What It Feels Like for a Girl

by Paris Lees

  Loneliness

  Ever seen Scum? “The film they tried to ban”, accordin’ to the cover. Ray Winstone’s in borstal an’ he beats this lad up an’ guz, “I’m the daddy now.” Gaz had it on VHS. He made me watch it when I went to live with ’im. I reckon he was tryna put me off bum sex, coz there’s this scene in it where they rape one of ’em in the greenhouse. It’s absolutely horrendous. I remember thinkin’, Why’s he showin’ me this? I must’ve bin about ten or eleven. Well anyway, that’s how it is in here. OK, no one’s raped me. An’, to be fair, no one’s whacked me round the ’ead with a snooker ball wrapped in a sock an’ told me they’re the daddy, either – but the clothes, the screws, the food, it’s all just as ’orrible as you’d expect.

  But weirdly, at the same time, it’s not actually as bad as I thought it’d be. Coz when I first got here, it felt like I’d just bin dropped off at the gates of hell. An’ don’t get me wrong, it is truly vile. But I’ve bin here a week now an’ I’m still – how can I put it? Alive. I felt like I were gonna die that first day. It were just this overwhelmin’ sense of dread. Feelin’ like I cun’ cope. But it’s a paradox, coz even though I hate every second, the flipside is that every minute that passes feels like a major achievement. Every mornin’ I wake up an’ remember I’m here. An’ it’s awful. But I also know I’m one day closer to gerrin out.

  I were sentenced on the Friday. I cried for the first twenty-four hours, but I managed to calm down a bit by Sunday. They’re gonna put me on Unit Five, for vulnerable prisoners. I’m worried it’s gonna be full of nutcases, but I’d rather that than be wi’ them lads I were dropped off with. I’ve gorra spend a week on Unit Fifteen first though. The induction wing. So that’s where I am. They asked me if I were gay at dinner today. I just froze, so they must be on to me now. They open the doors an’ let ya come out to socialize once a day, but I just stayed inside after that. I don’t even wanna go out for food, to be honest. It’s like bein’ back at school, but worse. I an’t cried today though, so that’s summat.

  It takes a few days for ’em to process yer information but I should get money added to ma canteen tomorrow, which means I can phone people an’ buy tobacco. I would really, really, really like a cigarette right now. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted owt more in ma entire life. It’s the longest I’ve bin without one. I should get ma release date soon too. If ya get two years, ya only do one inside. The second year’s called probation, which means yer free, but they can send ya back if ya get in any more trouble. So ma release date’ll be next January, but I want the exact date so I can start countin’ down the days. They’ve given me a diary wi’ quotes from the Bible in it, so I cross off every day I’m here. Maybe I’ll turn to God.

  But what I really want, even more than a fag, is ma HDC date. Home Detention Curfew. They put a tag on ya, an’ ya have to be home by a certain time. Like six o’clock or summat. So if I gerrit – an’ I have to gerrit – it’s about a third of yer sentence, or a third of what ya would spend in prison. Basically it means I could get out of here four months sooner if I behave mysen. The best-case scenario, then – the earliest possible opportunity that I’ll be leavin’ here – is in eight months. I can’t even get ma ’ead around it, to be honest. I already feel like I’ve bin here eight weeks, an’ it’s not even bin eight days. But what can I do?

  I probably shun’t get ma hopes up, but I can’t help it. I don’t care worrit takes, I have to get HDC. Apparently, not everyone gets offered it, but it’s the only thing that’s keepin’ me goin’. I’ve gorra be the most feminine person to have seen the inside of Glen Parva Young Offenders Institution. It’s not very Joan Collins, is it, borstal? They’ve put me in a cell on ma own. I’ve gorra TV. I watched Poltergeist on ma first night on this wing. Ya hear people goin’ on about how they shun’t have TVs in prison an’ that, how “it’s like a holiday for ’em”. Well, I’m not bein’ funny, but if I paid for a holiday an’ ended up here I’d be writin’ a very strongly worded letter to Thomas Cook.

  I’m glad I told everyone straight away. Coz I can’t pretend the whole time. I wish I could, but I tried to pretend I’m normal for seven years, an’ it din’t work. I’ve toned it down a bit – I’ve gorra voice I’m doin’ to sound a bit more like the others, but I feel like such a freak. It’s like goin’ to Ireland an’ tryna pretend I’m Irish or summat. It’s just not gonna wash, is it?

  See It in a Boy’s Eyes

  Unit Five. Where they put all the paedophiles, or so they say. There’s one or two I wun’t put it past, but most of ’em are just normal lads, not what ya think of when ya think o’ criminals. One of ’em’s in here coz he ran someone over when he were drink drivin’. I feel a bit sorry for ’im coz he clearly don’t belong in here, but I guess he shun’t have done it at the end o’ the day. He were comin’ back from a party. It’s easily done, innit?

  I’ve told everyone I’m queer. I just cun’ deal with it. They’d have bin askin’ me about it within a few days anyway, an’ I just cun’ cope wi’ the pressure, or bein’ interrogated like I were at school, all over again. Maybe there’s someone better than me who’d be able to hide it, but I just can’t. No one went mental or owt, it was like they were too shocked to even take the piss. I reckon some of ’em thought it worra joke. But the next day, people started bein’ funny wi’ me. I went outside to smoke durin’ association an’ I were shockin’ ’em wi’ ma crudeness. I don’t think they know what to make of me yet. I’m sure I’ll win ’em over. I’ll find a way to make ’em laugh.

  To be honest, I’ve bin feelin’ much better since I gorra letter from Max. He come up to the prison wi’ Lady Die an’ tried to see me but they wun’t let ’im in. The screws say I’ve gorra send ’im a Visitin’ Order first. Screw is what they call the guards – coz they screw ya over, I guess. Max sez he loves me! An’ he’s sorry how everythin’s turned out. Sez he’ll come an’ see me, an’ that he’ll be waitin’ for me when I come out. Sez he wishes it could all have bin different. So do I. Well, maybe it can one day.

  I got ma HDC date too. Tenth of September. If I’m accepted for it. Please God, gimme the strength to get through this. I can’t spend Christmas in here. That’s one of ma worst fears, bein’ in an institution at Christmas. When I were dead naughty when I were little, Mam always used to say they’d come an’ take me away an’ I’d have to live with other naughty kids “So you’d best behave”. I’ve seen ’em on telly, “homes” for delinquents. They lock the doors an’ that, they’re like prisons. An’ I were terrified of bein’ taken from ma family an’ put in one o’ them homes. An’ now look at me. I’m officially a delinquent. I’ve got the T-shirt an’ the stint in borstal to prove it. They don’t really call ’em borstals any more. They’re called young offenders institutions now. But that’s about the only thing that looks like it’s changed here in the past thirty years.

  Lady Die sez she’s gonna be dead bored without me. Good. I want everyone to be dead bored without me. I want the whole friggin’ world to just stop, actually. But it won’t, will it? Coz they were playin’ all the new songs on the radio today an’ it got me thinkin’, Everythin’s just gonna carry on as normal. The bin men’ll still be out this mornin’. Mam’ll still be catchin’ ’er bus. Lady Die’ll still be a fuckin’ slag. There’ll be traffic jams, an’ parties, an’ special offers in Tescos, an’ life’ll just carry on without me. Coz I know it sounds stupid, but I’ve just realized I’m not actually the centre o’ the fuckin’ universe. An’ it’s got me thinkin’ about when I die. Coz yeah, people’ll be upset for a while. An’ they’ll go to ma funeral an’ cry, an’ me mam might be depressed for a bit an’ take time off work. But in the end, they’d all just carry on, eh? Coz I’m the only person ma life really matters to. An’ I’ve fucked it up. Big time.

  Erase/Rewind

  It feels like the ceilin’s pressin’ down on me. I’m lyin’ in bed. It’s like it’s closin’ in, like one o’ them machines that crush cars. I keep thinkin’ about wh
ere I am. I don’t mean here, in prison. I mean ma place, in the world. An’ how low I’ve sunk. One of ma favourite books when I were little were called Cops an’ Robbers. I’ve still gorrit somewhere. I remember it off by heart:

  Here are the cops of London town

  In the station at half-past two.

  They drink their beer

  And raise a cheer

  For upstanding Officer Pugh.

  Here are the robbers of London town

  In cells all gloomy and grim.

  “Let us out, let us out!

  Not guilty!” they shout,

  And, “It wasn’t me – it was him!”

  Ho Ho for the robbers

  The cops an’ the robbers Ho Ho!

  I always hated Officer Pugh. I wanted the robbers to escape. There’s a scene where he wrestles one of ’em to the ground an’ arrests ’im, an’ I wanted ’im to throw ’im off an’ run away. There’s two pictures that I absolutely love in it though, the first one an’ the last one. The first one shows the police station cut in half. Ya can see all the floors, like a doll’s house. The police are havin’ a party, drinkin’ wine an’ eatin’ cake. It’s Christmas an’ they’re wearin’ silly hats. Below, in the cells underneath the station, all the robbers are sittin’ on their own, lookin’ miserable an’ lonely. An’ sittin’ here, in this cell, all gloomy an’ grim, I can see that picture like it’s in front of me. The lines goin’ over an’ over in ma ’ead:

  Ho Ho for the robbers

  The cops an’ the robbers Ho Ho!

  An’ I start thinkin’ about this poster we had in home economics that showed ya how much ya should be eatin’ of all the different types o’ food. All the stuff yer not supposed to eat’s at the top – so all the nice stuff, like sweets an’ chocolate – an’ at the bottom’s all the stuff yer menna get lots of, like fruit an’ veg. But in ma version, at the top o’ the pyramid is all the most important people. So the Queen’s at the top, an’ then as ya go down there’s like lords an’ ladies an’ that, then judges an’ celebrities. Joan Collins is quite near the top. Then ya have the bank managers, an’ the mayors, an’ it keeps goin’ down, wi’ more people the further ya go. Police officers. Builders. Bin men. All gerrin less an’ less important, till ya get to all the homeless people, all the drug dealers an’ the prostitutes. An’ then, right at the bottom, in the dirt, you’ve got everyone who’s bin sent to prison. The murderers. The rapists. The robbers.

  Ho Ho for the robbers

  The cops an’ the robbers Ho Ho!

  An’ I keep thinkin’, How have I got here? How am I at the bottom o’ the pyramid? An’ I’m terrified there’s no way back up. The more I think about it, the more I feel like the ceilin’s about to collapse on me. I feel trapped. I am trapped! Coz where would I go? I’m worried that if I take ma eyes off it for a second, it’ll come crashin’ down an’ I’ll be crushed under the weight of it. So I sit here, lookin’ for cracks in the plaster. An’ I keep askin’ mysen, “How did ya get here? How did ya end up in a prison cell? On a prison-issue mattress? An’ with a prison-issue blanket? Starin’ up at a prison ceilin’?” An’ every time, I’ve only got one answer: I fucked up.

  Coz I can make all the excuses I like, but if yer restin’ yer ’ead on a prison-issue pillow – unless there’s bin some huge miscarriage of justice – ya kind of have to accept you’ve made some pretty bad decisions. So that’s worrav gorra do. Accept the fact I’ve made some big mistakes. Coz I am here, under a prison-issue blanket, on a prison-issue mattress, lookin’ up at a prison ceilin’, an’ it’s not a nightmare, sadly. It’s ma life. I robbed someone. I committed a crime. An’ now I’m doin’ the time. But what’s next?

  Ho Ho for the robbers

  The cops an’ the robbers Ho Ho!

  In Cops an’ Robbers, Officer Pugh catches all the robbers an’ throws ’em in the cells. Obviously. It’s Christmas Eve an’ it’s bin snowin’. Everywhere’s white. All the kids who’ve bin robbed get their stolen presents back in time for Christmas. There’s a picture of ’em all tucked up in bed, dreamin’ of Santa. They live in nice, cosy houses, an’ their mams an’ dads have put trees up an’ covered ’em wi’ tinsel. The robbers all get their comeuppance. All of ’em except one, that is. Coz on the last page we find out what happens to ma favourite character:

  And the toys? Oh, they were taken back

  By a Santa Claus copper with a Santa Claus sack.

  While the rest of the force searched day and night

  For an elderly lady of medium height

  With a fondness for earrings and red fox furs

  And a habit of taking what wasn’t hers.

  She usually carried a sizeable bag;

  Her name, of course, was Grandma Swagg.

  Ho Ho for the robbers

  The cops an’ the robbers Ho Ho!

  There’s a picture of a crowd gathered round a wanted poster wi’ Grandma Swagg’s face on it, but she’s right there, at the back, hidin’ in plain sight. She’s wearin’ a stripy top an’ a dead fox round ’er neck. No one sees ’er coz they’re all too busy lookin’ at the poster. I loved that as a kid. But d’ya know what’s really pathetic? Deep down, I always thought I were Grandma Swagg. That I could do whatever I wanted, an’ that I wun’t get caught. Coz although I stand out everywhere I go, I guess I’ve never really felt like anyone can see me.

  Pure Shores

  Mam’s written me a letter:

  43 Ragdale Close

  Hucknall

  Nottinghamshire

  NG15 6YB

  Dear Byron

  I am sorry that I have kept missing your phone calls. If you ever ring me and I don’t answer leave me a message letting me know when you will next ring and the time and I will sit by the phone and work around it. I have rung Glen Parva nearly every day but they tell me they can’t give me any info and can’t pass on a message to you. They put me through to the chaplain’s office but it keeps ringing and there is no answer or answer machine. I hope you are OK and want you to know I am always thinking of you and wish we could have met and sorted things out before you went away. I would like to come and see you so please send me a visitors’ pass and explain how I can get in touch with you. Do you need anything? Clothes, books, fags, phonecard? Please let me know and I will get it to you.

  The reason I have the address and know where you are is because me and Bobby were having lunch at the Pilgrim and when we had eaten Deon and his friend came over. They introduced themselves and asked if I was your mum. I was quite surprised and I thought I recognized Deon’s friend’s face. I looked at him and said “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” It was Max! I thought it was him. He let me copy the address off a letter he was sending to you. I am glad that they are both supporting you and I really appreciate them coming over. Bobby thought they were really nice lads. I wish I had asked them to join us for a drink now, but I was a bit surprised at the time. Max looked really nice and better-looking than all those years ago.

  You won’t believe the next bit. It was Mammar Joe’s birthday on Wed last week so I asked her what she wanted to do, and you can guess what, can’t you? She wanted to go to Gala Bingo. It was really bad weather and very icy so Bobby drove me to Gala. (We have a car now. It’s a Honda CR-V silver. It’s a bit like a Freelander jeep but trendy.) Met Mammar Joe & Aunty Ray in the foyer and I thought I saw Max walk by. Well, it turns out that he was working there. He was the bingo caller for the evening and he has a lovely voice. Told Aunty Ray who he was and we all thought he seems like a really nice person. Mammar Joe actually won £70 which she made me & Aunty Ray share with her. I actually had 2 lines at one point but didn’t realize it and by the time Mammar Joe shouted Bingo for me someone else had won. I couldn’t concentrate cos Mammar Joe was talking all the time! I bought her a Hoover for her birthday and sent a bouquet of flowers to her work. She really liked that, being one of those women who have someone send flowers to them at work.

  Sorry if this letter is u
ntidy but I just want to get it out as if I am talking to you. I’m not very good at writing letters but I will be doing a few now. Watched a Panthers match at the Ice Stadium last night. I arranged for work to sponsor the evening match. We had our own executive box with waitress service and I got to present to the winner. They took my photo and it will be in next week’s programme. I will send you one when it is published!

  Bobby told me you would ring Monday but I am at work so if I don’t manage to pick it up keep trying. Your dad came round to see us as he was worried about you and I gave him the address. He said he wouldn’t write but wants to see you. That’s your decision to make but try and give Mammar Rita a ring cos she is worried about you. Please write to me soon if you can and remember I love you. What’s happened has happened. You can’t change the past, you can only move forward. I changed my life late on. Now you’ve got a head start on me so choose what life you want to have. I will love you anyway!

  Mam xxxx

  Well, that’s nice that Max has finally got ’er blessin’, innit? Two years too late an’ I’m in fuckin’ prison, but thanks very much, Lisa. Although it is quite sweet, if I’m honest, so I’ve written back to ’er. I can’t remember writin’ to someone I actually know before. Like, I had to do an application letter for college, an’ a coverin’ letter for ma CV, but this is like proper Olden Times, innit? I’ve decided to write it in proper English coz the screws read yer letters before they post ’em. You’re not allowed to seal the envelope. I think it’s so ya don’t plan an escape or summat. I don’t want ’em thinkin’ I’m common so I’ve gorra copy of Pride an’ Prejudice from the library an’ I’ve used it as a guide. I read the whole thing in two days. It’s like ya can escape when ya read. I’m readin’ The Picture of Dorian Gray now. They locked ’im up, din’t they, Oscar Wilde? I saw a thing once where he’d said he’d bin born in the wrong century. Well, I don’t know when the right one’s menna be comin’ coz the twentieth left a lot to be desired, an’ the twenty-first’s not looking any better from where I’m standin’. But at least I’m in prison for doin’ summat wrong. Oscar Wilde’s only crime were bein’ gay.