I met with them in April, the light chilled rain managed to stop the flower buds blooming as I walked down to the town’s centre. I met them in a small coffee shop, which was busy with a steady trickle of people trying to avoid the raindrops. The man was dressed in a clean grey suit, new, with brown buttons. Rich. His shoes consisted of a brown Chelsea boot, polished and rain spattered, but clean. The woman’s haute couture was a Vivienne Westwood coral knee length dress with fuchsia pink and black flower detail. High black dramatic heels and small dainty black bag gave her the attention which she evidently deserved. High class bankers, I assumed. Their accents were clean and precise, with a cinematic essence. They were offering me the world; 2 months in London. The advisement seemed perfection. They gave me a series of documents and I filled them in. The couple then asked me to pay a £700 deposit for travel; this was unfeasible for me alone. I come from a poor family, this money transfer was a huge risk but still, we paid for it. Swirls of city dreams were becoming a reality.
June crept up quickly as I prepared for my overseas journey. 2 months away from home had been a long time coming. I was anticipating the journey every night: closing my eyes opened a spin of city lights, taxis the London red buses. Iconic London landmarks. My departure was heart breaking; I saw my father cry tears of joy as I went through the security checks. I was growing up. The couple which I met in April greeted me at the airport; I handed over my documents and began my travels.
I thought I was just going directly to London, I was wrong. I went via Prague, Spain, Germany, France and Dublin. I was given an Italian passport to use between Spain and France. At first I thought that this round trip would encompass their other businesses. I soon caught on, I was travelling illegally.
Landing at London City Airport late on a Wednesday night had taken its toll on me; my body clock was a mess. The couple had a small intimate conversation with each other before the woman hailed 2 cabs; without another word she stepped into one and it drove away. The other black taxi held me and the suited man and drove steadily away to an unknown place, Soho.
I arrived at my worst nightmare, a scummy dark alley lined with secret brothels which lead to a studio flat. My perfect ideals of London were shattered into small shards of glass which stabbed at my heart. I entered up to the flat lead by the man, his shoes clipped at the metal rims of each of the steps of the twisting stairs. He unlocked the door and entered, I followed anxiously behind. My heart sank as I saw the amount of girls in that flat. He turned and addressed me in a serious tone. Informing me that this is it, he had brought me to London. I owe him £20,000 for the travel costs and I must pay it off by working for him as a prostitute.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to call my family, but I couldn’t see a phone. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run.
There was a dormitory, almost. The room was the length of the flat, but it was small still. The beds for the ‘workers’ were equally spread apart along the walls of the room, reminiscent of a hospital ward except dirty and all the girls groaned, slept, cried and were half naked. The single bed which I had been assigned consisted of a single sheet that covered the mattress and a dirty grey woollen blanket which was most likely crawling with lice. The frame was metal and was once painted a pea green, although it had been chipped off so all that remained was a dirty brown, rusted metal.
The man took my belongings. After a while of sitting alone on my new bed I was called to him, he never entered the dormitory. He handed me back my clothes in a clear plastic bag, he had sorted through my stuff, and he’d taken my purse, phone... anything of value. He wasn’t nervous or edgy, this was routine for him. He explained to me that I will receive £15 pounds every day to spend on anything I wished, but then informed me that I will not be fed or given anything here. He spelt out to me tips on how to make quicker money. The man who initially seemed honest was suddenly looking more and more twisted and sinister the longer I spent with him.
This can’t be happening to me.
The man then brought me up a flight of stairs above the dormitory; at this place another man was waiting. This was reality. I’d lost my innocence, my naivety. I’d lost it to him.
I quickly learnt that my daily £15 brought me nothing. I often went hungry. Instead I brought cigarettes and condoms. I'd seen what it would be like bringing up a child in these drug ridden conditions. It was horrific.
I spent 4 months in Soho, working all day every day; there was no end to my job. I saw 20 men a day in 3 different flats. It was repulsive. I was locked in the flat and only let out for ‘work’ and I was banned from contacting any other women.
I had no-one.
I lived in fear and no-one should live in overwhelming fear at the age of 17. The girls in the dormitory were mostly younger, some were thirteen. They’d been sold to the suited man by their families for money. I thought of my family back home. I thought of my sisters who were the same age as these girls. That hurt. I thought of my father. What was he thinking? What had he been told? The man told me that if I tell anyone about what he does here, he will threaten and hurt my family. Once the police visited the premises, none of the girls spoke to them. The police couldn’t get any evidence of what was going on there. It was business as usual once again.
I’d lay awake at night thinking about running away, just waiting of the opportune moment. How I’d jump from the window. How I’d kill the suited man and his wife. How I’d take all the girls with me. How I’d get the police to shut this place down. How I’d...go home.
Towards the end of my 4 months many of the girls moved on. No-one knew where they went or where they were going. But I was alone in that flat. There was my moment. Stealing was not in my morals, but nor was this life that I was living. I had found and kept a key to the window secret, I took it out unlocked the window.
I pulled out a hooded jacket which I’d found lying on the floor in the alley, and slipped it on. It was the warmest thing I had after sharing out my original clothes to the other girls out of pity.
I looked out of the window at the drop...It wasn’t too far. I jumped. A small sensation of freedom flowed through me until I landed on the pavement.
Pain. There was an obscene ache in my legs. My left leg especially, I thought It was broken, it probably was. But I hadn’t spent 4 months of hell waiting for my leg to break, no. I spent 4 months ready to escape. I struggled through the streets, limping. I had £18 pounds in my pocket. Had no idea where to go, and there was not a chance that I’d get back home with £18 pounds. I slept rough for 3 days in the cold with just a jacket.
I was picked up by a local homeless charity. I felt as if someone cared. I was truly loved. I told them everything. Still 17 and I’m too scared to go out alone, a constant fear sears through me at the thought of the man. And what of my family, my education, my home? There are so many questions that need to be answered...
STOP HUMAN TRAFFICKING. For more information please visit: http://www.stopthetraffik.org/
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