I Never Gave My Consent

by Holly Archer

  So all I knew was that he’d hurt someone. He’d really, really hurt someone.

  I could still smell the fags on his breath, as he leaned forward to kiss me with those big, horrible, goofy teeth. I felt completely repulsed, not just because he smelled and looked weird, but because kissing him just felt so wrong. I thought of him as being a bit like a daft older brother. Snogging him just didn’t compute. I turned, so his wet mouth collided with the side of my face, his big teeth brushing my cheekbone. I just wanted to get things over with, so I knelt down in front of him, and did what I had to do.

  After the night at the Wrekin, things with Beaver were never the same. For a start, I decided I was now going to call him Beaver to his face. We’d barely turned out of the car park at the Wrekin when I told him he was a beaver bastard and that’s what I’d be calling him from now on. He didn’t say anything. I’m still not sure he understood that I was trying to insult him. He just seemed happy he’d got a blow job, so I guess he wasn’t bothered what I called him.

  ‘OK, Holly,’ he said, grinning that horrible grin with his discoloured teeth, ‘my jaan.’

  Yet I still continued to go out with him on his deliveries. You might wonder why, when he’d betrayed me in such an awful, callous way. But by then my way of thinking was so twisted that I convinced myself it was somehow my fault. I told myself that maybe, just maybe, he was right. Maybe it wasn’t fair that all these other men got what they wanted from me but he didn’t. After all, he was the one who was nice to me, wasn’t he? And he was an adult, while I was still a child. What if he really did know better?

  I guess I thought he was the lesser of many evils. He didn’t beat me like Mr Khan, or farm me out to disgusting men like Kev, or threaten to tell Omar like all of the teenage boys who demanded blow jobs. The only difference was that I was now more anxious for Carly to come along any time we met up.

  Beaver didn’t seem to mind, and it was a few weeks before the subject of blow jobs came up again. Every time he picked me up, I waited for him to bring it up, to threaten to dump me if I didn’t do it, but he carried on delivering his pizzas and dancing to his Pakistani music just like before.

  ‘What toppings would you like tonight, Holly?’ he’d ask, as he parked up in the takeaway car park like nothing had happened. I even began to hope the whole sordid episode at the Wrekin was a one-off, but bitter experience should have taught me better, because then something happened that made me feel really strange.

  Beaver got Carly involved.

  I stupidly thought having Carly in the car might mean he didn’t do anything. When we’d sat in the back seat at the foot of the Wrekin, I got the sense that he wanted it to be our dirty little secret, though he never said so out loud. Plus – this sounds so mean, and even now I feel terrible writing it – I didn’t really think he’d want Carly to do anything with him because she was so fat. She practically begged Kev to sell her because she wanted to make some easy money, and even he was never keen.

  So, I didn’t really know how to feel as he parked up at the foot of the Wrekin one afternoon a few weeks later, and turned not to me but to Carly.

  ‘I want a blow job,’ he announced. ‘But you’re not going to do it. She’s going to do it.’

  I looked at Carly, unsure what to do or say, but she didn’t seem at all bothered. Maybe she thought Beaver would give her money, like all the men who paid me, but I knew he was too skint and cheap to do that. She was already scrambling out of the back seat, while Beaver told me I could go for a walk round the car park until they were finished.

  ‘Don’t go far,’ he warned me – not that I was likely to disappear on my own.

  He and Carly headed off to some nearby bushes and I just sat in the front seat, sulking. I wasn’t sure what or who I was mad at, but that had become my life. I was always angry at so many people and so many situations that I often forgot what was pissing me off at that particular moment in time. I’ll admit I did feel a little guilty that Carly was having to give Beaver a blow job, but I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and told myself she was up for it, far more up for it than I was. For once, I was feeling something I didn’t get to feel very often, and that was the tiniest hint of relief. I knew it wouldn’t last long, but for five short minutes I couldn’t silence a little voice in my head. The voice that said: Thank God, for once, it’s not me.

  It wasn’t me having to smell the minging fag breath of an older man, or hold my breath as he came at me with his horrible, furry teeth, ready to stick his tongue down my throat. Someone else would have to sit there as a sweaty man writhed around all over her and made her do what no teenage girl should be doing to anyone, let alone someone twice her age.

  It just so happened that someone was my best friend. But what could I do?

  They weren’t gone long. When they came back to the car, Carly’s high ponytail was all askew, and she had some stray leaves and twigs in her hair. As she climbed into the back seat, Beaver didn’t look smug, like I’d expected him to, but really annoyed.

  ‘She’s a fat bitch,’ he spat, as he pulled the handbrake off and sped out of the car park. ‘It was shit.’

  He didn’t attempt to lower his voice and Carly heard every word. I looked at her to see how she’d react but she was picking a twig from her hair and fixing her ponytail like nothing had happened.

  ‘Oh fuck off, you dickhead,’ she replied, eventually. ‘You’re a smelly fucking bastard.’

  In the space of a year or so, both Carly and I had changed massively. The naive little girl who wore her hair in plaits and spent most of her time hanging around with her gran was long gone. Now Carly was mouthy, swore all the time and thought nothing of giving a blow job to a man twice her age. She might not have had to sleep with all the men that I had, but she was being abused and exploited, too. Her weight was constantly used as a weapon against her, and her only defence was to pretend she didn’t give a shit, and that she was up for everything she did because she thought it was a laugh. Maybe she’d got to the stage where she did think it was a laugh. We were both so brainwashed it was entirely possible.

  ‘You’re going to have to get out,’ Beaver told her. ‘You’re a fucking bitch.’

  We were in the middle of a country road on the way back into town and my stomach turned over as I realised he might dump us there. I remember feeling grateful that at least it was light and we wouldn’t have to walk home in the dark.

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Carly. ‘Do what you want.’ I turned round and shot her a look, as if to tell her to pipe down, but she didn’t take any notice. ‘Beaver fucking bastard.’

  Beaver’s face contorted with anger as he drove along the stony path, and I wondered if he was slowing to a halt. But he kept driving back towards Telford, occasionally glancing in the rear-view mirror to glower at Carly. Eventually he parked up outside her gran’s house and told me to let her out of the back seat.

  ‘Why should I move?’ I asked him. ‘If you want her out, you move.’

  He got out of the driver’s seat and pulled it forward by the lever. ‘Out, you fucking bitch,’ he said.

  Carly clambered onto the pavement. It was only then that I noticed she still had an imprint of dirt and leaves all up the back of her huge white T-shirt.

  ‘Well, you coming Holly?’ she asked. ‘You’re not staying with this prick, are you?’

  I didn’t know what to do. I felt bad for Carly, of course I did. Beaver had made her give him a blow job and then he’d had the cheek to call her a fat bitch and practically thrown her out of his car. But she had kind of been up for it, and at least it was the middle of the afternoon and he hadn’t dumped her like Mr Khan often dumped me. If I got out now, Carly would want to walk into town and then we’d just get hassle from all the teenage boys who taunted us. I didn’t say anything, as I sat back in the passenger seat, my seatbelt still fastened. I just gave a little shrug.

  ‘You’re a fucking bitch,’ Carly said, slamming the door and running off into th
e house, twigs still falling from her hair.

  Carly was mad at me for a few days and, without her, I didn’t really have anything to do except hang around with Beaver and wait for calls from Kev. I felt bad, of course, but I didn’t really have the energy to mull over our little falling-out. To me, it just didn’t seem like a big deal. Deep down, I knew what Beaver had done to her was wrong, very wrong. But in my warped little world it somehow didn’t seem that bad. It could have been ten times worse. She could have been beaten to a pulp; it could have been dark; she could have been alone. I just left her to stew, knowing she’d eventually get back in touch.

  Plus, there was still Omar. I was over the moon when my phone lit up with a text from him later that evening. I’d now taken to meeting him in out-of-the-way side streets, away from the main roads, as there was less chance of any of his mates seeing me and shouting abuse.

  As he wrapped me into a hug, I felt safe and warm for a few seconds, and I wished I could stand on the pavement in his arms forever. But as I moved to kiss him, he pulled away. He looked faintly disgusted, a bit like I probably looked when Beaver or Mr Khan tried to snog me.

  All of a sudden, I felt panicky. Didn’t he find me attractive anymore?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, bemused.

  ‘I love you, Holly,’ Omar began. ‘And I want to kiss you. I just don’t know whose dick you’ve had in your mouth.’

  15

  Two Blue Lines

  I felt lost now that Omar didn’t want to kiss me. I knew he’d started to believe the rumours about me and I guess I couldn’t really blame him. It was my word against that of pretty much every other teenage boy from his community. It was a strange situation, though, because he didn’t want to break up with me. We still met up every day, we still cuddled and we even occasionally had sex, but only when Dad was on night shift because Mum still refused to have him in the house. We just never kissed anymore.

  A few days after the Beaver incident, Carly and I made up, just as I’d predicted. I think I offered to buy her some make-up from town and that won her round. We didn’t talk much about it, really. It was strange, but after a few weeks it was like the thing with Carly had never happened. She started coming out in the car with us again, and the incident was never mentioned by either of them. But Beaver didn’t ask Carly for another blow job. His focus had shifted back to me.

  One evening, we’d just dropped her home when Beaver said he needed to go to Tesco for bread and milk. We parked up but I knew not to get out of the car because his wife worked in there. It did occur to me that she could have come out at any moment and seen me sitting in the front seat, but I just told myself I’d deal with that situation if it arose.

  ‘My wife is being a fucking bitch,’ said Beaver. ‘Always shouting at me because Hassan is naughty.’

  He went into the shop and he was back within minutes, tossing his carrier bag onto the back seat. ‘She is so mad, today. Bitch.’

  Although Beaver was saying such horrible things about his wife, I still felt a bit sorry for him when he moaned about his home life. It was like my brain was programmed to feel pity for him, no matter how much I tried to fight it. At the time, I really believed his wife was a bitch, though now I know she probably wasn’t.

  I could tell we were heading for the Wrekin again. I didn’t even have to ask. As he drove there, Beaver was still moaning about how he had no money and how he didn’t want to go home because things were so hard.

  ‘Being with you, Holly,’ he said. ‘That is when I’m happy. That’s the only time I’m happy.’

  I didn’t say anything. I just leaned forward and turned up the volume on the stereo so Beaver’s music reverberated around the car and the sounds from a country far away filled my ears. The music was OK, I guess. It wasn’t really my cup of tea – I was still obsessed with Ja Rule – but it wasn’t the worst and it was far better than listening to Beaver tell me he loved me.

  We parked up and, as usual, there were no other cars around. It was deathly silent. I couldn’t even hear the little owl hooting softly in the distance. I looked to the sky, but it wasn’t clear that night. I could hardly see any stars and misty grey clouds floated around the almost full moon.

  ‘Give me a cuddle,’ Beaver said. ‘I need a cuddle. Let’s get in the back.’

  Without even thinking, I climbed over the gearstick and onto the back seat. Beaver did the same and sat down next to me, resting his hand on my leg. We just sat there in silence for a few seconds before he started singing me a song in Urdu, his voice soft and the moonlight streaking his face.

  ‘What the hell are you singing?’ I asked.

  ‘A love song,’ he said. ‘A love song for you, from my country. Because you are my jaan, my darling.’

  I didn’t reply. I just turned and looked out of the window, as he started playing with my hair again, brushing his lips against my cheeks. With a little more force, he pulled my face, so I was looking straight into his eyes. His fag breath nearly knocked me out as I struggled a little, to break free, but he forced his lips on me and tried to stick his tongue down my throat. As I clasped my mouth shut, his huge, protruding teeth collided with my top lip.

  That didn’t put him off. He started to reach for the button at the top of my jeans and I batted his hand away.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ he said. ‘I always look after you. I protect you, I love you. Please?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Please?’ he said again, like he hadn’t heard. ‘For me, my jaan?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. Now he was pawing at my breasts, tugging at my T-shirt. Before long, I was in my underwear, clothes in a little pile beneath me on the upholstery. The tears came slowly but surely, stinging my eyes as they spilled down my cheeks and onto my naked breasts, as Beaver had unhooked my bra.

  ‘What’s wrong, darling?’ he asked, stroking my wet cheek like he didn’t know.

  ‘We’re supposed to be friends,’ I said, hoarsely.

  Beaver smiled, revealing all of his horrible, neglected teeth. ‘Holly, my jaan. You are my best friend.’

  The sex was more aggressive than I expected it to be. I certainly didn’t feel like one of the girls in Beaver’s Urdu love songs. When it was over, I pulled on my clothes in a trance and got back into the front of the car. I turned off his Pakistani music and flicked the radio to a local station, which was playing R&B. I turned the volume up so loud the car started to shake. As we turned back towards Telford, I looked at my phone to find three missed calls and a text from Kev.

  Got someone coming down from Birmingham. He wants a girl. Meet me at 9p.m. End of road. Don’t be late!!!

  It was already a quarter to, so I told Beaver to drive me home because Mum was moaning at me for staying out late. He did as I said without much protest. He’d already got what he wanted from me, at least for one night.

  As I climbed out of Beaver’s car and walked down the street to where Kev was waiting, two police officers walked past. One of them looked from me towards Beaver’s car, which had already started to speed away. He looked like he might say something, like he might ask me who I’d been with and what we’d been doing. But he obviously changed his mind because he walked on without a word.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Kev barked, as he threw open the door. ‘We’re going to be late.’

  I mumbled some explanation about how I’d been at Carly’s but he wasn’t even listening, so I just looked out of the window as we drove towards a grey industrial estate on the outside of the town. We drove out to where the services are, at the M54 junction, to the car park of a big budget hotel. It was a Friday night. I should have been out having fun with friends my own age, going to the cinema or maybe even trying my luck and attempting to get into one of the local pubs.

  But no. Here I was, being driven out to a two-star hotel to meet a man who would pay me for sex. Would he be the fourteenth man I’d slept with this week, or the fifteenth? I’d lost track. I’d also lost track of when I’d last t
aken the morning-after pill. It had either been Tuesday or Wednesday, but I wasn’t sure. I hoped it was Tuesday because then it wouldn’t look quite so awful if I went back for it on Saturday morning. Or at least in my messed-up brain, that’s what I thought.

  We waited in the car park for about five minutes, before Kev’s phone started to ring. Walking towards the car was a morbidly obese Pakistani man. He was easily the fattest person I’d ever seen in the flesh, like the kind you see in crazy American documentaries about people who eat ten Big Macs a day. I figured he was easily thirty stone, if not heavier. He was wearing a grey suit that was around five sizes too small for him. He looked like he was about to burst out of it. His fat creased in five or six huge rolls around his stomach and it was hard to tell where his chin stopped and his neck began. As he edged closer, I could see he’d dropped food all down the white string vest he wore underneath his suit jacket.

  I’d got really good at switching off and closing down my senses when these nameless men were presented to me, so I didn’t have to feel them or smell them or look at them. But, once in a while, a man would come along who was just so repulsive that it was hard to do anything but gag. This was one of those times.

  Kev saw the horror written all over my face, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was this man’s money.

  ‘The sooner you do it, the sooner it’s over,’ he said. ‘Off you go.’

  The man led me through the reception and up to one of the cramped little rooms. We had to go in the lift because he couldn’t manage the stairs, but the whole way up to the second floor I wondered if his huge bulk might cause it to crash. To my horror, he started to make small talk with me, asking me if I liked Telford, and wasn’t this a nice hotel? I longed to tell him I hated Telford, it was a shithole, and so was this fucking god-awful hotel. But I just made do with monosyllabic grunts.