by Janice Nix
She was silent, weighing me up.
‘That shit you buy from Markie changes everything,’ I said to her. ‘Smoke that crap, and the people who really care about you will feel like the bad guys. Your drug friends become your whole new world. But in that world, everybody feeds off everybody. I want to stop them feeding off you, Izzie.’
‘But how can you?’ she asked me softly.
‘It’s going to take a while,’ I said to her. ‘But Izzie – tek yeh pussy off yeh forehead, girl.’
She burst out laughing. I’d never heard her laughter before. I’d never seen her face without the little hooks of strain dragging down her eyes and her mouth.
‘Izzie,’ I said to her, ‘we’re going to change all this. We’re going to make you a new life. You won’t be a walking commodity no more.’
2
Crisis centre
PROBATION IS A LIFELINE.
I looked at the pile of client case files on my desk. Every file held a life. It was the story of a human being in desperate trouble, struggling to cope with the issues they were facing.
I knew that some offenders were never going to listen. They didn’t want to work with me. They were people who hadn’t accepted they needed change in their lives. But mostly what I faced day by day was different kinds of crisis. Some crises are slow-burning, and some are immediate and violent and dreadful.
My job is to keep offenders out of prison. To help them to make changes before it’s too late. To support them as they try to turn things round. A client on probation sees his or her officer or engagement worker weekly. We check that the client is doing the community work ordered by the court and advise them on looking for a job, housing problems, benefit applications, childcare or domestic issues. The client can ask us for support with anything else they might be worried about.
But far too often, the lifeline is pulled tight. It’s close to breaking. Then a probation meeting becomes a frantic attempt to grab hold of someone who’s teetering on the edge of a cliff. I have one last chance to catch them before they topple backwards and vanish from sight.
A new client, Becca, was in serious trouble for breaching the terms of her probation. I reached court early, dressed in the smart black clothes my job required. I wanted to make sure I spoke to Becca before her appearance.
Breach court was where the people who had fallen through the system ended up. They were there because they’d failed to keep the terms of their probation, which usually meant they’d failed to fulfil a community work order. Now they were in breach of the instructions of the court. They were sent back before the judge. Sometimes the court would accept that there were reasons why the problems had happened. But for others, this was the last stop on the line. If you breach the terms of your probation, it usually means prison.
In the entrance hall, security staff checked everyone who came into the building for weapons and drugs. The guard on duty smiled and said good morning. I went through checks and bag searches and headed to the first floor. I was hoping I’d find Becca in the waiting room for court number two, although I wasn’t confident she’d even make it to the hearing. But to my surprise, she’d got there before me. What didn’t surprise me was the misery, confusion and defeat in her face.
She hunched forward in her seat, arms tightly wrapped around her chest, rocking backwards and forwards. Her coat was bristly with dog hairs. Her dark hair was greasy and uncombed. Her face was very pale. I could see she was completely exhausted.
‘Good morning,’ I said. Her eyes flicked towards me when I spoke, but she made no reply.
‘Becca, come with me for a minute. Let’s go and sit in the consultation room where it’s private.’
I held the door open and watched her shuffle slowly along the wide corridor. The consultation room was tiny and windowless, painted a chilly pale blue. She sat down heavily in one of the wooden chairs. I closed the door behind us.
It was three weeks since my colleague Ros had handed me her bulging case file with a worried frown.
‘One for you, Jan. She’s breaching and things are getting serious. Any chance you can talk to her?’
The case file told a wretched story. Becca was a gentle, kind-hearted woman. She loved her twelve-year-old son Jack, and Martin, her husband, very much, though she couldn’t always manage to take care of them. She had learning difficulties and her mental health was up and down. Her GP kept on trying to ease her mood swings and depression with medication, but it wasn’t so easy for someone like Becca to follow a routine. From time to time, she’d forget to take her tablets and things would go pear-shaped – but at least the family was together. As a unit, they were coping. Then one June day, Becca found Martin dead in their kitchen. He’d had a heart attack, out of the blue.
Martin had done everything at home. He was Becca’s carer, he looked after Jack and he kept the household running. Without him, things quickly fell apart. Becca didn’t know how the bills got paid or how the light-bulbs got changed or how the heating got fixed. She didn’t understand that the housing benefit covered the rent, or how to make sure it stayed that way.
So she did nothing to keep her life in order. She’d no idea at all what to do. She failed to contact anyone she needed to. More confused and scared every day, she simply froze. She spent all the money in her bank account, and when the cash ran out, she started stealing food. Letters from the council and benefit forms from the Department for Work and Pensions landed on the doormat, but Becca just ignored them. As the writing in the letters turned red, she shut the DWP and the council from her mind.
When a man she knew offered her a chance to earn some money, she believed he was her friend. He spent time with her at home, which she thought was nice because since Martin died, she’d often been lonely. Then her friend invited other friends to hang out there as well. Five or six strangers took over Becca’s living room until the small hours of the morning, drinking and smoking weed. The job her friend gave her was to take a bunch of credit cards and go out and buy watches. Pretty soon, she’d been arrested for credit card fraud.
By now it was November. Her heating wasn’t working and the house was freezing cold, but her landlord refused to do repairs while the rent was in arrears. The unopened letters in the kitchen were all final demands for unpaid bills, and Becca and Jack were in danger of eviction from their home. When her fraud case went to court, the judge put Becca on probation. She didn’t keep the appointments. She’d never been able to get organised without Martin. But by breaching the terms of her probation, she was at risk of being sent to prison.
I remembered our first meeting. At the best of times she was easily confused, and by that stage her thinking had almost completely shut down. All she could say when I’d asked about any situation in her life was ‘my husband did it’. A few days after we first met, she and her daughter were evicted. Jack was put into emergency foster care by the local council. Forced to sleep in the open, alone and terrified, Becca thought the park near Iceland seemed a safe and quiet place. But late at night she was attacked there by two men. Both of them raped her.
I had to find a way to get her off the street. She was in terrible danger, and with every day that passed, the weather grew colder. Her homelessness endangered her life. But my power was limited. As an engagement worker, I couldn’t give her all the help and support she needed. She needed to go to a crisis centre, so that her name could be added to the list for emergency housing. I’d tried to explain this in a way which wouldn’t overwhelm her. But as I’d searched for the words, I could see she wasn’t taking it in. She’d just kept shaking her head.
It was filling out forms that was the problem, I realised. She’d anxiously questioned me about it. ‘Forms. Will they have forms?’ Even when I told her I’d go with her, it didn’t seem to help. That’s when I’d suddenly understood how all of this had gone so wrong. Gently, I’d asked Becca whether she could read. She answered in a whisper: ‘No. My husband did it.’
All those letters from the
council piling up. Those final demands for bills she hadn’t paid. Those notifications of arrears. She hadn’t understood a single one of them. For Becca, being asked to fill out forms was almost as humiliating as having nowhere to sleep.
Now she sat in the court’s consultation room, arms folded tightly, just rocking. I glanced at my watch. In a few minutes, she must face the judge. A paralysing panic had her in its grip. I knew I must break through it. I looked for a way to help her trust me.
‘Becca, I understand how you feel.’
She made no response.
‘If I told you something, something about me, would you believe me?’
For a moment she looked up. Her eyes met mine.
‘So,’ I went on, ‘I was on probation once. Just like you. It was a long time ago. And I breached, and they sent me to prison.’
Her expression didn’t change. She was so stressed and overwhelmed that I wasn’t sure she’d heard me.
‘So I know what this is like,’ I continued. ‘It’s scary when you have to face the judge. But I promise you that I am here to support you.’
‘You were sent to prison?’ she whispered.
‘Yes. Yes, I was. I know how scared you are. I hope the judge is sensible today and doesn’t send you down. I think that’s what will happen. So as soon as we’re done here, we’ll go and get you something to eat.’
Two tears had trickled down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away.
‘Okay,’ she whispered.
‘How about we get a sausage roll? Is that a deal?’
When she heard the words ‘sausage roll’, she looked up at me at last.
‘Deal,’ said Becca. I reached over and gently squeezed her hand.
SEPTEMBER 1985
I was driven to Holloway prison in a crowded van – the squeeze box. I saw the two stern stone griffins on the gateway as it opened with a harsh metallic scrape. Night had fallen on the way, and tears streamed down my face in the darkness of the van.
The first thing I noticed inside was the stench. Even breathing the air made me feel dirty. We were put into a gloomy room to wait to be processed. Every new arrival had a number, and after each was called, there was a long, long wait for the next.
A girl was sitting in the waiting area with a plate on her knee, eating a small cake filled with custard. I had no idea where the cake could have come from. As she tried to raise the spoon from the plate to her mouth, she kept missing, smearing custard on her cheeks. Each time, her head dipped lower. Her hair began to trail in the mess on the plate. Everyone looked away.
‘Can I help you?’ I asked.
‘She gouchin’,’ someone muttered. That means she was so far out on heroin that she was helpless. No one else spoke. The girl toppled forwards. Her face slowly sank into the broken leaky cake.
With good behaviour, I would have to serve twelve weeks. But suddenly, an hour seemed an endless stretch of time. I was very close to panic. Waves of nausea and fear spread through my body.
I was all alone. I didn’t know how I would get through it. I didn’t know if I could.
‘Becca, I have a suggestion,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to decide now, but just hear me out. Then you can think about it.’
‘Okay.’
She was sitting in a coffee shop with me. She’d had some warm food. She was calmer. Her court hearing had gone well, with a sensible judge. He saw she had no chance of keeping to her terms of probation right now. She was lost in fear and grief and chaos. The court had requested a PSR – a pre-sentencing report – on her, along with a mental health assessment.
Now we had a little bit of time – time to take her to the council and help her get started with the process of applying for housing benefit. If she could find a stable home and attend her probation meetings, there was a chance that Jack could live with her again. There might be a way to get her life back on track.
‘At probation,’ I said, ‘we run a group for women. There are two staff there – well, usually two. I’m one of them. It started a few months ago and quite a few people come along.’
She sipped her coffee slowly.
‘We talk. We listen to each other and we try to find solutions to the problems we face every day. All the women there are on probation, so they understand how difficult things can be – including me. Nobody thinks badly of anyone.’
‘Talking to strangers?’ said Becca suspiciously.
‘You don’t have to say anything. You can just come along and listen. We have tea and coffee and sandwiches.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Okay. Just take your time. I’ll be seeing you next week at your appointment. If you’d like to join the group, we’ll sort it out then. But a lot of the people who come – they find it helps.’
Becca lost her way. When her husband died, she was vulnerable. She’d trusted the wrong person. She took just one wrong turning. And now, to find her way back to safety seemed a nearly impossible task. I understood how quickly this could happen. I knew it all too well. Because a long time ago, I took a wrong turning too.
3
The year I took up badness
ON A COLD NIGHT in March 1976, I left my mother’s house and caught the last train to London. I didn’t tell her I was leaving. I knew it would only cause a fight.
I couldn’t pay for a ticket. But in those days, the stations had no barriers, and no one on the journey came to check. When I reached Euston, it was late and the place was deserted. I was scared, but I knew I had to hide it. I took a deep breath, and set out across the huge empty concourse all alone. I’d come to lose myself in the noise and confusion of the city. I was looking for a way to disappear.
And Sugarlips helped me do it. I met her straightaway, right outside Euston station. It was almost as if she had been waiting for me there. I saw her from the corner of my eye, leaning against the high black wall of one of the big modern offices just outside. She was slight with dark pageboy-style hair, dressed in bell-bottomed jeans with frayed hems. A big leather bag swung from her arm.
‘Where you comin’ from, chuck?’ she called out. She had a northern accent.
‘Leicester.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Janice.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty,’ I lied.
‘Where you goin’?’
I didn’t know. I’d left Leicester in a panic. Then, on the train, I’d thought about Daddy. I knew he lived in Ealing, but I hadn’t heard a word from him in months. Perhaps I could find him and ask him for help.
‘Er – my dad lives down here.’ I was trying to remember his address. ‘I’m going to his house.’
‘Anyone know you’ve come?’
‘Um – no. Not really.’
‘Will your dad help you?’
‘Uh – yeah. Yeah, I think so. But – um – I’m not sure where he lives. He might have moved.’
She waited for a moment, then she asked me, ‘Are you hungry?’
Just hearing the word ‘hungry’ made my stomach rumble.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Would you like a chip butty?’
‘Yes please!’
She was the turning in my path. And before I even knew it, I had travelled far away.
Sugarlips lived at the YWCA in Central London. She told me I could stay with her that night if I wanted. I didn’t understand why she wanted to be friends, but at least it was somewhere to sleep. Her tiny room smelled of weed. She had a sink, two single beds, a bashed-up portable telly and a scrappy little curtain nailed in place across the window.
I’d brought almost nothing with me, so I decided to wash my underwear in the sink with Sugarlips’ bar of White Windsor soap. At least then I’d have something for tomorrow that was clean.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Washing my knickers.’
Sugarlips burst out laughing.
‘Don’t bother – we can get you some new ones!’
‘I don’t have muc
h money,’ I said nervously.
She smiled.
‘Don’t worry, Janice – we can always get things!’
Next morning, I found out what she meant.
We went shopping, but we didn’t buy anything. Instead we just wandered the whole length of Oxford Street, looking in the big department stores. Sugarlips kept picking up one thing then another and asking if I liked them. Back at the YWCA, she reached into her bag. She said simply: ‘There you are, these are yours!’ and tossed a pack of M&S knickers onto my knee.
‘Did you nick them?’
Sugarlips rolled her eyes.
‘Where else you think they come from?’ she said.
Shoplifting was her business. She worked to order and looked after a group of other girls who did the same. I had no money and no home. So when she asked me if I wanted to join them, I decided that I did.
‘You’re green as grass, Janice,’ she told me, but she said it in a friendly sort of way. A fresh face like mine was an advantage – no one in the stores where Sugarlips and her crew went to work would know who I was. Still, because I was a black girl, she told me bluntly, I must be extra careful. Security would watch me very closely.
In her tiny room, she taught me how to steal. My first lesson was arming. She showed me how to slide an item that I’d taken right up under my arm between my jacket and my bag. Do it in a second, so that people barely notice. Then carry on strolling, browsing the racks, never fiddling with your arm or your shoulder because that just draws attention. Don’t rush, don’t look round, just admire a few more items then walk right on.
My second lesson was crotching: how to roll an item tightly then shove it right up between your legs. The fabric of your skirt can make a difference – nothing smooth or clingy that reveals what you’re carrying underneath. Once the item’s in position, walk calmly and slowly. Never touch the item, or try to adjust it.
To conceal stolen goods, Sugarlips said, you need a store carrier bag – one that’s new and fresh-looking, as though you only just paid for what’s inside it. It’s easy to get them – just go into a shop with your hands full and act flustered. The assistants are helpful and will give you a big store bag to help you out. We kept our bags in a cupboard, crisp and flat, ready for our next expedition.
