Trafficked: The Terrifying True Story of a British Girl Forced into the Sex Trade (2 page)

Although my father often shouted and swore and constantly disparaged us all, he was rarely physically violent, and by the time I was in my teens I'd begun to answer him back. I think the fact that I was willing to stand up to him – verbally at least – made him back off a bit. But Jason – who, despite his almost permanent state of nervous apprehension, had a surprising amount of (groundless) optimism – kept trying to form a relationship with Dad and to win his approval. It was a hopeless task, however, and one that was to cause him nothing but heartache.

When I was seven, my mum gave birth to Emily and two years later to twin boys – the babies of the family, Mark and Jamie – all three of whom were ‘accidents', just like Jason and I had been.

Although he hadn't had a stable or happy childhood or a good education, Dad was clever when it came to business and making money, so we lived in a very nice, big house in an affluent part of town. But I don't really remember him doing anything else specifically for any of us, and I often wondered why my mother stayed with him.

When she finally filed for divorce, protecting her children and escaping from my father's relentless denigration were Mum's main concerns. However, because money mattered so much to Dad, he couldn't believe she wanted
nothing from him and he used to send her vicious text messages telling her he'd break her legs if she came after him for maintenance. He was angry with me as well – he always had been, for reasons I didn't understand – and one of the last things he said to me, with his characteristic turn of phrase, was, ‘You're dead to me. You can rot in hell for all I care. I wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire.'

When our parents divorced, Jason continued to try to win Dad's approval and was so full of hurt and anger that he was spinning dangerously out of control. Until quite recently, I'd have said that my father didn't have any significant effect on my life – I told myself that as I didn't really like him, I could live with the fact that he didn't seem to love or care about me. I realise now, though, that being unloved by my own father not only made me feel unlovable, but also made me unsure about what loving someone really means, anxious about trusting anyone, particularly men, and afraid in case, like my father, I wasn't able to form loving, stable relationships. I had an image in my mind of living in The Little House on the Prairie, where everything was perfect and people were always kind to each other, and I decided that if I couldn't have
that
, I didn't want anything at all.

So perhaps it was surprising that I had
any
long-term relationships over the next few years. But I did – one with a man I loved and one with someone I thought I loved but who was really just a good friend. And then there was Kas, who, in time, became my
best
friend – not least, perhaps,
because he was the opposite of my father in every way. Whereas Dad was loud, vulgar, self-engrossed and aggressively cruel, Kas was caring, charismatic and effortlessly polite. But even with Kas, who I first met when I was 18, it was a long time before I allowed myself to trust him. Once he did become my friend, however, he became quite an important part of my life and it felt as though he was the one person on whom I would always be able to depend.

For a couple of years after my parents divorced, Jason was so angry about what had happened that he was in freefall. He still desperately wanted Dad to notice him and he turned against Mum, particularly later when she met Steve – the man who helped her return to being the person she used to be, who subsequently became our stepfather and who I wish had been my real father. Jason moved into a horrible, hostel-type flat miles away from where we'd grown up and, because he was determined to ‘stand on my own two feet for once', he refused to let Mum help him in any way. Fortunately, though, he did eventually accept help from our grandmother and slowly started to sort himself out.

When I left school at 18, I was offered a really great job in Leeds. Dad had always been on at me about going to
university, but I decided I wanted to stay near Mum and my young sister and brothers. So I took the job and moved into a flat in the city. I hadn't realised, though, how lonely living somewhere like that can be when you don't know many people, or how difficult I'd find it to move away from home and from the security and cocoon-like protection of my childhood. Apart from the friends I made at work, I didn't know anyone in Leeds, so I sometimes felt as though I was totally alone – until Serena got a job there too.

Serena and I had been friends at school and people always said we were like two peas in a pod. I loved having her close by again, and we soon became inseparable, going out shopping together and then having coffee at one of our favourite coffee shops while we examined the latest fashion magazines. My mother always dressed beautifully and as a child I'd loved watching her getting ready to go out. I wanted to look just like her, which is partly why I spent most of my earnings on good clothes and always paid special – almost obsessive – attention to my hair and make-up. The other reason, however, was that my father's constant criticism of me when I was growing up had left me feeling inadequate – not pretty enough, not clever enough, not good enough in
any
way – so I thought that at least if I was neat, tidy and ‘well turned out', I'd know I'd done my best.

Every weekend, Serena and I went out to nice bars and a club – it soon became a routine that only sickness or a major
natural disaster would have made us deviate from. But I wasn't interested in meeting boys and having relationships – I had a deep distrust of men and was convinced that, on one level or another, they were all like my father. I just loved the dressing up, the dancing and the music, as well as the feeling that I was just like all the other young people who were out in the city centre having a good time. I was enjoying my life. But I suppose all good things have to come to an end, and when Serena took a job overseas for a couple of months, I more or less stopped going out at the weekends.

I'd been feeling increasingly unwell for quite a while and eventually I had to go into hospital for some tests to try to find out what was causing the severe stomach pains I kept getting. I'd made a good friend at work called John, and after Serena left we grew closer and he came to visit me in hospital. ‘When they've found out what's wrong and you're better, we'll go away on holiday together,' he told me. ‘I'll look after you. Just give me the chance to take care of you and make you happy.'

What he was offering me was what I'd always wanted and had only ever had from my mother: someone to take care of me and to care
about
me. John was three years older than me and he seemed to want to look after me, which I think is what I needed at the time. My parents' divorce had been miserable, and it was really nice to feel that, in the future, I'd have someone like John to rely on. He wasn't confrontational or threatening in any way and he took charge of my life and made me feel safe, so I allowed him
to break through the protective barrier I'd built around myself and, before long, I moved into a flat with him.

I think I knew from the start that I didn't really love John, although I tried to convince myself I did, because I really wanted to. In reality, though, he was just a very good friend and someone I felt comfortable being with. For a while, everything seemed fine and then, gradually, he stopped wanting to do anything other than go to work, watch football on the television and go out with his mates, which meant I ended up sitting on my own, night after night, just waiting for him. I desperately wanted to be happy, but it seems that, sometimes, the more you want something, the more the opposite tends to happen. I wasn't even 20 years old and it was beginning to feel as though my life was slipping away. And then, just when it seemed as though things were about as miserable as they could be, Serena came back from working abroad and everything changed for the better.

One night, when Serena and I were in the club we always went to, she leaned towards me and, shouting to be heard above the loud, throbbing beat of the music, said, ‘He's watching you.' She nodded her head almost imperceptibly in the direction of a group of uniformly dark-haired guys who were standing talking and laughing together at the side of the dance floor.

‘Who? Who's watching me?' I shouted back. But I knew who she meant. I'd noticed him almost as soon as we started dancing.

The next time we went to the club, the same guy was there again with his friends, and as Serena and I danced, he kept trying to catch my eye. Whenever I looked in his direction, which I tried not to do, he smiled at me and I pretended I hadn't seen him. He was there the next time too, and the time after that, and then one night, when the music stopped for a moment and Serena turned to talk to someone she knew, I looked up to find him standing beside me.

‘Will you ever talk to me?' he asked. The inflection in his voice – as well as his long-lashed, almost-black eyes – gave away the fact that he wasn't English, which I'd already pretty much guessed. I shook my head and said, ‘No. No, I'm sorry. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to anyone.' Then the music started again and I moved away from him and began to dance.

Later, when I glanced towards the edge of the dance floor where he and his friends always stood, he was still watching me. This time, though, there was a hurt expression on his face that made me feel a bit guilty. And then I thought about my father and all the unhappiness falling in love had caused for my mother and I looked away without returning his rueful smile.

A few days after that, I was alone in the store where I worked when I heard the familiar scraping sound the door to the street always made as it was pushed open and I looked up to see him standing in front of me. I could feel the heat of a blush rising into my cheeks and I turned away
from him quickly, hoping he hadn't seen the flash of recognition I knew must have been visible in my eyes. Then, muttering ‘I'll get someone to help you', I scurried through the archway at the back of the store like a startled rabbit and hissed at one of the guys who was on his break, ‘I have to go to the office. Can you speak to the customer who's just come in?'

I must have looked like an idiot and ‘the customer' must have felt
so
embarrassed. But I'd been taken by surprise when I'd seen him standing there and, for some reason, my instinct had been to get away from him. I knew he hadn't opened the door by chance; there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that he'd come to see me. He came back two or three times after that and although I couldn't help but feel flattered by his interest and persistence, I did exactly the same thing each time.

Then, one evening, when Serena and I were at the club, the music stopped and he suddenly turned away from his friends, walked resolutely towards me, stood in front of me and said, ‘I am Kastriot. My friends call me Kas. Would you like to go for a drink with me?'

I looked directly into his face for a moment and thought how kind his eyes were and how confident he seemed to be, particularly considering the fact that his previous attempts to talk to me had been so comprehensively rejected.

‘No, thank you. I don't drink,' I answered, shifting my focus to a spot just above his left shoulder and praying
silently that the conversation-stopping thud of music would start up again. But it seemed that God and the DJ weren't on my side.

‘All right,' he said. ‘Then we'll go for a coffee.'

‘I don't drink coffee either,' I told him.

‘Tea then,' he persisted. ‘We will go together and drink tea. It is a well-known fact that everyone in England likes tea.'

I glanced towards him and saw that his smile had become tentative and the expression in his eyes had lost some of its confidence. Once again I felt mean, but I couldn't help myself from answering in a cold, unfriendly voice, ‘
I
don't.'

‘Orange juice then?' He looked confused and I felt my cheeks blush with shame.

He spoke good English, with an accent that sounded Mediterranean, maybe Greek or Eastern European, and he was undeniably handsome. He was about my age I guessed, or perhaps a little older, and despite his clearly faltering self-assurance, he still had an air of quiet dignity, which was in sharp contrast to the brash resentment or feigned indifference I knew would have been the response of most of the boys I came across. He seemed genuinely bewildered by my refusal to engage with him in any way, and unafraid to show that he was hurt.

‘I don't want to drink
anything
with you,' I told him, glaring at him fiercely. ‘I do
not
want to go out with you. I have a boyfriend.' And, at that moment, God and the DJ relented and the room was filled with the thud of music,
saving both of us from any further embarrassment. I flicked my hair to show my lack of interest and then turned away from him. Deep down, though, I knew I was acting like a stuck-up little snob and I hated being like that, but I
had
to protect myself.

Over the next few weeks, I got used to seeing him at the club every time Serena and I went there. It was our favourite club for many reasons – including the fact that we knew lots of other people who went there regularly and we always had a good time. And as he didn't make me feel uncomfortable or threatened in any way, it never crossed my mind to stop going there. In fact, I suppose I became a bit intrigued by him. It was difficult not to be flattered by his attention and by the way he never seemed to take his eyes off me, and the truth was that I liked the effect I had on him and maybe part of me wanted to see how long it would be before he gave up.

John and I were still living together, although we were leading increasingly separate lives and had become more like flatmates than boyfriend and girlfriend. What used to seem like being taken care of had begun to feel more like being treated as an incompetent child, but at least there was sometimes someone at home with me and I didn't always feel as though I was alone. I
was
on my own one evening, though, when my mobile phone rang and a number I didn't recognise came up on the screen. As soon as I heard his voice I knew that it was Kastriot, my persistent admirer.

‘How did you get this number?' I asked.

‘First, you have to ask “Who is this?”' he answered in a mock-serious tone.

‘I know who you are,' I said. ‘You're the guy who watches me at the club. I've told you, I don't want to talk to you. I'm not interested. Don't call me again.'

As I pressed the button to end the call, I felt uneasy. I knew we didn't have any friends in common, so how had he managed to get hold of my number? It seemed odd, but not enough to be any real cause for concern.

He phoned me a few more times after that, and each time I told him the same thing – that I didn't want to talk to him; I just wanted to be left alone. Then, one night at the club, when Serena and I were dancing and he was standing in his usual place at the side of the room, he caught my eye and started bowing down to me. It was ridiculous, but I couldn't help smiling and the next moment he was standing in front of me, pleading, ‘Why will you never speak to me? I
have
to talk to you. Please don't make me suffer in this way. Let me take you away and marry you.'

I laughed as I said, ‘You don't even know me!' But, despite the absurdity of what he was saying and the fact that I had no intention of responding to his interest in me, I felt a small thrill of pleasure. I was surprised, too, by how disappointed I felt when Serena and I went to the club one evening and he wasn't there; I told myself it served me right for being so unkind to him when all he'd been trying to do was talk to me.

He didn't come again after that and shortly afterwards Serena fell in love and we stopped going out together as often as we used to do. Each time I did go the club, though, I looked for him and, for reasons I didn't understand, felt a sense of missed opportunity when he wasn't there, as I was certain I would never see him again.

John and I stayed together for almost three years, although for a lot of that time we led separate lives and avoided acknowledging the fact that any romantic relationship we'd had was over. We were still together when I got a text message one day from a foreign number.

‘Guess who?' it said, and I knew immediately who it was.

‘It's Kastriot,' I texted back.

I don't know why I was so sure. I hadn't seen him for almost two years and there was no reason on earth for me to think of him then. But somehow I just knew.

Within seconds, I received another text: ‘How can you know this? I noticed you but you never noticed me.'

So I described the leather jacket he used to wear, the way a thick, dark wave of his hair fell over his left eye and how he always stood at the side of the dance floor with his friends.

‘So you
did
notice me!' he answered. ‘Why were you always so mean to me? Why did you never talk to me? You broke my heart, but I've kept your number all this time.'