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| Vulnerable Adults | |
| By IPFaulkner | ||||||||||
| 16 May 2006 | ||||||||||
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Ok, this is the first chapter of a much longer piece. Truthfuly, I haven't looked at what it says for a bit because I'm further on with it now and am really anxious to here what people say. IP Copy of letter written by Alex Thomas: Ms. June Pearson XX ------------ Street Girvan Dear Mrs. Pearson, I hope this letter finds you well. As you are aware I am concerned that Mary has not attended the day centre for several weeks. I think it is important that she takes part in some activity during the day – both to give you a break and for her own sense of independence and stimulation. I would like to call and discuss this matter further. I plan to call on June xx 2004 at 10am. I hope this is convenient. Yours sincerely, Alex Thomas (Community Nurse) JUNE 2003: GIRVAN, AYRSHIRE “MARY – are you up yet?” “Aye mammy, ah’m goin’ the toilet”. “Well, don’t make a mess. I’m not cleaning up after you all the time. It’s disgusting. A big girl like you should clean your own mess up.” “Aye mammy.” Mary swings her legs onto the floor and yawns. A thread of light shines across her knees and she watches the dust dance in the shaft of sunlight for a minute. She sighs and stands up. She mutters to herself and motions actions, mimicking her mother with wit her mother does not suspect her capable of. She pulls on a bathrobe and crosses the hall to the bathroom. Mary is sometimes incontinent during the night and so wears a pad. She focuses on the daily ritual of removing it. She concentrates hard - she will get it right this time. She can feel the pressure of a full bladder but worse, she also knows she will soon need to empty her bowel, causing further anxiety. Her hands flap up and down, perhaps five times, in anxiety while she tries to compose herself and focus on the task, dispelling the panic sloshing in her like ballast. She tuts, mutters to herself. Mary looks at the toilet, stands near it, takes off her dressing gown. She pulls down her pyjama bottoms and underwear and stares at the incontinence pad. It is full of urine and smells. She does not want to touch it but she can hear noises coming from her mother’s bedroom, indicating she will need to act quickly. She grabs the pad from inside her knickers and jerks it out, tossing it toward the toilet in one fluid movement. It misses and falls slightly behind and on the far side of the bowl with a slap. “Oh God, Oh no, no, oh no” she mutters as she looks to see where it landed. She is looking for the pad when, suddenly, she MUST go to the toilet. She stands up as fast as she can, making herself dizzy and throws herself at the seat but too late. A pool of urine lies next to the toilet and she knows that some of the shit landed on the toilet seat. She can feel it under her thigh. She continues to mutter to herself and sits for about five minutes wishing the whole situation away. She tuts to herself and says “Sorry, sorry.” She gets up and tries to repair the damage. Three or four minutes later this is how her mother finds her; kneeling next to the bowl, her shins covered in urine and her arse - the only part of her body she can see – covered in crap from halfway up her thighs as she tries to mop up the mess with the re-discovered incontinence pad. June Pearson sits on the edge of her bed. She is tired. Her eyes barely open. The “wee help” she gets to sleep has failed her again. She was still wide awake at 4.15am and so took two more of the small tablets. Now, at 8.30am, she can’t get up. She curses the GP who gave her the prescription and makes a mental note to tell the “so-called doctor” that his pills are worse than useless. How can she take three and still be exhausted the next morning? She can hear the usual ridiculous muttering and mumbling as Mary leaves her room. This irritates her. Already she has needed a reminder to sort herself and how many times does she tell her daughter that all that gibberish she talks just draws attention to her? As far as Mrs. Pearson is concerned if she has nothing sensible to say she should say nothing. That’s how she was brought up – the right way, the old-fashioned way. She hears unpromising noises coming from the bathroom. Her head feels like it has been stuffed with molasses. June feels ill-prepared for the day ahead. Mrs. Pearson’s life has disappointed. This was not how she imagined it 40 years ago. Then the world was crystal, shiny and pure. She remembers days in the local coffee shops, catching the wave of 60’s pop as it sped through Glasgow. Drunken trips to Millport or Largs. Cheap new clothes whenever she wanted them. Everyone had a story or something interesting to say. The old pre-war world was being bulldozed away after the favour the German’s had done by bombing it. It was being replaced by colour and freedom. It was a time when she was in control. She saw no reason to consider anyone else. Your boss a bitch? Ditch the job and take another. Boyfriend no car? What about the fella who cruised past last night? Mam and dad want to know why you came in late? Move in with your pals – you can kip on the floor in their flat until you get your own. Each day promised something new and, if by 10 o’clock it hadn’t fulfilled that promise, then scrap it and live a new one from quarter past. This day promises nothing. She will respond to her daughter’s failures, stay in the house all day and probably fall asleep in the afternoon. Mary will be consistently ungrateful for all the sacrifice made for her. She will express this by the rubbish she talks, her failure to do the few chores she expects of her, by her constant demands for attention. No-one will ask how she is or what she would like. June will try to recreate the era of her youth at every opportunity, re-living versions of her youth at every opportunity. June lifts herself from her bed and goes to the bathroom. Even her memories are sidelined at the expense of the needs of Mary Pearson. GLASGOW The concierge flicked through the last scrap of football gossip the Daily Record had to offer. He turned the page and, seeing the racing section, knew that was the end of any information the paper had to offer. He will spend the remaining hours of his shift listening to the radio and digesting the transfer gossip he must feed himself on until the new football season starts. He glanced at the CCTV screen which showed the side of his tower block. Three men of indeterminate age were running, racing, fighting the resistance offered by gravity, to get around the building. The figures were grainy, making their faces difficult to see with any clarity. However, he could see that, instead of the usual tracksuits or baseball caps, they were wearing jeans and black leather jackets, indicating people a little higher up the tier of authority in the local food chain. Whoever they were chasing probably had good reason to hope he was just that bit faster. The men disappeared from camera view at the moment their quarry appeared in the reception area. He hurled himself into the building and waved his key at the sensor. The buzzer sounded and he crashed through the door without stopping. Covered in sweat and pale, he raced to the lift and slapped the call button repeatedly, glancing with terror over his shoulder. The door was mechanically returning to lock again. Very slowly. It let out a low humming sound that indicated it would not be rushed beyond its statutory, mechanical pace. The runner was torn between watching the red digital numbers above the lift count down and the glacial pace of his defensive barrier meeting the jar. The pursuers appeared moments later, almost missing the entrance in their haste before re-treading their steps at full pace in a manoeuvre familiar to aficionados of Hannah-Barbara cartoons. They raced to the still closing door, colliding with each other as they entered the foyer. Too late. The door shut with a click as they reached it and vibrated. It refused to budge, as they slammed into it and then each other with force. The concierge watched with anxiety and no plans to intervene. The hours were too long and pay too poor for heroics. The only form of intercession he ever risked was a stern cry of “hey!” If this failed – and he was not even willing to risk that having had a closer look at the opposition - then no more could be expected of him. One of the pursuers slammed both palms onto the re-enforced glass of the concierges window and demanded he open the door, his face slowly disappearing with each word behind the fog of perspiration and spittle he was creating. The conceirge took a step back and his hand instinctively reached for his panic button. He wondered what active role he might be forced to take in the drama unfolding before him. A second man gently, almost intimately, placed a hand on the firsts shoulder. The concierge heard no words but from the gestures understood the hierarchy. The window slapper’s head bowed as he passed this man, joining the group of two behind him. Everyone turned to watch the progress being made on the other side of the door. The lift arrived and the doors slid open. By now the lone man, in jeans and a tracksuit top, had regained some of his composure and turned to look at the four men with more confidence. A small smile spread across his lips and he walked, as slowly as he could, into the lift. He turned and held the doors open for a second. His smile was deliberately boyish and provocative. His right hand arrived at head height, open palm. His fingers fluttered up and down in a mockery of a wave. Spittle man was screaming, waving, actually jumping as his hand rose above his head and his finger came down in a violent pointing gesture. Two of his colleagues laughed - one shook his head and the other making a wanker gesture and was turning away as the doors closed. The man at the front watched expressionless, hands in pockets and sighed visibly as the lift doors shut before turning away and into the warm Springburn afternoon sun. When the lift had passed the third floor, John Pearson slid to his knees and then all fours. He began to feel huge sobs gathering in his chest. Before they could make any impact he was violently sick. “Oh Johnny, you’ve right fucked it up this time. Jesus. Jesus.” He muttered to himself, motivating himself not to be sick again. Shortly, he arrived at his floor and stepped over the vomit and out of the lift, relieved to see no-one waiting to enter. He grasped for his key and a shaky hand ground it into the lock. He glanced around, watching for any bogeymen that might be waiting to greet him. Finally inside, he walked across his uncarpeted floor and dropped onto the old, lumpy sofa – the only item of furniture left in his home. The barren nature of his flat was a reminder of how desperate he had become to feed his drug habit in the past year. It was incredible that now, when he was using less heroin than he had since his teens, he was at risk of serious harm from the bastions of the local drug provision services. In fact, during his recent six week spell on remand he had been one of the cleanest men on his wing. Unfortunately, his reduction in drug use had not endeared him to those who he owed money to on his release. A reformed junkie was problematic for the following reasons: first of all they stole less, having lost that cast iron need that overcame fear of capture; secondly, they came over all sentimental for things like food and clean clothes so their benefits could not be guaranteed as part of their debt repayment scheme, and finally, they were no longer a source of new income. As a consequence, those owed money by the new abstainers usually thought it a good time to call in their investment. This was the predicament Johnny had found himself. Johnny still needed some drugs, having not yet completely kicked his habit. He tried more shop-lifting to pacify those he owed and to fund his needs but with little conviction. He knew he’d been spotted at least once and had little doubt warrants for his arrest would soon be issued, if they had not already been. A return to prison beckoned. The Sheriff had given him a three year Probation Order on his last visit to the court and offered no hope of a second chance if he were to return. He would certainly face a lengthy prison sentence if he breached the Order. Johnny was in a difficult situation. He wondered how this had all happened and had to admit that giving up drugs was, on reflection, the worst decision he had made since he decided to start taking them. Heroin had been his pass-time for many years. A hobby – a bit of fun to wile away the hours. He had always seen himself as in control of his addiction. It had been, after all, stable and unchanging for at least 8 years. He was on good terms with his dealers and lived, what he considered a happy, fairly hassle free life. But then, after being in control for so long, for no reason he could understand, his drug consumption began to creep up. A little more, a little more and before long he was drowning. He was past the point of denial – he knew he was in trouble. This, however, was not the main reason for his attempt to stop. The usual social stigma of heroin was the very thing that had attracted him in the first place. The outsider status of failure and loss were its main appeal to him. It excused him from doing anything else. So giving up heroin was nothing to do with being a pariah to the mainstream community he generally despised anyway. Giving up heroin was a decision based purely on ego. He had begun to note a change of attitude when prowling for drugs. There was less chat; he was more and more often handled by the monkeys rather than by the organ grinders he had known for years. He had begun to wonder – but surely not – was that “scumball small time junky” look really aimed at him? He had come to discover that it was. He learned a lesson: when you start to think drug dealer are getting younger these days it’s probably time to give up. This sudden awareness of his place in the pecking order had caused Johnny Pearson to re-assess his situation. He steadily cut back and used a script to top up. He had tried to use this good news to avoid the full force of the criminal justice system when it eventually caught up with him but with little success. His lawyer, out of politeness, had made a note on his A4 pad when Johnny explained during a prison visit while on remand. The court report writer and now Probation Officer had nodded in the right places but with little conviction. Johhny, Johnny. You had told these stories so many times to the same people that they were bored of hearing them. The social worker predicted your tale an hour before you met. Your solicitor used the sheet of paper with the word “clean” on it to start a shopping list. He was furious when finally placed on Probation. He had actually hoped for a short sentence, most, if not all of which he would have already been served while on remand. He would have been free from all interference when released. Why had no-one believed him when he had for once told the truth? He had continued with his home made drug therapy during his period of incarceration. Stubborn and determined to prove everyone a liar he worked hard at not giving in to the daily temptation available on his wing. On release he pursued his new hobby further, relying on his script and increasingly small amounts of heroin, along with a few illegally bought prescription drugs – Diazepam, Valium etc. – to lessen the affects of his withdrawal. He had continued to tell his probation officer but that fucker believed nothing. He told no-one anymore, tired off the looks of disbelief on his face. And now, thanks to his attempts to become an upstanding citizen, he could barely leave his flat and was finding himself genetically unable to avoid making the situation worse by his smart arse gestures. It was time to consider his options. They were few and far between but finally, with reluctance, he decided a return to the bosom of his family might be required. Things really were that bad.
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