One of the people I turned to for support was my best friend, Jennifer. She came up with me from primary school and was in the same form as me; she lived with her mum. Jennifer was a strange girl: from a young age she was always very promiscuous. She knew all about boys and she was very well developed; she looked a lot older than she was, she had olive skin and big boobs but was slim. Jennifer would talk to older guys and, even at 12 years old, she would flirt with them. I looked at her and I saw a grown-up. She spoke like an adult and I thought she was so cool. She had lots of boyfriends; she was always talking about them and would encourage me to go and meet them with her. I found it all really exciting.
Jennifer would get served in pubs and she could get into nightclubs from her early teens. She was almost left to her own devices by her family. Although she was never aggressive, I always got the impression her mum was scared of her. She didn’t want to upset her, so she let her do as she pleased and she was intimidated by her. Jennifer was never grumpy; she was always smiling.
I met her on my first day at primary school. Jennifer was the first person to come up to me and say hello. She looked so out of place, like an adult wearing a primary school uniform. She looked years older than the other kids and, as the years progressed and we started secondary school together, she began to open avenues to me that excited me. She showed me another world. We were at an age when all the girls were beginning to show an interest in boys but, with Jennifer, it wasn’t boys, it was men. She would describe a boyfriend she was seeing and throw into the conversation that he had a beard.
Jennifer had a camera phone, which I thought was cool. In Year Six when we were both still at primary school, she had shown me a picture of a man on it. She was with him in the photo and they had their arms around each other. She told me his name was Jay, that he was her boyfriend, he lived in London and he was a radio DJ. I had no reason to disbelieve her – Jennifer didn’t tend to do a lot of lying. The following year, when we were in secondary school, she invited me to go on the train with her to London to meet Jay, which I did.
He must have been in his late twenties; she was 11. It didn’t shock me at the time. I don’t know why but there wasn’t a lot that shocked me, given what I had witnessed and experienced in my early life. At that point, I was still naïve about men: I had never had a boyfriend. When I was seven, I had a friend called Steven and we would hold hands in the playground but I never got involved with boys until I started hanging around with Jennifer. It was then that I started to think that I wanted to try new things and see new people.
Jennifer had a motto at secondary school. ‘You’re only young once,’ she would say before going off to meet a man. It was a strange thing for a 12-year-old to say. She would boast about being sexually active. The thought of having sex terrified me; I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to do so willingly because in my experience it only caused physical and psychological pain but Jennifer seemed to revel in the fact she was leading an exotic, exciting and dangerous life.
Time moved forward and we both passed another birthday. At 13 I went for a sleepover at her house and another of her boyfriends was there. He stayed the night with her. He had driven to see her, so he was obviously over 17 because he had a driving licence. She never mentioned ages but he looked to be in his twenties. We went to her room to watch a DVD together and at one stage in the night her mum came in with a tray of sandwiches for us all. Jennifer and her boyfriend sat on the bed, snogging, and I sat on a blow-up mattress on the floor doing my best to ignore them. I fell asleep but woke in the middle of the night. I could hear them having sex. Half-asleep, I remember feeling uneasy about it and wondering if I was dreaming. The next morning, when I was fully awake, I realised what they’d done with me in the room and I was appalled. I shouted at Jennifer but I didn’t really understand what was going on, and I was more annoyed at being woken up. She laughed and didn’t mention it again.
I knew what she was doing was wrong; I knew the age gaps were inappropriate – I thought it was disgusting. Whenever she’d introduce me to one of her boyfriends I told them she was underage. It never put them off and although I used to get cross about it, Jennifer thought it was funny.
As we grew older, she would dress increasingly provocatively. Her belly was always showing and she wore tight clothes that showed off too much flesh. She wore make-up and clothes more fitting for someone in their twenties, but she had a child’s face.
She always tried to encourage me to meet boys with her and I really didn’t want to at that age. I knew nothing about sex apart from what had happened in the past; I always tried to avoid the thought or talk of it.
Despite Jennifer’s grown-up façade, underneath it all she was still a child and often acted like one. We used to walk around the playground together singing and pretending we were going to go on the X Factor. Jennifer got bullied, too, and I started to defend her because I didn’t like seeing people picked on – it reminded me of the way Shane had treated Terri, my brothers and sister and me. We made a good team.
Jennifer would often take herself up to London on her own to meet one of the men she was seeing, and on occasion I went with her. I never told Mum what I was doing and it was exciting. She had a circle of friends much older than school age and she introduced me to the other side of Oxford, where the tour buses didn’t stop. These were the council estates and rundown areas away from the dreaming spires. It was the underbelly of the city, filled with drug dens and dealers, runaway kids and troublemakers. I wasn’t scared of these rough areas: I had grown up in places similar to them, they felt familiar.
In December 2005 Mum’s father, my adoptive grandfather, was becomingly increasingly ill. He had fought a valiant battle against cancer and Mum was spending more and more time with him as he neared the end of his life. It was a very sad time for her. A few days before Christmas she received a call from her mother, who said he was dying. Mum drove to Lincoln to be with him and my granny in his final hours. It meant leaving me alone and so she arranged for me to go and stay at Jennifer’s for a few nights. She had no idea how unreliable Jennifer’s mum was and assumed she had made the right decision, given the short notice and the difficult time she was facing. She dropped me off and arranged to keep in regular contact. Thirteen years old and impressionable, I went off happily to stay with my friend. Jennifer always wanted to do grown-up things, which I thought was cool and, when she said she wanted to go and meet her boyfriend at his home that night, at first I was reluctant but then curiosity got the better of me and I agreed.
Her boyfriend was called Abassi. He told her he was a student. She had met him one day while she was walking around the town. He had approached her and started talking to her. She got a lot of attention from men when she was out – they always seemed to be the same kind of men, usually black or Asian and often seedy-looking. Abassi lived in a place called Wood Farm. It was a shabby council estate, built in the 1950s and 60s to house workers at the car plant in nearby Cowley. As we walked there, she said we were going to watch a DVD and mentioned that Abassi’s brother, Michael, might be dropping in later. I sighed. She had introduced us in the past and she was intent on trying to fix me up with him; she wanted me to lose my virginity to him. I wasn’t sure how old he was but he looked about 40. The idea repulsed me.
‘No way,’ I said.
‘I don’t know why you are so against it,’ she pressed. ‘He’s OK and it will be fun.’
‘I’ll go with you but I’m not getting involved in any of that,’ I sighed.
Jennifer had covered herself in make-up; she wore heavy mascara and lipstick. Despite the cold, she chose to wear a skimpy top and short skirt. She was excited about getting out of the house and had left without explaining to her mum where she was going and when she would be back. It was obvious what she was looking forward to.
I assumed we were only going for a few hours and usually, when I went out, I called Mum to let her know where I was going. That evening I had enough sense not
to call her because I knew where she was and I didn’t want her to worry: already she had enough to contend with.
When we got to the flat, Abassi opened the door. He looked Jennifer up and down hungrily. He gave me the creeps, but I thought he was harmless. I couldn’t understand why Jennifer was so into him, though. When he stood aside to let us in, he patted her bum suggestively. We sat around chatting. There was only one room with a bed in it, a TV and a DVD player. Jennifer and Abassi sat on the bed. His hands were all over her and they started kissing. I watched the telly. After a while, his brother came in. Michael was a big, muscular man, much older than his brother. He sat next to me and touched my leg. I moved away and he laughed. He tried to smooth talk me: he told me how pretty I was and that he fancied me. Although I didn’t think I was in any danger, I didn’t feel comfortable and so I told him I wasn’t interested. Jennifer wasn’t bothered – she had got under the covers with Abassi. I told her I wanted to go.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll just stay for a bit.’
Eventually, Michael got the message and left, leaving me on my own on the floor watching TV while Jennifer and Abassi were in the bed. I was worried about her, whether they were using protection and whether she would get pregnant. I didn’t think about my own safety; I knew where I was and where to go if I needed to get out. I always thought about where the door was in any situation – I’d learned to always be aware of the exit from the days when I would have to flee from Shane and his violent onslaughts.
I still thought we were going back to Jennifer’s, but as the time went on I realised she had no intention of going home. I worried that I would get in trouble if Mum found out. Hungry and tired, eventually I felt myself dozing off. When I woke up it was Christmas Eve. Jennifer and Abassi were asleep in the bed and I made enough noise to rouse them. When she surfaced from the covers, I told her we should be going and that we would be in trouble. Abassi didn’t seem at all bothered. Looking back now, it seems staggering to me that a man could happily spend the night with two children, have sex with one of them and just act like it was the most natural thing in the world. I don’t doubt for one moment that he knew Jennifer was underage – I had already told him but it didn’t seem to matter.
Jennifer could tell I was unhappy and so she collected her stuff and said goodbye. As we walked out, she told me to relax. Annoyed with her for making me stay out, I told her that I was going to find a phone to call my mum and stormed off.
The only place I could find that was open so early was a launderette. I dialled Mum’s mobile.
‘Where are you?’ she asked urgently. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I’ve been at Jennifer’s,’ I lied.
‘No, you haven’t,’ she said. ‘I called her mum and she said she hasn’t seen either of you and doesn’t know where you are.’
I tried to change the subject.
‘How’s Granddad?’ I asked.
‘He died last night,’ she said, her voice cracking.
My heart sank in my chest. How selfish had I been? While Mum had been watching her father die, I had been a runaway. I felt awful.
‘Where are you?’ she repeated.
I told her where I was and asked her to come and pick me up. When she arrived, she sighed when she saw what I was wearing. Like Jennifer, I had tried to dress like an adult. I still had last night’s make-up on and I looked bedraggled. Mum asked what had happened and I told her I had been to a party and there were lots of people there. She didn’t believe me, but I persisted with the lies and apologised for staying out all night.
Despite losing my grandfather, we still managed to have a lovely Christmas Day and we concentrated on supporting Granny. Mum must have been hurting so much inside but she made sure Christmas was still magical.
In the months that followed I started to become increasingly badly behaved. I don’t know why. Hormones? Unresolved issues? Probably a bit of both. I became defiant, I started smoking; I didn’t want to be in school and I was aggressive while there. I got into fights, and started staying out more; I was a brat. I was being naughty and pushing the boundaries to see how far I could stretch them. I ran away regularly, sometimes on my own and sometimes with Jennifer. We were not running away from anything, we loved home and we loved our families. We weren’t doing drugs or drinking but it was exciting to stay out.
I would climb out the window and go off to meet my mates. Mum would call the police and report me missing. She told me off when I got back. It happened once or twice a week; it was fun – I would walk the streets and be a yob. Mum locked the windows but I chiselled the locks. Sometimes when she was asleep she hid the keys under her pillow, but I waited until she drifted off and sneaked in to try to get them. She would wake up and catch me with my hand under her pillow. I just giggled and ran off but would try again later. It was a game – I liked to wind her up. I never went out to cause trouble, or to hurt or fight or steal; I just wanted to go out at night and walk around like a grown-up. There was nothing sinister in it; I would stay out for an hour and come back because I got bored. The problem then was getting back in because I had climbed out a window that was higher up, so I had to wake Mum up.
I remember feeling guilty; I wasn’t misbehaving to be nasty. By now I had a phone of my own and so I called Mum and annoyed her when I was out. She would ask if I was coming home and I would say, ‘No, I am having fun.’ Then she would ask if I had eaten. When I told her no, she would try to entice me back. ‘I’ll cook you something,’ she offered. She was desperate to get me home and safe, but I thought she was being a nag.
I also started to dress in clothes that were much too old for me. Just like Jennifer, I began to get approached. Men would come up to me in the street when I was with Mum and try to chat to me. I was friendly in return. Mum chased them off and told them how young I was.
Sometimes it felt like I was two different people: one moment I could be loving and obedient and good, then I could spin off the rails, run away and become aggressive. I liked grime and R&B but I also had a crush on Bradley from S Club 7 – I had posters of him on my wall. I loved the children’s TV programme Art Attack and I would sit in my room and make up a whole game around it, where I was the presenter. Other days I disappeared to Wood Green and would hang out with Jennifer and older men. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be: there was a battle going on inside me between the good, innocent girl who wanted love and stability, and the bad, aggressive girl who craved danger and instability.
And the bad half was winning.
I was rapidly losing interest in school. Although I tried to be a good pupil and I enjoyed certain lessons such as art and English and I did want to learn, increasingly I was finding it difficult to obey the teachers. I had no respect for authority and would not follow rules – I answered back, I swore, I talked in class, I was argumentative and I disrupted lessons. I got my first detention for talking in class and, although I didn’t get many more, the ones I did get were for talking or being rude.
Although I was starting to build a normal life with Mum, there was a part of me that was not satisfied and wanted to disrupt that normality. Understandably, I had issues but there seemed to be little acknowledgement of this in school – I felt that I was left to get worse, unchecked. There was no help offered. As far as I could tell, I was written off as a naughty child.
Towards the end of my first year in secondary school, I had my first fist fight. It marked a turning point in my school career. With hindsight, it was the beginning of the end. I was still being bullied at the time because of my teeth and I was always defensive. It was a hot day and I was in the playground, chatting to a few of my friends. Two Asian girls walked past and as they did they started picking on me in front of the other children.
I could feel the anger rising inside me like a red tide. Furious, I ran after them. I didn’t think, I reacted; it was subconscious. When I caught up with them I lashed out with my fists. It was pure primal rage as I continued striking out at
them. A crowd gathered round and began chanting, ‘Fight! Fight!’ This spurred me on. I’m not sure if they hit me back. If they did, I didn’t feel anything. It felt like a release and I’m ashamed to admit that I enjoyed the feeling of empowerment I got. I was in such a frenzy that I don’t even know how it ended. It lasted all of five minutes and in the end they fled, I think. But I wanted to carry on. I shouted abuse after them and some of the older boys had to restrain me until I calmed down.
A day later I was called in to the head teacher’s office. I was expecting a reprimand. Fighting wasn’t tolerated at school but I thought, whatever the punishment, it would be worth it because I had stuck up for myself and given the bullies a message.
What the head told me shocked me.
‘We are investigating a racist incident,’ he said. ‘It’s a serious matter, Lauren.’
Both the girls were Muslim and were wearing headscarves. During the brawl, their scarves had fallen off. They had accused me of pulling them off on purpose. I was horrified – I would never do such a thing and I was in no way racist. In fact, I never saw race or religion in anyone; I took each person I met on their merits, regardless of who or what they were. Tolerance was a deep-seated belief of mine. Shane and Terri were both racists – they were always ranting about blacks and Asians, even though we grew up in a multicultural area. They hated anyone who was different and I didn’t want to be like them. And Mum was the most tolerant and accepting person I knew. Our household was completely open-minded.
Although I pleaded my innocence, I was suspended for a week while the school made further enquiries. I was upset by the whole episode; not because of the fight or the suspension but because there was a suggestion I had fought with the girls because they were Asian. Eventually, the school decided the motivation was not racist but I was warned to control my temper.
Girl for Sale Page 9