by Sophie Hayes
Kas was still calling me regularly and eventually I told him, ‘I’m trying to get well again. I just need to be left alone for a while.’ I hadn’t really expected him to take any notice, so I was surprised when I didn’t hear from him again for the next few days. And then I had a call from someone who said he was Kas’s brother.
‘Kas has been arrested,’ he told me. ‘He was picked up by the Italian police when he had a large quantity of cocaine in his car and he’s in prison. I need to know if you’re coming back.’
I wanted to shout at him, ‘Why are you telling me this? This isn’t my problem. I don’t care about what’s happened to Kas. Prison is where he belongs.’ But, instead, I tried to sound concerned as I said, ‘I’m sorry; I can’t go back just now.’
Then I went into the kitchen, filled the kettle to make some tea and stood staring blindly out of the window as I tried to identify the emotion I was feeling. Was it elation? Relief? Disbelief? Pity? Satisfaction? Perhaps it was a mixture of all of them.
I was still standing there when Mum came in and said, ‘Are you making tea? Ooh, make one for me, love.’ Then she sat down at the kitchen table and told me we needed to talk.
‘You need to tell me what happened,’ she said. ‘I haven’t wanted to push you, but I really have to know now.’
‘I can’t tell you,’ I told her. My heart was pounding and the tears that were always just behind my eyes had begun to trickle down my cheeks.
‘Yes, you can,’ Mum said, reaching for my hand and squeezing it. ‘I don’t care what’s happened, Sophie. I don’t care what you’ve done. You will always be my little girl and I will always love you. Nothing can change that, no matter how bad it seems to you. Nothing can change the fact that you’re you. But you have to tell me. I can’t bear to see you so unhappy and not be able to help you.’
So I told her what Kas had made me do and how I’d been so afraid of him and had felt so alone that I’d had to become Jenna to be able to do it. I explained how Kas always stood beside me whenever I’d talked to her on the phone, and that although I’d wanted desperately to tell her I wasn’t happy, as I was pretending to be, I’d been too ashamed and too brainwashed by Kas to be able to tell her the truth. And as she knelt on the floor beside my chair and held me in her arms, we both began to sob.
Afterwards, when we could talk again, she said, ‘I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. The whole time you were there, I kept telling Steve I didn’t believe you’d just walk away from your family, your friends and your job like that. I’d sometimes wake up at 4 or 5 o’clock in the morning and I’d be thinking about you, wondering where you were and if you were okay. I knew something bad had happened to you, but I allowed myself to believe what everyone told me – that I was just hurt because we’ve always had a close relationship and you didn’t seem to want to talk to me about anything anymore.’
It turned out that when I phoned Mum from the hospital, she and Steve had already been planning a ‘surprise visit’ to Italy. Despite the fact that I’d avoided giving her the address of where I was staying – using one excuse after another whenever she asked for it – they’d intended simply to arrive in the area and drive around, knocking on doors if necessary, until they found me. Having lived most of her life in the small, close-knit community of a village, however, I don’t think my mum had realised how easy it is for people to ‘disappear’ in a city suburb, and she certainly hadn’t dared to allow herself to consider the possibility that they might eventually have to leave again without me.
Even in her most haunting nightmares, the worst she’d been able to imagine was that Kas wasn’t treating me well, and she was completely devastated when I told her the truth. Later, she went upstairs to tell Steve, and he came down, wrapped his arms around me, hugging me so tightly he almost squeezed all the breath out of me, and said, ‘Listen, lovey. You’re safe, you’re well and you’re well loved. We’re going to look after you and you’re going to get through this.’
Mum told my sister, Emily, an abridged version of what I’d told her, and when Emily came into my room, she was sobbing. She threw her arms around me and kept repeating through her tears, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sophie. I’m so sorry.’
That evening, Mum, Steve, Emily and I had a family conference around the kitchen table, at which we agreed not to tell anyone else outside the family, except for Mum’s best friend Louise, who knew quite a senior police officer who might know where I could get some help. And it was through Louise’s contact that I was put in touch with Robin, who was head of a vice unit and who, quite literally, saved me.
A few days after I’d come home, I’d gone to the hair-dresser and had my hair dyed and cut short. I wanted not to look like Jenna and, perhaps more importantly, I didn’t want to have her hair – the hair that Kas and so many other men had touched. Mum had already gone through my suitcase and thrown almost everything away, crying silently while she did it and sobbing when she found the rip in the back of my jacket and the 50-Euro note that was tucked into the lining. I think that was the moment when it all became too real for her to bear, and it hurts me more than anything else to know that, when she goes to bed every night, she has to try to block out of her mind the pictures she must see of what happened to me.
The day after I told her, Mum took me shopping for some new clothes and we were sitting in a coffee shop when I suddenly burst into tears. The look of anguish on her face made me feel even more wretched, and eventually, when I’d calmed down enough to talk, I told her, ‘I hate myself. I hate the way I look. I don’t want to be in this world anymore. I don’t want to have to go on living.’
‘Oh, Sophie,’ she said, wiping away the tears that were streaming down her own cheeks. Then she took a slow, deep breath and, in a determinedly cheerful voice, told me, ‘You look lovely, darling. It’s just the way you feel at the moment. It’ll get better. I promise it will.’
‘Look at me, Mum,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so skinny and ugly and my clothes are disgusting. I know you want to help me, but it doesn’t matter how much money you spend on new clothes for me: nothing will ever look nice on me again. I don’t feel nice anymore – I look like a skeleton.’
I tried to pull myself together for my mother’s sake and I told her I liked all the clothes she bought me, but I couldn’t help thinking, What’s the point? There’s no point in my even existing.
I had other worries too, the main one being that I was in debt. While I was in Italy, the money for the rent on my flat in Leeds had continued to be taken out of my bank account every month – from an overdraft once the account was empty. I hadn’t told anyone, and whenever my mother asked about my financial situation, I insisted, ‘Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about anything.’ So, of course, she assumed I’d taken care of it. The truth was, though, that being in debt made my anxiety even worse, and I knew I had to get a job as soon as possible so that I could start paying back what I owed to the bank.
Luckily, I found a really good job – on the recommendation of a friend I used to work with – just three weeks after I got home. I knew Mum would have liked me to stay so that she and the other people who loved me could protect me. And, in many respects, that was what I wanted too. But I knew that if I gave in to the temptation to hide myself away, safely cocooned from the real world, I would never be able to build a new life. What was also pushing me away from my family, though, was the fact that I felt as if I was completely different from the girl I used to be. Everything that should have been familiar and comforting seemed strange – although I knew that the only thing that had really changed was me.
So I left my family and moved back into the flat in Leeds. But I couldn’t focus. I still felt detached and disconnected, as though I was watching myself from outside my body. I kept thinking, Pull yourself together. It’s over. It’s in the past. Move on. But I couldn’t, because everything had changed, and I didn’t know how to move on. It didn’t help that I’d lost most of my friends – as far as they kn
ew, I’d gone to Italy and just stopped phoning them or answering their text messages, which they’d soon given up sending.
I made an appointment at a health clinic and had tests for everything I could think of, and I wept with relief when they told me I didn’t have any infections. At least I had that to be thankful for, although it seemed I had little else.
When I had a meeting with Robin, from the vice unit, he asked me, ‘Do you understand what’s happened to you – that you’ve been trafficked?’ And, strange as it may seem, that was the first time I’d ever thought about it in those terms. Kas had done such a good job of brainwashing me that it had never actually crossed my mind that what he’d done had been entirely calculated and premeditated, and I think, even then, I still wanted to hold on to the belief that, on some level, he loved me.
Over the course of several meetings with Robin, he asked me questions and helped me to see what had happened in a more realistic light. Then, one day, he showed me a photograph and asked, ‘Is this him?’ I looked at it for a long time before answering, not because I didn’t recognise Kas’s face immediately, but because I could hear his voice in my head saying, ‘If I ever get into trouble because of something you’ve done, I’ll fucking kill you, woman.’ But, eventually, I whispered ‘Yes.’
‘He’s wanted here for an attempted shooting,’ Robin told me. ‘That’s why he left the country so abruptly when you first came across him.’ He confirmed that Kas was in prison in Italy on drug-related charges and he asked if I wanted him to be prosecuted for what he’d done to me. Just the thought of it made me shake uncontrollably, because I knew that the anger and rages I’d already witnessed would be nothing compared to Kas’s vicious fury if he was sent to prison again on the basis of my evidence against him.
‘No!’ I almost shouted at Robin. ‘No, I couldn’t. I … He’d know it was me. He’d know I’d disobeyed him and then you can’t imagine how much trouble I’d be in. He’d kill me – or he’d send someone else to do it. He wouldn’t allow me to double-cross him like that. No. Absolutely not.’
‘It’s all right.’ Robin put his hand on my arm. ‘No one’s going to try to persuade you and I do understand how you feel – it’s how everyone feels when they’ve been through the sort of experiences you’ve been through. It’s what makes my job so difficult, though, and it’s the reason why we hardly ever get to the stage of being able to prosecute these bastards. But, believe me, Sophie, I do understand, and no one is going to try to put pressure on you to change your mind.’
I was already afraid that Kas would come looking for me. In fact, I knew it would be one of the first things he’d do as soon as he got out of prison in Italy. It was wrong that he was going to get away with what he’d done to me, and I felt guilty even before someone said to me, shortly after my conversation with Robin, ‘If you don’t testify, Kas will do the same thing to other people.’ But although it was a thought that continued to haunt me for a very long time, I couldn’t overcome my fear of him.
Robin insisted there was nothing for me to worry about. ‘He won’t come back,’ he said. ‘He’s already wanted here, so why would he take that chance? You’ll be safe. And if you are ever concerned about anything – however silly it might seem – you know how to contact me.’ But I was constantly on super-alert, scanning the faces of the people around me, jumping at every sound and continually weighing up the risks – real and imagined – of every situation I was in.
My mother often told me that there was nothing I couldn’t talk about to her, but I knew she was wrong and that some things would have upset her too much. So I was grateful when Robin put me in touch with someone who specialised in counselling women who’d been raped. I talked to the counsellor about what had happened and about how it had changed my opinions about myself and my life and everything that used to feel safe and familiar to me. But although she was very nice and the talking did help, I began to feel as though she didn’t really understand. It wasn’t that what had happened to me was any worse than being raped; it was just that it was different.
Part of the problem was that I couldn’t seem to get past the fact that I hadn’t tried to escape from Kas. Even in France, when he’d left me on my own for several days, I’d carried on working and doing all the things he’d told me to do. And although I knew that it was because of the fear he’d so carefully and deliberately instilled in me, I still felt as though I’d somehow colluded in what had happened to me – despite knowing, deep down, that nothing could have been further from the truth.
Even before Italy, I hadn’t been particularly happy to be the person I was – I had at least my fair share of ‘emotional baggage’ from my childhood – but I’d have given anything to be that person again now. In just six months, everything had changed and in my mind I wasn’t anyone; I was in some sort of limbo, without any real sense of my own identity.
I often thought about Erion and how different my life would have been if I’d gone to Albania and married him that summer – which seemed like a lifetime ago. When I think about it now, I realise it might not have worked out well, but I became almost obsessed by regret because I’d let him down and, after Italy, when I felt as though I was completely lost and my future was a dark, empty hole, I was convinced I’d taken the wrong road at that particular crossroads in my life.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Erion and one evening I went with my friend Serena to the bar where he used to be the manager. His best friend, Adnan, still worked there and I asked him if he’d heard anything from Erion.
‘I just want to know that he’s all right,’ I said.
Adnan looked at me intently for a moment and then sighed as he answered, ‘So you don’t know?’
‘What do you mean? Know what?’ I asked, suddenly feeling sick and dreading what he was going to tell me.
‘He’s back,’ Adnan said.
My heart gave a lurch and started to thud against my ribcage. ‘How is he?’ I asked. ‘What’s he doing? Where’s he working?’ My eyes had filled with tears and I felt an almost physical sense of hurt at the thought that he’d come back to England and hadn’t got in touch with me.
Adnan shrugged his shoulders and looked away from me. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you,’ he said. ‘You really hurt him, you know.’
‘I do know,’ I told Adnan. ‘And you have no idea how sorry I am and how much I’ve always regretted what happened. Is he with someone? Has he met someone else?’
‘Please, don’t ask me.’ Adnan shook his head. ‘That’s a conversation the two of you need to have. I don’t want to hurt you.’
Erion hates me, and I don’t blame him, I thought. But I knew I couldn’t just walk away and try to forget about him.
‘How can we have any conversation at all if you won’t tell me where he is?’ I asked. ‘Please, please help me, Adnan. You don’t know what this means to me. I have to talk to Erion.’
‘Okay,’ Adnan sighed again. ‘Give me your phone number and I’ll give it to him, but that’s all I can do. If he doesn’t want to talk to you, you’ll just have to accept that.’
A few minutes later, Serena and I walked out of the club and on to the street and I suddenly stopped, clutched her arm and whispered, ‘Oh my God, he’s there!’
‘Who? What is it?’ Serena tried to follow my gaze.
‘It’s Erion. At the pedestrian lights, on the other side of the road,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to talk to him.’
I don’t know if he saw me before he crossed the road, but as soon as he reached the pavement I called out his name. When he turned and looked at me, his eyes were cold and empty and I felt as though someone had stamped on my heart.
‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘Do I know you? I think you must have mistaken me for someone you used to know.’ And he walked away.
Serena put her arm around my waist and pushed me down to sit on a low brick wall beside the pavement. I felt dazed and sick, but as soon as I could walk again, I scurried home to hide, like an injured animal
.
It was a normal reaction for someone who’s been badly hurt, I told myself. He doesn’t know why I abandoned him, so of course he’s going to want to hurt me in return. But how will I ever be able to explain to him what happened? So I decided to write him a letter. I didn’t tell him about Italy; I just wrote about the pressure I’d been under from all sides after I’d come out of hospital, and how I’d been so confused that I hadn’t known what to do. I told him I was sorrier than he could ever imagine and I begged him to give me the chance to explain it to him face to face. And at the end of the letter I wrote my phone number and the words ‘It’s in your hands.’
Two days later, Erion phoned me and we arranged to meet the following evening. I couldn’t concentrate on anything for the rest of the day, and as I lay in bed that night, watching the minutes and hours tick slowly away, I wondered if he would ever be able to forgive me.
I must have looked even paler and more exhausted than normal by the time we met for dinner the next night, and when I asked Erion how he could have said what he said to me at the traffic lights, he answered, ‘To be honest, I almost didn’t recognise you. I didn’t expect to see you. Someone told me you’d gone abroad, so I was taken by surprise when I suddenly came face to face with you. And I was shocked by the way you look. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Sophie, but you’re so skinny and your cheeks are so sunken, you look like a heroin addict. And all your beautiful hair has gone! What happened to you? Why do you look so different?’
I couldn’t tell him the truth, but he seemed to accept that I didn’t want to talk about it in any detail, and as we sat in the restaurant, talking and crying, it felt as though we’d never been apart. I told him how desperately sorry I was that I hadn’t gone to Albania as we’d planned, and how I’d wished every single day since then that I could go back and do it all differently. And, from that moment, we were together again.
I don’t think I could have shared my life with any other man at that time, but Erion had known me before I’d become Jenna, so to him I was the ‘me’ I used to be; the ‘me’ I was trying so hard to find again. I felt safe with him. Sometimes I almost forgot about Italy and sometimes I almost allowed myself to believe I could pick up the life I used to have and start living it again.
