Itv’s ‘believe me’ exposes a systemic failure: when victims are silenced
ITV’s ‘Believe Me’ isn’t Entertainment; it’s a brutal, unflinching examination of how the justice system fails women, particularly when confronting horrific sexual assault. Prepare to be profoundly disturbed – and utterly enraged.
A chilling portrait of institutional betrayal
The four-part drama series, adapted from the true story of John Worboys’ crimes, initially focuses on the notorious sex offender, played with unsettling restraint by Daniel Mays. However, the series quickly pivots, and rightfully so, to the devastating impact his actions had on the women he preyed upon. It’s a story less about a monster and more about the systemic negligence that allowed him to operate for so long.
The opening episode meticulously charts the agonizing journey of Sarah, one of Worboys’ victims, as she desperately fights to have her assault acknowledged. We witness the slow, agonizing drip of dismissal – the initial skepticism, the frustrating rejections, the unsettling implication that she’s somehow complicit. It’s a masterclass in portraying the insidious nature of victim blaming, a tactic that continues to haunt survivors today.
The rot beneath the surface
Harriet Wistrich, CEO of Centre for Women’s Justice, aptly describes the series’ portrayal: “This drama shows how devastating investigative failures can be, and how important it is that survivors have a way to hold institutions to account when things go wrong.”
But ‘Believe Me’ doesn’t shy away from the granular details of this failure. The nurse’s dismissive response to Sarah’s confusion after waking from the assault – reducing her to a ‘drunk party girl’ – is particularly egregious. Then there’s the police officer’s casual suggestion that Sarah might have ‘forgotten’ the details, fueled by a cocaine habit. It’s a grotesque distortion of reality, a deliberate attempt to undermine the victim’s narrative.
A cascade of failures
The series relentlessly exposes a litany of failures: the lack of basic evidence gathering – no taxi driver details, no bruise photographs – the tendency to question a survivor's credibility, and the uncomfortable implication that her drug use somehow absolves her of responsibility. It’s a relentless, uncomfortable exposé of how easily, and how routinely, victims are discredited.
Daniel Mays’ performance as Worboys is understated, almost chillingly so. He’s a catalyst, not a character consumed by malice. The real horror lies in the inaction, the indifference, and the pervasive belief that Sarah’s experience – and the experiences of countless other women – were somehow less valid.
The frustration is palpable. You want to scream at the screen, to demand answers, to force the authorities to act. And yet, they remain stubbornly, tragically, silent. This isn't just a television drama; it’s a stark indictment of a system that routinely fails its most vulnerable citizens.
‘Believe Me’ concludes with an agonizing realization: Justice delayed is justice denied. But the true victory lies not in the pursuit of retribution, but in the unwavering resilience of these women, who refuse to be silenced.