Bought and Sold Page 13

  I had long ago lost count of the disgusting things I had done – and that had been done to me – since I had been in Athens. Many of them were things I hadn’t previously known anyone did, and that I wouldn’t have believed I would ever do. By comparison with some of them, having sex with a man in a room full of people was relatively mundane, but it still made me feel physically sick.

  Christoph came back again that evening, this time with a different man who chose a different girl. And then no one came at all.

  I had been in the room for four days, without any food and surviving only on water from the tap, by the time Christoph did come back. In just those four days I seemed to have gone from thin to emaciated, so that the dirty, creased skirt I was wearing was falling off me, and there was a persistent throbbing pain in my head that felt as if someone was beating the inside of it with a hammer.

  According to the clock in Christoph’s car, it was mid-morning when he drove me to a hotel, where he told me to have a shower, get dressed and do my make-up. ‘Make yourself look really nice,’ he said, in his old friendly voice. ‘I’ve got an important job for you.’ All I wanted to do was fall on the bed and sleep. But there were no choices in the world I was living in. Perhaps that’s why I sometimes react badly today when people tell me what to do: after all those years of being controlled, the anger builds up inside me like steam in a pressure cooker and if I don’t release it from time to time, I’m afraid it might explode.

  I didn’t ever feel angry then, though. I was too exhausted – both mentally and physically – to summon up the energy that would have been required. So while Christoph sat in my hotel room, chatting in the way he used to do in the days before I had seen him punch a girl repeatedly in the face, I had a shower, got dressed and made myself look, if not nice, at least presentable.

  When I was ready, he took me to a fast-food restaurant and ordered chicken souvlaki, saying, ‘It’s what you like, isn’t it?’ But despite having had nothing to eat for four days, I barely managed more than a few mouthfuls. Then Christoph drove me to one of the wealthiest suburbs of the city, where he said I was going to see a ‘very special client’.

  While we were in the car, he told me what had happened to precipitate the need to ‘lie low’ for a few days. Apparently, a girl had escaped and gone to the police. ‘People are already on the way to Albania to sort out her family,’ Christoph said. ‘She’s a dead woman.’ He held out two fingers and mimed the firing of a gun. And although I tried to look as though I was shocked by the unknown girl’s treacherous behaviour, what I was actually thinking was that I was never going to get away from the unbearable life I had become trapped in.

  Christoph stopped the car outside a smart hotel and phoned the client to say we had arrived. Then he told me the room number and said he would be back for me in an hour. It was the sort of hotel where, even if I hadn’t been scrawny and had dark rings under my eyes, my cheap clothes would make me look very obviously out of place. So my heart was racing as I walked through the lobby towards the lift, and I was amazed, as well as relieved, when no one stopped me; the receptionist barely even seemed to notice me.

  When I knocked on the door of the hotel room, it was opened almost immediately by a pleasant-looking man, who greeted me politely. For some reason, he made me feel safe and I remember hoping that he might decide to book me for longer than the hour, so that I could postpone the moment when I had to go back out into the real world again.

  I always showered before and after every client. In good hotels like this one, it was a pleasure to stand under the powerful jet of warm water for a few minutes before wrapping myself in a soft, freshly laundered towel. When I walked out into the bedroom, the man smiled and said, ‘Come here.’ Then he gently unhooked the towel and let it drop on to the floor.

  ‘You’re one of the best he’s ever sent,’ he told me, smiling again as he looked me up and down. ‘It’s okay. You can put the towel back on now.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out his wallet and handed me some money. I had just turned away from him to put the notes in my bag when he said, ‘You’re under arrest.’

  It took a moment for his words to sink in, and then I started to cry. ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ I begged him. ‘Here, take the money back.’ I tried to push the notes into his hand.

  ‘It’s too late,’ he said. ‘You’ve already taken it. Put it in your bag and get dressed.’

  After I had pulled on my skirt and top, I asked him, tearfully, ‘What’s going to happen to me?’

  ‘Listen to me,’ the man said, grasping my arm and pushing me out of the room ahead of him. ‘Just tell the truth and you’ll be okay. We’re not interested in you. All we want from you is to tell us about the man who brought you here. Do you understand?’ I nodded miserably. ‘So, are you going to tell the truth?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ I said.

  ‘Well, in that case, you’ll be fine.’

  I still didn’t understand what had happened. Christoph had spoken to this man on the phone from the car. Did that mean that Christoph had set me up? It didn’t make any sense, particularly if what the policeman had just said about not being interested in me was true. But if Christoph hadn’t set me up and I said something to the police that enabled them to get to him through me … I heard his voice in my head saying, ‘People are already on the way to Albania to sort out her family. She’s a dead woman.’ And suddenly, although I was very afraid of what the police might do to me, I knew I had far more reason to be afraid of Christoph.

  On the way out of the hotel, the policeman nodded to the receptionist as if to say thank you, and I realised why she had only glanced at me when I came in and then looked away again without questioning me. It hadn’t been because I didn’t stick out like a sore thumb among all the well-dressed hotel guests; it was because she had known what I was and what was about to happen to me. Despite the very serious trouble I was in and the fact that I was being led, handcuffed, through the lobby of an expensive hotel, it was that thought as much as any other that made me blush with embarrassment and humiliation.

  As we were walking out through the main entrance of the hotel, I heard what I thought was the sound of a car backfiring and then people shouting. I froze and pulled back from the doorway and the policeman tightened his grip on my arm. The street outside the hotel seemed to be full of police. Christoph’s car was still parked where it had been when I left him, but now all its doors were wide open. And then I saw Christoph, shouting and spitting at the three policemen who were half-dragging him down the road back towards the hotel. Stepping out of the hotel into the scene that was unfolding outside seemed unreal, like walking on to a film set or watching yourself in a dream.

  Apparently, it had taken several men – including some construction workers on a building site next to the hotel – to catch Christoph when he jumped out of his car and tried to escape. Shots had been fired and it took three policemen to manhandle him, struggling and swearing, into a police car. I was put into another car parked next to the one he was in, and when I looked up, he shook his head, winked at me and mouthed, ‘Everything will be fine.’ But I didn’t see how that could possibly be true.

  The police station they took us to, separately, was about a ten-minute drive from the hotel. They left us in a waiting room there, sitting side by side for about an hour, while they went off to do whatever it was they had to do. The police officer at a desk on the other side of the room didn’t seem to be interested in anything we might say to each other.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Christoph asked me.

  When I lied and told him that I was, he held my gaze and said, more loudly, ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. What have you done? Why have the police arrested you? I’m sorry if you’re in some kind of trouble. But I don’t know you. All I did was give you a lift to the hotel because my friend asked me to do it.’

  I made a small movement with my head to show him I had understood what he was telling me: that he expect
ed me to take the rap and to say that we didn’t know each other. He seemed quite relaxed, almost as if he was enjoying playing the role of injured innocent. If he was concerned about what I might say to the police, he didn’t show any signs of it. And he didn’t need to worry: I had got the message and I would do what I was told, whatever the consequences might be for me.

  After we had been at the police station for about half an hour, Christoph’s wife arrived with an oxygen cylinder and a face mask. I didn’t understand most of the explanation she gave the police officer. Whatever it was, she must have been convincing, because he let her give the cylinder and mask to Christoph. Perhaps Christoph really did have some sort of heart or lung condition. Or maybe it was an elaborate excuse to give his wife access to him in the police station. Whatever the truth of it was, she kept glaring at me in a way that suggested she would quite happily have cut off my oxygen supply given half the chance. After she’d gone, Christoph and I were led away to separate cells.

  There were 12 women in the cell I was taken to. I could feel the eyes of every one of them looking me up and down as the policeman unlocked the metal-barred gate. I was so frightened and so completely out of my depth it felt like I imagine an out-of-body experience must feel. However, most of the women were friendly and happy to talk to me. It was ironic that, having longed for someone to talk to, I had finally got my wish in the cell of a police station.

  Some of the women were prostitutes, and when one of them asked me why I had been arrested, I told her, very briefly, what had happened. ‘Whatever you do,’ she said, her voice low and earnest, ‘don’t ever say anything. Don’t tell the police what you’ve just told me. Believe me, I know this business. The only way to survive is to keep your mouth shut.’ And I knew that she was right.

  Because I was used to Christoph talking to me in a friendly way, I think I had been lulled into believing that he really was fond of me – as he often claimed to be. But after what he had said about the Albanian girl who had run away, and after I had seen him assault the girl in the apartment, my illusions about him had been shaken, if not shattered completely. I knew he would protect himself ruthlessly and that if he got into trouble with the police because of something I said, he would turn on me in exactly the same way he had turned on the other girls. What I was also beginning to understand was that in order to save Christoph’s skin – and ultimately to protect myself from him – I was going to have to take full responsibility for working illegally as an underage prostitute. I didn’t know what that would entail or what the outcome of it all would be, but I was very frightened by the prospect of what lay ahead.

  There was a small, barred window high up on one of the walls of the cell, and by the time the light from it had gone, some of the girls were already asleep on the thin, hard mattresses that were strewn across the floor. Although I was exhausted, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. So I was still sitting on the wooden bench at the side of the room when two young Albanian girls – certainly no older than me – were brought into the cell, crying.

  I spoke to one of them in Albanian and she asked me, ‘Who is Christoph? Why are the police asking us about someone called Christoph?’ All the threats and warnings I had been given – by Jak, then Leon, Elek and finally Christoph – had made me paranoid, and my first thought was that it might be a trick. What if the two girls had been brought in – by the police or even by Christoph himself – for the sole purpose of seeing if I would say anything? So I shrugged and said I didn’t know anyone called Christoph.

  It was only when a policeman came into the cell a little while later and started questioning the two girls that I realised they were genuine, and I began to piece together some of their story. Apparently, the Albanian girl whose escape had resulted in me, five other girls and a child being locked in the apartment for four days – and whose own days, according to Christoph, were now numbered – had gone to the police and told them all about him. It was when they found his number on her phone that they had called him and set up the meeting at the hotel.

  When they had arrested Christoph, they had seized all the phones they’d found in his car. On one of them there had been texts about two Albanian girls who were arriving that day at the railway station in Athens, and who had consequently been met by police officers. I genuinely don’t think the two girls had any idea what was going on. When they left Albania, they had probably been really excited at the prospect of earning good money working as waitresses in Athens. Instead, they were about to spend the night on the floor of a cell in a police station in a foreign country.

  I really hoped it would all get sorted out for them and that the police would realise they weren’t to blame in any way. In fact, they were incredibly lucky. I don’t suppose they could even have imagined what would have happened to them if Christoph hadn’t been arrested on that particular day, and if it had been him rather than two police officers who had met them at the railway station. A night on the floor of a cell was a very small price to pay for having escaped the fate they came so close to sharing with me.

  From time to time during the night, one of the policemen would ask if we wanted something to eat or drink. I had reached that stage when you’re too hungry to eat, but I did have some water. Then I lay down on one of the mats on the floor, covered myself with a threadbare blanket and tried to sleep. I must have dozed off for a while, and when I woke up I talked to another Albanian girl, called Flori, who was waiting to be deported and was having to leave her two children in Greece with her husband’s family. Every time she talked about the children, she cried. I felt incredibly sorry for her and I was reminded, once again, that however bad things seem, there’s always someone worse off than you are.

  Flori and I were sitting talking quietly to each other – I think we were the only ones still awake by that time – when one of the policemen unlocked the gate and came into the cell. For a while, he and his colleague, who stayed outside, chatted and laughed with us. Then the policeman who had come into the cell said, ‘You’re very sexy. Why don’t you do a pose for us?’

  I had been very frightened when I was arrested and I was still scared, because I didn’t know what was going to happen the next day or the day after that. But I had felt safe in the police station and I was shocked and unnerved when I realised he wasn’t joking.

  Flori said ‘No!’ at the same time as I did. And suddenly the policeman’s attitude changed completely. ‘Get up! Now!’ he shouted at us. ‘Put your hands on the wall and spread your legs.’ I could hear the other women grumbling as they woke up and when one of them said something, the policeman spun round and shouted at her too.

  My heart was racing as I stood with the palms of my hands pressed against the damp stone wall. And then, while one of the men touched our bodies, his colleague took photos on his phone and they both laughed and said lewd, disgusting things to us.

  The other women must have seen it all before, and most of them pulled the dirty blankets over their heads and went back to sleep. For me though, it was another tremor in the small amount of solid ground that remained under my feet, another naïve illusion shattered. I had been stupid to believe that anywhere was safe for someone like me, a prostitute who didn’t matter. I did what I always did at times like that: I thought about my mum and wished I was at home with her, and then thanked God that she couldn’t see me now.

  The next morning, I was handcuffed and driven to court in a police car, accompanied by three police officers, who were nice to me and said that everything would be all right as long as I told the truth.

  I kept asking myself how it had all happened. How had a mildly disaffected schoolgirl who was trying to get her mother’s attention by bunking off school become a prostitute and end up sitting in the back of a police car on her way to court in Athens? I knew I had sometimes been wilful and difficult, but had I really been bad enough to deserve the miserable life I was now leading? I didn’t think so. But I knew I must be wrong and that what had happened to me must somehow be my
fault.

  When I walked into the waiting room at the court house, Christoph was already there. He looked up as I came in with the three policemen and nodded almost imperceptibly. Then he turned and said something to the man in the well-cut suit sitting next to him.

  One of the policemen took off my handcuffs and said, ‘We just have to wait now. We don’t know how long it will be before your case is called. When it is, we’ll come in with you. And he’ll be there, too.’ He indicated Christoph with a movement of his head before adding, scornfully, ‘And his lawyer.’

  When our case was finally called and I was waiting to go into the courtroom, Christoph stood behind me and said, very quietly, ‘Whatever they say, they can’t prove you know me. Just tell them I gave you a lift to the hotel as a favour to a man you know but whose name you can’t remember. Tell them you’ve never met the man who gives you the work; you’ve only ever spoken to him on the phone.’

  We stood side by side in the courtroom: the three policemen, me, Christoph, his lawyer and the two frightened, bemused Albanian girls who had been within a hair’s breadth of becoming prostitutes. We had to say our names and then the judge asked me a question in Greek. I didn’t quite catch what she said, partly because Christoph’s lawyer started saying something while she was still talking. The judge told him, sharply, to shut up. Then she looked at me again and said, ‘Yes or no? It’s a simple question.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Suddenly everyone in the courtroom was looking at me. When I glanced anxiously at Christoph, he seemed to be on the verge of panic, and his lawyer was glaring at me furiously.

  ‘Clear the court,’ the judge ordered. I had begun to shuffle out with the others when she pointed her finger at me and said, ‘No, not you. You stay.’ As Christoph reached the doorway, I saw him turn his head and look at me with an angry, threatening expression that sent a chill through my body.