The Farm for Naughty Girls

By Hannah Racecar 

You know that scene in Bridget Jones, where she is in a Thai Jail for unknowingly exporting cocaine and she ends up singing ‘like a virgin’… Well this is similar to one of my fondest prison memories. On a Friday night we would have dinner, usually fish and chips, but I would just have a chip butty with a can of coke that I bought on the canteen. Then later in the evening we would go to the pool/tv room and turn on the karaoke machine. We would sing all the 80’s and 90’s classics, but the song that sticks out for me was ‘I Try’ by Macy Gray. We would do this until one of the butch officers would come and shout at us to ‘Shut the fuck up!’  

During this part of my story, I may seem like I am glamorising my time there, but this is how I felt about the whole experience; it was still prison, it was still a weird and horrible place where you were constantly reminded of where you are and the people you were with, but I made it my own and spun positivity through the place which was my home for the next 6 months. Whether this was my defense mechanism, I don’t know. I remember feeling relieved and fucking lucky to be anywhere else but Bronzefield.  

- When you are starving, anything you eat tastes better than is actually is. 

I found myself back in the bus made for Hannibal, this time consumed with excitement from all the elaborate stories I had been fed by the reoffenders. As we arrived, we drove down a country lane, I could see horses! It was true! I was at a fucking farm. I used to have a horse and I love animals; I was in my element! We got off the bus and in front of me like a mirage, stood an enormously beautiful Grade 2 listed building: Red bricks, well-kept gardens and surrounded by vast fields. 

I entered a reception area with a few women, one was called Spermy – she had a tattoo of a Sperm Whale on her foot, her previous job was wanking off race horses for their pricey spunk. She was in for stealing from an elderly lady that she was meant to be caring for. She was also innocent. I never really liked or trusted her but she would give me chocolate to walk on her back to crack it. She tried to appeal her conviction but out of all the people who told me they did not do their crime, I never believed her. 

We were welcomed by an officer. Short and stumpy with her eye brow pierced, who told us “Welcome to East Sutton Park, please forget everything you have been told.” 

So, some bits of this were true; there were no cells, you were not locked in, and you could eventually leave to go home on the weekends, but this would not apply to me as I would not be in there long enough to go through the long process of risk assessments and board meetings. I was given a timeline and if I played my cards right, I would be allowed to leave on HDC (Home detention curfew) with a glamourous ankle bracelet. I would be out on the 30th of October, in time for Halloween, I planned my costume, I was going to be… An escaped convict.  

Those who did get ROTL (release on temporary license) could visit their family and get a job. They would have to volunteer, then they could get a paid job. This sounded great, but in reality, it set these women up to make mistakes. If you are so desperate to get out you will make anyone and yourself believe you are ready. Some of these women had been locked up half their lives, they needed this as part of their rehabilitation but it was the downfall of some of them. Some days you would wake up and they were gone. Ghosted out.  

The first week was the induction, you had to visit all areas and choose where you wanted to work. I thought I was up for working on the farm until I realised it was a pig farm and you started work at 5am. I pretended I was Muslim which I figured was ok seeing as my dad is. And as little piggies are Haram, I avoided the hard labour.  

I ended up in the kitchen. I had an endless supply of cake and fruit, two of the most valued commodities. You start as a pot wash and when they realise you won't go around stabbing people, you work your way up. It was fun, I got to listen to the radio and have access to all the food, which I would I trade or just use to keep the girls in my room happy.  I used to smuggle bananas and cake. One morning whilst I was up doing the toast for the farm workers before dawn, I decided to make fresh orange juice, it took me hours and I only gave it to the people I liked.  

Other perks to the kitchen would be making bottles of ice water, it was reaching the peak summer months and I would leave a big bottle of water to freeze over night. I would add cucumber and some fresh mint which a friend of mine would bring me from the garden allotment. I used to make her nice salads, chopped finely and omelettes. We are still good friends now. I knew she was a good egg when she overheard me complain about my frizz and not having any hair serum, she gave me a little bottle she had which smelt of apricot. This is probably the kindest moment I had in there. 

After the standard first day induction bits, you are shown to your room, mine was huge, it had a large bay window with 5 beds, mine was in the corner by the window and unfortunately Spermy was also in this room but in the bed furthest away from me.  

I walked around through the never-ending hallways and staircases which reminded me of Hogwarts. I was trying to get my bearings and was pulled aside by a tiny little lady named Janet: “Be careful of those back stabbing bitches,” she said. I liked Janet, she did Reiki and I had a session with her. No one seemed to like her and she was one of residents taken back to the closed prison for racism. There is one thing this prison did not tolerate and that was racism and any sort of bullying. Sadly, I felt it was Janet who was the one being bullied. 

I finally met my other roommates, both fiery, young and mouthy ladies. They were fun but fucking temperamental. The youngest, let's call her Lily was actually conceived in prison. Her dad had a life sentence for getting into a rage and beating someone to death. She described him as an old school Londoner, he had some sort of ties with Islington families that she spoke about as if I should know who they were. I have never been a fan of a name dropper, especially when I had no clue or didn’t care about who they were. She had a tough life and ended up doing crack and getting into all sorts which led her back to prison. 

I was fond of Lily, but she scared me a bit and once over a game of monopoly I thought she was about to attack me. We had to agree never to play again, in fact we could not play any game without her kicking off. It was scary and eventually she decided to move out of our room and shared with one other person. Before this, she would show me letters from her dad and a card her dad’s mate in prison made her for her birthday, with her dad’s permission. On a separate letter her dad threatened to kill him if she ever replied. I felt sorry for this guy and decided to reply to the card myself. 

I started this pen pal situation naively and out of desperate boredom. I was reading about 3 books a week, I was a reading machine, I even joined book club!  By this time, I had read nearly every good book in the library and we had to wait until book club each week for a new book. I needed a distraction and wrote a letter to this dude in the high security prison, ‘Gartree’ or as he addressed it, ‘Her Majesty’s Punany, the institute for the sick, twisted, weird & very warped.’ Each letter would be something different. 

The beautiful hand writing, the poetic but harrowing stories, the rhyming slag and the light heartedness of his unfathomable situation captured my intrigue. It was better than any Netflix documentary. He was just finishing an 8-year stretch for gun charges and was about to start his ‘L Plate’ which was for 17 years minimum. He got this for conspiring to murder... the guy was a hit man! or ‘wrongly labelled’. He had been in prison a very long time, in and out from 1996, from robbing armoured vans for the ‘pie and mash’ (cash) to the latest failed murder attempt. He also once received a 2-week stint for contempt of court for calling the judge gorgeous. What a guy! 

We wrote back and forth until I was released. They were long essays and I loved receiving them, it took me a while to get used to the rhyming slang and I did need help making sense of some parts. They were so well written and interesting. He told me all the gossip and drama from where he was, which made ESP look like a palace. He also told me he owned an island in Fiji which I would love to be true. 

Apparently the last three of his offences are on TV (24 hours in police custody) I never have actually looked to find them but I did find the article of the latest hit man trial. He did look a bit dodgy! I was also sent a photo by Lily when we were back in the real world, it was a picture of my pen pal. He had some new tattoos. On his left arm, on his bulging bicep were a list of women’s names and last but not least there was mine. He got my fucking name tattooed on his arm! Who knows what this meant!? Maybe it was a list of ladies he was fond of, or maybe it was his hit list. We have at least 11 years to find out! 

 The day to day was mundane and a lot like the day before and the day before that.  When I arrived as part of my induction check list you have to meet your PO (personal officer) and also the Governor. You create a plan called ‘pathways’ which you need to complete before you are released. This was tedious for me. I was sent on a 6-session rehab workshop as my crime involved drugs. I was not a drug addict, yes I dabbled at parties but I did not have an addiction and this definitely was not the reason I made such a poor life choice.  

The truth is, unlike most of these women in here, I have never been homeless, I have never been an addict, I have never been sexually abused or beaten as child, I have never been scared for my life, I have never been hungry, I have never suffered from mental illness. In this world, I was privileged. I have a loving supportive family, I have friends who care about me, I had a good education, I had everything a person needs which meant I had a choice and I made a bad one. 

In 2013 a friend (I use this term loosely) asked me if I wanted to earn some money, I would have to take 5kg of ketamine to Ibiza. They had apparently been doing trips all season and it was easy. I travelled with a good friend of his, I knew him from the Birmingham party scene and thought he was ok. I weirdly felt safe. Somehow, I allowed the full 10kg in my suitcase which he carried and we checked in together. Whilst in the departure lounge, around 15 airport police surrounded us. We were fucked. 

I was so frightened, my heart raced and I was repeatedly asked if I was going to harm myself. The police officers were so nice to me and it seemed my welfare took priority. I must have been a mess as they took my laces from my trainers and put me in a cell. I have never been so gut wrenchingly scared. They let me make a call and I called my friend who was looking after my dog.  

We were questioned separately and I did not know what to say. What I should have said was, ‘no comment’ because kids... one of the biggest truths will always be: ‘Whatever you do say can and will be used against you’.  SAY NOTHING! 

I ended up taking the responsibility for the full 10kg. I never grassed on my friend; I had many opportunities to. The long and short of it was the guy I was travelling with already had a hefty criminal record, I had no idea about this. The reason they scanned my suitcase was because his name flagged on the system. Till this day I am baffled to why my friend sent me with this guy. I was totally naïve here, I thought they might have had a clue to what they were doing. 

I wouldn’t say I was pressured into taking the blame, I will say, if I had told the truth, I would have most likely received a suspended sentence. Which was no prison time. For some reason I felt I had to take the responsibility as this guy would have faced a much longer sentence than me. He’s black, he is already a convicted criminal and he had 2 babies at home, I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I gave this guy a ‘get out of jail free’ card, I gave him a life line and guess what? The saddest part is he continued to sell drugs.  

I have spent days wasting my time and energy on this decision, I was so lost and so out of my depth. These guys did not care about me, they did not support me, they did not look after me like the movies show they do. I left prison with debt and the regret has lingered in my soul. I was so fucking stupid. I had and still have so much pent-up emotion from this debt I feel I am owed. I convinced myself I had let go of it and I had moved on as it ate away at me for so long on. As I am writing this, I know it is not true.  

Ashamed and disappointed my mum told my dad I got into a fight and injured someone. Well, this is what she told me she told him. (My mum used to like making up lies) she also told him, ‘She's at a farm for naughty girls.’ We still until this day have not spoken about it. He grumbled once that he was angry with me as he answered one of my calls from prison and neither of us have spoken about it since. I would love to know what he actually knows but I am never going to be brave enough to ask and open up that can of worms.