Mummy,
come home
The true story of a
mother kidnapped and torn from her children
Oxana Kalemi
Table of Contents
Prologue
Epilogue
Further Information
Copyright
It was late one night when a young boy arrived at the massage parlour in Tottenham, London, where I worked. He was with two friends. They were all drunk but he looked quiet. Short with light brown hair and a stocky body, he was in his early twenties and English.
I was sitting in reception as usual. The customers would come in, look over the girls who weren’t already occupied with a client and then choose which one they wanted to go with.
I looked at the boy with only a slight flicker of interest. They were all the same to me, these men who came in looking for a piece of meat to fuck. But the night had been a quiet one for me and if I didn’t get a customer soon, I would suffer for it. My pimp, Ardy, was waiting for me, as he always did, first to get hold of all the money I might have made during the evening, and second to make sure I didn’t run. If I escaped from him, his income would vanish with me and he’d made it perfectly clear that if that happened, he’d hunt me down and kill me. As it was, even a quiet night could mean punishment for me, for failing to line Ardy’s pockets adequately.
The boy was staring at me. His eyes held the dazed look of a drunk man but he was young so perhaps he would be satisfied with a massage or even a blow job. When we caught each other’s gaze, he smiled at me.
‘Can you go with me?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Why not?’ I replied.
‘You’re not English,’ he said. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Turkey,’ I lied. It was the story I told everyone. It was easier somehow. How could I begin to tell anyone the truth about what had happened to me?
As we walked into the small massage room, he tried to touch my bottom.
‘Don’t do that,’ I told him firmly.
‘Of course. You don’t like that.’
‘No.’
I closed the door. ‘It’s forty-five pounds for half an hour.’
He dug into his pockets and handed me some crumpled notes.