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

by Rosie Lewis

  She stopped crying for a moment and, hiccupping, she managed, ‘Daddy cuddles me.’

  It was a simple statement but on hearing it I felt terribly, utterly sad. She loved her father, forgave him everything he had done to her, because somewhere in the midst of all the exploitation he had found time to give her a hug. A deep loathing ran through me and I wanted to tell her that the man didn’t deserve her love; he didn’t even have the right to breathe air, as far as I was concerned. I had to tune out of our conversation for a moment, allowing time for me to put my own feelings to one side. She continued to plead, using such a desperate tone that as I shook my head, I felt utterly wretched.

  ‘I’m sorry, honey. It’s not up to me. But I tell you what we can do. We could draw some pictures for Daddy, if you’d like? And maybe write him a letter?’

  Her sobs subsided a little, comforted I think by the offer of some sort of contact, however indirect. I wasn’t sure whether letter contact between them would even be allowed, but I reasoned putting her feelings down on paper couldn’t do any harm and might actually be cathartic.

  The day after giving Phoebe the news about contact I received a call from the school receptionist barely two hours after I had dropped her off. Apparently she was inconsolable, so much so that the teachers found it impossible to even talk to her. When I arrived, she was waiting alone outside the school office, her small frame swamped by the large blue sofa she was sitting on. She looked pale and tearful but her face brightened a little when she saw me.

  I felt a stab of irritation at the staff for leaving her alone in such a vulnerable state. Although I knew that the receptionist was nearby and probably keeping an eye on her, no one was offering the vulnerable child any comfort. In the past I had found the children I looked after were lavished with attention and praise by sympathetic teachers but it seemed to me that Phoebe got a raw deal all ways round and appeared to be largely ignored.

  A wave of wooziness hit me as I walked towards her and I wished that I had eaten something for breakfast. So much had happened over the past few weeks that I had completely lost my appetite, giddy with the emotion of it all. Anger had been my constant companion ever since Phoebe’s first disclosure and yet there was no way of venting it. I longed for her father to be called to account for what he had done, but until that happened I had a nasty feeling that the injustice of it all would probably continue to eat away at me. Even my skin felt tender to the touch.

  It broke my heart to see Phoebe so grief-stricken and as we left the building I started to wonder if there was any good in the world. The trouble with watching someone suffer so deeply, apart from the obvious anguish for the poor child, was that it shook my faith in human nature. I’ve always been a person who prefers to believe that tragedy strikes for a reason and ultimately everything works out for the best. Watching Phoebe in my rear-view mirror as I drove home, slumped as she was in the back of my car, it was near impossible to sustain that conviction.

  Chapter 29

  When we got home Phoebe changed straight into her pyjamas and laid herself out on the sofa, catatonic with hopelessness. I wondered whether the trauma of the last few weeks had actually triggered some sort of mental illness. Or, I ruminated, was her state a natural human response after experiencing such loss?

  I telephoned Lenke and described Phoebe’s despair, trying to drive home the need for urgent counselling. The social worker assured me that if an appointment was not forthcoming within a week, she would authorise me to arrange to see someone privately. It was a relief to know that professional help wasn’t too far away.

  The disclosure about the complicity of her mother in the abuse had, I think, triggered a deep sense of despair in Phoebe. Even as an adult I found it almost too unbelievable to comprehend that a mother was capable of such betrayal. The one person in the world that she should have been able to turn to for help was actually jointly responsible for violating her in the worst way imaginable. It wasn’t any wonder that verbally acknowledging her cruelty caused so much suffering.

  I had hoped that her admission all those weeks ago was the nadir of her misery. At the time it certainly felt like a major breakthrough but now I wasn’t so sure. Back then I had thought that by exorcising her demons she would emerge, if not healed, then at least achieving some form of deliverance. Although I had heard the worst that a human being was capable of, I wasn’t beyond holding out for a miracle.

  Of course I realised that by releasing her secrets she wasn’t going to be instantly better; she was deeply, perhaps irreversibly, traumatised. I also knew that, despite the occasional input from CAMHS, the task of helping her to move on and put the past behind her was down to me. In my head I visualised Phoebe in transition, stuck between night and day. What I wanted to do, what I was convinced I must do, was help her to starve her awful, dark memories of energy by crowding them out, filling her head with bright, happy thoughts instead.

  It was an unrealistic theory, perhaps even childish, but as I watched her glassy eyes staring into space, there wasn’t a whole lot more harm that could be done, I thought. The memories would always be horrific, but hopefully, after cramming her days with as many positive experiences as possible, she would be distanced from them, not so haunted.

  For now I bustled around her as she half-dozed on the sofa, placing a small coffee table beside her and arranging a comic, a glass of Lucozade and a few snacks within arm’s reach. It was something my own mother did for me whenever I was poorly as a child and I could remember how safe her tending made me feel. But with Phoebe my attempts to cheer her by fussing, even while I was doing it, seemed to me to be pathetically inadequate, like trying to stick a plaster over a gunshot wound. In truth, I really didn’t know what else to do. Over the last few days I had tried to avoid asking her ‘Are you OK?’, because clearly she wasn’t and I knew the question was probably just a reminder of all her troubles.

  But ignoring her suffering and simply hoping it would go away wasn’t helping either. Heartbreak was inevitable after what she had been through, what she was still going through. There were no shortcuts: she had to face her loss and get through it, just as an adult must confront grief. When there was no more room on the side table for my offerings I perched myself on the edge of the sofa and leaned over her.

  I chose my words carefully, knowing that whatever I said could not possibly make any of it better. ‘Phoebe, I know you probably aren’t feeling that strong at the moment but this is the last time that you’re going to sleep during the daytime, OK?’ I wasn’t going to be able to take her pain away, but it occurred to me that there might be a way to influence how she viewed it. I could only pray that my bumbling would do more good than harm.

  She said nothing. Her eyes, ringed with dark circles, remained fixed on the ceiling. I cleared my throat, wondering how to get the message across that the only way to get through the pain was to take it one day at a time, screening the bigger picture from view.

  ‘From now on, when you’re feeling weak and tired, we’re going to keep busy instead of lying down,’ I said, grappling for some ideas as I spoke. ‘We’re going to make bookmarks and candle holders.’ I don’t know why I came out with that, but then again, it really didn’t matter what she did so long as she kept busy and there was some sense of purpose there, something to work towards. I knew that in the darkest moments of life, routine was a safety net that offered refuge from panic and feelings of helplessness.

  I had made the discovery years earlier when in the throes of divorce.

  Trying to build a new life for myself while hiding my misery from the children hadn’t been easy and the only way I coped with the first few months of adjustment was by breaking each day into small chunks. Hours at a time, and as each day passed, I rewarded myself with some small treat, mainly chocolate (though sometimes something stronger). But I found that as the weeks passed the groups of hours increased and soon whole days went by without me even thinking about it. Structure had certainly kept despair at bay. Phoeb
e’s suffering was obviously something far worse, but it was the only way I knew how to try and help her cope.

  We sat in silence for several minutes but then she turned her head towards me.

  ‘What things are we going to make?’

  Although it was clearly an effort for her even to talk to me, there was a glimmer of interest in her tired gaze. It was the first real sense I got that, with time, the vortex of misery might just slow itself down.

  Chapter 30

  ‘What’s so special about you that you think you deserve a charmed life while the rest of us suffer?’ It was another one of my mother’s sayings that she rolled off her tongue when things got tough and as the days passed I found myself repeating it over and over. I never thought I’d say it but her no-nonsense philosophy really did seem to be a useful strategy to get through each day and avoid getting dragged down by Phoebe’s low moods.

  On a positive note, it had been four and a half days since her last violent outburst. The trouble was, she replaced her tantrums with silence, so most of the time we barely heard anything from her. When Phoebe was home and Emily and Jamie were busy, either at school or with their friends, she stayed sullenly by my side. Apart from trips to the bathroom, when she would wait outside the door, calling out to me every few seconds to make sure I was there, she rarely strayed more than a few feet away from me.

  On the days when I hadn’t managed to coax her to school we sometimes went a whole hour without saying a word to each other, but it was a companionable silence. I’ve always been more of a listener than one of life’s talkers. Whenever I’m conscious a constant stream of monologue goes on inside my head but most of the time I don’t feel the need to share it and, bizarrely, even though she had barely ever been quiet during the first few months she spent with us, I got the impression that Phoebe was the same.

  On the days when she did make it to school it wasn’t unusual for the receptionist to call halfway through the morning to say that Phoebe had reached meltdown and needed collecting. Although I knew it was best for her to stay in a structured environment, I no longer dreaded Phoebe being sent home. I was surprised to find that I actually enjoyed our peaceful afternoons together.

  She had given up pleading to go to bed in the middle of the day. At first I’d felt mean when I refused to allow her to change into her pyjamas and regularly questioned whether I was doing the right thing, but after a few days she accepted that I meant what I said and so learnt to shake off the tiredness by doing other things.

  Sometimes we sat side by side on the sofa, flicking through a glossy home interiors magazine, or we worked together in the garden, preparing the vegetable patch for planting or tidying the borders. One day at the beginning of July 2009, with the school holidays fast approaching, Lenke called to let me know that the local Child Protection Team were ready to interview and asked whether I could escort Phoebe to the local authority offices the next day. Although relieved to hear that it had been decided not to put her through the trauma of a forensic medical examination (so much time had elapsed that the procedure was unlikely to provide physical evidence of assault), I worried about how she would cope with what I imagined would be intensive questioning.

  It was one of those days when Phoebe had barely managed an hour at school before they called me to collect her, and now she sat curled up on the sofa reading a book. I decided not to mention the police interview until the morning; the less time she had to fret over it, the better. Already my stomach was working itself up into a frenzy so I figured I was doing enough worrying for the both of us.

  On arrival at the interview suite my nerves were immediately calmed when we were greeted by a smiling, plain-clothed police officer in her early thirties who introduced herself as Helen. She was dressed in a floral top, flowing black skirt that almost reached her ankles and sparkly flip-flops. Her informal attire seemed to reduce the magnitude of the occasion and I hoped that Phoebe felt the same, although she had barely uttered a word to me since breakfast, when I had told her where we were going.

  I also hoped that the interview wouldn’t be a repeat of our visit to see the CAMHS psychologist the previous week, when Phoebe had sat sullenly in the corner of the room refusing to engage, not even to join the doctor in colouring in a picture. Helen’s cheerful banter as we followed her to the first vacant interview room inspired some degree of confidence, however, although the expression on Phoebe’s face when she saw the video equipment told me otherwise. There were a few boxes of toys and books on the floor beside a central table but they did little to lighten the austerity of the room.

  Unable to be party to the interview in case I steered her testimony in some way, I waited outside, straining my ears to see if I could hear what was being said. By the time the door reopened about 40 minutes later my palms were stinging from clenching my fists so tightly. I’d been willing her to cooperate, desperate for the police to reach a position where they were able to take action against her parents.

  If the angle of Phoebe’s obstinately protruding chin hadn’t given away that disappointment loomed, then Helen’s pursed lips and a small shake of her head certainly confirmed it.

  ‘I don’t think Phoebe is in the mood for talking today, I’m afraid.’

  My heart sank. With no physical evidence of abuse, Phoebe’s testimony was crucial. My notes alone, I had already been told, were not substantive enough to bring a case against her parents. While there was little doubt that there was enough evidence to secure a Full Care Order for Phoebe, a criminal prosecution hung in the balance. I knew that few child abusers were successfully prosecuted for their crimes and the thought that the Steadmans would get off scot-free made me sick to my stomach.

  Standing, I gestured for Phoebe to try out the rocking horse at the end of the waiting room and then went to speak to Helen.

  ‘All I could get out of her was that she slept in the loft extension at home, which goes along with the classic scenario.’

  I frowned, not following. Helen explained that it was common for parents to place an abused child in a room furthest from the front door, so that passers-by or unannounced visitors wouldn’t be able to hear their distress. I shuddered at the thought.

  ‘But apart from that I got absolutely nowhere, I’m afraid. She just kept repeating everything I said.’

  Typical Phoebe. I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh no, I’m sorry.’

  Helen leaned closer. ‘It was really bloody irritating, between you and me.’

  I laughed. ‘Yes, don’t I know it? Do you think we could try again another day? If she gets to know you first, maybe she’ll open up. Or, if not, could I ask the questions and a police officer film it covertly?’

  Even before Helen shook her head I knew I was clutching at straws. If the case was to stand up in court, there were procedures to follow, I knew that, but I just felt there must be some way of seeing justice done. I think Helen sensed and shared my frustration. She squeezed my arm and told me all was not lost – ‘There are other ways to skin a chicken.’

  Immediately intrigued, I was disappointed not to be able to probe further, since Phoebe had grown tired of the horse and was back at my side, pulling on my arm and moaning that she was tired and needed to go home. As we left Helen tapped her lip with the pad of her index finger and assured me she would be in touch.

  By the time we got home I wasn’t sure who was more exhausted: Phoebe or me. It was awful to think of a child so young having to go through the ordeal of being questioned and the sunken look to her eyes gave away what an effort it had been for her. The phone was ringing as we stepped over the threshold. As I answered the call Phoebe brushed past me. As soon as her shoes were off, she lay down on the sofa and closed her eyes.

  It was Phoebe’s court guardian, Linda, a lively woman in her early 50s who had represented some of my previous placements. As is usual when the local authority is seeking a Care Order, the court had appointed an independent person to be the voice of the child, supplying the judge with recommendations th
at would be in the child’s best interests. I updated Linda on the latest situation, including Phoebe’s reluctance to cooperate with the police. Although she was supposed to take an objective view, I could sense she shared my frustration.

  She told me that she had already visited Phoebe on a couple of occasions at school but had met with the same blank refusal to talk to her and so was struggling to get a sense of the child’s viewpoint. I was surprised to hear that they’d already met and was slightly annoyed. It was important, I felt, that as Phoebe’s carer, I should be kept informed of those sorts of visits. Even though she hadn’t cooperated with her guardian, being quizzed about her feelings towards her parents must have been upsetting for her, particularly in the school environment, where she would have been pulled out of lessons for the purpose. I wondered whether her visits had coincided with Phoebe’s panic attacks at school. It wasn’t any wonder that I had found it difficult to identify the triggers of Phoebe’s moods and tantrums when I wasn’t armed with all the information.

  Linda promised to keep in touch and provide me with regular updates on the progress of the case, something I was grateful for since I doubted that Lenke would bother. Walking back into the living room, I perched on the edge of the sofa. I wanted to try and stop Phoebe sleeping if I could – she needed a good night’s rest after what she’d been through – but I wasn’t going to try too hard, not today. It was possible that her brain needed to switch off after all the drama.

  ‘We need to make a start on those bookmarks,’ I suggested in enthusiastic tones. Liz, my foster carer friend and ex-head teacher, had told me that whenever she wanted a child to follow a command she always used the word ‘need’ instead of ‘should’ or ‘can’. She assured me that most children would respond if they were told they ‘needed’ to act – it was something to do with the power of suggestion.