Adam Brock [Brock - Making Beds in Brothels

Making Beds in Brothels: A Memoir

Onemans fight for redemption after a lifetime of sexual exploitation.

AdamBrock

Copyright 2019 by Adam Brock Allrights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronicor mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems,without written permission from the author, except for the use of briefquotations in a book review.

This book is dedicated to the childrenand men of the streets and the city, those who survived and those who didntmake it. And to the memory eternal of my irreplaceable, much missed, belovedsister. I made you a promise and kept it.

I would like to thank the many peoplewho have supported me in the writing of this book, including my family andfriends who kept me sane during what has been at times, a gruelling journey.And those who prompted sometimes dimmed memories of place or person. I wouldlike to specifically thank my friend Kate Williams who made it clear severalyears ago that my story had to be told regardless of my anxieties. Without herencouragement its unlikely I would have had the courage to begin. Names andaddresses have been changed to protect the identities of those still living.

Please look this book up on Facebook aMaking Beds in Brothels or email me at: with any queries.

Chapter1

Wehad rented a country cottage on the Felbrigg estate in Norfolk; it was idyllic.The cottage was low, secluded, the walls thick and durable. We were in aclearing in the woods, where lawns ran from the cottage up to the trees, and bythe gate a path led, through ancient woods, to a small lake. Further up throughthe pasture stood the exquisite Jacobean hall, isolated and grey against thesky, its windows glittering jewel-like in the sun. Just yesterday I had beenwandering the state rooms, wondering at the beauty and craftmanship, athumanitys master over its environment. The gardens were overflowing withbeautiful plants. It was the height of flaming June and the world lookedmarvellous.

Thisholiday was something of a celebration. I had just finished my BA and in acouple of weeks I would be graduating from university with first class honoursand the university award for academic excellence. It had been a tough threeyears. I had struggled through a foundation course and turned down an offerfrom York University to study History of Architecture, accepting instead aplace a Lincolns Bishop Grosseteste University to study History and Theology.The city of Lincoln is tiny, not much bigger than the town I lived in as achild. I loved the winding streets, ancient buildings, the cathedral andchurches. It was a quiet place, away from the temptations of the big city. Myfirst year wasnt amazing, but I applied myself and my grades rapidly improved.

Thatmorning, as I returned from walking the dog in the grounds, I was on a high;birds were singing in the trees, and we had a full day planned ahead. I hadjust started cooking breakfast when my friend staggered into the kitchen, herface ashen, Adam you need to sit down.

Iknew with crushing certainty, the moment she said those words, that Deborah wasdead. She didnt have to say another thing. I had been waiting for the firstblood to be drawn and I knew instinctively it would be my sisters.

Thepolice told us Deborah had been found by a concerned neighbour who, seeing herkitchen door open all day, had contacted my sisters close friend, Beth, wholived around the corner and had a key. Letting themselves in the front door,they instinctively knew something was terribly wrong. They found Deborahsemi-clothed, slumped on the kitchen floor. Dialling the emergency services,Beth desperately tried to revive her. I cant wake her up! she screamed downthe phone to the emergency operator, Shes so cold and I cant wake her up!After what felt like an eternity, the emergency services arrived, crowding intothe tiny house. The paramedics and police took over.

Nothingcould be done for Deborah; she had been dead for hours and everything thatcould be done had been. She, who had battled so hard, who was driven by heranger and her exquisite nuanced understanding of injustice, had fallen. My beautifulsister was dead, aged just forty-two.

Theimmediate conclusion was that she had committed suicide. They found a suicidenote among her letters and saw that she had also, apparently, taken an overdosea week or two earlier. They contacted Marcus, Deborahs ex-partner, in themiddle of the night. Marcus, knowing we were staying a remote part of England,recommended that they not contact us till the morning. To this day Im gratefulwe were not caught up in the trauma of her discovery. We were saved a frantic,and ultimately futile, rush to her home, then to the hospital, as well as thefear and confusion that would have generated.

Itwas a comfort to know that she hadnt lain undiscovered long, and that theperson who found her was a close friend. Even so, the impact was instant anddevastating, but we were miles from home so I couldnt give in to grief. Onautopilot, I cleaned the cottage, packed the dishwasher, loaded the car andprepared water and food for the dog. I knew it was imperative to get this donebefore the shock wore off. It was a days drive back to Manchester, and wecould not afford to lose time.

Thelong drive home was hell on earth, and I was glad to see the front door of thered brick terrace where I lived. We were a household in grief; the type ofanguish experienced after a suicide being spectacularly more magnified thanfollowing a normal bereavement. We sat in the house, curtains drawn,rapid-cycling between anger that she could have done this, and shudderingelemental grief.

Yetthings had to be done, and done quickly. This was the first death I hadencountered where I was in charge of the arrangements. My mother was far toodevastated, so it fell to me to organise everything. I hadnt spoken to myfather in over twenty years and tracking down a contact number wasnt easy. Hewas living somewhere in a caravan in the wilds of England, forgotten.

Weekspassed without him crossing my mind, and when he did I pushed the thoughts awayquickly. Yet he needed to know that Deborah was dead. I wanted him to know thathe had finally killed one of us, that he had succeeded. I had it all planned inmy head: his ears would burn with my anger as I poured my rage out on to him,my furious truth bringing home to him the misery he had caused. I wanted toscream, You murdered Deborah! Murderer you fucking monster. You killed her,you bastard I hope you rot in hell!

Inthe end, when he answered his phone, I couldnt go through with it. Its Adamhere Deborahs killed herself was all I could say. What? he spluttered downthe line in reply. Deborahs committed suicide, I repeated. There was a longpause, before he spoke again. Right. Im coming over, where are you? Ipaused, Thats not a good idea I dont think you would be made welcome here.People are very upset. His voice bristled, he didnt appreciate being toldwhat to do, Okay. What about the funeral? The phone was shaking in my hand asI told him it would be better if he stayed away, just went somewhere to prayfor forgiveness. I hung up. I dont know why I didnt take that opportunity tostick the knife in. I suppose I hoped that the knowledge of how Deborah haddied, and the part he had played in it, would be torment enough.

Itwas strange opening Deborahs front door and entering her small two bedroomedhouse on Market Street, Hyde. Like me, Deborah had always guarded her privacyfiercely, but I knew she would have been unhappy with anyone else doing whathad to be done.

Assoon as I entered, I was filled with her presence; she was still here in a verytangible way. Her scarf lay on the table next to the door. Lifting it to myface, I found the fabric still heady with the perfume she wore. There werefresh flowers in a vase, fruit sat in a bowl on the kitchen table. It was as ifshe had simply stepped outside for a moment. The room swam, and as I sat downheavily, the grief came over me in waves.