Life and things Letters from September 2023

 Dear Cookie

it's almost 4.30pm on a Saturday afternoon 30th September 2023

it's pouring rain outside

miquelle is at her dance classes still

Im just laying on the sofa. I still don't feel particularly well. I felt really dizzy this morning and had earache then after that wire off I felt really sick and had upset stomach and went toilet three times. ugh. 

I had the TV on for about three days playing prayers, Ruqyah, recitation, documentaries and suddenly last night I just turned it OFF. I couldn't sleep I was turning every which way and I couldn't get comfortable at all. in the end I dozed off to sleep but I kept waking up. I've been like that for days. 

Miquelle just came home so we had a chat about her day and now she's making herself something to eat because I've not cooked. I bought a lot of convenience food because I really not in the mood for cooking at all.

right so let's get started right from the scratch of my life which should answer sooooo many of your questions you have asked me in your letters.

I was born on 3rd June 1982. 

My parents were Lorna and Stuart Lapp. 

My parents were very poor and neither side had any family.

my dad's family were unhappy with him because he married my mum and she wasn't Jewish, also he hates religion and wanted nothing to do with it at all so he turned his back on his family 

my mum's family are crazy. loony tunes. my mum is too. my nan (mums mum) brought my mum's brother up pretending he was a girl. she put him in a dress and told everyone he was a girl. and this was in the 70s when it was just barely even heard of boys saying they feel like girls and girls saying they feel like boys ect....not like today where everyone is changing their sex. 

My mum's brother is almost 20 years younger than my mum. 

my mum didn't get on with her family and vice versa. so my mum and dad were mostly on their own. my mum had zero idea how to look after a baby and had major depression. my dad and her had a bad distant marriage. I just remember my earliest memories were feeling alone.

We don't know our family very well on either side and have nothing to do with them

Last night I wanted to just talk to someone. I wanted to talk about things only certain people could understand so I looked online to see if the UNLOCK help line was staffed at 3am. It was not. I thought about calling The Samaritans but when I thought about everything that was on my mind, I didn’t know where to start. There is just far too much. So, I again decided to continue writing this book. I started when I was about 23. Over the years I have thought about it a lot, written intensely at times, then ignored it for years. Yet I keep coming back. 

what I'm writing you now is some more complete parts and some just rough draft and one section I sent you before 

I want to write this memoir as a collection of short stories. It is my intention that every chapter can stand alone. I have tried so much and failed at so much; different jobs, my education, driving. Yet, in the most important areas; raising my kids to be confident, successful young people, who won’t make the same mistakes as me, I have had success. And for always pulling through any situation, overcoming stress related illness, chronic pain, resilience. Bouncing back, not giving up and somehow, still being able to trust. I made it. Even though, at this time, I feel as though I am in limbo. Waiting for one chapter to close and another one to begin. all I wanted was to be happy. 

Soooo. back to the story....

Everyone else has cousins who come round at Xmas but we spend Xmas on our own. When I am very small I like it. I get loads of presents under the tree and I spend the day arranging the cats on cushions in the front room, dancing about in my ballet leotard, waving a magic wand my dad made me at his work, he told me it was the real thing that had belonged to Sooty on the TV. I love Sooty, Sweep and Soo. I have some episodes on VHS cassette tapes. I watch them all the time. I think that Sooty is real and Matthew Corbett is the coolest guy in the world. When I am older I grow to dread Christmas. It drags on and on. No where to go and no one visits we. None of my friends are allowed out to play because their nanan or grandma, cousins, aunties and uncles are all round. 

My cousins are photographs on my auntie Doreens wall. I have never met them and I never will. We always go round on Boxing Day. My dads family do not celebrate the Xmas holidays because they are Jewish, but Boxing day is a good day for all the extended family to meet up because everyone is off work. I don’t know what it means to be Jewish but I think it means having a clean house where nothing is out of place. The downstairs always smells of fishcakes. They are greasy deep fried balls coated in breadcrumbs. Auntie Doreen makes her own bagels, my dad calls it ‘Jewish Bread’. My mum says it is not like ordinary bread because Auntie Doreen puts eggs in her dough. Auntie Doreen bakes all the time, she never stops talking. She gives me crinkle cut chips and round green peas with my fishcakes. 

Outside there is a pond full of Coi Carp. Upstairs my Auntie Angela is about 30 and still lives at home. She works on the perfume counter in Rackhams in town. She is tiny, not even 5 feet tall, she wears size 3 shoes. Already I am aware of my ever increasing height. I am only about 8 but I feel gangly and awkward. All joints and bones and lank mousy brown hair. Angela always sits in her room. She reminds me of a princess and when I am little I think she is the most beautiful woman in the world. I want to be like Angela when I grow up, whatever that means, but already I feel like I am too tall. One day Angela gives me a ring. It is a fat silver band. She promises me that when she gets married I can be her bridesmaid. 

Downstairs everyone is talking. About Angela. When is she going to get married they ask? She has been engaged to a man in Manchester for many years. It does not seem to be going anywhere. Auntie Doreens husband Uncle Roy suddenly starts shouting “Sssssshhhh. The news, Doreen. The News.” It is 10pm and everyone has to be quiet now while Roy listens to the current affairs and comments on everything loudly. There is a dog, Benji, a small Yorkshire terrier. He is quite old and very snappy. He chews on a toy that has lost its squeak in his basket. If you get to close he begins to growl in a low tone, guarding his slobbery rubber bone. 

I sit under the wall of family portraits. There are none of me. My Cousins smile down at me from expensively framed studio photographs. The largest in the middle is of My dads nephew Gary. He is Auntie Doreens son. His wife and their kids, Shannon and Jason. I think they are about the same age as me. They were born and have lived their whole life in Florida. I always read American childrens books when I am a pre-teen. I am convinced that one day I will go there, even though I do not have any concept of where it actually is. The other photos on the wall are of Ian, Doreens other son, his wife Carole and their daughter Yaelle. She is only about 4. She is so pretty and brown, with black hair and a chubby cheeked smile. They never come to Auntie Doreens on Boxing Day. My sister and Yaelles sister have not been born yet. 

Occasionally I have visited their house and even slept over for the night. Their house is massive. Yaelle has her own playroom, and her dad has a study. They have a massive kitchen and always lots of food. The sitting room is comfy and everything is tastefully furnished. I am terrified of the stairs, they are like wooden slats with gaps in between each tread. I am convinced I will somehow fall and slip through. Upstairs Yaelle has a bedroom all decorated with Disney Princess’s. everything in her room is Disney, even her clothes. Ian and carole have an en-suite shower in their bedroom. I never saw anything like it in my life.

I am determined that I will also have one in my bedroom in my future grown up house, one day. They have an en-suite bathroom and two spare bedrooms. They are even more Jewish than Doreen. My uncle Ian goes to the synagogue every week. I don’t know what it is, I have an idea it is some kind of cinema. lol.  I am playing out in the garden early one Saturday morning before he goes and I ask if I can come with him. He says ‘no’. So I ask instead if he can be my dad then? A very awkward silence and then he says ‘no’. He says it is getting late and he has to go. Carole is from France and Ian speaks fluent French. I often have no idea what anyone in the house is talking about. Yaelle speaks French too. My mum says Ian met Carole on a kibbutz in Israel. She is always talking about them, because she envies them and their lifestyle. She hates the fact that Carole drives a car and she cannot drive at all. She hates Caroles clothes, but it is because she is jealous, she herself has so few. Slagging Carole off is one of her favourite past times. 

Growing up I longed for a big family and I wished everyone else's family, mum and dad was mine rather than the ones I had. 

I'm autistic so I never played out loud talking I just stayed in my own head for years. I played with my toys in silence and went about in silence and everyone said I was a 'strange' child. 

My earliest memories are that are never really liked my parents very much and I used to wish I was someone else. From a young age I used to use fake names, fantasize about running away from home and starting a new life. 

 I still feel restless. I still want to run away but I know that I'm still going to be the same and everywhere is just going to be the same its just different strangers. 

My other earliest memories are wanting to run away, be someone else, start a new life. I used to wish I was one of the kids at school who's parents moved away so they got to go to a different city and start a new school and have a new life so I thought 

At 16 I ran away to London start my own new life but because I didn't do things properly like go there with a job or for a job or do well in school and go uni or even start college I ended up in homeless shelters and always felt lonely and then in jail for years, even in jail I was always on the edges the periphery because I'm autistic I suppose I don't make or build friendships easily.

In the end I ended up back in the city I started and I had vowed never to come back here. 

I hated it here for YEARS. I hated the people, the regional accents, the places and neighbourhoods here, I was desperate to escape, I felt trapped, restless I wanted someone to save me to take me away from here so again I could start a new better life... 

I met a guy in Texas through online friends (Marcus). He was a DJ on the local radio there in his town. We talked for six months and he brought me there to supposedly marry me. My daughter was 4 then. I was desperate to live the American dream and build a life there, give my daughter American life, hopefully citizenship... 

But once out there I realised he brought me there to babysit his aging mother whilst he went out to drink in bars AND to make people in his town THINK he was SOooo famous that people in England knew who he was (they definitely do not) and he changed his mind about marriage as he couldn't support us financially.  I found out a lot about him. He had no state ID and no driving licence because he had warrants for non payment of child support. No bank account despite being born in USA. His radio DJ job was voluntary. His handyman job was cash in hand enough to buy his beer and shoot pool in the bar. It was a disaster. 

I ALMOST ran away from the airport after he dropped us in Dallas and call up friends in Waco to take me in, but the fear of overstaying my visa and being illegal and discovered or not being able to support me and my daughter I reluctantly caught my flight back to UK. 

you know I met a guy online dating (Julian) I thought would move to his city within two years but he has excuse after excuse for five years until I found out it was revealed he had cheated either on me OR for me for the entire five years but had two babies in that time that I discovered about, personally I think there was more babies and more women but .. my new life never began. I was still here.

I told you before that I realised nobody is going to save me or take me away from here. My mum said I have to accept this is it for me, my lot in life is to be here but that makes me angry because she's the type who would never leave ever and lived in the same place her entire life. She gets upset I left to start with and says she doesn't understand 'how' people leave and go to new cities or even countries 

It hurts me to see others have successfully managed it, to go to new cities or countries, for relationships or work...although I'm not jealous I feel cheated that I'm stuck and I have still got this desire to run away somewhere when my daughter is 18 and gone her own way to uni like her sister or able to live alone .. where will I go? 

I've no idea because I just ran away to Paris and Amsterdam for very short vacation 48 hours in each and I was soooo alone especially in Paris I saw everyone having a good time but I hated it and felt lost. Amsterdam was better but I felt so lonely.... So surely wherever I go I will be alone or feel alone? 

I suppose I don't cope with it. I just got older. I'm 41. That spark and dare to do such things has been dulled by bad experiences or it not working out. 

SOoooooo

I remember being a lonely child. I remember that

My mum never really got out of bed in the day and used to get up at night and dance watching music videos all night on TV.

My dad was out all day at 'work' but he never made any money and he treated my mum badly. 

When I started school I was always late. I didn't have friends at school because I played all my games in my head. I always knew how to read. when the other kids at school were learning to read I already started on chapter books. I remember always being on my own.

I got bullied all through junior school and secondary school. I was 8 when I first started to feel really depressed.

my sister was born when I was 9 or 10 and things went from bad to worse with my mum's mental health and my dad never being home 

I HATED IT AT HOME. there's often no electricity or gas, no food, my mum's sat crying in a bathrobe, we have four cats and two dogs and there's fleas all over and the animals have worms. I get scared I will catch fleas and worms too. I have no clothes hardly. I smell like my house. other kids bully me so bad. 

I walked out of school at 14 and that's when I started to get into trouble. 

So I'm 14 and a new girl starts at school. she moved to Sheffield from London and nobody likes her either so naturally we make friends but we're not really friends because we don't have nothing in common but we hang around together. she thinks she's 'it' she tells everyone that 'her name is Vicky and she's a model.' 

she's not a model. she just did a modelling course at a Sheffield modelling agency called Style. I enroll on the course too. they teach us how to do our make up and hair and we walk up and down and get a bunch of black and white studio type photographs at the end. 

Vicky never goes to school either. she smokes weed and hangs about with men in their 20s. I start to do the same. I start to have sex and getting used by men. I start to put what I learnt about hair and make up to my advantage and get myself into clubs and bars. back then no ID was needed. soon me and Vicky fall out. I don't even know why. 

I'm running away from home because I'm so depressed there. because there's no food. because it's filthy. I spend most nights out at bars and clubs all night raves doing drugs and partying and sleeping with guys for a bed for the nightm

I basically stay at mens houses in exchange for sex. I get in cars and end up in all sorts of places and often have to run away from all sorts of danger.

I start working in a hair salon but they don't pay me. I darent say anything because I still don't talk a lot. I just feel sad I only got £40 for a MONTH and I worked 6 days A WEEK..

Im so hungry I can't afford to eat. I'm skinny as a stick. one of my jobs is to take money from all the stylists and walk round the mall to buy their lunches. I never have money to buy anything. nobody seems to notice and I work my ass off in that salon and I don't even get tips. 

l move to another salon and work five days and get £50 a week. that's better but I'm still struggling hungry and by then homeless. I stop working.

I'm 15.

my mum and dad split up and my mum went all the way crazy..my sister gets taken off her. my dad ends up with her but he has a girlfriend with a daughter of the same age so there's no room for me. 

I move in to a friend's house with her and her mum but soon the mum has enough and I'm back out again. I've met a guy called Rob. he's WHITE aged 30. he drives a taxi cab. he takes me to stay in a room over the top of the cab company. I have no idea he's married or anything. there's no front door on the apartment room. one day Rob goes and never comes back. I wait and wait and wait and eventually one of the cab company workers tells me Robs gone back to his wife. 

the cab company boss says Rob owes him money and they throw me out and take everything there is that's mine. a small portable TV and a little stereo and I'm really out on the street heartbroken and sad. I thought I had loved this guy really he was sick in his head. he had me doing all sorts of sex stuff I had not experienced before and he had introduced me to his niece Sareena she's white too, she had her own place. she lived in the hood you would say and has a 18 month old baby. her house is like a club house. people are there 24 hours a day. she's a prostitute and I don't know where else to go so I go there and next thing I'm selling my pussy too. 

(This is WHY I never would or do date white guys or why they make me feel sick) nowadays I think EVERY GUYS MAKES ME FEEL SICK!!) 

I hate doing that escort work, prostituting, but I finally have a bit of money (when it doesn't get stolen.) I buy some clothes and shoes and I have a roof over my head and by the time I'm 16 I can move into a shelter so things have gotten bad at Sareena place. I fucked a guy that I didn't know was fucking with her and we fell out. I go into the homeless shelter or HOSTEL as we say here in the UK.

in the shelter the girls are either fresh out of jail, in and out of jail, shelter, jail, shelter and or heroin addicts or both, they're in and out of jail because they are heroin addicts and prostitutes. They get me to keep look out for staff while the smoke it on the foil or shoot up. they say to me to try smoke it but I don't want to. I stopped escorting or prostitute work as soon as I left Sareenas house. 

PLUS I don't want to end up like them! 

A guy I met that I start seeing Preston a black guy sells drugs gets me to sell heroin in the hostel. this goes on until he's mowed down by a car and winds up in hospital with a broken neck paralysed from the waist down. 

I go back and forth to different shelters and Sareenas house (we made up) because the shelters assess me of incapable of independent living so I won't be offered a flat just longer term supported housing that I don't want. I want my own place. I hate 'budgeting' meals for one with my keyworker. I want a man, babies, a family of my own, my own house or apartment. 

I go from man to man not understanding that men don't want a girl who gives sex up just like that. sometimes I have sex with a few guys get run train on I think u say in USA well we say 'run battry on' 

I just think somehow one will fall in love with me and I will get the family life I want. oh how naive and I? 

I run away to London and get put in a homeless shelter in London. I spend my days with other street kids there in the shelter. we go to the day centre soup kitchen places not sure what you call them, homeless programmes. I find out I'm pregnant with Dejeaun. I take a test with a British African girl called Abiola we go together to get tested at the clinic. I'm happy. she says 'what are you happy for?' 

she gets to go to a really nice hostel for young black women. I end up at vauxhall. vauxhall is a dump with girls and guys of all ethnicities but they're all the trouble types and types with problems... like a guy called Gary keeps slitting his wrists but not enough to bleed out then he runs around setting the fire alarms off... or a lot of girls getting run trains on there, and it's horrible there. dirty. 

Vauxhall (spring 1999)

Before they changed the road, before they paved over everything and altered the flow of the traffic, in early March 1999. You climbed the stairs and came up out of the tube station to find yourself on the corner of a busy intersection, the cars were always jammed. The noise, the dust, the dirt clung to your flip flop clad feet. the pavement was wide, the road fast. The lower third of this long building was slick with the Lambeth grime. The sign over the entrance read ‘Centrepoint Vauxhall’. Above the door four floors of windows ran vertically across the width of the building. Behind those windows slept in rooms side by side in a long row two floors of young women and two floors of young men. This was third stage accommodation. By this point you had a key to your own room and there was no curfew at night, you were free to come and go as much as you pleased. 

It was all very transient. A revolving door of people and faces. Here today and gone tomorrow. No one had a mobile phone, so you just met up. Or hoped too, Up West.  And if no one showed up, then you could always go looking round all the haunts you had previously hung out. I never knew the address of where I had been, but I always remembered how to get there. 

I spend a lot of time 'Up West' which is London's West end where there's a whole community of street kids like me that's unseen amongst the big buildings and fancy shops and restaurants and people in posh clothes or tourists from all over the world. unless you are a street kid mostly you don't notice or see them...they rob people, they con people into thinking they're a prostitute then the guys jump the punter and rob them... Sunny and Andrea and some others it goes wrong and they murder the guy by accident and throw him off London bridge into the Thames river. I see her again in jail. she got life sentence. 

I soon get moved to a mother and baby unit hostel. 

the nickname for that on the streets is 'The brothel at Breakspears' I stay on and off at the apartment of a Trini family I met them because the son Lins (Linsdale) took me back there. his mum is young with 5 kids. I sleep there a lot. on mattress on the floor with Linsdale sisters Mel and Rachelle. 

the mum just got into Jehovah's witness shit. we go Bible studies and Kingdom hall. it feels like family. except I'm pregnant and it's not to Lin's. going there soon ends. also the mom sends all the kids back to Trini except the baby who is two.

There's a revolving door, an endless stream of men visiting the ten young women who live in the hostel with their babies 

I meet Linton when my son is one year old. 

Linton suggested I smuggle cocaine from Jamaica to England 

Linton came with me to Gatwick airport the morning I flew to Jamaica. We travelled by taxi. We had an argument about McDonalds when we arrived, it was like 6am and he wanted to know what we wanted to eat, I thought it was like most McDonalds that only serve breakfast until 10.30am and to be honest i didn’t know. I hadn’t really eaten at McDonalds often; I’d never bought breakfast there. This is just going to sound ridiculous but I thought it was really expensive. I think that came from the times we all used to sit in Leicester Square McDonalds all night starving wishing we had enough money to buy something and even picking up peoples left overs off the tables. Growing up my family weren’t really the type of family that ate out or ordered takeaways either. I didn’t know what to order and I didn’t know what my son would eat, he was about 14 months old and McDonalds didn’t seem to agree with him; when we went to Charmaine’s sons birthday party it had made him sick, I hadn’t eaten that day either because i was broke. Linton got pissed off that I didn’t know what I wanted and ended up ordering a McChicken Sandwich meal and a chicken nuggets happy meal. I tried to explain to him I didn’t realise you could buy anything like that at 6am but he didn’t want to know, instead was just calling me 'stupid' and 'dumb dumb' I wasn’t even hungry and I didn’t even want to eat it. I remember looking at Linton and thinking how ugly he was and not knowing how I felt like cos I thought at that moment I hated him but I had his baby growing inside me.

After we ate Linton took me to the gate at the terminal as far as he could go, he wouldn’t even give me a hug or a kiss. I wanted to say "fuck you" and "I'm not doing this no more" but I wanted him to love me, I wanted him to be so happy when I got back with the drugs. I don’t really know what I expected to happen when I got back home, considering the way he was treating me, i think it would have taken nothing short of a miracle to make him change, and any change in his attitude for the better that may have resulted would have probably been quite short lived. I doubt very much that the ending would have resulted in the fairytale love story I was dreaming of.

I don’t remember much about the plane journey except that it seemed to take ages, the inflight entertainment movie was 'Charlie’s Angels' and I thought it was shit, they didn’t bring any food for my son, which looking back considering the cost of his ticket was pretty disgusting, i had to share my meal with him. The food was narsty anyway; it was supposed to be Jerk Chicken but tasted nothing like. Initially we were sitting next to a guy that stank like ten shades of shit and BO and was acting like he was on crack. I asked to be moved and was re-situated towards the rear of the plane. Had I remained in my initial seats I may have seen or met my co-defendant Nichola Wilkinson sooner, as it later transpired that on the return journey we had adjacent seats and that she had been the one to purchase the tickets.

I first saw Nichola when the plane stopped at Kingston airport. She stood out like a sore thumb. For a start, apart from me she was the only other white person on the plane, she was a similar age and alone. She was also covered in tattoos, had short gelled hair and was wearing that cheap gold medallion jewelry you buy in Argos and a tracksuit. Later on, once I had discovered she was my accomplice, I just couldn’t understand it. Linton had said the way I looked prior to the trip was not suitable, he didn't like my hair because I wore the back long but gelled the front down across my forehead in a side parting in the style of Mutya Buena from the 'Sugababes'. I also wore thick black eyeliner like her and several pairs of large gold earrings. I used to wear a mini skirt, a black top and knee high boots. I didn’t really have much choice of outfits and tended to wash and wear the same one over and over. Linton had given me £500 a few days prior to my departure to buy some new things in Morgan, (he was very specific that it had to be Morgan) these items being; a matching denim jacket and three quarter length trousers suit, a cream sleeveless roll neck jumper, a black floral halterneck summer dress, black trousers, two black and pink all over print Morgan vest tops, a pair of sequined flip flops from Accessorize, a pink sarong and some snakeskin cowboy style high heel boots in the sale in New Look.

It wasn’t easy buying holiday clothing in February, nowhere had anything and what they did have was very limited, and I'd never been on holiday before so i didn’t even know what to buy. Linton also insisted I change my hairstyle and get it cut into a 'white girls style' so I got it cut and also he also recommended that I stop wearing the earrings and nose stud because 'it wasn’t the fashion'. Like he would know anything about fashion. To be honest I've never particularly found the way he dresses appealing; back then was all slim fitting Armani Jeans and black polo neck jumpers with Gucci loafers and a black Avirex cardigan, and now since he’s been pumping weights in jail and turned himself into what I call a 'Michelin man gone wrong' he just looks awful and I don’t rate his fashion of tight jeans and tight short sleeved t-shirts which wouldn’t look out of place in a gay bar.  Well Linton was happy with my purchases and said I now 'looked the part' and 'decent' not like a 'wigga' so I didn’t get how come, if I didn’t look right, how they had sent me to do this thing with someone who looked like Nichola? I took a sort of instant dislike to her which combined with everything else that was to happen should have just been taken on my part as an omen that this mission was ill fated from the start.

The next time I saw Nichola was at the airport in Montego Bay. The flight had landed over an hour ago, I was totally not expecting the intense heat, when I descended the airplane stairs it was like walking into an open oven, in my denim trouser suit, knitted roll neck and boots I was not correctly attired. I had been instructed by Linton that I was staying at a resort called 'The Holiday Inn' and would need to locate the check in desk, go and tell them I had reservations then I would be given any information required and taken by them to the resort. However, after clearing customs, retrieving my suitcase and buggy, i was stranded in the Airport because there were no reservations for me or my son at Holiday Inn. The airport was practically empty by now, it was only tiny anyway compared to Gatwick, and anyone off my flight had gone about their business. The only people left other than me, my son and airport staff were police, in pairs, one male, one female, carrying large truncheons and guns.

I was starting to get worried but trying to keep my cool, the only thing I could think of to do was to phone Linton in England and ask him what the fuck was going on? I asked the woman on the Holiday Inn Check in desk how do I do that? She told me to "call collect", I had absolutely no idea what this meant, so I asked someone else and they said the same thing, I figured that if it was something to do with a bank or credit card I was fucked because I didn't even have a bank account never mind a bank card so by this time I'm starting to panic. I looked bait, the police were looking at me, I was alone in a strange country with a fourteen month old baby, I didn’t know anybody or have any idea where I was supposed to go and all I had was return tickets that weren’t valid for another 10 days and £500 in UK currency. That’s when I saw Nichola running across the airport towards me shouting my name "Jadine ! Jadine! Oh my God, it's so good to see you; how are you?" so I ran up to her, hugged her like I had known her all my life and left the airport behind me.

It turned out that Nichola had been met at the airport by a guy holding a placard with her name on it; she had known this would be happening. I don’t know why she had the correct information and I didn’t and I don’t know how they left me stranded there or why it took them so long to figure out that they had forgotten someone. I was just pissed off and could not get over this guy that was driving the car to where we were staying, he was about the size of three man put together, he was obese and his teeth stuck out in more directions than I would have thought possible. I was even more pissed off when I saw where we were staying.

'The Bayshore Inn' or 'The Pork Pit' as it was otherwise known, due to the fact there was a hut in front that basically sold Jerk Pork, rice and other Jamaican food, albeit nothing nice like chicken or fish or dumplings. I hated it immediately and to make things even worse I don’t even eat pork so the whole thing was just fuckry, especially considering Linton had shown me pictures in a brochure of The Holiday Inn resort. This place didn’t even have a pool; it was just a collection of rooms with a veranda on the front of each. Inside there was a bed, a television set, a sink and a small cubicle with a shower and toilet, in that cubicle was a window where you could see through into a room in the back where they cut up the pig meat. There was no fridge and i had no idea how I was going to store milk, my son although weaned onto solid food still enjoyed a bottle of milk before bed and upon waking. I was shown a place around the back where i could get buckets of ice. I was not impressed. I told the big fat buck tooth guy that I had been told i was staying at The Holiday Inn and he laughed.

After having a shower me and Nichola decided to go out for a walk to explore. The road ran along in front of where we were staying in one direction back towards the airport and in the other direction towards the town centre, and a big KFC. On the opposite side of the road to us was beach and several places to eat, and on the side of the road we were staying was hotels and food places, a Burger King, which was about as far down the road in the direction of the airport I ever went and where we ended up buying food that evening; which I thought was stupid because we were in Jamaica and I didn’t see the point of eating somewhere we could eat back home. However I ended up eating at Burger King nearly every day as it was practically the only place I knew I could afford, the prices were clear, I didn’t understand the currency and everything seemed expensive, I realised very quickly the £500 spending money i had was not going to last ten days unless I was really careful.

It was dusk by now and walking along the opposite side of the road to the hotel near the beach I felt melancholy and sad. There were several couples walking holding hands and I wanted to be one of them. The beach looked so beautiful beneath the setting sun and it was so warm. The gentle thrash of the water as it disturbed the sand with its small waves just had a romantic feel. I imagined how nice it would be to have been here with Linton walking along the sea front, kissing cuddling, I don’t think there are many times in my life I have actually felt as lonely as i did then looking out to sea.

A local guy approached us, I never got to know anything much about him other than his name was Junior, he was 18 like me, (Nichola was 17) all he wore was the same pair of shorts whenever I saw him and his hair was in a picky afro, I don’t even know where he slept at night. What I do remember about him was he never wanted anything, never expected anything from me and was just nice company, but not in 'that' way, like seriously I was totally besotted by Linton and about 6 weeks pregnant, I would never have looked at another guy in 'that' way. But Junior was cool. I don’t know what he gained from the acquaintance, I never met anyone over there during my stay as nice as he was, he never really asked any questions, and he never wanted anything, financially or sexually. I remember one day he walked into town with me and i was buying a pattie and bottle of ginger beer, I offered to buy him some and he was so reluctant to let me buy anything, I had to just buy it him and give it him regardless.

Others I met in Jamaica all wanted money for something, overpricing everything and took advantage of our confusion at the currency, some things were charged in Jamaican Dollars, some things American Dollars, There was a craft market about ten minutes’ walk from The Bayshore Inn and you couldn’t even go out without a group of local women harassing you to go to the craft market, buy something, or get your hair braided. I managed to avoid them until the last day because I barely had any money! I finally went to buy souvenirs. I still don’t know to this day how much I actually paid for two ashtrays, and two pipes (gifts for ungrateful Linton, who never even said thank you and put them in my kitchen drawer, only to go mad several months later when Charmaine’s boyfriend Darren asked if he could have them and I gave them away, because I didn’t think Linton gave a shit about them to be honest) The market was an awful experience, the women followed me around from stall to stall trying to make me buy something from them, and to be honest there was, how many stalls? Sixty-two if I remember rightly and all selling exactly the same as the other.

Junior told me how to phone England, by buying a phone card and entering the numbers on the back into one of the many payphones on the roadside. Linton's phone was switched off. I walked into town with Junior and went to a shop similar to the type you get on Rye Lane, selling West Indian food products and afro hair and skin products. I wanted a Palmers cocoa butter but I couldn’t get that, and the bread was all mouldy. The only milk they sold was Long-life UHT milk in 1 litre size cartons, Nestle brand. It was very expensive and three of them cost me roughly the equivalent of ten GB Pounds. Junior explained this was because after a baby stops breast feeding there, it doesn’t really drink milk like we do in England.

Nichola had gone off with a guy I didn’t like; I didn’t like Nichola either. In ten minutes I had discovered I had nothing to say to her and couldn’t be bothered to talk to her. The guy she had gone off with seemed like an oddball, I couldn’t work out what he was doing there, and he was staying in The Bayshore Inn like us. He was not far off seven feet tall, mixed race, very ugly and goofy looking. He had a British accent and said he was from Brixton in London and in Jamaica visiting family, which naive as I was, I just didn’t buy. I thought something was funny about him and that possibly he was an undercover police. The next day when I saw Nichola I warned her that I hope she hadn't said anything to him about why we were in Jamaica and that she was not to tell anybody why we were there, she promised she had not and would not say anything.

I went off without her that morning and after eating a Burger King breakfast, i went to try and phone Linton. His tone was frosty and he sounded like he was in a bad mood, cussing me for buying a thousand dollar phonecard, cussing me cos I was losing my voice and sounding like I was going to be ill, telling me to not be sick over there but to enjoy myself and have a good holiday, and not giving a shit about the mis-information he had given me about where I was meant to be staying, and considering the reality of where I was staying I had more right to be pissed off with him than he was with me, but he was calling me a dickhead and telling me he had to go. As I hung up the phone a Jamaican man in his twenties was waiting by the phone, having overheard my conversation over the phone he asked me 'if I was in Jamaica for business or pleasure?' to which I replied "I didn’t have a fucking clue what he was talking about, I was in Jamaica on holiday".

This guy followed me about all day, and the Montego Bay I saw in the daylight was nothing like the romantic Jamaica of the previous night. The heat was oppressive, the police walked up and down both sides of the street at regular intervals in pairs as in the airport, other Jamaican people that dressed much in the fashion of Jehovah’s Witnesses in the UK, walked towards their destinations purposefully but slowly, often stopping and pointing at me or poking me saying 'look pon di white gyal deyah'. The beach was horrible, there were other tourists sitting on walls looking bored and miserable, when I talked to them they were all from America, on Spring Break Vacation, I didn’t meet anyone else from the UK the whole time I was there other than Nichola and the goofy mixed race guy that claimed to be from Brixton.

The only decent bit of beach was nicknamed 'The Hundred Dollar' beach, because it cost a hundred dollars to get on it. It was practically opposite The Bayshore Inn and had little beach bars and a DJ, (when I think of Jamaica I always think of the song 'Danger' by Mystikal which coincidentally was my favorite track back in UK because it was played over and over on that beach and I could hear it from where I was staying). I think I only went to the hundred dollar beach a couple of times though, and not the first day. I ended up on the beach with some old Rasta men who were making hammocks, which they showed me how to do; and they were cooking fish and boiled dumpling, which they ate on leaves. After some negotiation the guy that was following me agreed with them that if I gave them two hundred dollars I could eat with them. It was actually the nicest food I ate all holiday.

I was sunburnt kind of badly by now, I had used some sun lotion stuff I bought in Boots in England but it obviously hadn’t worked, I'd not known what to buy so I'd chosen some gel type stuff that said something about Australia on the bottle, which I figured would be good because Australia was so hot, obviously it was shit. The next day I felt awful, I was all swollen up and could hardly talk, I was feverish and could hardly get out of bed. The guy that had followed me the previous day arrived at the door to my room and I asked him if he could go to the food stand and get me some bottled water, I had been told not to drink from the tap, he wanted paying to do it. I was also kind of confused about him as well because one of the women who cleaned in the hotel had told me "be careful of him, he's a gigolo", I did not have a clue what a gigolo was.

I was so sick that someone from the hotel took me to a doctor. It cost about £25 to see him and he was concerned that I was going to be so ill that I might have a miscarriage. He told me that if I had a miscarriage I would not be able to afford the medical care I would need. The doctor prescribed me some medicines to take and the guy that brought me to the surgery drove to the pharmacy to collect them for me, by the time I had got back to The Bayshore Inn and paid him the whole thing had cost me about a hundred pounds. I didn’t get any better, I was hardly able to sit up, never mind get out of bed, I was completely swollen all over my body, even my face, I was delirious, I don’t know how I managed with my son, but he was just so good, he didn’t cry or behave badly, he just played with his toy cars on the floor whilst I was ill, and I swear down I've never been that ill before and I sincerely hope i am never ill like that again.

I continued taking the tablets the doctor had prescribed even though I was terrified they would affect the baby I was pregnant with, I had been assured they were okay to take but I was still scared because i didn’t know what was wrong with me, they had said it wasn’t to do with the sun, and they didn’t know what it was and I was just so sick. The whole time I was ill Nichola never knocked on my door to see if I was okay or enquire if I needed anything? The local people who worked in the hotel wouldn't come near me in case whatever I had was contagious. Then after a few days I was sent to the hospital for blood tests, I knocked on Nichola's door and asked her to come with me, which she did. The drive to the hospital seemed to take forever and was spent in silence as was the wait inside the hospital, which was actually much nicer than hospitals in the UK and very clean. The blood tests were inconclusive, so next I was given a chest x-ray which showed up nothing, and the hospital said they had no idea what was wrong with me and that as soon as I got back to England I should go and get tests in the hospital there. They kept asking me if I had been ill in England before i flew to Jamaica? however in my confusion and being so ill like I was I couldn’t remember, but later I remembered I had been feeling flu like symptoms and sore throat, and eating loads of throat sweets. I was advised to rest as much as possible and to continue to take the medicine I had been prescribed in town by the doctor.

I can’t remember how much the hospital visit cost me but the guy who drove me there and back charged me £50 GB pounds. I thought this was okay considering it was such a long journey there and back and such a long wait in-between, but when I was able to phone Linton he want mad again calling me an idiot and a 'dumb white girl' because I had been ripped off, because now he had to Western Union me another £100 so I could afford to buy food until it was time to go home. I was like seriously what did he expect me to do? I was so sick I could hardly stand up or talk how the fuck am I in a position with the man to argue about the price he's charging for driving me to hospital? I stayed ill for most of the holiday, at my worst I was delirious, having semi-conscious nightmares I was unable to wake from and one particularly vivid experience that when i recounted to Jamaican girls in jail was informed was an encounter with a 'duppy'...which is a sort of poltergeist, others like a girl called shernette  mocked my story, telling me that what I saw 'must have been the hand that put the drugs in my suitcase!'

To be honest I don’t know if it was real or a dream, but I've heard others tell similar stories and after it happened I barely slept at night in that room, I even asked to be moved to another, which didn’t happen. I woke up in the night and I could not move, my son was sleeping peacefully next to me in bed but I could not move, I was laid on my back and I couldn’t eve make a noise to scream. Holding me down to the bed was a disembodied hand, covered in hair. Suddenly the hand disappeared although i still could not move or scream, the doorknob to the room turned but did not open and that was when I was able to jump up off the bed and run to the door; which was locked and I could see nothing outside. I sat up all that night watching 'The Fresh Prince of Bel Air' on TV, I could not go back to sleep. Strangely enough I became much better after this experience and started to go and sit out outside on the verandah and Junior, who had called at my door whilst I had been sick and fetched me bottled water and food for my Son came to sit with me and pick sunburnt skin off my shoulders; gross! I should have got together with Junior and brought him over from Jamaica or something he probably would have treated me real good he was so sweet. I was crying cos I looked awful and I had thought I was going to come back from Jamaica all brown and suntanned and healthy looking like some boomting instead I was still white, peeling and ill. I was still not my feeling my usual self though; I actually continued to have flu-like symptoms for about three months after my return to the UK. I never did go to the doctor though because I was scared of what would be said about me travelling to Jamaica like I did.

The last couple of days i just hung around The Bayshore Inn, walked into town with Junior to get KFC, which was totally different to in the UK, in Montego Bay you buy a paper cup and then are able to refill your drink as often as you like from a machine, like at Nando's. The KFC was packed with Jamaican people and many were staring at me and pointing about "look pon di white gyal, eh gyal why yuh skin look pink so? look pon di white gyal; Jamaica nuh agree wi she, look how she skin go pink, dis gyal more pink than white". Then I went with Nichola one day to the hundred dollar beach to sunbathe, I bought some sun cream from a shop on the frontline, which was good and I started to turn brown now not burn, so i was feeling happier until I bought some ice cream from a shop across the road from the beach and started to be sick again.

All things said and done the holiday was shit. I've heard stories about girls going to Jamaica and having the time of their lives, and they stayed in lovely resorts and spent all day in the pool and then someone came to take them to do activities, like watersports on the beach and go to clubs, well I did not and no one came near us for the whole holiday to even see how we were getting on. My holiday was boring and as for Linton's carnival, well I must have missed that because for real there was no carnival going on in Montego Bay when I was there. I couldn't wait to go home, stupid me missed Linton, I wasn’t interested in any man even if I because I was uber faithful to him and I couldn’t drink or smoke weed like Nichola because I was not only pregnant but on antibiotics. Needless to say, I did not enjoy myself in Jamaica.

The day of our departure dawned and I could not wait to go home, I think I had these images in my head of running into Linton's arms at the airport, and going home to a life of happiness with him because he would obviously love me so much now i had smuggled his drugs for him and got away with it. Of course! Nichola and I were packed and ready as we had been told, I was wearing the clothes I had been told to come home in so that the Customs Officer who was involved in it would be able to know who I was. When i walked past him he would call me over, check my bags in pretence, obviously knowing that the drugs were concealed in the lining but let me through anyway because that was the plan. I was to expect to be searched and act normally because he knew to let me through that was what he was being paid to do. I was told this corrupt Customs Officer was a white man; I was also told that Nichola on the other hand would be arrested because they had already been tipped off that she was carrying drugs and they would be waiting for her.

After waiting for ages for someone to arrive at The Bayshore Inn, finally the obese buck tooth guy that had collected us at the airport arrived in a car, he ordered us to put our suitcases in the boot and get in the car because it was too 'hot', meaning too bait to put the drugs in our cases where we were. He was not impressed that Junior was hanging around and couldn’t be shaken off, like seriously he just would not go away, he was standing about in Nichola's doorway and the obese guy was getting vex now asking who was he and what’s he standing about in Nichola's room for so he told me 'to get rid of Junior and get Nichola in the car.' I think Nichola had told Junior what was going to happen to be honest; she said later in her interview statements that she had been so scared at one point during the holiday she had considered going to The British Embassy for help. I can’t even remember what I said to Junior but he got the message and me and Nichola set off.

We drove for about an hour through the Jamaican landscape which was getting sparser and less populated until we came to some houses set back off the road. The car stopped and we were told to get out and escorted into one of the houses through a side door at the top of a flight of stairs. Inside was luxurious and whoever owned or lived there obviously had money, we were shown into a bedroom that contained two single beds and told to wait. The obese buck toothed guy then went locking the door to the apartment behind him. Nichola asked me if I wanted to go home and I told her I couldn’t wait, then she asked me if I was scared and I told her i wasn’t because there was nothing to be scared of. I mean why would I be scared? I thought I was going to get away with it. The only thing I didn’t like was being locked in the apartment and not knowing where we were or when we were going. I still had some credit on my phone card so after we ventured into the main area of the apartment that had sofa and a television and other furniture and ornaments we found a telephone and decided to try and phone her boyfriend in England or Linton but the telephone didn’t have a dial tone so we didn’t know how or if it even worked so we had to just sit and wait.

Several hours passed and we barely spoke a word to each other, finally the guy returned, and this time he had a slim guy with him. They had the packages of cocaine to put in our bags and it wasn’t even going to be concealed like Linton had told me. According to him the cocaine was going to be concealed within the lining of the bag, the reality was they just dumped large packages of the powder which was wrapped in plastic and secured with brown tape inside towels and then put it directly into the suitcases. I didn’t say anything to them about it being like that. I didn’t mention that Linton had said that the packages would be concealed, I was a lot less outspoken back then than I am now, I was a lot more easily intimidated and I didn’t want to question these men I didn’t think it would be a good idea and I didn’t think it would make much difference anyway. So what Linton said the drugs would be concealed? Didn’t he also say I was staying at The Holiday Inn and he had been wrong, what did it matter what he said? I was here and he wasn’t and by this point I really didn’t have much choice.

The men then left, locking us into the apartment once again, and Nichola and I once again sat in practical silence awaiting their return. When the slim guy returned alone it was to take us to the airport. He told us to check in our luggage straight away and to not sit together in the airport or on the plane. The latter instruction was not possible because we had tickets that were booked for adjacent seats, sitting together was inevitable. After ensuring our luggage was on its way onto the plane the guy left me and Nichola, we had a short amount of time left so I phoned Linton and told him I was about to board the plane and would he be there to meet me at Gatwick, I missed him and I couldn’t wait to see him. Linton assured me he would be there. Nichola used the remainder of my phone card to phone her boyfriend. I bought Linton two more gifts that he didn't deserve in the airport in Jamaica, 400 Benson and Hedges cigarettes, and a bottle of Jamaican White Rum.

Once on the plane, looking out of the window as the blue sea melted into the matching sky and the beaches disappeared below, I was relieved it was over and that I was going home, Jamaica had not been the place I had imagined and if this was supposed to have been a holiday I don’t know what you call a nightmare, unluckily for me my nightmare was far from over. In the seat next to me by the window, Nichola was crying quietly. The journey was long and my son was being ratty and unsettled, I still felt ill and I was tired, it had already been a long day and that was before we even embarked on a 12 hour flight, at one point I was waiting for the toilet on the plane for ages, when the woman inside came out the whole sink was blocked up with shit. I realised later that she must have also been carrying drugs, but internally, and she had shit them out too soon and had to re-swallow. I didn’t realise at the time that anyone even did anything like that though. I can’t imagine having to do something like that, but i have met many people who have. All I can say is they are either very brave or very stupid or both of those things. And I think maybe I am lucky that I was not expected to do that myself.

When the plane landed I immediately lost Nichola, I didn’t want to be anywhere near her so I took my son and went to claim my baggage as quickly as I could, all the while keeping an eye out for the customs officer who was going to see my safe passage through customs. I had been told he was a white guy. I was told wrong. As soon as I saw Richard Riley I knew it was him. It was so obvious, but I was confused because he was black. Not only was he a black guy and I'd been told my assistance was a white guy, but he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Instead of being on the luggage search, he was on the desk checking passports. I knew it was him because when he saw me he didn’t even look at my passport just waved me through to keep walking and not even stop by him.

I made it to collect my bag. My suitcase was one of the first few to come up. I wanted to leave the airport but I couldn’t. My son’s buggy hadn’t come up yet and he couldn’t walk. He was 14 months old, but he didn’t start to walk until he was 18 months so at that point, stuck in the airport, with a baby and a heavy suitcase with no buggy and no one to help me I wasn’t going to get very far. I thought about trying to make it without the buggy but I knew I couldn’t, it was quite a long walk out through the green channel and then the airport and then I would have to find Linton wherever he was, even just walking about carrying my son and dragging the bag around where I was waiting was not easy. The longer the buggy took to come up though the harder I was considering it my best option, I was not the only person waiting for a buggy, there was about four other passengers in the same predicament and all of us were complaining to each other how ridiculous it was and that the buggy’s should have come up first.

Finally after about an hour my buggy appeared. I strapped my son into it and tried to get out through the green channel, but I couldn’t push the buggy and pull the stupid suitcase along with me because it was careering off and tipping up all over the place, I really didn’t know what to do because I couldn’t get out of there, so I weighed up my chances and decided to try a ting. I had been told that the customs officer who was in on the mission was a white guy, i had seen the black guy wave me through immigration without question and I was sure by his mannerisms it was him, however maybe I was wrong? I didn’t really have many options left so I scanned the immediate vicinity. By this time mostly it was only customs officers left standing about and I just wanted to get out of there, I took my chances, one of the customs officers standing by some cage type things, looked friendly and I thought if I was wrong about the black guy, possibly it was this guy? I stopped him and asked for help to get through the green channel and out of the airport. A dangerous gamble but the only option I really had.

Meanwhile, unknown to me Nichola was already in custody. Apprehended by the one and same Richard Riley who was involved in the smuggling operation. Everything had gone as Linton had said. Customs had been aware of Nichola's drug consignment, they had removed her luggage from the plane at Gatwick, found the cocaine, tested it, resealed the drugs in the suitcase and sent it up to be claimed while they watched and waited to arrest unfortunate Nichola as she claimed it as hers. Unfortunately for me not only the delay in my buggy’s arrival and my struggle to get out of the airport, so much time had passed since Nichola's arrest that she had mentioned me and they were starting to look for me anyway in the airports vicinity.

Nichola plead guilty from the start and told customs the truth. She had knowingly smuggled drugs, albeit she claimed that she thought it was cannabis, not cocaine, but she told them the whole story, of how we met on holiday and the events that transpired prior to out departure. The main differences being that she had been recruited not by Linton but by two other men she claimed to meet whilst working in a bar. She said she had been promised payment of £1, 500. She not only told them that she had willingly done this but that I had also done all these things knowingly, although she mentioned that she didn’t think I had been recruited by the same men as her and rather it was my boyfriend who recruited me for the job. She also told them the truth that we had never met prior to the holiday, which is a fact I maintained, although we were not believed, and at a later date a police officer wrote a statement to the effect that I had said I had travelled to Jamaica with a 'close female friend' which was a blatant lie, I had in fact said that 'another girl had been arrested with me who I met in Jamaica' but he also testified his version of events in court, and who are a jury more likely to believe? Me or a police officer? That inaccurate statement was detrimental to me as a major factor in my trial was that I had insisted I did not know Nichola before we met in Jamaica.

So while Nichola was beginning her ordeal in the custody suite, mine was just about to commence. I shouted across to the customs officer for help, (remember i didn’t really know what else to do I couldn’t maneuver the buggy and the suitcase) I was expecting Linton to be waiting on the other side to help me when I got through...the arrest transcripts tell the next part of the story better than I ever could...

On March 9th 2001, [Customs officer Shaun Clark] was on duty at the entrance of the green nothing to declare channel. North Terminal, Gatwick Airport. At approximately 11.40 hours [Shaun Clark] was asked a question by a person he [later knew] to be [Jadine Sanchez]. [Jadine was also travelling with her fifteen month old child]. The conversation was as follows.

"Can you help me please?"

"I can help you through customs. Have you anything to declare?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, do you have any duty free products?"

"Just these" (pointing to a box of cigarettes)

"That's fine"

He then assisted me into the green channel

"OK. I'm just going to have a chat before you go through. Could I see your passport and ticket please?"

"My ticket? Don't you mean boarding card?"

"Whatever you still have."

I handed him two British Passports, and a British Airways airline wallet containing two airline tickets; routed London - Montego Bay - London.

"How long have you been away for?"

"Ten days."

"Was that a holiday?"

"Yeah I've always wanted to visit Jamaica."

"What do you do for work then?"

"I study."

"So you can afford a trip to Jamaica?"

"Well I've been saving ages."

"Did you pack your own bag?"

"Yeah."

"And everything in it belongs to you?"

"Yeah everything"

"Has anyone given you any packages or parcels to bring into the UK?"

"No nothing."

"You look nervous. Why's that?"

"I just want to get home; it's been a long journey, and my sons been restless."

"Ok, I’m going to look in your bag. A question we always ask is 'have you been threatened to import anything?"

"No."

Okay seriously by now I was properly scared. This wasn’t going to plan, I wasn't supposed to have had to ask a Customs Officer for help, I was supposed to have been stopped by the corrupt one and having my bag checked by him. I was still sure it was the black Customs Officer I had seen, but Linton had told me it was a white guy so maybe I would be lucky? I jumped up to sit on the table next to where he placed my suitcase; my son was in his buggy. The Customs officer opened my suitcase. I was praying that this guy was just going to open my bag and then close it again like Linton had told me....

"What’s in here?"

"Towels, just towels."

I was trying to act nonchalant, swinging my legs backwards and forwards. Then i saw the packages, and he saw the packages and I knew I was fucked...it was 11.50am

"What the fuck is that? What the fuck is that?"

"Look, I'm arresting you in suspicion of being involved in the importation of controlled drugs. I must caution you that you do not have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

"Look I just want to go home."

He escorted me away from the searching area and into a private room.

"I'm going to tell you again that because of the packages inside your bag, you have been arrested. I'm going to re-caution you." (He then repeated the above spiel)

I was then kept in the room for a while, I was scared by now, I mean I didn’t know what was going to happen next and I didn’t even have a proper story to tell them about anything, I couldn’t believe that shit I come out with about studying. Linton hadn’t told me to get a story together, in case i was caught. He had told me there was no way I would be, it was fool proof. I was so stupid. I just knew all I could do was deny everything, deny it all. There was no way I was going to admit it, I wanted to go home, and strangely enough, for some reason I still thought it would be as easy as that. I didn’t have any idea of the reality of the situation of the consequences i may have to face.

At some point I was strip searched, during which I had to bend over and spread my arse cheeks. I also had to wee in a drug loo that would show them if I was carrying anything internally, and I had to show them I didn’t have anything concealed in my son’s nappy. I was so tired and the place smelt funny. I must have looked like a crazy girl because I was singing loudly whenever I was on my own in the room with just my son. I had forgotten all about Nichola as soon as we had parted company when the plane landed.

At 12.35 I was taken to the custody suite and placed in a holding room, my handbag was searched and all its paperwork removed. I was asked to read and sign statements declaring I had read and agreed to the conversation that took place with Shaun Clark in the minutes prior to my arrest.

I should have got rid of all the paperwork in my bag before I’d flown, but I’d never flown before so I didn’t know what I would need and what I didn’t; the rest of the paperwork in my bag was just down to the fact everything goes in my bag and I hardly ever sift through and remove all the useless and in this case incriminating papers and receipts. I should have been more careful, but it all boils down to I never had expected for one minute I would be sitting there under arrest for what I had done, not in a million years. I had hospital forms, a western union money transfer receipt from when Linton had sent me the extra £100 but not in his name and worst of all British Airways flight itinerary which had both mine and Nichola’s details on.

The hours passed in a blur. My friend Marsha came to collect my son from the custody suite at Gatwick, she was the only person I had told about what I was going to do and she had warned me not to do it but I hadn’t listened, she left and I sang loudly every time I was alone in that room. I sang every song I knew 10 times over and at some point the customs officer I had initially suspected of being the one who should have guaranteed my safe passage through customs undetected appeared. I heard another customs officer talking to him outside the room, telling him he had a phone call and then he came back. Richard Riley stood in the doorway to the room I was being held and shook his head slowly and said to me “I’m sorry, it shouldn’t have been you” I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about but I did; I knew then that Linton had fucked up once again and got another important detail wrong and that there was no white guy that was involved in this thing and my instincts had been right and it was this guy Richard Riley and he had been in the wrong place at the time I got off the plane. Richard Riley who then he asked me for a cigarette; but I wasn’t going to open the big duty free pack I had bought for Linton so he sparked his own up and stood looking at me for a while and I ignored him.

Oh hindsight, I realise that my biggest problem lay in my deep rooted low self esteem, my lack of education, the limitations of my world view, that I didn’t know what other possibilities were out there for me. Indeed, I thought that there were none. My problem was not intrinsically me, however I needed work and I needed to develop my character, improve my own self, form interests, seek education, employment, but none of those avenues were even explored, I lacked the agency because I did not know that it was out there for me. Of course I knew that college existed, people had jobs, but I didn’t know I could enroll or how I could get a job. I didn’t know what I had to do, it all seemed so alien to me. No one, not even one of the staff in any of the housing schemes I had lived in not any of the support workers in any of the hostels who met with me once a week for an hours ‘Key work’ suggested to me or encouraged me to broaden my horizons and get out there even to anti or post-natal groups, or mother and toddler meets. So my days just dragged (inset some about going deptford ect..baby clinic milk ect) 

I also realise that Linton was a narcissistic socio-path, with very little going for him either. An insecure bully who took out his own demons and insecurities on me, a young impressionable barely turned 18 year old who needed guidance and support. If he had been any kind of man instead of mentally and verbally abusing me, he would have built me up and encouraged me to start college or to look for a job. He would have helped me to improve my prospects and become a better mother. Instead he broke me down with abuse and groomed me to smuggle drugs. 

If I was as bad as everything he said about me then why did he want to come round to my flat and stay there? If I was the most boring, the ugliest girl he had ever seen, then surely if he was such a winner as he seemed to think, then he would have had somewhere else to go, somewhere the company was better for a start. He obviously didn’t because he used to sometimes sit in my house for up to 3 days without speaking to me. When I tried to speak to him, he screamed abuse at me. He told me that he hated the sound of my voice.   for a start he probably wouldn’t have been living the lifestyle that he was, on the pehiphary of the South London Street Gang ‘Ghetto Boys’. Linton was a lone wolf. He rarely seemed to travel accompanied, his immediate circle was very small, his older brother on his mums side, John and a brother who was almost the same age (they shared a father) this brother is the connection between the North and South London organised crime gangs. In fact every one Linton knows is involved in crime, fraud and drugs to some degree, escalating right up to firearms, gun crime and murder. His right hand man was his co-defendant, and his next closest allies the infamous and notorious Dennie brothers who are both serving life sentences for Murder in jail. 

As it happened at the time linton rolled solo most of the time. The first time I met him he had taken refuge in my room, hiding after a fight had broken out down the road on the street. This was during the time Lauren lived in the mother and baby hostel nicknamed the 'brothel at Breakspears' and was getting battryd night after night by the thirsty, grimy hood rat man dem from all around the endz. 

By now the Jury had been deliberating for days. My Queens Counsel was worried. What was supposed to have been a two day trial had become a long drawn out almost two week affair; and he had 'a rather complicated murder' trial to attend to. The two of them conversed in whispers. My Queens Counsel, James Mason was so fat that he could not tie the strings of his long black gown behind his neck and his wig sat askew on top of his round red face, his forehead glistening with perspiration. He had told me that he had a daughter who was the same age as me and that the worst thing that had ever happened to her was when he had forgotten to pay her allowance into the bank on time. Her debit card was refused in a West End department store. His daughter had probably grown up in boarding schools, maybe even Queen Ethelburgas’ College! I bet that she was never hungry or dirty when she was a little girl and that she lived in a lovely clean home with a nanny who gave her slices of cake in the afternoon and cups of hot cocoa before she went to bed at night. His daughter probably spent her summers in Europe and participated in Gymkhanas. I imagined her to be like a real life Darryl from Malory Towers, or maybe, unlucky for her if she was; even a Gwendolyn! I wondered if she was as fat as her father. I could not even imagine what kind of woman her mother was. I knew she had never had to wash and wear the same outfit every day, with Charmaine's flip flops, because my own shoes had broken and I had not got any money to buy any more. My eyes became far away as I compared my imaginings of her life with the reality of my own. James Mason's smiling face looming in front of my own soon brought my back to my current situation. He murmured to me that the Judge had decided to instruct the Jury that there had to be a verdict by the end of the day, or there would have to be a re-trial. The Jury were called, told and then dismissed. 

Because I hadn't been remanded in custody after my initial arrest or at any time during my trial, I had been free to walk about the court as I pleased. Most of the time I chain smoked menthol cigarettes outside on the front of the building. I watched the traffic, the pedestrians busily unconcerned walking to and fro. There was nowhere for me to go. I was already stuck fast and trapped, despite my illusion of freedom I was only playing for borrowed time. I could go, but realistically I had nowhere to go. I was just an insignificant nothing 'bottom of the heap' as James Mason has told the Jury during his closing speech. Inside I walked up and down the corridors and stairwells. Everything was big, and made of oak. The ceilings were high enough to make you feel dizzy, ornately decorated with carvings and figures of Knights Templars, gargoyles, and symbolic looking things. Everything was adorned with shields and coats of arms. The days were long, tedious and slow. Even when the trial was in full swing it used to take almost half the morning to swear everyone in to the court, then the Judge would adjourn for a break or lunch and then the afternoons dragged on painfully while the prosecution had given evidence and everyone had talked about me whilst I just stared ahead in silence. I was little more than a wraith. I never took a packed lunch with me to court and I don't remember eating in the canteen. I don't even remember drinking a cup of tea. I spent a lot of time loitering around outside the court room, waiting to be called back in. 

Once I saw a load of barristers in their gowns and wigs talking loudly amongst themselves in a small room, outside the Court room. They were talking enthusiastically, gesticulating "…well she was saying that the Customs Officer was involved…" I knew they were talking about me. I had said it to my Solicitor Adam James' when I was on bail when I found out that the police man, the one who I thought was on my side, lied when he told me that he had '…written a statement for me…' But he had written a statement against me. A statement full of things I had never even said, things that were so detrimental to my case. He was on the prosecutions side. So that was what I got for hoping the Police would protect me. There was no one to help me and Malachi did not even care about me, he had absolved himself from any sense of responsibility towards what happened to me or any guilt so I no longer felt guilty for saying anything I had to say. I no longer cared. All I wanted at that time was to walk out of there free.

DO you remember when I was arrested and the police didn’t believe me about linton They laughed at the description I gave of him and joked about if I had met him here or in Montego Bay, or even whether I made him up entirely. None of them had cared when I had called 999 my first night out on bail. The police that I thought were supposed to protect me that night, but had basically gone away and then written a statement that was against me and then the prosecution pulled out their dirtiest trick yet. 

‘Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury (try get trial transcripts) write about how they went on to read out Lintons entire police intelligience file, things I had no idea of, yet they used all of that information on a person they had told me ‘didn’t exist’ to make me look like a bad person, because surely if I associated with a man like that, I was bad too. No one talked about grooming, or abuse, no one looked at him being so much older 

Sometimes as I wandered, through the corridors I caught glimpses of the jury through an open door. I looked at them whilst they debated, my future resting on their tongues. Sometimes they saw me too. On those occasions I wanted to run into the room and throw myself at their feet and beg for them to find me innocent of the accused crime. Once there was even a member of the jury waiting for the same bus as me, ready to go home at the end of the day. In the Court room they always looked at me awkwardly, trying to avoid my gaze.  I stared back. I looked them right in their eyes, pleading for them to find me 'not guilty'. I didn't smile and I didn't look sad. It wasn't because I didn't feel anything; it was just that what I felt was too much. So much so, that there are no words. My legal team were drinking coffee and talking to one side of me outside the courtroom doors. Adam James assistant was talking, but I could only hear what she was saying 

 "…yes well that Jamaican girl the other day just got 6 years, she put her hands up and just admitted it…at least she just admitted it…well she is a lesbian so she probably will not care…" 

I knew that the conversation was also directed at me. I was saying that I did not know that there had been any substances concealed within my suitcase. The lesbian thing was to un-nerve me. Like linton had, when he basically implied that prison was a place where sex crazed, criminally minded, butch lesbians waited to rape you in the showers. I was terrified then, and I was terrified now. However, yet again it did not show. 

This particular day when the Jury came back they requested that I be brought back into the dock for two further questions. There were surprised whispers from around the courtroom. Everyone wondered what the questions would be. The Judge evidently shared the same sentiment as he ordered that the further cross examination be allowed. With my legs shaking I felt sick as I tried to keep my composure, maintaining eye contact with any of them I that could. When you look in someone's eyes it means you are telling the truth, right? I could look into their eyes and lie; I had been lying ever since I got caught, telling everyone I never knew I had been used as a drugs mule. Practising for this day when I would have to tell the biggest lie of my life in the hope that it stopped me from being sent to jail. My solicitor said I had done 'okay' during questioning. His only complaint was that normally I was so scatty; he was surprised I had been so composed. He said that he would have preferred me to have not come across as capably as I had. I was extremely scared about the part of the trial where I had given my version of events. Disgracefully during some of my most crucial moments of cross examination I had noticed that a couple of the Jury were nodding off to sleep! They had been awake through the entire prosecution display. The Judge told them that "[He] was sorry that the trial was so boring for them but that a young girls future was at stake and it was very important that they stay awake!" He dismissed them that day, and told them to get a good night's sleep, reminding them that they were not allowed to discuss the case with anyone else overnight. There were also people I did not recognise in the public gallery. Every day I had been asked if I knew any of the people up there. My legal team said that someone would have been sent to watch to keep an eye on the proceedings, but I did not recognise anyone who came. 

So there I stood for the last time in the dock. I was wearing the same suit I had worn for the last two weeks, washing it and drying it on the radiator every night. It was the only suit I had, Almost the only outfit of clothing that I owned. It was dark blue denim skirt suit from F.C.U.K . I got it in Bromley in the sales; linton had paid. Behind me in the dock The Group 4 Securitas staff was always friendly, whispering kind or encouraging things so that you didn't feel too scared. Sometimes they asked small questions about your life, or your kids. They had heard so much during the trial anyway. They didn't have to guard me at that time; they only had to guard the ones that had been brought up from the cells, the ones that were being held on remand. But they were always ready to take you down and lock you away. I took a deep breath and wished with all my might for the strength to get through this final hour. The questions thus were posed:

"At what point did I first realise that the other girl (nichola) who had been on holiday with me in Jamaica had been arrested too?" 

And 

"What did I think when I found out?" 

I answered that I had found out that nichola had been arrested when I was in the custody suite at Gatwick Airport. I had been there for about an hour when a customs officer came and told me that a girl called nichola had been arrested almost an hour before me. He said that that one of the first things she had said was that there was another girl! Had they 'got her too'…?"  He said that she had called me out by name. I stated again that I did not know nichola before we met at the hotel in Jamaica and that I had hardly spent any time with her, we did not know each other before we met in Jamaica and that was all that I had to say on that account. (It was this crucial fact the police officer had lied upon in his statement/ According to him I had "…travelled to Jamaica with a 'close female friend'…") 

In truth I had never seen nichola before we struck up our unwilling acquaintance. An acquaintance that was solely built on the fact that there were hardly any tourists in Montego Bay in February, except for the Americans in large groups vacationing Spring Break. Because she was my age, and she was English and she was white. I knew that we were there for the same thing, because I had been told there was going to be another girl, she had been on the plane and at the airport and our 'motel' rooms were next door. I knew that I didn't like her, and had no plans to meet up with or see her again in the UK. She also agreed upon the fact that we had never met prior to that fateful 'holiday' and that she had no intentions to see me once we got back. She did say that I had been a willing participant. She also said that although she was pleading Guilty and therefore would not be standing trial, she did not think that she was smuggling Cocaine. She said she thought it was Cannabis. In answer to the second question put to me by the Jury, I said that nichola must have known something that I did not know and that I was well and truly deceived by my baby-father linton, who I thought was just treating me to a holiday. I reiterated that I did not know that my suitcase had been full of cocaine; 14.9 kilos, to be exact. Cocaine they said was almost 100% in purity, with a street value of 2 million pounds. I said that when I found out nichola had been arrested too; I did not know what to think. I was in shock. I could not understand what had happened and I was scared.

It took literally five more minutes for the Jury to reach their verdict. My barrister said that he never would understand what it was about my answers that made them convict me. To this day I still have no idea. However, after I was found ‘guilty’ things did not change as quickly as you may expect. Instead of being taken down to the cells by the Serco Group 4 Guards I was instead instructed by the judge that I had another four weeks bail period before my sentencing. This was so that I could ‘arrange for someone to care for my children’ before I was finally sentenced and sent to jail. I was told that I should contact the council and give up the tenancy on my flat as I should be aware that I was looking at receiving substantial custodial term. My solicitor told me that I should be prepared for ‘double figures’. Honestly, I look back now and I really do not think that I was in any way prepared for what that actually meant. 

Again the Judge gave me bail, "To sort out my affairs and make arrangements for the children." he said. So, there I was newly convicted of trafficking cocaine but yet again I was free to walk right out through the door of The Middlesex Guildhall; now the Supreme Court in Westminster, London. In a daze I got the tube to London Bridge and then the overground South Eastern Railways train to South Bermondsey. The walk from the station seemed to take even longer than usual. I hated that walk and would grow to hate that walk in the future even more. I walked down to the Winslade Estate to lintons  mums where he was looking after the kids. Everything surrounding me seemed brighter and louder yet I was more displaced than I ever had felt before. Other people seemed strange to me all of a sudden. I was a marked woman. I wondered if people could tell. Did anyone know that I was a convicted drug smuggler and I was about to go to jail? 

The Winslade is right out on the boundary of Lewisham and Southwark Boroughs and there is no easy way to get to it. By bus you either have to walk from where New Cross Way becomes Queens Road. Or walk from the train station next to the Millwall Football Ground. The P16 bus went down that way but it wasn't a very frequent service. The estate is set back off the main road, down a dusty side road. it's projects . There is a shabby looking social club and a couple of desolate basketball courts that no one ever seems to use. It is eerily quiet on the estate, whenever I went there I always felt 'lost' but not in the literal sense of the word. I mean I felt separate, apart, alone. I did not like it there. The maisonettes rose up in blocks built up in squares. They all looked the same. To the front and also behind lintons mum's maisonette was a children's play area park. Behind the 'back' park there were grass dunes with a few dusty paths. Beyond the estate it is just empty industrial looking spaces and grey concrete roads. No one was in when I got there so I sat outside on the wall to wait. Finally I saw a car turn round the corner and pull up in front of the block. lintons brother wound down the window and looked at me in silence. linton got out of the passenger side. No one spoke until what seemed like the end of the world. He faltered

"You got found 'Not Guilty? Right?" 

I shook my head. 

"Guilty" 

And at first they thought I was playing mind games. They didn't believe I could be found guilty and still not gone to jail. So they didn't believe me. Until I shouted 

"Why the fuck would I lie?" 

And linton said dully 

"I think she is telling the truth."

chapter 3 (I sent you some of this before a long time ago) 

JAIL

I had another four weeks bail before I went to jail. I will tell you about that next time in its own chapter because this is about 42 pages long and I'm tired from writing today and it's a LOT to read xx

The next part D-Zero is the second night and subsequent nights in the jail after the four weeks extra bail and the first night. Don't worry I won't forget to write about it xx 

D-Zero

February 2002. 

Under the weight of five hundred deplorable lives, way down on the ground floor of HMP Holloway, in the depths of the very abyss of female desperation; ‘D Zero’ was at that time the Young Offenders unit. The escorting officer clunked her keys and trudged me onwards through a maze of corridors and stairs, past heavy sealed iron doors and through the gated doors. I barely looked either to the right, or the left. Terrified at the unknowing of where I might spend my second, and possibly subsequent nights. I just hoped for the best and dragged my possessions along behind me in a clear bag marked with large blue letters that said, ‘HM Prisons ONLY’. 

The pokerfaced female officer led me to a dorm marked on the door as ‘Dorm 19’ she opened the viewing hatch in the door. Immediately a face appeared at the gap in the heavyweight, reinforced, solid metal door. 'Miss' she shouted out pushing her face up into the rectangle gap. Relief surged through me like a Tsunami tide. Thank God! It was one of the girls I had been penned in with downstairs in the holding boxes in reception the first night. 

'Miss.' 

The face at the viewing hole in the door repeated. 

'Miss... What time is it? ... When we getting out?'

‘Miss’ didn’t answer. Instead she barked 'Stand back from the door!' There was a shuffling and Femi’s pretty round face disappeared. ‘Miss’ pulled the keychain out of her belt loop and rattled at the lock. The door swung open. I stepped inside to hugs and squeals.

Oh my God girl

Where the fuck did they take you to last night? 

We was asking what happened to you!

Them bastards wouldn’t tell us where you went!

Both spoke with heavy North London accents. 

The second young woman was Kasha, who had been brought in with us on the sweat boxes the previous night. 

‘Miss’ didn’t waste no time in slamming shut the heavy door and flinging up the hatch. Femi ran and started to pound her fists upon the door. The hatch came back down. 

What?

Miss. What time we getting out?

When we have staff. 

BANG! Up slammed the hatch again.  

The dorm itself was large and square, painted grey with a hard, maroon coloured floor. On the exterior wall there was two large radiators each crowned with a large window divided into panels between the bars, the panels opened out to let the air (and sometimes the odd pigeon) in. The room was actually quite bright, strips of sunlight filtered in through the window bars, glittering sparkles of dust played in the air. Surprisingly, it was also very warm. Four cream coloured metal beds were screwed down into the floor, two on each side of the room, a small wooden locker/bedside cabinet/type of thing to one side and at angles in the room’s corners. Each bedspace also contained tallboy to hang our clothes. 

Above each bed was a pinboard, coated in layers and layers of toothpaste that the women used as adhesive to display their treasured photographs and mementos. Drawing pins were not allowed. There was quite a lot of space in the centre of the room. My bed was near the door, next to a tiny square room with a toilet. Kasha’s bed was opposite, next to the sink. Femi was in the bed next to Kasha under the window and in the bed next to me was someone I had yet to see. She was hunched up underneath the brown prison issue sheet and gaudy bright green oversized stitched knitted blanket (they were often also full of holes).

Femi started to gesticulate and mime a pantomime that let me know that no one knew anything about this girl. She pursed up her lips and shook her head, shrugging her shoulders. I settled myself into my new surroundings still in a daze. Nothing about this seemed real. I did not want to believe. I told the girls about my first night and they told me about their, which albeit had been much less eventful. They had been brought from the holding area with all the other girls our age who had come in the night before. They came straight here to this dorm. 

None of us had really got a grasp of the prison routine; or what it was really going to be like locked up in jail. Femi and Kasha told me there were some girls who were out on the landing all the time, prisoners, not ‘screws’. They were all Jamaican. They brought round hot water, tea packs and sometimes food; even when no one else was allowed out. One of them had told Kasha and Femi, through the hatch that we ‘new’ girls were waiting to ‘be inducted’ and then we would have to take a job or go to the education block during the day. Unless, if you had a visit, then you would be taken to the visiting hall instead. These mysterious girls had told them that there was also a church, a swimming pool, a gym!

Femi was squashing her face into the long vertical gap between the window bars, shouting outside. She had been talking to some others that came in with us last night who had been housed in the next dorm down. Some of them were new and some were old timers who had returned. On the floor above us was the wing they had tried to put me on H1, the hospital wing. Mostly used for the new arrivals who were going to be detoxing off drugs. These girls let down pillow cases on the end of a dressing gown belt or ripped up sheet. This was called 'a swing'. You could 'swing' from side to side or up or down, the idea was that you could exchange notes or items of food, toiletries, even medication. Items received that were not originally yours were called 'contraband' and high up on the list of things that were not allowed. When Femi had enough of shouting out of the window she came and sat down on the bed. Femi was 18. She only had a few weeks in prison for fighting. It was her first time, she was cheerful and happy because she knew she was going home, literally in about 14 days. She didn’t have any children. Kasha was 18 and she had a daughter. She was serving 6 months. 

Femi started to tell stories she had heard through the windows. She told us the prison was haunted, full of ghosts. There was a room, right down at the bottom of the unit on the very end, round a dimly lit corner that was all locked off, enshrouded in darkness. Very recently a girl had hung herself in that cell. Some girls said they had seen her in the showers; since she had died. A girl upstairs on H1 said that she had been sleeping and when she woke up there was girl standing next to her bed looking out of the window with long curly dark hair, all the other girls in the dorm were asleep in their beds. This girl’s solid body began to fade out at the waist, this apparition, because they all had got scared and said she must be a ghost, literally faded all the way out at the waist, where her legs should be there was nothing, only the radiator and then finally nothing left of her at all! Some of the officers told the girls stories about certain corridors having a strange atmosphere; no one would walk through them alone at night. Others said that at certain times the limp and lifeless body of Ruth Ellis the last woman in England to be executed could be seen hanging from a tree in the grounds.

The curled-up figure in the bed stirred. She straightened her body out, stretched and rolled over onto her back. Her face was ashen, her hair was mousy brown, greasy and limp. She stared at me. I ignored her. Femi started to talk to her. We found out that the girl in the bed was called Jenny, she was 19, she also only had a few weeks. She was different to us though because on the outside she used drugs. Heroin. She was inside for petty theft, stealing a bottle of aftershave from Debenhams. 

Everyone was always so shocked at my sentence. It was like the elephant in the room. No one really knew what to say. 12 years seemed like a lifetime, especially to someone like Femi who only had 28 days! (typically, you served half) They were even more shocked when I told them that I also had two kids. My youngest, my baby was only four months old. I didn’t even have any pictures of them. I didn’t know that I could have brought things like that in with me.

Jenny sat up in bed and reached into her locker for a pouch of tobacco. She proceeded to make a 'roll up'. I had come in the night before with an almost full 20 pack of Benson and Hedges. By now they were all gone. In the holding rooms we had all smoked them while we waited to be booked in. The remaining few I had left by the time I got up to the landings, I smoked with the girl in the first cell I was placed. 

Jenny started to talk, she said she also had a son that lived with her mum. Pretty soon no one liked Jenny at all. She told us that she hated her son and she wished he had never been born. Kasha was furious, I was just upset. All I wanted was to get out of there, somehow, and be with my children. No one could understand how she could say such horrible things about a two-year-old boy. Even Femi, who didn’t have any children was disgusted. 

Are you serious? 

Kasha was provoked out of her silence 

I wouldn’t go about saying things like that if I was you. Someone’s gonna fuck you up. 

Most of the women I met here love their kids. 

Jenny started to make another roll up. 

NO ONE is gonna like you if you’re talking like that.

Fucking. Dirty. Skag. Head.'

Tears welled up in Jenny’s eyes, she choked 

'I don’t care. I hate him! I hate him! I don’t care about no one in here either. Fuck them! I never came to make no friends. I fucking hate everyone.'

Kasha lept up from her bed like a tornado. She flew across to Jenny’s bed and smacked her hard, right across her face. Jenny’s tobacco flew up in the air. The rizla paper floated down onto the ground slowly. Just as quick as Kasha had jumped up from her bed, Femi sprang up from her bed, grabbing Kasha after the first blow and holding her back. Kasha’s arms flailed. She was sobbing

'How dare you? How can you say that? Some people only want to be with their kids, and they don’t even have them anymore! Some people’s kids is dead! Some people got 12 fucking years! All they want is to be home with their kids! And all you doing is sitting there saying you hate your son!? Fuck you! fuck YOU!'  

Femi hugged her, saying 

'She’s not worth it. Leave it babe. Forget her.'

Jenny choked back her own tears and tried to gather up the little brown bits of tobacco from her blanket. Her eyes were glassy and her face puffy. She returned to her former position, laying facing the window curled up under her blanket. 

The atmosphere in the room was heavy. I laid on my bed watching the dust glittering in the strips of late February sunlight. No one spoke. 

Suddenly there was a rattling sound and the hatch was opened. A woman was looking through. Her face was slim. She had short hair. She was wearing a 'dog-collar' like a vicar. 

'Good evening ladies. I just wanted to introduce myself as the Roman Catholic Chaplain and let you know which services and support, we can offer.'

We all said hello to her. 

She asked if anyone wanted to pray? 

We all did. 

Praying is a thing in prison, that typically, any woman when she first comes in, whether she is religious or not suddenly feels so vulnerable. Whether she is a first timer or returning for the umpteenth time, she suddenly finds herself wanting to pray. Sometimes the girls even call for the Chaplain to come to the door, just so that she can say a prayer with or for her. It can be a very emotional time. 

And so, we all prayed. Except for Jenny. When Chaplain asked if Jenny would like a prayer too? Jenny shouted 

'Fuck off! I don’t need your prayers. Just fucking leave me the fuck alone!'

And again, a silence engulfed the room, but this time it was not only a silence. By the time the Chaplain had closed up the hatch, the room was filled with an icy blast of freezing cold air. An unearthly cold that seemed to swell and grow, until it enveloped the entire room. 

Before long everyone excluding Jenny had begun to shiver and feel the chill. The radiators were still hot to touch but the air inside the room was positively arctic. Femi and I complained that it must be Jenny’s fault because she had told the Chaplain to fuck off. Kasha started to bang on the door and ring the alarm bell to tell the officers that they better move Jenny out of the room; but of course, the officers were not going to do that! 

A dullness settled down upon us, all anxious to get out of that room, all laying on our beds drowning in our melancholy thoughts in the cold. The hatch opened again. An exceptionally tall slim Jamaican girl in a white coat shouted through the hatch to 

Come get unuh dinner 

She peered in

Who get 12 year?  

I told her it was me. 

'Hmmm.....'

She eyed me up and down with her wide set eyes, paused, then said no more. 

We passed our plates through one by one. She took the food from a large silver metal trolley on wheels. Before she went to the next cell she told us it was going to be association soon. She also left the hatch down. 

None of us knew the time. It was dark outside. No one had a watch. There was no clock. After we ate, we washed our plates in the sink with the only thing there was. Little sachets of clear yellow tinged shampoo and a scruffy green scouring pad. We then sat, impatiently until finally we heard the sounds of the wing coming to life. Footsteps and jangling keys, clangs and crashes, loud voices, shouts and screams as door by door the girls rushed out onto the landing for evening association. 

The air outside the room was warm, in stark contrast to our room, that now felt like a tomb. We went in some of the other rooms. All of them were warm. Femi wasted no time in telling everyone about what Jenny had done. We brought other girls back to our room, so they could feel for themselves the intense cold. Even the officers agreed it did feel unnaturally cool. Jenny just stayed in bed. We were unlocked for about an hour. Then it was time for bed. The night air throbbed with voices from the cells all around. The subject of conversation on our wing was Jenny. Soon the story spread up to the floors above. Cries of 

'She's gonna get it in the morning'

and

'Bitch better watch out' rang out, as well as the usual 

'Yeah Yeah'

'Love you'

'Love you too'

and song

'No matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity...'

'Goodnight'

'Night hun.' 

Despite everything sleep came easy to me. It had been a long and stressful couple of days. Yet in the dead of the night, when even the most enduring of women had ceased calling, I awoke in terror. I couldn't move. I was paralysed to the bed. Next to me was a figure, like a dead body wrapped in white sheets smeared with the red of fresh blood. I could not move, I could not scream. The apparition appeared so solid next to me and then it began to writhe. I heard a deathly scream. Femi was sitting up in bed shaking like crazy shouting 

'Did you see?'

Suddenly I could move. Shaking, with trembling legs I staggered across the floor and collapsed on the end of Femi’s bed. She was babbling about there being a woman standing in the middle of the room. The woman walked to the foot of my bed, then evaporated straight through the cell door. There was a loud CRASH that had woken Kemi before me. In the cold light of the moon we discovered that all of grey plastic plates, cutlery and cups had been dumped in a heap in the centre of the floor. The room was so cold that our heavy terrified breaths came out of our mouths in clouds. A very quiet Kasha came to sit next to me on Femi’s bed too. We stayed awake for the rest of the night huddled in our blankets. We whispered in the dark too petrified to sleep through the longest of nights, desperately trying to pretend that everything was alright. 

Finally, Morning came, bringing with it the first shreds of pink and orange, in a grey and solemn sky. An officer came to the door and barked for Jenny to pack her things. Jenny was getting shipped out for her own safety. She didn’t have much to pack. Relieved we begged the officer to send for the Chaplain to come and bless the room and say prayers. When the Chaplain arrived, we told her what had happened during the night. She prayed aloud while we held hands and closed our eyes. When the Chaplain left. Femi said 

'Hey...the room, it’s warm!'

Kasha and I agreed.

Alberta was watching me prepare for Saturday out of jail. I was wearing disposable plastic gloves and spreading myself liberally with Avon fake tan. Laraine was sat on her bed. holding her glasses out at arms length in front of her and squinting. She rubbed at something on the lens and wiped it vigourously with the hem of her HMP issue sweatshirt. She was wating to do my hair. The previous hour or more had been spent in the bath, washing my hair and shaving everything that needed to be shaved. The next morning I would shower again and spend at least an hour applying make up in the far end of the dining room (library) then another hour in The Butlers unrolling all of the pink plastic curlers painstakingly put in by Laraine and sprayed liberally with the ‘sof n free’ styling spritz (which was an extremely strong fixing laquer) She said “men don’t settle down with women like you. They settle down with the big, mummy types.” 

It was true. I spent years trying to look perfect, nails, hair, always shaved, so that I would be ready and waiting when Mr right walked into my life. It wasn’t until I stopped, stopped wearing nails, stopped tanning, barely wear make up even when I do which is only once or twice every few months, I don’t keep continuously shaved, I do have a pedicure with gel toes every month. I love to sit in that massage chair and have it pumel against my back while my feet get soaked in hot soapy water. It wasn’t until I got a fat jelly belly and my hair was just tied back, that I THOUGHT I had found My Man (Julian) And I am that mummy type. In the kitchen, I throwin’ it down. Always used to wear sexy, tiny skimpy matching sets, now I do it sometimes, the other times I just wear big comfy granny pants, no bras in the house or to go to bed, and he calls me ‘mama’ sometimes and said the only females he wants in his life are me and his mom. I can deal with that. OH HOW THEY LIE!!!!!!!!!!! WE BOTH KNOW HE WAS THE BIGGEST LIAR AND DECEIVER I EVER MET IN MY LIFE.

So it began to transpire that I did not get visits and I did not get to see my kids.  Several times Linton would say that he was coming up and bringing them, so I would send a visiting order and he would book.  Visiting time started on a weekend after Brunch.  After we had all assembled to come back to the wing in a long line with the officers on duty we used to rush for the bathrooms to shower.  The room itself was covered underfoot with heavy duty wall to wall waterproof floor covering that extended into the actual shower cubicles. The showers were in a row of 3, usually with ripped shower curtains (new curtains never lasted two minutes, the girls used to drag on them and rip them down chasing each other in the shower room.) The individual cubicles were partitioned with a plastic ‘wall’ you could see the calf’s, ankles and legs of your neighbour, the sudsy water ran along a drainage ditch past all the ‘shower slippered’ (flip flopped feet) Being on your period was something you were made to feel dirty about. Some girls didn’t care, they would pull out their tampon and fling it on to the shower room floor while they bathed, but they were considered “dirty and narsty” and you didn’t want to get talked about for that! So the majority of us would discreetly remove any tampon and wrap it up and put it in our wash bowl wash, then put a fresh tampon up in order to continue the shower without the possibility of embarrassment leaking any blood. There was a small doored cubicle that had a bath and a chair in it and a row of three sinks.  

Anything from bathing, clothes washing, sexual activity and fighting went on in that room.  Once I remember a girl starting a fight with another girl who was also in the shower, both naked the instigator dragged the other one naked out onto the main landing.  The officers sounded the alarm and had the unusual task of restraining and trying to make modest the two offenders whilst the rest of us looked on in fits of laughter, accompanied by jeers. Getting ready for visits the girls would queue for the shower; shouting, talking, singing hollering for the person in front to hurry up.  Everyone wanted to know who was coming to visit who, everyone was excited. Getting ready back to the cells, a quick dash across the landing to your cell in a towel and dressing gown, because really you were supposed to get dressed in the bathroom. They said that was because of male officers on the landing. Some of us wore less when we were fully dressed so it made little sense, besides who wanted to get dressed in the steamy crowded shower room? Not me! I used to dash back and then sit on my bed, take my time, cream my skin, get dressed then go to the office for the hairdryer to dry my hair. Visits were always after midday bang up, which was when the officers took a break and went to get their lunch. That was when you would do your make up. 

Then to wait by the long narrow window in the door, shouting to friends or waiting for the sound of the keys clanking accompanied by footsteps along the corridor, then the sound of the heavy main wing door being unlocked, the officers coming in, then locking the door again. The minutes seemed to drag and the officers seemed to move in slow motion, this was the point that everyone began clamouring at their doors waiting to get out, cries of “Miss” and “Sir” rang out and the officers proceeded up the landing peering into doors and shouting “wait” whilst they did roll check. Finally one by one slowly all the doors of those who had visits were unlocked first and we assembled in a queue by the door, ready to be taken down to visits.  

Once downstairs at the visiting hall, coloured sashes were given out to identify the prisoners from visitors and then everyone retired to a long bench in the corner whilst the visitors came in and were allocated to their designated tables. The tables were made of metal with four metal chairs, bolted into the floor. Gradually the air filled with the hubbub of happy greetings and excited chatter. One by one the girls went out as their friends and family came in. Anyone who was left, because their visitors did not show up had to remain on the wooden bench until the visit was over. This was called ‘cunt’s corner.” This unenviable fate was humiliating as much as it was sad. Linton left me sat in cunt’s corner on a few occasions. Sometimes one of the other girls families or friends would send someone over to ask if you wanted to be bought a chocolate bar or a drink from the canteen. This was a blessing indeed. After the visit, despite the embarrassment of having to watch all the others spending time with their children, the other girls rallied their solidarity and support.  Every one said what a bastard he was and how it was fucked up that you were in here because of him and he still couldn’t even be bothered to bring the children to see you! It was no small travesty indeed.

One of the most disgusted was Hai Le.  Hai Le however as much as she was sympathetic and lent a listening ear to my sorrows, was secretly mostly interested in the gossip to tell her own boyfriend who knew Linton. She also seemed to enjoy, in a quiet, covertly malicious way that she had a boyfriend who loved her and visited her every week with her son, who he was not the father of. He also sent her money and clothes, wrote regularly and sent photographs. Of course she never was nasty in an open way, she did help me a lot and I am not ashamed to say that I often borrowed her clothes and even shoes later on in my sentence when I was able to go outside of the jail, but I was always uneasy with her and unable to trust her fully, I always felt like she had an ulterior motive other than just being a genuine friend.  Hai had begun to communicate to her boyfriend Paul exactly what Linton was up to and how he was seemingly refusing to bring the children to see me. Paul being an acquaintance of his offered Linton a lift in his car if he needed a ride, assuming that because he didn’t drive, it was the thought of travelling by train that was preventing him from actually coming up, rather than him being unkind. 

There was a ‘Family Day’ arranged in the prison.  It was to be held in the gym.  All women who were enhanced status were eligible to apply for their families and friends to visit them.  There would be activities and games, the prison would provide lunch and then there would be even more time in the afternoon to enjoy the visit as well as a tour for the families to the wings, where you would even be able to show then where you lived. Hai negotiated with Paul that he would provide Linton with a lift that day. I was excited beyond my wildest dreams. I spoke to Linton and he agreed that he would under no circumstances let me down. The day dawned and bright and early we all raced to the shower rooms to get ready in time.  The gym had been decorated by the inmates, there was karaoke, and face painting for the kids, drinks and snacks were on sale, tables and chairs were set out, there was children’s toys areas; the prison had really gone ‘all out’ to make it a successful day.  The visitors began to arrive.  Anxiously me and Hai realised that we were about the only ones left still waiting. “Paul won’t not turn up for me!” reasoned Hai, “Don’t worry, it will be okay.” As I began to doubt and dread that image of being left yet again on the most important visit yet, alone in ‘cunt’s corner’. Finally Paul appeared through the gym doors, I jumped up to see Linton and my children coming in behind, but the door was closed. Paul didn’t know where to put his face and was avoiding eye contact with me, it was evident he didn’t know where to look and less still what to say to me. I knew Linton had stood me up. 

Hai found out that Paul had gone to pick up Linton as arranged but that Linton wouldn’t come out of his flat. Paul had phoned him and he would not answer. Paul finally had no choice but to continue his journey alone. I spoke to him and told him it was okay and it wasn’t his fault but my heart was breaking and I could barely stand up. I wanted to cry and scream and just get the hell out of there. Go home, go home to my babies, and I also wanted to grieve for love, because despite it all I was still besotted, obsessed, I wanted him to love me, I wanted to have a happy family, I wanted him to be like the boyfriends of girls who sent them soppy cards. I wanted him to be like Denise’s boyfriend who sent her C.D’s of love songs and even a t-shirt he had customised; a photograph of them kissing. I wondered about them so much. Denise had this man who was totally good looking and always visited her with her parents and family every visit she was allowed.  I felt it was evident they were in love, but I didn’t understand it. I mean she and I were never friends, she was a pretty girl, but she was so dull. I remember once saying to her that she had the personality of a dishcloth! It was so true.  I was jealous, of course, of her relationship, I wanted someone to love me, I wanted someone to love me so bad and Denise seemed to have that. Incredulously I watched as she went into an embrace with her love and proceeded to sit only a table a way from one of the smelliest, ugliest girls who I could not understand why in the slightest, was her girlfriend. Oh how I used to wonder if her boyfriend knew? I used to wonder if her was faithful to Denise, which I assumed must be true or else why make so much effort to continue things with her despite her seven years’ (although of that she would be eligible for parole after 3 ½ years) incarceration. I wondered what he would think if he knew that when he went home at night she was cuddled up and kissing, all over this trampy smelly girl.  It is unkind of me to say but I hated Denise.

Now I watched Hai being embraced by her man and going off with him and her mum and dad. Bitter disappointment and loneliness gripped my chest. I really did not know what to do. By and by Vera called me over, saying that I could come and spend the day with them. I sat down and felt as uncomfortable as any intruder might, especially when they were not even speaking a language I could understand.  Animated and in Portuguese Vera and her mother, grandmother and aunties gesticulated and conversed whilst I sat there holding back tears and looking every which way for a means of escape. Dreading that I might be stuck here with them all day! My saviour came in the form of Krisdionne. Krisdionne was being visited by her grandmother and her Uncle O.B. Paul had been talking to her uncle for a while and had relayed to him the predicament which I faced. It turned out that O.B knew Linton and at least one of his brothers too. I went to spend some time with them and it turned out to be an okay day.  By afternoon we took out walk to the wing and showed our visitors our cells. Those small rooms with a metal bed, wooden tallboy, desk and chair. Pinboard above the bed plastered with photographs, held in place with sticky globs of white chalky toothpaste. O.B came to look at photos of my kids, I was desperate to show someone.  He nodded grimly when he came to a picture of Linton with the kids, asking “Is this who was supposed to visit and bring those children today?” He told me that he knew him.  Later Hai told me that Paul and O.B had very little respect for Linton beforehand, now they literally had none.  They thought his behaviour was disgusting. 

Now when I had gone into Holloway, my solicitors had told me very little indeed. Not only had they or anyone else advised me that there was a mother and baby unit in the prison that I possibly could have applied to go on to (albeit in the end I knew that it would have not been for the best for my son if I had taken his baby sister into jail) however at the time I couldn’t see that. Other than that my solicitors had failed to tell me what possessions I could have taken in with me. As a consequence I took very little. I had the suit I wore to court, which was a F.C.U.K denim skirt and jacket suit. A couple of tracksuit bottoms that had disappeared within the first couple of weeks and some pyjamas. As the months went on i find myself having to wear the suit i went to court in; day in day out. Soon she only had one pair of knickers. There was nothing in reception for them to give, all the knickers were in a size 22 and although i had begun to gain weight, I was more like a size 8! Nobody sent in any money and no body sent in any clothes. I wrote and asked, then I wrote and pleaded and begged, explaining, please that no one here wore prison issued clothes, there really was none. Linton scoffed and told me “wear prison garms” it was hard. No one seemed to be listening, no one seemed to care. The weeks and days went on and she saw the other girls unpacking their parcels, showing off their new clothes and trainers, wishing waiting for hers. Tracy told her that she had loads of stuff spare. She said that she had 27 different coats and that she hardly ever even worn any of her stuff more than once. That was something I  could only have dreamed about. I had never had the luxuary of that, in fact before she was even in prison i had no money for clothes and things were so bad that one day when the heel broke off her boot, Charmaine had to give me a pair of flip flops, which she wore every day. So Tracy told me that she was going to pack up a selection of clothing for her, tracksuits and casual wear, and the time went on and it never came. It felt like the cruellest thing to promise something like clothing to someone who had none and then keep them dangling on a string, rushing to the office every day, craning my neck around the door, squinting her eyes to see the names on the parcels hoping that today would be the day. 

The breakfast was boiled eggs, toast and cereal in dispensers. Girls in aprons stood behind the tables sharing it out, The one she would later come to know as Portia was the boss. Jamaican with braids, ridiculously tall and long legged with a mini skirt and crop top, she made eyes at the African guard Mr Aboo and the rumour on the landing D Zero which at that time was Young Offenders was that ‘Portia was getting a portion!’ There was sachets of sauce and salt and pepper. Lunch was anything from baked potatoes to a sandwich and crisps. Evening meal was accompanied by puddings like apple crumble and custard in big steaming portions and then at supper the wing cleaners came round with the trolley to dole out hot water and ‘tea packs’

to be continued....

Monday 9th October 2023

I'm Seriously sooooo depressed 

I managed to wipe all the kitchen sides down tonight though. they were such a damn mess. 

I really need to wash my hair and shower. I took all the bedding off my bed and didn't put any fresh covers on. I wish I didn't because if I put fresh on I have to shower and I really don't have the energy to. I'm currently on the sofa so I might just sleep on here all night then tomorrow somehow get the strength to wash my hair and shower and put clean bedding on. 

I can't sleep all night in my bed anyway. I get up and down through the night from bed to sofa and back again. I dunno what's wrong with me. 

I'm not comfortable on the sofa though. 

I managed to walk up to the park today and feed the ducks and pigeons. I enjoyed it but walking up I just wanted to turn round and come home already.  I only walked around the park once but I felt exhausted. I got home and pretty much crashed out on the sofa ever since. I feel exhausted. but restless. I can't concentrate on focus. I keep reminding what I'm watching on YouTube. a three hour something takes more than six hours because I have to keep rewind it because I can't concentrate.

I need to brush teeth before I fall asleep.

I am going to try to put the clean laundry away tomorrow or Wednesday. Thursday I will sweep and mop floors. Friday try to go feed the birds again. I'm not sure I will go sisters circle at masjid this week. the thought of getting ready to go feels too exhausting..

I really should try to make my bed with fresh bedding and shower tonight. I will sleep better but it feels soooooooooooo much effort to make and I have no effort in me. 

I'm depressed at age and time passing by. 

writing this basic little memoir here feels like the events were so long ago like another lifetime but also like it was yesterday I was just 16. now 41. 

my dad's friend Karen phoned me at the weekend. she was 44 when I met her in 2010. now she's 57! 

this is ridiculous. that 13 years I lived back in Sheffield this city I love has FLEW. but SO much has happened also.. but in that time she's now three years from 60 and in another 13 years I will be in my 50s. 

I'm sad. 

sad today at park seeing mums with little kids and my energy for all that is long gone. I have zero inspiration energy or motivation 

a few hours later....

 did it ...I put clean bedding on. washed my hair brushed my teeth and shower.... I put the cats outside for the night before I showered... now I'm sat in bed feeling relieved I achieved it. I felt so gross honestly. it was really hot today so I was sweating like mad when I walked to the park earlier even though I did shower before I went out I'm glad I managed to tonight.

I don't plan on going out tomorrow. I will send miquelle shop for onions so I can cook her chicken curry she wants but otherwise I'm staying in my PJs all day. 

I have the disability assessment on the phone at 11.30am. praying I pass so I can get my disability payments. especially since I quit my job but I honestly just couldn't do it anymore

it's so humid tonight. I just want the weather to turn cold. 

I need to go to print this chapter 1 off and I wrote to that Keith Freeman I used to write to in TX prison serving 60 years. he's done about 15-16 years now I think. I never wrote him for ten years. his sister Lesley said he was asking after me and I wondered myself how he is doing lately as it's been so long. 

I'm going to try to go out Wednesday to print and mail. it's frustrating one of the post offices has shut down this week so I gotta walk to print this then walk even further again to mail it. then walk home because the other post office isn't near the tram. it's quite a long walk. I need to buy some laundry detergent I just use for my underwear as it's so mild and some more tealight candles for my scented melts. 

I'm going to try mail you some for Xmas Hun. you will love them. you have a little ceramic burner and put a tealight under it and scented wax in the top. it melts it and smells amazing if you get good strong scented ones. I prefer them to scented candles. you will know what they are but I think probably you call it something else ! 

I NEED to write by hand. Just worked out this will cost me about £12 to print 😩😩😩😩😩😩

This is last typed letter for a while especially now I don't have a job unless I email but this is faaar too long to email!!! 

Next thing I mail will be journal on by the 1st November because I don't think I will have money until then xxxxx 

I will email in between xxxx