Here I Stand

by Amnesty International UK

  He bought me all kinds of things. The best was a pair of red shoes with mile-high heels.

  “Wow!” he said when I put them on. “You look eighteen! Fabulous! Give me a hug, my Katya.”

  And I threw myself into his arms.

  It took my mum a while to notice my new clothes and make-up, but when she did she went crazy.

  “Look at you!” she screeched. “Dressed up like a tart! You’re fourteen years old! Where did you get all that stuff? You’ve been stealing, haven’t you?”

  “How dare you?” I shouted back. “Andrei gives me things. He – he’s my boyfriend.”

  I’d never used the word “boyfriend” before, not even to myself. It made me feel wonderful.

  Mum slapped me across the face.

  “Andrei? Your dad’s cousin? Liar. Think he’d look at a skinny little rat like you? If you steal any more stuff I’ll throw you out. I mean it.”

  I ran outside, crying. Andrei was right there, leaning on his moped under a street light. He looked gorgeous, lean and cool in his tight jeans with a lick of dark hair falling over his forehead.

  “Hey, hey, what’s with you?” he said, catching me in his arms.

  He took me into town on his moped. We went to a grown-up bar. He was right. I could and did pass for eighteen. I felt almost dizzy with excitement that night.

  “You’re too good for this place,” he told me the next day when he met me outside school. “You deserve better. I can get you a job, you know, in the fashion business. In London. Think of it, Katya. London! Pretty girl like you, you’ll go places there. Money, clothes – whatever you want.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere without you,” I whispered back.

  “Think I’d let you go alone?” He looked shocked. “My little Katya? I’ll be going with you, of course.”

  I suddenly realized that he was serious and my heart thumped with excitement.

  “Do you – are you…?” I stammered.

  “I mean it, my darling. Let’s go and get your photo taken. I’ll need it to sort out a passport. Don’t say a word at home. They’ll only stand in your way. We’ll be gone by the end of November.”

  I suddenly felt a bit panicky.

  “What about school?”

  He snorted.

  “School? The school of life’s what I’m offering you, Katya. Grown-up stuff. The real thing. Trust me. You’ll never look back.”

  He was waiting there for me again the next day. He smiled when he saw me running towards him. He pulled a letter out of his pocket and dangled it tantalizingly in front of my face.

  “What is it?” I said, reaching for it.

  He flicked it teasingly out of reach.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  I lunged forwards and snatched it out of his hand, then stared down at the envelope in utter amazement.

  “But this is Maria’s writing! How did you get it?” A horrible suspicion hit me. “She’s not – you haven’t been – she’s not your girlfriend, is she?”

  Andrei laughed.

  “Silly Katya! I’ve only got one girlfriend, and you know who she is.”

  “Then why…?”

  He held up both his hands as if he were fending me off.

  “I’ll explain if you’ll give me a chance. Maria got herself a wonderful job in London. She had to leave straight away. No time for goodbyes. A friend of mine organized the whole thing. He came back yesterday. It’s the first I’d heard of it or I’d have told you, of course.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Maria! In London!

  “What sort of job?” I said.

  “She’s a receptionist in a five-star hotel,” said Andrei. “Film stars, musicians – they all stay there.”

  “Why didn’t she write to me at home? She knows my address.”

  He pinched my chin.

  “She didn’t have any stamps, I suppose. Anyway, she knew my friend would bring it back with him and give it to me by hand.”

  I tore the envelope open and read the letter. It was very short.

  Dear Katya,

  No time to write much. You wouldn’t believe what life in London is like. I miss you SOOOOO much! Wish you were here!

  Love

  Maria

  PS I hope your cat’s better.

  I frowned. I hadn’t got a cat. We’d never had a cat. Surely Maria knew that?

  “You see?” Andrei was saying. “Your friend Maria’s in London and she loves it. Trust me, she’s having the time of her life. What do you say now?”

  So I did trust him. I trusted him while I packed the cheap suitcase he bought me. I trusted him as I crept out of the house in the middle of the night, my heart pounding in case my stepdad heard the creak of the floorboards. I trusted him as we rolled west along the motorways of Europe, even though he frowned more than he smiled and spoke to me less and less. I trusted him all the way to Brussels.

  I didn’t realize at first that he’d abandoned me. He had sat me down in a cafe and told me sharply to stay where I was. I’d been so strung up with excitement, love for Andrei and the beginnings of a nagging sense of anxiety, and I was so tired, what with sitting up night after night on buses, that everything caught up with me and all I wanted to do was sleep. I could barely keep my eyes open.

  The last time I saw Andrei was when he was standing outside in the street, talking to a couple of men. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Through bleary eyes I saw one of them peel some notes off a fat wad of money and hand them to Andrei. It was warm and fuggy in the cafe. I’d dozed off before he’d finished counting them.

  Someone shook me awake. It was the bigger of the two men.

  “Come on, you. Get your skinny butt off that chair.”

  I stared up at him, dazed.

  “Where’s Andrei?”

  “Gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone? Where? I’ve got to find him!”

  I could see from the look in his eyes that he’d have slapped me if he could, but the barman was watching. Instead, his big, meaty hand closed so tight around my arm that it began to throb.

  Cold fear was making me shiver. Nothing made sense. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

  “Get your hands off me!” I hissed. “Leave me alone! I’m going to wait here for Andrei.”

  He pushed his face right into mine. I caught the waft of stale alcohol. My stomach lurched with fright.

  “I’ll take you to him. No fuss, do you hear?”

  The barman’s hand was sliding towards his phone.

  Why didn’t I scream then, when I had the chance? Why was I such a little fool? The barman might have helped me. He might have called for help.

  But I didn’t scream. I picked up my suitcase and stumbled outside, looking frantically up and down the street. Andrei wasn’t there.

  The big man was right behind me.

  “Give it up, little fool. You won’t see your precious Andrei again. He’s sold you to me. You’re mine now. You’ll do what I say or you’ll suffer for it.”

  I stared at him as his words slowly sank in.

  “No!” I whispered, violently shaking my head. “No!”

  But I knew he was telling the truth. Andrei had sold me for money, like a dog, or a piece of meat. He’d never been my boyfriend. Everything he’d ever told me had been lies.

  The nightmare began then. A little hotel in Brussels. The big man first, then others. It hurt so badly I screamed, and they beat me till I stopped. I felt dirty, after that first time, but then there were others, many, many others. Punches. Kicks. Never on my face, where bruises would have shown.

  As the bus rolled out through the dull concrete suburbs of Brussels I felt worthless. A nobody. Nothing.

  They gave me pills that made me feel sleepy and a bit sick. There was another bus, and another. More men. More angry conversations outside bus stations in languages I couldn’t understand. More stacks of banknotes changing hands. And my passport changing hands too. My passport. Me. My life.
Bought and sold.

  It was cold the night we arrived in London. My coat was thin and no proof against the November rain. I stood huddled outside the big glass doors of a huge, impersonal bus station, staring at the rows of coaches without seeing them, dully expecting to be shoved into one, craving a soft seat, a chance to sleep and, above all else, food.

  But my new “owner” didn’t kick me onto a bus. He seemed nervous and was tapping his foot on the pavement impatiently, fingering his phone. It rang suddenly. He listened for a moment, then jerked his head to indicate that I should follow him.

  I was so beaten down by then that I’d have followed him into the mouth of hell.

  I didn’t know that that was exactly where he was taking me.

  A car drew up. He pushed me into the back seat and climbed in beside me. I hardly bothered to look out of the window as we drove through the dark streets of London. I wouldn’t have seen much even if I’d tried. Rain was sluicing down and steam was fogging up the glass. All I saw was the glow of lights and an impression of huge buildings, their unlit windows as blank as blind eyes.

  We stopped outside a small house in a row of identical ones that ran the length of a long, dingy street. Number 48 was painted on the door. I didn’t have time to notice anything more. Another man, my new “owner”, was waiting for me. He was smaller than most of those who had come before, but meaner and uglier. His first blow winded me. The second nearly knocked me out.

  “Just to let you know who’s boss around here,” he growled, speaking in my language but with a strong foreign accent. “You do your work, you live. You eat. Any trouble, you get trouble back.”

  “What work?” I whispered. “Please, I’m so hungry. Can I…?”

  His third blow left me sprawling on the stairs.

  I don’t want to remember the times that followed. Sometimes they flash back into my mind. Less often now. One day, perhaps, the memories will fade.

  Other girls, lots of girls, were living in the house, but we were never allowed to talk to each other. I’d catch glimpses of one of them sometimes, on my way to the toilet or the shower, but we didn’t even dare to exchange looks.

  It must have been several weeks after I arrived in that hell (it can’t have been much more, though it seemed like for ever) that I saw Maria. I had just come back from the bathroom and she was hurrying past me on her way there. Our eyes met for the briefest moment, then she scurried on. I was filled with a blinding rage. She had been my friend! How could she have written that letter to me? How could she have betrayed me?

  The weather was foul that night, with rain lashing against the windows and a howling wind making the rickety old casements shake. There were fewer customers than usual. I suppose the rain put them off. By about three in the morning the whole house seemed asleep. I was very tired, and was just dropping off when there was a faint knock on my door. I dragged myself wearily out of bed, dreading yet another visit. But the person standing outside was Maria.

  I lunged forwards, wanting to hit her. She pushed me back into my room, her finger to her lips, and closed the door behind us.

  “Why did you write that letter? Why?” I hissed. “You knew it would make me come. We were friends!”

  There were tears on her cheeks.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Katya. They made me do it. They beat me and beat me until I agreed. They said they’d break my little brother’s legs and set fire to our house. I didn’t say anything in the letter about being happy in London, just that I was here and missing you. You read into it what you wanted to believe. And I put in the bit about a cat because I hoped it would make you suspicious. Didn’t it? I was taking a risk, actually.”

  Now she was the one to look reproachful.

  I stared at her. Was she right? Had I just believed what I’d wanted to believe? Why hadn’t I thought harder about the cat?

  “I didn’t – I don’t know,” I said grudgingly. “I only read it once, and…”

  “And you were too thrilled and excited to think about it properly. I know.” She nodded. “Just like I was. Who groomed you?”

  “Groomed? Oh. My stepdad’s cousin. Andrei.”

  “Him. He’s good. He’s done lots of girls.” My fiery old friend Maria would have spat out a curse. This new Maria just looked sad. She came closer to me and I flinched. I was afraid she would put her arm around me, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being touched, not even in friendship. She understood.

  “Listen,” she said in a low, urgent whisper. “You’ve got to listen. You’re not in deep yet. You’ve still got – your spirit. I can see it in your face. Your eyes. They haven’t crushed your soul. Not yet. You have to get away.”

  I snorted.

  “How can I? They’ll come after me. You know what the boss always says. Any attempt to escape and they kill you.”

  She shook her head.

  “They don’t kill us. They’ve paid too much to get us. They’d beat you bad if they caught you, but they won’t. I can tell you what to do. I’ve thought and thought about it. I’ve worked out a way.”

  A creak on the stair outside made us both freeze. We sat side by side on my bed, our hands over our mouths, but whoever it was carried on past my door.

  “Why don’t you escape if you’ve worked it all out?” I whispered accusingly. “Are you trying to get me into trouble? Haven’t you done enough already?”

  “I can’t, Katya. I’ve been here too long. I’ve lost – I don’t know – I’m lost.” She was silent for a moment. “And anyway,” she went on, “I daren’t risk it. I told you. They’d tell their friends at home and they’d cripple my little brother and burn our house.”

  “They said things like that to me, too,” I said bitterly, “and do you know what? I wouldn’t care. My stepdad is my trafficker’s cousin. Mum doesn’t love me anyway. She only wants her booze.”

  “Then go! Go!” urged Maria.

  “You say that, but how? The outside doors are always locked and the windows are all nailed up. Don’t think I haven’t checked.”

  She gave a little smile.

  “You haven’t checked all of them. The window in the toilet on the lower landing’s come loose. Someone must have made a stink in there and wrenched it open. I found it like that and shut it quickly. No one else has noticed, I’m sure. You can open it easily now. And there’s a drainpipe outside. It’s not a big drop to the ground.”

  I was listening intently now.

  “But the yard has a fence around it.”

  “A fence!” she scoffed. “It’s nothing. You can climb over that easily. And there’s a lane beyond. I can’t see where it goes, but it’s sure to take you out to a road.”

  “And then what? They’ve got my passport. Where would I go? Who’d believe me? I can hardly speak a word of English.”

  She did touch me then. She took my hand, and the caress of her fingers was so gentle, so different from the brutal maulings of the hundred other hands that had been on my body, that I felt a softening weakness before a rush of strength passed through me.

  “Go to the police, Katya,” she whispered urgently. “They’re good here. They’ll listen to you. Bring them to this house to rescue me. To rescue all of us.”

  “I don’t even know where we are!” I said. “Only the number. Forty-eight.”

  She nodded.

  “It’s called Bridgend Road. Forty-eight Bridgend Road. Say it.”

  “Forty-eight Bridgend Road,” I repeated, then said it again under my breath, as if it were a spell. I looked back at her. “I’ll think about it,” I said. “I’ll…”

  “No.” She had spoken too loudly, and stopped herself, shocked at the sound of her voice. “It’s got to be tonight. Think about it, Katya. How often is the house this quiet? And how do we know they won’t find the window tomorrow and nail it up again? Do it, Katya. Please. Go now.”

  The look in her eyes was so desperate it frightened me. I saw how much older she looked, how thin and beaten down and hopeless.
>
  I’ll look like that soon, I thought. Perhaps I do already. She’s right. I’ve got to take my chance.

  She watched me, biting her nails as I put on a jumper and a pair of jeans. The only shoes I had were the red ones with those silly high heels that Andrei had given me. They would have to do. My captors had taken away my other ones, along with my coat.

  There are different kinds of fear and I’ve never been a brave person. I’d been scared half senseless by many of the men who’d beaten and abused me, but as I climbed out of the toilet window and lurched dangerously sideways to reach the drainpipe, I was filled with a new kind of terror. The rain drummed on my back and the wind beat my hair around my face, half blinding me as I slid awkwardly to the ground. But when I stepped out across the rubbish-strewn back yard, with nothing worse than a scratch on my hand where it had snagged against a nail, I felt wildly triumphant. A moment later I was over the fence and out in the lane.

  The good feeling only lasted until I reached the road. I peered out anxiously from the shadow of the lane. The street lights were horribly bright. It was about half past three in the morning. Any car coming along would notice a girl walking alone at this time of night, tottering along on high heels without even a coat to protect her from the rain. What if my “owner” was out and came back? Or one of the men who’d used me?

  I suppose it was the rain that drove me on. I was already wet and shivering. At least walking would warm me up. I didn’t know whether to turn left or right, but the lights were brighter towards the right, so I chose that way. I don’t know how far I walked that night. It felt like a long way. I kicked those hateful shoes off after a while and hurled them into someone’s front garden. My feet soon felt bruised and numb with cold. I seemed to walk for miles down long streets like Bridgend Road, the windows of the anonymous houses blank, like unseeing eyes, before I came to a broader road where there were shops, all shuttered and dark of course. There was a church on the corner with a clock on its tower. It was quarter past five. The rain had stopped at last, but I was wet through, and so exhausted that I knew I couldn’t go on. I saw a bus shelter on the far side of the road. There was a bench in it. I crossed over and slumped down, frozen in mind, my whole body shaking with cold.