Tara OShaughnessey - Gangsters Girl: From childhood abuse to a life of crime and prostitution

John F. McDonald is an award-winning writer from London; his work includes memoirs, novels, graphic novels and screenplays. Find out more at www.johnfmcdonald.co.uk

Tara OShaughnessey was abused as a child and later fell into a life of crime and prostitution. She is now a university graduate and counsellor, and has dedicated her life to helping fallen women, walking the streets of cities in South Wales in search of the homeless and down-and-outs. She buys them food and clothes and tries to help them back into society. Tara would like her book to be a source of inspiration to women (and men) who have lost their way in the world, something they can find hope and a way forward from reading.

To my mother, who brought me into the world and who I love, despite everything.

To my children, Daniella and Christopher, who I love very much thank you for putting up with me.

To my grandchildren, who I love more than life and who are the future.

To my aunt Christine, who was always there for me, even through the darkest times.

To my friend Francis, who had faith in me, even when I had none myself.

To all the children who feel written off or different youre beautiful.

When I was young, I used to care what people thought of me, what they saw me as, what I appeared to be to them. Now I regret worrying about the vinegar in their hearts, about the venom in their eyes and the jaggedness of their words. When I was younger, lying on the floor in my mothers bedroom, like a dog and even afterwards, when I was a prostitute they said I was pretty, even though I wasnt. Not when I was young. At least I dont think I was. Maybe if theyd said I was ugly it would have been different and I wouldnt have been molested so much. But it doesnt really matter now, because Ive discovered that external beauty cant bring happiness. I know thats a clich, but its true: only internal beauty can truly satisfy the light that falls on you from the hope you feel, from the belief that there is something good, even if everything around you is bad. The other things can bring a false kind of happiness: fame, or fortune, perhaps. But its imitation, an imposter not real. It belongs to other people and they loan it to you because they like the way you look or the way you fuck. But they always want it back in the end; one way or another. And it turns sour and leaves the bad taste of regret in your mouth like a lie.

I was born on 4 January 1972 on Alderney, one of the Channel Islands. My father was Patrick and he left when I was two years old. I raised myself from then on, because my mother was no good at it. She was no good at anything or to anyone, including herself. She had lots of men friends who abused us both, shouted at us with hard voices, threw stones at us like they did at sinners long ago, sneered at us and spat on the ground, shook their furious fists at us and called us names. My mother was Angela and I was an only child. Angela became the black sheep of the family after Patrick ran away from her. She was bad and, by definition of being her daughter, so was I. She said I was just like my father she told me I had his eyes and teeth and temper and she hated me for it and gave me his religion, even though it wasnt hers. My father was Catholic and there werent many Catholics on Alderney. There was one less when he left, so I took his place.

One of my earliest memories is of my mother having sex with my stepfather, who wasnt really my stepfather because he never actually married her. I saw this because I slept in the same room. You see, we only had a one-bedroom flat after my father left and thats because my mothers rich family controlled her budget when she decided to become the black sheep and go drinking and writhing on top of men.

My uncle was the richest man on the island and he bought her the flat, which cost a lot of money, Im sure, as property wasnt cheap on Alderney. They, the family, told me that I should be proud of my birthplace, the rich islands with so many prosperous people and such a well-balanced way of life. But they didnt live in the one-bedroom flat with my mother. My father ran back to Ireland, where he came from, and I knew nothing of his family over there. All he left me was his name and his eyes and teeth and temper. No, the only family I knew was my mothers local people of French ancestry, who made their money from land and fishing and building and carpets and furniture. That kind of thing. Their rule of measurement was money and status and image and nothing bad ever happened to them until my mother decided to go off the rails.

My uncle, Auguste, was the richest of all and he was the patriarch, after my grandfather whose name was also Auguste retired. The island was very beautiful, very picturesque, and surrounded by beaches like Corblets, where people went wind-surfing; and Maggies Bay, named after my grandmother, where I used to collect coloured stones; and Arch Beach, full of little nooks and crannies and tide-pools; and Platte Saline, where the undercurrent would take you if you werent careful; and Saye Beach, where the water was so blue youd swear you were abroad. Palm trees swayed in the wind and, inland, wooded glades were full of magic and mystery. Alderney was an idyll an Elysium, a mythical place. But it had a dark heart at the centre of its labyrinth: the flat where I lived with my mother, and the Minotaur she slept with.

They didnt allow just any old person to come and live on the island. You had to be rich, you had to have the sickly sweet stink of money on you, you had to occupy a large space in your own ego. People had beautiful houses and domestic staff and wonderful cars; money was a vulgar subject that was never spoken about, but always understood: always an enveloping force, like the air they breathed, or the champagne they drank. And you had to have a certain status and not have any black sheep in your cupboards with the skeletons at least, none that anyone knew about. My mother was the youngest of four siblings and was always accompanied by the shrill sound of wolf-whistles and the click-clack of seven-inch heels.

I was an only child and I knew I was different from the very moment I plunged into the world. I had a number of cousins, but they werent like me and I wasnt particularly close to any of them except Adele. Adele was my childhood hero. She was around the same age as me, but she looked like something out of Vanity Fair, with curly blonde hair and big blue eyes. Everybody wanted to be her friend. She liked me too, for some reason, even though I lived with the black sheep in the one-bedroom flat that cost the family a lot of money. Or perhaps it didnt cost them a lot of money perhaps they owned it, just like they owned the rest of the island, and they allowed my mother and me to live in it like a glasshouse, or a folly.