I Never Gave My Consent

by Holly Archer

  I really enjoyed those nights, not just because it meant I was away from all of the horrible teenage boys, but because it felt grown-up. I liked being out in a car with an older man and getting the chance to look after a baby. When I was holed up in a room with one of Kev’s horrible men, or in the back of Mr Khan’s car, I felt more childish than ever, but this felt good. This felt like I was a proper adult, and I didn’t need to do anything sexual to prove it.

  One night, I was bouncing Hassan on my knee on the back seat when I began to study the tattoo Beaver had at the top of his arm. I’d noticed it before, but I hadn’t looked at it closely. It was springtime by now, so he’d started wearing T-shirts more often. It intrigued me. I could see that it was some kind of writing, in an alphabet I didn’t recognise, but I wondered what it meant. Perhaps it was the name of a girl he’d loved back home and couldn’t be with, and that’s why he resented his wife so much.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘What’s the tattoo? On your arm? What does it mean?’

  He didn’t take his eyes off the road, as he changed gear. ‘It’s from when I was in prison in Pakistan.’

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Harmless, silly Beaver in prison? He couldn’t hurt a fly.

  ‘Prison?’ I laughed. ‘What were you in prison for?’

  Beaver wasn’t smiling, though. ‘Just fighting,’ he replied. Then he changed the subject and started to ask me if I wanted a pizza after he’d done his next delivery. I didn’t ask any more questions, but I found it all really strange. If he’d been in prison for fighting, he surely had to have really hurt someone? I could imagine Mr Khan being in prison, and even maybe Kev, but certainly not Beaver.

  The only time he’d seemed really angry was when I’d told him about Mr Khan and he’d chased his car through the town, but even then they hadn’t come to blows. It just didn’t add up.

  By the time my fifteenth birthday rolled around, I was seeing Beaver almost every night. It wasn’t a conscious decision; it just seemed to happen. I hated having to walk anywhere myself because I got so much hassle and, if I was on my own, I usually had to give someone a blow job. Beaver had a car, and a car with blacked-out windows at that.

  When I look back now, I’m not sure how I juggled everything. After school, I’d always see Mr Khan. Then I’d try to see Omar for half an hour before going home to do my homework. Sometimes I’d have dinner at home with my family, but other times I’d tell them I was eating with Carly and her mum, when really Kev was taking me to one of the many appointments he’d made.

  He was getting bolder, and the men were getting worse. Most of them smelled awful and lots of them had no teeth. He was telling me to meet him in the middle of the night more often, so I’d have to sneak in and out of the house and then get up for school the next day like I’d had a full night’s sleep. Astonishingly Mum and Phil never seemed to realise I’d been gone. There were times I ached for them to notice, as much as I knew I’d be in big trouble from Kev if I didn’t turn up. Didn’t they see the pain on my face, the bags under my eyes? For a long time, I would resent them for this. But I guess I can’t really blame them, because, by this point, I was really good at sneaking around.

  Nearly all the men I was taken to were Asian immigrants of some kind, or at least the sons of Asian immigrants. In the whole time Kev was exploiting and selling me, I only remember being sent to one white British man. I think he was from Scotland. He wanted a blow job and he was just as disgusting as all of the rest. A lot has been made of this in recent years, but back then it didn’t matter to me what colour skin a man had or what language he spoke. As he lay his disgusting body on top of me and did what he’d paid to do, he could have been bloody purple for all I cared. I just wanted it to be over.

  I did wonder if Omar had started to doubt me when I insisted all of the rumours were complete lies. Sometimes he’d look like he wanted to ask me something, but then he’d stop and change the subject. It was my word against everyone else’s, and I knew he stuck up for me.

  Perhaps stupidly, I started to buy him things with the money I’d made from Kev. I had loads in my little stash now, but I still didn’t want to look at it or acknowledge it was there. I couldn’t get rid of it fast enough and, if Omar said he liked something, even in passing, I’d go out and buy it straight away.

  ‘Wow, Holly,’ he said, as I handed him yet another new shirt. ‘Thanks so much. But how have you managed to pay for this?’

  ‘Oh, my dad gives me money every week because he doesn’t live with us,’ I replied, breezily.

  It was kind of true, but he didn’t give us half as much as I was making from Kev, and it would never have stretched to cover all the things I bought for Omar. I’ve wrestled with myself since, wondering if Omar was taking advantage, but I really don’t think he was. He never asked for anything, really, and it was always me who was more than eager to buy him stuff and get rid of the money that made me feel horrible and dirty.

  Things all came to a head about six months into our relationship, though. I’d started taking Omar to Mum’s, usually when she wasn’t in, but occasionally she’d come home from work to find us sitting on the sofa watching telly, that’s if I didn’t have an arrangement with Kev. Omar never stayed long because his parents always wanted him back for dinner.

  At first, Mum didn’t seem to mind, because Omar was polite and didn’t cause any trouble. But one Saturday afternoon he’d come round for an hour when I started to quiz him on what he’d like from the shops.

  ‘I’ve got extra money from my dad this week,’ I lied. ‘So pick anything you like and I’ll give you the money.’

  In the end, Omar decided he wanted some new Rockport boots and, as he went to leave to walk home, I handed him sixty quid. I didn’t realise Mum was watching from the window and she came tearing out of the house like a woman possessed.

  ‘Are you giving that boy money?’ she cried. ‘The money your dad gives you?’

  I froze. I hadn’t given Omar the money Dad had given me, but I wasn’t really supposed to have any other money. There was no way of explaining this to Mum, unless I told her the truth, which was unthinkable. I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t have to. Mum was running up the street, looking for Omar, but he’d already disappeared round the corner.

  ‘Do you think we’ve got the money for you to waste on some boy?’ she said, as she swung open the gate and pushed her way back into the garden. ‘Do you think money grows on trees?’

  I shook my head, sullenly.

  ‘This isn’t the last of this,’ she said, breathless from trying to run after Omar. ‘I’ll be phoning your dad and he’ll be speaking to that lad. That money is for clothes and school books and things you need. Not to just give away to some random boy. You’re not to see him again. Do you understand?’

  I rolled my eyes, like most teenagers would have done, and said nothing, but I almost wanted to laugh. Mum banning me from seeing Omar seemed almost laughable. If only she knew all of the other things that were going on in my life, me giving money to a boy so he could buy a pair of boots would be the least of her worries.

  It made things a bit awkward, though. Dad did speak to Omar and he gave me the money back. I didn’t want the money, and I didn’t want Omar to feel awkward, so it made me upset. Mum and Dad both seemed to have it in for Omar big time from then on, and Mum made it clear he wasn’t welcome in the house, so we were back to meeting in town and kissing and cuddling for twenty minutes on a garden wall before I disappeared back to my other life – a life no teenager should have.

  The only other person I felt like I could talk to about my weird home life was Beaver. Sometimes I don’t think he understood quite what I said when I ranted about Mum, but at least he listened and didn’t tell me to shut up. I tried not to call him Beaver to his face, but sometimes it slipped out.

  ‘Why you call me this, Beaver?’ he’d ask, bemused, but he never seemed to object much, even when I showed him a picture on my phone of an actual beaver t
o try to help him learn the English word. I just really don’t think he got it, to be honest.

  One night I was out really late with him. It was a Friday and I didn’t have school the next day, so Mum didn’t mind if I stayed at Carly’s a little longer than usual. Of course, I was rarely actually at Carly’s, but it was my go-to excuse. We were driving through town, just the two of us. His wife wasn’t working, so Hassan was at home with her, and Carly was visiting family up north somewhere with her gran.

  We were on a street in Wellington, with all of the pizzas in the back, near the church where we’d first met, when I became aware of flashing blue lights in the rear-view mirror. It took me several seconds to realise it was a police car, because the sirens weren’t on. But the lights kept shining into the car and along the dashboard and I quickly figured they wanted Beaver to pull over.

  ‘You need to stop,’ I said. ‘It’s the police.’

  He pulled into a lay-by and the police stopped behind him, telling him to get out. As he opened the door, one of the officers looked straight at me but he didn’t say a word. Then, he and his colleague searched the boot of the car and asked Beaver a few questions, like his name and address. He didn’t tell the truth about who he was, which I thought was a bit strange, but I couldn’t hear the conversation properly. No one asked who I was. Maybe the police assumed I was over sixteen, but I doubt it. Back then, I was quite glad they didn’t probe too much, as I thought they might take me home to Mum in a police car, and then I’d have a lot of explaining to do about why I wasn’t at Carly’s. Now, though, I think quite differently.

  ‘What was that all about?’ I asked Beaver.

  ‘Nothing,’ he laughed. ‘Stupid bastards.’

  He dropped me home like nothing had happened, so I assumed it was no big deal.

  It was a few nights later when things changed forever. We were out delivering pizzas alone again when Beaver unexpectedly pulled into the side of the road. It was really dark and quiet and there was no one around, but I didn’t feel scared, just a bit confused.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, with a little laugh. ‘Why have you stopped?’

  Beaver had turned off the ignition and all the dashboard lights had gone out. I could see the moonlight shining on his face, his yellowing teeth protruding in the darkness. It took me a few seconds to realise he was fiddling with the zip on his trousers, and at first I thought he was going out for a pee at the side of the road.

  ‘Holly,’ he said. ‘I want you to suck my dick.’

  14

  Who Can I Trust?

  I sank back in my seat, in shock. What I’d heard Beaver say just didn’t compute, and for a few moments I was completely dumbstruck. It sounds naive, but I’d almost totally forgotten that he’d showed me his dick once before, the time we’d first met. The Beaver who took me on his pizza deliveries, and did his silly dancing, and let me play with his son, seemed like a completely different person to the one who’d exposed himself to me at the foot of the Wrekin – the one who looked lost and couldn’t speak a word of English.

  ‘No!’ I eventually managed to splutter. ‘No! We’re mates. I’m not doing that with you, no!’

  I expected Beaver to give me one of his bashful, toothy grins and a little shrug. He’d tried his luck, I’d said no, and that was that. But, as I looked at his face in the darkness, I could see something in his eyes which scared me. Something different, something that had never been there before. His chest rose and fell a few times, as he stared at me, breathing deeply.

  But his voice was soft when he spoke, almost a whisper.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You are my jaan. My love.’ He reached over to take my hand, but I snatched it away. ‘I love you.’

  I was horrified. ‘Bloody hell!’ I exclaimed. ‘You have a wife! Jeez, you don’t love me, we’re just mates!’

  He looked crestfallen, as he turned the key back in the ignition and the dashboard lit up again. It sounds crazy, but I felt sorry for him. I didn’t see him as a thirty-year-old man preying on a vulnerable, abused fifteen-year-old. I didn’t grasp that our relationship could never be equal, that he had always had the power and always would. I just felt a bit mean because I hadn’t let him down gently.

  ‘My wife doesn’t understand me like you do, Holly,’ he said, still quietly, as the engine roared into life and he pulled back onto the road. I folded my hands in my lap and stared at the ground, feeling awkward. There were just two more pizzas in the back of the car and, for once, I was glad it was almost time to go home.

  It took me a few minutes to realise that Beaver was heading out of Telford. He started driving really fast, the way he had done the day we’d chased Mr Khan. He took a corner with such speed that I had to hold on to the door handle, knuckles white. Neither of us said a single word as we hurtled along the country roads, the Wrekin slowly getting closer and closer, casting its ever-growing shadow over the town.

  Beaver swung into the deserted car park and pulled on the handbrake with such force I went flying forward and almost hit my head on the glove compartment. If I’d thought the Wrekin looked scary at sunset, it was positively terrifying now. The clock on the dashboard said it was gone eleven – the latest I’d ever been here.

  The only sound was the faint hooting of a single owl, somewhere in the distance. Out of the window, the sky was so clear I could see the stars strewn across the deep, midnight-blue sky. If I’d been somewhere else, I might have thought it looked really pretty, but now it felt menacing and scary.

  And even though I was sitting right next to Beaver – the guy I’d come to think of as a mate, maybe even my best mate – I felt like I was alone.

  Really, really alone.

  It was so dark I could hardly see a thing, just the outline of some trees fluttering softly in the gentle night breeze. Slowly, Beaver moved his hand from the gearstick to my knee and my whole leg tensed up. We just stared at each other for a few seconds, frozen in a strange kind of deadlock.

  Finally, I broke the silence. ‘What are we doing here?’ I asked. ‘You’re not going to deliver a pizza here, are you?’

  I sounded braver than I felt. Beaver let out a knowing laugh and he stroked the inside of my thigh with his fingers, over my jeans. His touch made me squirm and he was so close I could smell the stale fags on his breath.

  ‘You are my jaan,’ he said. ‘You are my love. Go on, please. Please. I love you.’

  Nausea gripped me and I had to wait a second for it to pass. I’d never felt so betrayed in all my life. Since this whole thing began, I’d been tricked by lots of people: Ali, Imran, Mr Khan, Kev, Asif – the list was endless. But this was the one betrayal that hurt the most. It hurt because I thought Beaver was my mate. I thought he wanted to protect me. I didn’t want to believe he was just like the rest of them, I just couldn’t.

  ‘No,’ I said, as gently as I could, trying to change tack in the hope it would make him see sense. ‘No, let’s not. It will ruin things. I don’t think we should.’

  Beaver – sweet, bashful, silly Beaver – brought his hand down on the steering wheel with a huge thud. It made me jump but, as he turned to face me, there was rage in his eyes. Pure rage. I recognised that rage so well – the rage that all these older men felt when they didn’t get their own way. From Mr Khan, when I wouldn’t kiss him, to Kev, when I was ten minutes late for an appointment.

  But I never thought I’d see that rage in Beaver’s eyes.

  ‘You’re a fucking bitch if you don’t do it,’ he spat. ‘You do it with everyone else.’

  Quietly, I said, ‘I don’t want to.’

  Beaver turned away from me and looked into the distance, the vast expanse of countryside that stretched for miles around, all covered by this thick sheet of darkness. The little owl hooted again before he spoke.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But if you don’t do it, you have to get out.’

  I could feel the tears springing to my eyes, but I took a deep breath and turned away for a second to co
mpose myself, otherwise they’d have spilled all down my cheeks and I would have looked like a total baby. I bit my lip really hard and the taste of warm blood filled my mouth.

  As I gazed out of the window on the passenger side, the lump in my throat slowly subsided and gave way to anger. I hated the Wrekin now. I bloody hated it. I couldn’t understand how I could have ever been happy there as a child because now, every time it slid into view, looming over the town as if it was watching everyone and everything, I got a knot of dread in my stomach. Tonight, it looked like a scene from the start of a horror film, where everything is eerily dark and silent but you know something really, really bad is going to happen, where you’re just waiting for the bad guy to jump out of the bushes, grab a young girl and do something terrible. I had two choices: give Beaver a blow job, or have him leave me here all alone.

  It wasn’t really a choice, was it?

  As we got into the back seat and he dropped his trousers, confusion tore my brain apart. Beaver had been so angry at Mr Khan whenever he dumped me in the middle of nowhere. He’d torn after him in his car the day he beat me with the belt and abandoned me; he’d almost run Mr Khan off the road. Since then, it had happened countless times, but Beaver always came and collected me. He always picked up the pieces. Now he was threatening to do exactly the same thing.

  How could he be the same as them? How could he?

  Yet, as he dropped his jeans and pulled down his pants, I thought to myself: I don’t want to lose him. I didn’t have many friends, really, when you thought about it. There was Carly, of course, and Jenny, and the girls from school, but because I never saw them outside of class I didn’t feel like a proper part of the group and I could never, ever have told them what I was doing when I turned down invitations to shopping trips and sleepovers. Beaver knew me better than most people my own age and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if we fell out.

  When he reached out and touched my head, I thought he was going to shove it straight into his crotch. But he started playing with a strand of my hair, twisting it round his finger, saying things in Urdu that I didn’t understand. As his hand moved across to stroke my cheek, I caught sight of his prison tattoo, that strange collection of letters from the faraway place he’d come from, so alien to a teenager in a town in the West Midlands. As he continued to palm at my face with his rough, chubby fingers, it hit me that the prison tattoo was all I knew of his past life in Pakistan. He never spoke of his family, or the village where he’d grown up.