The Angel of Bang Kwang Prison (3 page)

However fraught things got, I didn’t care. Nights spent sleeping on the beach could erupt into warfare between skinheads and biker gangs. I didn’t discriminate between them, as everyone was my friend. The guys, even the meanest looking ones, would open up to me with their worries, whether it was about a girl they liked or some rough experience in their home life.

My big mouth used to get me into trouble though. One night I was sitting beside the brother of a friend of mine. He was part of a biker crowd and boasted that his bedroom was painted black with drips of red paint to represent blood. I thought he was great. He was a nasty, mean individual, but I had a crush on him. I was maybe 13 or 14 at the time. I started to row with him over something or other and suddenly he was trying to choke me. He was pissed and I probably was too. He had me pressed up against the wall and might have killed me had not his friend pulled him off me. They ended up having a punch-up which their friendship never fully recovered from. People blamed me for it afterwards because it was said that I had come between them.

When I think of the risks I took, I shudder. Some of my friends and I would hitchhike in our full hippie regalia; men would pick us up in their cars, offer us a joint and invite us out to get stoned at their place. I honestly can’t say how many times I woke up in some apartment or house not knowing the owner or remembering how I got there. Nevertheless, I did have some sort of survival instinct which kicked in when necessary. One time a friend and I found ourselves in the house of a much older guy and his friends. They plied us with drinks; I willingly gulped down a pint glass of straight whisky. Then a large joint was passed around. Despite my being stoned I sensed that the atmosphere was becoming sinister. My friend was almost legless and it suddenly struck me that we were probably going to be gangbanged if I didn’t act fast.

My guardian angel must have helped me drag my friend to her feet and out the door. Fortunately the men were as drunk and stoned as we were. I saw a tram stop to let some passengers off and half-dragged-half-carried my friend towards it. The men were behind us, whooping and hollering vulgar threats. I knew they wouldn’t try anything on public transport. Miraculously we made it on to the tram. My friend collapsed face down on the floor as it slowly moved off and I was too stoned to help her, but we were safe. The people on the tram gasped in shock at the state of us—our eyes must have been in the back of our heads, I could hardly focus and she looked dead to the world. Obviously we were a cause for some concern because the tram stopped in front of a police station and I thought, ‘Shit, we’re dead’. People were gesturing to the approaching officers as I, once again, found the strength to lift my friend for another chase, this time with the police. I carried her for as long as I could and then spotted a garage that had been left open. Without thinking I dropped her to the ground and pushed her under the car and followed her. There we lay, silently, in pools of oil and grime as we heard the officers call out to one another, looking for us. I thought they were never going to give up. We waited for what seemed like an eternity before feeling brave enough to come out of our hiding place and trudge home.

Before too long I had acquired my first serious boyfriend,
Simon
. I was the envy of many a girl.
Simon
was a bit of an icon whose tough, rough reputation was known throughout the land. One tale that was spread around was about how he had broken his mother’s arm during a row. He had a fierce temper and was quite confrontational. He wasn’t tall but made up for his lack of height with a swarthy muscular build and Italian good looks; he looked and acted a lot older than his 16 years, with his full beard and many tattoos. We met in the park one night when he ‘rescued’ me from under a big lump of a guy who was trying to hump me while we were both off our heads after a joint. I was never really taken in by his reputation—tough guys aren’t always so tough. As an Italian Aussie,
Simon
had to deal with a lot of crap from ‘pure white’ Aussies. The Greeks and Italians were called ‘wogs’ and life on the street could be somewhat precarious, especially if you were a signed up member of a biker-cum-Sharpie gang.

We got along quite well and shared some mad times, thanks to the amount of grass we smoked. He stole a car once when he was completely off his head, resulting in him hitting some poor pedestrian because he was too stoned to steer. Fortunately the pedestrian lived. I regularly came off his motorbike when he was attempting to drive when wrecked but of course I never really hurt myself because I would be equally bombed. Our early dates were quite conservative; we’d eat out at a Chinese restaurant and then go see a movie. Our madder dates would see us skulling bottles of vodka or Bacardi; you would hold the bottle upside down and keep gulping the drink down the back of your throat until the bottle was empty. I was the fastest ‘skuller’ around and was quite proud of myself. These big biker dudes would watch me drink in admiration and give me a round of applause. The silliness started when a paralytic
Simon
and me would get on his motorbike or behind the wheel of a car and drive up the edge of the cliffs near the beach, as close to the edge as possible, for the sheer madness of it.

As a nod to the times we had an open relationship. We were both free to indulge our desires with others—well, except, as it turned out, for me. One of my girlfriends was anxious to lose her virginity, preferably with someone she knew. I always prided myself on being a good friend; I asked her if she liked Simon and she said yes. So I asked my boyfriend to do me a favour and sleep with her. I thought it was a very nice gesture on my part. Both parties agreed and shortly afterwards she was no longer a virgin and I even got to watch from the next room while quietly toking on a joint, and listening to ‘Another Brick in the Wall’. She thanked me profusely and I thanked
Simon
for helping me out and all was right with the world; that is until I wished to indulge myself at a party with an attractive boy called
Johnny
.

I dragged
Johnny
to the master bedroom to act out a few stoned fantasies. Then I duly informed Simon who, to my horror, went utterly berserk. I had never seen what jealousy could do to a person. We were in my friend’s house, celebrating her 14th birthday. I remember there was this fabulous chandelier on the ground that had yet to be hung up.
Simon
, screaming like a wounded animal, lifted the precious piece and kicked it across the room where it shattered into pieces against the wall. He was like a different person, a mad man. He was chasing the party-goers and trying to lash out at them with his fists and feet. He kept punching the walls and kicking the doors. Everyone fled, either out of the house or upstairs. I cowered in the bathroom, listening to him yelling my name and shouting, ‘Come here you fucking bitch. I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna kill you all.’

After a few minutes of this I decided that enough was enough. The fact that everyone was hiding from him was making him worse. He seemed to be relishing in the idea that he was scaring people; it was empowering his performance-tantrum. ‘Screw this!’ I thought; as I went out to confront him. I met him in the dining room and spoke as calmly as I could.

‘
Simon
stop this. You are just trying to scare the shit out of us. Stop showing off, I’m not afraid of you.’

While I was not exactly expecting him to hang his head in shame and say sorry in a contrite voice, I didn’t expect what actually happened. I felt like a part of me had stepped aside to watch the unfolding events, because in no way did I think that when he drew back his fist it was to punch me savagely in the face. My nose seemed to fly across my cheek as I watched him pull his fist back again. I don’t know if he meant to hit me again, but he stopped when he saw how much blood was spewing from my face after that first punch. My face blew up and changed colour. The others crawled out of their hiding places to stare in fascination at my almost unrecognisable features. As usual we were all drunk and stoned, so there was a lot of, ‘Wow man, your face is awesome,’ comments, as opposed to someone rushing me to the nearest ER.

Would you believe that
Simon
and I went on to have a deep meaningful discussion that evening after things quietened down? He was very upset by what he had done to me and was a little in shock. We talked about life and where we were going. We both admitted to feeling lost in general. I don’t remember the conversation in great detail but I do know that I counselled him for hours, trying to help him find some direction in his life. It was the start of a life-time of having men confide their innermost thoughts and fears to me. We also needed to concoct a credible story for my parents. I wasn’t very imaginative and told them that my purple and blue face was the result of me running full-speed into a door post.

My own 14th birthday was a few days later, and I spent it with masking tape over my nose, barely able to see out of my swollen eyes. To celebrate, two of my closest friends and I went to the cinema to see
Frankenstein’s Bride
—I think I received more gasps of horror than the film did. Once again I enjoyed shocking people with my looks. Several hospital visits followed and I had to have my face re-set. Later on I needed
Simon’s
help. Because
Johnny
and
Simon
were no longer talking, their mutual friends were out to get me since, once again, it was all my fault. They were hoodlums who had nothing better to do with their time. One of his friends informed
Simon
that he would kill me for my insult to him. There was nothing that
Simon
could say to placate the situation, so he did the next best thing. He got me a revolver and some bullets. He loaded the gun for me and I didn’t dwell on the fact that I hadn’t the slightest idea how to use it. I carried it around in my Indian hippie bag; I was a loved up hippie with a ‘piece’, instead of peace! After a few days I returned it to him. I decided that I would prefer to be killed than kill someone. I didn’t take the threat lightly and only realised how scared I was when the next door neighbour woke me up late one night. I slept at the back of our house and he drove his motorbike down his driveway past my window. I jumped up screaming, thinking I was going to die.

The threats disappeared over time. Six months later Karma hit
Simon
hard when he had his own face and nose broken by a gang of skinheads armed with pool cues. Witnesses said he was whimpering under a pool table as they beat him repeatedly. A few years later I attended the funeral of the guy who had wanted to kill me. He had died in a freak car accident.

When the hippie fashion started to fade we all became ‘Sharpies’. There were different groups of Sharpies, depending on where you came from or who you hung out with. I shaved my hair to a buzz cut but left a long tail of blonde hair falling from the skinhead. We looked like Natalie Portman in
V For Vendetta
and got a lot of stares in the street, which I revelled in. The costume was mostly jeans, cool cardigans (yes, there are such a thing!) and big boots with a chisel toe and a Cuban heel; we wanted to look like bikers. We also wore very militant-style jackets and probably more successfully resembled Hitler’s Youth! I recently found a web site devoted to Sharpies—I never realised that I was part of Melbourne’s folklore; Sharpies were unique to Melbourne because it had nothing to do with outside influences. We weren’t—for once—following either an American or English style, and our music was restricted to Melbourne bands.

I sort of drifted in and out of being a biker, Sharpie and hippie for some time but gradually peace, love and tie-dye clothes won out.

I much preferred being a hippie and felt it suited me better. The hippie culture just appealed more to me and suited my personality. I was a real flower child; I wanted to be free and shed all the weight of expectation and responsibility that society places on you. I stopped wearing a bra because how could you be free if your breasts were rigid? … or something like that. My bags were beaded affairs covered in little mirrors; I wore a beret with John Lennon-type glasses, the little round ones. I only wore silver jewellery and lots of it. I even made some of my own jewellery; being a hippie brought out my artistic and creative streak.

Nevertheless, however I styled my hair, I continued to drink and do drugs like there was no tomorrow. There wasn’t any ecstasy or cocaine in Australia at the time. I mostly stuck with grass, LSD, and prescription pills. I popped uppers and downers as if they were sweets. Fortunately I didn’t particularly like heroin when I tried it—God knows I would not be here if I had. I smoked Buddha Sticks; marijuana laced with opium. Although, even if I had liked it there wasn’t too much of it about and I wasn’t going to start spending a fortune I didn’t have. What I did have was something of a death wish; I imagined myself dead and beautiful with a needle stuck into my arm—somehow I envisaged this as a suitably dramatic way to go. Tragedy had a huge appeal for me and I really wasn’t too interested in a tomorrow. I was drinking lunatic amounts of hard liquor. You might have difficulty believing that I would regularly down an entire bottle of Bacardi and not stop gulping until every last drop was gone. But I did. I drank not just to get drunk, but to get absolutely paralytic. I had absolutely no regard for my personal safety. I wouldn’t know where I was or who I was with. Sometimes I would wake up to discover that I had been beaten up, and possibly worse, but would have no memory of the previous evening. I had been stealing alcohol since I was 12. I devised ‘Jungle Juice’, which was basically a pint of as many different drinks as you could pilfer. Naturally it was extremely powerful stuff that would blow your head after one dose.