Chapter Twenty-Three

The following Monday morning, Sally stood outside the roller door and simply breathed.

The street smelled of dust and rain on bitumen. A tram rattled past with windows fogged by condensation.

She pressed one palm against the cold corrugated steel and thought:

I can either keep bleeding, or I can stitch.

Inside, Mayfield smelled of wet clay, eucalyptus cleaner and something dangerously close to possibility.

Her first act was absurdly small.

She changed a password.

Then another.

Then another.

Every account resisted her.

Verification codes.

Licence scans.

Recovery prompts still tied to Tracey’s shadow addresses.

But by lunchtime she had reclaimed Stripe.

By evening, the booking platform finally flashed her own name in the corner again:

Owner: Sally E.

She exhaled like someone resurfacing after too long underwater.

Tracey, naturally, did not stop.

Another phantom booking arrived before Tuesday.

A hen’s party appeared carrying feather boas, supermarket champagne and alarming enthusiasm for something called:

Clay & Cabaret

When Ruth explained no such class existed, the women collapsed into laughter instead of outrage.

“Honestly,” one gasped, “you should run this. We’d absolutely pay.”

Sally found herself smiling.

Weakly.

But genuinely.

For the first time, the sabotage felt less like a knife and more like absurd theatre.

The inbox, however, remained volatile.

Negative reviews multiplied.

“Disorganised.”

“Unsafe.”

“Refunds impossible.”

Then, in the middle of the damage, another review appeared:

“My mother attends Mayfield through her NDIS plan. She has Parkinson’s and limited mobility. The staff treat her like family. She’s proud of the bowls she makes. Thank you for making space for her.”

Sally read the review three times.

It was not polished.

Not strategic.

Not viral.

But it was true.

That afternoon an older man arrived with a walker, his daughter hovering protectively nearby.

His hands trembled badly.

But when he saw the wheel his whole face changed.

“I used to throw,” he murmured. “Long ago.”

Ruth sat him at soft terracotta and steadied the clay beneath his hands.

Within minutes he was humming quietly to himself while the wheel turned.

Sally watched from the doorway with sudden pressure behind her ribs.

Tracey’s chaos shrank in moments like these.

The real Mayfield still existed underneath the noise:

• messy
• human
• ordinary
• alive

She leaned toward that pulse.

By week’s end two more NDIS participants had joined the studio.

A woman with schizophrenia who found comfort in repetitive coiling.

A young man with Down syndrome who declared every ball of clay a:

“dragon egg.”

His delight filled the room louder than any online whisper campaign.

Then Helen arrived.

Retired nurse.

Shortbread tin.

Direct eye contact.

She set the tin on the bench and announced:

“I’m here to make something ugly. And that will be fine.”

By the end of class the ugly had become a magnificent lopsided vase.

Helen left delighted.

The vase looked deeply trustworthy.

At home Sally told the teenagers about the newcomers.

The eldest studied her for a moment.

“You look lighter.”

The youngest immediately contributed:

“Community participation through NDIS improves social inclusion and measurable wellbeing outcomes.”

Sally laughed properly for the first time in weeks.

“Exactly.”

Tracey’s ghost still rattled around online.

More stories.

More doctored screenshots.

Someone sent Sally a link to a “survivor group” discussing Mayfield on Facebook.

Her stomach folded instantly.

For one hour she spiralled completely.

Then Ruth arrived carrying paperwork.

“Forget Facebook. Listen.”

She began reading legislation while flicking through highlighted sections.

“Misrepresentation. Adverse action. Sham arrangements.”

The KC husband reviewed everything calmly over tea.

“The louder she gets, the stronger the affidavit becomes.”

Oddly, the calmness helped more than reassurance would have.

But the truest shift came quietly one evening after close.

The studio stood empty.

Floors mopped.

Benches wiped.

Clay reclaim tubs sealed properly for once.

Sally stood in the middle of the room holding the mop handle against one shoulder.

Then softly:

“I can do this.”

Not defiance.

Not performance.

Just fact.

The room seemed to settle around her.

Momentum gathered slowly after that.

She drafted a newsletter:

“Mayfield bookings are now available only through our official website. If uncertain, please contact us directly while we continue securing studio systems.”

The message was plain.

Clear.

Boundaried.

Most importantly:

it sounded like her.

Responses trickled back.

Parents thanking her for clarity.

Former students promising to return.

Someone offering to volunteer at open studio.

The tide had not turned fully.

But small fires were catching.

That weekend she reopened Mayfield for a small open-access session.

Only four people came.

• the man with the walker
• Helen and her shortbread tin
• the dragon-egg maker
• one silent teenager searching for somewhere to belong

They worked quietly.

Clay beneath fingernails.

Wheel hum.

Occasional laughter rolling softly across the room.

At one point Helen began telling stories about nursing in the seventies while everyone listened like children around a fire.

Sally stood near the broom cupboard watching them.

This, she realised, was the real reason Mayfield existed.

Not branding.

Not discourse.

Not performance.

Just people trying to become slightly less lonely beside clay.

Later that night she wrote in her notebook:

• Fraud alert reported
• Domain secured
• First open access successful
• I did not vomit today

She underlined the final line twice.

Tracey had not vanished.

The reviews still simmered.

The fake bookings still surfaced occasionally.

But something essential had changed.

Sally was no longer merely reacting.

She was steering again.

When she closed the notebook that evening, she felt something small and unfamiliar rise beneath the exhaustion.

Pride.

Fragile.

But real.

The dog pressed heavily against her feet.

Sally scratched behind his ear and whispered:

“Let her scream. We’re still here.”