Shaping The Ripples

By Paul Wallington

Jack Bailey’s life wasn’t worth living – until someone tries to take it away. Scarred by his childhood, and working as a counsellor at a domestic crisis centre in York, Jack Bailey often thinks of ending what he sees as a worthless life. But when he is targeted by a ruthless serial killer, who seems determined to destroy every aspect of his life, he finds that maybe it is worth fighting for. With the police suspecting Jack is responsible for the gruesome killings, he is drawn into a deadly game of cat and mouse. Can he unmask and stop the killer before it is too late? Operating as both an exciting thriller and an exploration of to what extent we are shaped by our childhood experiences, this is a gripping and thought provoking read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Oct 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781849891370

Book preview

Beth.

Prologue

A beautiful evening to die, he thought idly, pressing firmly on the doorbell. He arranged his face into a look of anguish as he saw a shadow move behind the door. As expected, her eyes showed an instant recognition, then confusion.

I wasn’t expecting you.

I know. He made sure his voice had just the right note of anguish. I’m sorry to turn up like this, but something’s happened. I really need to talk to you now, just for a few minutes.

She hesitated, clearly undecided. Then, as he’d expected, she moved back.

Alright then, but only for a couple of minutes

He nodded gratefully, and followed her through the house.

In the room, he sat facing her, and began to talk.

"The things you said last time I saw you, really made me think. I’ve realised what

I need to do. He hesitated for a moment and then jumped to his feet. This is so hard!" he cried, pacing in feigned distress about the room.

As always, she stayed sitting, trying to reduce his agitation by showing that she was calm and in control. It was the easiest thing in the world to walk around behind her. He slid the knife from his pocket and leaned forwards to draw it across her throat.

He walked back around and pulled his chair right up to her. Her hands were up to her neck, trying uselessly to stop the flow of blood.

No wise sayings to suit this particular occasion? he teased, savouring the pain and terror in her eyes. Cat got your tongue, maybe?

He raised the knife again and took his prize. Then he stood and walked over to her filing cabinet. It only took a few moments to find what he was looking for and he turned back to look at her. Her eyes were already wide and glassy, but one hand still drummed convulsively on the arm of the chair.

Ten minutes later he left the house, very satisfied with his work.

Chapter One

As a child, part of every Christmas Day’s tradition was watching Julie Andrews telling a group of improbably perky children to Start at the very beginning. It’s probably good advice but in real life, it’s not as easy as it sounds. Life’s much more messy, and the moment that really signifies the beginning of a whole chain of events is almost impossible to spot.

I could start with the instant that I realised my life had passed through the looking glass and into a deepening nightmare - the day I discovered a friend’s dismembered body. I suspect though, that the real start came some days earlier, a much more unremarkable day. In ways that I couldn’t even have imagined at the time, it all started with Jennifer.

Jennifer Carter opened the door to her house, smiling. Come in, Jack, she said, standing aside to let me precede her down the hall and into her small counselling room.

The room was simply furnished, with three comfortable single armchairs set into a triangle shape and facing each other. The windowsill was covered with photographs of her family, a husband and two grown-up daughters; the only exception being a basket of different types of stone , which sat at the centre of the windowsill. Some months ago she had asked me to pick the stone which I liked the most and explain why I had chosen it. My choice had been pale and very smooth with a few jagged ridges which seemed to mean something to her but she didn’t explain what. I never asked, in case I didn’t like the answer I got.

I waited for her to sit down in the chair next to a small wooden table, on which were two things; a brown folder with the words Jack Bailey, age 34 on the front cover, and a box of tissues. I’d managed to avoid needing the tissues during my regular visits to see her, but the file had got noticeably thicker over the two and a half years that Jennifer and I had been working together.

My marriage to Liz had finally come to an end just over three years ago and the nightmares had started almost immediately afterwards. Awful dreams of being a small child suffering at the hands of a giant, they woke me up violently each night. Before the nightmares started, I had no memories at all of being a young child (my first memory being my Grandfather’s death when I was eight years old) but a flood of images soon followed. Suddenly, a whole lot of things fell into place. Put as simply and unemotionally as I can, my early years were disfigured by systematic and sustained sexual abuse, which only ended with the aforementioned death. Somehow I’d blotted out the memories and got on with life as best I could. I know there’s a lot of debate about repressed memories, but count me as an exhibit for the case that , at least sometimes, they’re real.

Trying to come to terms with this new reality was what had brought me to Jennifer. I made the decision that something which had such an adverse effect on my life and which unknowingly had contributed in a fairly major way to the breakdown of my marriage, needed to be addressed. As someone who spends a fair amount of their own time counselling others, I’d like to be able to say what a great help it was, but most of me thinks I’d be lying. Certainly I understand myself a lot better now, but I sometimes wonder if I wasn’t better off when I was living in ignorance. The Bible claims that Jesus once said The truth shall set you free but in my experience knowing why you’re the way you are and actually being able to change it are two very different things. So far, it’s a gulf I’ve been unable to leap.

None of this is in any way a criticism of Jennifer who is as warm and sensitive a person as you could hope to meet. I guess she’s in her early 50’s and usually manages to make me feel momentarily better while we talk. She sat down in the chair now and began with her standard opening,

So, how are things for you at the moment?

Even though I always know that question is coming, I’m never quite sure how I’m going to answer until I open my mouth.

Not so bad. I managed somewhat unimaginatively. Work’s very busy at the moment, which obviously isn’t a good thing, but it keeps me occupied.

I stopped with a slight shrug.

What about outside of work? How are you filling your evenings and weekends? Jennifer probed.

I’m usually on call at the weekends, so I tend to stay around the house. I do have the faithful companion of divorced men across the country, I paused with a slight smile then continued, - all the sports channels on digital TV. And I go to the cinema quite a bit.

Alone?

Well, yes. But I don’t mind. And as long as I don’t go to any really rude films, I don’t get too many funny looks!

So, apart from work, you have almost no contact with other people.

I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable with the way this particular session was going. Since Liz and I had split up it was true that my life outside of work was mostly solitary, but with my job taking at least 60 hours each week I really didn’t have a problem with that. Besides, being on your own was safer, which I suspected was what Jennifer was trying to get at.

That’s mostly true. I agreed fairly reluctantly.

Are you happy with that? she asked more gently.

It’s not a case of whether I’m happy with it or not, it’s how it is. I put all my time and energy into helping others through my job. Away from that I just want to shut down.

But don’t you need more than that? For you?

I could tell that she wasn’t going to let this one go, but could feel myself getting increasingly defensive on the subject.

I’ve managed like this for the best part of three years, so obviously I don’t need anything more

Then don’t you deserve more? Jennifer pressed on.

My answer came rushing out from somewhere deep within. I tried to bite the words back as they came, but too late.

All I deserve is to die.

There was a deep silence after my exclamation. I did my best to remove some of the sting from them by adding,

Look, I know that’s not really true in my head. But I haven’t managed to lose the gut feeling that in the end that would be the best thing. I’m not going to do anything about it. I’ll just carry on as I am and hopefully one day I’ll feel differently.

Jennifer’s soft brown eyes were filled with compassion. But that’s exactly the point I was trying to make. You live your whole life like you’re doing penance for your childhood. You’re wearing yourself out trying to rescue everyone else, but you don’t think you deserve to be rescued. Your life is one long self-inflicted punishment. Haven’t you already paid enough?

She stopped, obviously torn what best to say next. Then she continued, What your Grandfather did to you was horrific, but it wasn’t your fault. I know you know that, at least up here. She tapped her forehead but somehow you’ve got to find a way to stop living as if it was, to stop hating yourself. You need a life for yourself, as well as for others.

The fact that what she said might be true didn’t make it hurt any less. That’s easier said than done. I managed in response.

I know, she said even more gently But deciding to try would be a fairly good start.

For the rest of the session Jennifer tried to turn the conversation to rather less awkward areas. We talked mostly about my work, but it still felt as if the rawness of the early conversation was there like a barrier between us. It was a relief for both of us when the end of the hour approached.

Right at the end Jennifer paused, hesitated, and then spoke,

I have another client who had very similar childhood experiences to you, but other than that the two of you are complete opposites. You see your job as saving everyone else, no matter what the cost is to you; he’s just full of rage and hate about what happened to him. Some days I’m not sure which is more damaging.

She smiled a very sad smile and continued,

I was saying to him only yesterday that if I had a magic wand I’d swap a bit of the two of you over. Help him to love people a little bit more, and let you love them a little bit less. It’s all right for you to have a life of your own, you know, even to put yourself first occasionally. Why not just give it a try?

We made an appointment to meet again in a months time, and she got me to promise that before then I’d try to have had at least two evenings which weren’t spent working or alone.

The front door shut behind me and I walked down her garden path, my head down as I tried to work out why the conversation had made me feel so threatened. As I stepped out onto the street, a silver car pulled up outside and a tall man with dark hair hurried out towards Jennifer’s front door.

Next customer, I thought, and began my walk to work.

Chapter Two

Jennifer’s house is in a tree-lined avenue, about a quarter of a mile outside the centre of York. I set off walking towards the city centre, vaguely registering a middle aged woman in a brown leather coat on the opposite pavement and a smallish well-dressed man a little distance behind me. Both were walking the same direction as me, heading for the heart of the city that has been my home for the last five years.

My mind was churning frantically as I replayed in my mind the meeting that had just finished and tried to work out why Jennifer’s questions had upset me so much. There was no doubt that my levels of discomfort and anxiety were completely disproportionate to what was being said. In essence, all Jennifer was trying to do was to tell me that I should get out more, which was a point that my boss George made most weeks.

I’ve learnt though in the last few years that one of the scars abuse leaves you with is unpredictable emotions. Some time ago I found myself in a very heated argument about Thomas Harris’ book Hannibal. I quite enjoyed the book right until the end, which I totally hated. Trying to explain why to someone who had liked the whole book, I found myself getting more and more angry about it. Later on, when I’d calmed down, I managed to work out why it mattered so much to me so, for what it’s worth, here it is;

Clarice Starling’s whole motivation in the first book was to do with atonement. In childhood she had failed to save the lambs from being slaughtered, but felt that saving other women from a psychopath might make amends. All of us who live our lives trying to make up for our perceived childhood sins know deep down that we never will, but our curse is to have to keep trying again and again. For Clarice to give up the quest and live with an inflictor of pain - no matter how charming or charismatic they are - is to betray everything she is. It makes no difference that it’s fiction, it threatened me and how I’ve come to make some sort of sense out of my life.

Children who have been abused have to create their own sense of reality, to give themselves a way of going on, and they get very agitated when that’s challenged. Clarice Starling’s about face had done that for me, and now Jennifer’s questioning had done the same. My life was in a form of equilibrium, albeit a fairly empty and isolated one, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to have that shaken up - now or ever.

Looking back now, I wish I’d carried on reflecting on how easy it is for someone’s foundations to be disturbed. Then some of the horror which followed might have been avoided. But then life’s always a lot easier with hindsight. In reality what I did was resolve to keep my promise about the two evenings, and then put it all out of my mind.

One of the best things about living in York is the way that the city still manages to feel so ancient. It’s been around for nearly 2000 years, since the Romans set up a camp there, and up until the Industrial Revolution was England’s second most important city. Perhaps because it hasn’t been so prominent in recent centuries, it’s somehow held on to its past, so at times you can imagine you are in the Middle Ages. Totally enclosed by the old city walls, you get into the city centre by passing through one of the ancient gates. Coming from Jennifer’s house I got to use probably my favourite route; walking past the cinema and through the old stone Micklegate.

Even though it was November, the city centre still had a fair number of tourists wandering around as I crossed over the river into the heart of the city. At the other side, I turned down the stone steps and walked along the waterfront.

The Domestic Crisis Centre, where I work, was set up about ten years ago in part of an old converted warehouse. Then they couldn’t give it away, while now every old building is being sacrificed to the never ending demand for apartments for the up and coming. Fortunately, George took it on a twenty-year fixed-rent lease, before the area became so trendy. The issue of what we’ll do in ten years time is a subject that’s carefully avoided.

The point of the centre is to be the immediate response point to victims of domestic abuse. Women (often with children) come to us, and we aim to help them with whatever they need. Very occasionally they want us to try and help keep the relationship together, so we provide advice, counselling and support. Most often though, it’s finding emergency accommodation, and we have good links with both the local woman’s refuge and the Council’s housing department.

Where we differ from most other agencies, and for me the best part of the job, is in providing continuing support. We help with finding jobs and childcare, claiming benefits and so on, and try to be a friendly ear and support for as long as it’s needed. Along with the constant reminder of human brutality that we see with every new contact, we have the privilege of seeing some incredible people rebuild their lives. I started working at the Centre five years ago, and can’t imagine ever doing anything else.

I pushed open the front door, which leads into the reception area. It’s a smallish room, containing a few comfy chairs, a box of children’s toys and books and a desk with a phone on it. Until six months ago it would also have contained a receptionist, but she’d been the victim in our latest round of cutbacks. We’re an independent charitable trust, which gives us a fair amount of freedom, but also means that we never have any money. The paid staff now numbers four; three front-line advisors - of which I’m one - and George. George Bantry founded the centre after having to take early retirement from his job in local government and, now in his early 60’s, is Chair of the Board of Trustees and runs everything, although he prefers to describe his job as Chief Beggar.

From Reception there are three doors. They lead respectively to a small kitchen, a toilet, and a narrow hall off which are our two private consulting rooms, furnished almost exactly the same as the reception area, and a small office which serves as both a file storage area and as George’s base. The door to the kitchen opened, and Barbara Wilkinson came out, holding a cup of coffee.

Good morning, Jack, she smiled. ready for another action packed day?

Barbara was George’s first appointment before the Centre opened for business, and it must have been one of the easiest decisions he’s had to make. She has a presence about her that makes you feel calmer just by being in the same room as her. She looks like everyone’s idea of the ideal grandmother, slightly plump with grey hair and smiling eyes, but I’ve heard one or two of the Council housing staff describe her as the Rotweiler after meetings when she felt they weren’t being as helpful as they could.

Each day one of the three advisors deals with emergency calls and visits, while the other two co-ordinate our appointments to make sure that someone is always by the phone. Barbara and I sat down now to plan out the day. She had quite a few home visits to make, so I agreed to have a day guarding the phone, updating the files and handling any visitors who called in. In truth, after my meeting with Jennifer, I wasn’t at all sorry to be having a rather lighter day.

Barbara finished her coffee and headed off to begin her appointments. I poured myself a glass of mineral water from the bottle which I always keep in the fridge and wandered down the hallway to collect the files I needed from the office. There was no sign of George which almost certainly meant he was off somewhere trying to get a donation, but the door to consulting room one was closed, and the soft murmur of voices came from behind it. Katie had obviously picked up an early emergency.

I spent the next hour and a half on the riveting task of writing all the details of my most recent visits into the relevant files. Keeping proper records is one of George’s great themes, because we can’t always ensure that the same person sees someone every time. The door behind me opened and I caught a glimpse of the back of a small dark-haired woman as she went out into the city. After another minute or two, Katie came out into the reception area.

The decoration of the centre is increasingly worn and shabby. I once teased George that he had chosen to appoint Katie Dixon as the third counsellor at the centre because she made the place seem much brighter just by being in it, without him having to pay for paint. She’s the youngest of our team at 28, and has only been working here for four months, but it’s already hard to remember, or imagine, the place without her.

She was wearing her usual outfit of a T-shirt and blue jeans, and sighed slightly as she looked at the front door.

Another one who isn’t going to leave until she gets badly hurt. She observed, running her fingers distractedly through her shoulder length light brown hair. Her green eyes, which usually sparkled with life, were somehow paler.

You can only help someone as much as they want to let you. I said, as if this old cliché was going to make everything alright.

I know, she responded, but it doesn’t stop you feeling you should have done more when you know something terrible is going to happen to them.

I tried a different line;

A book I read once described two parents were watching their daughter in the sea jumping over some big waves. The father noticed how anxious the mother was as she watched and said to her, You can’t jump over every wave for her, you know. The same thing’s true for our clients

She looked at me with a quizzical expression and smiled. Yes, O wise one. Of course, I’d be even more impressed if I didn’t know that you get just as churned up abut the ones we don’t manage to help.

I couldn’t help but smile back at her, Clear off and get yourself some lunch before you corrupt me completely.

She span around, and headed for the door. You don’t have to tell me twice. I’ll be back in half an hour.

About 20 minutes later, the front door opened again. In came a slightly nervous looking woman with short blonde streaked hair. I recognised her as someone who had arrived at the centre in great distress, about a fortnight previously. I’d managed to get her a bed in the woman’s refuge, and some emergency money from social services. My brain whirred, and managed to come up with her name - Ali Jackson.

Hi, Ali, I greeted her, How’s it going?

She managed a tentative smile.

Not too bad. She replied, They’ve been great at the refuge, but I guess it’s time for me to start getting on with life on my own. She fell silent for a moment and then continued, You said that when I was ready to look for work you could help me.

I tried my most reassuring look. No problem. We’ll ring round and see what’s available.

The phone in reception only works for incoming calls on our crisis line, so I lead her down the corridor and into the second consulting room. One of the benefits of York’s current boom is that there’s quite a lot of businesses and shops looking for extra staff, and over time quite a few of them have learned that the people they get from us tend to be very dedicated and reliable. An hour or so and quite a few phone calls later, Ali left for the first of her three interviews, considerably happier than when she had arrived.

Katie was obviously back and occupied in the other consulting room, but a rather dejected George was sitting in reception.

No luck? I asked him.

No. he sighed Five businesses and not a penny out of any of them. They all seem to be working off the same script - I’m sorry but we already have a number of charities that we support and we’re not looking to add to the list at this time, particularly with the economy as it is. What we need is some sort of way in. He looked as tired and dispirited as I’d ever seen him.

I keep trying to get someone from the Executive’s Club to sponsor us, but no-one wants to know, He continued. If things don’t turn around soon, we’re going to have to seriously think about whether we can afford to keep going with three counsellors.

The Executive’s Club is a little out of my social circle. Membership is by invitation only, and invitations only go to the most prominent of the city’s businessmen and women. George’s theory was that if he could convince one of the leading members to endorse the Crisis Centre, he’d find it much easier convincing businesses to send some of their charitable donations our way. Unfortunately, nearly every other local charity had exactly the same idea.

George saw my concerned expression and did his best to sound more positive,

Don’t worry, Jack - it won’t come to that. You know I always manage to come up with some more money at the eleventh hour. I’ve got three more appointments this afternoon and evening; maybe one of those will be the one. See you later - and please don’t mention this to the others.

With that he was gone. The rest of the afternoon passed fairly uneventfully. Barbara returned from her visits and I managed to persuade her that as it was her turn to be on call that evening and night, she should go home early to try and get a few hours with her family. Best of all, Ali Jackson called back in, wearing an enormous smile, to tell me that she’d got a job working in one of the big bookshops in the city.

Just before six, Katie came out of the consulting room, and put on her coat. I said goodnight, and watched her go. It occurred to me that I had no idea whether she was going home to someone, or anything at all about her life outside work. I could have asked George, I suppose, but I knew that would guarantee me weeks of being teased.

As I was about to get ready to follow her out, the door was thrown open with some force. A youngish, stocky man in a leather jacket and jeans rushed in.

Where’s my wife? he demanded. His fists were clenched, and his eyes wild and staring.

These sorts of visits happen from time to time, and in my experience the first moments are always critical. Either sit down and calm down, I responded evenly or get out.

The internal struggle was clearly visible on his face, and for a split second I thought I’d misread him and was about to get thumped. Suddenly, he let out a huge breath, deflated like a leaky tyre, and almost fell into the armchair next to him.

Tell me what’s happened. I invited.

Over the next minutes he told me that his name was Ryan Clarke, and that he had been married for almost 18 months. His job as a self-employed haulier had become more and more difficult over recent years as fuel costs kept on climbing. More firms were trying to use other forms of transport, and the jobs he did get made almost no money. His answer had been to try and blot everything out, drinking more and more, while his wife Linda had tried to juggle the ever-growing pile of final demands.

He continued the story, About three months ago, something snapped. I’d been at the pub, and when I got home, Linda was waiting. She’d got all the bills out, and started on about what was I doing wasting our money on booze, when they were threatening to throw us out of the house.

He stopped, clearly finding the next words difficult ones to get out. Anyway, I just lost it. I told her to shut up, but she wouldn’t - she just went on and on, he paused again, looking very uncomfortable, so then I hit her. I knew what I’d done as soon as it happened, but it was too late. I kept saying sorry over and over again, but she just cried. I slept on the couch and had to go to work early the next day. I thought we’d sort it out that night but when I got home, she’d gone.

His voice rose in volume again, It was just a mistake, I lost it for a second. I’d never do it again.

I knew he was underplaying the damage that he had done to his wife, as I’d been on duty when Linda Clarke had arrived at the Crisis Centre, carrying a small suitcase. She had the most enormous swollen and split lip, and both her eyes were heavily bruised. She had steadfastly refused to let us contact the police, which is fairly common, but he’d obviously hit her several times.

Ryan’s version of events continued, I was drunk most of the next week, but then I realised I had to get some help. I went to the doctor, and he passed me on to a specialist. They’ve been helping me with my drinking and with what they call anger management. Then this week, this arrived.

He held up a letter, "It’s from Linda. She says that she still loves me