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too, but they drove up to the motorway.
    Godfrey told me to shut up. He smacked the side of my head. Then he took out one of those green disposable lighters. The flame was on high. He put it to my right earring. I could feel the hoop getting hot, really burning. I was crying. I was pleading with him to leave off.
    We stopped on the way to pick up another man. He got in the van and said, “You got her. Good.” The van driver, Doleman, said, “Someone should fuck her up the ass. Teach her a lesson.”
    They took me to a flat in a poor part of London. No electricity. So cold. The only light was from a street lamp outside the lounge window. The boy they’d picked up played music from his phone. They were yelling, “Strip off and dance.” I begged them not to make me. Godfrey punched me in the stomach. “Do it.” I was crying but not proper crying—he’d knocked the wind from me.
    I took my clothes off, and I danced. I can’t describe how humiliated I felt. Like I was an animal performing for them. “She ain’t doin’ nothin’ for me,” Godfrey said.
    “We’re gonna teach you some discipline, like my father taught me,” Sparkle said.
    I had to stand on one leg with my arms out. I was still naked. They was cheering like they was at a football match. “Look at her tits wobble. Look at her hairy cunt.” I wanted to cover myself, to lean over, but if my arms drooped or I put my leg down, I’d be whacked with a broom.
    I wanted my clothes so bad. To stop them looking at me. And also ’cause I’d gone longer than usual without any heroin or crack cocaine, and withdrawing makes you get even colder.
    They said I had to earn the clothes back by doing naked press-ups. For every ten press-ups I’d get one thing, but only ten seconds to put it on. They were counting together, shouting numbers. I had to start more press-ups as soon as they got to ten. I got my bra and my knickers, my top and my jeans. I didn’t have time to put any of them on properly.
    Tomlinson and Doleman went off clubbing. I was sat in a chair. Godfrey and the boy they’d picked up went to sleep on the couch, Sparkle on the other chair. The door was locked. I didn’t dare move.
    It was about three in the morning when Tomlinson and Doleman came back. Tomlinson grabbed me under the arms and Doleman took my legs and they carried me into the bedroom. They threw me onto the mattress and Tomlinson held my chest and arms down while Doleman pulled my jeans and knickers off. I kept saying no and begging them to stop. But they didn’t stop. They raped me.
    Doleman in my vagina and Tomlinson in my mouth. Then they switched places. Doleman said he’d use a knife on my face if I bit him; he made me swallow it when he came. All the time they were forcing me, holding me down.
    When they were done, I said I needed the toilet and Tomlinson said fine, go. Tomlinson had come in my face. I wiped it on my jeans and on my T-shirt—they hadn’t taken the shirt off me. It burned when I peed. There weren’t any hot water or soap or towel. I washed my vagina in cold water and dried it on my jeans.
    My knickers got sticky and wet as soon as I put them on. It was too dark to see, but I was scared it was blood and if they made me strip again and saw it they’d take the piss out of me. There was a freestanding cupboard, so I hid my knickers behind it. I put on my jeans and hoped there’d be no more blood for them to see.
    M ISS L OCKYER COVERED her face with her hands. Her shoulders were shaking. Not a sound came out of her.
    The judge sent them home for the rest of the day. “Please remove the defendants from the dock so this witness can leave,” he said.
    Clarissa’s heart was beating very fast, as if she’d just watched an unbearably tense scene in a horror film. She knew her face must be red. Tears had been welling in her eyes, but she’d resisted wiping them, not wanting anyone to notice.
    She went straight to the cloakroom to blow her nose, grabbed her coat