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

by Rosie Lewis

  ‘Can you tell me why you’re not allowed to tell?’

  She didn’t speak.

  Knowing it would be wrong to demand to know who had asked for her silence, I decided to try a different, gentler tack.

  ‘Jessica was told not to tell as well, but the secret grew inside her until she felt unwell in her head. When she told me what had made her feel so bad she began to feel better.’

  There was still no response. Phoebe sat unmoving beside me; even her legs had stopped swinging.

  ‘No one can hurt you now, Phoebe. Whatever you tell me, I will keep you safe.’

  In an instant she buried her face in my T-shirt and kept it there. A long silence followed while I gently stroked her hair. Her face turned to the side but I could still feel her warm breath as she rested on my tummy.

  ‘I get scared when the noise comes,’ she said eventually. ‘And when his face looks like a tomato.’

  ‘Whose face?’ I asked, glad she couldn’t see my own face had fired up, the heat stinging my cheeks. ‘What noise?’

  She sat up abruptly, screwing her features into a nasty sneer.

  ‘Whose face? What noise?’

  It was then that I had a sense, not yet wholly clear, that her bizarre habits were not merely imitations of the children she went to school with. More complicated than that – I suspected smoke and mirrors, a distraction invented as a way of leading everyone off the trail she was too frightened to explore.

  ‘How does his face look like a tomato?’ I tried again, knowing, before she had even repeated me again, that I had already lost her.

  We sat in silence until the sky clouded over and the sunlight faded to a pale orange glow. When we went back indoors Phoebe asked to watch television, unaware of the turmoil she had provoked in my mind. Only the remains of a bright red rash that stretched from her cheeks, down her throat and to her chest gave a clue to the lingering emotion of our conversation.

  ‘I hate you,’ she spat as I switched on her favourite channel. ‘I want to go back to Mummy and Daddy!’

  The spitefulness, I realised, was her way of punishing me for taking her close to revealing something she sensed would be dangerous. She spent the rest of the day in a contrary mood, defensive, which I guessed might be her way of concealing the heartache I had stirred up.

  It was as I was setting the table for dinner and called her to wash her hands that the festering emotion finally erupted. Phoebe stormed into the kitchen, raging with a destructive energy. With her eyes glazed over, she ripped open the doors of the cabinets and swept packets and tins from inside, hurling them at the walls and across the floor. A bottle of ketchup was pulled violently from a shelf and launched towards me as I hovered in the doorway. The onslaught was so sudden that I barely had time to react and so I stayed where I was, watching her helplessly.

  There was no point in trying to stop her, I decided. Apart from the danger of being caught by flying missiles, there was an inner desolation that needed to be expressed. If she was on the rampage through temper alone then I would have stepped in and restrained her, but instinct told me that this was something quite different – an animal need to release the awful tension inside her. No, the best thing, I thought, was to wait for the anger to abate. If I’m honest, I felt more comfortable watching her express her fury that way, rather than the flapping arms and rolling eyes. This was the sort of behaviour I recognised, an angry rage at the unfairness of the world. To me, this was all familiar stuff.

  When the cupboards were all but bare she stood and stamped on the heap of assorted packets and jars, screaming with a tormented rage. Spent, she collapsed onto the kitchen floor and drew up her knees, crying heavily into her hands. Sidestepping the devastation, I crouched down and stretched my arms around her, noticing how badly her body was shaking as she sobbed.

  Chapter 16

  That night I dreamt Phoebe was standing above me, the pair of scissors that she had used to puncture her arm held aloft and ready to strike at my heart. It was so vivid that when I woke my hair was damp with perspiration and the muscles in my legs ached with the after effects of adrenaline that had coursed through them during the night.

  Instead of my usual coffee I warmed some milk, hoping to calm my agitated state of mind. The temporary soothing effect of the warm liquid was short-lived, though. A yell of distress from upstairs jerked me back to my recent state of alertness, more so because I realised it was not the usual screech from Phoebe but, alarmingly, a cry from Jamie. Knowing how much it took to rattle my son, a stark vision from last night’s dreams exploded to the forefront of my mind, Phoebe’s bloodied knife taunting me as I tore upstairs and into his room.

  Jamie sat with his back against his headboard, clutching his duvet up to his nose and peering over the top, his eyes wide in horror. Looking every bit like an old fishwife, Phoebe stood over him with her legs splayed, one hand resting on her hip and the other waggling a pointed finger a couple of inches from his face.

  ‘You are a dirty whore,’ she growled in a voice so deep I couldn’t believe it actually came from her. ‘An ungrateful dirty bitch, that’s what you are.’

  ‘Get her out of here, Mum!’ Jamie beseeched, appealing to me with his eyes.

  Phoebe seemed to be in some kind of trance. She didn’t even turn around when I called her, demanding she leave Jamie’s room.

  ‘Come on.’ I slipped my hand through the arm she rested on her hip. ‘You’re not supposed to be in here.’

  The incident gave me another flash of insight into her home life, telling me that all was definitely not what it seemed in the Steadman household.

  When Jamie came down to breakfast Phoebe, oblivious to his expression, patted her chair, inviting him to sit next to her.

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said, giving her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look.

  She appeared injured. Either she had completely forgotten the ‘fishwife’ incident or simply hadn’t been aware of it happening in the first place. I felt sorry for her; it seemed that Jamie and Emily were the only children in her life who were prepared to pass the time of day with her, but I wasn’t going to say anything to Jamie. He had every right to be annoyed with her. No schoolboy wanted to wake to the sight of Phoebe’s eyes rolling and being called a ‘dirty whore’ into the bargain.

  Breakfast was over with quickly. Although Phoebe had taken to nibbling on a few bits of ‘tame’ solid foods, she still wasn’t eating much. Jamie vacuumed his toast up even faster than usual – eager, I think, to escape Phoebe’s company. Without being asked, he cleared his bowl and plate, even dropping them into the soapy water himself rather than perching them on the side, as was his usual habit.

  ‘Wow, thanks, Jamie!’

  Pulling on a pair of yellow rubber gloves, I plunged my hands into the sink then groaned inwardly. Phoebe had left the table and followed Jamie into the living room, watching him sheepishly from behind. She was chewing her lip and I got the impression she was building up to something. Scanning my brain, I tried to think of a distraction; Jamie needed to be left alone for a while.

  I flicked my gloves off and was about to invite her to help me with the drying but I was too late. Already she’d approached Jamie, eyeing him shyly.

  ‘Can we play Wii for a bit before school, Jamie?’

  ‘Nah, don’t want to, thanks.’

  Phoebe’s face fell. She looked genuinely wounded.

  ‘We really haven’t got that much time, Phoebe,’ I chipped in. ‘We have to leave in 10 minutes.’

  Jamie had noticed her reaction, I could tell by the look of tenderness that crossed his face. ‘Actually, it’s OK, we can play a quick game if you like.’ He reached for the brand new Wii remotes and handed one to Phoebe. Her eyes lit up, beaming.

  His willingness to forgive her so quickly brought tears to my eyes. As he was about to leave for the bus I stopped him in the hall, straightening his tie and tucking down the collar of his blazer.

  ‘Thanks for what you did in there, Jamie.’


  ‘What did I do?’

  ‘You know, with Phoebe. Thanks for being so forgiving.’

  He shrugged. ‘S’alright. I feel sorry for her. There must be something very, very wrong.’

  Jamie’s words echoed in my mind during the school run and when I got back home just after 9am I immediately called Lenke. Having been blocked every time I tried to arrange outside support for Phoebe, I decided it was time for some plain speaking. Little did I realise, as I waited for the call to connect, that I could shake the social worker by her shoulders and scream at the top of my voice, for all the good it would do.

  When she picked up I gave her a summary of my conversation with Phoebe and her explosive reaction, a few hours later: ‘And so there’s obviously something amiss at home. There’s no way she should go back there until we’ve had time to explore this properly. She’s going to need a bit more time to build enough trust in me. I think we’re nearly there but …’

  ‘Phoebe’s father has been on the phone again this morning. He is extremely anxious to get her back and there is no evidence that she is at any risk at home.’

  Agitated by her lack of support I ran my fingers through my hair and began pacing. It seemed Lenke’s focus hadn’t shifted in the slightest – all she wanted to do was keep Phoebe’s parents sweet, whatever facts were staring her in the face. I was suddenly reminded of something Des had told me – in some local authorities, social workers are encouraged to seek counselling if they find themselves sexually attracted to a birth parent. Des explained that there have been cases where social workers have fallen under the spell of charismatic but violent, psychopathic parents. Controlling men, those capable of severe domestic violence, often, according to Des, possess an almost demonic ability to manipulate the people around them. In one case, the father involved managed to convince two successive social workers to sleep with him, leaving them incapable of objective thought.

  While I knew it was unlikely that sexual attraction was the reason for Lenke’s apathy, I did worry that she was blinkered by the accent and status of parents. But how could she ignore such disturbing signs? If Phoebe was in the process of building up the courage to reach out to someone, shouldn’t her social worker allow her the time and space to get to that point?

  When Lenke replied it was clear that the answer was a resounding no. Using a tone that was becoming familiar: polite, long-suffering, but with a touch of strained patience, she said, ‘We’ve been through this, Rosie. The child will be going home shortly but I’ll send you a checklist anyway, if you’d like. Access to CAMHS is run on a points system: if Phoebe gets enough points from the answers you give, she will be referred, but by that point she’ll probably already be home.’

  With a persistence that I wouldn’t have been capable of in my pre-fostering years, I challenged her, refusing to be fobbed off. ‘I’ve sent you an email with full details of what Phoebe has said. I’d like to discuss it with the fostering team manager as soon as possible, please.’

  There was a pause while Lenke composed her answer. ‘There really is no need for that, Rosie. Let’s make a date to discuss this next week.’ Her tone was more conciliatory now but still brisk, as if she had one hundred and one more important things to do than indulge me.

  ‘I really think we should meet before then,’ I insisted. ‘And Phoebe urgently needs to talk to someone with professional knowledge. I’m afraid I might be a bit out of my depth here.’

  Lenke sighed, but not a sympathetic noise of concern, rather the groan of a woman who would rather get her work finished and head off home. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I have other commitments.’

  ‘As soon as you can then,’ I conceded with exasperation.

  Immediately after I ended the call I found myself puzzling over something the social worker had said: why was it only Phoebe’s father who was agitated to get her back? What were her mother’s feelings in all of this?

  Chapter 17

  Letting myself back into the house after the school run the next morning, I felt a sudden invigoration. Lifted by being alone in the house, I felt the strain of the past few weeks slowly ebbing away. However temporary, it was a wonderfully freeing sensation and I wanted to hold onto it for as long as possible.

  Making myself a coffee, I considered turning my phone off for a couple of hours. There was something festering in my mind, an inkling that I wasn’t piecing together an accurate picture of Phoebe’s troubles. What I wanted was to sit and absorb her words from the day when we sat on the swing, to examine the message she was giving me through the silence and then the violence that followed. To make sense of it all I needed time alone, away from the usual everyday demands.

  After 10 minutes, guilt-ridden and anxious, I switched the handset back on – mums don’t get to turn their phones off and still feel relaxed. Instead, I slipped it onto one of the shelves of our desk and settled myself in front of the computer with a fresh cup of coffee.

  Unsurprisingly, it rang within minutes. When I saw the caller ID I rolled the office chair backwards and, in anticipation of being irritated, automatically began pacing.

  ‘Hi, Lenke.’

  ‘Hi, Rosie. I’m sorry I couldn’t talk yesterday, I was so busy.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ I was just speculating on the best way to motivate her into taking action when she took the wind out of my sails.

  ‘There has been an emergency strategy meeting. The local authority has decided to apply for an Interim Care Order, so all future contact between Phoebe and her parents will be supervised.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I said, relieved. At least it was a move in the right direction. As we ended the call I wondered how Phoebe would react to the changes. It should only take the local authority a day or two to secure the order and then dealings with her parents would be on a much more official footing. With all contact supervised, there would be far less flexibility in meeting times and places. Robin Steadman would not like it, not one little bit. The thought pleased me, to such an extent in fact, that I wished I could be present when the news was broken to him.

  It was unlike me to be so cold. For most of my placements I had felt sympathy for the birth parents. It was usually the case that they had been dealt an unfortunate hand in life and many simply lacked the ability to overcome such challenges, their children suffering alongside them. Robin Steadman had no such excuse: as far as I could see, he had it all.

  There’s no proof the man has done anything wrong, I chastised myself, settling back into the swivel chair behind the desk. Besides, I had no idea what miseries he may have gone through in his life. Money didn’t guarantee immunity from suffering; I only had to look at Phoebe to know that. She had been raised in a privileged home and yet she was one of the unhappiest children I had ever come across.

  With a few beeps and clicks, our family computer shook itself awake and as soon as the home screen appeared I entered a number of searches into Google: ‘autism’, ‘intermittent symptoms’, ‘effects of stress on autism’, ‘sporadic autism’. I wasn’t surprised that the resulting list was long. Millions of results had been produced but my eyes fell immediately to a hyperlink about two-thirds of the way down the first page, the words ‘elimination of symptoms’ and ‘new cure’ drawing me in.

  The link took me to a website: Peach, Parents for the Early Intervention for Autism in Children. Peach was a charity formed by parents who were looking for ways to overcome the problems associated with autism. Snatching up a pen, I began scribbling notes on the jotter pad in front of me. It seemed that with intensive therapies some children had made astounding progress, all but obliterating their symptoms. Although some claimed that the condition had been cured, most reported a dramatic improvement in what they considered to be a lifelong condition.

  After reading the case studies, I was filled with inspiration and eager to find out more about the therapies, particularly one that the site advocated. Applied Behavioural Analysis involved breaking down any skill that the autistic child lacke
d into the most basic form and then working from there to help them master the ability to do it. Absent-mindedly twirling the pen in my mouth, I found myself gripping the end with my teeth in concentration. There was so much to take in and the thought of formulating an action plan excited me. Whether it was recognising emotions from facial expressions or learning to socialise, by starting at the basics and reinforcing correct responses with positive verbal praise, it seemed almost all autistic children were capable of vast improvement, some to the point where they became indistinguishable from their mainstream peers.

  I was so absorbed by the possibilities that when my alarm went off at school pick-up time, I realised I hadn’t even eaten lunch. Grabbing my keys, I jogged to the car, eager to put my research into practice.

  Chapter 18

  ‘Let’s play a game,’ I announced later that evening when Jamie had left for football training with his dad and Emily was sitting in front of the TV watching repeats of Doctor Who. Instead of being dogged by a sense of defeat as I had over the past few weeks, I became aware of a new feeling, a determination to rise to the challenge of helping Phoebe to reach her full potential. It was clear she possessed a surprising degree of intelligence – her reading age roughly equalled her chronological age – quite an accomplishment considering her below-par schooling, but her symptoms seemed to stand in the way of her putting it to good use. I really felt that if we could work on her social skills and abysmal levels of self-esteem, her chances of making and maintaining friendships would vastly improve.

  Phoebe immediately looked interested. She joined me at the dining table where I’d laid out strips of different coloured Plasticine on a large piece of white A3 card. From my online research I had prepared a list of tasks to work through with Phoebe, all designed to increase concentration and retrain the brain into functioning normally. Her eagerness to spend time with my son told me that she craved social interaction. My intention was to combine the ‘brain training’ activities with some games that would encourage the development of trust between us. Once she had faith in me, I reasoned, it would help her to react normally to strangers. Step by step, I wanted to teach her appropriate responses to every possible encounter.