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

by Rosie Lewis

  Sneaking the scissors up to her room, she had stowed them under her pillow and slept with them there all night. That revelation in itself was shocking enough but the realisation that an eight-year-old girl was disturbed enough to gouge a hole in her arm on waking rocked me to the core.

  I realised it would be difficult ever to relax with Phoebe in the house; I would have to stay continually on guard. Once indoors I planted Phoebe in front of the television. Absorbed deep in a world of her own, she sank into a beanbag and stared blankly at the screen.

  I was about to call my mother and arrange to collect Emily and Jamie from her house when the handset vibrated in my hand: it was Lenke. I walked into the garden where we could talk in private, watching a listless Phoebe through the glass of the patio doors.

  ‘How is she doing now?’

  Hearing the social worker’s reproving tone, I instantly bristled. ‘She’s a bit withdrawn but physically there’s no long-term damage, thank goodness.’

  ‘Hmmm. Have you reviewed your safeguarding procedures? Her parents are furious that this happened in the foster home, as you can imagine. They’ll try and use this to discredit the local authority, of course.’

  ‘It was an ordinary pair of household scissors, Lenke. If I’d had any idea at all that Phoebe was vulnerable to self-harm I would never have allowed her access to them. As it is I’ve had to hide the washing up liquid and soaps, all the toiletries, even toothpaste – she devours it all.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation. A cough. It was then that the realisation dawned on me.

  ‘You knew,’ I said slowly, feeling a prickle of heat. ‘She’s done this sort of thing before, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Well,’ another pause, then, ‘the school mentioned some risky behaviour in the reports but we’ve only just had time to read through them.’ She offered this information in a casual tone, as if it were an amusing anecdote that might set me off chuckling. I wondered why the school hadn’t mentioned anything to me, then I realised what her teacher must have meant when she referred to ‘a few frights along the way’.

  ‘You knew she was a self-harmer? Why wasn’t I told?’

  ‘Like I said, we’re still sifting through the information but we need to make sure that nothing like this happens again.’

  ‘How do you suggest I do that – handcuff her to the bed?’ Admittedly it wasn’t the subtlest of replies but I was in no mood for diplomacy.

  ‘There’s no need to take that attitude.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that but I’m afraid there’s no way I can guarantee her safety, Lenke. Her problems are too severe. As it is I can’t take my eyes off her in the day, not for a minute. How am I supposed to keep her safe during the night – lock her in a padded room? And don’t you think it’s time to bring CAMHS in now? Something has to be very wrong for her to feel the need …’

  Lenke interrupted me. ‘Phoebe is already under the consultant for the autism.’

  I gripped a handful of hair and pulled it back from my forehead as I listened to her, pacing the patio with impatience. ‘Self-injury is common in sufferers and the hospital have no concerns about her home life. I’ve discussed this with Mr Steadman and he said that her symptoms were bound to be more troublesome during times of change or stress. He says that is all the more reason for the foster carer to be extra vigilant.’

  Sighing, I stopped mid-pace and leaned my head against the glass, shielding sunlight from my eyes to get a clear view of the living room: the beanbag was empty. With a sinking feeling, I yanked the door open in one swift motion, hurrying from room to room.

  ‘So anyway, since we’ve discussed Phoebe on the phone, I’ll log this call as one of my visits, yes?’

  ‘Fine, yes,’ I agreed quickly, saying a hurried goodbye before I realised what she was actually asking. Where on earth was Phoebe? Charging up the stairs, I finally found her standing stock-still in the middle of her room, a guilty grin spread across her face.

  ‘What have you been doing up here, Phoebe?’

  ‘What have you been doing up here, Phoebe?’

  I sighed, not realising that in less than 10 minutes I would find out why she was looking shamefaced.

  Even in the context of the last, difficult week, when I went downstairs and opened the post the kicking, smearing, mimicking, even the self-harming, paled into insignificance next to the contents of one of the letters. The envelope was hand-written and so, as I knew it was unlikely to be a bill or circular, it drew my attention immediately.

  I tore it open, immediately registering the signatures at the bottom of the page: Will and Carolyn x.

  It was Tess and Harry’s new parents, who had recently adopted the two toddlers I had fostered. A slow nausea rose in my throat as the words, ‘very sorry’, ‘clean break’ and, ‘really feel it’s for the best’ jumped out at me. Confused, I scanned the letter over and over again, trying to take in its contents. Slowly the message surfaced – they had come to the ‘difficult’ decision that it was best not to allow me to stay in touch with the children.

  Will and Carolyn had been advised not to cut ties with me when they adopted the siblings since children can suffer lifelong depression if early attachments are severed. Scrutinising the letter again, I began to absorb their apologetic reasoning. It seemed Tess and Harry had spent their first few weeks searching for me – in cupboards, behind doors – unable to take in their loss. Now, five weeks later, they finally seemed to accept their circumstances and their new parents were concerned that seeing me would set them back and start their grieving process all over again.

  Sinking into the sofa, I gripped the letter in my hand and held it to my chest. It was horrible to think that the children I had cherished for nearly three years had been searching for me. A wire of guilt passed through me at the thought of them feeling so abandoned. In turmoil, I tried to absorb the prospect of never seeing the siblings again.

  Sensing someone near, I looked up and noticed Phoebe hovering in the doorway. She was staring at me strangely and I assumed she was confused by the look on my face. Slowly, she drifted into the room and sat beside me on the sofa, close enough for me to feel the warmth from her thin body. Was she seeking comfort after the tribulations of this morning or had she somehow intuited my despairing mood? Whatever the reason, I was touched and grateful for her gentleness. Instinctively I responded, wrapping my arm around her shoulder.

  It was then that she slipped her hand into my own, tilting her face up to smile at me. The grotesqueness of her twisted features hit me first, before I registered the slippery feel of her palms against my own and the dank, acrid smell rising from my lap.

  Phoebe had soiled in her own hand, catching me completely unawares.

  By dinnertime my nerves were so shredded that when Phoebe made a grab for Jamie’s fork I felt my hackles rise. ‘Put that down,’ I snapped. ‘You only need a spoon for porridge.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ she spat.

  I raised my finger and, waggling it in front of her face, I burst out: ‘Don’t talk like that in this house,’ oscillating emotions making my voice quiver. It wasn’t the swearing that unsettled me so much as the look in her eyes. Not simple defiance, something far more disturbing: pure, unequivocal hate. ‘Now, go to your room and stay there. Do you hear me?’

  Her gaze remained bold and challenging but I was relieved to see that she wasn’t going to put up a fight. She slipped quietly from her chair and left the room.

  Chapter 12

  It took some heavy-duty self-coaching that night to convince myself to stick with the placement. Phoebe had looked at me with such hatred that my instincts were screaming at me to put as much distance between her and the rest of the family as possible. Digging deep, I forced myself to draw on my drive to heal, on my past experiences, and the amazing turnarounds I’d witnessed before, so that I could turn the dislike I was feeling into empathy. She must have been hurting badly to feel so much hatred, her self-harming told me that. Once I felt
more forgiving, I decided that the first thing I should do was to broach the subject of self-harm with her.

  After rehearsing the conversation in my mind overnight, I invited her to sit next to me on one of the fluffy beanbags in her room once she had washed and dressed, hoping she was in one of her more coherent phases. Since she flipped from rational to illogical several times in any one hour, catching her at the right time was simply a matter of chance.

  I nudged her playfully with my shoulder. She smiled, nudging me back. It was a positive start.

  ‘How’s your arm feeling this morning, honey?’

  From her hesitation and the way she stared at her forearm, almost in surprise, I got the impression she was thinking, what on earth is that bandage doing there? After a moment she shrugged and reached for a shiny bracelet on her bookshelf that had grabbed her attention. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, making a move to get up.

  I decided to move the focus to a previous, fictional placement. In the past I had found that children were fascinated to hear about others in a similar position to their own, particularly when I regaled them with tales of naughty exploits. It somehow helped them to conceptualise their own situation without the associated pain.

  ‘I looked after another little girl once. She was about your age …’

  Phoebe swung back to face me again, immediately interested. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘She was VERY badly behaved,’ I said dramatically.

  Delighted, Phoebe giggled. ‘Was she? What did she do?’

  ‘She painted our cat red. When I told her off, she cut off all the buttons from her school coat and dropped them down the toilet.’

  Phoebe gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth. It was funny how unaware she was of her own suspect behaviour. Totally unaware of the irony, she squealed, ‘That is very naughty! What was her name?’

  My eyes moved upwards to the creative area of my brain. ‘Jessica,’ I lied. There was a hesitation before I continued. ‘There were reasons why she behaved in that way, though.’

  ‘What reasons?’

  Studying her face, I replied slowly, ‘Sometimes she felt unhappy about things that had happened to her, but she didn’t feel she could tell anyone about it. It was difficult to keep such big things to herself so she behaved badly as a way of letting all those sad feelings out.’

  Instead of asking for more details, as I expected, Phoebe fell silent, turning her gaze back to the bookshelf.

  ‘I want you to feel you can talk to me if you’re feeling sad, instead of ever hurting yourself again. Will you do that, Phoebe?’

  ‘Will you do that, Phoebe?’

  The asinine grin had returned and, with a sinking heart, I knew our conversation was over.

  My dark mood lingered through the rest of the week. Every now and again a lump rose in my throat with thoughts of Tess and Harry, knowing I would have to break the news to Emily and Jamie that we wouldn’t be seeing them again. I pushed the thoughts aside – Tess and Harry were safe and well cared for, I knew that. Phoebe was the one who needed my help now and I determined to put all my energies into doing just that.

  By Friday afternoon, when I picked Phoebe and Jamie up from school, I had reached the point where even my accomplished acting skills were stretched and it was difficult to summon a cheery smile. Phoebe was back on form again after the self-harming incident four days earlier, repeating every word Jamie uttered as I ushered them both into the car. I heard him sigh as he fastened his seat belt beside me and another blade of guilt passed through my chest; he looked frazzled.

  I was about to pull him into a quick bear hug when Phoebe lunged forward with a wet finger outstretched, trying to smear his face with her drool. ‘No,’ I yelled, twisting in my seat and catching hold of her wrist. ‘I’ve had enough and so has Jamie! Now sit back and put your seat belt on.’

  ‘Sit back and put your seat belt on.’

  Jamie groaned. While counting silently backwards from 20 to one I made a mental note to teach my son the same technique.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mouthed at him, trying to bestow what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

  Fortunately for him, one of his football club friends had invited him for a sleepover. When we arrived at Ben’s house he leapt from the car with gusto, tearing down their path like a boy released from a burning building. I couldn’t blame him; I felt like taking off somewhere myself.

  ‘Argh, it’s going to be SO boring with just you,’ Phoebe whined as we pulled away, dropping back against the tan leather headrest and bumping against it several times. ‘What are we going to do now?’

  She knew exactly what we were doing. I had taken her through the day’s itinerary several times since she’d woken at 6am, knowing that autistic children feel more at ease when they follow a precise routine.

  ‘We’re going to meet some other foster carers and play with the children they’re looking after. Do you remember?’

  Jenny, a woman in her 50s who began fostering just over a year ago, lived in a lovely house near the river and a group of us carers met regularly at hers, to share the frustrations of being closely involved with social services and generally offering support to one another. Whenever one of our group accepted a new placement, the others were always keen to meet them and I knew they were all intrigued by my description of Phoebe. I had called ahead to warn them I would be bringing her along, if only so that Jenny could ensure her liquid soap was out of reach.

  As I crossed over a wide bridge, Phoebe leaned forward, shouting in my ear, ‘If I see any babies there, I’m going to kill them. I’m going to stab them with a knife and twist it ’til they’re dead!’

  ‘What did I tell you about that, Phoebe? You mustn’t say nasty things, it’s upsetting.’

  She spent the rest of the journey repeating ‘It’s upsetting, it’s upsetting,’ over and over again so that by the time I turned into Jenny’s wide, tree-lined road I had counted backwards several times. ‘Here we are,’ I said, forcing joviality as I secured the brake. ‘Out we get.’ Phoebe leapt from the car and spun in circles, her arms flapping up and down in super-fast motion. I wondered what the girls would make of her, and the other foster kids, for that matter. It was an alarming sight, particularly with her blue eyes swivelling in unison.

  Rachel, a foster carer who wouldn’t look out of place in a nightclub, pulled up behind my Vauxhall. I first met her two years earlier, on a paediatric first aid course. The moment she appeared in the classroom and took the seat next to mine, I knew we would be friends. Tall and curvy, she wore sparkly eye shadow and bold red lipstick. The curious fusion of glamour and mumsiness conjured an image of a nurturing ‘madame’. It was clear that she had a personality to match her bright wardrobe and soon we were bellowing with laughter.

  She was dressed in her customary tight skirt and colourful, silky vest top, a cluster of bracelets jingling as she waved at us before reaching into the back seat of her car to pick up her latest charge. Katy was eight months old and had only been with Rachel for three weeks, but the little one was already attached, crying whenever she left her sight.

  Phoebe rushed over and planted her face barely two centimetres from Katy’s.

  I followed quickly behind.

  ‘Be nice, Phoebe,’ I warned.

  ‘I like your baby, lady …’

  Rachel’s brightly made-up face lit up with a wide smile. ‘That’s nice – I expect she likes you too. I’m Rachel, and you must be Phoebe. Rosie’s told me all about you.’ A whizz with young children, Rachel grinned and hunched her shoulders at Phoebe while taking a subtle step backwards to give the baby some breathing space. ‘Shall we go in and you can help me give her a bottle, if you’d like?’

  ‘I’d rather eat the baby,’ Phoebe said in an earnest voice. ‘Can I bite her? I have sharp teeth – we could see what colour her blood is.’

  Rachel looked at me and chuckled. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound too healthy, if you ask me, honey. But tell you what, I have some cakes in this bag �
� why don’t you carry it in, give it to Jenny? We can eat some of those instead.’

  Phoebe shook her head. ‘No, yuck, I only eat porridge or chocolate.’ She turned abruptly, bounding off up the path. The door was eagerly opened by Jenny; despite being in her early 50s the foster carer gave off a youthful aura, with her slim figure and keen, intelligent face.

  ‘Hello, lovey, so wonderful to meet you! Come in, come in! I’m Jenny. I bet your name’s Phoebe, am I right?’

  ‘Am I right?’ Phoebe sneered, surprising Jenny by squeezing past so forcibly that the foster carer almost lost her footing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mouthed as I reached the door, closely followed by Rachel and the baby.

  Jenny laughed and hugged me freely. ‘You did warn us,’ she said under her breath, giving my shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

  She led us into a large living room, with a double set of large patio doors at one end overlooking a well-maintained, child-friendly garden. A large sofa was placed either side of a long coffee table, with several armchairs dotted around the space as well. On one of the walls was a framed tapestry of a child’s handprint with the words, ‘Quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep, I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep,’ embroidered in the cloth. Her house was immaculate, with a lingering smell of furniture polish, but it was comfortable too, and Jenny was so laid-back that I wasn’t terrified to sit down in case I crumpled the cushions, which was just as well, because Phoebe had already made herself at home. She was jumping up and down on one of the sofas and she still had her shoes on.

  ‘Get down from there, Phoebe,’ I said, striding forward with my arm outstretched.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you some colouring out, shall we?’ Jenny chipped in.

  Phoebe jumped off the sofa in an instant, skipping off to follow Jenny. Her skills at distraction were impressive and I felt grateful that a battle had been averted.