by Jenny Molloy
‘I can’t do this,’ I said when a doctor brought me the premeds. ‘I’ve never had an operation in my life. I just can’t face it. Sorry.’
I left, deciding that I would first sort out my case with social services. In order to support myself and my addiction, I’d started shoplifting and found I was pretty good at it. I stole to order, taking requests from a number of West End brothels. All I needed was about £50 per day for weed, booze, smokes and food, but I made lots more and gave it all to Russell, who always seemed to be in need of cash. Social services had provided me with a support worker who was younger than me and I ended up giving her advice. Even though my flat had no bed, even though I hadn’t cleaned the toilet for two years, and even though my house was full of suspiciously large amounts of new-looking clothes (some with the security tags still on them) and other items, as well as piles of poorly concealed drugs debris, she didn’t challenge me on anything.
My relationship with Russell was really unusual, although I didn’t realise this at the time. I was obsessed with Russell but he knew nothing about me; I just didn’t think to tell him and he wasn’t the kind of guy to ask. I didn’t really have friends, as such, just acquaintances. My ‘best acquaintance’ was a prostitute.
I shoplifted from the same M&S store every single day and never got caught. I took my pick from the shops on Oxford Street. Either I was very good or the security guards just didn’t care. I stole handbags, shoes, bangles, earrings, coats – anything I wanted, I nicked. I stole so much I couldn’t get rid of it all. My flat was full of nicked gear, unworn, unused and with all the labels still attached. The retail value must have run into tens of thousands of pounds. Getting all this stuff was therapy for me. I was helping myself to everything I’d never had. I knew what I was doing was wrong and that I couldn’t go on forever, and I told myself that when I got caught I’d have to stop. I certainly didn’t want to go to prison. One of my other haunts was Brent Cross shopping centre in north London. I was leaving with bags full of stolen clothes when I decided to stop off at good old M&S. I spotted a large rack of lamb. It looked good and, although this wasn’t something I’d ever stolen before (I certainly didn’t know how to cook it), I grabbed one and was outside when a uniformed man took hold of my arm and asked to take a look in my bag. Apparently there’d been a run of thefts from the meat counter and they’d placed a permanent watch over it. I escaped prison with a twelve-month conditional discharge and no fine.
One of my best acquaintances, Rita, was a functioning alcoholic who’d grown up in care. She owned a hot dog and burger van that she parked on London’s South Bank. She paid me £15 a day to sit with her, to keep her company and watch her van when she needed to pop out for a drink. One of her friends was a prostitute who was always flashing her money. ‘It’s not a bad way to make a living,’ she told me as we started to hang out together. ‘It’s all right.’
She took me to a place in Frith Street in Soho, some rooms above a cab office. I gave my body to twenty men a day and made a small fortune, most of which I gave to Russell. Having the money made me feel powerful and I loved the fact that Russell was so grateful for it. I had no idea what he did with it all. I didn’t care; I was addicted to him. It was like a drug for me. Every now and then I’d wake up feeling awful and couldn’t work. I’d just lie in bed and, morose, I’d stab myself in the arms and legs with a sharpened Bic. I coped with the never-ending stream of men by putting myself in a different mental place, zoning out so I was outside the room and would come to when it was over – I preferred it when men came with drugs to share, that made it much easier to escape. All the shagging kept me very fit and I sometimes incorporated exercises into the sex, like stomach crunches while in the missionary position. I don’t think any of the men knew; no one ever said anything.
Two old French ladies ran the brothel; they liked to joke that we’d put their kids through the finest private schools and universities in England. I was earning hundreds of pounds every day but my flat was still empty and the gas was cut off. What money I didn’t give to Russell I spent on £400 dresses and never even thought about wearing them. I just looked at them.
There wasn’t a single man who paid me for sex that I would ever have chosen to sleep with outside of the job. A barrister demanded sex without a condom. I said no.
‘I’ll pay you one thousand pounds.’
I thought he must have AIDS but I still did it.
There was only one guy – big and fat with mad, darting eyes and a loopy grin – who was so far gone, mentally speaking, that I thought he might actually be a psycho looking for his next victim. But, luckily for me, he only wanted to perform the most degrading acts imaginable – well, beyond most people’s imaginations.
Most weren’t weirdos; they were just ordinary men who were, for whatever reason, unable to connect emotionally with women. A few treated me like their mum. To begin with I put on an act and played along, but after a while I started to lose interest and fall apart. I couldn’t play the part any more. I started to turn the strange ones and the mummy’s boys away.
I don’t know if the job had much to do with it but I lost interest in Russell. There was nowhere for our relationship to go. I didn’t want to talk to him about myself but I liked the fact he was so happy when I gave him money. He was the first person to respond positively to my presence and I liked that. But eventually he seemed to take the money for granted, started to ask for it and it killed whatever it was in me that wanted to be with him. When I stopped going to see him he made no effort to come and see me.
The recession hit at around the same time and business took a sudden dive, leading the madams to get snappy (no doubt the school and university bills were mounting up) and I snapped back. One of the madams left the front door open in winter – there were only small electric heaters in the rooms. I only bothered to wear underwear while I was at work all day and I couldn’t understand why I was feeling so cold. When I found out, I lost it and fell into a rage. I told them where to get off, stormed out of the door and never went back.
To make money to survive I started to sell my stolen clothes collection. It lasted three months. As my collection started to dwindle, I wondered what my next move should be. I was scared to decide. It wasn’t as if any of my decisions had made much sense so far in my life. I thought about doing something positive, something that was good for me, and decided to try and stop all drugs.
But I wasn’t sure how. Each day I looked at my clothes collection and each day there was a little less. I’d sit in front of it in my otherwise empty flat, staring at it, never worn, smoking weed and cigarettes. The days seemed to go on and on, blurring into a depressing mess. I just wanted to be a person like other people. How did they manage? What did they do? I had a suicide note I’d written months before but I had no idea who was going to read it, or why, let alone what the point of it was.
I chanced upon a Narcotics Anonymous meeting that was taking place near me and I went along, but it was awful. The whole evening was spent on one self-indulgent woman who did nothing but sob and moan. Then, on a day when I felt particularly hyper, I went to my local Mental Health Unit in a nondescript NHS building in Bethnal Green Road. My plan was to walk up to the front desk and ask them to ‘make me normal’ and see what happened. It was closed. But then I saw some people walking down some stairs into the basement. There was a Narcotics Anonymous meeting happening right there. I walked in the meeting and suddenly got it. I identified for the first time. My recovery had begun. It wasn’t – and isn’t – easy. I had some relapses at first, before I got help at a day programme.
They helped me deal with my addiction by helping me understand what friendship and love are. These were things I’d never had and didn’t understand but I’m learning about them now.
Sometimes I think of that little girl, all those years ago, who, despite everything, believed in God – which is another way of saying she was full of hope for life. To this day, I can’t get over how I found that meeti
ng at exactly the right moment. In the end, I committed as much to NA as I had to drugs. It brought me love, friendship and understanding and, two years on, with the help of those friends, I’m still clean and even going to college. Every day is a battle. There’s a lot I don’t understand, and my interactions and emotions are often off kilter, compared to people who’ve had a relatively normal life, but I’m where I need to be. And now, because I have found love and friendship, I can bear the future and endure my past. Just about. I want to use my experiences to help people in my position, to use the tale of my life as a warning to others, and to make it clear that there is help and that, sometimes, the best people to help are the ones who’ve been through something similar to you.
TINA
They used a court order to force me go to a day programme, to get off the drugs. It was part of the care plan so that I could see my children, and perhaps work towards getting them back. I was allowed contact ninety minutes each week and this was the only time I was alive.
When I dragged myself to the clinic, I made sure I had plenty of speed in my pocket. I kept asking to be excused so I could go to the loo for a top-up. After what must have been the fifth time, someone cleared their throat loudly as I reached the doorway. I turned and saw Mandy, the manager.
‘Need a toilet break again, Tina?’
Bitch, I thought, but smiled like butter wouldn’t melt.
‘Weak bladder, smaller than a tangerine.’
‘All right, then. Well, when you come back, you can talk for a bit – and a bit faster no doubt.’
And a few minutes after I got back, seeing I was fidgety, Mandy said: ‘Why don’t you have another toilet break, take some more drugs and then we can have a chat about it, OK?’
When it came time for my hair strand test, the scientist included with his report a statement that said he’d never performed a test that yielded a result this high, and he’d been testing for fifteen years.
‘Mary told me she thought there was more to you but that doesn’t seem to be the case.’ Mandy, who was a short, thin woman in her fifties, was a good judge of character and knew how to sting me into action.
My response to that statement was to say: ‘How dare you?’
‘Prove me wrong, then.’
‘How?’
‘Come with me. Get an A4 bit of paper, some coloured cards, scissors and coloured pens.’
‘What is this, playschool?’
‘Maybe. Now, cut out seven circles from seven different bits of card.’
‘Where’s this going?’
‘Shut your gob for five minutes, do it and then we’ll see.’
Once that was done Mandy said, ‘Write Monday on this one.’
‘Oh, let me guess, Tuesday on the next, Wednesday on the next.’
‘Oh, you’re not so bad, then.’
I didn’t say it but I’m certain my expression read: ‘I really hate you.’
‘OK. I’ve done it.’
‘On Monday leave it whole.’
‘Yes, Mandy.’
‘On Tuesday cut out a little triangle. And Wednesday another triangle. And keep going through the week, until there’s nothing left on Sunday. That’s how you’re going to reduce your intake of speed. By Sunday you will take nothing. Only if you dare to take up the challenge. You up for it?’
All right then, I will.’ I was terrified but also my stubborn personality was worrying that I was going to lose face unless I did this. I rang Julie, my step-mum.
‘Can I come and stay for a few days, please? I’m reducing my drug intake with the day centre people.’
She agreed. I think she knew that I’d never take drugs in my dad’s house – but if I was in my home then I would. I always believed in the idea that if you’re in someone else’s home you play by their rules.
So I went, stayed and by Sunday I had done it. My body was aching like I had arthritis in every joint and flu to go with it.
Mandy had warned me. ‘Next week you won’t want to come in here and you will hate me even more. I don’t care what you have to do and how you do it, but you get your arse in here.’
On Monday, Dad woke me with a cup of tea. ‘Morning, mate.’
‘Fuck your cup of tea,’ I moaned. And fuck off yourself.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Do I have to say it again?’
Even though I was under the duvet, I could sense Dad drawing himself up to his full height. ‘You have two seconds to get out of that bed before I drag you out because I will dress you if I have to and you will be going.’
I poked my head out, looked at him and growled, ‘Whatever.’ Something told me that he meant it and I knew I was too weak to resist. He drove me over to the centre, me calling him every name under the sun on the way. He just sat there and took it. Once we arrived, I crawled up the stairs and pressed the buzzer.
Mandy took one look at me and knew I’d done it.
‘We don’t have to talk about anything right now and I appreciate you’ve got yourself here. If you go into the main room, you’ll see a pile of giant bean bags in the corner; go over there and curl up.’
Withdrawal is a good word because that’s what had to happen. I had to withdraw to recover. The hardest thing of all was not seeing my children because I was too sick, too weak. I knew, though, that I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of having them back again unless I made this sacrifice.
For two weeks, Dad woke me, drove me in and I collapsed on the bean bags. Mandy had bent the rules to make this happen. She just explained to other people that this was my space, that I needed it, that I was doing something very difficult and to give me room.
Gradually the sickness gave way to fatigue and I slept all day until, two weeks in, I asked if I could sit in for the check-in, a meeting where everyone discussed how they were getting on.
Mandy couldn’t keep the delight out of her voice. ‘Yes, of course, yes!’
By lunchtime I had run out of steam and had curled up again. Three months later I was still sleeping in the day but they gave me another drugs test. The day it came back, Mandy took me to one side.
‘I am pleased to tell you, young lady, that it’s clear.’
I framed the damn thing and put it on my wall. It took five months before I could go a whole day without sleeping and before my body stopped feeling like it had been hit by a train.
The next piece of torture I had to endure was months of court cases in different buildings across the county. I still saw my children once a week. They were together and Sophie and Emily had accepted that Mummy wasn’t well, while Angie was too young to know what was going on. I have to say, as much as I wanted to hate the foster family for being part of the system that took my kids, I had to admire them for the wonderful job they were doing. And, as I came off the drugs, my children looked more beautiful, happier, and more full of life than I’d ever seen them. As the speed left my system, they came into focus.
‘Can we come home now?’ Sophie asked when I explained how I was feeling much better.
I also took the time to visit Mum’s grave, to talk to her about the mess I’d got myself into. I wept as I wished Dad had never done what he’d done. But I also told Mum that I forgave him and he had since tried to do right by us and I knew he felt tremendous guilt every day. And, of course, I promised her that my grandchildren would be back with me one day soon.
And then came the day when I stood in the court, with Gareth the guardian and Mary the social worker either side of me, and this time I was conscious and I understood everything that was happening. The judge told me the kids could, after a week of preparation, come home.
The following week they came for dinner every day and by the weekend they were back – in a spotless house with sheets on all the beds and not the slightest speck of dust anywhere.
The feeling was both wonderful and scary – I was sober and now I had to be a ‘real mum’, while social services kept a close eye on me. But I knew I could do this. We we
re happy, the children were so excited to be back, excited to see the new me – a me that Sophie could remember from when Mum was still alive. We were a proper little family.
Three days after my kids came home, it was my brother’s birthday and, with a party to be had, this seemed like a good time to get some new outfits for the girls. I now understood when people who have been through hellish experiences say every day is a blessing.
For everyone else in town hitting the shops, it was just a typical day; kids fooling around, fed-up fathers weighed down by shopping, screaming toddlers, charity collectors shaking their pots, hungover checkout girls and the cries of the people working the market stalls trying to shift the last of their fruit. I was in heaven. I was with my family, whole again and clean to boot. I had recently turned thirty and felt like this was truly a new beginning. Mum would have been proud and I felt like she was shining down on us at that moment.
As we drove back with Julie, I could see the column of smoke several streets away. When we turned into my street, it was like a crime scene with fire engines, ambulances, police and a coroner’s van.
The fire was in my house. I threw up in the garden.
‘This cannot be happening,’ was all I could manage to say.
‘We have to tell social services,’ Julie said.
Then the police came and asked to talk to me – at the station.
‘But what about my kids?’
‘Sorry but you have to come with us.’ It was soon clear that they suspected I was to blame. They thought I was an arsonist. I had to strip off all my clothes and put on a paper boiler suit. Hours later, I pleaded with them: ‘I don’t know where my kids are. My house has just burned down. Give me a break. Can’t we do this later?’
They interviewed me regardless. The interviewing detective, a chubby, middle-aged man who looked about as bright as a dark room, said: ‘An eyewitness saw you leaving the scene of the crime.’
I looked at him like he was mad. ‘I live there. It is – was – my home. I was leaving with my children.’
