I Never Gave My Consent

by Holly Archer

  ‘Holly!’ he shouted. ‘Do that again, you go in the back!’

  But at the end of every night, he always brought us a huge pizza with extra toppings – anything we wanted, he said.

  Even now, I look back on those times, driving around in his car, as some of the happiest memories of my teenage years. Good times were few and far between, so I clung on to them with all my might when they did come along.

  Still, the laughs we had with Beaver were never enough to block out all of the other stuff that was going on, especially with Mr Khan. By now, he was having sex with me almost every day, either at the end of the dirt track or the foot of the Wrekin. My happy childhood memories of these places were all but destroyed. Once he’d finished, he’d always hiss his awful threats to me, reminding me what would happen to my family if I didn’t do as he said, so the bad dreams and the daily terror continued. Every time poor little Amy jumped into my arms I felt my heartbeat quicken and my palms become clammy with sweat. How could he threaten to harm an innocent little child? So it was safe to say I thought things couldn’t get any worse. Then they did. They got much, much worse.

  It was November and the ground was icy. There was a sharp chill in the air, as Mr Khan took me from the street and bundled me into the back of the car, like always. He took me to the end of the dirt track and pinned me to the back seat. It was like every other day, but he seemed angrier, more violent than usual. He yanked at my hair and smashed my head on the window as I cried out in pain.

  ‘Shut up,’ he hissed. ‘Fucking bitch.’

  Then he ripped my trousers down and pushed himself inside of me. It was the same as always, but he did it with such force that pain seared through my whole body and, instinctively, I kicked out. Things seemed to happen in slow motion, as my leg collided with the side of his body and he slowly raised his head, rage flickering in his eyes. I expected him to keep going but he stopped and pushed open the door. My trousers and knickers were still around my ankles, but that hardly mattered. Mr Khan pulled me by the hair again – it seemed to be his favourite move – and threw me out of the car. Trousers still down, I rolled onto the muddy ground as he kicked me, hard, on the side of my body.

  For a few seconds I lay on the cold ground, shivering and stunned as he opened the boot of his car and began rifling through it.

  As he walked back towards me, I screamed: ‘No! Please, please, no!’

  Because in his hand was a belt, with a huge cold buckle. He kicked me again, so I rolled onto my back and my T-shirt and denim jacket had ridden up a little.

  ‘Please,’ I said, again. ‘Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  He stood over me with the belt in his hand, and for a moment I thought he was just trying to scare me, that he’d relented. But just as I tried to get up, he swung it in mid-air, bringing it down on my naked lower back with all his strength.

  ‘Bitch!’ he cried. ‘Fucking bitch!’

  It was so intense it took my breath away, like I’d been winded, but I barely had time to process the pain before he delivered another blow, and another, and another. Each seemed more agonising than the last, and I thought he’d never run out of steam. Tears pricked my eyes and rolled down my face, as he called me all the insults he could think of: bitch, slag, whore, slut, you name it. And you know what? I believed him. As I writhed around in the mud, gripped by the most excruciating pain I’d ever experienced, I believed I was all of those things. I believed I deserved nothing better but to lie half-naked on the ground and have a strange man beat me black and blue because I’d showed just the slightest flicker of resistance when he began to violently rape me.

  Finally Mr Khan seemed to flag. It felt like he’d been whacking me with the belt forever when he delivered his final blow, but it must have been no more than a few minutes.

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ he said, as he brought the belt down on me one last time. ‘Don’t you ever do that again.’

  When he stopped, the pain took hold with a vengeance. I doubled up in agony and rolled over in the mud, trousers and knickers still down. For a few minutes, I cared very little about being seen by passers-by in my half-dressed state. I was too consumed by the agony. I didn’t have to look at my back to know that the blows had left me with angry, weeping sores, which would only get more painful as the days went on.

  I knew Mr Khan was going to leave me there. I didn’t even consider for a second that he’d take me home. Like nothing had happened, he opened the boot and chucked the belt back inside. Without another word to me, he jumped in the driver’s seat of his car and sped off out of view.

  It took me a few minutes before I could even pull up my trousers to protect my modesty. I could hardly sit up, because every move I made was torture. My legs were covered in mud and stray leaves stuck to my thighs. Eventually I managed to sit up straight and pull my clothes back on. As I did, pain seized me again and I doubled over, breathless and sobbing.

  I don’t know how I managed to stand up, but somehow I did. I didn’t know what to do at first, so I just stood in the middle of the dirt track, my head spinning. I knew I was in no fit state to walk home, so I only had one option, really. I fished my phone from the pocket of my jacket and I dialled Beaver’s number.

  ‘Can you come and get me?’ I winced. ‘Mr Khan has dumped me again.’

  He said he’d be there in fifteen minutes, once he’d dropped off a pizza, so I had no option but to stand and wait. Once again, darkness was setting in and I felt scared and isolated. For a moment, I feared Mr Khan would come back and attack me again. Then my mind flashed to my family at home and panic rose in my throat. Had he sped off to hurt them now? What if he’d gone to set the house on fire, like he’d said he would, because I’d disobeyed him? But I couldn’t concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds before the pain took hold again and my whole body tensed.

  Eventually, I saw some headlights in the distance, as Beaver’s car slowly rolled up the dirt track to where I was standing. I opened the door and lowered myself in. I tried to sit back but, as my back brushed the seat, I squealed in pain. The only way I could feel vaguely comfortable was to sit forward, almost doubled in two.

  ‘What’s wrong, Holly?’ Beaver asked. ‘Sit back.’

  I shook my head, trying my hardest not to cry. ‘I can’t. Mr Khan beat me up. He hit my back with a belt. It’s so sore.’

  With that, I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I dissolved into throaty, animalistic sobs, as I held my head in my hands. Beaver placed an awkward hand on my knee and then he punched the steering wheel really loudly. When I looked up, his expression had changed and anger was spread across his face.

  ‘He hurt you?’ he asked.

  I nodded, as another salty tear escaped down my cheek. ‘Yes,’ I said, softly.

  Beaver punched the steering wheel again. ‘I’ll fucking kill him. The bastard!’

  11

  Mouldy Rooms and More Men

  Beaver was furious that Mr Khan had hurt me – even much more than I thought he’d be. It was almost like he was my dad or something. I didn’t think he’d be so protective of me but I guess that in a strange sort of way we’d become quite good friends. It was an unlikely friendship but I was glad to have someone on my side, especially someone a bit older.

  ‘I told you!’ he said, as we drove back down the dirt track. ‘Stay away from him. He’s a bad man.’

  I was still crying. ‘You don’t get it,’ I sobbed. ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘I said, don’t go near him,’ Beaver said. ‘But you always do.’

  I stared straight ahead at the dark road. I was in too much pain to say much more and Beaver softened when he saw the tears were still rolling down my cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But you are my jaan.’

  I knew jaan must be an Urdu word, but I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t even think to ask. Usually when Beaver spoke in his own language I’d quiz him on what the words meant and then I’d tell him the English t
ranslation. His English had really come on since he’d started hanging around with Carly and me, and I actually felt quite proud. But today I was too sore for any language lessons. I just assumed it was another word for friend.

  As we drove back to Telford, Beaver put on some of his music and started to do his ridiculous, awkward dancing to try to make me laugh. I smiled a little but I just wasn’t in the mood. I was too sore to find anything funny. But as we drove along one of the main roads into town we stopped at the traffic lights and I felt my stomach turn over. For a second, I forgot the pain in my back. Bile rose in my throat, my eyes fixed on the car in front of us: Mr Khan’s Nissan.

  I grabbed Beaver’s arm. ‘Oh, God!’ I cried. ‘That’s him!’

  ‘In front?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes!’

  I instinctively covered my face with my hands and started to cry again. I didn’t know what I expected Beaver to do but, before I had time to think, the lights turned green and he was like a man possessed. He tore after Mr Khan, getting so close to his car that I thought he was going to cause an accident. We must have chased after him for a mile or so, maybe even two, through dark, forgotten streets in nameless council estates all over town. I felt really anxious, and I kept asking Beaver to slow down, scared of what he might do next.

  But all he would say was: ‘I’ll get the fucking bastard.’

  For about ten minutes, I honestly thought Beaver was about to run Mr Khan off the road. I was scared, but it was also weirdly exciting. Perhaps some people will think this is wrong, but as we wound through the streets at breakneck speed, I fantasised that we’d crash and Mr Khan would be killed.

  Eventually Mr Khan pulled over into a lay-by on one of the main roads and Beaver screeched to a halt behind him. Both of them jumped out of their cars and Mr Khan’s face was contorted with fury.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he spat. ‘You trying to fucking kill me?’

  Beaver looked a bit gormless, but he got right up in Mr Khan’s face.

  ‘Holly,’ he said. ‘Why you fucking touch her?’

  Mr Khan just sneered at him. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘You fuck off!’ Beaver screamed. ‘You fucking touch her again, I kill you!’

  As I watched from the car, I wondered what Mr Khan would do next. He was so unpredictable. I expected him to open his boot and get the belt out, to start striking Beaver with it too. But they just stood staring at each other for several seconds before he spoke.

  ‘Fuck off, bastard,’ he said. He was laughing. ‘I’ll do what I want.’

  He jumped back into his car and it screeched off, just like it had earlier in the evening, when he’d left me rolling around half-naked on the dirt track. For a moment, Beaver looked like he might follow him again, but he’d disappeared out of sight in seconds. I wasn’t sure if I should feel safe or grateful that someone was fighting my corner. I felt a bit pathetic, like I didn’t really deserve to be Beaver’s mate. Carly and I always took the piss out of him but, here he was, sticking up for me, against Mr Khan of all people.

  ‘I get you some food,’ he said, gently.

  He took me to the takeaway where he worked and came back out with a massive pizza. I wasn’t really in the mood for food but I thought it was sweet of him, so I picked at a few slices. My back was still so sore that I felt sick. I suppose I should have probably gone to hospital to get checked out, but that would have opened a whole can of worms that I couldn’t deal with. For a start, because I was under sixteen, the first thing they’d do would be to tell Mum, and how could I begin to explain why I’d been beaten up with a belt?

  When I’d put the leftover pizza back in the box, Beaver dropped me home, right to my front door. Normally I’d have been really worried about Mum seeing me in a car with a man who was at least fifteen years older than me, but somehow I let my guard down with Beaver. He wasn’t like the others, he was just a mate. Plus, I was in too much pain to care. I was just grateful I didn’t have to walk too far.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mum asked when I got in. ‘You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘Just tired. I’m going to bed.’

  For a second, I thought about telling her, about opening the floodgates and pouring my heart out, but I quickly talked myself out of it. I was still convinced she’d go nuts at me for being such a slag. Because that’s what I was, right? A massive slag. I wouldn’t be in this mess if I wasn’t.

  I might have been glad that Beaver had stood up for me at first, but I soon began to realise that it had been a terrible idea. He’d made Mr Khan much, much angrier and much more determined to hurt me. Later that week, he asked me if I loved him. I said yes, even though of course nothing could have been further from the truth. I hated him more than I’d ever hated anyone. But he told me I’d taken too long to answer, so he started to hit me with his shoe. It was sore, but nowhere near as sore as the attack with the belt.

  Some days he beat me up really badly, others he barely touched me at all. It didn’t matter, though. I was still absolutely petrified of what he’d do next. It was like one big mind game to him, and he loved seeing the fear on my face as I tried to second-guess what was coming next. There were times when I wondered if things would be easier had he just given me a right good hiding every day. Then at least I would know what was coming.

  But every time he did beat me up, I instantly regretted thinking that, even for a second. Anything could trigger his rages. Sometimes he brought out the belt. Other times it was a little iron bar. It couldn’t have been more than eight inches long but it was absolute agony when he struck it repeatedly against my cold, bare skin.

  Soon, I stopped asking what I was supposed to have done. He’d beat me for being seconds late to meet him, for having my period, and even if it took him too long to ejaculate. Everything was my fault, so I just lay there and took it and hoped it would soon be over. What else could I do?

  I didn’t tell a soul. Not Carly, not Beaver, and certainly not Mum. I was convinced no one would understand and, while I was glad Beaver seemed to have my back, I knew it was pointless to get him to intervene. No one could stop Mr Khan when he flew into a fit of rage. Sending other men to shout at him only seemed to fuel the fire. One thing I noticed was that he always seemed to hit me in places that could easily be kept hidden, like my back, or stomach, or the tops of my legs. I guess he didn’t want to get caught, and he knew I was so brainwashed that I wouldn’t tell anyone. I just felt pathetically grateful that he hadn’t hurt my face, because it was one less thing to explain to Mum, who was finally starting to get suspicious.

  One evening, as I told her I was heading out to Carly’s, I saw her and Phil exchange strange looks, but they didn’t say anything. The next night, we were gathered round the dinner table. For once, I was home in the early evening. As soon as I started to speak, they gave each other that look again and I got really pissed off.

  ‘What are you two looking at?’ I snapped. ‘What’s your problem?’

  Mum raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re talking really funny, Holly. Have you listened to yourself?’

  I didn’t have a clue what they were on about. ‘Talking funny?’ I spat back. ‘What the hell are you on about now? What am I saying that’s so funny?’

  Phil cleared his throat. ‘It’s, well . . . it’s your accent.’

  Liam was pushing his food moodily around his plate, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but there, and Amy and Lauren were fighting over a toy in the corner. Gemma was at Dad’s, where she always seemed to be these days. I didn’t see why I had to get all the grief.

  ‘My accent?’ I replied in astonishment. ‘What’s wrong with my accent?’

  Mum dropped her fork and looked at Phil again, like they were trying to figure out what to say to me. Phil gave a little shrug, as if to say go ahead, and Mum pushed her plate away, folding her hands as she did so.

  ‘Well,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘We’ve noticed you’ve been acting a little strangely lately.’
r />   Phil interrupted: ‘You’re always out.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m just seeing my mates, like everyone else. What’s that got to do with you? And what’s it got to do with my accent?’

  Mum and Phil looked at each other again. ‘Have you been hanging around with lots of Asian kids at school?’ Mum asked. Quickly, she added: ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that, not at all. But you sound a bit, you know . . .’ she trailed off.

  ‘A bit what?’ I snapped back.

  ‘A bit like you’re trying to sound Asian,’ she said. I glared at her and she quickly changed tack, adjusting her voice so that it was a little more upbeat and breezy. ‘It’s actually quite funny, Holly. It’s like you’re trying to do an impression of someone Pakistani but it doesn’t sound quite right so it comes out a bit weird.’

  Phil started chuckling, too. I was incensed.

  ‘You’re all mental!’ I cried, shoving my chair into the table and running upstairs to my room. I flopped down on my bed and pulled my pillow over my head in frustration. If only they knew, I thought. If only they bloody knew.

  I hadn’t realised that my accent had changed, but it kind of made sense. I spent so much time with people who didn’t speak good English, like Mr Khan and Beaver and all of the men Kev took me to, that I guess my accent had just adapted so I could make myself understood. But it made me feel massively self-conscious. I thought about Jenny, and all my friends at school. Had they noticed? Did they think I was a total weirdo? If they’d picked up on it, they certainly hadn’t said anything but it didn’t stop me worrying.

  My train of thought was interrupted abruptly as Kev’s number flashed up on my phone. I didn’t like answering the phone to him in the house, in case anyone heard, but everyone else was still downstairs so I decided to chance it.