by Sibel Hodge
I walked towards him, and as I got closer, I noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead, a vibrating, nervous energy oozing out of him, and he mumbled something to himself I couldn’t make out.
And then I heard it clearly…
‘It’s not happening right now. It’s not happening right now. It’s not happening right now.’
I put my hand on his arm. ‘Mitchell? Are you okay?’
It was as if he didn’t see me at first. Didn’t hear me.
‘A bus, a street, a shop, a bike,’ he said, his gaze darting around him.
I kept my hand there, unsure what to do. Was he having some kind of panic attack? A flashback?
‘A bus. A street. A street. A shop,’ he muttered.
‘You’re okay, Mitchell. You’re okay.’
Slowly, he turned to me, his blank eyes suddenly seeming to refocus.
His breathing slowed down again. Then he shook his head and shoulders. Ran a hand over his bald scalp.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘I’m fine.’ He started walking away from me, down the road.
I followed.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Fair enough.’ I knew how it felt with Ava and my parents asking me that stupid question enough times, so I walked with him, not saying anything, moving through men and women in suits, bustling around carrying briefcases.
About ten minutes later, Mitchell looked at me. All the anxiety emanating from him so powerfully a moment ago seemed to have gone, as if nothing remotely odd had even happened. ‘What do you want to do now?’
I looked around the busy London street, feeling totally and utterly lost. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think I want to go home.’
‘You’re welcome to come back to my house. I have some work to do for a few hours, though. I need to catch up online.’
‘Catching paedophiles?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you show me what you do?’
His forehead furrowed into a frown. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’
‘It’s not like I can forget about them, is it? Every moment is filled with thoughts about paedophiles now. And I’m only going to be looking at my phone every five minutes, waiting for Simon to call. Maybe this will distract me, and maybe I can learn something useful that might help you in return for helping me.’
‘All right, then.’
~~~~
We sat on his sofa, Mitchell with an iPhone in his hand, me with his laptop. He’d logged me into one of the teen chat rooms he used, where he’d set up a profile as a twelve-year-old girl called Emma. Her photo showed she had long dark hair, wide eyes with long lashes, and full lips smiling cheekily to the camera. She was dressed in skinny jeans and a pink T-shirt with Drama Queen splashed across the front.
‘Who is she?’
‘No one.’
‘What?’
‘She’s Photoshopped. The original photo is of my niece, Kelly, my sister’s daughter. She’s actually seventeen, not twelve. But I’ve altered her facial features so it looks nothing like her now.’
‘And she doesn’t mind?’
‘No. She wants to help. So does my sister. They feel as strongly as I do about getting these people off the streets.’
‘But she doesn’t actually have to meet these men, does she?’
‘Christ, no! She never comes into contact with them. The perverts online see her fake profile, her fake picture, and start chatting with her—or me. I don’t instigate any sexual talk. In fact, I act immature and shy. I wait for them to rise to the bait, and with these guys, it doesn’t take long. They start grooming the kids, flirting, becoming more and more suggestive. Often they send naked photos of themselves. They get more lewd about what they want to do to her, becoming bolder as time goes on. Eventually, they want to meet. The majority of the time, they blatantly say it’s because they want to have sex, which is usually the time I hand everything over to my contact at the Met’s Paedophile Unit.’
‘And then what happens?’
‘Most of the time, they deny it when they’re confronted with the evidence I’ve collected. Deny knowing the kids are underage, even though it’s a priority of mine to reiterate it to them many times. Or they’re ashamed. Sometimes angry or even violent. Sometimes they say they’re sorry.’ His eyes narrowed with hatred. ‘But what’s sorry going to do? The only thing they’re sorry for is getting caught. A lot of the time, when the police take their computers or search their houses, they’re full of child porn. Sometimes even with babies. Sometimes snuff films like The Friday Club tape.’
‘No!’ I cupped my hands around my mouth, trying to hold back the disgust.
‘People think that paedophilia is just a small minority of people, but it’s prolific, believe me. There are so many of these sick shits out there. And the problem is, a lot of them don’t think they’re doing anything wrong. They actually believe they love children. They don’t think they’re hurting them in any way. Some even think that children should be sexually liberated and have the right to have sex.’
‘What?’ I scrunched my face up in horror.
‘I know, it’s in-fucking-sane! My contact at the paedo unit has had several convictions so far with the evidence I’ve provided, but one of the biggest problems is that the sentences are so lenient. A lot of the time, these people get off with just a slap on the wrist. The police who work in the unit are fuming about the punishment these judges dish out. They’re sitting on their bench, removed from the real world, totally unwilling to make an example of these people. If you can even call them people.’
‘Or they’re involved in it all, too.’
‘Exactly. That high court judge Jamie spoke about, Howard Sebastian, he sat at the Old Bailey. Do you know what the inscription is above the front doors? “Defend the children of the poor and punish the wrongdoer”. It makes a mockery of everything, doesn’t it? Often it takes months and months of painstaking work for dedicated police officers, putting a case together, only for it to be thrown out in court, or for a totally unjust punishment to be handed down. And I’m not just talking about possessing child porn, which feeds the whole industry in the first place. I’m also talking about terrible sexual assaults. Repeat offenders.’ His fingers squeezed the iPhone he was holding so hard I was surprised it wasn’t crushed in his meaty hand. ‘It makes me so bloody angry because a lot of the time there’s no justice for these children.’
I couldn’t describe to him how terrible I thought it all was. The word horrific didn’t even begin to vocalize it. ‘So, what do I need to type?’
He signed into another chat room on his phone and sat closer, showing it to me. I curled my legs up beside me, leaning over his shoulder.
‘This is a different profile I’ve set up. This girl I’ve made up is also twelve and called Lucy. Some guy has been chatting to me for the last week. Look at his photo.’
The man was about forty-five, with receding hair, trying to dress in a trendy way, wearing tight jeans that only accentuated his pot belly, and a long-sleeve T-shirt with writing all over it. He wore Converses and sat on the bonnet of a yellow Ferrari. His profile said his name was Nick.
I shook my head, a sickening sensation welling up inside. ‘Whose photo are you using for Lucy?’ The profile showed a different picture to the previous one.
‘This is another Photoshopped picture. It fools them every time. That, along with the abbreviated text-speak of a young kid typing.’
Mitchell showed me what the man had just typed in the personal chat message.
Nick: You’ve got lovely tits in your photo!
I watched Mitchell’s fingers move over the iPhone’s keypad in return and waited for a reply. A minute later, his iPhone pinged, and he showed it to me, his eyebrows raised, shaking his head.
Lucy: LOL, im only 12!!!
Nick: You look a lot older. Very sexy.
Lucy: thx
Nick: Want to se
nd me a photo of them?
Lucy: *blush*
Nick: Have you ever had sex before?
Lucy: course not!!!
Nick: I bet you’ve got all the boys after you. You’re gorgeous.
Lucy: maybe ;)
Nick: You’re so sexy, of course they all fancy you. Who wouldn’t!
Lucy: maybe some guys at school but theyre too immature.
I wondered how my life had come to this, passing the afternoon by trying to get sick perverts to reveal their true colours so we could try to put them away. It was disturbingly surreal. But I was starting to believe the same as Mitchell.
Did justice really exist? Or was that another lie?
Chapter 34
Mitchell phoned a local Indian restaurant at seven p.m., and we ordered a delivery. Surprisingly, I was starving. We moved the laptop and phone to the kitchen table as we ate, reading out the chat coming into each other’s profiles and what our replies were as we typed.
‘He’s asking if we can meet up. He says he’ll take me anywhere I want to go and wants to know my dress size so he can buy me something special!’ Mitchell glared a venomous look at his phone and growled. ‘Imagine if I was a real young girl being fooled by him?’ He forked a mouthful of chicken tikka into his mouth.
The laptop pinged, and I read out the message from the guy chatting to me as ‘Emma’. “Would you like to see some more photos of me?” he’s asking.’ I typed in as I said the words out loud. ‘“Okay. Smiley face”.’ I gasped when I saw the nude photo a guy called John had sent me. I turned the laptop round to face Mitchell. ‘Dirty pervert!’ I pushed my dinner away. ‘That’s completely put me off my food. Even I wouldn’t want to see that at my age, so why does he think a twelve-year-old would?’
‘Because he’s not right in the head.’
One of my mobile phones rang then. It was my personal one, resting on the table, with Ava’s number flashing at me. ‘My sister again,’ I said to Mitchell before picking up.
‘Hi, I’m sorry about earlier. I probably sounded like a nosey, bossy sister, didn’t I?’ she gushed. ‘But…look, are you at home yet? I was going to pop round. And before you say no again, you’ll actually be doing me a favour. I’ve been stuck in the house all day, and I’m feeling antsy.’
‘I’m…um…’ I glanced at Mitchell. ‘I’m not at home at the moment.’
‘Oh. Where are you? Have you finally decided to go and see Lynn or Becca? Good, I’m really pleased you’re getting out of the house again and trying to move on with things.’
I heard the relief in her voice, so I didn’t bother to correct her. What would I say, anyway? I’m in a paedophile hunter’s kitchen, chatting online to sickos, while I wait to see if a journalist will help me expose my boyfriend’s killer after I watched a snuff movie involving a VIP child abuse ring?
‘Well, I hope you’re having a nice time.’ The warmth in her voice filtered down the phone. ‘I’ll catch up with you soon, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Love you.’
‘Love you, too, sis.’ I hung up. ‘She’ll probably be straight on the phone to Mum and Dad now, telling them I seem to be feeling a bit better and am out with my friends. I think that’s better than them knowing the truth. I want to protect them from anything bad happening to them all. And they would never believe it, anyway,’ I said sadly. My Samsung rang then, which meant it was Simon. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, it’s Simon. I’ve just finished going through everything, and it’s shocking. I’ve got to make some more enquiries, obviously, but I’m going to put a story together. I’m convinced the tape and photos are genuine, and I’d also like nothing better than to name these depraved individuals, but I won’t be allowed to print their names. One, for legal reasons. We can’t name them unless they’re arrested or interviewed by the police. And two, because we can’t do anything to jeopardise any future police investigation. I know you don’t want to contact the police yourselves at this stage, but we can act as an intermediary, if that’s something you decide on later. That way your identity stays hidden. However, there is another way to initiate an official investigation.’ He paused for a beat. ‘This really needs to go to the top first, so I’ve been thinking about that, and I wanted to make a suggestion. There’s an MP called Alistair Bromwyn. He was very outspoken about historical child abuse allegations that happened several years ago in another children’s home, involving a prominent VIP network. Not quite in the same league as we’re talking now, but they were still well-respected, influential men. He was very vigorous in campaigning for a public enquiry into it after a stalled police investigation seemed to be covering up what had happened. He came under a lot of pressure from all arenas over it, including members of his own party, but he didn’t back down. And because of his tenacity, in the end, with Alistair’s involvement, the victims managed to get the justice they deserved.
‘I think Alistair will be sympathetic. I’m certain he won’t let this get brushed under the carpet. He’ll want to make sure there’s no cover-up, the same as you. And even if no other witnesses come forward, the evidence you have is undeniable. Considering the high-profile nature of the people involved, you’re going to need some influential help on your side, and Alistair is one of the few, genuine politicians who are actually in the game to do something good. Do you want me to arrange a meeting? I interviewed him several times when I was covering the children’s home scandal, and I have a secure phone number for him.’
‘Let me talk it over with Mitchell, and I’ll get back to you.’
‘Absolutely. I’ll leave it with you. In the meantime, getting back to the story, I can reveal their professions—MP, judge, high-ranking police officer, cabinet minister, etcetera. And I’ll put in an appeal for any witnesses with information to come forward. I’ll show it to you before it goes to print to get your approval. Are you happy with all that?’
‘Yes, that’s very helpful.’
‘I’ve seen a lot of terrible things in my career. You have to become hardened to the atrocities people inflict on each other. But what I saw on the tape…it’s impossible to be hardened to something like that. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure this story is covered sensitively, and help in any way to bring the perpetrators to justice.’
‘Thanks so much, Simon. Oh, and one other thing, just for the record. If anything happens to me as a result of this, you know where to look.’
We said our goodbyes, and I hung up and relayed the conversation to Mitchell, who was instantly dismissive of involving Alistair Bromwyn, calling all politicians lying bastards controlled by puppetmasters. But after spending hours researching him and his past, the more it seemed that Alistair was one of the good guys, as Simon had said. Everything we found out about him showed an MP who actually seemed to care. An avid social-justice activist who wanted to bring about positive and progressive change in areas like human rights, peace, and environmental issues. A straight-talker who didn’t stoop to childish slurs or personal insults. Someone who seemed genuinely authentic and sincere, and willing to stand up for what he believed in with courage and conviction, regardless of whether it toed the party line or not. Back and forth Mitchell and I went, me trying to convince Mitchell that Alistair was exactly the right kind of person who had both the influence and integrity that we needed in our corner—the only person we could take a chance on—and him slowly acquiescing. In the end, I felt as if we didn’t have a choice. It was Alistair or nothing.
Half of me felt grateful and almost happy there had been some good news. But the other half knew the journey had only just begun.
Chapter 35
I walked up the steps of the community centre with Mitchell at my side. When we reached the top, I stopped for a moment, trying to prepare myself to tell a story that didn’t get any easier the more I told it.
We had an appointment to meet Alistair Bromwyn at one of his weekly constituency surgeries, arranged via Simon. My stomach turned to liquid with worry. Ali
stair couldn’t deny what was in the photos and on tape, but did he really have the strength and integrity to take action against a serving government minister and the defence secretary? Members of his own political party? Or was this a waste of time? It could be like me holding up a big arrow and saying, ‘Come and get me! I’m here. You can bump me off now, too!’
Mitchell gripped my arm before we went inside. ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?’
I nodded. ‘If I want to finish what Jamie started, then I have to take a chance on Alistair.’
‘Okay, then.’
We headed inside and were met by Alistair’s secretary, who introduced himself as Damien Hammond and led us to an empty office down a corridor across from the main hall.
‘He’ll be with you shortly.’ Damien gave us a curt nod, closing the door behind him.
I picked at my fingernails while we waited. I took a deep breath, trying to dampen the sickness churning away. I glanced at Mitchell, who sat back in the plastic chair next to me, his hands in his pockets, his gaze casually scanning the room as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
‘Aren’t you nervous?’ I asked.
‘I’ve had years of practice at waiting. Anyway, either he’s going to help or he’s not. Being nervous isn’t going to change that.’
‘Yes, but if he doesn’t help us, where do we go from here? We don’t have many options, and they’ll just get away with it,’ I hissed, angry at his lack of worrying. ‘Is that what you want?’ I glared accusingly at him, my face so tense all my muscles ached.
‘You know that’s not what I want at all. Let’s not think about it until it happens, okay?’