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?’