We Come Apart

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

to our city, town, village

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

I’m meant to tell her

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