In A World Gone Mad: Monday 25 May 2020

Monday 25 May 2020

It’s seven in the morning after a sleepless night. Three times in half an hour Arthur got up and went to the bathroom, leaving the hall light on when he went back to his room. I had to get up to turn it off. How many times does one old man have to go to the bathroom during the night? He goes, forgets what he’s in there for and goes back to his room, turns in a circle, whispers an incantation—last night it was, do-be-do-be-do-be-do-be do, though we have variations on this—and repeats.

The fourth time, Max woke up, good of him. ‘I’ll go.’ He got up and put his dad back to bed. Gravity took it’s toll and he had to go for a poo, this can be a lengthy business and he had Arthur rattling the bathroom door shouting, ‘Joan, Joan, Let me in. I’ve forgotten my key.’ After his poo, Max needed a cigarette, it must be a man thing. He went downstairs and Arthur, the dog and the cat followed him. The parade didn’t come back into town for another hour and by that time I’d got mad and sleep was another distant memory.

The clapping on Saturday night was for a good cause, and one that’s specific to our town though it touches every family in Britain.

A story has broken—the oracle of social media is alive with it and people have forgotten Covid19 this week in favour of, Justice for Ellie.

I don’t know this girl; I don’t know the facts of the case and may get it wrong.  I haven’t researched it so I’m going to say what I’ve read. I believe that there’s a twist with the local reporter’s involvement and a hate campaign has opened in town against her, too. Threats have been made on social media and in the town, and, from what I can gather, the community is up in arms.

A young girl, I don’t know how old, but I I read nineteen has been held a prisoner in a flat by a sex trafficking and drugs gang. I don’t know how long she was held but, it was months or years. The stories conflict depending on time, day, and the colour of the sky. The girl was allegedly imprisoned by the upper management of five local Indian restaurants.

It came to light this time round when the girl was allegedly seen by a member of the public. She was hammering on the upper window of a top price bracket, Indian Restaurant, naked, battered and screaming for help.

Stories tell that the police were aware of the situation up to five years ago. I don’t have to change the victim’s name because it’s well reported, and you can’t move for seeing and hearing it. Was Ellie held that long, were there other girls before her? I have more questions than answers. Allegedly the police were in this gang’s pocket and nothing was done—allegedly.

 I heard rumours of prostitutes and girls being kept for sex upstairs when I worked at one of the restaurants a year ago. There was no mention of any brutality. The fact that I was told by a member of staff is not alleged that is fact—the rumour is hearsay.  

In the first twist, a story ran by the local rag with the headline, Local Woman Falsely Accuses Five Men of Raping Her. I know nothing, and while this girl is safe and being cared for and healing and no more harm can come to her, I’m trying to void the story and the sensationalism around it.

However, I have seen over twenty photos, you can’t miss them, they are shared on almost every timeline on social media. It could be argued by the ignorant that some of them are makeup but some of them are very real. I’ve had those bruises in my past, I can tell the difference between makeup and battery. The photos are horrific, beyond horrific. Some people say she inflicted the injuries herself. The girl’s body is covered over many separate incidents, in cuts bruises and broken bones. Her eyes appear to be in a permanent state of black and I can’t imagine the rich businessmen wanting to sleep with her in that state.  The stories go that during afterhours parties, when the door was closed and the elite retired upstairs, the cocaine mountain was built on a table for people to help themselves and the girls were let out for the gentlemen to enjoy. Many local and respected businessmen did enjoy—allegedly.

Second twist, the hated female reporter was allegedly sleeping with at least one of the owners of one of the five restaurants in return for cocaine. True? False? I have no idea. Two years ago, I would have been covering this story as part of my job—profiting from this poor girl’s misfortune? One thing I do know, I wouldn’t have been taking coke or sleeping with one of the leading characters, my version would have been unbiased. Which isn’t to say the reported, who was my arch-rival is biased. I’m staying away from the story and all the rumours surrounding it. I only mention it because of my personal involvement and because it’s so huge and it feels wrong to mention Covid19 and not write about this in even the broadest sense.

I’m not covering my arse with the ‘allegedly,’ and ‘the story goes,’ if I knew something in hard fact I’d write it. I’ve never shied away from writing the truth—but I know nothing other than some poor girl has been horribly, horribly, psychologically, and physically hurt.  One story says that she had so many cigarette burns on her body that it was hard to find skin.

 That sounds as though it could be self-inflicted, it’s my opinion, I may be a million miles off beam. These are businessmen, they care about money. The girl was –allegedly—their sex salve, pimped out to gentlemen party goers; I can’t see their commodity being worth much in that state. Surely their asset would bring in better capital if she was well presented, but what do I know?  But if they are self-inflicted, what kind of personal hell was the girl going through to do that?

And if not—then the horror of her life is off the scale, it’s white coat syndrome—if somebody tells them it’s okay, then it’s okay to do that. If the man before has stubbed out his cigarette on a child’s flesh—presumably, she was still a minor when this started—then the next man will do it too, because it’s okay and their horror reflex has been desensitised my coke.

There was a lot of talk two years ago when the story almost blew. The town was screaming when one of the men involved was running his ice-cream vans manned by known paedophiles—allegedly. They were selling ‘ice cream’ as late as one in the morning. It rose, people screamed, it died and that was that.  We had a meeting about whether this man’s advertising should be pulled. I said that until charges were brought against him and he had his day in court, nothing was proven, and his advertising should stay.  In hindsight it looks as through my decision was wrong, but I stand by it in principle, because the town was flying on rumour and broomstick.

From what I can gather from the little I’ve read, there are discrepancies. I expect they don’t come from the facts of the case. People in the know—really in the know, like the police or witnesses, don’t have holes in the story. They’ll know the facts. Everybody else is only guessing and embellishing because it’s fun and we’re bored and how exciting to have something like this happen. The rumours come from the ignorance spouted on social media—the font of all truths.

Apparently, as part of the, ‘police cover up,’ this girl’s phone was taken.  Was it the phone with all the photos of her injuries. They are all superimposed with the relevant dates as though somebody knew they’d be needed. She never took those pictures, some of them are  full body shots, so  who did? Presumably, none of her abusers would want photographic evidence. The photographer was in the room with her, who was it?. And surely the first thing the police do in almost every investigation of almost any kind, is take a person’s phone and media devices.

And the glaring question that leaps out at me is; if this girl was kept prisoner for six months, five years or two hours and she had a phone—why didn’t she ring the police, or her family, or a friend, or somebody? And, if she was held prisoner, wouldn’t the kidnappers have taken her phone? I don’t get it, but I’m sure all will be revealed.

What happened to that girl is horrific, something happened to her. The fact that it happened in the centre of town and nobody knew is despicable. I could see the room the girl was kept in from my lounge window at the old flat—I never saw anything.

In five years, it will be a made for television three-part drama, we’ll get the sensationalised ‘truth’ then. I hope they shown the town in all its beauty and splendour.

My part in the story begins last year and came home to roost this week.  I have a friend; she has her finger in every pie and likes to be outraged—it enriches her life.  I was talking to her last year and told her in a joking manner what happened to me. It was a laugh ha, ha, ha,ha. Now it doesn’t seem so funny.

But I got a Text from my friend the day before yesterday. She’s made herself something big on the Justice for Ellie social media page.  And she said.

Hi Lovely,

As you have probably seen there’s a big thing going on at the moment over Ellie Williams and a suspected sex trafficking ring involving local businesses. Do I recall you had a horrible experience when you did a couple of day’s work at the Indian Restaurant?  I was wondering if you would join our group. We need you to share your story with our community. They are trying to get as much evidence against these people as possible. Our aim is to make people aware that it’s not just young girls who are in danger from these perverse excuses for human beings.

A year ago, I did some work as a delivery driver. I worked for two days in an Indian Restaurant where I was exploited and quit and had a couple of months working in a lovely Chinese Takeaway where they couldn’t have treated me better or with more respect.

I did not have a horrible experience; I quite enjoyed my two days at the Indian and worked hard. My issue was that they didn’t pay me enough and they discriminated against me because I’m a woman—fact.  The sex stuff was so minor that it was irrelevant.

It was bad and they were sleazy, but it was not rape or being the victim of sex trafficking.

The sexual exploitation my friend mentions was nothing. I didn’t lose any sleep over it and if there was anything worthy of mention I’d be going to the police not a social media witch hunt.

Was it inappropriate?—yes.

Was I sexually abused?—no.

Was I in danger?—no

If I had been sixteen, could I have been in danger?—yes in hindsight very much so.

The owners played good boss, bad boss. One was younger, early thirties and ridiculously good looking. He had as much oil in his character as he did in his hair. He was sleazy and insincere.

I has issues with him touching the lady customers. He’d flirt all night and then cuddle them, I’m surprised there weren’t complaints, but he was very charming and when you’re pretty it’s amazing what you can get away with just for that reason.

With me he was charming and solicitous. He heaped praise on me and skirted over discussions about my pay. One of the two incidents that my friend referred to was when we were alone in the restaurant and the Indian music was playing, he kept—probably about five times—Dancing in front of me and shimmying over my body. I didn’t know how to take it. Was he being friendly or was he coming onto me? He was thirty-two ish, I was fifty-six with no ish to play with. I’m ugly. I wasn’t flattered. I didn’t like it and I found it sleazy and inappropriate. I should have said something, but like a stupid child, I squirmed. He was my boss; I needed the money, so I avoided being near him to prevent it happening again.

It was nothing.

It didn’t affect me in any way it was a few cringy moments that made me uncomfortable—end of.