by Giles Ekins
Gradually the brothers came, if not to trust her, at least not to mistrust her.
But she watched and waited, waited and watched.
After Josie had been at the house for about eight weeks, the brothers concluded that she had accepted her fate and was entirely acquiescent to their demands. They began to send her out on small errands to the local corner shop, where, to her disgust and dismay, the proprietor was Iqbal Khan, one of her regulars. He leered at her with brackish teeth and bad breath and Josie felt such loathing for him that she was strongly tempted to bite his cock off when next he came to her, but she resisted, knowing that fierce retribution would follow.
The first few times she went out, she did not know if the brothers had her watched or followed to see if she would make a run for it or try to contact the police. So she dutifully returned with whatever she had been sent to buy, milk, sugar, tea, bread, frozen pizzas or cigarettes. She never held any of the change back, making sure she handed it back to Ahmed or Ibrahim as soon as she returned. On other occasions she was dispatched to the fish and chip shop or the kebab shop two shops up from the corner shop.
She watched and waited, biding her time.
Once she was certain that she was not being watched, Josie began to take longer and longer to get to the shops and back. She walked more slowly, dragging out the time. What had once taken fifteen or twenty minutes, she now stretched out to thirty minutes or more without comment.
Ibrahim gave her the money, £40 in twenties.
‘Get on up to Iqbal’s, we need a big bag of rice, eggs, milk, tea, a jar of coffee, good stuff not that cheap shit that he always tries to push on you, some okra, and some of that stewing lamb he keeps in the freezer. Oh, and fags, Marlborough as usual. Got all that?
‘Yes, of course, Ibrahim, I’ll go right off but I’ve got to go to the loo first.’
‘OK, don’t be long though, I need those fags.’
Josie went upstairs, picked up the box of Tampax, went to the toilet, slipped the credit card into her jeans pocket and went back downstairs. Her heart was +beating so rapidly she would swear that it could be seen and heard by Ibrahim. She put on her anorak and stepped out into the streets of Harehills, Paki Country, Leeds.
Her luck held out and five hours later she stepped off the train at Kings Cross Station in London.
Free. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, free at last. So said Martin Luther King, and that was exactly how Josie felt.
It been raining lightly as she stepped of that hateful house, so Josie pulled up the hood of her coat and headed down the road towards Iqbal’s, just in case Ibrahim was watching her. Out of sight of the house, she crossed the road, keeping her head down as she passed Iqbal’s.
At the end of the road she debated whether to turn left or right, the streets of Harehills where a mystery. It was a hostile jungle, a brick-built warren with endless rows of terraced houses concealing what crimes, what dishonesties, what pleasures, what lives; she knew none of it.
She turned to the right, taking fearful looks, even though she calculated that she had at least twenty more minutes before Ibrahim began to get suspicious. She had to get away. She came to a bus stop, a queue of people waiting patiently for an imminent bus.
‘Does this bus go to town?’, she asked anxiously, ‘I need to get to the railway station. I’m a stranger here and I’ve got lost.’
Reassured that the bus was going in the right direction, she climbed onto the bus when it arrived. She paid her fare with Ibrahim’s money and made her way to Leeds central station.
She fed her credit card into an ATM at the station, suddenly fearful that it might not work, that the bank had cancelled it but to her immense relief it worked. She withdrew £50, and then used the card to buy a ticket for the first train to London. She then hid in the toilets until the train was announced.
It was not until the train finally pulled out of the station that she felt able to breath normally again.
Seventy-Three
The Clusterfuck - Part Two
Of course, I should have reported Dennis to the police straight away. Easy to say in hindsight, but much of what subsequently happened might have been avoided if I had had the strength and courage to do so.
As it was, I limped out of the Jowett house, feeling totally wretched.
What really galled me, what thoroughly pissed me off, was how insignificant Dennis Jowett considered the rape to be. It meant nothing to him, a little slut he had called me and that was all I was to him. ‘She was just ‘your sort,’ to be used. abused and then tossed aside like a piece of cheap meat. His arrogance was astounding. Somehow, somewhere, he was going to get his comeuppance, this little slut was not going to take it lying down. But that resolve was long, long away.
As I stumbled along Cross Lane, I felt violently nauseous, made a dash to the side of the pavement and threw up all over somebody’s prize roses, drenching them with what was left of the rum, coke, tea and bits of food that I could not recognise as anything I had recently eaten. Long strings of drool hung down from my mouth like swaying gossamer beads as my stomach roiled and heaved.
I don’t know if roses are tolerant of rum and coke, but it was a stupid place to plant them, so close to the pavement like that, they were bound to get nicked. By being sick all over them, I had made them less desirable to thieves, the owners should thank me.
Tears of pain and humiliation sprung to my eyes as I hurried on home. My mother, was as usual, sprawled across the settee in her ratty housecoat, which she wore day in day out, hardly ever bothering to dress. She was watching some crap on telly,
‘You all right , love?’ she asked, barely looking up, she would hardly notice if I had walked in the flat totally naked with a limb or two missing. The only things she ever gave notice to was the level of vodka in the bottle and the times of the soap operas she watched, ‘Coronation Street, Emmerdale, or EastEnders, as well as crap on daytime TV.
‘Make yourself some tea, love. There’s baked beans or some burgers in the fridge, I think they’re still in date,’ she said.
‘No thanks, not hungry,’ The last thing I needed was some greasy burgers, thank you very much. I checked to see if the boiler was on, I wanted a long hot bath, but as usual it was on the timer, not due to come on for another 2 hours. I switched it on manually and went to my bedroom to wait for the water to heat up.
I could not help but compare my bedroom with that of Josie Jowett, with its queen-sized bed, matching range of built in wardrobes, dressing table and chair and chests of drawers, warm carpet, thick velvet curtains and an air of wealth and elegance that I could never achieve.
I had a single bed with steel springs, thin mattress, thin duvet with a Mickey Mouse cover which I had had since I was about 9. The furniture comprised a mahogany veneer wardrobe, bamboo chest of drawers and a white painted chair together with a three-drawer pine bedside cabinet, a penitential Trappist monk would feel quite at home here.
The wallpaper showed dark red roses on a dark brown background, Uncle Kenneth, Mum’s brother bought the paper cheap in the market and did the paper hanging as a ‘birthday present’ for me. Gee, thanks Uncle Kenneth, just what I always wanted. I was 13 at the time and dear Uncle Kenneth showed me his willy as he did the papering. I was not that impressed, but I do I seem to have a natural talent for attracting perverts and rapists. What with Damien and Dennis Jowett, Uncle Kenneth and the perv who flashed me and Josie in Greystones Park when we were about 11. We just giggled and ran away.
It was depressing at the best of times. But now, in my present state of mind, it was enough to make me suicidal.
I flopped onto the bed, the springs creaking in sympathy as I sobbed and sobbed uncontrollably. I then held Marmalade, my fluffy ginger cat soft toy, a present from my Auntie Elsie when I was about 5. He has been my constant best friend, Josie excepted, ever since. I told him everything, He listened intently and we both agreed that Dennis Jowett was an evil, bastardising, raping fucking bastard who des
erved to be castrated with a very blunt, very rusty razor.
Seventy-Four
Josie was lucky as she stood uncertainly in the vast new glazed concourse of Kings Cross station, barely noticing the magnificent new glazed roof which sprang up like a giant lace spume of white steel.
What to do? Where to go? How to live? Having escaped the clutches of Ahmed and Ibrahim in Leeds, what was she going to do? She had no plan. Not much money left on her credit card. For a fleeting moment, as panic hit her, Josie almost wished she was back in Leeds. At least there was no uncertainty about her life there, get up and make breakfast for Ahmed and Ibrahim. See to her ‘customers’, watch television and talk to the other girls or go to the shops. As much as she hated it, she knew what her life was. But now?
She bought a takeout coffee from Starbucks, located next to the escalator leading to the mezzanine. She looked about her, unsure, what to do? Where to go?
Just then, her resolve wavering, she was approached by a middle-age, silver haired woman.
‘Excuse me dear’, she said to Josie. ‘You look a bit lost, can I help you, my name is Sarah?’ explaining that she volunteered for a charity called ‘Runaway Refuge’ handing Josie a card with her name and that of the charity.
It was, Sarah said, a charity dedicated to helping runaways. It’s mission was to keep runaways off the streets and out of the hands of predatory gangs. gangs whose members infest all the major rail or coach stations. They approach runaways, often pretending to be from a charity, befriend them by buying a them a burger or KFC and offer them a bed at a nearby hostel.
Once in the grasp of a gang, a young, pre-teen runaway would be raped and then passed on to paedophiles, whilst older girls would be sold into prostitution. Older boys might also be raped and then forced to run drugs or act as spotters at the stations, looking for other vulnerable teenagers.
But Josie was lucky. Sarah and ’Runaway Refuge’ were genuine. They existed solely to help teenagers in such torment that they were convinced their way out was to run away.
‘Runaway Refuge? What makes you think I’m a runaway?’
‘Well dear, you might well know where you are going. You might well be waiting for somebody but I’ve helping runaways for many years and I recognise the signs.’
‘Signs?’
‘Yes, signs. You have no luggage, you don’t seem to know where to go or what to do. You have that haunted look, you are not made up which could mean you left in a hurry, escaping from something bad, either at home or elsewhere, Tell me I’m wrong.’
‘So, what if you are right, what do you want of me?’ Josie responded, rather more belligerently than she intended.
‘Nothing dear, just to see that you are safe. There are a lot of predatory folk, even in here, who would do you harm, at ‘Runaway Refuge’ we try to prevent that.’
‘What harm, what kind of harm are you talking about?’ although Josie knew full well what the woman meant.
‘Come on, you’re not a child. If you fall into the clutches of these gangs, they’ll rape and beat you and force you into prostitution.’
Josie nodded, indicating she understood.
‘Now, I’ve got daughters and grand-daughters.’ Sarah continued, ‘and the thought of anything like that happening to them is what drives me to do this. I come here two or three times a week, unpaid, to try and save young girls like you, and boys, from risk. We offer you a safe place to stay and we try and help you turn your life around.’
‘How do I know I can trust you, for all I know you could be a …recruiter for these gangs, a kindly old lady, somebody that seems genuine and trustworthy?’
‘It’s good that you are cautious, what’s your name, by the way?’
‘Josephine. Josie, I go by Josie.’
‘It’s good for you to be suspicious, Josie.’ And she pointed across the teeming concourse. ‘You see that policeman, Transport Police, he can vouch for ‘Runaway Refuge.’ They sometimes send young runaways they come across to us. Go and ask him, I’ll stay here. If you are reassured that we are legit, I’ll be here. If you still don’t trust me, that’s up to you, you can make your own way. Just be careful out there. It’s a jungle with some very nasty and dangerous animals.’
Josie felt instinctively that she could trust this kindly woman, but the dragon was awake. and on the prowl. She needed a hit, she needed it badly and knew that however supportive the refuge might be, they were not going to supply her with heroin. The dragon growled again, sinking his claws into her stomach. She had taken a hit before leaving the house in Leeds. The brothers kept a ready supply of heroin, it kept the girls dependent and compliant. They had contacts with the Pakistani gangs who brought in heroin from Afghanistan, supplied by the Taliban, who were ever ready to further corrupt the decadent West. Why, oh fucking why, did I not take more than the one, she asked herself.
The dragon’s rattle grew worse, clawing at her skull, tearing at her innards. She had to get a fix and she was far more likely to find it on the street, especially in Kings Cross, than she was ever going to in the refuge. They might at best give her methadone, but she knew the dragon would not be satisfied with anything less than the real stuff. That all-consuming dragon’s breath, the heroin smoke that her body now craves more than life itself. She would tear off her own skin in its entirety for the blessing of the smoke.
‘Sorry;’ she said and dodging Sarah’s outstretched arm, she fled for the entrance.
‘I’m here most days, Josie, if you need help, ‘Sarah shouted after her as Josie fled into the dangerous night.
Seventy-Five
The Clusterfuck -Part Three.
It’s called Rape Trauma Syndrome (RTS), defined as the psychological trauma experienced by a rape victim that includes normal physical, emotional, cognitive and interpersonal behaviour.
RTS is a cluster of psychological and physical signs, symptoms and reactions common to most rape victims immediately after and /or months or a year after rape.
There are those, mostly men, who do not believe that RTS exists. Well, let me tell you gentlemen, it does exist, and the effects are devastating. It cuts your life off at the knees. Rape survivors are at high risk for developing substance abuse, major depression, anxiety disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder or eating disorders, alcoholism and sexual problems resulting in either an abhorrence of sexual contacts or promiscuity where none previously existed, all driven by a lack of self-worth.
In other words, my life turned to shit. Not that it was that great before, you understand. But now!
Seventy-Six
Josie found herself on Kings Cross Square, the large plaza fronting the twin arched, yellow sandstone façade of the original station, designed by Lewis Cubitt in 1852. Bounded by Euston Road to one side and Pancras Road to the other, the square was triangular, laid with alternate stripes of light and dark grey granite paving slabs, with long black granite benches and tree planters.
The Square had been created when the station and surrounds had been extensively, redeveloped, not that Josie knew all that. Or cared. All she cared for was finding a dealer, certain that there must be dealers nearby. There are always dealers nearby to train stations or bus terminals. Or so she had once been told by Jackson Parrott, a century or so ago. Or so it seemed.
That life, Garside, her parents, Damien, her friendship with Charlie, all seemed so many years ago. Another life. Another person. But that had been only just a year ago, and now she was living somebody else’s life.
She now longer was the middle-class daughter of a well-off family. A girl who went to ballet class. Who once had had her own pony, although that phase of her childhood did not last very long, and the pony had been sold on. She was no longer Josie Jowett, the Girl Guide leader who went on camping trips to German or France but a drug addict who would happily sell her body for a single hit of dragon smoke.
She wandered despondently around the landscaped plaza, ever more desperate for her fix, the dragon digging his claws ever deepe
r. She felt achy, pains in her back, in her legs, her sensory pathways blocked, making the withdrawal pains more acute. She sweated, her nose ran copiously, she felt spasms of griping stomach pains, nausea and the urge to vomit.
Then she had to flee back into the station to find a toilet, only jut managing to reach the facilities on the mezzanine before erupting with a bout of griping diarrhoea that seemed endless.
Josie remained sitting on the toilet, head in hands, sobbing in pain and frustration.
‘You all right in there?’ somebody called.
Taken by surprise that anybody could be bothered to ask after her well-being, all Josie could answer was,’ No, I’m OK, thanks, just having a really shit day.’ Understatement of the fucking year.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, thanks. Thanks for asking but I’m fine. Nothing that a good weep won’t cure.’ If only, so piss off and leave me in misery, the last thing I need is fucking sympathy.
‘OK, then, Bye.’ the unknown voice said, ‘Take care now.’
‘Bye’
She sat there for another ten minutes, sweating and shivering, dysphoric, depressed and riddled with anxiety. Finally, she dragged herself out from the false refuge of the cubicle, washed her face and made her way back to the Square to resume her desperate search to find a dealer.
Three times Josie made her way through the scurry of people coming and going to and from the station, anxiously scanning faces for a sign of mutual recognition, that somebody, a Big Man dealer, would grasp that she was in urgent need of some H, junk, brown sugar, dragon or dope, whatever you want to call it.
