by Janet Pywell
He doesn’t elaborate, so I ask, ‘How do the drugs gangs get them involved?’
‘Very often they befriend them. They see the kids are alone. Maybe in a park, sitting on a swing, on a bench, watching other kids playing, and they ask if they want to play football or go to the shops, and they make friends with them. They make them feel as though they have a friend, someone to share things with, and they get hooked into doing things together. They groom them into running errands. These kids don’t have a normal life. They’re often from broken families, or their parents may be addicts. They have no stability and they live on the poverty line.
‘So, these gang members tell them there might be an opportunity for them, maybe to earn money, do something they want to do, and they make them all sorts of promises. They get to know them. They hang out together, and they find out the kids’ backgrounds and who, if anyone, will miss them. You see it on the TV and in the news – these kids go missing from their homes after they get them hooked on drugs. They put them in a decaying flat somewhere, and they live in squalid conditions, and they’re forced to bag up crack to sell on the street. They live off junk food, they’re malnourished, and sometimes don’t see daylight for weeks. It’s a slow process grooming them – but a dangerous one; they build smaller gangs, and then there are drug wars, county lines and all that stuff. Knife crime is on the increase, as they’re forced to prove themselves – to prove that they are worthy gang members …’
He picks up his beer.
‘Is there no support?’ asks Sandra.
Matt wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Very little; I work with the police, but what can you do? When I met these guys – the Parks – they were in a terrible state. Some came to Dixon House because they felt safe and others were encouraged to come by friends or people in the community. We’ve even picked some of the kids off the streets. I thought parkour would be a good discipline for them. It’s healthy, disciplined, and exciting. It’s something different they can improve on, and it helps them mentally, too.’
‘You’ve done an amazing job.’ Keith smiles.
‘We work with local residents in the high-rise blocks; for example, we organise a gardening community – a project to keep the area clean and tidy. We try and work with the council and community groups to put on performances by local artists or exhibitions, and we try and incorporate dysfunctional families into the wider community.’
‘Not an easy job,’ I say.
‘No.’ Matt scratches his arm; the tongue of a vicious serpent is wrapped around his bicep.
‘And these kids know that Dixon House is there for them?’ I ask.
‘They do now. But it takes time. A year ago, when I met Ali, he was sixteen, but he had closed down. He couldn’t speak. He was mentally exhausted. He’d spent two years with the drugs gangs and he was drained, but now look at him,’ Matt says with a smile. ‘He won’t shut up.’
We turn to look at them playing cards and laughing.
It’s a safe, calm, and relaxing evening, and I’m suddenly happy that I’ve come here with Peter. He must see the expression in my eyes, as he leans toward me and whispers loudly.
‘I told you it would be an amazing experience, didn’t I?’ He’s playing his role to perfection, and he adds, ‘I knew this documentary would be a good idea.’
I smile back and try to hide the sarcasm from my voice. ‘You were right, Peter. I’ve loved being here, and especially in the Kasbah, that was such an amazing feeling watching these guys dancing, weaving, and jumping in unison like a shoal of fish or a murmuration of starlings. They were incredible. I’m surprised they didn’t hurt themselves.’
‘We worked out a routine, and we challenge ourselves before they begin filming. We’ve practised it over and over, and they’ve loved it,’ Matt says.
‘They were excellent; we had to change some of the choreography.’
‘Will it be very different in London?’ I ask Sandra.
‘It’s not so easy to film action scenes in a high-rise building, but I have a few ideas. I’m not sure if they’ll work. I’ve some different stunt guys on board, and they’re looking into it all, too. Safety is our number one priority, and some of the scenes take time to set up. We have a couple of locations that we’re considering, but if we can use the Parks, then we will.’
Matt smiles but his face, now in the half-shadow, looks tired and worn. Dark circles devour his eyes, and the stress of his previous life appears etched on his face, and there’s a weariness to his demeanour. He’s looking as if he has the world balanced on his shoulders and he doesn’t know which way to turn, for fear of it falling off.
Chapter 4
“Rape is a more heinous crime than murder since the rape victim dies throughout the period she lives.”
Amit Abraham
It’s late by the time I get to my bedroom, and I close and lock the door behind me. The Moroccan lamps cast a warm glow over the patterned rug, matching curtains, and bed cover.
I strip off my clothes, brush my teeth, and flick off the bathroom light. I listen to a message from Marco, conscious he’s probably now sleeping, when there’s a light tap on my bedroom door.
‘Hello?’ I whisper, but there’s no answer, just a persistent tap.
‘Hello?’ I call louder.
‘Mikky?’
I quickly pull on a bathrobe and open the door. I have a fleeting glimpse of Monika as she pushes me by the shoulders back inside my room and up against the wall, and very firmly, she plants her lips on mine in a wet snog. Gasping, surprised and shocked, I manage to grab her shoulders and push her away.
‘Monika, stop!’ I say urgently. ‘Stop!’
‘I want to see your tattoos,’ she whispers. ‘The bloody head of John the Baptist.’
She leans forward to kiss me again, but I manage to dodge her embrace. She kicks the bedroom door closed and, ignoring me, she walks in and sits on the edge of my bed with her hands in her lap, gazing at me with a defiant brown-eyed stare.
She has changed into boy’s blue-and-white-striped pyjamas, and very slowly, she begins to undo the buttons.
I stand beside the door with my arms folded, assessing her and the situation, knowing I must tread carefully. Rejection is a massive theme for these teenagers, and I must handle it well.
‘How old are you, Monika?’
She stares at me. Her eyes are dark and hurt. ‘Nineteen.’
‘Tell me the truth.’
‘Almost seventeen.’
‘You’re sixteen?’ I walk over and sit beside her on the bed and, very deliberately, I pull her pyjama top closed. ‘I’m in my mid-thirties – old enough to be your mother.’
‘So?’
‘So, I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong idea.’
She places her hand on my knee, and I leave it there while she says, ‘But you’re so lovely. You understand me, Mikky. I know you do.’
I remove her fingers but keep hold of her hand.
‘I do understand you, Monika. Just like you, I’ve been through a tough time, but also like Matt, we’ve come out the other side. You are doing the same. You’re on the right path …’
She holds my hand, and when her tears begin to fall, she lifts my palm to her cheek.
‘I was raped …’
I place my arms around her shoulder.
‘He came to our house. He knew my stepdad. I was twelve. He said I was aloof and unresponsive, but I wasn’t interested. I wanted them to leave me alone, but they said I needed to be taught a lesson. They called me a snobby cow.’
‘Oh, Monika. I’m so sorry …’
She shakes her head. Her sobbing muffles her words. ‘It’s like they thought I’d enjoy it; they even told me I was asking for it, but I was wearing a dress as I’d been to my friend’s birthday party. I was crying, but he blamed me. He made me smoke pot. He said it was my fault and that I’d led him on, but I didn’t, Mikky. I promise you.’
‘I know. I know.’
I hold her in my arms while she cries.
Monika pulls away from me and blows her nose, and eventually she continues, ‘One guy told me he was entitled to do it to me and, after that, my stepdad brought them home regularly. The first one was an addict. The second one made me …’
I pull her against me and I stroke her hair as she tells me what happened in a haltingly sad voice. She talks, and I hear her pain as I listen silently to her child-like voice.
I don’t tell her about ITs – the set of Implicit Theories that underpin the cognitive process of rapists, skewing the perception of their victims. Unfortunately, this is how rapists rationalise their sexually violent behaviour.
‘Then, they came to our house to buy crack, and when they saw me, I was part of the deal. They weren’t really his friends. He hardly knew them, but they gave me cannabis and then stronger stuff. It deadened the pain, but then I didn’t know what I was doing most of the time, and then this guy came along …’
‘Matt?’
‘No, this was before Matt. This guy was Asian. I think he’s Chinese. He speaks quietly, and he has a presence. You know you want to please him.’
‘You had sex with him?’
‘No, it wasn’t like that. The Asian was the boss, in charge, and you did what he told you to do. My stepdad was frightened of him. It’s weird, but I trusted him; I thought he’d look after me. He stopped the men from touching me. He took me to a safe house but then I was forced to bag up coke and sell it.’
‘How did you get out?’
‘The police. They got my stepdad – he’s in prison now. They caught some of the other guys, too.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last year.’
I’m thinking of the two undercover police officers who were also killed last year and wonder if the events are related.
I ask, ‘And the Asian, what happened to him?’
‘He disappears all the time, but he keeps coming back. The thing is, I can’t forget him.’
‘Does he frighten you?’
‘I never want to see him again.’
‘So, were you in a gang or a cult?’
‘Yeah …’
‘How many were in it?’
She shrugs and wipes her eyes on a tissue that I give her.
‘Did it have a name?’ I persist.
‘It didn’t need one. You just knew you were in it …’
‘How?
‘I got a tattoo.’ She points at her chest. ‘We all have one. It’s like a ceremony sort of thing.’
‘What sort of tattoo?’ She doesn’t answer me, so I ask, ‘Who is all? Is it like a gang and the Asian is the boss?’
She wipes her eyes, then concentrates on her hands in her lap, and won’t reply.
‘Does the Asian have a name?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘I hate men.’
‘You don’t have to hate men. You like Ali,’ I say gently, ‘and Joe, and Matt. They’re kind to you, aren’t they? They treat you kindly.’
She nods and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Yeah, they wouldn’t hurt me. Neither would Peter,’ she adds quietly. ‘Would he?’
‘No, Peter is kind. He’s a protector.’
‘Like Ali and Matt.’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I stay here the night with you? I could sleep right here.’ She pats the side of the double bed. ‘I promise I won’t kiss you.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. Don’t you have your own room?’
‘I’m sharing with Lisa, but Joe’s in bed with her.’
‘Joe?’
‘They’re together, but no one knows, so it’s a bit awkward for me with them both, you know …’
‘Okay,’ I say, checking my watch. ‘But on the condition that you go straight to sleep. You have an early flight. We have to be up at five-thirty.’
* * *
Monika falls asleep almost immediately. I lay awake, staring up at the ceiling and listening to her rhythmic breathing getting deeper and deeper. I turn on my side and study her profile. She’s lying on her back, angelically, her parted lips giving a small shudder as she exhales.
I lie on my back thinking of the Parks and their complicated lives. I’m lying to them about the documentary, but it’s crucial we find out about the talisman and take this information back to Inspector Mulhoon.
These kids need people they can trust and respect, but I feel like I’m just another pimp, using them for information with no intention of making a film.
It’s just a pretext to get them to open up and to trust me.
Monika trusts me. That’s why she came to my room and confided in me. Now all I can do is think about the tattoo that she pointed at under her left breast.
What sort of symbol did they all have?
I couldn’t ask her to show it to me. I couldn’t alert her to my real aim.
I watch the rise and fall of her chest, and in the semi-darkness of the bedroom, I can see the outline of her breasts. Her pyjama shirt is still undone; she didn’t bother to close the top buttons. She’d fallen asleep almost immediately, exhausted from the exercise and filming, and then afterwards by her sad confession.
I wait, unable to sleep, for the room to grow lighter, for the light to stream in through the light curtains, but I doze off, and when I open my eyes, Monika is lying on her back with her arms over her head, and she’s snoring quietly. Her pyjama top has fallen open, and her pale brown breasts and chest are exposed.
I throw off the bed covers and tiptoe across the room to get my camera.
In the half-light, I adjust the settings on my Canon 5D and stand over Monika. I adjust the lens, focus, and snap several images, then I remove the camera from my eye and check the results; when I look back up, Monika’s eyes are open, and she’s staring at me.
‘What are you doing?’ she mumbles.
‘I’m going outside on the terrace to photograph the sunrise. I was just going to wake you. It’s a beautiful morning. Come on!’
I wave my camera in the air and pull open the curtains, flooding the room with the early morning sunrise. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful day.’
* * *
We all have an early breakfast in the hotel, and while we wait for the minibus, I take a quick film of the Parks, who are sleepy but good-naturedly wave and grimace in the early morning.
‘Are you always this lively?’ Ali complains.
‘Can you show us any of the stuff you took yesterday?’ asks Joe.
Lisa stands beside him, very close, and I believe Monika’s excuse for visiting my bedroom.
She returned to her room where she showered, and now she’s dressed in camouflage track pants, and her hair is tied in colourful ribbons. She smiles shyly at the camera.
I show Joe some of the drone footage I took yesterday on set, but I notice how Adam hangs back until I hold out the screen.
‘You want to look?’
‘No.’ Adam shakes his head.
‘Let me take a picture of you all together,’ I suggest.
We’re standing around while the Parks throw their luggage on the minibus. They pose quickly, hanging out of the door, grinning on the step of the bus while I snap some pictures. They’re happy and copy each other, flicking V-signs.
I show Keith the photographs, as they board the bus.
‘You’re an outstanding photographer, Mikky. Maybe we should use your images. How did you get so good at this?’
‘I’ve filmed kitesurfers and skiers, lots of action stuff, so I’m used to filming people moving at speed.’
I flick the camera to video.
‘It’s incredible,’ agrees Sandra, looking over our shoulders. ‘You’re an excellent photographer.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s an amazing thing that you’re doing, Mikky. Filming this documentary is very important. The world needs more people like you, and I hope it won’t stop here.’ Matt is looking at the images over my shoulder, and
I tilt the screen for him to have a better look. His breath smells of mints, and when he grins, he holds my gaze.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Well, I hope you’ll come and see us at Dixon House. It would be great to get some publicity about the work we do. We might even get more funding.’
‘What’s the name of that politician that helps you?’ Sandra calls. ‘Keith, what’s the name of that politician who’s helping us with the film location in London?’
‘Raymond Harris,’ Matt replies.
‘Maybe you could interview him, Mikky?’ Sandra suggests.
Keith scratches his Viking beard. ‘If you start getting testimonials from people in the public eye, then that could gain a lot of weight for your documentary. You want to get it on national television. Especially with the election coming up next month.’
‘That’s true,’ says Matt excitedly. ‘Sandra, maybe when you’ve finished the film, Mikky could interview you and talk about your experience working with these guys. You could perhaps say what a contribution they’ve made to the film and how dedicated and hard-working they are?’
‘Your testimonial would make a big difference,’ I agree, smiling at Sandra while feeling appalled that I’ve lied to them all.
‘Let’s arrange something back in London. I’d love to help you,’ she says to me, and then adds, ‘Besides, if your best friend Glorietta Bareldo and my sister are friends, then we must look after each other!’
She hugs me warmly, and Keith risks two continental kisses to my cheeks.
‘We’re filming at Dixon House next week,’ I say.
‘What a splendid idea. I hate the idea of saying goodbye to you guys.’
Peter holds out his hand, but Matt pulls him closer into a bear hug.
‘Thanks mate,’ he whispers, slapping Peter’s back. ‘I appreciate all that you’ve done to help these guys.’
‘Right, come on, you guys, say goodbye.’ Matt pushes the five teenagers awkwardly forward, and with a mixture of hesitant hugs, high-fives, and knuckle-bumping, I laugh with them, as they finally climb into the van.
