Letters from the Inside (14 page)

Mum and Dad are both working their lives away still. At least that’s how it seems to me. They both say they enjoy their jobs but if you saw them when they get home you wouldn’t think so. They’re so short-staffed at the library that Mum and another lady are covering three jobs between them, and Dad works in theatres, where it’s always high pressure. When they get home you wonder why they don’t go back to Dad’s hospital and have themselves admitted.

As for me, well, you remember Adam? You’d better remember Adam. Whatever happens I know I’m not going to forget him. I read this book the other day where all the girls kept talking about how they were in lust with different guys. Well, that’s me I think, deeply in lust. And in love. Isn’t it meant to be the girl who stops the guy from going too far? With us it seems like Adam’s the only one with self-control. We were on a bus the other day, on opposite sides of the aisle, and I was looking at him and suddenly I wanted to throw myself at him, in front of all the people on the bus, and wrap myself around him. I had to hold onto the seat, I tell you.

Yeah, for once it’s going well. Trouble is, I don’t know what’ll happen to us after next month. His final exams are on now and he finishes school December 7. Then he’s working for his uncle (he’s a builder) until uni starts — he wants to do law. He’s a smart guy — I think he’ll get in. He works hard too. He’d look cute in one of those wigs, walking down the street past the TV cameras, when he’s defending someone famous.

Katrina’s got a Christmas job in the post office, sorting mail, and she thinks she can get me in there in January, when the permanents are on leave, which’d be ace.

Anyway, I gotta fly. Mum’s been hassling me for an hour to feed the dog, and now the dog’s joining in. Abyssinia.

Mandy

Nov 26

Dear Mandy,

Mandy, don’t ever give me any shit about this place being interesting. It may sound that way to you, but you don’t have to live here. For you, it’s like watching a TV show or something. This place is a hole. It sucks, more than anything I’d ever imagined, and it’s hard to stay cool when you write me a letter saying how good it all sounds.

Anyhow, I don’t want to start another fight. I just got mad when I read your first paragraph. I’m coming up to the end of my fifteenth month, can you believe that? I came in here on September 1, the first day of spring. Very appropriate. I don’t think it hit me till that day. At the remand centre they cushioned the shock. It was quite comfortable there, better than where I’d been living. And although I knew I couldn’t walk out of the place I didn’t understand what that meant till I got here. When the first lot of doors shut behind me, I realized I couldn’t leave. That sounds stupid, but if you think about it, everywhere else you are in life, you can get out of it. If you don’t like school you can jig it, if you don’t like home you can piss off or go to a friend’s place. But here, no matter what I did or said, no matter what I offered them, even if I slid on my stomach to their feet saying ‘sorry’ a thousand times, I still had to stay. That was bad.

And they set out to soften you up. In the paddy wagon they were telling me how I’d get bashed and raped and everything. This is the pigs, I mean. And when I got in here, it was the full routine: strip off, cavity searches, everything you own gets handed over. Then you’ve got to walk to the next room, in the nick, to get the uniform, while these pervs wet themselves watching you. And the uniform’s such a winner: black shoes, khaki daks, white shirt, khaki jumper. At least they don’t cut your hair any more.

Then I had to stand in this courtyard, with my feet on a white line, for about two hours, not allowed to move or talk. The shifts changed while I was there and one of the hacks, a young one, stopped and talked to me for a minute, then she was called away and I heard her getting told off! Can you believe it? I’ve never seen her since — she probably got the sack.

Then finally I got my stuff back — the bits I was allowed to keep — and got marched over to A Block, issued with toothpaste and junk, and put in my own little slot. My home away from home. And here I sit now, listening to the voices echoing round the quadrangle. It’s about nine o’clock: we’re not supposed to talk but it depends on who’s on and how slack they are and how much noise you make. But you know, something strange happened a few minutes ago. You were asking about Sophie. Well, one thing Sophie can do is sing. And about a quarter of an hour ago when it was quiet — no-one was talking or anything — she started singing ‘Missing, Maybe Lost’. You know it?

‘When you’re in love
And when you’re lonely,
And he’s gone, you don’t know where.
You start thinking
You’re the only
One who ever, seems to care.
And you look round every corner,
You’re afraid to leave the phone.
You have joined the nothing army
Of the lost and the alone.’

Well, she sang it, and I swear to God no-one moved in this whole block, not even the hacks. It was like the world stopped. It was so still: no wind, no noises, just this voice. Then after she finished, you could hear people crying. Not me, I don’t cry, they call me Ice-eyes, but some people were. And it’s funny, although they’re talking again now, it’s different — everyone’s so quiet.

Soph’s amazing. They call me Ice-eyes, but they call her Bedroom-eyes. She’s in for RWV, like most of A Block. To look at her you wouldn’t think she’d walk on the grass without permission. You asked, ‘Is she nice?’ Jeez Mandy, no offence, but I really laugh at some of the things you say. Nice! No-one’s fucking nice in here. But I talk to her a bit. I’m not sure what a friend is any more, but she’s the closest thing to one that I’ve got. See, in here, it’s all groups, everyone hangs round in groups, for protection mainly, but a few of us keep to ourselves. I’m one and Soph’s another. Some do it because they’re pussies, some do it ’cos no-one wants them, some do it ’cos they’re off their trollies. I do it ’cos it makes me stronger. I don’t know why Soph does it — I can’t make her out.

It’s funny, I don’t care about being top dog any more, and when Anita came in, all hot to take over, I wasn’t going to stand in her way. And she was doing OK too, scoring a few points. But she’s so stupid, she should have left me alone. She started hassling me to get out of the showers a few days ago, and I dropped her with a backhander through the nose. Fair dinkum, I’ve never hit anyone so hard. Her head bounced into the wall and she went down screaming, like a beached whale, blood everywhere. She just went too far. Anyway, I’ve written a poem about her:

There was a young slag called Anita,
Who thought nobody could beat her.
Until she met Trace,
And got hit in the face,
And now she couldn’t be sweeter.

Pretty good, eh? Raz taught me how to fight. He said, go for the nose, and try to put their nose through the back of their head, don’t stop till you feel air on the other side. But he was bloody frightening in a fight. He went psycho.

Anyhow I didn’t mean to write all this. I try not to write the bad stuff, about me or this place, but it slips in.

Oh yeah, one last thing, I don’t care about Christmas and that junk but the rules are that you can send me parcels any time. They get opened and searched. If it’s legal stuff I can have it; if it’s illegal (I mean, things I can’t have in my slot) I get it when I finally go out. By which time it mightn’t be good for much. You can’t send food — don’t know what happens if you do, imagine the hacks eat it.

As for telling your parents, that’s up to you. It’s not going to make much difference to me. But what if they stop you writing? Or want to read my letters or something?

Hey that was a good story about Cheryl and the chair. I liked that. And Adam sounds a bit of a winner. If you want to send a real Christmas present, send him in for a few days. I’m getting desperate. Next time they give us bananas for fruit I won’t be responsible for what happens.

Geez I can’t believe how long these letters are getting. I’m quitting this right here. See you.

Love,

Tracey

November 25

Dear Trace,

Well, I did tell my parents. Tonight actually, without waiting for a letter from you. I just thought it was the right thing to do. It was a difficult scene. I’m not very good at those ‘let’s sit down and have a family discussion’ situations. Just getting Mum and Dad together without Steve and Katrina wasn’t easy. But after tea on Saturday Steve was doing a bit of work (too little, too late) and Katrina was doing a lot of work and Mum and Dad were watching TV. I had to wait for the commercials, then it went something like this. (Well, you said you wanted to hear about a real family!)

‘Um, hey, you know Tracey, who’s been writing to me?’

Mum: ‘Yes.’

Dad: ‘Nuh, who’s Tracey.’

Me: ‘Oh Dad, you know. She put that ad in
G.D.Y:

Dad: ‘Nuh.’

Me: ‘And I answered her ad, and we’ve been, like, pen pals all year.’

Dad: ‘Oh yeah?’

Me: ‘Well, I thought I’d better tell you a few things. . . it hasn’t quite worked out the way I thought it would.’

At this point Mum realizes that something fairly heavy could be going down, so she starts paying more attention to me than the TV.

Mum: ‘What do you mean?’

Me: ‘Well, I thought she was a normal kid, OK, looking for someone to swap letters with. . .’

Mum: ‘Yes?’

Me: ‘But it turns out she’s in Garrett.’

Dad, sitting up: ‘You mean, Garrett, where they put the girls. . . the ones who’ve been in court?’

Me: ‘Yeah.’

Mum: ‘But you mean she’s been there all along? And you didn’t know?’

Me: ‘Yeah. I didn’t know at first. But she told me a while ago.’

Dad: ‘How could you not know?’

Me: ‘Well, I was writing to a post-office box. And she was writing like she was in a normal family.’

Pause. They’re trying to figure out what line to take.

Dad: ‘Well, what’s she in for?’

Me: ‘I dunno. She won’t tell me.’

Now they start to bubble, and the steam’s not far away. I gotta act fast.

Me: ‘But it’s OK. She doesn’t have to tell me. I like writing to her, and they’re the only letters she gets.’

Mum: ‘But what happens when she gets out?’

Me: ‘Well, she won’t, not for a long time.’

Dad: ‘How long?’

Me: ‘Four years.’

Dad: ‘Four years! I don’t like the sound of that. She’s not there for jaywalking.’

Me: ‘I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me.’

No-one knows what to say.

Dad: ‘I don’t know what to say.’

Me: ‘Well, I thought you should know.’

Dad: ‘Maybe we should contact the place, Garrett, and ask them about it. Get their advice.’

Me: ‘No! No way! Don’t you dare do that. She’s my friend, and I’m going to keep writing to her no matter what, and I don’t want her to think I’m spying on her.’

Mum: ‘Well what do you want us to do then?’

Me: ‘I just thought you should know.’

Mum: ‘Well I’m glad you did. I’m glad you told us. And it says a lot for you that you’ve been loyal to this girl.’ (Sorry Trace.) ‘But naturally we’re worried about how it’s come about. It doesn’t sound like she’s been too honest with you.’

Me: ‘No she wasn’t at first. I think she is now.’

Dad’s been sitting there for a while, not saying anything. Now he suddenly stirs into action, like he’s made a big decision. ‘Mandy, none of the kids know this, but maybe I ought to tell you.’

Me (scared): ‘Tell me what?’

Dad: ‘When I was a kid I got put in one of those places for six weeks. I was only 15, but I’d been truanting a lot, and I’d been warned a few times. Then I got caught knocking off bikes and selling them. So in I went.’

At this point Mandy falls to the ground in a dead faint. No she doesn’t, but it’s only her amazing self-control that saves her. My dad in a kind of Garrett? Or Ruxton, I should say? This is about the most amazing thing that’s ever happened in our family.

Anyway, as time goes on the full story comes out. He went to a training farm in the country for his six weeks. It was probably mild compared to your A Block but he said it was horrible and he hated every minute of it. He said he only got one letter a week, from his mum, and letters mean so much in those places that if I’m the only one writing to you, I’d better keep writing. But he also said that some of the people in there are hopeless cases and he doesn’t want to make me a suspicious type of person, but I should be careful.