Sour

by Tracey Miller

  I checked the other beds to see if everyone had one, but they did not.

  “What’s this?”

  “Read it,” said Heather, with a smile.

  The sheet said my name and prison number.

  “It says ‘early release’.”

  The others nodded.

  “I think I’m being moved.”

  “What else does it say?”

  There were initials I didn’t understand: “HMP ESP.”

  Klaire whooped.

  “East Sutton Park! You’ve fallen on your feet there, girl.”

  I was being transferred to East Sutton Park open prison in Kent. Immediately.

  They seemed genuinely happy for me. Even Yasmin cracked a smile. And yet somehow I couldn’t share their elation. I didn’t want to leave. The prospect of leaving was much more terrifying than entering.

  Within a few hours I was saying goodbye. I didn’t really know how. Klaire gave me a big hug, and pressed some cash into my hand. Though I’d never seen her do anything that broke the rules she always managed to have extra privileges tucked away here and there. She was subtle, I had to give her that. I was surprised the boydem ever caught up with her.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. She told me to take care of myself and remember what she had told me. I promised her I would. I waved bye to the others.

  Numb and slightly shell-shocked, I followed the guards through the corridors to a window, where another warden passed me my lipgloss and Oyster card, sealed in a see-through bag, emblazoned with Her Majesty’s prison logo.

  Within an hour I’d been whisked beyond those red brick walls in another Serco sweatbox, and was on my way down the M20 to my new home. The only time I’d ever left London was to visit my dad in various prisons around the country. I thought of those long bus journeys with Mum and Yusuf and remembered how exciting they had felt. Now, here I was on a prison excursion of my own. One of these days, I thought to myself, I’d leave the city and go on a nice old jaunt that didn’t end up at a jail.

  This journey seemed to take even longer than the last.

  It felt like we were driving to the end of the world. At 40mph.

  It was dark when we arrived. I had been expecting just another Holloway. Boy, was I wrong.

  The van pulled up and the doors were unlocked. I stepped out of the portaloo-on-wheels and stretched.

  “What the fuck?”

  Had I just arrived on Emmerdale Farm?

  First up, there were no brick walls. Reception was a big old mansion house. Everything seemed antique, with lots of dark wood that creaked and smelled of history.

  I was half expecting the staff to appear in hotel uniforms with a tray of complementary drinks, and ask when I wanted to book in for the horse-riding and spa sessions, so it was quite disappointing to see them in their boring old screws gear, with keys on their belts. But that was where the similarity with Holloway ended.

  I liked the old guy who checked me in, immediately. He looked like Dr Chris from Richard and Judy. He had a kind face, and a Northern accent I couldn’t quite place. He came from somewhere in the countryside I’d never heard of.

  “You’ve come light?” he said, noting my distinct lack of belongings.

  “Yeah, cash and clothes are over-rated,” I sighed.

  “We’ll see what we can sort you out with,” he smiled. Then he showed me some keys.

  “These are for the back door.”

  “You’re shitting me? Next, you’re gonna tell me I can just nip out to the shops whenever I want …”

  He laughed. “Not quite.”

  He gave me a brief tour. “This is the main house. There are 32 dormitories, and we have around 100 adult and young offenders here. At the moment you’re the youngest.”

  Yeah, story of my life, innit.

  “We’ve got lots of classes, so I suggest you try out as many as you can. Give them a go and see which ones you like. There’s art, cookery, computer studies, creative writing …”

  As he went on, I craned my neck and gawped at the wood panelling and pictures. If Kate Middleton ever went off the rails, I thought, this is probably where she would end up.

  “And don’t forget this number.” He handed me a card to go with the rest of the booklet and welcoming pack. “This is the number your family can call you on.”

  “No way?!”

  I could speak to Yusuf!

  I had missed no one while I was in prison, no one, that is, except my little brother.

  Dr Chris talked me through the timetable – you could only phone at certain times – and explained the wage system, for those who worked in the house throughout the week. The more you worked, the more privileges you could buy at the weekend.

  Once he’d booked me in, we went up the creaking staircase and he showed me to my room. It felt like a haunted house, albeit one where the ghosts had to do a bit of housework now and again and were probably too comfortable to go spooking anyone.

  There were no lock-ups, Dr Chris explained. Hallelujah! You could go to the bathroom when you wanted and you could move around freely. I checked out the bathroom. It looked nice and clean. I couldn’t see but I bet there was Imperial Leather soap lurking somewhere.

  The dormitory had a lino flooring, and the beds – simple, steel-framed affairs – looked comfortable enough.

  There were no locks on the bedroom doors. Yeah, I smiled to myself, I can work with this.

  Dr Chris explained that there was a curfew and we were expected to be in bed by a certain time.

  “In ESP,” he said, “we trust our residents to be responsible for their own actions.”

  Keys, lino, and now they trust you?

  That blew me away.

  “So, that’s you. I’ll let you get settled in and introduce yourself. See you tomorrow.”

  I kinda wanted to keep him, but imagined he probably had a lovely wife and rosy-cheeked children to get home to.

  “Thanks.”

  My new roommates must still have been socialising because there was only one girl in the dormitory when I arrived.

  “Hi,” she said, getting up off her bed and shaking my hand.

  Her name was Jenny but she looked like a little Arabella to me. She was a dancer, and she was beautiful. As delicate as a doll. Looked like butter wouldn’t melt.

  We got chatting. When she spoke, I had to try hard to stifle my laughter. She was proper posh! Like proper Home Counties, probably-had-a-pony posh. You could tell she came from a good family.

  She was in her mid-twenties but even then you could see she was the kinda kid who’d gone to tap-dancing and ballet, and had teddies in her room. She had one with her now. She talked about her parents, dance classes and the exotic places she’d travelled. She didn’t like to go into detail about the drugs, and I didn’t ask.

  We got on well, Jenny and I, but out of all the women I’d meet she made me the angriest. Or was it the saddest? She hadn’t wanted for nothing, that girl. And she’d gone and got a criminal record. What a waste. I had my excuses, but what were hers? For me, well, it was expected. For her, it had been completely avoidable. She’d had all the chances I would have loved, and she still blew it.

  Sometimes I used to wish that I was born with a silver spoon too. I assumed that, once you started life that way, all would end OK. You’d be set for life. So it was disheartening to see a girl that had it all being incarcerated.

  I stayed awake wondering about the differences between me and her. Was my excuse really much better than hers? Did I have less responsibility for my actions than she did? Which estate girl should be more ashamed – the one from the country estate or the one from the sink?

  Jenny showed me that money can’t buy happiness, love and, more importantly, peace within. But who was I to judge? If being financially stable isn’t enough for some, then so be it. We all took our chances, and we got caught.

  I fell asleep that night with something niggling at me. I had my period, maybe that was it.
On a ladies level, it’s not fun having your time of the month in prison. I could hold my head up high, I could hold my own among the inmates, and tell myself I was doing OK, but nothing reminded you of your loss of freedom like counting out your tampons.

  Keeping yourself clean suddenly required effort. I was 16. I was still getting used to my monthly cycle, and I won’t lie, I was embarrassed. I didn’t want nobody knowing things like that, but in those close quarters there ain’t no hiding it. Your own body becomes public property. Your dignity’s taken away from you, innit.

  Still, the rest of my new roommates were warm and friendly. Nice, sweet girls. That made me laugh. I was in the goody-goody room.

  Tess was a gym fanatic. Bloody Mr Motivator. Always trying to get me to go work out, every five seconds. She didn’t have anything left to burn off. She was equally enthusiastic when it came to cleaning and housework, doing everything twice as quick and taking particular pride in polishing the banisters. The others were just nice white girls who didn’t bother no one.

  Getting ready for bed, I walked out of the dorm, across the landing to the bathroom. No supervision. No lock-up. No mopping my armpits over a bucket.

  I don’t know why they called it a prison. East Sutton Park was more like a mid-market hotel. The vibe was relaxed.

  If I wanted to punish someone, I sure as hell wouldn’t send them here. I hoped tomorrow wouldn’t get much better because I had a feeling already I wouldn’t be wanting to go home.

  I floated down that staircase like a ghetto princess. In the communal breakfast area there was proper choice of food – after Holloway, I’d have appreciated anything – but those scrambled eggs, man. Don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed food as much in my life.

  This, I thought, must be what boarding school feels like. Only with a lot less twats.

  We were going out to work in the garden. ESP, you see, had a farm and a shop that sold its produce.

  If I wanted to earn money to pay for phone cards and the tuck shop and treats for our room, I had to earn wages.

  It was fucking cold, man. Jenny chucked me a woolly hat and some gloves. Bearing in mind I ain’t never been to the countryside, I followed her and the rest of the girls as they overalled up, pulled on their Wellington boots and those PVC jackets that workmen wear at roadworks, and stepped out into the unknown.

  It was a long-arsed walk to the polytunnels, trudging through autumn leaves, failing to appreciate the views over the Weald.

  “Why are we here?” I asked Jenny.

  “This is our job for the day,” she explained.

  “What is?”

  “Emptying those polytunnels, and filling those ones.”

  “You mean to tell me we’re going to be out here, planting cabbage?”

  “Yep.”

  Now, do you think that sat well with me? If there had been some … purpose … that wouldn’t have been so bad. But as far as I could see, we were simply having to dig up the roots on one side and replant them on the other.

  I was flipping annoyed. It felt like slave labour. I’m a Brixton girl, I thought. Ain’t much use for green fingers in the ghetto.

  Needless to say, I found myself having a lot of toilet breaks, as I counted down the hours till 4pm.

  After that, it was happy days. You could do what you wanted. There was a communal lounge with sofas, even a games room where they had bingo on a Saturday night. If you were bored, there was a hair salon, with a proper wash sink with mirrors and shit. Now that I was happy about.

  This gold beehive didn’t maintain itself, darling. It was time to give my hair a bit of TLC. Yeah, I was a dab hand with the wash and blow dry – I could give Vidal Sassoon a run for his money, damn straight – and I soon found myself a niche.

  The other girls started coming in to get their hair done too, and I soon got to know everyone.

  Got our own little congregation going, around that sink. If Holloway gave me time to keep myself to myself, ESP brought me back out of my shell. Before long, I was hopping from room to room, enjoying the different vibe in each one. Hell, I even liked the women in the God room.

  They were all church-goers in the dorm down the hallway. If they were all on this born-again Christian vibe, I wondered, why were they even there? Turned out the nice older lady had found God through fraud, and was always trying to preach me out of my wicked ways. I enjoyed winding her up. I’m sure she thought she’d have me converted by the time I was outta there.

  Every now and then, I’d pop in to see Ginger. I’m not kidding: think of one of the characters from Prisoner: Cell Block H – denim jacket, low haircut, shirt collar turned up – and you’re not far off. She was the top dog, no mistake. She had all her little followers.

  She was Scottish. She called me “the bairn” and I could barely understand a word she said.

  But she liked to banter, and looked so bloody comfortable, I wouldn’t have been surprised if her release date had come and gone and she had just decided to stay.

  “If ye get yersel intae trouble, kid, just come and see uz, awright?”

  Ginger just dominated. The shelves around her bed were better stocked, and she had a proper quilt and comfier cushions than the rest of us. Like Klaire, I was never quite sure how she managed it, but she managed it alright. She must have had arrangements with the screws, but I never saw anything to give it away.

  She liked to ask me about my life on the road. When I told her about the robbery that sent me to jail, she chuckled for ages.

  “Robbing bits from two wee kids? What kind of shite robbing is that?”

  “I didn’t even do it. Trust me, ain’t my style.”

  She chuckled some more.

  “What kind of piece did you use?”

  “Guns? Ain’t no guns involved in this scenario.”

  “You’re taking the fucking piss? Polis must have been right pissed off with you then …”

  She caught the twinkle in my eye.

  “Like I sayed, if you ever need anything, doll, just let uz know.”

  Yeah, ESP was just a whole bag of fun, a whole new world. It felt like I’d gone away for a treat. I’d been there a while before I gave Roupell Park a second thought.

  “What’s up?”

  “You got a phone call.”

  I raced to the phone.

  “You alright?”

  “Yusuf?”

  Hearing my little brother’s voice was like having someone snap their fingers in front of my eyes. It broke the spell. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. But it was good to hear from him.

  “Yeah, I’m cool, man. No need to worry about me, I’m alright y’know. What you up to?”

  “Usual. Some serious shit going down, but money’s rolling in. People keep asking for you. Man can’t believe you’re in jail.”

  It was as if he was bringing me news from a different continent. I realised I’d barely thought of any of the names or faces I’d left behind. I also realised that, Yusuf excepted, I hadn’t missed a soul.

  His voice had properly broken. He was growing up alright.

  “How’s Mum?”

  “Not good. She went off last week. Kept on saying you’d been kidnapped and taken back to Jamaica. But then she went to the shops and made the biggest load of punch you’ve ever seen so ain’t all bad.”

  I thought of Yusuf having to deal with her on his own, and felt a pang of guilt. He had only just turned 14. He shouldn’t be having to deal with that shit.

  “Do you miss me?”

  “Yeah! You kidding?” he said. “Gonna come up and see you next visit, innit.”

  “Yeah? Sweet.”

  I hadn’t had any visitors yet. I’d watched the other girls get excited on a Sunday morning, putting on their make-up and best clothes, and asking me to do their hair, but I’d yet to feel the need to do it myself.

  The phone started beeping.

  “Think that’s my time up.”

  “OK, cool. See you on Sunday then, yeah? Want man to bring som
ething?”

  I was being rushed by the beeps. I couldn’t think of anything.

  “Magazines, maybe?”

  “Which ones?”

  “Don’t matter, whatever.”

  “OK. Later, sis. Keep the faith.”

  The phone went dead.

  “Bye.”

  I stood holding the receiver for a moment, then quietly headed back to my room.

  That Sunday I joined the ritual enjoyed by the rest of them, putting on my freshest hoodie, and using the tongs to curl ringlets in my hair, before walking across the grounds to the Visitor Centre.

  Though I was excited to see Yusuf, part of me was apprehensive, anxious that the reminders of home would burst the safe little bubble I’d managed to maintain in prison.

  The door opened and the crowd of eager faces poured through. Some threw open their arms and exclaimed their greetings; kids squealed, “Mummy!”; others just quietly held their wives and girlfriends tight for as long as possible before the screws reminded them of the rules, and encouraged them to face each other at either side of the table.

  Yusuf bounded over and gave me a hug.

  He had shot up in the past couple of months, and had cultivated the fuzz on the top of his lip into an unconvincing ’tache. Before I’d gone to court, it didn’t seem so long ago I’d catch him sucking his thumb. He had done a lot of growing up over the past couple of months.

  He looked like a serious character. His hair was smoothed into curls, and he was wearing a whole new outfit of designer threads.

  His eyes were as wide as saucers.

  “This ain’t prison, man, it’s a hotel! Does it have a swimming pool?”

  “It’s a disgrace, innit?” I joked. “Thinking of writing a strongly worded letter to my MP.”

  The Visitor Centre was also particularly nice, with big mahogany tables, a play area for kids, and nice views of the grounds. I could see why guests wouldn’t be worried about you when they came to see you here.

  “Lord ha’ mercy!”

  There was a whoop from the door.

  “Where is she? Mi waan to see me daughter.”

  Yusuf looked sheepish and shrank in his seat.

  “I had to bring her, sorry. Or she wouldn’t let me come alone.”