I wrote to the Foreign Office. But first I wrote to the professor who had supervised my studies as a postgraduate psychology student ten years earlier. I told her I was worried about a friend and she asked when we met if I was sure this friend wasn’t actually me. I smiled and said it wasn’t; we sat down to talk.
Denise was in her sixties, an expansive, noisy Jewish woman who combined her academic career with work as a counsellor-therapist. She overflowed with natural empathy and emotional acuity; her kind eyes and ample bosom had comforted many sufferers of distress. I told her what I knew about Ayesha’s experience as the daughter of a murdered father, how she had repressed her grief and anger, and how fragile her equilibrium now seemed. Denise said post-traumatic stress disorder affects the majority of those who lose a close relative in violent circumstances, and Ayesha was almost certainly suffering from it.
‘Bewilderment, shock and grief are all deepened when there’s no clear explanation of why a person has died. And trauma deliberately inflicted by other humans is the hardest to come to terms with, much harder than deaths in natural disasters. An unsolved murder allows the imagination to conjure up endlessly disturbing thoughts.’
‘Most of the time she seems so normal and so in control,’ I said. ‘Almost too in control, if you know what I mean; as if she’s calculating everything like a business deal. Then at other times she completely disintegrates.’
‘Classic PTSD. The stronger the person, the harder they fall. The first proper case studies were soldiers in the First World War. These were brave men, so they held themselves together during the day but at night they were overwhelmed by nightmares and panic. The doctor who treated them, a fellow called W. H. Rivers, said the brave person’s shame about acknowledging his own fear sets up a vicious circle that makes everything worse.’
‘You mean the Freudian repression thing? Denying there’s a problem?’
‘Yes. Not talking about things; not finding any answers. The mind of your friend must be weighed down with all sorts of painful questions – who did this? Why did they harm my father? What was my father doing and thinking when he was killed? How much did he suffer? And was there anything I could have done to prevent it? When those questions remain unresolved, the mind works itself into a hyper-aroused state; it is constantly agitated, tortured by unknowing. Sufferers can’t sleep, can’t find rest. Eventually they can’t hold it together and you get the sort of dramatic collapses you described your friend as having.’
‘And do we know why the impact of deliberate killing is harder to process than that of other violent deaths? I mean if Ibrahim had died in a train crash, for instance . . .’
‘Well, there’s been research on it. I can give you the references if you want. I think it’s to do with interpreting the intentions behind the death. A train crash isn’t the result of a single person’s ill will, but murder is. Deliberate killing is seen as an attack on our human integrity, which causes anger and a loss of trust in other people. Mistrusting others can verge on paranoia – it’s very damaging for mental health . . .’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say Ayesha was paranoid, but she certainly has trust issues – not least with me.’
‘I think you need to show understanding, Martin. When there’s no logical explanation for a dreadful event like a murder it makes life seem terrible and meaningless. I’d say your friend is looking for meaning. If you could establish that her father was murdered by terrorists, for example, she could perhaps create a narrative that lends validation to his death – she could see her father as an involuntary participant in the struggle for freedom and democratic values, or something similar . . .’
I laughed. ‘Oddly, we discussed exactly that scenario and Ayesha ridiculed me for saying the murder could have been terrorist-related. She’s probably right. I wouldn’t want to rule it out, though. Is there anything practical I can do to help her in the here and now?’
‘There are always things we can do to help. For instance, experience with mass disasters suggests that taking relatives to the scene can be therapeutic. There’s a Norwegian researcher who studied the effect of the Anders Breivik massacre in 2011. When he compared the mental health of family members who went to the site of their relative’s death and those who didn’t, he found less PTSD in those who went than in those who stayed at home. Why? He says it’s to do with getting an understanding of what happened at the moment of death, with feeling physically close to the departed person and with being able to say goodbye. It isn’t easy to visit the place where your loved one died in such a terrible way, so overcoming your resistance and fear is validating in itself. It feels as if you are doing something for the dead person, a kind of symbolic ritual that can help cleanse you of feelings of guilt.’
‘Do you think I should tell her that the way to end the horror is to go back again and confront it?’
‘Perhaps. Forcing yourself to do something unpleasant can be beneficial if it’s handled properly. And just doing something is usually better than giving in to hopelessness or sinking into apathy. The best thing would be to solve the crime, of course . . .’
‘Ha! I’m working on it!’
‘. . . or in the absence of solving it, perhaps just writing about it will help. The book you’re planning could be quite validating if your friend thinks you are telling her story in the right way. It could bring a measure of comfort, a sense of compensating for the pain or putting it in perspective. But you do need to tell it in the right way. Relatives are sensitive about how their loved ones are remembered because they are the ones who knew them, not you as a writer.’
I rang Ayesha to tell her about my conversation with Denise, but she didn’t want to listen. There was an edge in her voice. When I asked if something had happened she said, ‘Yes. I’m marrying Peter.’ She sensed my hesitation. ‘You’re surprised? You don’t think that’s a good idea?’
‘Ayesha, I don’t know Peter . . . I’m not sure I know you. If that’s what you want, then of course it’s a good idea. Many congratulations.’
‘You don’t sound very convinced. If my dad were here, I don’t think he’d be saying congratulations. He’d be trying to dissuade me . . .’
‘Well, I’m not your dad. Getting married is a big decision, but it’s your decision. You and Peter have to make it. No one else can do it for you.’
‘Well, precisely! Because no one else cares about me. There’s no one looking out for me; no one I can trust. I thought I could trust my dad and he’s dead; I thought I could trust Masood Jilani and he’s let me down; I thought I could trust you . . .’