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It was 1.30am on an August night when I heard a sound. A sharp crack.
In bed, and unable to move without assistance, enough consciousness seeped through my mind for me to wonder where my cat was. But, as I felt her cosy warmth pressing near my side, I heard the sound again. For a moment I shivered, then smiled. Working on a new novel with a folk horror theme, I told myself that I was merely getting ‘spooked’. But the next bang was plainly real.
I buzzed my personal assistant, who dashed in. We both knew then that someone was attempting to get into my flat. My PA rushed to call the police.
I trembled, my chest tightening. I heard a catastrophic sound of glass smashing, and then more breaking again. I screamed for my PA. What had happened? Had she been attacked? The sound of shattering glass continued. I was screaming, dreading that my PA was lying injured and bleeding.
Then, a deafening thumping crash brought her running into my bedroom, slamming the door behind her, barricading us in with my heavy powerchair. She told me that my front door had been kicked in and was wide open. There was no way to know who, if anyone, was in my flat.
Phone signal let us both down and, panicking further, I contacted my partner who rang the police on his landline. When the police finally managed to get through to my PA on the phone, they asked her to see who was in my flat, but she refused outright, to my relief, reiterating the vulnerable position I was already in, never mind if the situation worsened.
Anxiety cascaded through my body. I couldn’t stop shaking.
Eventually, a voice called through and a pair of young police officers entered tentatively. A brick had been thrown through my window, smashing the double glazing and landing in my lounge-kitchen, they said. The front door hung open, locks broken, two boot marks left high on its surface.
Looking back, it was as though everything was happening in slow motion.
Shock triggered my heart condition and an ambulance was called. While paramedics helped me, the officers searched my flat.
I was told two of my neighbours had also had windows smashed, but as my flat was the only one on the ground floor (for wheelchair access) with its own door, I experienced the worst. I may never know if this attack had an element of disability hate crime, but I (and my flat) was an easy target.
What happened next exposed the sad streak of ‘not-my-problem’ individualism that increasingly runs through society.
It was now around 3am, and my PA had to fight to ensure the open gap from my shattered window was boarded up. My housing association said ‘it could take six hours’ to repair, that the glazier was ‘miles away in London’, and that he ‘only had one little bit of wood’. The banality of this exchange magnified the stress and set the tone of indifference.
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Friends, as good ones do, rallied around. One came in the early morning to check my safety and to see if the police had kept a presence – they did not. Others connected me with support services. One began the effort to link me to my new Labour MP. I voted for her, more because of the years of Tory neglect and scapegoating of disabled people, rather than any deep love or belief in Keir Starmer’s promises. She has yet to respond to any of my direct or indirect requests for help.
I also remain aghast at the police response. This was a traumatic and damaging experience for me, a disabled woman, alongside the threat posed to my female PA who is in her mid-60s. It seems that no full crime report was made and, the day after the incident, a close friend called them on my behalf. As nothing had been stolen, my friend was adamant that disability hate crime needed to be genuinely considered as a potential motive. The phone call did not go well.
I had already been told the previous night by the police that it was likely that no crime could be proven, leaving myself and my PA further traumatised.
Despite the police officers who attended saying that I would be contacted by Victim Support, five weeks have passed in complete silence. I have followed up on the crime via emails but have only had a standard acknowledgement and not one further word.
The smashed glass remained unreplaced for four weeks – the loose, broken shards falling onto the floor of the flat a daily reminder of the event, and the consequent disregard for responsibility and safeguarding. So much for the regular announcements by the housing association of how much it cares for its ‘socially-deprived’ tenants.
The NHS has not been much better. Although an emergency phone consultation resulted in promises of urgent mental health support via a very responsive GP, as yet, nothing has happened.
The system on all levels feels broken.
I was alerted to a statement by Sussex Police, claiming that it is “passionate about encouraging reporting of all crimes, which can have a dramatic effect on disabled people in our communities” because “harassment shouldn’t be a part of everyday life for disabled people, and we must take steps to reverse the culture of disbelief and ensure that the abuse is tackled, with victims given the necessary support and confidence to report issues to us”.
Like many disabled people, I am fearful.
This experience, and its utter lack of resolution, took place against the backdrop of disturbing signals from the new Government. The winter fuel payments cut will affect disabled people the most. There are rumours that Personal Independence Payments will be swapped for limiting vouchers and that recipients’ bank statements will be scrutinised. While Starmer et al get their high-end freebies, we look towards the colder months with genuine alarm.
As I try, day by day, to recover from the trauma of the break-in – still unexplained – I am also aware that I remain lucky: not only to have this platform, but also to treasure my ability to speak out when so many have a voice that isn’t heard and face many more barriers than I do.
Penny Pepper is an award-winning author, poet and disabled activist