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...