Chapter 10: The Birth of Piggy

There’s a moment, right before the door opens, when I try to convince myself I’ll wake up in Luton, some dozy half-choke in the box room, the twins wrestling in the hall. I cling to that fantasy until the click of the handle, the slide of air under the door, makes denial physically impossible.

Someone enters, two steps, maybe three. A whisper of synthetic fabric. The sound is sharp, distinct: this person is neither sneaking nor hurrying, just moving with the inevitability of a doctor reporting to the next ward.

There is the faintest taste of cigarette smoke—Turkish, I think, or maybe something cheap from the Balkans. A heavier footstep follows, and then a third, the cadence uneven, scraping rubber on linoleum. My ears vibrate in the silence, reading the world through a sensorium of panic.

Blindfolded, I can see nothing, but my body registers everything. The chill of the room, the stick of elastic against my forehead, the prickle of the garter’s synthetic lace up my thighs. I sense a presence—three shapes, dense and carbon-heavy, closing the space around the bed. I wonder if they can see the shake in my hands, the way my chest stutters with each breath.

I flinch when a hand brushes the side of my knee, guiding me upright. The skin-on-skin is impersonal, as if they’re manoeuvring a department store mannequin. My wrists are still cuffed behind my back; the muscles in my shoulders scream. My legs dangle, bound at the ankles, nothing to brace against. I feel exposed, a slab on a butcher’s block.

For a long time, there is only breathing. Then a voice: low, with the burnished edge of someone who learned English by watching American TV. “Piggy. Are you ready?”

The name stings—worse than whore, worse than bitch. It’s the slow, petting sadism of reduction, as if the worst thing they could do is not destroy me, but render me comical.

I say nothing. My tongue has gone dry, adhesive to the roof of my mouth. Somewhere behind me, a phone vibrates. A boot taps the floor. I count heartbeats, try to guess what’s expected, but the silence blooms and expands.

The blindfold lifts. My eyes blink against the ceiling’s ugly, institutional light. For a second, I see nothing but glare. Then three figures swim into focus: centre is Yaseen, hair slicked and face arranged into the smile of a minor aristocrat; to his left, a barrel-shaped man in a leather windbreaker; to his right, a black man with a beard so neat it could be painted on.

I recoil, barely an inch, but the motion is enough for Yaseen to notice. His grin widens. “Piggy,” he says again, like he’s testing the resonance of the word. He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress hardly dipping under his weight.

“Do you remember our rules?” he asks.

I nod. It is all I can do.

“Say the first one, Piggy.” His voice is gentle, patronizing. “Remind us.”

I look away, but he catches my chin with two fingers, directs my gaze back to his. The latex of his glove is cool, almost soft. I force the words out. “My ... my name is Piggy. Only Piggy.”

Yaseen nods, releases my chin, and leans back. He gestures at the other two men, introducing them with a casual flip of his hand. “This is Kareem. He will be your minder. And Jonas, who is visiting from London.”

Jonas stares at me, his eyes impassive. Something about him makes my stomach roil—there’s a thickness to his arms, a certain slow grace that belongs to men who know exactly what they are capable of. His lips do not move, but his nostrils flare, as if he can smell my fear.

Yaseen speaks again, drawing my focus. “You are here to make us proud, Piggy. We want you to be the best version of yourself. Can you do that?”

I nod. My scalp feels tight, hot. There is a prickling in my temples, an electric certainty that any deviation will be punished.

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “You will do what you are told. You will answer to your name. You will not hesitate; you will not resist. If you do, it is not just you who suffers. Remember that.”

He waits, watching. I realize I am expected to reply.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I understand.”

Kareem grunts, a heavy, satisfied sound. He moves to stand behind me, his hands on my shoulders. The pressure is firm, not quite a massage, not quite a restraint.

Yaseen stands, and for the first time I see the outline of a weapon at his hip. He is not threatening me with it. He is simply reminding me it exists.

He lifts my chin again. “Repeat it for me.”

“My name is Piggy.” The words are cold, flat, no resistance left in them.

He holds my gaze, then lets go. “Good girl.” There is a flash of something in his eyes—pity? amusement? —and then it’s gone.

Jonas finally speaks, his voice a lazy deep bass. “Are we starting now, or are we talking all day?”

Yaseen chuckles. “You will find, Jonas, that Piggy is a very fast learner.” He looks back at me, almost tender. “Isn’t that right?”

I nod. The air is thick with sweat and deodorant and the citric tang of fear.

Kareem’s hands close around my upper arms, pulling me up so I am kneeling on the mattress. My legs shake under me, the stockings sliding against each other, a sensation as alien as my own name.

Jonas circles to the foot of the bed. His stare is clinical, dissecting. I want to look away, but he is magnetic in a way I don’t understand. He says nothing.

Yaseen moves to the bedside table, takes out a phone, and sets it up on a small tripod. The camera lens winks. “From now, everything is for the record,” he says, and the way he says it leaves no doubt that the record is what matters, not me.

Kareem leans in, his breath close to my ear. “Say it again.”

“My name is Piggy.” I am louder this time, as if increasing the volume could drown out my shame.

He squeezes my arms in approval. “That’s right.”

Yaseen looks at the phone’s screen, then at me. “Look at the camera, Piggy. Say hello.”

I turn, face numb, eyes flooding from the forced effort. “Hello.”