Trafficked: The Terrifying True Story of a British Girl Forced into the Sex Trade by Sophie Hayes

to the open window when Cara put a hand on my arm and said, ‘We can’t go with him. Say no.’
    â€˜What do you mean? Why not?’ I asked her, my heart beginning to race.
    â€˜Just say no,’ she hissed at me, and when I still hesitated, she stepped towards the car herself and said firmly, ‘No! Vai via! ’
    I felt myself blushing with embarrassment because she’d spoken to him so rudely – a reaction that didn’t strike me as ironic until much later – and then I held my breath and waited to see what the man would do. But in the end he just swore at her and drove away.
    â€˜What was wrong?’ I asked Cara. ‘Why did you tell him to go?’
    â€˜He’s bad,’ she answered, shrugging and pulling a face. ‘He’s a bad man. Remember this car and this face. Do not go with him – ever .’ And the warning I could hear in her voice made me afraid in case I didn’t recognise him if he came again.
    Some of the men who stopped their cars beside us drove off when I told them the price, and then – eventually, inevitably – one of them said he wanted full sex. I hesitated, but when I looked at Cara she just nodded irritably. So I walked round to the passenger door and got into the car.
    As the man drove down the road, following my directions, all I could think was, This is it. Oh my God. This isn’t pretend. I’m not Jenna, I’m Sophie, and this is really happening to me. I turned to look out of the window beside me, hiding my tears while I prayed that something would happen so that I didn’t have to go through with it. I knew, though, that I mustn’t let him see my fear or realise I didn’t know what I was doing and, with the voice in my head still repeating the words You have to get a grip on yourself , I wiped my hand across my face just as he asked me my name.
    When he stopped the car and I couldn’t push my seat back, so that he had to do it for me, I almost gave in to the panic that was building up like a tidal wave inside me. Somehow, though, I managed to detach myself just enough to be able to shut my mind to what I was doing – until he tried to touch me. I could pretend – almost – that I couldn’t feel the weight of his body as he lay on top of me, pushingme down on to the seat and crushing my thighs painfully with his knees. And I could turn my head away so that the acrid smell of his breath didn’t make me gag. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to bear it if he touched me. I hated the thought of anyone putting their hands on my body and I could see he was startled when I almost shouted at him, ‘It’s not allowed. You can’t do that.’
    Afterwards, I gave him the tissues and lay there for a moment, thinking, This is what I am now. This is what I’m going to have to do. I can’t get away from it. I can’t escape. Where would I go? Who could I tell? I felt almost sullen, like a petulant child who’d been made to do something she didn’t want to do, although without any simple, child-like sense of resentment or injustice. Instead, I was completely numb – both mentally and physically – and I was barely aware of what I was doing as I pulled up my pants and straightened my clothes. Then, as the stranger I’d had sex with drove me back to the place where, just a few minutes earlier, he’d picked me up, I stared miserably out of the window of his car and saw nothing but darkness.
    From 8 o’clock in the evening until 5 the next morning, I was almost literally going round in circles: waiting with Cara at the side of the road, being picked up by someone and driven to ‘my spot’, then back again to the pick-up point, where I’d start the whole process all over again. And, gradually, as the minutes and then the hours ticked by, my mind shut down and the numbness almost obliterated the fear and revulsion.
    By the time Cara