Trapped: The Terrifying True Story of a Secret World of Abuse

by Rosie Lewis

  My mind began to drift. I remembered young Alfie again; a boy who had spent much of the first three years of his life locked up in his filthy bedroom while his addict mother earned her drug money by selling her body, just a few feet from his own door. Initially withdrawn, he spent weeks lashing out, spitting and kicking whenever we approached him.

  I remember with clarity one particular day, early on in the placement back in 2005. Alfie’s temper had declined into meltdown over some perceived injustice and he sank his teeth into my neck, his jaws clamping me in an agonising bite. In that moment I was convinced there was nothing I could do to help him and was about ready to make the ‘I can’t cope’ call dreaded by foster carers up and down the country. It was only a strong reluctance to give up on him that kept me going. If I’m honest, I had no idea if what I was doing for Alfie was right, but somehow, simple caring had made a difference. He had seemed fractured when he came to us, broken and depressed. When he moved on nine months later it was as a robust, energetic little boy and I was immensely glad I had seen it through.

  Emily and Jamie often talked of him, remembering the time he spent with us fondly. Memories of Alfie gave me strength. I had entered into fostering in the hope of providing a safe haven from the harshness of the world; it felt terrible to think that in this case I might be adding to rather than easing a child’s suffering. Maybe there was a way of getting through this? I silently wondered.

  The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. It was Phoebe’s social worker.

  ‘Did you get my email, Lenke?’

  ‘Yes, this does seem a bit disturbing behaviour, yes.’ She sounded harassed, impatient. ‘I have to make the statutory visit within the next week anyway. We could discuss it then, yes?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem disturbing, it is disturbing – do you think we should start the ball rolling with CAMHS now?’ While I appreciated that Phoebe’s main problems stemmed from her autism, I thought it might help to seek some professional advice from the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services, particularly as she might soon be moving on from me. They could support her through the move and would also be able to discern whether counselling would be of any benefit to her and her parents. From experience I knew it could take several weeks to get an appointment arranged.

  ‘No, I see no need for that at all. Phoebe is a great mimicker, yes? She has probably seen something on a music video or film, perhaps.’

  The social worker spoke with a tone of finality, clearly looking for a convenient pause in which to end the conversation, whereas I was only just getting started.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I scoffed. ‘I’ve seen some risqué things on MTV but I’ve never known anyone to do that.’ Not even Rihanna, I thought, caustically.

  Lenke sighed as if she’d repeated herself several times already. ‘Children with autism, they have difficulty learning the correct boundaries. The testosterone-suppressing medication was considered for Phoebe but there are too many side effects so it was decided not to go ahead with it.’

  Before I had a chance to process this new information she was withdrawing, suggesting we meet ‘in the next week or so’ to discuss matters further. It was as if we were arranging to meet up to discuss soft furnishings. Frustrated by my cowardice at broaching the subject of moving Phoebe on, I ended the call and dropped the handset onto the table.

  Never before had I felt as if I were floundering, with no idea what to do for the best. I knew that social awareness in children with autism was impaired but for Lenke to brush Phoebe’s actions off so lightly struck me as a cop-out. It also struck me as odd that, although well-seasoned social workers were practically immune to shock, she’d failed to sound as surprised by the pen incident as she might have.

  I was about to pull the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard under the stairs when a sudden outbreak of noise drew me hurriedly to the kitchen. With my heart in my throat I threw open the patio doors, wondering what disaster had befallen Phoebe in the few minutes I hadn’t been watching her.

  Blinking uncomprehendingly, I stood and stared at the scene unfolding in the garden. Jamie must have tied the skateboard to his bike because Phoebe was now riding along the path, towing my cheering son along behind. They both crashed into our heavy border of bushes and landed back on the grass, shrieking with laughter.

  Half an hour later they tumbled through the open door, faces flushed, eyes bright. In high spirits they kicked off their shoes in the kitchen and charged into the living room.

  ‘Mum, can we play tennis on the Wii?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I answered, staggered by this new development. Phoebe was rosy-cheeked, her whole face shining; I could barely contain my delight. ‘You’ll have to come off in half an hour or so, though, because Desmond is coming to see us.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Jamie loved visits from our social worker. In his younger days, before entering the field of social services, Desmond had spent some time in the US, making his living as a bit-part actor, though from the stories with which he regales us and some of Emily’s research on YouTube, it seems he was best known for his role in car-lot commercials. Besides having the most rubbery, expressive face I have ever seen, Des was a talented impressionist and regularly had us all in stitches. He was in the perfect job as far as I was concerned: a real live children’s entertainer.

  ‘What’s wrong, Phoebe?’ I noticed her standing frozen, knuckles white from gripping the Wii controller so tightly.

  ‘Who is Desmond?’

  ‘Our social worker – nothing to worry about, honey. He’s a lovely man, isn’t he, Jamie?’

  ‘Sure, he’s cool.’

  ‘What colour hair does he have?’ Her face was contorted, all trace of colour gone.

  I considered for a moment, watching as she folded her arms and squeezed them with wringing fingers. Her chest puffed out as if she was holding her breath.

  ‘Erm, dark, I would say. Why?’

  Her shoulders dropped at least an inch and she started breathing again, returning her attention to the television.

  An unpleasant, creeping feeling returned to my stomach.

  ‘Why did you want to know what colour hair he has, Phoebe?’

  She just shrugged.

  As the day wore on my anxiety about Phoebe’s strange reaction grew. Desmond, who had been delayed by a teenage runaway, didn’t make it to us until about 4pm, just as we arrived back from the park. It had been a positive venture out, if only for the fact that we were all adjusting to Phoebe’s sudden outbursts and becoming adept at squeezing in our conversations between prolonged bouts of screaming.

  ‘Hello, Phoebe,’ Desmond said, holding out his hand for Phoebe to shake. I watched her reaction closely. She stood swaying from side to side with her hands hidden behind her back, eyeing him warily. ‘Come on, girl, I don’t bite.’

  Des’s face was just a bit too rugged to be classed as handsome but with his wayward, dark curly hair and deep dimples, he definitely had an appeal. From the moment we met it felt as if we were close friends and so the usual politeness of colleagues was quickly dropped. Clearly Phoebe felt the same. Out of character, she took a step forward and offered up her own thin hand.

  Immediately Des whipped his hand away. Stretching his fingers to make a fan, he twisted it on his nose. ‘Na na na-na NA!’

  Phoebe giggled, watching him expectantly.

  Jamie jumped up. ‘Hi, Des.’

  ‘Ah, young man – hello again.’ Des stretched out his hand and Jamie lunged for it, grabbing before he could pull away. As he shook it a loud farting noise filled the room, courtesy of one of the props Des kept in his pockets. Jamie fell about laughing and Phoebe joined in, screeching loudly.

  It was then that the missile came out of nowhere, catching me right in the sensitive area at the side of my head, just above my ear. It hit me with such force that I almost lost my footing and Des lunged forwards, slipping a supportive hand under my arm to steady me. Momentarily dazed, I raised a shaky hand to my head t
hen took in the shards of black plastic covering the floor. Jamie’s Wii remote lay in pieces all over the room, shattered after being thrown by Phoebe.

  She stared at me triumphantly, apparently delighted by how unyielding my skull appeared to be. Still dazed, I couldn’t respond for a moment so I was grateful when Des whisked her away into the kitchen. I could hear him giving her a bit of a lecture as Jamie draped his arm around me. ‘Are you alright, Mum?’

  Bless him, I thought. I could hear the anger in his voice but I was pleased that he was more concerned about me than his broken Wii equipment.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Sorry about your remote, Jamie. We’ll get a new one, OK?’

  ‘She’s so weird, Mum. One minute she’s fine and the next she’s all …’ He made circles against his temples with his forefinger, whistling loudly. ‘Talk about Jekyll and Hyde.’

  Here, Jamie had hit on one of my private suspicions. Phoebe’s tendency for extreme randomness was one of the things I wanted to talk to Desmond about. After vacuuming up the mess, I settled an unrepentant Phoebe in front of a DVD and grabbed two stools from the breakfast bar, positioning them near the threshold of the kitchen so that I could watch her movements carefully but still talk without being overheard.

  ‘So, how’s the head?’

  Gently, I rubbed two fingers over the sore spot. ‘I’ll live,’ I said, grimacing. I could feel a bump forming and knew what a sight I must look, with my unruly hair raked back behind my ears, but I was so at ease in Des’s presence that I really wasn’t too bothered.

  ‘That was a bit left field, wasn’t it? Has she done that before?’

  I shook my head then winced as the pain rebounded around my eardrum. Pincering the top of my nose to try and staunch a looming headache, I said, ‘Well, she’s only chucked china thus far so I guess she’s decided to branch out.’

  Des raised his eyebrows, a smirk on his face. ‘Greek, is she?’

  I slapped his knee. ‘Stop it,’ I chuckled, rising to make us both a cup of tea. After switching on the kettle I turned to face him, leaning back against the worktop. ‘The thing is, these incidents come so out of the blue. There doesn’t seem to be an identifiable trigger – she’s engrossed in something then suddenly she grabs the nearest object and strikes. It’s like Star Wars around here.’

  We both laughed but I quickly grew serious. ‘It does worry me, though, Des. It’s like there’s two different girls in there. One of them is lovely but … well,’ I lifted my hand and tilted it from side to side, ‘when I say lovely, I mean nowhere near as bad as the other one …’ I paused as I handed him his drink, gathering my thoughts. ‘Do you think it’s possible that she is two different people?’ I asked, taking Jamie’s earlier comment at face value. It was a theory I had mulled over as I had lain awake the previous night and now I voiced my fears they seemed ever more likely.

  ‘As in multiple personality disorder, you mean?’

  I nodded. ‘You read my report – the pen incident, the smearing?’

  ‘Yes, disturbing to see in a wee young thing.’ His brow furrowed. ‘But what makes you think …?’

  I described how Phoebe moved rapidly from lucidity to vagueness, with no apparent pattern. He listened with interest, his right hand stroking emerging stubble on his chin. ‘It’s as if every now and then a little alarm goes off in her head signalling her to embark on some nutty escapade. When calm Phoebe returns, I try to talk to her about it but she’s completely blank, as if she can’t even remember behaving so bizarrely.’

  Des let out a long breath. ‘Who knows what we’re dealing with here but I very much doubt it has anything to do with multiple personalities, although it does no harm to consider all possibilities. Any input from CAMHS?’

  I huffed. ‘Phoebe’s social worker doesn’t seem to think that’s necessary.’

  ‘There just doesnae seem to be enough money in the pot to go round these days.’ Des sighed, and frowning, he stared into his cup as if closely examining his tea. ‘It’s lucky she came straight to you, you know. I know it probably doesnae feel like it at the moment but I suspect you’re already making in-roads with her if your past record is anything to go by. I cannae help but think she’d have been a child who got passed around all the carers in the area before finding one experienced enough to help her.’

  We fell silent for a moment. Shamed, I remembered how near I had come to moving her on, only that morning. When I looked up again Des was watching me keenly.

  ‘You wasnae going to carry on with her yourself this morning, was you?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I could tell by your voice,’ he said softly. ‘I know you better than you know yourself, Rosie Lewis.’

  Becoming aware of the first prickles of a flush, I rose briskly and rifled through the contents of the fridge. I could feel his eyes on my back, reminding me of the time, a couple of years earlier, when Des had made a casual invitation to take me out to dinner. Wary of the impact it might have on Emily and Jamie I refused the offer immediately, sealing any longing I had for companionship out of reach, like the medicines in my cabinet with the childproof locks. There were times when I felt a faint twinge of regret, but at least our friendship wasn’t affected. Des accepted the rejection with characteristic good humour, never mentioning it again. Anyway, he soon met someone else.

  While I cooked, Des spent some time with the children. I could hear him building up to full-theatrical mode and by the time I’d peeled the potatoes he seemed to have taken on the identity of an elderly Russian. ‘Zu two children simply don’t understand how difficult it is for me,’ he whined. ‘All day I spend trekking through ze snow and still I have to cook my own dinner ven I get home. Zu only have to ask my vife. Isn’t zat right, Maria?’

  Jamie and Phoebe could hardly breathe for laughing.

  ‘But, husband,’ I called out from the kitchen in an embarrassingly poor Russian accent, ‘tonight ve have ze rabbit you caught. I cook it for you, if you vould like?’

  Des laughed and rose to leave. ‘No thanks, I’d best get home. It was lovely to meet you, Phoebe. Disappointing, as ever, Jamie.’

  Jamie pulled a face and planted a fake punch in Des’s stomach, laughing.

  Out in the hallway Des leaned in to whisper close to my ear, ‘I have every faith in you, Rosie, my love. If anyone can help that young girl, it’s going to be you.’ He sounded upbeat but I could see the concern in his eyes as he squeezed my arm. ‘Call me if you need me,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave my mobile on at night, just in case.’

  I was strangely reassured to know that he would be contactable, even though I knew there was no way I would disturb him out of hours, particularly as he and his partner had just moved in together. Yawning, I closed the door and leaned back against it, cradling my head in my hands. I stayed there for a few moments, reluctant to return to the living room and play out what was left of the day with Phoebe. If it were possible at that moment I would have erected a tent on the front lawn and retreated in there with Emily and Jamie. There were times when fostering had that effect on me, when I felt like a stranger in my own home.

  But after seeing that Jamie could get on with Phoebe, I’d at least been able to make the decision to follow the placement through to its natural conclusion. If my own children were fine with her being there then I certainly wasn’t going to give up on her. Phoebe hadn’t asked to come into care and it wasn’t her fault that she was autistic either. She was a young girl who needed support and I was supposed to be the adult in the relationship. Forcing myself away from the door, I planted a smile on my face and walked back into the lions’ den. Habitually, I summoned a cheerful tone, clapped my hands together and said, ‘Right, let’s find ourselves a game to play.’ The last thing I wanted was for any child to feel like they were an unwelcome inconvenience in my house.

  As the four of us set up Monopoly, my temple was still throbbing from Phoebe’s earlier assault and I couldn’t wait for bedtime to arrive. Every throw of the dice was
punctuated with high-pitched screeches and manic jerks. My patience was sustained only by thoughts of a hot, soothing bath filled with lavender oil and the mini chocolate cheesecake hidden away at the back of the fridge.

  Chapter 9

  Being at home with Phoebe had me in a constant state of the jitters. All my senses were on high alert, ready to absorb the sudden high-pitched screams or defend myself against unannounced air-borne crockery. Besides lobbing dangerous objects, Phoebe had an unnerving habit of creeping up on me. I’d be in the kitchen washing up or bending to retrieve a tin from the food cupboard when a prickling sensation on the back of my neck signalled that I wasn’t alone; I would turn to find Phoebe standing there, watching me.

  I decided it might be easier being out. Our trip to the park the previous day had passed by peacefully enough, barring a few stares and pavement dodgers, so I rose early and packed a picnic. It was such a lovely bright spring day that it felt wrong not to make the most of it and besides, I figured the time would pass a lot quicker if we were out keeping ourselves busy. As an added bonus, Emily had decided to take a break from revision for her mocks and join the rest of us, so it was with a feeling of optimism that we set off towards Dunham Massey, a Georgian house run by the National Trust.

  It was a long drive but Phoebe was surprisingly calm throughout the journey, and so by the time we pulled into the stunning entrance to the grounds we were all relaxed and eager to explore the magnificent deer park before making a tour of the old house. In the idyllic setting Phoebe seemed to blossom, skipping and laughing as we ventured through a large wooded area and down to the lake. It was at times such as this when fostering felt like a genuinely rewarding, enjoyable experience. Besides the satisfaction that comes with building happy memories for a child under stress, I was able to enjoy visiting new places alongside them. Halfway through the morning a group of us gathered by Dunham’s Mill for an Easter egg hunt organised by the staff. Phoebe was beside herself with excitement and yet there was no arm flapping or strange limps as she walked over to collect her clues. From the confines of my mind a voice was whispering to me, trying to tell me something about the randomness of her behaviour, but for some reason I couldn’t quite turn the volume up enough to grasp what it was. Phoebe sat with Emily and Jamie, sucking on the end of her pencil with a look of utter concentration on her face, only distracted briefly by one of the stewards, whom she labelled a ‘fat bitch’. She scribbled away intermittently, and I was surprised to find that, although her writing was sprawled untidily across the page, it was definitely legible.