Trapped: The Terrifying True Story of a Secret World of Abuse. Rosie Lewis

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СКАЧАТЬ the glass doors, she stood with her legs a foot apart, gesticulating wildly at her reflection. Several customers gave her a wide berth as they left the shop, trying to avoid her flaying arms.

      As I caught up they stared at me in disapproving puzzlement, as if I’d allowed my eight-year-old daughter access to magic mushrooms or some other hallucinogenic that might explain her strange conduct.

      ‘Come on,’ I said, cupping her elbow and guiding her into the shop.

      ‘Ow! Ouch!’ she yelled, struggling as if I’d wrestled her into an arm lock. Embarrassed by stares from several other customers, I released my hold, hoping she wouldn’t run off. Fortunately her path was blocked by a young woman who rounded the corner from the next aisle, pushing a pram in front of her.

      ‘Ah, a baby!’ Phoebe sounded delighted. ‘Can I say hello, please?’ She leaned into me, her manner suddenly coquettish.

      ‘Yes, nicely then, if that’s OK?’

      The baby’s mother nodded and smiled. ‘Of course,’ she said, although her expression said otherwise.

      ‘What is its name?’ Phoebe asked sweetly, inching a step or two forwards. Without warning she reached into the pram, stroking the newborn’s tiny hand.

      ‘It is a her,’ I said, smiling reassuringly at the new mum, who hovered close by, ready to pounce if necessary.

      ‘Best not to touch the baby,’ I warned gently. I was reluctant to set off a tantrum in the busy shop but the look on Phoebe’s face prompted me to apply the brakes. Her eyes were swivelling with excitement, but there was also a manic element to her look that frightened me. Despite her slightness, there seemed to be a barely contained violence simmering beneath the surface, an unexploded rage. Besides, I wanted to secure an escape route for the young baby’s mother. She looked distinctly uncomfortable and who could blame her?

      ‘It’s Ella,’ the new mum responded politely, edging herself between Phoebe and the pram.

      ‘Can I kill it?’

      The woman looked at me in horror, her eyes widened in alarm. Jerking the pram backwards, she swung it into the next aisle and stalked away, turning to bestow one final look of disgust my way.

      ‘Fucking baby! I’m going to eat it, I am,’ Phoebe called out gruffly after her.

      ‘Be quiet,’ I growled under my breath, grabbing her elbow again and marching her to the cold aisle so that I could grab some milk. ‘You mustn’t say horrible things like that.’

      ‘You mustn’t say horrible things like that.’

      I stared at her, considering my best move. ‘Right, choose something for lunch and then we’ll go,’ I suggested mildly, though my teeth were gritted.

      ‘Blwah, ew!’ The retching started.

      ‘Right, let’s go, right now.’

      Several heads turned as I slipped my arm around Phoebe’s waist, propelling her towards the checkouts. Shoppers from all angles eyed the pair of us as if we carried some contagious disease. An elderly gentleman stood at the end of our aisle, two bags of shopping planted either side of his feet. He stared openly as we approached. Phoebe squirmed and fought me off, still gagging grotesquely. It was an awful, stomach-churning noise and I felt myself reddening with all the attention being focussed on us.

      ‘Goodness, your daughter’s clearly out to lunch, my dear,’ the old gentleman whispered loudly in the way old people seem to do, his eyes twinkling with sympathy. ‘It must be very difficult for you.’

      Until fostering I had never realised how rude some people could be. I glanced at Phoebe, wondering the effect such thoughtless words would have on her. Fortunately she seemed to be switching her attention elsewhere. Nodding grimly to the elderly customer, I was about to pay for the milk and guide Phoebe out of the shop when I realised that she had spotted the confectionery shelves.

      ‘Please may I have some chocolate?’ she asked, her eloquence incongruous with her unrefined appearance.

      Were it not for the fact that she looked as if she might be in danger of snapping in half right there in the middle of the shop, I would have marched her home empty-handed. As it was, I felt desperate to get some calories inside her, in whatever form I could.

      ‘Yes, choose something quickly then,’ I told her.

      Outside the shop, Phoebe removed the wrapper from her Twix bar, discarding it casually over her shoulder. She was about to tuck into the chocolate when I caught hold of her wrist.

      ‘Wait a minute, honey. Go and pick up your litter and put it in the bin first.’

      ‘You do it.’

      ‘No,’ I said calmly. ‘It’s your wrapper, not mine. You need to pick it up now, before it blows away.’

      ‘No, leave it there. The bin men will get it when they come.’ Her tone was dismissive. All at once she shoved a third of the bar in her mouth, her cheeks bulging.

      Grabbing the rest of the chocolate from her hand, I held it behind my back. Never one to court attention, I felt conspicuous, uncomfortably aware of the glances we were attracting from passers-by. I forced my shoulders back and tried to compose myself.

      ‘You are not going to eat the chocolate until you deal with the wrapping. By the time I count to five I want you to pick it up and put it where it belongs – in the bin. If you don’t do as I ask, I will throw the chocolate away. Do you understand?’

      Dropping her hands to her hips, she splayed her legs to stand her ground, glaring at me. ‘I’m not picking it up and you can’t make me! Give me my chocolate back.’

      ‘One, t-w-o …’ I counted as slowly as I could, willing her to turn and do as I’d asked. A small crowd had gathered outside the shop, watching the showdown with amused interest.

      ‘GIVE ME MY FUCKING CHOCOLATE BACK!’ she screamed, her face puce with anger.

      As a foster carer, it can sometimes be a challenge to see beyond difficult behaviour and not take it personally, particularly if your own children suffer as a result. Mercifully, with regular mealtimes, a calm environment and a reliable routine in place, most children quickly respond and start to seek out the trusted adult’s approval.

      When looking after a ‘challenging’ child, I sometimes find myself recalling previous placements – two-year-old Billy, for example, with his pudgy knees, brown eyes full of mischief and the foulest language I’ve ever heard. After a few weeks in a house where he wasn’t regularly set upon by his sadistic stepfather, the toddler was a delight to be around and began to use words that began with letters other than ‘f’.

      ‘Three, f-o-u-r …’ Mortified though I was, I couldn’t give in to Phoebe’s demands any more than I could allow her to drink liquid soap. No child could possibly feel secure if they were allowed to wield power over the adults around them. I felt she needed someone to take control and show her that there were limits, lines that I simply wouldn’t allow her to cross. Until she learnt to impose those limits herself, something most children grasped as toddlers, I would have to do it for her. I had to accept that there might be nothing I could do to alleviate the problems associated with autism, but I was determined to help СКАЧАТЬ