St Bride’s bay in south Wales where a short break last year refuelled his mind and body. His family heir loom, an ivory paper knife, sliced open the second letter. He tugged at the last moment, ripping the final corner and tearing the stamp. It disappointed him. He was not a perfectionist by far but accidents should not happen if they need not happen, he thought. The second letter was less formal.
‘Hi Tony.
What a super idea. Yes, that would be a real ecumenical scream. Can’t wait to put in my oar. The group meeting sounds a real treat. Super, yup it’s for me.’
Signed Lizzie.
Tony smiled, shaking his head. Such a letter could only come from Lizzie. A scream, an oar and a treat, all in one short letter. Life seemed to be so colourful for Lizzie. He thought it would not have been out of place for her to have signed off, Love Lizzie even with three kisses. No, that was an improper professional thought. He chided himself.
The third letter was from Ivan.
‘Dear Dr Scriven.
I am grateful to you for your advice and support and feel I am in a much more stable frame of mind. I feel a group meeting with other clerics would be a negative experience for me bringing me back to face my daemons amid my growing atheist outlook. I wish you well with the group’s activities.’
Signed Ivan.
This letter was a disappointment. Ivan was perhaps potentially his most worrying patient, a man at an anxious crossroad in his life. He decided to continue with his individual sessions and hope he could persuade him to join the others at a later date.
Tony placed his clerical class aside, under the stone. The hospital referral was opened as a cup of coffee came his way at 11am. He looked at his watch.
‘You need not look at your watch, Dr Scriven,’ said his Madge opening his door. ‘As long as you are not consulting, you know your coffee will appear at this very moment every morning.’
He grinned at her. ‘You don’t strike me as the fastidious perfectionist.’
‘I’m not. I have Radio 2 on quietly. When they announce the 11 o’clock news will follow the record playing, I boil the kettle. I make your coffee as the headlines begin. If you notice, I actually arrive at 11.02 a.m.’ she said turning, waving her skirt in an arc as she did so.
‘Hope you catch the news too,’ he said playfully as she held the door handle. She did not reply. Of course she did.
Tony consulted his watch again. She was right it was 11.02 a.m. as he crunched his custard cream.
The referral he opened was about Miss Karen Kane.
Karen Kane was not a cleric. She was however a church organist. Her world had caved in over the course of two days. One Sunday and the following day at school on Monday morning she lost control of reality.
When the hard-backed book flew across the classroom causing a dent in the plaster, it shocked the pupils. None could have foretold the event having observed no irritation to cause Miss Kane to have such an outburst. However one pupil put one and one together and at break time knocked on the headmaster’s door.
‘Come in,’ shouted Colin Martin, the school head teacher.
Peter Anderson took a gulp. Reporting a teacher was a brave move. He was in unchartered territory. Would the teachers close rank on him?
‘Well, what have you to say,’ urged the Head, sorting his desk papers.
‘Miss Kane, sir. She threw a book.’
Colin Martin put down his papers. After a brief silence he looked up at Peter and enquired further.
‘Was anyone injured?’
‘No sir. It hit the wall.’
‘I’m a busy man Peter. You must realise teaching is not an easy profession. There are stresses. Children have more energy than adults. From what you are saying, I think this is a mountain made out of a molehill.’
‘But sir, I was at church yesterday when she went loopy.’
‘Loopy?’
‘Yes, it was the final organ piece of the service.’
‘The recessional, you mean Peter,’ Colin wondered. How could this out of school report be relevant to a book throwing incident?
‘Er..yes. She was playing Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring....’
‘Ahh....the Bach favourite.’
‘Yes, but half way through the classical piece she changed her tune and played the Entertainer followed by that...that piece...you know.... the piece....the Stripper tune.’
The Head pondered what he was now hearing. Two unconnected incidents over twenty four hours. Something was not right.
‘Thank you Peter, you did the right thing to tell me. That is all. Now, run along.’
Colin Martin thought about confronting Karen. A denial would prove awkward. No, instead he called in Mrs Grace Brown, the head of guidance and of course female. He urged her to keep a close eye on Karen after the incidents were shared.
Then as the pupils left the school at 4.10 p.m. Karen opened her class window and yelled as loud
as her lungs would permit, the most vile and uncensored language ever heard from a teaching member of staff. The words could not be misinterpreted and were heard by teachers and pupils alike. Colin Martin telephoned the police, who arrived promptly. They took a statement from Colin Martin and made their way in his company to Miss Kane’s room.
They did not knock. They had a view of her through the frosted glass. They entered and found Karen with her head in her hands and tears flowing down her cheeks splashing her desk.
‘I’m very sorry, really sorry. I don’t know why this is happening to me. I didn’t mean to swear. I don’t know...I didn’t...’ But her tears were now accompanied with cries of sorrow drowning her explanation.
Constable Amy Stevenson stepped forward and placed her hand round Karen’s shoulder.
‘Not been a good day for you,’ she said.
Karen looked up and acquiesced nodding her head.
‘Let’s go, come along with us.’
‘Where to?’
‘Hospital. That’s the best place to go just now.’
Karen looked at the uniformed police and reflected on the decision to go to hospital. ‘So, no charge?’
‘No Karen. I suspect you are ill.’
The hospital detected a first episode of schizophrenia and released her two days later with an instruction to attend treatment from her GP and then with Dr Tony Scriven. Prompt intervention with the patient was essential and Tony knew group sessions were crucial to aid Karen’s recovery. The treatment of schizophrenia often required a combination of antipsychotic, antidepressant, and anti-anxiety medication. Dozes and ratios would have to be tried and monitored. But so too was a need for Karen to be integrated. It was a tenuous link but a church organist might add a certain interest to the clerical minds about to meet.
The Trials of Sally Dunning and a Clerical Murder Page 18
