Over the next half an hour, he took us through the story of Job, which he introduced as a story told in the Bible to try and address the problem of suffering. Job is introduced as the perfect man; holy, generous and moral. As a result he is richly blessed with great wealth and a large and loving family.
Then the story takes a slightly strange turn. In a conversation with God, the devil claims that Job is only so devout because he knows that God will reward him for it. To disprove this, God allows Job to lose everything. His family is killed, he is bankrupted, and he ends up living on the city rubbish tip, his body covered with open, bleeding sores. Then he poses the question – why has God allowed this?
Job’s friends come, and give him the only answer which makes sense to them – it must be because Job deserves it. Although he seemed good, he must really have committed some great sin for which he is now being justly punished. When Job continues to protest his innocence, they get increasingly angry with him. Finally God shows up but, rather than explaining things, poses an endless series of questions to Job, which seem to have the aim of showing Job how little he really knows or understands of the world. Eventually Job says he’s sorry for ever doubting God, and is restored to health and prosperity.
“So,” Christopher concluded, “what do you think the story is trying to tell us?”
Debbie answered slightly hesitantly “Is it that there isn’t an answer – that we can’t understand properly why bad things happen?”
Before Christopher could respond, Andrew Stanton spoke angrily, “What sort of an answer is that? We know why most bad things happen – because people cause them.”
Christopher’s voice had a slightly harder edge when he spoke. “No Andrew, Debbie is right in what she says. Of course it’s true that much suffering is caused by people’s sin, but how do we explain why one individual or family suffers, while another seem to be spared? Debbie’s answer is the only one we have – we don’t know.”
Andrew had always struck me as a very nervous young man, but tonight he seemed especially on edge. He was almost shouting as he replied to Christopher, “But what about the God of wrath! Some people deserve to suffer for what they’ve done!”
“That’s true,” said Christopher more calmly, “and we believe that one day each person will have to stand before God and account for what they’ve done. But the God we know through Jesus and the Bible is one who is quick to understand people’s failings, and quick to forgive.”
Andrew muttered something which sounded rather like “God anoints the pure to punish the wicked”, but fortunately fell silent from then on. Ruth tried to restore some calm, by asking,
“Doesn’t the story of Job say something about there always being hope, no matter what happens, because God is there with you?”
Christopher didn’t answer her though; he was staring down at the floor, his eyes wide and unfocussed. Ruth repeated her question more forcefully, and he suddenly shook his head, as if to dislodge whatever thoughts had taken root there, and looked up at her.
“What? Oh yes,” he replied, his voice becoming stronger “that’s what we were coming onto. Job doesn’t get an answer, but he is able to survive, because he experiences God’s presence.”
The rest of the evening was fairly undramatic in comparison. We moved on to talk about God’s response to evil and suffering, and Jesus’ supreme act of love in suffering and dying for us. Andrew seemed to have shrugged off whatever it was that was troubling him, and even managed a smile near the end at one of Christopher’s awful jokes.
Once the discussion was over, Ruth brought in coffee and biscuits (with water for me). Christopher then invited people to share things they’d like the others to pray about. There were the usual sorts of things – friends going in to hospital and so on – and then Christopher spoke.
“I’d really appreciate you praying for me at the moment,” he said in a voice which seemed to me to be less full of life that usual. “I don’t want to go into details, but things are a bit of a struggle at the moment.”
When the meeting was finished, I thanked the Kondo’s for their hospitality, and got another hug from Ruth in reply. I left the house at the same time as Debbie and Carol who invited me to join them at the local pub. Both were quite unashamed of the fact that as well as enjoying the house group meetings, they were glad to have an excuse to get out of the house for one evening and leave their husbands babysitting – the visit to the pub rounding the night off nicely. I appreciated the offer, but declined and strolled home.
On the way home, I could feel my mood starting to change. It’s a hard thing to explain, but ever since I began to remember the abuse, I find that I have spells where I suddenly feel overwhelmed by sadness and despair. It happened once when I was with Jennifer and she observed that it looked as if I “was being engulfed by darkness”. Slightly dramatic, perhaps, but it wasn’t a bad description.
Opening the door to my flat, the sense of hopelessness was almost unbearable. I left the light-switch untouched, and walked through the living room and sat in the darkness, staring unseeing out of the window and across the river.
On nights like this, I wished I hadn’t made the decision to keep the house free of alcohol. The theory had been that sitting drinking alone each evening would be far too easy a habit to get into; but on the really bad nights I could have done with the option of drinking myself into oblivion.
The thought of oblivion lifted me out of my seat and, feeling powerless to resist the drive that rose from deep inside, I walked into the kitchen. I opened the drawer, and my fingers fastened tightly around the black handle of my carving knife. I turned and returned through the dark living area, to sit back down.
I just sat for some minutes, feeling the weight of the knife and running my finger softly along the sharp blade. Finally I pressed the tip of the knife to my right wrist. Go on said the seductive voice in my brain. Put an end to it now. The pressure on my wrist increased. At that moment, it felt that it would have been the easiest and most natural thing to press harder and then start carving – and the hardest thing not to. The moment stretched, and then faded.
I got up, and walked back into the kitchen, putting the knife back into the drawer and away out of sight. As always after these moments, I felt empty and slightly ashamed, although I was never sure if this was caused by having seriously contemplated suicide, or by not being actually able to do it.
I knew there was no chance of getting any sleep, so I returned to the living room and turned on the television. Eventually I found a channel which was promising six hours of football from around the world, and another long night began.
Chapter Four
The next morning, I freshened up with a shower and managed a couple of pieces of toast for breakfast. I had dozed a little in my armchair during the night, so I didn’t feel too bad. I’d learned since Liz had left that I could function fairly well on very little sleep, although sometimes it would catch up with me and I’d have to sleep through most of a weekend to recharge.
While putting my jacket on, my fingers touched the stiff edge of a letter in the pocket, and I remembered my promise to Ryan Clarke. I rang Barbara at home to check that both she and Katie were going to be in the office, and arranged that I would be in from lunchtime.
Living in York, it’s fairly easy to get around on foot; so most of the time my car lives in the underground garage which forms part of my apartment block. Linda Clarke had been determined that she needed to get out of the city to stay clear of Ryan, and had started her new life in a little village some eight miles to the south. It gave me a good excuse to take the car out on a rare trip through the local countryside.
I knew that Linda worked in the afternoons as a classroom assistant at the small village school, so I decided to make her my first visit of the day. Hopefully she’d be in, I thought, or I’d just push the letter through the door with a note asking her to give me a call.
I parked my car alongside the village green, and walked up
to the stone-built bungalow where Linda was lodging. Ringing the bell, I listened for some signs of life. The lounge curtain, which was still drawn, twitched slightly. After a moment, there was the sound of footsteps, and the door was opened. Linda Clarke stood there, a slightly relieved smile on her face.
“Hello, Jack,” she said, and moved aside to invite me into the house. I noticed that since I’d last seen her, she’d had her long blonde hair cut into a short bob. I complimented her on it as we walked into the living room.
“Thanks,” she smiled properly for the first time. “I wanted to do something to show that this is the new me.”
I sat back in the chair. “I wanted to come and see you for a couple of reasons. First, and most important, how's it going?”
For the next few minutes, I listened as Linda talked animatedly about how happy and fulfilled she was. We’d managed to find her a lodging with one of the teachers of the local school, and they had become firm friends. She loved her job, and working with the children of the school had meant that she’d quickly got to know a large proportion of the villagers. In a short time, she felt at the heart of a small but supportive community. I sat, savouring her enthusiasm and thinking once again what a privilege this part of my job was.
If anything, she’d inadvertently made the second part of my visit more difficult. Once her story had drawn to a close, I took a deep breath and spoke,
“I’m delighted everything’s going so well. There is another reason for my visit though.”
Linda looked at me expectantly.
“I had a visit yesterday from Ryan.” Her expression changed instantly to a look of apprehension. “He wanted to know where you’re living.” At this, she couldn’t contain her anxiety, and blurted out,
“You didn’t tell him!”
“No, of course not,” I replied, “we wouldn’t ever do that. But I did promise that I’d come and tell you what he said, and bring you a letter from him.”
I then recounted our brief meeting, and Ryan’s words about the help he was getting to deal with his anger. When I’d finished, I handed her Ryan’s letter. Then I sat back in silence as she opened it and began to read.
The letter covered most of three pages, and as she read it tears began to squeeze out from her eyes, and roll down her cheeks. When she’d finished, she looked up at me and asked,
“Do you think I should go back to him?”
I hesitated for a moment before answering, “Obviously I don’t know what he says in the letter, but I think you’d be taking an enormous risk if you did. Especially when you’re so happy living here, it’s an awful lot to give up in the hope that he really has changed.”
Linda’s eyes were still moist as she looked at me. “He says how sorry he is, and that he’s changed – that he loves me and that he’d never hurt me again.”
Her face took on a slightly distant expression, “You know, it was almost a relief when he hit me,” she continued. “When we first got married he was so charming, so attentive. Before long though, I could tell there was something badly wrong. There’s a sort of rage inside him, just waiting to boil over. I’d spent so long being scared that one day it would all come out in my direction. When it did, even while he was hitting me, I just thought that I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life being scared.”
She focussed back on me, “I still really love him, but I don’t believe that he’ll ever get properly free from that rage. I can’t spend the rest of my life waiting for the next eruption.” Her voice became stronger, “I won’t live like that again.”
Linda fell silent, still looking at me. “Then that’s what I’ll tell him,” I replied, “that you wish him well, but that you’ve moved on, and it’s time for him to try and do the same.”
Linda looked anxious again, “Be careful,” she said in a warning tone, “he’s not going to like it. He often says that he never forgets and never forgives when someone crosses him. If he can’t get at me, he might decide that you’ll do as the next best thing.”
“Don’t worry,” I smiled at her with slightly more confidence than I was actually feeling, “I can look after myself. In any case, if he’s still clinging on to the hope that you might change your mind, he’ll not want to lose his temper in front of me.”
I gave her my home phone number in case she ever needed anything, and then wished her luck as we said goodbye. Back in the car, I planned my route back so that I could do another couple of visits before returning to the office.
By the time I’d made my two calls – one successful, the other finding no one home – parked my car again at the garage at home and walked to work, it was early afternoon. George was sitting in Reception with a wide smile on his face.
“Yesterday’s visits must have gone well,” I observed “you look as if you’ve just won the lottery.”
“On the contrary,” George replied, “I got exactly the same negative response as always.”
I wasn’t really in the mood for guessing games. “Well something’s cheered you up.” I said.
His faced cracked into an even more enormous smile. “Ian Jacobs rang me this morning.” He looked at me, clearly expecting some sort of reaction, and then realising from my blank expression that some further explanation was needed.
“Ian Jacobs,” he repeated with more emphasis. “He’s the current chairman of the Executive’s Club, and one of the most influential businessmen in York. He rang to say that he’s heard about the good work we do, and wondered if there was anything he could do to support us.”
I made suitably enthusiastic noises and George continued. “This could be the break we’ve been looking for – if Ian Jacobs is on our side, it will give me a way in to almost all the businesses in the city. I’m having dinner with him this evening to talk things over.”
George is by nature an enthusiast, which is what helps him to cope with the almost constant rejection that his job entails. Even so, I was hard pressed to remember a time when he’d looked quite so excited and happy. I just hoped that this Ian Jacobs might live up to George’s expectations.
“When you see him, see if he’ll give you some money to have this place redecorated.” I joked.
Towards the end of the afternoon I was working in one of the consulting rooms, when there was a knock on the door. Katie’s head peered around the frame of the door.
“There’s someone in reception to see you, Jack.” She said with a slight frown and wrinkle of her nose. “He seems a bit on edge.”
I knew at once who my visitor was going to be, and went out to greet him without much enthusiasm. Sure enough, it was Ryan Clarke, and I led him through to the consulting room.
“Have you seen her yet?” he demanded as soon as the door was closed.
“Yes, I have – I went to see her this morning.” I replied, sitting down, and waiting for him to do the same.
“How is she?” he asked, slightly calmer.
“She’s fine, Ryan.” I searched for the kindest way to break the news to him. “She’s well and she asked me to tell you that she still loves you and thinks of you often.” I hesitated for a minute to allow him to absorb that before continuing, “But she’s not coming back.”
Ryan’s whole body went rigid, and then he fixed me with desperate eyes.
“That can’t be true.” He insisted. “Did you give her my letter?” Seeing me nod in assent, he continued before I could speak. “Did you tell her what I’d said, about getting help and that I was different now?”
“I told her, Ryan.” I responded. “She’s really pleased that you’re dealing with your anger and she said to tell you that she only wishes you well. But she’s got her own life now, and she wants you to get on with yours.”
In counselling, it’s considered bad practice to have a desk or table between the two people talking, so the furniture in the consulting room had been arranged to ensure that the chair I was sitting in is to the side of the desk, directly facing the other chair. Normally it’s an arrangement I�
�m happy with but just at that moment, seeing the growing fury in Ryan’s eyes, I would have felt more relaxed if there was a solid desk between us.
“Liar!” He spat out. “She’d never choose to leave me for good unless someone had turned her against me. I bet you didn’t try to persuade her at all. That’s what places like this are all about isn’t it, splitting up happy marriages?”
“Ryan,” I said, trying to get him to face reality “it was Linda who decided to leave you after you’d hit her, and it’s Linda who had to choose whether or not to come back to you.”
“She wouldn’t have had a choice if it hadn’t been for you interfering and filling her head with all sorts of crap!” He was almost screaming now, and I could see what Linda had meant his rage. “Tell me where my wife is so I can go and sort this out face to face!”
“I can’t do that, Ryan,” I replied “If Linda ever wants you to know where she is, she’ll write and tell you.”
His face suddenly contorted and he leapt out of his seat towards me. Grabbing me by the lapels of my jacket, he pulled me to my feet. His face was just inches from mine, his eyes wild and staring. At this range, there was an almost overpowering smell of stale whisky fumes on his breath, disproving his earlier claim that he’d given up drinking.
“Maybe I should just kick the shit out of you until you tell me where she is!” he bellowed, tightening his grip still further.
I kept my gaze fixed on him and replied in as even a voice as I could manage,
“You can try, but I’m not going to tell you whatever happens. Besides which, you’re not exactly going to convince her that you’re a changed man by having to spend time in prison on an assault charge.”
His grip loosened slightly, and his breath came heavily as he considered my words.
“You must have a file here somewhere,” Ryan murmured, almost speaking to himself. Then his expression hardened and his voice became more menacing, “Take me to where you keep your files and I’ll look for myself. Otherwise you’re going to be eating your next meal through a straw.”
Shaping the Ripples Page 3