On the box...

"Before I begin, I wish to add that I am currently contacting the BBC Archives department to see if I can get hold of a copy of the documentary that they made of my time in the car park. I want to see it for so many reasons. But mostly I just want to remember as I have chose to forget so much. In the meanwhile I will try to recall as much of this time as possible."

There are graves in her garden
Tombs and pits of sulphur dreams
Sarcophagi and catacombs
of septic ulcered child wounds
There are graves in my garden


When you entered the sports center car park at night, it struck you as a quiet, dusty place. It was only as you rounded the corner that you would become aware of the low hum that the box emitted. The box was actually the back of a refrigeration unit. A cooling system for the beer cellar. It blew warm air through a vent into the car park. Warm air is a very exciting thing when you are homeless in a British winter.

The vent was a one metre square cube, its sides wooden, its front a wire grill, placed in a corner against the wall. The first time I saw it I reveled in its comfort. I curled ball like in front of it and worshiped all it had to offer. The next few days saw me build a home. I found two builder's boards and propped them up, one as a roof and one as a side, against an old chair. I hung a piece of fabric as the door (although later I would make one from wood) and I put an old mattress inside it. Within a month I had a home that I was proud of. It had a mirror, my rats in their cage at the back under the chair legs, a stereo, my clothes on a little rail on top of the chair and my Trivial Pursuit game. Tucked inside a slit on the underside of the mattress were the silver goblets that I had meant for my parents anniversary. My most important discovery though was that if I squeezed my fingers into the side of the grill there was a little switch that regulated the vents output. I could make the box hot or cold!

I had thought that Bath was absent of a homeless community. How wrong I was! They did not sleep down here, not in the town like I did, but there was a huge group of homeless travelers that slept in the nearby woods. I listened to their stories of music and friendship and I envied them their companions. When I told them that I lived in a car park, they would simply give a quizzical smile. I was an enigma yet again. Not like the dirty travelers who befriended me, but not like the polished people that passed me by each day. The days were often fun though. I would dance with the travelers and collect money as they played the violin and penny whistles, then i'd drink from gallon drums of scrumpy until the last of the travelers wandered out of the city to their forest homes. At night I would return to my box and play with the rats. Some nights I would pull the side of the box down flat so that people could see me and over the months many passers by became my friends. On Saturday I would play Trivial Pursuit with those that parked their cars nearby and drink home made wine from the local market. On Tuesday's I would buy French bread & Camembert cheese and eat it at the entrance to the shopping arcade. People got to know me for my strange behavior, but my madness got deeper when the night came in.

Sometimes in the evening we would all wander down to the Salvation Army shelter and get warm soup and toast. Sadly the shelter had no spaces for women to sleep as they had no female volunteers to work at night. When they kicked us out I would wander the streets looking for opportunities to drink or eat or talk and ponder on the irony of being gender-homeless.

There were bad nights in the box quite often. Twice my box got rammed by cars, people thought it funny to add to my pain. Once they lifted off the roof and pissed on me whilst I slept - I cannot describe the humiliation of that in words. Often they threw in rubbish or lit cigarettes. My mattress caught on fire several times but I survived all they threw at me. I tried my best to maintain my appearance, showering in the sports center each morning and applying my elaborate Gothic makeup before facing the world each day. I was determined not to lose my self respect but I wonder if I ever had respect to lose.

I'd also like to say a big 'Fuck you' to Ian and Andy (two of the young traveler men), who thought it funny to abuse the absolute of my fear and to take bets on who could 'fuck her first'. I doubt that Ian went on to win much in life so a big fat 'woohoo' to him for winning that one. How nice of him to get me bloodied inside and out, for the next day I was beaten to a pulp by his girlfriend whom he had told of his achievement. It's amazing how complete and utter loneliness leads you to being available to any warm body that will lie with you. One year later Ian dragged me screaming yet silent into the woods. I was close to suicide and desperate to feel life again. Even pain would be better than numbness so I had lain there sobbing whilst he penetrated me with a screw driver and made me feel again. I have spent many a moment trying to define at what point men become culpable in their sexual actions. When is it rape? When is it abuse? When is it ignorance and when is it purely opportunity? With Ian, the first time - when he had come to my box in the still of the night - that was abuse of opportunity. The second time, abuse verging on rape perhaps. 'No' can be expressed in so many ways. It doesn't have to be a verbal communication. When I finally bring myself to tell you of Kam, you can judge for yourself how utterly appalling the male of the species can be. Sometimes there is no blurring of the definitions. Sometimes rape is a whole and brutal being.

Amusingly, all my peers were jealous at my independence. I told them little of my fear and they complained to me of 'stupid rules' and 'boring parents'. I already felt old and weary.

One Sunday afternoon I was hanging around the box with several of my mates when I noticed some of the staff from the Salvation Army walking over, accompanied by a white haired man in a a smart grey suit. The suit stepped forward, 'Claire?' he asked.
'Depends who wants to know.'
'I'm Mike Dornan.' His voice was slick with pretentious concern 'I'm a director for the BBC.' I thought about this for a moment, then smiled.
'In that case Mike, I'm Claire. How can I help you?'
'We are doing a documentary on the different types of community that co-exist within the City of Bath. We would very much like you to be part of our project. To represent the young homeless of the city.' I laughed and shook my head. Merlin, my best friend at the time, came and stood by my side.
'Go on, why not say yes! It'll be fun. What will you pay her Mike?'
'What we are offering is a platform for you to voice what issues currently affect the homeless community. This is a one off opportunity. Financially we pay expenses. There are plenty that would jump at this chance, but you seem exactly what we are looking for. Young, pretty, not the usual face of homeless people. People need to see the reality of the children abandoned on our streets.'
I lit a cigarette and stared deeply at Mike, amused by his attempts to persuade me that his profits would be mine, in an emotional sense at least.
'We will buy your meals too!' Mike added, in a final gesture of deal sealing smarm.
'Ok Mike. I'll do it.' After all, what did I have to lose. 'When do you need me?' Mike produced a contract from his pocket.
'We could start in an hour if you want?'
'Why not!' I laughed. And I reveled in the fact that this would indeed piss my parents off more than any scheme I could have conjured. Their daughter, their shame, plastered all over national TV.

We began filming later that day.

Continued...

Clipping...

I had changed.

Here I was just days after leaving Barry's house and if you had met me, you would have thought I had been born to live this life. I was surface hard, determined not to break and I had found some allies in my pain. I was in Bristol now. I left the City of Bath, the city that sleeps and I went to a much more seasoned town. In Bristol there were no shortage of people to spend the cold nights with, the homeless community was large and flourishing. Geoff and Steve, two boys that I had met in an underpass the day that I arrived there, took me under their wing and taught me much. I learnt to beg for money in the street, to steal food from shops and to find warm places to bed down for the night. Cardboard was my new best friend, it does much to keep the ice from your skin. I learned quickly and I was an excellent begger. My middle class accent and childlike smile made the business men reach deep in their pockets to heal my pain and maybe mute their guilt. I shared my earnings with the others and I forgot, just a little, about what I could have been. The money was never enough though. They drank it as fast as I could make it and they wanted more. Geoff had become a boyfriend of sorts. He had a pink Mohawk and a tattooed face. He might have been good looking once. He came to me one day and sat beside me. Glue bag, beer and cigarette to hand. 'If I were a girl.' he had said 'I would try Clipping. it makes more money than begging for sure.'

'What's clipping?' I had answered.

The boys waited outside the toilet whilst I washed and dressed. Steve had stolen make-up, Geoff had stolen clothes. I was to be a walking investment for their indulgences. I had forgotten how to say the word 'No'. This all seemed normal now to me and I was fueled by promises of easy work and easy money. Hair tied up & make up piled on, I enjoyed the feeling of shoes on my feet for the first time in a month. As I walked out Steve whistled.

'Oh God. I feel like a prostitute!'

'That's my girl.' laughed Geoff. They deposited me in a suitable place, left me there for bait and went to finalise the deal around the corner. Within minutes I had found the perfect man. Too nervous to haggle I had agreed to everything he asked. I took him, as directed to the house up on the hill and fumbled in my pocket for the keys that we had borrowed. I did everything as I'd been told. An actress in this world of theirs, I kept my cool and spoke my lines. He tried to touch me on the way upstairs but I told him where to go 'You get half an hour in the room. So keep your hands to yourself until we get there.'. At the top of the stairs I took his money, just moments before the violence rained upon him. He left that house with a broken nose and bloodied face,without his wallet and most definitely absent of any good memories of me. I was on a complete high. We had enough money to pay for using the house and to keep us fed and happy for days. A success! We drank the night away and fell satisfied to sleep on a hard squat floor, all three huddled together nice and safe for now.

I can't remember why we got so greedy or when it all began to fall apart. But I will always remember the day that they left me there. It had always been the same. It was different men and different houses, but it was always me as bait, then them, at the top of the stairs with baseball bats and willing smiles. Until today. It started out as normal. Just me and some pathetic soul. John's we used to call them, I felt nothing for their pain. But today, when I got to the top of the stairs and took the money, no one came. I said my line, as always 'You get half an hour in the room for that.' but then there was nothing. No violence, no salvation, no hapless loser leaving with guilt smeared red on his face and his confidence in tatters. Just me and him.

The money bought my fare back to Bath and it would pay for a night of drinking. I threw the stilettos in the bin and padded barefoot, honest once again. This city sleeps but not quite yet, I drank myself complete then left to find a bed. I had heard of a place that I could go here. Of a place that was warm and dry. That night I built the box and I would live there for at least a year. I had a home!

Continued...

The Photographer...

I am awake now.

Not in the typical sense, but awake to my writing, to this process that I have now begun. I have so much to say that I am finding it hard to structure. I feel like I could burst. And one day, if I ever get to trust in you - in the eyes i'll never meet and in the faces that i'll never know - I'll tell you of the end. Of Cam & Kam & Amsterdam, of being bought and sold, of the Wadhurst Social Club, where the International Hostess sang the loudest; of Betty Blue Day's and maybe bits of him; of broken limbs and battered souls. I'll tell you some of the laughter and all of the tears. But especially of 'Tender Red & Cigarettes', the breaking of my whole.

Before I tell you all there is to tell, before you get to judge me bare - I must tell you a little of why. Of what made me 'do' and 'be' and live this life. I was always thought of as an eccentric and intellectual teen. The girl who played the violin and excelled in all her classes. I was an artist and a Girl Guide who was teased for being 'posh' but I was an enigma too. They couldn't figure why I hated so. Why I came to classes with the smell of drink upon my breath. My friend Francis says that we all choose our destiny, it is in our hands from our very first breath. Because of that I will start by telling you of my first important 'choice' in life. On this day I was just fifteen.

It takes eggs to make an omelet...

When I arrived home from school my house felt wrong. It all felt terribly wrong. As I approached it from the lane I saw a curtain twitching in an upstairs bedroom. Someone was watching me I thought. Then I spotted the car, Dad's car, he should have been at work but his car was parked at home. I didn't even get to knock before the door was opened and I saw Dad standing there, a clip board in his hand and ropey veins bulging from his leather brown head. I cowered and he shouted, 'Sit down we need to talk young lady.' I did not sit because I could not sit. I was confused and uncertain of his words. What had he found?

'SIT FUCKING DOWN' I could not though, I was too scared. I could hear Mum sobbing in the distance from an upstairs room so I sobbed too. There was a list on the clipboard. A list of wrong doings, of mistakes, of truths. Dad read each point on the list with such venom that the spit frothed on his lips. After each point he asked me the same question. 'Will you live by my rules or will you leave this house?'

Choices.

He had found the tape, I could tell. I had stuck it to the underside of a drawer in my bedroom but they must have found it somehow. My face burnt with shame and my mind stung with guilt. Did I dare answer 'yes' when he asked if I would leave this house?

'My rules. You hear me?'

I made eye contact with him for the first time in the longest time. I looked right at him, eyes flared with anger just like his and I spoke slowly, scared of my own pure hatred. 'Fuck - You.' It would be four long years before we spoke again. I ran upstairs and threw some things into a holdall. Clothes, make-up, money and a bag with my parents anniversary present inside - two silver goblets engraved with their names. A bus had taken me into town where I sat shaking. I felt petrified and lonely, what had I done and what would happen now. But on top those emotions. I also felt strong and liberated. I had done it, I was free and it was all better now! I remember that the heel fell off my shoe that day. I discarded them in a nearby bin laughing, not able to afford another pair I faced the world barefoot & honest, it seemed appropriate somehow. I committed to the fact that I would never return home and I tried to guess my future. I didn't get far though as my future started at the top of a glass in a backstreet pub only minutes later. My money bought me three small drinks and the shortness of my skirt bought me several more. I was used to my drink, I often drank alcohol at school and my evenings would sometimes end in a pint of wine or a gin or three. Not much hope here for a young girl about to embark on womanhood. When the pub kicked out at 11:30, I watched as the merry voices and smiling faces shouted their goodbyes and walked away. I didn't like that feeling. I felt myself wishing that I had accepted the offer of a bed. I did not care if that bed had come with a price. I had never felt so small.

Lonely.

I arrived at the sports ground as the drizzly rain dampened the last of my hope. I climbed to the back of the stands and huddled on the concrete ledge between the seats with my jacket wrapped around my shoulders. It felt very cold and quiet here. Some cities never sleep but this one did. Only the sound of a distant car would occasionally break the silence. Other noises, strange noises kept any hope of sleep at bay for me. I was eaten up with fear at the coldness of the night and I longed for the warmness of a bed. Any bed.

By 3am, sleep had still not found me. My legs had cramp from the cold and my jacket was not big enough to cover my mottled blue skin. I decided to walk. To see if I could find a face to share this night time with. I don't know what I expected to find, at this stage I just hoped it would be friendly. I walked for about 15 minutes and found myself at the start of a beautiful Victorian crescent. That's when I heard the footsteps. A man, wrapped warmly in an anorak, umbrella just in front his face, he walked towards me with the tap, tap, tap of someone in a hurry. He passed right by, but I just could not bring myself to ask for help. I crumpled to the ground and cried.

'Hey, are you ok?' He'd seen me, heard me, he cared to ask of me. I turned to face him with desperation on my face.

'I'm just so cold.' I said. He had taken off his anorak and wrapped it round my shoulders. I did not know what I should say so I said nothing more. He asked if I needed money to get home, I shook my head, I had no home. He asked if there was anything that he could do, 'I'll do anything' I begged 'Just take me home'. I saw him ponder that thought for a while. His eyes flitted down to my very short skirt and back up to my tear streaked face. There was the longest silence.

'I have a wife. I've got kids. I'm sorry. I just can't.' he said. I sobbed some more and he looked desperate now. 'But I have a friend. He lives just down the road. I've just been visiting him. Come on, let's see what he says, maybe you can stay the night.' The light was still on at his friends house. The bell rang shrilly in the silent night and footsteps padded to the door. The man was tall and slender. He listened to his friend and nodded lots, looked at me and smiled.

'Ok' He said, 'But only for tonight and you've got to be quiet. I don't want the kids to wake up'. I was so utterly grateful. A bed! An honest bed. One without the pain that I had known so deeply so many times before. Sleep! As the two men said their goodbyes for the second time that night I shuffled to the living room. A glance around told me that this man was poor, but I liked the Bohemian style of this room with it's Indian throws and colorful paintings, it smelt of incense and cats, but most importantly it smelt of family. The tall man shut the door and joined me. 'Barry' he said, holding out an educated hand that quivered slightly. There followed a barrage of questions. 'How old are you? Where are your parents? What will you do? Are you hungry?' I liked Barry. I liked him a lot. I told very little about myself and I lied about my age. I was hungry too. Barry promised an omelet but we fell into easy conversation and that kept us in this room. I no longer felt the need for sleep. 'I'm a single parent.' he said 'I've got two kids. I'm a photographer, or at least I am trying to be.'

'Did you take those?' I asked. Pointing to the portraits of naked women hung upon his walls.
'I did' he answered shyly. We talked and talked and talked. It felt like neither of us would stop.
'You're such a pretty girl' He smiled, 'You're like an Angel. A fallen Angel. I cannot bear to think what brought you here.' I could not bear it either.
'Funny that.' I laughed. 'When I came here I thought you were an Angel, I never thought it could be me.'

It was almost morning. Barry had to leave for work in two hours and soon enough his kids would wake. I felt the fear of coldness creeping back but tried to hide my mind. He fetched his camera and asked if he could take some pictures. I still liked him. He was kind and softly spoken. I nodded yes, stood up and removed my top and bra. I felt the coldness on my skin again.

After the photo's Barry remembered the omelet, 'You must be starving. Let me cook for you!' I dressed and followed to the kitchen where I found him rummaging inside the fridge.

'How's the omelet doing?' I asked and wondered why I liked him still.

Barry looked at me apologetically, although his gaze would never quite meet mine again. 'Um, sorry.' Then he held up the empty carton 'It takes eggs to make an omelet!' I was still laughing as I left that house. I might not have found a bed that night. I might not have filled my belly. But I had learned something huge about myself. I was strong and I would cope with all that life had thrown me. And so began the first of many days that would start and end the same. With the coldness creeping in.

Continued...