Читать книгу Betrayed: The heartbreaking true story of a struggle to escape a cruel life defined by family honour - Rosie Lewis - Страница 9

Soon after the arrival of a new placement the structure of daily life kicks in and normality replaces those first few hours of awkwardness and polite small talk – a relief, I think, for everyone. Except that in Zadie’s case, without school, the only routine to her day was the observance of five obligatory prayers.

The day after her arrival I was woken by the sound of running water. I opened my eyes to a faint orange glow from the street lamps outside my bedroom window. Blinking, I checked the time on my phone; it was just after 5 a.m. I knew it must have been Zadie using the bathroom as Emily was a hibernator, always reluctant to leave her bed in the mornings, and though Jamie still tended to get up early he was drawn by the lure of his Xbox rather than any wish to have a shower.

I yawned, threw my duvet back and pulled on my long dressing gown. It wasn’t until I had almost reached the bathroom that I realised Zadie was probably preparing herself for dawn prayers. Having taken my Wiki papers to bed, I knew that Muslims were expected to perform wudu before praying, a ritual washing of the hands, feet, face, arms to the elbow and feet.

‘Are you OK, Zadie?’ I whispered, tapping quietly on the closed door.

‘Yes, sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘It’s all right, honey. Not to worry. As long as you’re OK.’ Our whispered exchange was the longest conversation we’d had since Peggy had left the previous evening. Zadie had politely declined when I invited her to join us for something to eat, asking whether I minded if she went straight to bed. I knew she must have been exhausted so of course I told her it was fine, but I worried that she might have been staying out of the way because she felt unwelcome.

Leaving Zadie to get on with her prayers, I went back to bed for an hour but was too alert to go back to sleep. Lying awake on top of the duvet, I listened to the swirling sound of the sink emptying and then the whoosh as the taps went on again. When she finally finished washing I pictured the teenager up in her room bowing, prostrating and then sitting to face Mecca in Saudi Arabia. I couldn’t help but admire her self-discipline. With no adults persuading her, she had still managed to get herself up before dawn. Whatever the problems at home, it was unlikely, I thought, to be a case of the needle on her ethical compass swinging too far in the wrong direction.

At the more civilised hour of 7 a.m, we all sat around the breakfast table. Zadie, dressed in a black robe and baggy cardigan that looked far too big for her, hung her head in silence. Emily, though friendly, tended to be a bit more reserved when older children first came to stay and so I was missing the noisy banter that usually flew between her and Jamie. If Zadie was a toddler, Emily would have been clowning around and trying to make her giggle, but since she was close to her own age she merely threw the odd smile her way and studied her cereal with unusual interest. I tried to behave naturally and let them all get on with it. Children generally hate being thrown together and time usually smoothes the jagged edges.

Sure enough, after a minute or two Emily looked Zadie’s way. ‘You were up early,’ she said as she buttered some toast.

Zadie nodded, lowering her gaze.

‘Do you have to get up early to pray?’ Jamie asked before ramming another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He always seemed to eat as if he was expecting a famine.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, her gaze lingering on Jamie for a second or two before darting back to the table. It was a penetrative look, as if trying to detect whether he had been mocking her. The flash of suspicion in her eyes reminded me that there was a real person beneath the head scarf.

‘And is it true that you’re not allowed to –’

‘J-amie,’ I said warningly. ‘Shall we save the interrogation for another day?’

He shrugged and blew out a huff of breath so that his lips vibrated noisily. Zadie looked up again, her dark eyes sweeping over us. I think she must have recognised Jamie’s interest as simple curiosity because the frozen angle of her shoulders seemed to soften a little. She continued to watch both Emily and Jamie whenever their attention drifted from her but, as is often the way with teenagers until the ice is broken, as soon as they made an effort to include her she averted her gaze, overcome by a sudden urge to examine the back of her hands.

‘Not very hungry this morning, Zadie?’ I asked. Her toast, though she had cut each slice into neat little squares and arranged them in lines across her plate, remained uneaten.

She looked at me warily. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Sorry. It’s very nice though. Thank you.’

‘You should try to eat something, honey. How about some cereal?’

She gave her head a tiny shake.

‘When was the last time you ate?’ I pressed. Even though her skin was coffee-coloured there was a pallor to it that I hadn’t noticed the previous evening. She looked awfully washed out.

‘It’s OK. I’ll …’ She picked up a tiny square of toast and took a tentative nibble. With her free hand she rearranged the left-over pieces of toast until there was an equal distance between each of them. Her fingers trembled as she worked and I could tell that Jamie had noticed too. He sat transfixed and was about to open his mouth when Emily, always quick to be kind, whacked him on the shoulder. ‘Come on, you. We’ll be late.’

I mouthed a thank you to Emily as she pushed her chair back. Straightening two fingers, she aimed them at the back of Jamie’s head and crooked her thumb as if firing a gun. I suppressed a grin and she rolled her eyes in his direction. The usual chaotic build-up to leaving the house then commenced, with Jamie emptying the cupboard under the stairs, trying to find his trainers for PE. Halfway through the search he decided it would be a good time to start printing his geography homework.

‘May I leave the table please, Rosie?’ Zadie asked.

‘Of course,’ I said, groaning at Jamie as he switched the computer on.

Zadie began piling the bowls on top of one another. ‘Don’t worry about that, honey. I’ll do it.’

She spoke so softly that I had no idea what she had said, but she continued to collect the crockery and then pottered off to the kitchen. Leaving Jamie to sort the printer out, I took up where he had left off in the hallway. Within 30 seconds I had the trainers in my hands. ‘Oh, Jamie,’ I groaned again, aware of the sound of running water in the kitchen. Five minutes later Emily called out to Zadie from the hall. ‘See you later, Zadie.’

There was a barely audible reply from the direction of the kitchen.

‘Actually, Mum, I think I might stay off today as well,’ Jamie said, beginning to slip his blazer from his shoulders.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ I said, straightening his tie and flattening his sleep-rumpled hair with the palm of my hand. He gave me a look of disbelief. ‘Mum, I like being groomed as much as the next man but I think I can get myself dressed, thanks all the same.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. Jamie was teetering on the cusp of adolescence and I was still getting used to the transition as well as the tone of sarcasm that threaded all of our recent conversations. ‘Now, have you got everything, honey?’

‘Yep,’ he said, offhandish, driving home the fact that I was meddling in something I had no business with. ‘See you later.’

‘Sure? Packed lunch? PE kit?’

‘Y-e-sss, Mum,’ he said with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Bye, Mum. See you, Zadie.’

I stood at the front gate and watched until Emily and Jamie rounded the corner at the end of the road, then closed and locked the door, quite pleased at the prospect of having some time alone with Zadie. With just the two of us around I was hoping that she might open up a little and give me some idea of the problems that led her to run away.

Dropping my keys on the table in the hall, I walked through to the kitchen. Zadie was standing at the sink with the sleeves of her black robe rolled up tightly to the elbow, her forearms submerged beneath the washing-up water. Our breakfast bowls were all washed, propped over in a neat line on the draining board, each dessert spoon resting neatly beside it. ‘Zadie, you don’t have to do that, honey. Let me …’

‘OK,’ she whispered, though her hands remained where they were for a few moments, as if reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the water.

‘What do you usually do during the day?’

She lifted her hands from the sink and then turned on the tap to wash them. Squirting some liquid soap into her palms, she scrubbed between each knuckle, a few tiny bubbles escaping and floating above her head. After rinsing off the soap she stretched over the sink and released another generous blob of soap into her palm. It was a delaying tactic that wasn’t going to work for ever. When she reached for the soap a third time I handed her a towel.

She took the hint, holding her hands in mid-air for a moment as if not convinced they were clean. ‘I clean the house,’ she said softly, wiping her hands and then hurriedly pulling her sleeves down to cover her arms. ‘Put a wash on and prepare the meals. When the work is done Papa lets me read and …’

I pursed my lips, trying not to grimace. Sometimes as a foster carer it is difficult to hide personal feelings about a child’s home environment but, whatever my opinion, Zadie had the right for her relatives’ lifestyle to be respected. Children in care often have to cope with hearing negative comments about their parents, either from friends or their families, teachers, sometimes even social workers and foster carers. I have always made an effort not to judge but I still couldn’t help feeling that a day filled with housework and reading was a lonely, unfulfilling existence for someone so young. We certainly had enough books in our house to keep Zadie occupied as both Emily and I were avid readers, but I wasn’t sure that what we had was appropriate and, anyway, it all seemed a bit depressing to me. ‘Well, while you’re here, how about we make a bit of a routine to the day? You can have a look around and see if there’s anything you fancy reading and we’ll go to the library later in the week so you can choose some books for yourself.’

She nodded. ‘I’d like that, thank you,’ she said, her gaze fixed somewhere between my ear and the wall behind me.

‘And this afternoon we’ll go for a walk,’ I said. One thing I was certain of – staying cooped up in the house all day wasn’t healthy for anyone. It would be good for Zadie to get some fresh air, particularly as she was looking so peaky.

There was a flicker of anxiety in her eyes. ‘What time will we be going?’

‘After lunch probably. Is that all right?’

‘I’m supposed to pray after …’

‘That’s OK. We’ll go after that. Now, would you like to use the computer while I get this place cleaned up?’

For the first time since we’d met, her face creased into a genuine smile, the light in her eyes transforming her solemn face. It was often that way at the beginning of a placement; a child may seem untouchable, almost beyond reach, but then it’s as if they suddenly emerge from their trance, ready to engage in family life.

‘It’s all set up, honey. You know where it is, don’t you? In the dining room?’

‘Yes, yes. Thank you, Rosie,’ she whispered, backing away from me in a half bow and vanishing from the room. It was the most animated I had seen her.

As I was pulling on a pair of yellow rubber gloves the phone rang, a skirl that shattered the silence and gave me a jolt. I hadn’t realised I was feeling quite so tense. I think it was my strength of desire to put Zadie at her ease that was making me feel anxious, though I knew it probably wasn’t helping matters.

It was Peggy.

‘The brother has been in touch. He wants contact so I’ve arranged for him to come to you tomorrow afternoon if that’s OK?’

That was it. No, ‘Hello, Rosie’ or ‘How are you?’ but I was happy to dispense with small talk. Despite her sledgehammer approach, there was something about Peggy that I liked.

‘Should the family know where we live?’

‘Zadie’s only with you under a Section 20. There are no identifiable risk factors so it’s absolutely fine.’

Since Zadie was in care under a Section 20, voluntary care order, her parents retained full parental rights. Under law, they could have demanded that she be returned home to them. If social services suspected that Zadie was in immediate danger, social workers would have to apply to the courts for an interim care order.

A picture of Zadie’s face when Peggy had spoken about reuniting her with her family swept itself into my mind. I had noticed since then that Zadie was expert at presenting a benign expression, so her inability to hide the shadow that crossed her features at the mention of her family left me feeling concerned. ‘We know nothing about Zadie’s family yet, Peggy.’ I paused, biting my lip. ‘Or have you already disclosed where we live?’

‘No, certainly not. I wouldn’t do that without checking with you first.’

‘Then I’d really rather keep my address confidential for the moment.’

Peggy sighed. ‘Well, that’s awkward. There’s absolutely no capacity to facilitate contact at a centre at the moment.’

‘In the community then?’ I offered. ‘I’m happy to supervise contact,’ I continued, ‘but not at my home. I’d feel much more comfortable on neutral ground until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.’

‘Very well,’ she replied, a little stiffly. ‘Have you managed to find anything out yet? The brother says that the father is willing to forgive Zadie and my manager is pushing for us to mediate between them and try to get her settled back home as soon as possible. There’s only so long we can hold on to her.’

‘Forgive her for what?’ I asked with incredulity.

‘Well, for shaming him by running away, so it would seem.’

‘She’s frightened, Peggy.’

‘I think so, yes. But you need to find out why as soon as you can. As I say, we have no grounds to keep her in foster care unless she gives us something to go on. The family aren’t at all happy with the placement so you’ll have to bear that in mind when you meet the brother. Lots of diplomacy needed.’

Biting my lip to suppress a scoff, I muffled an ‘OK’ in agreement.

Peggy called back ten minutes later to confirm that she had spoken to Chit Hassan and that he would meet us at a local beauty spot, the Lavender Fields, at 2 p.m. the next day. The social worker then trilled a hasty goodbye and I headed for the dining room to give Zadie the news. Our house has an open-plan living, dining and kitchen area, with just a few columns dividing the space, so I could see Zadie’s back as she sat at the desk. She was leaning so close to the computer screen that her headscarf almost touched it and there was something about the intensity of her posture that stopped me in my tracks. I was too far away to identify what site she was looking at but I could see that her fingers were trembling as she scrolled the cursor down the screen.

‘Hi, honey. That was Peggy.’

Zadie spun around, her eyes wide. Her mouth began working at the edges as though she was trying to conjure a response but then she dropped her gaze and swung back to the screen. Making a few hasty clicks, she leaned back and let out a soft breath.

‘Everything all right?’ I asked, trying to muster a light tone to overcome the awkward moment. The words jarred in my throat and came out strained. It was a redundant question anyway; the wisps of unease snaking through the air between us told my senses that everything was definitely not ‘all right’.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, though her jaw was set at a tight angle. It was as though her mask had temporarily slipped.

‘You look …’ I paused, grappling for the right word. ‘You look …’ Guilty, I thought, taking in her downturned eyes and the two pink spots on her cheeks. ‘Anxious …’ I said.

‘No, I’m fine, really,’ she said. Her expression was suddenly indecipherable; the mask firmly back in place.

‘Peggy said that your brother Chit would like to see you.’ I paused to let the information sink in. Zadie watched me silently, waiting. ‘We’re meeting him tomorrow, at the Lavender Fields.’

She released the mouse and let her hand fall softly into her lap where her other hand was waiting. With her fingers concertinaed, she squeezed them together until the pads went white, though her face remained impassive. Again, there was no sign of any emotion, happy or otherwise.

‘Are you pleased about that?’

‘Yes, thank you, Rosie.’ She nodded, but suddenly her eyebrows furrowed. She jumped up and darted from the room, her hand clamped tightly over her mouth. My mind raced. Something had clearly upset her. Was it what she had been reading online? Or perhaps the news about her brother? Small sounds from the bathroom drew me to the foot of the stairs. With my head cocked, I frowned in concentration. Zadie was retching. I turned, intending to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen, but it seemed that my feet had other plans. They were already taking me back to the dining room.

At the computer I perched on the edge of the swivel chair. My eyes drifted back to the stairs as my hand hovered over the mouse. Zadie deserved for her privacy to be respected, I told myself, but then again something had upset her and I needed to find out what it was. It was unlikely that Zadie herself would open up and tell me why. Stupidly, I had forgotten to give her an internet safety lecture before allowing her online. If something untoward happened, it would be my responsibility. With my mind made up, somehow I managed to shut my ears to her gasps long enough run the cursor over the screen.

My breathing became raspy as I checked the recent history. Leaning over the desk as Zadie had done a few minutes earlier, I selected the web address at the top of the page. At first I was faced with a blank white page but then colours began to appear. I squinted as an image flickered to life in front of me. I gasped and jerked back, dropping the mouse as if it was on fire. The colour drained from my face and my breath lodged in my throat. My chest throbbed with the pressure, as if I’d been held under water.

An unexpected knock at the door brought a rush of heat to sear my cheeks but I sat unmoving, unable to tear my eyes from the moving images in front of me. The sound of a key in the latch brought me to my senses and I sprang into action, fumbling with the mouse to click on the X. My fingers were so timorous that it took several attempts before the screen cleared, the doorbell growing ever more insistent.

Jogging to the hall, I felt grateful for my usual habit of locking the door whenever I’m home, if I have a child in placement. I had grown more security conscious after a parent had forced his way into my home a couple of years earlier. I had driven to a contact centre to collect his children after a contact session with their birth mother. The father had lain in wait in the contact centre car park and then followed me home. He was more desperate than angry but trying to convince him to leave the house had been a nerve-racking experience and one I wouldn’t want to repeat.

My hands were shaking as I reached for my keys. My eyes strayed to the top of the stairs and a feather of anxiety brushed at my throat. I trawled my brain, trying to work out why a girl like Zadie would be drawn to looking up something so awful. It was a struggle to reconcile what I had seen on the screen with the introverted, withdrawn teenager having an anxiety attack in my bathroom. In my mind, she became even more of an enigma.

On the doorstep stood Jamie, his cheeks flushed, school tie askew over his shoulder. ‘I forgot my locker key,’ he said, groaning. ‘Now I’m gonna be late.’

‘Oh, Jamie,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Don’t worry. Grab your key and I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Ah, thanks, Mum,’ he said with relief, all trace of adolescent bravado gone. He planted a rare kiss on my cheek and raced off to his room.

Up in the bathroom I handed Zadie a glass of water. She refused to meet my eyes but thanked me for the drink and took a few tentative sips. Perched on the edge of the bath, she looked so small and frail that I was tempted to draw her into a hug. I rested my hand on her shoulder but she instantly tensed, angling herself away from me. Overcome with a sudden feeling of déjà vu, I recalled the interactive dance played out between myself and Phoebe when she had first arrived – how she would draw me in with one hand and yet hold me away with the other. Sometimes I would catch the nine-year-old watching Emily, Jamie and me with a sad yearning, her past a barrier that held her in limbo, despite her longing to be part of a loving family. Phoebe kept her distance until the trust between us grew strong enough to overcome her fears, something that couldn’t possibly happen overnight. I was beginning to suspect that with Zadie it was also going to be a case of playing the long game.

At some point we were going to have to have a frank discussion, but with the teenager still struggling to get her breath back and Jamie waiting impatiently in the hall, now was definitely not the right time.