For Alan, Richard and Daniel – S.C.
For Ian and Catherine – B.C.
Contents
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
BRIAN CONAGHAN
SARAH CROSSAN
Caught
You have to be quick,
none of this pretending to be browsing business
that some shoplifters go for.
It’s in
grab what you want
and out again.
But the others don’t get it.
They take ages making decisions,
like they might be legit buying,
so I know before we’re done
that
we’re done for.
And I’m right.
We don’t make it two steps out of
Boots
before a security guard
nabs me by the hood of my jacket.
Liz and Shawna are
legging it up the high street
and away,
while Meg and I
get dragged back into the shop
and up to an office.
‘Empty your pockets,
you little scrubbers!’ the security guard shouts.
‘Can’t make us,’ I say.
‘You want me to call the police?’ he asks.
‘That what you want?’
‘No!’ Meg says,
and as quick as a heartbeat
turns her coat pockets
inside out.
But they’re empty.
No lipstick or nail varnish,
none of the mini chocolate eggs I saw her
stash away either.
‘I didn’t even do nothing,’ she says.
She bites her bottom lip,
starts to well up.
Looks all sorts of pathetic
really.
‘Now you,’ the security guard says,
poking the air around me with his fat finger.
I turn out my pockets
wondering if all the gear I tried to nick
will somehow disappear too,
like Meg’s did.
But it doesn’t.
Everything clatters to the floor:
lipstick, blusher, mascara, nail varnish
and
bloody mini chocolate eggs.
Mini chocolate eggs that I didn’t nick.
Mini chocolate eggs that Meg can’t get enough of.
She winks.
She winks to tell me to keep schtum,
to make sure I don’t tell it as it is –
that she somehow managed to stuff her loot
into my pockets on the way up to the office,
that she’s meant to be my mate
but is stitching me up
and letting me take the rap
for everyone else’s thieving.
Again.
‘What’s all that?’ the security guard asks,
pointing at the gear on the floor.
‘Never seen it before,’ I say.
‘Really?’ he asks.
‘Well, it just came out of your pockets.’
‘Can I go now?’ Meg asks.
I stare at her,
hard.
Is she for real?
Like, is she actually going to leave me here
on my own
with some mentalist security guard
and the threat of juvenile jail?
‘Mum’ll be expecting me,’ she says.
‘I ain’t nicked nothing.’
The security guard picks up the phone.
‘Yeah, you can go,’ he tells Meg.
Then he grins at me,
well pleased with himself –
Captain Catch-A-Thief.
‘But you.
You’re going down to the station.’
HERE
In the one month
since we
arriving to live in
London North, England,
it rain most
of days,
and sunshine only a few,
which is funnier because
we come here in
summer.
Tata say we here for
short time
only
to make the Queen’s cash
then
return back
for to buy:
house mansion
then
car with top speed
then
fashions for impressing
then
gifts for my older brothers and sisters
who we leave in Romania.
Tata lucky he have connections
to give him strong job.
On some days after we
arrive
I helping Tata with his
tough work.
He driving his white lorry van
around streets,
spying
seeking
searching
for the metals that people in
London North
not wanting.
We put every items on lorry and
top man pays Tata hand cash
for metals.
It good for me to helping Tata
because now I am main son
and need to
quick learn
how to make family monies
and be
provider for all.
This is what my peoples do.
Roma mens
become cash provider,
for keeping all family happy
in clothings and food.
I am fifteen
and man now,
so my working in lorry van
make much sense.
Real reason we come to
England
is because I am
older,
and cannot be without
working
wealth,
or
wife.
And Tata must to make
sacks of cash
for to pay
family
of girl
back home.
And then
we can to marry.
Which make gigantic hurt in my head.
Caseworker
You can’t even get into the youth offending services building
without going through
a series of locked doors
and signing yourself in with
two different doormen.
Along every corridor are
blue plastic chairs
arranged in pairs,
kids in hoodies slumped in
them so you can’t see their faces.
Some of them are with their parents,
some aren’t,
but there’s this low rumbling
of rage in the place.
You can smell it in the air.
I don’t have to wait long to meet my caseworker
– ‘Dawn Green’ according to her badge –
who’s got the smug look of someone
who thinks
she knows
more than most people.
But Dawn Green knows jack shit
about me.
She tilts her head to one side
like she’s talking to toddlers:
‘So … taking part in a reparation scheme
would save Jess from getting
a criminal record.’
‘Reparation scheme?’ Mum asks.
‘Yes. As this is her third offence,
the police can’t turn a blind eye.
She has to show a willingness to change,
to give back to her community.’
‘So it’s like community service,’ Mum says.
Dawn bites the insides of her lips.
‘It’s helping out in parks
and attending self-development sessions.’
Always quick with an apology, Mum says,
‘Well, she definitely wants to show she’s sorry.’
‘And she’ll do what she’s told,’ Terry adds,
like he’s my dad
and this is any of his bloody business.
What is he even doing here?
‘Great, so,
the police have proposed
a scheme lasting three months.
What do you think, Jess?’
Dawn turns to me,
finally,
and I know that
how sorry I am for being such a drain on society
and
of course
I’ll pick up crap down the park
to make up for it.
But a massive part of me
wants to say no,
wants to turn to Dawn and go,
I’d rather do time
and get a record
than
hang out with no-hopers
and do-gooders
for the next twelve weeks.
Thanks all the same though.
But I don’t get a chance to speak.
Before I can open my mouth,
Terry leans forward and grabs Dawn’s hand,
shakes it like they’ve just done a deal
and says,
‘When does she start?’
ENGLAND IS THE STRANGER OF PLACES
Some peoples
smile and say hello
in street or on bus.
Other peoples
not like my face
and don’t returning
the smile I sharing.
Mămică feel same as me.
Sometimes I see her
feeling sad
or
I can hear her
anger conversations with Tata:
‘This place isn’t for us, they don’t want our kind here,’ she say.
‘We won’t be here long,’ Tata say.
‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’
‘For God’s sake, Miri, we’ll be home by Christmas.’
‘We don’t fit in here.’
‘I know, but I’m making good money.’
‘So when we’ve made enough, we’ll go home?’
‘As soon as we’ve the money to pay for a wife and some left over.’
‘Christmas?’
‘Christmas.’
And I hate hearing these conversation
because many times
I not wanting to return there.
Most times
I not wanting to think about
old life.
Or
new wife.
Bad Parent
Terry’s out.
Dawn’s got Mum and me
sitting at the kitchen table
with cups of tea,
pretending we’re having a friendly
chat when really
she’s checking I’m not living
in a shithole.
‘We’ve got classes we can offer parents too,’ she says to Mum,
‘Empowerment for Women and other things
you might be interested in.’
Mum won’t even consider it. ‘Don’t think so,’ she says.
Dawn raises her eyebrows. ‘We find that young offenders
are reacting to situations at home
when they commit crime.’
‘I’m not a bad parent,’ Mum says
quietly,
though she doesn’t believe it.
‘And no problems between you and Jess’s dad?’ Dawn asks.
‘He left,’ Mum tells her.
‘And her stepdad?’
‘He stayed.’
Dawn turns to me.
‘Anything you need support with, Jess?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t just have to pick litter
and plant flowers.
We have loads of courses you might like.’
I take Mum’s lead,
shake my head
and say, ‘You’re all right,’
when inside
a little voice is screaming for Dawn Green
to open her eyes and figure out
who the real offender is.
THE PETROL STATION
Every eye watch me because
one: my hair, clothes, skin, shoes
is differing from people here.
Every eye watch me because
two: I not have car, cash, friends, trust.
I walk in petrol station
to Magic Trees department that give cars flower smell,
newspapers with many hard words,
magazines with many pictures of dirty beauty girls
and
celebrities with all the sexy muscle and money.
Then I see them
close to the pay area
and near the exit get away.
I spy candy sweets.
My stomach do see-saw.
My eyes pop.
Too long since I eat
any chocolate bar,
all sitting in rows like little sparkle soldiers
making technicolour in my eye.
Which one?
Which one?
I know shop workers want to catch thief in red hand
so I must act
super rapido:
grab
snatch
steal
bolt.
I do the quick nab,
open door and
Usain
Bolt fast.
Security man
sprint faster.
I tumble.
Security man’s big hand
dig in my shoulder.
Big carrot fingers
rip my trackie.
Tata will go off his bonkers
because he telling me many time
never let them catching you.
But they always catching me.
Three time now they catch.
That’s why
I cry and have massive press in the chest.
Not because another arrest
or security man sitting his arse on me,
but because I don’t want to be getting Tata’s
left right
right left
jab
to the abs or head.
I see it all in my imaginings:
me on floor,
Tata snorting nose steam like bull,
Mămică helping my
tears
and
blood.
I am terror full.
That’s why
I hoping police will be my protect
when Tata come get me
from
cell station.
Good Mates
First day back at school
Liz is like,
‘God, that was so bad.
I totally thought we were gonna get done.’
And Shawna goes,
‘We were so lucky.’
And Meg’s like,
‘Yeah, close call, weren’t it?’
I almost laugh,
not
cos anything’s funny –
it’s cos I can’t really believe what I’m hearing.
‘It’s not a close call if you actually get caught,’ I say.
‘It wasn’t my first offence, was it?
And now I’ve got to do this stupid scheme thing,
like, every Saturday.
How fucking lucky is that?’
Meg puts her arm around my shoulder.
‘Yeah … but …
what they’re saying
is that only o
ne of
us got caught,
innit?’
‘Yeah … Me.’
Meg sighs like I’m too stupid to get her point.
‘Look, Jess,
your mum doesn’t
care about that stuff,
does she?
If I got caught,
my mum and dad would blow a nut.’
‘I’m picking up shit,’ I say.
Meg smiles.
‘I know.
You’re a well good mate, Jess.’
But I’m not.
I can’t be.
If I were a good mate
I wouldn’t be thinking about
how to get my own back on Meg.
THREATS AND PUNISHMENT
After my arresting
they threatening me with young people jail.
They tell me I’ll be bitch boy.
‘Look at you,
all dark skin,
dark eyes.
It’ll be a bit of exotic for them,’ Security Man One say.
‘They’ll be gagging to get their hands on you,’ Security Man Two say.
‘Good looking lad like yourself,’ One say.
‘Foreign,’ Two say.
‘Pretty boy.’
‘Fun boy.’
‘Lovely.’
‘Bit of crumpet.’
They scare me too much with bitch boy story
so that I tell to them all truths about my
steal.
But when real police come
they not send me to
young people jail.
For goodness gracious sake no.
They send me to something called