by Paris Lees
By the time I made it back to the station, the last trains were settin’ off. I just sat down in the main corridor where the phone booths are an’ waited. This black guy comes down an’ I check ’im out on the sly – shaved head, proper muscular – but as he’s walkin’ off, he turns back an’ looks at me, then looks up an’ down the corridor, completely empty by that point. He sez, “Are yow alright?” In this ’orrible Brummie accent. They sound so thick! But he comes over. Asks me who I’m waitin’ for. Ten minutes later, I’m smokin’ a spliff in ’is sports car, bombin’ about Spaghetti Junction. He’s loaded.
He lives in a big house in the suburbs. Sez do I want some food, so I tell ’im I’ve not long eaten, but I could murder a bar o’ chocolate. So he guz to fetch me a Snickers an’ sez, “D’yow wanna shower?” I’m like, “Yeah, but I an’t got no clean clothes, have I?” He sez, “D’yow want me to wash yer clothes? I’ve gorra dryer, they’ll be ready by morning.’ I’m thinkin’, I’ve landed on ma feet here! But as I get out the shower, he’s left a pair of silk shorts an’ a T-shirt, an’ I realize I’m basically trapped. But it’s kind of hot. I go downstairs an’ he’s poured me a drink an’ put porn on. I wanna go to sleep but I don’t wanna offend ’im. We chat for a bit, but I’m yawnin’ coz I’m absolutely knackered an’ he sez, “D’yow wanna go to bed?” He follows me upstairs an’ into the room I got changed in an’ sez we can sleep here. But as I get into bed he locks the door. An’ I know straight away I’ve got no choice.
He’s downstairs now. An’ I’m just layin’ here, starin’ at the stereo.
Alison sez I’ve bin “self-medicating”. Alison’s ma youth support worker. She’s wi’ the Youth Offending Team, which helps ya prepare for court if yer under eighteen. She’s the one who’s bin helpin’ me get character references for Judge Thompson. He thinks I’m a piece of shit, ya can just tell. ’Orrible old bastard. The YOT do counsellin’ an’ help ya find clothes for court. I’ve even done acupuncture with ’em, to help wi’ ma anxiety. Alison’s dead nice. She thinks I’ve bin tryna stop feelin’ things, an’ she’s right, coz the only time I’m not worried about goin’ to prison is when I’m absolutely off ma tits. But it’s not fun any more. It’s not bin fun for a long time.
They don’t have owt in police cells, not even a blanket in case ya rip it up an’ try an’ strangle yersen. They take yer belt an’ yer shoelaces an’ everythin’. They won’t even let ya have a book, coz I begged the officer who was on duty to find me one. The lasagne were good, though. They’re just frozen ones they put in the microwave, but they’re actually quite tasty, coz ya can’t go wrong wi’ lasagne, can ya? Ya can’t smoke though. I had to go to court the next mornin’ an’ I’ve never wanted a fag more in ma entire life. It were the magistrates for the bail hearin’, but it’ll be the Crown when I’m sentenced. That’s where they deal wi’ the serious crimes. That’s where they deal wi’ people like me.
You’re Not Alone
Lady Die’s come to court wi’ me. Smanfa an’ Sticky Nikki too, even Fag Ash has turned up, an’ Dirty D. All the Fallen Divas. I told Mam, Aunty Ray an’ Mammar Joe not to bother. I din’t want ’em to see me upset. An’ I din’t wanna see them upset, coz that’d just make me even worse. I’ve given Smanfa me mam’s number in case it’s bad news, but she keeps sayin’, “They’re not gonna send ya down!” Apart from ’er, I’m not sure I’ve seen any of ’em out an’ about this early, unless we’ve bin up from the night before. I go, “What an honour, seein’ all these creatures o’ the night in the cold light of day. Funny-lookin’ things, aren’t ya?” an’ nudge Die in the ribs. “Especially you.” She sez, “All this just coz ya got dickmatized by Liam. Stupid white bitch!”
We look different in the daylight. Smaller. I’m touched, truth told. There’s summat about seein’ a bunch of people who – Smanfa excluded – can barely even remember to brush their own teeth every day turnin’ up to support a fellow Fallen Diva. Coz it means they’re not just goin’-out mates. They’re proper mates. We gorra photo in the passport booth on the way. We’re idiots, aren’t we? Fag Ash sez she’s gonna get ‘Free Paris’ T-shirts printed if I get sent down, like when Deirdre got sent down on. Coronation Street. I think part of her’s secretly hopin’ I do coz she’ll love the attention. I told Peter not to come. I just wun’t have felt right with ’im here. I don’t know why, I just don’t want any grown-ups here. I feel ashamed. But it don’t matter what Lady Die an’ Smanfa thinks, does it?
Ma solicitor’s here. She’s not exactly fillin’ me with hope, but they have to hedge their bets, I s’pose. They don’t wanna get yer hopes up in case it’s not the outcome ya want an’ ya blame them. Better to lower yer expectations, innit, coz if it guz better than expected, it makes them look good. I feel like I’m in a film. Except it’s real, innit? Ma barrister’s like, “You know Judge Thompson was the subject of a BBC documentary last week?” I do coz I watched it at Peter’s. Victims had bin sayin’ ’is sentences were too lenient. She sez, “I don’t want to upset you, but I’m afraid it’s not looking good. Every person he’s sentenced this morning has received at least two years.” I sez, “Oh right. Thanks for lettin’ me know.”
But d’ya know what the real piss-take is? I were supposed to be sentenced a year ago! Coz I’ve bin turnin’ up to court, unlike ma co-accused, dear old Liam Murphy. He’s missed it three times now. They reckon he might be in Ireland, coz he’s got family there. Judge Thompson had bin insistin’ that we be sentenced together, but it’s gerrin ridiculous now, so he’s gonna sentence me either way today. Liam’s nowhere to be seen again, of course. It’s a shame, coz I’d love to see that smile wiped off ’is face. But no worries, babe, I’ll just go to prison for the crime we committed on ma own, eh? Cheers, ya fuckin’ cunt.
I just hope ma letters go in ma favour. I’ve submitted not one, not two, but three statements from respectable people vouchin’ for ma good character. Even I were surprised I know three respectable people, let alone ones that’ll vouch for me, but there ya go. Ma tutor said what a “bright and engaged student” I were an’ how I should be in college, not wastin’ ma time in prison. Everyone’s bin tellin’ me for the past six months, “They won’t send you down!” but that’s easy to say when it’s not their necks on the line. The truth is, only Judge Thompson knows what turn ma life’s about to take. An’ very soon he’s gonna let me know.
Nottingham Crown Court is opposite Broadmarsh bus station, an’ if ya sit on the steps at the front an’ look up to the right, ya can see the church at the top o’ the Lace Market. It’s bin converted to a bar called the Pitcher & Piano. Me an’ Lady Die have had some bangin’ nights in there. They play electroclash an’ it’s full o’ the sorta girls who get their hair done at Toni & Guy, an’ the sorta guys who wear shirts from All Saints. Beyond that’s the Galleries of Justice, where the courts used to be in Olden Times. An’ beneath all of it – beneath the court itself, no doubt – are the caves of Nottingham. They run for miles underground, a labyrinth of cold, dark tunnels. An’ I’m sittin’ on those steps now, smokin’ a fag. I told them lot I needed five minutes.
It’s stupid coz I’ve lived here all ma life, an’ I’ve never really paid any attention to this buildin’, an’ I must have passed it so many times over the years. I pay attention to everythin’, but I guess there’s a lotta stuff ya don’t even notice ya don’t notice. Must have bin someone’s idea of a joke buildin’ a court in front of a bus station. I s’pose it makes it easier for all the scumbags to get here, eh? Scumbags like me. If I’m honest, I really don’t like who I’ve become over the past few years.
An’ I’ve never, ever wanted anythin’ more in ma entire life than to get on one o’ them buses an’ just piss off somewhere. I wun’t even care where it were goin’. Coz it’s like standin’ on the edge o’ that wall, innit? It’d be the simplest thing in the world, but it’d change everythin’. I could just walk up to that bus, over there, an’ go to Beeston. Or Eastwood. Or Arnold. I could look out
the window at the trees an’ the people on the streets, an’ I’d be OK, even if only for today. I could go an’ buy a cob, gerra cuppa tea, sit in the park – an’ I wun’t have to go to prison today. An’ I bet if I were dead clever, I could escape the police for ages. Months. Maybe even years. I could change ma name an’ move away an’ maybe – just maybe – I’d get away with it. Just look how long Liam’s gone without gerrin tracked down. An’ I’m tempted. I’m so tempted.
An’ I’m never gonna moan about waitin’ for a bus ever again. Or traffic. Or havin’ to stand. Coz people don’t appreciate their freedom. An’ it’s only now, as mine’s under threat, that I’m startin’ to realize how much I’ve taken it for granted. Do all those people know how lucky they are to be on that bus? Alive, an’ free. I wanna go up an’ tell ’em. I wanna get on with ’em, just go far, far away. But I can’t, canna? Coz if they din’t get me today, they’d get me tomorrow. An’ if not tomorrow, the day after. Months an’ months could go by, an’ I’d be runnin’ the whole time, livin’ in the shadows, always lookin’ over ma shoulder. An’ if – when – they got me, they’d throw the book at me. An’ at the end o’ the day, I’d deserve it. So I’ve gorra take responsibility for worrav done. I’ve gorra walk into that courtroom. I’ve never bin more scared in ma entire life.
Comfortably Numb
I cun’ even speak when they pulled us out the van. What got me the most was just how casual it all was. The guards. The cells. The cuffs. The prison van’s like a bus, but instead of seats there’s two rows of cells. They were playin’ Britney Spears’ new single on the radio. An’ I just sat there, ma whole world fallin’ apart, wi’ two words goin’ round ma ’ead: Two years. Two fuckin’ years.
They put ya in a holdin’ room at first. Ya know how there’s always one dead bad kid at school that’s bin excluded for hittin’ a teacher or summat? Some proper little scumbag that ya’d run into movin’ traffic to avoid? Well, yer shoved in a tiny room with about thirty of ’em, all showin’ off an’ intimidatin’ anyone who looks weak. An’ I’m thinkin’, What the fuck am I gonna do? Coz I know the moment I open ma mouth it’s all over. So I keep quiet, but it’s no use coz they can smell the fear on ya, like Rottweilers. One of ’em guz, “What yo’ in for?” So I mumble “Robbery” in the lowest voice I can an’ he’s like, “Ya don’t look like a robber to me”, an’ I’m literally frozen wi’ fear. He guz, “What d’ya rob – an old woman?” an’ they all start laughin’. I’m gonna die in here. I know I am. They’re either gonna kill me, or ma heart’s just gonna explode, right now in ma fuckin’ chest.
Then one of ’em’s like, “Have ya got any burn on ya?” an’ I just look at ’im gone out. He guz, “Baccy? Tobacco? Fags?” I wish I did have a fuckin’ cigarette. I’d smoke ten at once. I know deep down that a lot o’ them must be shittin’ it too, but at least they’re actually who they’re menna be. I doubt they’ve spent their whole lives feelin’ like they’re gonna get beaten up at any minute. Coz if I don’t even feel safe walkin’ down the street, how the fuck am I gonna survive here? For a year! A fuckin’ year! One of ’em’s lookin’ through the slot in the door. He’s mixed race, an’ has an afro. He’s gorriz hands down ’is pants, holdin’ ’is balls. Why do they do that? He starts laughin’, then shouts, “Are ya ready for a finger up yer arse, lads? Coz the screws ’ave got their gloves on!” That’s gorra be a joke, right? Although, to be fair, a cavity search may be the one thing I’m prepared for in here.
I would do absolutely anythin’ not to be in this room right now. I’d give all ma money. Not that I’ve got any, mind. I’d even be nice to Asha. Are ya listenin’, God? Coz I promise to be good for the rest of ma life, if ya can please get me out of here. But it’s too late, innit? Coz I’ve already done a deal, an’t I? Wi’ the devil. An’ ’is name’s Liam fuckin’ Murphy.
Five hundred years later, an’ two guards finally come an’ open the door. One of ’em looks at ’is clipboard an’ shouts, “Clifton, Robert!” an’ a lad gets up an’ leaves. A few o’ the others look nervous, but most just look bored, like they’re queuein’ up at KFC or summat. I’m half expectin’ one of ’em to ask why their fries are takin’ so long. What I’d give to be in a KFC now. When they call ma name I’m like, this is it – this is ma moment. Ma perfect fuckin’ moment. An’ they send me into this reception area. There’s loads more lads on the other side, crackin’ jokes an’ bein’ cheeky wi’ the guards an’ that. Someone shouts “Oi, McKernan, ya bin sent down today?” An’ another lad shouts, “Nah man, I’ve bin here since March. I’m just back from court.” But then a guard pipes up, “The next person I catch shoutin’ will be taken straight to the guv’nor.” Some of ’em are sniggerin’. Maybe they’re just frontin’, but one thing I do know is, none of ’em look as scared as I feel. I’m not sure that would even be possible. I think it’s fair to say I’ve got mysen into a bit of a fuckin’ pickle here.
I’m shoved towards a desk where I have to say ma name an’ empty ma pockets. I’ve gorra lighter an’ a fiver. I gave ma phone to Smanfa. Further down the queue I can see they’re makin’ us take our clothes off. There’s a screen, but it’s not very private. I an’t shaved ma legs for weeks coz I were worried this might ’appen, although I had hoped I’d bin bein’ paranoid. An’ I can hear Gaz in ma ’ead, an’ Jamie Draper – all of ’em – goin’, “Why d’ya talk like that? Why d’ya walk like that? Don’t just stand there like a great big fuckin’ poof.” An’ I just wanna smash ma ’ead against the wall.
Then they make me take ma clothes off. First the top half. Then the bottom. Ya have to stand wi’ yer legs apart while they search ya, although it’s over quicker than I thought it would be, thank God. The relief when they say ya can put your pants back on! An’ the embarrassment when ya bend down for ’em! They don’t put their fingers up yer bum – well, they din’t wi’ me, anyway. But they take yer clothes an’ gi’ ya this ’orrible, prison-issue stuff to wear instead.
After that ya go down this corridor, but of course I take the wrong turn an’ walk into a wall so the guard shouts at me an’ I just go, “Sorry.” I really, really do not wanna cry right now, but I can’t help it, I can feel ma lip quiverin’. I bite ma tongue till I taste blood, but I can feel ma face scrunchin’ up. Someone’s gonna notice, but I can’t stop it. A tear’s comin’ down. I put ma ’ead in ma hands.
One o’ the guards sez, “Come on, it’s not that bad.” I can’t even speak. I’m just shakin’. But the more I think about how freakin’ out is only makin’ things worse, the more I’m freakin’ out. Like a vicious circle. What would Die do? Mam? Gaz’d be alright. I’d do owt to be like ’im right now. Some of ’em are pointin’ at me an’ laughin’. The guard sez, “Why are ya so upset?” I can’t answer ’im. I don’t even know. I can’t even get through the reception. I’m the biggest fuckin’ pussy in Notts, an’ pretty soon the whole prison’s gonna know it.
The guard mouths summat to one o’ the other guards – the only woman here – an’ she nods to summat behind us. Next thing I know he’s takin’ me by the arm an’ sez, “Right, this way.” I’m thinkin’, Please don’t let me be in trouble. But he ushers me into a side room an’ sez, “What’s the matter?” So I tell ’im, “I’m not cut out for this”, an’ he’s like, “It’s a prison. Yer not meant to enjoy it.’ But he takes me to the hospital wing. I feel so relieved. Humiliated, yes. But mainly relieved. I’m so glad to be away from the others, I cun’ give a flyin’ fuck about ma pride. Maybe I can just keep shittin’ mysen, so they lock me up on ma own, like a lunatic.
They put me in a room wi’ two beds fixed to the middle o’ the floor, the better to keep an eye on me, by the looks of it. There’s a small glass window at the top o’ the door an’ every so often ya see a shadow an’ a pair of eyes appear. I can’t stop cryin’. They must think I’m mental. Maybe I am. I think this might just be the thing that tips me over the edge. No one else is sobbin’ like this. I honestly think I might have to kill mysen. I can�
��t face a whole year of bein’ bullied in here. I just cannot do it. I don’t have the physical or mental strength.
The nurse comes in an’ guz, “Still not eaten? You’ll feel better if you can get some food down you.” They gave me a sandwich an’ a packet of crisps when I got here, but I can’t eat. I tell ’er I’m sorry, I’ve already bin sick once, an’ I ask ’er if it’s normal for people to get this upset. She sez, “It does happen. But yes, you are very upset”, an’ asks me worram most worried about. So I tell ’er, “I’m a girl on the outside. An’ I can’t hide it. I can’t change the way I talk. I sound gay. Everyone’s gonna know straight away.” I beg ’er not to send me back wi’ them lads.
She sez I can stay on the hospital wing till I calm down a bit. I ask ’er if she can gimme summat for ma nerves, but she sez they only gi’ tablets out in extreme circumstances an’ the doctor has to sign it off. “Do you feel suicidal?” she guz. An’ in all honesty, I do. I just wanna stop feelin’ like this, an’ I don’t see how I can ever not feel like this so long as I’m in here. She sez they might put me on a special unit for vulnerable prisoners, an’ to try an’ get some sleep. I always thought it worra turn of phrase when people say, “I cried mysen to sleep”, coz how can ya fall asleep if yer cryin’? But ya can. I tossed an’ turned all night. Light was comin’ through the gaps round the door. When I closed ma eyes, I could see demons writhin’ around on the ceilin’, snarlin’ at me, growlin’, hissin’. The only thing worse was wakin’ up.
