Victim

Contains sensitive content around an accusation of child abuse.

Stephan

Always believe the victim. That is what they taught us. That is a principle I have consistently held to, in every aspect of my life, in my work, with my family, with strangers, all of the time. Always believe the victim. Always. And yet, here I am. Awaiting trial, goodness knows when. Awaiting my fate, whatever that may be. How on earth could my life have come to this?

I have been here for three months. The cell is about eight feet by five. They say I am lucky to have a whole cell to myself. The walls are painted-brick, off-white above pale blue. There is an iron bunk with top and bottom. There is a galvanized bucket, which I am trying to use as little as I can. There is a small steel basin with a cold tap.

Pieter said they put me in here, by myself, for my own safety. This is a large prison, right in the heart of a major capital city. There are some three thousand hardened men in here. They have a shared culture, with a clear hierarchy, ranking right and wrong. At the very bottom of that ladder, below murderers, rapists and grasses, sits the very lowest form of criminal pond life. The most loathsome of the depraved. The ones they would all help each other to murder, as slowly and painfully as they could. Those with no right whatsoever to walk God’s clean earth. The basest, lowest, most despicable rejects of creation.

They refer, of course, to men who would take advantage of and molest innocent children, for their own perverse sexual gratification. In the eyes of my fellow inmates, from whom I am so graciously shielded by the correctional officers who bring my daily bread and remind me how fortunate I am to have them to protect me, I am living on borrowed time. Just until one of the former group finds a way to get in here and ram a sharp, cell-made shank between my ribs.

Throughout my training as a teacher, I pledged always to protect the children in my care. For ten years, I have constantly striven to live up to that pledge. Until now.

I stand accused of the sexual abuse of eleven-years-old Anya.

Always believe the victim.

Pieter

The nonces do my head in. When I started here, I asked the chief why they were called that. The chief’s a walking dictionary. Like my old teacher, Mr Grimsdyke. He pulled me up on every darned apostrophe and the chief is the same. If I say Liverpool are doing well this season he calls me out and tells me a city is singular. Christ.

But the nonces do my head in worse than him. Not On Normal Courtyard Exercise, because if they were turfed out there with the rest of the prisoners, their life expectancy would be about twenty seconds.

Inside, there’s a struggle for survival. Like Darwin wrote about. A big race with loads of starters and only a few who cross the finish line. Mostly it’s a metaphor. Survival means credibility. If you want to get on inside, build up some kudos with the ones who call the shots. That’s prisoners, of course. Mobsters and the like, with their contacts on the inside and outside. The screws know better than to mess with them.

But when it comes to blokes in here for child sex offences, it’s not about street cred. It really is about staying alive from one day to the next. Nonces get cells of their own. You can’t even bang them up with one another, because one or the other might go off on a moral crusade trip and twat his cellmate. When a prisoner gets killed, we’re all in bother. How did it happen? Who’s to blame? The governor gets bawled out by the Home Secretary, and we all get the fallout.

Stephan in cell 42 is a teacher. If I had a tenner for every nonce teacher I’ve had in here who insists he’s innocent, I’d be away on my yacht in the Med, not stuck in here, as much a prisoner myself as the shitbags His Majesty’s Prison Service pays me to look after. I mean, people trust teachers with their kids’ safety as well as teaching them to read and write. If I had kids, and if some teacher messed with them, I’d kill him for sure. I wouldn’t bother about the law even though I’ve affirmed my loyalty to HM and I’m a trusted servant of a free democracy, and all that blather. Most important thing is, always believe the victim. Always. It takes guts for a victim to stand up and tell the truth. I like to think I’d have the balls to do that, if it came to it. In my book, any victim deserves my protection. Innocent victims can always count on me.

Anya

We always believe the victim. That’s what the lady said to me when she told me who she was, and said I wasn’t scared, because I hadn’t done anything wrong, and she said I was very brave to have spoken up and tell someone what had happened to me. We always believe the victim. I don’t know how many times she said it and I hope Our Lady can hear her because she will understand everything I am saying and it will all be OK.

Mr Schleck - I know his first name is Stephan - took us on a school trip to Coleby. Mrs Odgers went too, and Mr Bright. We stayed in a nice hotel. I shared a room with Shannon and Donna. The teachers had rooms by themselves. The first night, I had tummy ache and felt sick. Donna told me to tell Mrs Odgers and I went to find her room but I saw Mr Schleck on the landing and he must have seen I was crying because he asked me if I was OK. I said I had tummy ache and he asked me if I’d had any water to drink and I said I hadn’t. He took me along the landing to his room and he ran me a glass of water. I remember he told me to wait on the landing by the door and he brought me the water and I drank it. I told him I still had tummy ache so he told me to come in and sit down. There was a chair and I sat on it. The door was still open. Mr Schleck sat on the floor by the chair. He told me some funny stories about his dog and I laughed. Then I did a massive burp and we both laughed. Mr Schleck asked me if I felt better and I said I did. I felt tired and happy. He took me back along the landing. I think he put his arm around my shoulders. It felt nice. He knocked on the door and opened it and I went in. I said thanks to him. He was kind. He said goodnight and then he closed the door.

When he had gone, Donna asked me what had gone down. I told her Mr Schleck had looked after me in his room. I told her I felt warm and nice because he took care of me and put his arm round me when he walked me back to the room. I think Donna was jealous.

Donna must have told her mum, when we got back home, because the next thing I knew, the police were at the door and they wanted to talk to me. They told me not to be scared, and they told me someone had told them that a teacher had done something inappropriate to me, and they wanted me to tell them all about it. They told me they always believe the victim.

They had uniforms on. I didn’t want to argue with what they were saying. I was scared. I just nodded when they asked me questions. They asked if Mr Schleck had taken me into his room. They asked if I was alone with him in the room with no-one else there. They asked if he had put his arm around me. I said yes. I said, yes, to all the questions. I was scared. I had to say yes. It was frightening.

I have to go to court, to answer some questions. It’s scary but they have told me I’ll be OK if I say the same thing I said to the police when they came to my house. I don’t want to get into trouble so I’ll say the same as I said to them. They told me I’ll be behind a screen so I won’t have to look at Mr Schleck. That’s good, because I’m sorry for what I’m going to say and I don’t want him to see me saying it.

They always believe the victim. That’s what they keep saying. So they’ll believe him, won’t they? I know what victim means. Mr Schleck is the victim in all of this. But I can’t change what I said, because they will be there, and they have uniforms on. I hope Mr Schleck will be OK. They always believe the victim. They told me they do.