“I think it’s time to go,” I said, clocking the seriousness of the situation. It was getting uncomfortable. No, it was more than uncomfortable. This was dangerous.
“I said, move!”
Cruz said nothing, put the car into gear and pulled away. My days, he was a character of his own. I started to panic. This was serious. They’d seen me, alongside an enemy. I was now marked too. My name was going to get called up. I was in mix-up.
I walked back into my estate in a state of flux, listening to the roar of his engine as he sped off.
“Idiot,” I said to myself. I wanted to be angry with him, but he was just going about his business. I was no hurry-come-up. I could pick my own company. But rolling into Brixton with a Junction Boy? I’d taken a risk, and things had backfired.
Shit. By the time I’d reached the Pen I could see Tyrone. He was already speaking with a yout I recognised from the Bellefield crew. Word travels fast. Tyrone must have come to see me. He was not only The Introducer. He was the Peacemaker too.
“Sour, what’s gwarning?”
OK. Might as well face this down now, before it gets any bigger.
“That girl’s mix up,” said the boy. “She brought Cruz to man’s house. She’s setting man up to get nyam.”
This was one of the worst crimes you could commit on the road. And, specifically, it was one of the worst crimes a girl could commit: disloyalty. I’d seen it happen. Honeytraps, distractions, whatever. It usually involved girls betraying youts, giving information from one side to another, or simply swapping sides. And usually, it got boys stabbed.
“Stop lying on people,” I protested.
“Telling you, bruv, the gyal brought Junction man to man’s yard.”
Tyrone told him to calm down for a second, and pulled me to one side.
He understood the charge. I belonged to Brixton. Stimpy saying hello was one thing. Now, thanks to my little adventure with my new Junction friend, all they saw was a Younger rolling with the enemy.
“Sour, what the fuck?” said Tyrone in a quiet voice, making sure the angry guy couldn’t hear us. “Is he for real?”
I tried to tell them they were making a fuss over nothing, but I knew how bad it looked. I tried a different tack.
“What the hell would I want to set him up for anyway? He ain’t got no money. I don’t need anyone to do my dirty work.”
Tyrone seemed disappointed in me. Man Dem’s anger I could take, but when Tyrone gave me that look, something stung. He was the only one left I trusted.
“You know what,” he said. “I didn’t expect that from you. Now it looks like you’re some set-up chick, innit?”
Now I was getting angry. I felt like I was a serious enough character to decide who I rolled with, and who I didn’t.
“Tyrone, please, listen to me, yeah? That boy had nothing to fear from me.”
“I know that,” he said. “You’re not the problem. You’re mixing with devils.”
“Cruz?” I laughed. As I said, crews were made up of two types – the characters who were prepared to do physical harm, and the hurry-come-ups who followed them. This Cruz yout was a serious character, for sure. But he was hardly Satan.
“Don’t worry, blood. This man’s cool. We’re friends.”
Tyrone shook his head. “You’re not understanding,” he said, correcting his voice back to a whisper. “He’s got beef with that boy, Tremor. Feud’s been running for months now, since he slapped Tremor’s cousin on the cheek.”
Ah. Awkward. Now that I did not know.
“Still, that’s his business, innit.”
Tremor wasn’t one of my boys.
“Telling you, man!” shouted the yout, pacing up and down. “She’s dissing it.”
I walked back to confront him.
“Look you, you little dickhead, shut up. If I hear anything more outta you, me and you gonna have war, OK? I don’t like you spinning out my name like that.”
I knew that once you’ve got certain labels, like slag or set-up girl, that shit sticks.
Who knew what caused the altercation between Cruz and Tremor? The way they were making it out, it was as if he just went out and victimised an innocent. Maybe Tremor deserved it. At least, there’s two sides to every story. I was getting bored of the Man Dem always being on the right side, and everyone else’s always being on the wrong one.
“Quit rolling with those guys,” he said, half-threatening, half-sympathetic. “They’re serious guys.”
“Let me cut this conversation here, OK?”
It was getting late, and I had another early start tomorrow. I hated early starts. Bloody courts. Nine to five – clown’s work, man.
I turned my back on both of them, and headed for the stairwell.
Tyrone ran after me. This time his tone was softer.
“Listen, he ain’t that cool, that’s all I’m saying. If Man Dem find out, there’s going to be trouble.”
It would be another year before that feud came to a head, at Lambeth Country Show. All the crews were out. The park was crawling with Man Dem, all fired up and ready for trouble.
The whole park ended up chasing Cruz down the street. Someone ended up brandishing a chopper on him. When people are pulling blades on you at a funfair, you know you’re in deep.
Yeah, Tyrone was proved right, as usual. That man was a devil. I just was taken in by his good side.
But that was one thing about Cruz, he always got away. Man, that boy could run. The whole park was running him down. So what did he do? Ran straight into a police station to save his life. Smart guy.
That’s when I started thinking; sitting in his passenger seat that day was probably the most dangerous thing I’d ever done. That car could have got shot up there and then, for all I knew.
They say reputation of power is power, and it’s true. But the moment that illusion slips, you’re a sitting duck, just like all the rest.
In For a Shock
They kept adjourning and longing out the case, until my 16th birthday came and went.
“See you later.”
Yusuf grunted goodbye from his bedroom. He was still half asleep. He was staying at home less and less, so it was unusual to see him lying there with all his shit scattered over the floor.
There was only a day left of the hearing.
As soon as I got this boring shit out the way, I was going to buy a pair of new trainers, then meet him outside the cinema.
“Don’t be late, yeah?”
That morning, Styles and I were back sitting in the same uncomfortable seats, losing the will to live. I was watching the clock. 11.45am. The solicitor said we’d probably be done before lunch.
The judge seemed even grumpier than yesterday. She had already reprimanded us for not taking the whole circus seriously, when the rugrats gave their evidence. How could you not laugh? They didn’t seem to know what the hell was going on.
And what was going on with the heating in this room? It was sweltering.
When the suits got up, that’s when my brain switched off. A few minutes later – maybe longer – Styles kicked me in the shins.
“Sour, wake up,” he hissed.
I’d nodded off.
She was telling us to rise. I wondered why. She ain’t the Queen. I stood next to Styles. He took my hand. Suddenly, things started feeling serious.
“You have both been accused of robbery,” she said, “a crime for which you appear to have shown little or no remorse.”
I wondered whether I would have time to get to Oxford Circus and back for the trainers.
“Mr Belmont, I’ll deal with you first. This is clearly not your first offence …”
If I got the Tube straight there and back, I could meet Yusuf in time for the 6.50pm showing.
“You have been found guilty of the charge. In conclusion, I have no choice but to sentence you to 90 days’ detention at Feltham Young Offenders Institute, where on account of your young age you will be held in A wing …”
Styles’s hand slipped from mine as he put his hands up to his head. He exhaled and shook his head in much the same way as if he had just seen Crystal Palace lose at home. He was going to Feltham. That meant I was going to Feltham too, to join the rest of the Man Dem.
An overweight male prison guard waddled over and led Styles away. For all his bravado, he seemed a bit tearful.
“Stay in touch,” he said, as he followed the guard out. “Don’t break the chain.”
As he left the courtroom I suddenly felt exposed. The judge was now giving me the same long speech, but my mind was already distracted, trying to remember everything I’d heard about Feltham. It was near Heathrow, I knew that, because Man Dem were always talking about the noise of the planes when you’re trying to get to sleep at night.
On the plus side, there were connections to be made inside Feltham. Man came out harder, better prepared for all sorts of shit. There was no messing with someone with a spell at Feltham under their belts.
The judge went on. It had been a long time since I’d been addressed by my real name.
“… You too have been found guilty of one count of robbery, despite a number of reprimands and a final warning. I appreciate your young age, but as the Youth Justice Board can offer no suitable alternative it is with reluctance I am obliged to send you to Her Majesty’s Prison Holloway …”
At that point the rest of the courtroom melted away, prison guards and lawyers disappeared. Even the judge faded into nothing more than white noise. There was only word which had connected with my brain: Holloway.
Holloway? She had got it wrong. That was a hard-assed women’s prison.
I was one of the Man Dem! I was one of the boys! I should be going where they were going. I felt like I’d been punched.
An overweight female prison guard appeared, keys hanging off her badly-fitting trousers. I began to panic. What was going on?
I looked over to the lawyer, the same dickhead who said I had nothing to worry about.
“What’s she talking about? Why did she say Holloway?”
He fastened the clips on his briefcase, and leaned over.
“You can phone me,” he said.
What the hell would I want to phone you for?
Yeah, I thought, if I ever fancy going to prison again you’ll be the first person I call.
Four months. Was that what she said? I was angry at feeling sympathy for Styles. What was he worried about? He’d be spending the next three months socialising with Stimpy and Badman and, hell, even Drex. At least he’d be with the rest.
I was out on my own, with all the hard-ass old women. And I hadn’t brought anything with me. I had brought no clean clothes. I didn’t even have my eyeliner.
I heard more footsteps coming up for me, and before I knew it I was leaving behind the hot, brightly lit courtroom and descending the stairs into a labyrinth of dark corridors and awkward silence. It felt like an underground police station.
Just take it all in, Sour, I told myself. It’s not like I’m being sent to the death chamber. Just take it all in.
There was a long wait in a low-ceilinged room that felt like a custody suite.
Another fat woman – was being plus size compulsory when applying to the prison service? – escorted me out of the back door into a Securicor van.
From the outside, I’d always just thought they were big communal vans, with seats. She swung open the door.
“Nah, sorry, I ain’t going in there.”
The bus had cells!
Now I ain’t a big fan of enclosed spaces. I’d always prefer walking to the top of a tower block than taking a pissy lift. Sure, a night in the cells at Brixton police station to get away from home was fine, but these portaloos on wheels? They had to be kidding.
The prison guard bundled me in, and locked the door.
There was enough room to sit down, and that was it. I could touch the walls, elbow to elbow.
There were no cushions and nowhere to stretch your legs. The only option was to sit ramrod straight.
There were air vents above me, and the radio was on. They were playing songs. I took a deep breath and told myself to keep calm. No good hyperventilating here.
OK, maybe this ain’t so bad. Jimmy Nail came on the radio. ‘Crocodile Shoes’. I tapped my feet along, on the metal floor. The engine started and slowly the van drove up the ramp, and out into the afternoon gridlock of South London traffic.
I sat strapped into my sweatbox, trying to listen out somehow for the moment we crossed the river, imagining the slight rise and dip of a bridge as we crossed from south to north, but the rumble of the road gave away no clues, leaving me just to guess blindly at taxis and tourists, bike couriers and cars that criss-crossed our path through Central London. It felt like the longest drive of my life.
I worried about Yusuf waiting alone outside the cinema. I needn’t have. Turns out he’d forgotten to meet me anyway.
Holloway
I recognised those big brick walls from the news bulletins. Some part of me was still expecting our destination to look like just another big police station. But these walls felt military. They felt serious.
“Concealments?”
The belongings I tipped out into the tray were pitiful. Oyster card. Chewing gum. Lip gloss. That was it.
There was none of the softly-softly approach that had cushioned every other “official” experience up until now. No, I realised. These guys mean business.
I wanted a bath. I needed a bath.
I joined a queue of other women at reception. They were all much older. They looked like they had done this thing before. Some acknowledged my presence with a nod; most ignored me. No one was talking. Everyone looked tired and bored. Nothing felt real.
An unsmiling guard fingerprinted me, and handed me a checking-in pack, with a bar of soap, toothbrush, deodorant and other such luxuries.
I filed through to the next room.
I was told to strip.
I ain’t doing that!
Strip.
It wasn’t optional.
Nobody had ever seen me naked. Even I didn’t like to see myself naked. They’re were even wanting to look up my ass! I thought, I’m not crouching over no mirror, or bending over for no one.
“I said I ain’t doing that,” panic rising in my voice.
This place was run by flipping perverts! I didn’t want to take off my clothes. I screamed and shouted until I could shout and scream no more.
But the guards were deaf to my protests. My shouts barely seemed to register. The orders kept coming. Strip. Bend over. Wear this. Take off that. Resistance is futile in these situations, innit.
They left me ranting and raving, till I had no more energy to argue. Guess I wasn’t the first to protest.
I unzipped my hoodie, pulled off my vest top, kicked off my trainers and peeled off my jeans. Then handed them over.
I was offered a shower. I took it.
I put on my standard-issue prison gown, and stood, shivering, clutching my checking-in bag and the crumpled tangle of my clothes. They led me out of reception and down deeper through the rest of the checkpoints.
It felt like being in a hospital. But oddly quiet. Almost silent. All I heard was footsteps, as wardens walked and their keys jangled. Nobody made noise. This world had its own order. This building had its own code. And screws were the boss. That was obvious. They have last say, and what they say, you actually do. I learned that quick. These were the only rules I’d ever known that could not be broken.
From that moment on, I was no longer a name, I was a number.
We seemed to walk for miles, one unending corridor after another.
My wet hair dripped lukewarm drops down the back of my neck, and I could feel other eyes looking at me. Gripping my bag, bed-linen and towel close to my chest, I took my time, shuffling along in the hope that deliberately small steps would prevent my gown from flapping open.
I braced myself to hear cat-calls, and see arms wav
ing through bars, Hollywood-style, and was kinda disappointed when there were none. I was all ready to hold my head up high.
I wondered why it felt familiar, and then I realised. This was like going into care. Or at least a grown-up version.
I knew what it felt to be the new girl in an institution, to stick out like a sore thumb, when you’re dumped in a group where other friendships are already made, other secrets already shared, old rivalries are already live and kicking. I’d survived and thrived in places like that. Ain’t no reason to be scared now, I tried to tell myself.
For the first time in a long time, I felt young. Too young. This was an adult place, I was out of my depth. My feet were kicking frantically but I couldn’t touch the bottom.
I knew the golden rule in those situations and I was going to stick to it: keep your head down. Coping mechanisms were kicking in, innit. Take it in, block it out, that was my motto.
This was going to be a new experience. All I had to do was take it in and block it out.
But even as I promised myself I would do everything I could to keep afloat, all I could think of was the dark water below, fading into black. I was in deep now. I had to try not to sink.
We’d reached my wing: D3.
The cell door opened. The guards stopped. I hesitated. I stepped forward, and the door shut behind me. Suddenly I got these three pairs of eyes staring at me. It hadn’t even occurred to me I wouldn’t have my own cell. I could feel myself shrinking, like Alice in Wonderland, after seeing the bottle marked “Drink Me”. Three women were staring down at me. I felt like I was two foot tall.
In care, you see, I was used to having my own little room. You barely pay attention as you’re being introduced to new people and new staff coz kids who are there one day are gone the next. Ain’t no point making friends. Waste of time, waste of energy. Same deal with staff on their shifts. They ain’t in the market for getting too attached. It was a quick turnover. If you’re smart, you don’t attach yourself to no one. Right at that moment I realised a friend was what I wanted. This was not the place to find them.
Suddenly, I found myself standing in a cell in the largest women’s prison in Europe. There was nowhere to hide.
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