by Helen Bright
Farid said that if she loved him, she would do it. Sarah refused again. Farid became angry, and said if she wasn’t willing to do it, that meant she didn’t love him, so he would dump her. She’d cried and begged him not to, but he’d said that if she didn’t show him how much she wanted to be with him by kissing those men, then that would be the end of them, and he would have to take back the phone and all the other stuff he’d bought her.
So, to make him happy, Sarah kissed all the other men in that room. They didn’t only kiss her though, they touched her while they masturbated over her, too. When they were done, she said Farid came to her and held her tightly, telling her how much he loved her, and how he was glad that she was his girlfriend. He said it made him really happy that his friends found her so sexy. But Sarah felt disgusted by what they’d done, and also confused about how Farid could say he was happy that his friends wanted to do stuff to her. We talked well into the night and Sarah came to a decision: she was going to tell Farid it was over.
But Sarah didn’t give Farid his marching orders, and she confided in me less and less as time went on. I also began to notice certain changes in her, like how her once so thick and glossy hair now lay lank and greasy upon her head, and how her deep blue eyes looked glazed and lifeless.
I suspected drugs, as my mother had been an addict most of my life so I knew the signs. When I asked Sarah if she was using drugs she started screaming at me, saying I knew nothing about her, and that I should keep my nose out of her business. She’d said I was jealous because she had a boyfriend that loved her. I pointed out that boyfriends shouldn’t want their girlfriends kissing other men—then Sarah tried explaining that by having sex with her boyfriend’s friends, she was showing him she loved him.
She’d stormed off in a rage, but I knew that if I didn’t report the matter, Sarah could be in real danger.
I didn’t trust any of the staff at The Willows; I hated nearly each and every one of them for their uncaring attitude and complete indifference to our welfare. So without further delay, I told one of the teachers at school instead.
There had already been concerns about Sarah’s continuing truancy and lack of effort while in lessons, that much I was aware of from overhearing telephone conversations with a social worker. But as Sarah was younger than me, she wasn’t in the same school year, so I wasn’t aware how bad it had actually gotten.
The female teacher I’d told of my concerns was Mrs Keating, and straight away she rang the police and social services. They got Sarah out of her lessons and brought her to the head’s office. That was the last I saw of her for a few days, as she was taken away and temporarily placed elsewhere.
Five days later, Sarah was brought back to The Willows. She looked cleaner and was smiling when she saw me—something I was grateful for.
That night, when it was time for bed, I expected some soul searching or anger from her. But what I got instead was something far worse.
Sarah sat on the end of my bed wringing her hands together as I entered the room, and I instantly went to sit beside her. She looked me square in the eyes and said, “I’ve told the police you were telling lies, Tess. I said you were jealous of me; that now I was friends with Beth you hated it and you made up that stuff because you didn’t want me to be friends with anyone but you.”
I’d asked her why she’d done that, and what she said made my blood run cold. Sarah told me that Farid and Hassan had stated that if she ever told the authorities what happened at the houses they took her to, they would hurt me and Jean.
From their phones, they’d shown her photos of Jean as she got into the car outside her house, so they knew where she lived. They then showed her photographs of me waiting for the school bus and walking out of the library. Farid said it would be such a shame to see Jean’s house burning down during the night while she slept, and told her it would be easy to kidnap me and take me to one of their houses, strip me and tie me to a bed.
She said everything would work out okay anyway, as although the other men used condoms with her, Farid didn’t because she was on the pill. But Sarah told me she hadn’t been taking it so that she could get pregnant, then Farid wouldn’t share her anymore.
I shook my head knowing how wrong she was, but Sarah insisted that she knew what she was doing. By getting pregnant, she said it would keep Jean and me safe, and Farid would probably want to marry her. I tried everything I could to reason with Sarah, but it came to nothing as per usual. A determined Sarah could not be stopped, so I let it go, cuddled up close to her and tried my best to sleep that night.
We caught the bus together in a rush the next morning after oversleeping, and the last I saw of her was when she went the opposite direction down the school corridor towards her classroom.
When she didn’t come home with me from school I wasn’t worried. More often than not she had detention and was kept behind, so she would miss the bus. But when she didn’t come home at all that night I began to get really anxious.
For the past few months since she’d first met Farid, she’d rolled in around 2 a.m. after sneaking out—although rarely unnoticed—down the fire escape. So as usual I waited up for her, but she didn’t return. At 3 a.m. one of the social workers came into the room and asked if I knew where she was, but there was nothing I could tell them. I was as clueless as they were. At 4 a.m. I’d heard a bleeping that turned out to be her iPhone which was running out of battery. I got up and found the charger and plugged it in. It had struck me as odd that she’d gone without her phone, as she rarely went anywhere without it, but I remembered we had overslept and left in a hurry that morning.
I scrolled through her messages and the last one sent was from Farid. It read, “will pick u up @ 11 a.m. next 2 school bus stop and take u 2 McD’s.”
There were other messages on there with other pickup places, and some that said, “don’t b sad, u no I luv u.”
I flicked through her photos and saw numerous shots of Farid and her together, of Beth and who I assumed to be Hassan, and also one or two of Tariq. If she didn’t come home, I knew what I would do. I would take the phone to Jean and we would go together to the police. I didn’t want either of their threats against us to happen, but I wanted my friend safe and sound.
The next day I took the phone and charger with me to school and kept it in the bottom of my blazer where the lining had ripped, and that's where it stayed all day.
Leaving school, I’d walked amongst the crowd of sixth-formers in its usual loud and jostling fashion, until I noticed a silver car parked where the bus normally pulled in. Being seventeen, I only had a few months left at school to finish my A levels, and on that particular day my school bag had been heavy with files and books. My slender five-foot-four frame had struggled with the weight of them as I tried to sink further into the crowd.
Some of the boys in the sixth form were on their way to being six feet in height, and when they noticed the car they began to bang on the windows and roof. It wasn’t until one of the lads shouted, “Pakis,” and started to bang louder on the car, that I glanced inside. There, in the passenger seat, sat Hassan, and driving the car was Farid. I stilled and stared right at them, until Hassan made his hand and fingers into a gun shape which he pointed straight at me. He made it as if he pulled an imaginary trigger, then laughed as Farid drove the car away.
My whole body shook and I’d felt the hairs bristle on the back of my neck as fear took over me. Luckily the bus came, so I got on it as quickly as I could. As it was a double decker I ran to the upstairs level. From there I knew I’d have a better vantage point to see if the car was following the bus.
As I didn’t see the car I got off at the stop across from The Willows and ran as quickly as I could over the road, narrowly escaping being run over by a guy on a moped.
I made it inside but before I could do or say anything, Beth grabbed my shoulder and pushed me against the door.
“Where’s Sarah’s phone?” she spat, as she pulled my school bag from my shou
lder, tipping the contents on the floor in the hallway.
I told her I didn’t have it, but she punched me then thrust her hands inside my school blazer, searching the internal pockets for the phone. I grabbed her hair and pulled her to the floor before I punched her in the nose and screamed, “Where is she?”
I carried on punching her until I was pulled away by Lisa and Ben, two of the residential social workers. Beth leapt to her feet but before she ran out of the door, she made a gun shape with her hand and said, “Hassan says he’s coming for you.”
Lisa and Ben tried to question me about the fight, and about Sarah’s whereabouts, but I screamed at them to let me go. They’d already been told about Sarah’s problems before she went missing, and that had gone nowhere.
Lisa shouted up the stairs as I ran to my room, saying that the police were coming to speak to me later about Sarah, so I wasn’t to go anywhere. I knew after Beth’s threat that telling them anything would be a risk to Jean—if I couldn’t get her to leave the area first—and I was torn about what I should do.
I changed out of my school uniform, dressing hurriedly in jeans and a long-sleeved top. Because I couldn’t seem to get myself warm, I’d put on my thickest sweater, one that Jean had bought me when I’d lived with her.
I went to the window and looked out on to the road outside. I could see a silver car parked on the side street adjacent to The Willows; I didn’t need to see its occupants to know who they were.
I was hungry but I didn’t want to chance going downstairs in case Beth had come back. If she accused me of stealing Sarah’s phone in front of anyone I would get into even more trouble. And, to be honest, I thought that as the phone held photographs of Sarah and Farid together, if she didn’t come back then the police would need to see it.
About thirty minutes later the silver car pulled away; when I saw the police car pull into the driveway I knew why. But a vehicle that followed the police car captured my attention. I watched as the occupants got out and looked up towards The Willows’ front door. One of them was that bloody detective that had accused me of being involved in my mother’s profession and the death of Philip Casey.
I realised then I couldn’t stay and speak to them. They wouldn’t believe what I said anyway. So I quickly threw some clothes and underwear into my backpack—along with the iPhone charger—then I lifted the carpet underneath my bedside drawers and took out the money I’d been saving. It was only around sixty-five pounds, but it was better than nothing. I’d earned it by doing the odd bit of gardening and other errands for Jean’s neighbours.
Stuffing the money in one pocket and the iPhone in the other, I took one more look out of the window.
The silver car hadn’t come back.
There was a knock on the bedroom door and Ben shouted, “Tess, the police are here.” I shouted back, saying I needed a few minutes to get dressed as I’d just got out of the shower. Ben told me to come straight down to the office when I was done, so I said I would.
I waited until I could hear his footsteps descending the stairs, then made my way back to the window.
The windows were alarmed but not locked because of fire regulations. Sarah had cut through the wires weeks ago so that she could come up the fire escape and through the bedroom window when she’d been out late with Farid.
I gently opened the window then put my backpack on the fire escape steps. I made my way out of the window as quietly as I could, which was hard to do while wearing my hooded winter coat. Still trying to make as little noise as possible, I made my way down the metal fire escape.
I made sure I kept the hood up on the thick green parka coat to disguise my copper-coloured curly hair, and ran across the garden, climbing over the wall onto the street. As luck would have it, a bus was just pulling into the stop, so I got on it, not particularly worrying about where it went. The bus took me all the way to Doncaster bus and rail interchange, then I made my way from the bus station over to the train station.
I wasn’t sure where I was headed but knew I had to get as far away as possible. There was a train due to leave the station for London’s King’s Cross in less than five minutes, and I made a split-second decision that was where I wanted to go.
I couldn’t afford a ticket, but I jumped on the train anyway, managing to avoid the conductor by spending nearly all the journey in the toilet, slipping out just moments after we entered King’s Cross Station.
So that’s how I found myself sleeping rough in London. But rather that than fall into the hands of Hassan and Farid.
3
Tess
I finished my last bit of hot chocolate and went to throw the Styrofoam cup in a bin. Glancing to my left, I saw someone that made me freeze in my tracks.
It was Tariq.
He kept his eyes on me, lifting his mobile phone to his ear as he began walking in my direction. I quickly scanned the area around me, making my way back to where I’d left Danny and Bess, but when I rounded the corner I spotted Farid heading directly for me.
Panicking, I turned to my right, running towards a crowd of people making their way from the financial district. I darted past the suited men and women as fast as I could before pausing in a doorway to catch my breath.
I quickly looked to my left, then right, making sure I wasn’t being followed before stepping back out onto the pavement. It was much quieter and less crowded on this street, and I found myself nervously looking for any Asian guys on mobile phones.
While looking around I noticed a man with his right hand slipping into his jacket and staying there. The man was white, so didn’t fit the bill of the men who were hunting me down. Nevertheless, something just didn’t seem right about him, and I had a gut feeling that something bad was about to happen.
Suddenly, the door I’d previously been standing against opened up to reveal four men in suits, who made their way towards a waiting vehicle.
As if in slow motion, the guy with his hand in his jacket pulled out a gun, aiming it at one of the four men. Without thinking of the consequences, I ran forward the few steps needed to reach them, leaping up to pull the man the gun was directly aimed at, out of the way. I heard a loud crack and felt a sharp, burning pain below my collarbone before being grabbed and pulled to the ground, the man I’d just saved covering my body with his as chaos erupted all around us.
I heard shouting and two more loud noises—unmistakably gunfire—coming from men beside me this time. I cried out in pain, hearing yet more shouting, then felt myself being lifted and placed inside the back of a vehicle.
4
Tess
I knew I should ask where I was being taken but I couldn’t seem to speak—my words swallowed by the searing pain below my collarbone. All that registered in my pain-filled haze was the gentle stroking of my hair and calming words, some in English, and others in some foreign language I didn't recognise.
I looked up into the palest blue eyes I had ever seen. The man holding me, the man I had prevented being shot, was telling me everything would be okay. He told me he was taking me to a private hospital, where he had one of the best surgeons in the capital waiting on my arrival.
The blue-eyed man said his name was Kolya Barinov, and that he owed me his life. He asked me my name, and if I could give him some information so he could contact my family. But I shook my head at that question, which caused more pain to radiate down my body, making me cry out in agony. The pain became even worse as they lifted me from the vehicle on to a waiting stretcher. A team of men and women in blue scrubs wheeled me through the hospital corridors to a brightly lit room.
The blue-eyed man held my hand until he was forced to let go, as a man in scrubs started to cut away my clothing. I tried to protest but an oxygen mask was placed over my mouth and nose. I heard someone say, “Sharp scratch,” and immediately felt myself go woozy before the pain dulled a little. I felt a familiar tightening on my upper arm as a blood pressure monitor inflated the cuff that had been attached to me at some point.
A doctor pressed the area around the bullet wound which caused me to cry out in agony. I tried to pull the mask away from my mouth but my arms were held down. I heard someone say, “Straight to theatre three and page Mr Grayson,” before being wheeled down a brightly lit corridor. I noticed the man, Kolya, at my left side, following me as I went. His cheek was smeared with blood, and his shirt and suit jacket seemed saturated with it.
My blood! I had lost so much—I could see that clearly, and I wondered if I would survive this surgery.
Kolya grabbed my hand as they wheeled me through a set of double doors, and although he smiled at me in reassurance, I could see the fear in his ice-blue eyes. Despite my own fears, I smiled back at him, and gripped his fingers until he was ushered away and the doors closed.
5
Kolya
I don’t know how long I’d been staring at those closed doors, but it felt like hours. My hands were shaking, and breathing seemed to have become a much harder task. Fearing that this waif of a woman may not survive caused a crushing band to form around my chest. My hands, jacket, shirt and tie were covered in her blood, the metallic tang of it saturating the air around me.
“Would you like to take a seat in the waiting area, sir?” a nurse asked before taking my arm and guiding me to a room next to the theatre doors. My feet felt like they were rooted to the spot where I’d let her hand slip from mine as they’d wheeled her away, so it took a few seconds for me to move freely.
“Can I get anyone a cup of tea or coffee?” the nurse enquired.