"You'll be coming, won't you, Sarah?" Helen almost sang, with the phony enthusiasm that the
staff at Greenwood Day Centre were accustomed to using, when addressing "The Patients".
Sarah continued to glare at the bog roll "witch", which she had - unbelievably - just spent
the past twenty-five minutes producing. It was the sort of thing that her three-year-old nephew would do, at nursery.
And here was Sarah, at the age of twenty-four...
It was pathetic. Totally and utterly pathetic.
"Sarah?" prompted Helen. "I said..."
"I heard you the first time, okay? I'm not fucking deaf, you know. Don't you ever
stop patronising us?"
Of course, Sarah knew damn well that her outburst would be reported to Brian, her key worker.
Her day centre "key worker", that is. As opposed to the "key worker" who pretended to
consult Sarah about her so-called "Care Plan" - alias, Rosanna, her Community Psychiatric Nurse, or CPN.
What Helen had been fishing for, of course, was for Sarah to provide confirmation that she
would be coming on their little "outing", the following week. Helen had been trying all morning, without success, to
persuade the "new girl", Tara, to come.
After the craft group, Sarah was enjoying a much-needed cup of strong, black coffee, and a
rare moment of peace and quiet, in the lounge.
Until, that Tara came and sat next to her. Again. Why, for fuck's sake? There
were plenty of empty chairs. This was the same, almost painfully uncomfortable, feeling, that Sarah experienced on bus
rides, when someone deliberately chose to sit next to her - as opposed to merely sitting there because the bus was packed,
and no "double seats" were available.
But this was worse than that, Sarah reminded herself. She didn't want to make "small
talk" with anyone, but she had her own, very specific reasons for not wanting to speak to Tara.
Sarah picked up a magazine from the coffee table, and pretended to read. It was about
art and craft. Nothing on bog roll "witches", though. Sarah mentally smirked at her own wit.
"How long have you been coming here, Sarah?" asked Tara.
Sarah gave up, and slammed down the crap magazine. "About three years."
"Do you like it?"
"It's all right."
"The toilet roll witches are a bit silly, don't you think?"
That had to be understatement of the century. Sarah shrugged. "You get used to
it."
"It didn't sound as if you were too happy, or 'used to it', when you argued with Helen, in
the group just now."
"Tara?"
"Yeah?"
"Why don't you piss off, and leave me alone?"
"Sarah, can I have a word, please?" Brian was poking his bald head around the door. Surprise,
surprise. Sarah stood up, and followed him upstairs, into the small, somewhat untidy office, that Brian shared
with the two other staff members, both of whom had made themselves scarce, as was traditional, when a patient was summoned
to "The Office".
"Take a seat, Sarah. Then maybe you'd like to tell me what's been going on." This
was all said in his very best "empathetic counsellor's" tone of voice.
As if he didn't know full well what was "going on".
"Helen tells me," Brian was forced to add, after a prolonged pause, during which neither he
nor Sarah had spoken, "that you weren't exactly over-friendly to a new member, who joined the craft group this morning."
Sarah shrugged.
"I also couldn't help overhearing your exchange with Tara, earlier on."
"Amazing what we overhear sometimes, isn't it, Brian?"
"Sarah, I don't know what..."
"Save it, okay? I've had just about as much as I can take! I'm going home!"
"You know that you can't do that. The transport will pick you up at half-past three.
You can't leave until then, unless it's been pre-arranged."
'This place is like a fucking prison, but worse. I don't remember making witches out
of bog rolls, when I was 'inside'. This place is such a shit-hole."
"I'm wondering if perhaps Dr. Marshall ought to review your medication. When's your next
appointment?"
"You bastard! How dare you try to make out that I'm the one with the
fucking problem here? And what's that Tara's agenda? I know she's your girlfriend, and that Helen and Jim aren't
happy about..."
"Hold it there, please. I think we both know what this is really about, Sarah,
and it has got to stop. Whatever you may think you feel about me..."
"You are unbelievable. You might be able to fool just about everyone else, but we both
know what you did, at that party. You raped me, Brian. You fucking well raped me!"
"That's a very serious allegation, Sarah. You ought to be extremely careful, making accusations
of that nature."
"Is that a threat?"
"Look, you're obviously not well. I'm going to have to speak to your psychiatrist and
nurse. We need to start seriously considering what to do next." Brian hesitated, before adding, in the much lower,
rather menacing tone of voice, which Sarah had come to know so well, and fear so much: "Nobody will believe you.
You know that, don't you? Think about it logically, Sarah. You're a woman, with a diagnosis of schizophrenia,
who has already been in jail twice, at the tender age of twenty-four. Oh, and you happen to be on the game."
"I am not on the fucking game!" He knew damn well that Sarah wasn't a whore. This
was just another of his pathetic digs, about what her mother and half-sister, Katie, did for a living.
As if that had bugger all to do with Sarah. She had barely spoken to her mum,
since her parents' divorce. Sarah had only met her mother's current husband twice, and their daughter a grand total
of four times. And three of the meetings with Katie had been by accident, not design. Mum's youngest daughter
had a tendency to stagger around the streets of Reading town centre, in an alcoholic or/and drug-induced haze.
Anyway, why was Sarah wasting her time thinking about an aspect of her life, that she would
rather forget? Her mum and Katie were blood relations, and Sarah couldn't alter that fact. But that didn't make
them family, did it?
Sarah's late father had been her parent. And Ella, Dad's daughter, was Sarah's
only sister, in the true sense. Ella's son was her only real nephew, regardless of how many brats Katie had, thus far,
given birth to.
It really pissed Sarah off, when she thought about all those smug people who, over the years,
had used her family background, and the darker parts of her own life history, against her. People exactly like
this piece of shit, Brian - her so-called "key worker".
Yeah, well, not this time. Sarah looked at the pathetic excuse for a human being, in
front of her. She was going to report him. And probably she wouldn't be believed, just as she hadn't
been ten years ago, when she had reported the GP who -
No! Sarah didn't want to go there. She really didn't. She had gone over and
over it, with counsellors, psychotherapist, and even the occasional, more sympathetic than average, CPN. And it might
have helped, but it had also held her back, in more ways than she could bear to think about, right then.
But Brian was a different matter. And she wouldn't forgive herself if she didn't at least
try to get something done about the situation. Even if Sarah did decide to give up going to the day
centre herself. That was a separate issue.
Because, let's face it, she couldn't see herself sticking around to make bog roll "guys" in
November, and maybe by December, progress to washing-up bottle "Santas", with which she could decorate her bedsit, over the
"Festive Season".
But, even if Sarah stopped going herself, Brian would easily find another, sufficiently vulnerable,
victime, to torture instead.
Sarah slammed the door behind her, feeling a sudden sense of what she presumed must be meant
by the term "empowerment" - an expression which some of her fellow service users were prone to over-use.
It was a good feeling, though.
So, Tara was Brian's girlfriend, was she? More fool her! And the other staff weren't
exactly thrilled that he was going out with someone who had recently been referred to the centre, although Brian himself thought
that, "as long as she has a different key worker", it ought to be okay. He would.
Sarah made up her mind to have a word with Tara, before leaving the day centre, once and for
all.
In the afternoon, she would give Rosanna a call. It was time that Sarah's CPN did something
to earn her salary, and she could start by explaining the relevant complaints procedures.
And, if she was getting nowhere fast, going down that avenue, Sarah would go to the police,
instead. After all, she was the victim this time, wasn't she?
