Mummy, Come Home: The True Story of a Mother Kidnapped and Torn from Her Children

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Prologue (#ufa4a3453-0c84-5275-a7b4-23fcfcc44ac9)

It was late one night when a young boy arrived at the massage parlour in Tottenham, London, where I worked. He was with two friends. They were all drunk but he looked quiet. Short with light brown hair and a stocky body, he was in his early twenties and English.

I was sitting in reception as usual. The customers would come in, look over the girls who weren’t already occupied with a client and then choose which one they wanted to go with.

I looked at the boy with only a slight flicker of interest. They were all the same to me, these men who came in looking for a piece of meat to fuck. But the night had been a quiet one for me and if I didn’t get a customer soon, I would suffer for it. My pimp, Ardy, was waiting for me, as he always did, first to get hold of all the money I might have made during the evening, and second to make sure I didn’t run. If I escaped from him, his income would vanish with me and he’d made it perfectly clear that if that happened, he’d hunt me down and kill me. As it was, even a quiet night could mean punishment for me, for failing to line Ardy’s pockets adequately.

The boy was staring at me. His eyes held the dazed look of a drunk man but he was young so perhaps he would be satisfied with a massage or even a blow job. When we caught each other’s gaze, he smiled at me.

‘Can you go with me?’ he asked.

‘Sure. Why not?’ I replied.

‘You’re not English,’ he said. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Turkey,’ I lied. It was the story I told everyone. It was easier somehow. How could I begin to tell anyone the truth about what had happened to me?

As we walked into the small massage room, he tried to touch my bottom.

‘Don’t do that,’ I told him firmly.

‘Of course. You don’t like that.’

‘No.’

I closed the door. ‘It’s forty-five pounds for half an hour.’

He dug into his pockets and handed me some crumpled notes. I took them. ‘I’ve got to give reception their money, then I’ll be back.’ I went out and returned a few minutes later to find the boy sitting on the chair by the massage table. ‘So…do you want a massage?’ I asked him.

‘No. I just want to fuck you.’

I looked at him. I could see he was drunk and I’d learned to be careful of men like that—they could surprise you, behave badly—but I couldn’t help being a little shocked. He seemed so young. ‘Wouldn’t you like a nice, soft massage?’ I said slowly. It was better for me if we started that way.

‘No. Just take your clothes off now.’

I would do what he wanted, but calmly and seriously, to keep things gentle. ‘Okay. But aren’t you going to as well?’

‘No. Take yours off first.’

I unbuttoned my dress. As I let it fall to the floor, revealing my underwear, I felt scared. He was too cold and too commanding for my liking. Why wouldn’t he undress? Did he have something in his pockets? He nodded with satisfaction as I stood in front of him, semi-naked.

‘I want a blow job now,’ he said.

I took a condom from the box beside the bed.

‘No. No condom.’

‘It’s the rules.’

‘But I’ll pay you a hundred pounds.’

‘I don’t care. Condom or nothing.’

‘Oh, come on. I’m clean.’

‘No. If you’re not happy then change the girl.’

The boy was silent as I knelt down in front of him. It was difficult to put the condom on him because he wasn’t ready so I tried to prepare him with my hand.

‘Did you drink a lot today?’ I asked.

‘Not much. What’s the problem?’

‘Well, I can’t get you hard.’

‘But you’re a fucking prostitute. That’s your job.’

I didn’t like the edge in his voice. I felt instinctively that I needed to defuse him, so I tried to sound reasonable. ‘I know but if you’ve drunk a lot or taken drugs, I can’t do it.’

He pushed me away. ‘I know how to do it,’ he slurred. He rolled the condom down over his semi-hard penis. Then he stood up and, in a quick movement, pushed me round so that I had my back to him. With sudden force, he pushed me down so that I was leaning over the massage table, my back exposed to him. With one hand, he forced my head down so that my cheek was pressed against the cheap cotton cover on the table. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and, with the other hand, he held my hip. He began to press against me and I could feel that he had regained his potency—he was hard now. He pushed and pushed and eventually found his way inside me.

I did not bother to struggle—I knew that it would do no good. He was strong and determined. I didn’t have a chance against him.

He began to move back and forward, his body slapping against my buttocks as he went.

‘Tell me you want a fuck,’ he said suddenly. ‘Tell me you’re a bitch, a whore.’

I was silent. Wasn’t it enough that I had to endure this?

‘Say it.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

He pulled my hair as he started hitting my buttocks. ‘Say it or I won’t finish. Come on. Tell me. You’re a fucking slag, a bitch, a whore.’

I wouldn’t say it to him, couldn’t say it to him.

‘No,’ I whispered as he pushed harder and harder inside me.

‘Say it,’ he said as I felt a pain in my stomach.