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

something profoundly significant had just happened, but as it didn’t fit anywhere on my own spectrum of reality, I couldn’t make any sense of it. And then I began to panic as the thought struck me that if I stayed in the bathroom too long, Kas might be angry with me.
    I quickly tugged a brush through my hair, splashed water on to my face and crept back into the kitchen, where he was leaning against the sink. His voice was almosttender as he asked me, ‘You love your little brothers, don’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, yes, I do,’ I answered hastily, relieved to talk about something normal and praying that the thought of how much I would miss my family might make him decide to let me go home.
    â€˜How old are the twins? Thirteen? Fourteen?’
    â€˜They’re thirteen,’ I said, trying to speak in what I hoped was a ‘respectful’ tone of voice.
    â€˜Hmm.’ He smiled at me and I felt an almost imperceptible glimmer of hope, which was shattered instantly when he said, ‘So you would be very sad if anything happened to them?’
    It sounded like a question, although I knew without any doubt that it was a statement – or, more precisely, a threat.
    â€˜Of course, I know where your family lives,’ Kas continued, twisting his body slightly to one side so that he could pick up a carving knife, which he turned slowly in his hand. ‘So, if you disrespect me again, I will have your precious little brothers taken from their home. It will happen as easily as that.’ He stepped forward and clicked his fingers in my face. ‘You have no idea what I can do. If you ever try to get away or do anything to disrespect me, I will have your little brothers taken, just like that.’
    He snapped his fingers again and as the sound rang out like a shot from a gun, the room began to turn and I sank to my knees on the floor, screaming silently in my head, No! Oh my God, no! This can’t be happening. It isn’t real. What am I going to do?
    Kas pulled me up roughly by my arm and pushed me towards the open door. I could sense his disgust as he spat out the words, ‘Get out of my sight! Go on! Go! Go to bed, and tomorrow I’ll take you to see where you’ll be working.’
    That night I slept in a single bed in Kas’s bedroom, although, in fact, I barely slept at all. My mind was racing, and every time I began to slip into exhausted oblivion, my eyes snapped open and I’d try again to concentrate on thinking of some excuse that would convince Kas I had to go home. I attempted – without success – to comfort myself with the thought that, Tomorrow everything will be okay. When he wakes up, he’ll be all right again. I’ll explain to him that I don’t want to do it and he’ll understand. Everything will be fine.
    In the morning I told him, ‘I’ve got to go home. I can’t just leave my family and my job. And I can’t do what you’re asking me to do. I don’t want to do it, but even if I did, I can’t because of the operation and the problems I’ve had …’
    He’d shrugged his shoulders and made a dismissive ‘pfff’ sound when I’d mentioned my family, but suddenly he erupted into fury and shouted, ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, woman. You’re being a hypochondriac. You’ve had your operation. It’s over. There’s nothing medically wrong with you. You’re fine. You need to stop thinking about yourself and your imagined illnesses and think about all the people who are far worse off than you are.’
    But on that first morning of the new life Kas had planned for me, all I could think about was finding some way to explain to him why I couldn’t stay in Italy and work to pay off his debt. I told him all the excuses that had sounded so reasonable in my head during the night, but he didn’t even listen. For four years, he’d been nice to me. Even