Mummy, Come Home: The True Story of a Mother Kidnapped and Torn from Her Children. Oxana Kalemi

>

      

      

      

      Mummy,

       come home

      The true story of a

      mother kidnapped and torn from her children

      Oxana Kalemi

      

      Table of Contents

      Prologue

      

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Chapter Twenty-Five

       Chapter Twenty-Six

       Chapter Twenty-Seven

       Chapter Twenty-Eight

       Chapter Twenty-Nine

       Chapter Thirty

       Chapter Thirty-One

       Chapter Thirty-Two

       Chapter Thirty-Three

       Chapter Thirty-Four

       Chapter Thirty-Five

       Chapter Thirty-Six

       Chapter Thirty-Seven

       Chapter Thirty-Eight

       Chapter Thirty-Nine

      Epilogue

      Further Information

      Copyright

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

      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.