by Holly Archer
This time, he drove to the end of a dirt track a few miles out of town. As always, he ordered me into the front seat but, this time, he rubbed his hand on my thigh. I tensed as he ran his cold hand up and down my leg, slowly pushing up my school skirt. Before I could protest, he was leaning towards me with his mouth open. Although he had perfect teeth, his breath was horrendous, like he hadn’t brushed them in ages. His black moustache bristled against my face as I recoiled in horror.
‘Get off me!’ I shouted instinctively, as I drew away.
I felt completely and utterly disgusted, but I also felt stupid, too. Of course Mr Khan wanted something in return for the money and the takeaways. How could I have been so naive? I barely had time to hold this thought in my head, before he lurched towards me and tried to kiss me again.
‘No!’ I said, as firmly as I could. ‘Stop it!’
He looked at me, fury burning in his piercing, evil eyes. For a moment, he was deathly silent. I held my breath, waiting for him to fly into a rage. I even wondered if he might hit me.
But he calmly turned the key in the ignition and said: ‘Out.’
‘Out?’ I repeated. ‘But we’re in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Out,’ he said, again. Finally, he raised his voice. ‘Get out!’
He prodded my arm, as I picked up my school bag and scrambled out of the car onto the dirt track. Without another word, he turned the car round and sped off into the distance. I stood there in disbelief for a few seconds, expecting him to come back, but that wasn’t going to happen. Eventually I realised I had no choice but to start walking home. It was only a few miles out of town but the sun was starting to set and I felt a little scared as I trudged through the woodland. If something happened to me, who would know to look for me here?
When I finally got home, Mum was dishing out dinner as she balanced Amy on her hip.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked. ‘You’re a bit late.’
‘Just with Carly,’ I lied. ‘I’m here now.’
She didn’t ask any more questions, and I was relieved.
From then on, I knew things were very different. I still went to school and, to my teachers, I suppose I looked like a normal pupil. I’d overcome the hurdles I’d faced at primary and my grades were above average. Even with my mild dyslexia, I did quite well in English and I didn’t really mind IT, either. Where I really excelled was in travel and tourism, my favourite subject, and I still told people I wanted to be an air hostess.
But I was already becoming a very different person to the little girl who’d sat on the plane to Majorca, wide-eyed and eager to explore the world.
I guess I probably didn’t stick out much to my teachers. I wasn’t top of the class, or the teacher’s pet, but neither did I disrupt the class or refuse to do my homework, so I wasn’t loads of trouble, either. My school uniform was always clean and I came from a good home. My parents had jobs and they fed me and clothed me and turned up to parents’ night. How was anyone to know I was being slowly sucked into a horrible, depraved world that was beyond my control?
It sounds bad, but there were other girls my age in Telford who probably caused the teachers more of a headache, although usually through no fault of their own. Most of them were in care, or at least had a social worker. I’d never met a social worker in my life and Mum would have been horrified if it had even been suggested that social services should get involved with our family. Surely if anyone was at risk from predatory older men it was those girls from troubled backgrounds, not me.
But every night, when the school bell rang, I knew it was time to meet Mr Khan. Even if I was more than a couple of minutes late, he’d phone and shout at me. He really, really scared me – much more than he had done before. Sometimes we’d just sit in the car and he wouldn’t do anything, but other times he’d kiss me and it was horrible but I felt like I had to oblige because I didn’t want him to dump me in some godforsaken spot in the middle of nowhere.
I’d grimace as he forced his tongue down my throat and the harshness of his six o’clock shadow scratched my face. I held my nose as much as I could, so I didn’t have to smell his horrible odour – sweat mixed with cheap soap and unclean clothes. I never saw him wear anything but his white tunic and drawstring trousers and I wondered if he’d ever washed them.
I didn’t really tell Carly about the kisses. I don’t think I told anyone, not at first. I already felt like a slag because of everything that had happened with the boys my own age. To admit, out loud, that a man who was old enough to be my dad was driving me to the middle of nowhere and sticking his tongue down my throat in exchange for a tenner or a portion of chips and a naan bread made me feel even more cheap and worthless.
One evening, after he’d taken me to the foot of the Wrekin, I was walking through town with Carly when we saw Ali from afar. He was surrounded by a group of lads.
‘Hey, Holly!’ he shouted. ‘Meet me in ten minutes, eh? Will you sort it?’
I tried to tell him to fuck off, but his mates started shouting that I was a slag and making noises and gestures. Eventually Carly and I decided to sit on a bench in an alleyway a few streets along, just to get away. But there was no escaping these boys, not for any length of time. Before long, two Asian lads from her school had spotted us and plonked themselves down next to us. I rolled my eyes.
‘All right, Carly,’ the first said. ‘Who’s your mate?’
‘Her name’s Holly,’ Carly replied.
‘Holly,’ he said. ‘Oh yeah. I’ve heard about you.’
The lads were a bit of a pain, but they weren’t quite as rude as Ali, so I just put up with them. I knew what they wanted because they kept dropping hints, but I hoped they’d go away eventually.
All of a sudden, I was aware of an older Asian man walking towards me. He was really scruffy, with stubble on his face and greying hair. He wasn’t dressed in traditional clothes like Mr Khan. He had black jeans on, and a long black coat that came to his knees. He started talking to the lads we were with.
‘Hey, Kev!’ one said. ‘This is Holly.’
The man span round to look at me. Something about his dark eyes looked oddly familiar, which was weird because I’d never seen him in my life before. I could feel his gaze travelling from my face to my still-developing breasts, lingering on my body for a few seconds before he spoke.
‘Oh yeah,’ he replied, with a nod of recognition. ‘I’ve heard about all the stuff you get up to.’
My face burned. For what seemed like the hundredth time in the last few months, I asked the dreaded question: ‘How do you know who I am?’
He laughed. ‘Because I just do. Most people know who you are, love.’
I wished the ground would swallow me up, as I gazed at him, bemused.
‘You know what,’ he said. ‘If you’re going to do all of that stuff, you might as well get paid for it. I can sort you out.’
I still wasn’t really following. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I know what you’ve been up to,’ he said again. ‘No point in trying to fool me. But why are you doing all this for free? You could be making a fortune. Do you know Lily Brown?’
I nodded slowly. ‘I know who she is, kind of. She’s at my school but she’s older than me.’
‘Well, let me tell you this. Lily Brown has made £17,000 doing what you do. She’s going to get driving lessons and everything with the money. All I’m saying is, don’t give it away for free like you’re doing now. Think about it.’
My mouth hung open, as he walked away with his hands in his pockets.
‘Who the hell is that?’ I asked.
‘Oh, his name’s Kev,’ one said. ‘He’s Imran’s dad. He’s a pimp.’
5
Kev
I had an idea what a pimp was. I knew it was something to do with selling women for sex, but I somehow imagined a suave man in a purple velvet suit with a big cane, like something you’d see in a film. I didn’t think of a scruffy guy who owned a downmarket takeaw
ay in Telford.
I also wondered why they called him Kev. Although he didn’t dress like Mr Khan and some of the other Asian men I saw around town, he was obviously Pakistani. His skin was much darker than even Imran’s, and his West Midlands accent had a faint foreign twang. But why didn’t he use his real name? It struck me as more than a bit odd.
Imran had told me he had an English mum, and that’s why he looked a bit different to Ali and Naseer. The cogs turned in my brain, as I realised this meant Kev was living with someone outside of his faith, which was quite unusual in his community.
As Carly chatted to the lads, I thought about Imran and how he’d claimed his dad didn’t give a shit what he did, while other Asian boys were kept on a short leash. Had Imran told his dad about what I’d done? It seemed absurd, but the thought played on my mind and it made me feel a bit sick. In the end I convinced myself he must have been a friend of someone like Beaver or Mr Khan. But there were so many people spreading rumours about me, he could have heard them from countless sources.
And, if truth be told, I kept thinking about what he’d said about Lily Brown and the £17,000. I wondered what she’d had to do for it. Did she have to have sex with men? I couldn’t help but think what I could do with all of that money. I’d considered myself rich when Mr Khan handed me a tenner because I could buy some crisps and fizzy drinks. £17,000 was beyond my wildest dreams. I imagined being able to get driving lessons and a really nice car. I didn’t have any idea how much houses cost, but I fantasised I’d be able to buy one of those, too, when I was old enough, if I started saving now.
All the while, Kev’s words rang in my head: ‘If you’re going to do all the stuff you do, you might as well get paid for it.’
Of course, I hadn’t really done much. I’d given Imran the blow job and I’d let Mr Khan rub my thighs and stick his tongue down my throat a few times. I say I’d let him, but I didn’t really feel I had an option. The problem was, everyone thought I was a slag. The rumours about me were ten times more outrageous than the reality. No matter what I did, grown men persistently called me, asking to meet me, and boys my own age gestured to me on the street, demanding blow jobs. Maybe, just maybe, if people were going to say all of these horrible things about me, I deserved something in return.
‘What would you do with £17,000?’ I asked Carly, as we approached her front door.
‘Oh, my God, I dunno,’ she said. ‘Do you think that guy was being serious about Lily Brown?’
I shrugged. ‘Could be. Anyway, night.’
The whole of the next day I thought about Kev and what he’d said. His words were a bit like a poison, slowly seeping into my brain. I had no idea how much I was already being manipulated and abused by various different men. I just hated being called a slag, but here was someone who claimed he could make it worth my while.
I’d never seen Kev around before, and he’d never phoned me like Mr Khan or Beaver or the others, so I assumed it might be weeks or months before I bumped into him again. I could have just walked into the takeaway, but I didn’t want to see Imran.
As chance would have it – or maybe it wasn’t chance at all – I met Kev again a few days later. Mr Khan had picked me up as usual after school and driven me into the woods. He hadn’t kept me long, just enough to grope my legs under my school skirt and shove his horrible tongue down my throat. When I’d had my sloppy first kiss at the disco with Ryan, I couldn’t imagine anything worse, but at least Ryan had brushed his teeth. The foul taste of Mr Khan’s unclean mouth, and the thought of his wiry moustache on my lips, is still enough to make me gag, even today.
Kev was standing by a phone box on the main road, the one where I often met Carly after Mr Khan dropped me home.
‘Holly,’ he said. ‘All right?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah. You?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Good. What are you up to?’
I shrugged. ‘Just heading home from school.’
Kev looked at his watch and laughed. ‘School finished ages ago. Where have you been?’ He had a weird glint in his eye. ‘Up to no good, eh?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You know what I was saying to you the other night? About Lily Brown?’
My guard dropped a little. ‘Does she really have all that money?’
Kev nodded. ‘She sure does. It’s all in the bank. Why don’t you think about it, eh? Easy money, it really is.’
‘What would I, you know, have to do?’ I asked. ‘Like, to get the £17,000?’
The corners of Kev’s mouth twitched a little. ‘Well, you’d have to have sex with someone, wouldn’t you?’
Even in my naivety, I’d guessed all along that this was what he’d want me to do. I always imagined losing my virginity would be years away, maybe with a first boyfriend that I really loved. I tried to think about what the men Kev would have lined up for me would be like. I didn’t have a clue about sex. What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to act? Would it be sore? Maybe I’d just have to close my eyes and think about what I could do with the money.
‘Don’t worry,’ Kev laughed. ‘You can think about it. But if you do want to do it, you’ll have to pass a test first.’
Now, I can see Kev was playing a long game but at the time it was like he was giving me some kind of opportunity. Over the next few weeks, I saw him most nights, mainly when I’d just been dropped off by Mr Khan. It sounds absurd, two middle-aged men passing me around like a piece of meat, but by then I think I was so brainwashed it just seemed normal. When I was with Kev, we’d just talk at first. Sometimes, we’d talk about normal things but sometimes he’d mention Lily and the other girls who worked for him and all the things they’d bought for themselves with the money they’d got. He didn’t pressure me, not really. He just slowly and calmly fed me all this information. He never talked about the men, only the money.
He also kept mentioning Imran to me, teasing me and asking me if I fancied him. I’d always try to change the subject, but he was having none of it.
‘You know I can set you up with him,’ he said. ‘If you like him.’
My face burned as I mumbled that, really, it was OK. I wondered again if Imran had told him what we’d done, or even that we’d come into the takeaway one night to visit while he’d been working. I wanted just to forget about Imran, but now I see that that he too was a sick pawn in Kev’s game: a handsome teenage son; just another carrot to dangle in front of me so I’d think a little bit more about doing what he wanted.
One evening he took me back to his house and I quickly discovered he had a rather strange domestic set-up. He was married, but not to Imran’s mum. His wife was Pakistani, just like him, but they lived apart. They had children together, but they were grown up, a few years older than Imran and his siblings. Ever dutiful, his wife cooked his dinner every night and brought it round to him in a little dish, even though he’d chosen to leave her for Imran’s mum. To me, it seemed completely mental, like Mum driving round to Dad’s every night with leftovers from our tea, even though they’d split up years ago and she was happy with Phil.
The family home was on a nondescript street in Telford, a semi-detached ex-council house indistinguishable from all the others around it. I pushed open the black iron gate and walked down the path to the front door, following as Kev led the way. When he opened the door, the first thing I caught sight of was Imran’s little sister standing at the top of the stairs, outside her mum’s bedroom, as if she was standing guard. She was younger than me, ten, maybe eleven, with impish black eyes and a startled look on her face.
‘Liz isn’t very well,’ Kev explained.
On my later visits to the house, I’d discover that Liz had multiple sclerosis and often was too weak to get out of bed. She had not one daughter but two, both a few years younger than me, but I’d soon come to realise that they cared for her pretty much round the clock, while Imran and his brother Farooq did as they pleased.
The younger sister stood at
the top of the stairs – Ayesha, as I’d soon discover she was called – gave me a long, shy look, as if she didn’t quite know what to say. The older sister, Nadia, was soon behind her, staring at me equally wide-eyed. After a few moments, they both retreated back into the bedroom, closing the door without a word to either their dad or me. I could just about make out the sound of them whispering as they closed the door.
Kev ushered me into the living room. It looked like any front room in any street in Telford. The carpet was an unremarkable cream colour, as were the walls, and the shelves were full of the kids’ faces beaming from school pictures. For a moment, it almost seemed a bit too normal.
But, of course, this house wasn’t normal at all.
It was a few seconds before I became aware of the low moans coming from the corner of the room. My eyes darted from Imran’s smiling school picture – conventional as can be – to the huge flat-screen television on the wall. As the image on the screen slid into focus, it was all I could do not to gasp in dismay. A blonde woman with huge fake breasts was writhing around on top of a balding, middle-aged man, and they were both making all sorts of noises. I’d never seen two people having sex before, and I’d always wondered what it might look like, but my curiosity quickly gave way to a mixture of horror and embarrassment as I became aware of the figure in the corner.
In the armchair sat Farooq – twelve-year-old Farooq – with his trousers and pants around his ankles, masturbating furiously as he watched this filthy porn film. I’d never seen anything like it in my life, and I clasped my hands to my face in horror as I tried not to look at the two figures jiggling around on the screen. The blonde woman’s moans were getting faster, and more high-pitched, as she tossed her huge mane of hair around. She was completely naked, apart from her stiletto heels. My face was scarlet and I wanted to look anywhere but at the screen, but that meant I couldn’t avoid watching Farooq openly pleasuring himself as his dad and I looked on.