Trafficked: The Terrifying True Story of a British Girl Forced into the Sex Trade (22 page)

I used a false name and the press were asked not to take photographs of me. But it was still all extremely nerve-racking, and on one occasion I nearly had a heart attack when I realised someone was following me down an otherwise deserted corridor at the hotel. I kept glancing over my shoulder and taking deep, slow breaths to stop myself breaking into a run, and I felt like a fool when he turned out to be a security guard – who was making sure no one (else) followed me!

When the time came for me to hand the petition to Antonio Costa, Bex told me, ‘If you want to say something to him, do.' So, as I gave him the document, I plucked up all my courage and whispered, ‘I'm doing this because it happened to me.' He thanked me, passed the document to a man standing beside him and then, holding both my hands in his, looked directly into my eyes and said, ‘God bless you.'

When something bad happens that really changes you, you stop knowing
who
you are. So being part of the delegation to that conference made a huge difference to the way I felt about myself. I'd had to overcome my worst fears on a nightly basis in Italy, but this time I was doing so for a good, positive reason, and the fact that I didn't get it
all wrong and mess it up made me think that maybe I wasn't stupid and useless – as Kas had made me think I was.

The conference, with its talks and workshops, was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. I gave a closed talk to a group of girls and although it was still daunting and I was very nervous, I began to have just a little bit more confidence in myself and my abilities. And then I was told that a 10-minute private meeting had been arranged for me with Antonio Costa. I sat waiting outside his room with someone from STOP THE TRAFFIK, feeling sick with nerves and with a thousand questions tumbling around in my head. What would he say to me? What would I talk about? Would he think I was stupid and regret having wasted his time?

But I needn't have been so anxious, because the meeting was amazing. It lasted for a whole hour, during which Antonio Costa asked me questions about what had happened to me and about what I thought the Italian police could have been done differently that might have made me tell them the truth. It's a question to which I still don't know the answer, other than perhaps that they shouldn't treat girls who are working on the streets as though they're worthless scumbags. People who've been trafficked are frightened – for themselves and for their families – and girls being forced to work as prostitutes are often ashamed of what they're doing. So winning their trust – if it happens at all – will be a long, slow process.

For me, apart from the fear I lived with all the time, it was Kas's threat to harm my family that stopped me asking anyone for help. It kept playing over and over again in my head and every time I thought I couldn't carry on any longer, I'd think about my little brothers and about how I wouldn't want to go on living if anything happened to them, and I'd say nothing.

It's hard to imagine what it's like to be totally under someone else's control. I didn't even think to question Kas's authority over me and I believed him completely when he told me, ‘My word is law – you must do as I say.' All I
did
think about was trying not to do anything to make him angry. It's a habit I still find difficult to break and I'm forever telling people ‘I'm sorry', particularly men, and I'm constantly on the look-out for any sign that might indicate they're cross with me. It's a terrible way to live, and I hate Kas – and perhaps my father, too – for making me like that.

I met Antonio Costa again some while later, when he gave a talk at another conference I went to with STOP THE TRAFFIK. I'd recorded my story and it was played, with my voice disguised, at one of the conference meetings. I was sitting in the audience with my mother, but after a couple of minutes I couldn't bear to listen to it and I had to leave the room. I think part of the reason I found it so distressing was that I didn't want to be there when the recording finished and everyone said, ‘Hmm, okay, moving on …' But when Mum came and found me afterwards, she
told me there'd been total silence for almost two minutes when the recording ended, and then everyone had started to clap.

‘I was so proud of you,' she said, and her eyes were full of tears.

At that moment I saw Antonio Costa walking towards us. He must meet hundreds of people – at least – every month, so I didn't expect him to recognise me, and I'd started to turn away when I felt a hand on my shoulder. He hugged me and then he hugged my mother and said he knew how proud she must be to have such a brave daughter. When he asked me, ‘How are your little brothers?' I almost burst into tears at the thought that he'd remembered what I'd told him.

He talked to us for a few minutes and then he hugged me again and said, ‘Take care of yourself. Be strong. Be brave.' And I was proud to think that I'd had the opportunity to meet someone so impressive and caring, and so truly interested in the cause he was supporting.

Bex told me recently that someone who works for STOP THE TRAFFIK in Bangladesh had been giving a talk to some schoolchildren there and had told them about a British girl who'd been trafficked. Apparently, they asked a million questions and were amazed and shocked to know that such things occur in Britain because they'd thought they only happened in places like Bangladesh.

‘The poor girl,' I said, when Bex finished telling me the story. ‘Do you know who she was?' And Bex put her arm
around my shoulders, hugged me and laughed as she answered, ‘It's
you
, silly! They were talking about
you
!'

And that's when I felt really proud. In fact, it was the most amazing feeling I've ever had, to know that, thousands of miles away in a world I can only imagine, my story might help to keep other girls safe.

When I came home from Italy, a friend of mine called Jim had helped me to get a job at the company where he worked. It was only temporary, while I got back on my feet and started paying off my overdraft, and after a couple of months I moved on, to work for the company I still work for now.

I'd been in the second job for about four months when Jim phoned me one day and said, ‘An email has just been forwarded from your Google account to your old work account here. I think you'd better take a look at it. I'll send it on to you.'

I knew who it was from before I read it. Jim had kept my work account open after I'd left his company so that he could check it from time to time in case there was anything
that needed someone's attention, but he closed it shortly after that first email from Kas.

Kas had hacked into my old Google account and found my old work email address. So, when I didn't answer any of the emails he'd sent to the Google account I rarely looked at, he'd sent a message to what he must have assumed was my current work address.

After that first one, emails from him started coming in thick and fast, all of them saying pretty much the same thing – ‘You motherfucking police bitch. You have no idea how easy it would be for me to be there in just a few seconds. How dare you talk to the police?' I immediately went into a state of panic. I knew Kas would have read all the emails I'd exchanged with Robin – and sent to an email address that was clearly related to the police – and that he would be raging. Luckily, however, nothing very specific was ever said in those emails, so although Kas would realise I'd been talking to someone, he wouldn't know any of the details.

I didn't answer any of Kas's emails, of course, and then he sent me one saying he would give me back my email account if I told him who I'd been speaking to and exactly what I'd been doing. So I phoned Robin.

‘Just continue to keep all the emails and don't respond,' Robin told me. But I couldn't get rid of the feeling that Kas was watching me, and I was terrified at the thought that he was going to come after me, although Robin insisted he wouldn't and tried to reassure me – ‘They're just empty threats. Try not to worry.'

A couple of days later, I was at work when I attempted to log on to my email account and found that the password had been changed, which meant that I no longer had access to any of the emails I was being sent by anyone. I was panicking when I phoned Robin again, and this time he said, ‘I'm sending someone to pick you up.' Within minutes, two police officers arrived at my office and when I told my boss that an ex-boyfriend was threatening me, she said, ‘Do what you have to do. It's fine, just go.'

At the police station, I was told that Kas had been released from prison in Italy and my heart sank. ‘What he's doing now is classed as harassment,' one of the policemen said. ‘So we need to log it. Unfortunately though, there isn't much we can do unless you agree to press charges. But if anything else happens, you must let us know immediately and we'll send out a rapid response unit.'

As I'd done so many times before, I tried again to imagine what would be involved in pressing charges against Kas. Could it be done here, or would I have to go Italy to do it? But, wherever it took place, how could I possibly stand up in a courtroom and give evidence against him? He'd kill me: he'd see it as the ultimate betrayal and he would never forgive me for it. Even if he was sent to prison, he'd be released one day, and then he'd come after me, which would mean that, for the rest of my life, it would never be over.

I still sometimes think,
He could be doing the same thing to some other girl at this very moment and it's my fault
because I didn't do anything to stop him.
But I know I just can't take that step. If I close my eyes, I can
feel
being back in Italy, and the thought of it still fills me with fear. I know what Kas is capable of when he's angry; but I know, too, that the anger I've seen is nothing compared to the way he'd be if I was responsible for his being sent to prison: he wouldn't rest until he'd made me pay for what I'd done. So, however much I might want to stop him, giving evidence against him simply isn't an option.

Although I think Robin always knew I would never testify against Kas, and I think he understood why, he did talk to me about witness protection. But that would have meant having to change my name and my identity and go and live somewhere else, when what I was trying so desperately hard to do was find the identity I'd already lost. Kas changed so much of my life and so much of
me
that having to abandon Sophie Hayes altogether and become someone else would have made it feel as though he'd won.

So I carried on. I couldn't shut down the email account Kas had hacked into because I couldn't get into it myself, but I never used it again. Having given Kas my credit card and PIN number when I left Italy, I had to open a new credit card account and when I gave the guy at customer services my new email address, I told him, at least twice, ‘It's really important that you delete the old address and that you only send correspondence to the new address I've given you.' His patience was clearly wearing a bit thin, but he assured me that he'd ‘got it' and that it would all be fine
– and then promptly sent a copy of the email containing my new credit card details to the
old
address as well as the new one. Within hours, Kas had sent an email to my new address saying, ‘You stupid bitch. Do you really think I want your money? Do you think I'm going to try to steal from you? I don't need your money.' And I had to start the whole process all over again.

I'd periodically check the old email address and find that Kas had sent me links to songs, and messages saying, ‘I'm sorry. I love you. I can't stop thinking about you. I can't live my life without you. I need to have you by my side.' As I read each one, I became more convinced than ever that he was crazy and that, somehow, I needed to make him believe I'd vanished off the face of the earth.

I told Erion what was happening and he said, ‘Tell Robin. You must tell Robin.' But, for some reason – perhaps because I thought I could handle it myself – I didn't. And then, one day, I got a letter in the post from Kas that said simply, ‘I love you. I'm going to come.'

As I stood in the kitchen of my flat, reading the words over and over again and trying to breathe, I was shaking. I felt the same sense of panic and confusion I used to feel when he was shouting and threatening me. It was almost exactly a year since I'd left Italy, and it was only as I stood in my kitchen with his letter in my hand that I realised how stupid I'd been not to move to another flat. I think I'd felt that, because Kas was in prison, I had plenty of time. But
now every muscle in my body was tense and I knew I was in real danger.

So, this time, I did tell Robin, and again he tried to reassure me. ‘He is
not
going to come here,' he told me. ‘The warrant for his arrest for the shooting incident still stands, so he is
not
going to risk going to prison again here. Really Sophie, it's okay. He isn't going to come.'

But, just to be on the safe side, I moved to another flat, and when I checked my old email account a few days later, I found a message from Kas that said, ‘I've just been to your apartment. Why are you not there, little mouse? Where are you? I'm here and I need you. I talked to the taxi drivers outside and they said they hadn't seen you for a while and the concierge of your building doesn't know where you've gone. But I won't stop looking until I find you.'

I was sobbing as I read it and I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see him standing behind me in the living room of my flat, smiling the small, humourless smile that was so often the first indication I had that I was in trouble. For a while, I just sat there, hunched over the computer keyboard, crying and looking around me from time to time like some crazy woman who can see things no one else can see. Then I picked up my mobile phone and called Robin.

‘He isn't here, Sophie,' Robin said, as soon as I'd calmed down enough to listen to him. ‘He's probably just looked up your old flat on Google Earth – that's how he knows
there's a taxi rank outside it. But he won't come; he'd have to be crazy to take the risk.'

‘He
will
,' I whispered, ‘because he
is
crazy. He thinks he's invincible, so he has no fear. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can
feel
him. I
know
he's here and I know he'll find me. What does he have to be afraid of? If he's caught in this country, he'll be deported. So what? Why would he care about that?'

‘He
won't
come,' Robin said again. ‘You're safe. Try not to worry.'

I did try to take Robin's advice, because I was tired of being afraid of my own shadow. And then, a few days later, I was walking through the city centre on my way to catch a bus home after work when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I knew immediately it was Kas. Despite the logic of what everyone had been telling me about how foolhardy and dangerous it would be for him to return to England, I knew he didn't play by other people's rules. He believed he was too clever and too important to have to abide by normal laws and regulations, and I'd always known he'd come back for me.

I stopped walking and, for a split-second, stood completely still in the middle of the pavement, aware of nothing except the weight of Kas's hand on my shoulder. The blood was pounding in my ears, making the sounds of the city seem suddenly muffled and distant. The idea flashed through my mind that, instead of turning round to
look at Kas, I could start to scream and then, as everyone who was rushing past on their way home from work stopped to stare, Kas might simply disappear into the crowd.

But I knew that even if I did make a scene and draw attention to myself, and even if the people around us didn't ignore me and pretend nothing was happening, Kas would find me again – on another street and on another day. So, with fear flooding through my body, I slowly turned my head and looked into the cold eyes that had haunted my nightmares for so long.

‘Sophie, why are you not talking to me?' The regret in his voice was mocking. ‘All these years we've known each other. Why are you afraid of me? What's wrong with you, woman? Why are you looking at me as though I'm a terrorist?'

People were surging around us, laughing and talking to each other or speaking earnestly into mobile phones as they hurried home from work. No one noticed a small, pale, frightened young woman or the man who was holding her elbow and speaking quietly into her ear.

I wanted to shake Kas's hand off my arm and scream in his face, ‘Leave me alone! It's over. I'm not afraid of you anymore.' But that wasn't true and, in any case, all I could think about was not letting him find out where I worked or lived. Quite apart from being afraid that he might manage to wheedle or bully his way back into my life, I dreaded the thought that he might tell people about me –
about what I'd done in Italy – and then everyone would hate and despise me. I knew I had to pretend to him that everything was normal because, although he knew I'd had contact with the police, if he ever suspected I'd talked to them about him, he'd kill me.

I'd always known he'd find me one day, but I'd pushed the thought to the back of my mind because I was unwilling – or perhaps unable – to deal with it. So I'd never tried to prepare myself for this moment and I was in shock. My heartbeat was echoing loudly in my head and my whole body was shaking. For a moment, I thought my knees were going to give way and I'd fall at Kas's feet on the crowded pavement. But he put his hand under my elbow to support me, digging his fingers into my arm and smiling a cold, menacing smile as he asked, ‘What's wrong with you, woman? Why are so scared of me? What do you think I'm going to do to you? I just want to go for a coffee and talk.'

‘And I just want to go home,' I shouted – but only silently, in my head.

He put the palm of his hand on my cheek, pushing my face in the direction he wanted me to go, and then he walked beside me to a coffee shop where he bought two coffees and led the way to a table on the pavement outside. As I fumbled in my handbag for my cigarettes and tried to light one, I could feel Kas watching me and I could sense his growing irritation and impatience. I kept swallowing, trying to stop the tears that were filling my eyes from spilling over on to my cheeks, and suddenly Kas reached across
the table and snatched the lighter from my shaking hands. I flinched instinctively, expecting him to hit me, but he just looked at me for a moment and then lit my cigarette before asking me again, ‘What's the matter with you, woman?'

It was a question he didn't expect me to answer, but if I had, I'd have told him I felt sick and frightened and as though I'd never been away from him. As soon as I saw him, I'd become Jenna again – scared and unable to speak, or even think clearly, while I waited for him to tell me what to do.

He held out his hand, palm upwards, and said, ‘Give me your phone.'

‘I … I haven't got a phone,' I told him, cringing inwardly at how unlikely that sounded.

‘Why are you lying to me?' Kas snapped. ‘Why would you be so stupid as to tell me a lie? Give me your bag.'

We were sitting at a table outside a café in the centre of Leeds in broad daylight, surrounded by normal people going about their daily lives, and I was too afraid not to do what Kas told me to do. I handed him my handbag and he pulled out my phone.

‘I don't understand you,' he said. ‘Why would you not give it to me when I asked? Who do you think you are now – some sort of undercover policewoman?' He looked at me steadily across the table as he said the last word and then asked, ‘Why has your behaviour changed?'