The Hate Collective - James Powell (free ebook reader for android .txt) 📗

fifteen each time. In fact, you’re the first new arrival for several months now, which is good. The group always loves new blood.’
Michael smiled weakly, but this revelation, although a harmless joke, made him feel worse. He would be the outsider. The new guy. Everyone would already know each other, and he would be the odd one out. What the hell was he thinking, coming to group therapy? That was something only Americans did surely? He wanted to leave, angry for even entertaining the possibility that sharing your problems with a bunch of strangers would be a good idea.
There was an awkward silence (well, only awkward for Michael. Brenda didn’t mind) as he struggled to continue the conversation, but luckily for him, the arrival of another member solved this problem.
‘Oh hi Joan’, said Breda smiling. ‘Glad you could make it this time.’ The woman looked stressed. Her hair was messy and the way she was dressed -white t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, gave away the fact that she had been too pressed for time to smarten up.
‘Yeah, the bloody babysitter cancelled so I spent the afternoon trying to find a replacement, which was a nightmare.’ Pausing for breath, she turned to Michael.
‘You must be new here’. Her smile stunned him. Such a contrast from her worn out expression just seconds earlier.
‘Yeah, it’s my first time at one of these group things.’ ‘I’m Michael by the way’, he added, almost forgetting to introduce himself. They shook hands and she smiled again. Michael realised that she was beautiful, yet quietly sad, someone who had obviously been badly treated by life. But underneath this, there was clearly a fighting spirit and steely determination, which Michael found intriguing.
More members arrived, and as everyone got chatting, Michael realised that people here were actually quite upbeat, not what he was expecting from a support group. Nobody here was an obvious victim. He had expected them to all be like him. Quiet, withdrawn and miserable. But that wasn’t the case, and for the first time, therapy actually seemed like a good idea.
After a few minutes, Brenda interrupted the chit chat and everybody took their seats in the circle.
‘Right’, she said. ‘Thanks for coming. This is a slightly better turnout than last time, which is nice. First things first, we have a new member this time. I’d like to introduce you to Michael. Michael, I’m going to put you on the spot straight away and ask you to tell your story to the group.’ She said this in a friendly, slightly teasing way, hoping to put him at ease, but Michael was still very nervous about speaking, even though this was exactly what he had been expecting.
‘Hi’, he said, voice cracking slightly.
‘Hi Michael’, came the collective response. It seemed genuine. The faces seemed friendly and encouraging, which gave him the confidence to continue.
‘OK, I’m Michael, but you already know that, obviously. Er… I’m thirty-nine years old. I work in an office doing data analysis. Pretty boring really.’ He paused. ‘I was coming home from work one day a few months ago when a man came up to me, pulled out a knife and stole my wallet. Since then I haven’t been able to sleep properly and I can’t concentrate. My friends just told me to get over it, but I was really shaken up. I can’t seem to move on. Apparently it’s quite common, but I’ve never been mugged before, and seeing the knife really scared me. So I went to the police, but that was a waste of time. They said the chances of finding the attacker were tiny, even though the guy had obviously robbed before and was probably already on some kind of database. I was given a crime number though, which really made a difference. So I went to the local paper to see if they would do a piece about my situation, and the spread of knife crime, but they didn’t care. If I had been stabbed though, it would have been front page news, but having a knife waved in your face doesn’t matter anymore, it seems. My MP was even less help, so that’s how I ended up looking for a group. I just needed to meet people who knew what it was like, and I hope that talking to you will help, because at the moment, I’m really struggling.’
This speech, delivered with such anger and bitterness, really did make Michael feel better. It was nice to talk freely, knowing that the audience understood his suffering because they had endured it themselves. It was a comforting thought. He looked around the circle at all the faces staring back, and saw something in their eyes which he hadn’t seen from anybody else. Not the police. Not his friends. Not his colleagues. Empathy. These people seemed to care, and Michael was touched. Why didn’t he come here sooner?
‘Thanks for talking to us’, said Brenda in that calming voice health professionals tend to use. ‘Does anyone have anything to say to Michael?’ There was a brief pause.
‘Yeah, I do’, said the man opposite.
‘Go ahead Tony’, said Brenda approvingly.
‘I know exactly what you mean about the newspapers mate. Me and my family had to move house because of a bunch of kids terrorising the neighbourhood, and I tried to do something about it. The police didn’t prosecute, so I tried to get the media involved. You know, draw attention to what was going on. But nobody was interested. It was a total waste of time. They wont listen to the little man. The only way to get their attention is to set up some kind of campaign, you know, protest, lobby the government, that kind of thing. Even then they probably wouldn’t pay attention, but at least we might have a chance.’
This was a passionate speech, and there were several nods of approval from fellow members, but Michael was not so sure. He cast his mind back to his university days, and all the marches he went on, marches that achieved nothing. Then there was his current, useless MP who served as yet another reminder of how broken and ineffective the system was. Lobbying wouldn’t help, but Michael kept quiet. There wasn’t much room for negativity in this group.
An old lady, Helen, spoke up. ‘If you were robbed near your house, there’s a chance you might see the mugger again. Then you could identify him to the police. You could even go looking for him.’
This was a good point, and something Michael had thought about for a while. ‘The thing is’, he replied, ‘is that I don’t know how I’ll react if I do see him again. Part of me wants revenge so badly that I might do something stupid, or I might be too scared to do anything, which would make me feel even more worthless. Or it could bring back all the horrible memories, memories I’ve tried so hard to get rid of. And if I did do the right thing and point him out to the police, do you really think they would do anything? Do you really think they would prosecute? I could go to all that trouble only for him to end up with a caution. Is it really worth it?
Helen fired back. ‘If I knew who burgled my house, I’d do everything possible to get them locked up. These people deserve to be taught a lesson, and if we all stand by and let them get away with it, things will only get worse. Where will it end? If stealing becomes acceptable, then how long until murder becomes acceptable? I’ll probably be dead by then though’, she said, laughing to herself. ‘But I don’t want your generation to suffer even more than mine. And don’t forget, you had the luxury of seeing your attacker, so there’s always a chance of justice. I never saw the people who robbed me. They will never get caught.’ This speech struck a chord with everyone in the group, and even Brenda found herself agreeing that it was disgraceful that a woman in her eighties should suffer the indignity of having her house broken into.
Over the next hour, more people shared their stories. A familiar pattern was emerging. People tended to react in a similar way, feeling intense anger, but at the same time helpless frustration. Some were still struggling to cope, despite their troubles being in the distant past, a problem which Michael was all too familiar with. But despite this openness, most of the other members seemed happy to just sit there and listen, finding comfort in the fact they were not alone in their perceived victimhood. Eventually, Brenda brought the meeting to a close, thanked everyone for coming and invited the group to help themselves to tea and coffee, which was set up on a small table in the corner. Michael decided to forego this opportunity, still feeling like a bit of an outsider. He would try and socialise with people after a couple more meetings when he knew everyone a little better, and felt more comfortable in the environment. He went up to Brenda, thanked her warmly, which she seemed to appreciate, then made his way to the door. A voice called after him. It was Joan. ‘You’re not staying for coffee then?’, she asked.
‘No, I still feel a bit awkward. Maybe next time.’
His honesty surprised her, but she understood exactly what he meant, having spent her first few meetings feeling very nervous and self conscious, especially when talking about her ordeal in front of people she didn’t know.
‘It may be intimidating at first’, she said smiling, ‘But we’re actually a pretty good bunch of people when you get to know us.’ Michael smiled back, and tried to think of something funny to say, but Joan saved him the embarrassment.
‘So will you come back next time?’
‘Yeah, I think so. Tonight was very helpful.’
‘Well then, I’ll see you in two weeks. It was nice to meet you Michael.’
‘You too’, he replied, genuinely pleased to have spoken to her that evening, however briefly. He left the building on a high, not sure whether it was because of the conversation or the therapy, but whatever it was, he liked it. He felt lighter somehow, and much more relaxed. Ready to face the world again, which was quite a surprise. Surely it can’t be that easy?, he thought. Surely a five minute confessional with a group of strangers couldn’t erase what had happened? There must be more to it than that. Maybe not though. Maybe purging your system in front of some sympathetic listeners really was all that was needed to get over a traumatic episode. Michael felt better already.
Predictably though, like many things in life, it wasn’t as easy as he first thought, and after several days spent feeling like a man reborn, so much so that even his colleagues noticed a change in him, things started slipping back to the way they used to be, and Michael started counting down the days until the next session. The initial euphoria subsided, and he was once again confronted with cold, hard reality.
Luckily he didn’t have to wait that long, and on the following Wednesday, he found himself looking at the same faces, preparing to tell his story. ‘So’, said Brenda enthusiastically. ‘Who would like to start off this week? Michael, how have things been going for you this past fortnight?’
He was glad to be picked first. This time he wanted to speak. Needed to speak.
‘Well first of all, I’d like to thank you all for listening last time. I went home that night feeling pretty good about things. Hopeful and optimistic. I even managed to sleep properly for the first time in months. The mugging