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

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СКАЧАТЬ was to insert diazepam capsules into the cuts in their skin for rapid absorption, or that wheelie bins often went missing because they offered an ideal confined space for solvent abuse.

      Most of the training days I had attended in the past fortnight held my attention as efficiently as a pile of wet nappies and so it was refreshing to be presented with such thought-provoking information. It was only towards the end of the day that my concentration began to waver and I idly poked my mobile phone again, willing it to spring into action. My last placement had ended three weeks earlier – a sibling group of two who stayed with me for almost three years. The wounds of separation after they moved on to adoption were still raw, an unfortunate occupational hazard. I was eager to jump back into the saddle of caring again, knowing it was the best way to recover from my loss and so, after taking a break of two weeks, I agreed for my name to reappear on the vacancy register. Recovery time between placements is recommended to restore energy levels; fostering can be a physical and emotional drain. Carers often make use of the time by catching up on training; we are obliged to attend at least six training sessions each year, a tricky task with young ones in placement.

      I kept busy during my first week off, getting the house straight, tidying up the garden and attending a round of courses – anything to distract my mind from worrying about how the siblings were coping in their new home. It was such an upheaval for them, leaving all that was familiar behind. When children move on to adoption, it is recommended that their foster carer takes on the role of ‘auntie’, so remaining part of their lives but in a more distant way. I couldn’t help worrying that they might feel abandoned by me and our reunion wasn’t to take place for another three weeks, to allow time for their bond with me to weaken. The idea that I would see them again, hopefully happy and settled with their ‘forever’ parents, gave me something positive to hold on to in the meantime.

      For the past week I had been on the out-of-hours list, making myself available to the local authority at any time, day or night, to take on an emergency. So far all had been quiet but I kept my phone close by at all times, just in case.

      The timing of the call about Phoebe, when it came, couldn’t have been more perfect. I had just completed my course evaluation sheet, giving Ellie top marks in all ten categories, and was wandering out of the training centre into the misty gloom when my mobile phone coughed itself awake.

      ‘Hi, Desmond.’ My heart was already beginning to race in anticipation as I climbed into my car with the handset clamped to my ear, wondering whether my supervising social worker had news of an emergency or was simply calling for a chat. We had built up a close friendship since I was first assigned to him when I registered with Bright Heights Fostering Agency seven years earlier and he often popped in to check how our family was, even though he was only strictly obliged to visit once every four weeks.

      As I listened to his voice, intermittently thick with a Scottish accent despite having left the Highlands as a teenager, I found myself holding my breath and hoping for a newborn, recklessly forgetting my vow never to take on another baby after my most recent, difficult separation. Reaching to grab a notebook and pen from the dashboard, I jotted down notes as Desmond spoke.

      ‘She’s been taken straight from school into police protection. They should be with you in the next half an hour or so. Will you be home by then?’

      Slipping the key into the ignition, I switched the Nokia to loudspeaker mode then dropped it into my lap. ‘Yes, should be. I’ll just have enough time to let Emily and Jamie know what’s going on.’

      My own children were keen to welcome new little ones into our home but I preferred to seek their approval before someone new arrived on the doorstep, to make sure they felt consulted.

      ‘I won’t be able to make it, I’m afraid – sorry, Rosie, I’m up to my neck in it over here. I’ll come and see you some time in the next few days, though.’

      Saying goodbye to Des, I stopped at the next set of traffic lights, holding my notebook up at eye level. The page was still blank but for my scribbled notes: girl, age eight; warm and friendly. Without noticing the lights as they turned to amber, I sat staring at the words on the page. Overstretched social workers were sometimes so keen to place a child that they stretched the facts, I mused, moulding them into a mishmash of half-truths and downright fabrications. Experience had taught me to treat the initial information they provided on a child with as much caution as estate agents’ patter. Just as a house located at the side of a busy motorway could be listed as ‘close to all transport links’, social workers might describe a difficult, confrontational teenager with a penchant for injecting heroin as ‘lively and inquisitive’.

      A hoot from the driver behind caused me to start. Lifting my hand in apology, I nudged the accelerator and caught up with the rusting white van ahead, catching sight of myself in the rear-view mirror. Often I felt that my blonde, naturally curly hair offered a cheery distraction from the lines that were beginning to appear under my eyes, giving people the impression that I was bubbly even when I felt nothing of the sort. Today, though, the damp air had taken its toll, making it look like a pile of dried hay and dragging the rest of my face down with it. Grimacing, I tucked the frizz behind my ears, hoping to fit in a hair wash before Phoebe’s arrival.

      Driving under an arched railway bridge and along a tree-lined, residential side road I noticed a few drops of rain appearing on the windscreen. A grimly portentous grey sky stretched into the distance and a bubble of apprehension rose in my stomach as I flicked the wipers on, knotting itself stubbornly in my throat. ‘Warm and friendly’ were hardly forbidding adjectives, so what was I reading between the lines?

Chapter 2

      My 11-year-old son Jamie arrived home a few minutes after me. On hearing the news he dashed into the kitchen, armed himself with some biscuits then took up a position leaning over the back of the sofa, staring out of the living-room window. With Jamie as self-appointed lookout I fussed around the spare room, trying to make it look as welcoming as possible for the new arrival. With the police involved, and Phoebe being taken without the consent of her parents, it was likely she would arrive in a highly distressed state.

      Planned placements were much easier to prepare for than emergencies, with time to find out the child’s interests. With so little warning, it was difficult to tailor the bedroom to appeal especially to Phoebe. The airing cupboard was full of duvet covers and curtains I had collected over the years, with everything from Fireman Sam to Peppa Pig, but what would a warm and friendly eight-year-old like? I wondered, finally settling on a cover featuring Disney’s Beauty and the Beast.

      Tense with anticipation, I jumped at the sound of a key in the door.

      ‘Mum?’

      It was my 14-year-old daughter Emily, just home from school.

      ‘Guess what, Em?’ I called out.

      She darted up the stairs and arrived on the landing, rain-soaked blonde hair flattened against her flushed cheeks, rucksack still half-slung over her shoulder.

      ‘We got a call?’

      I nodded, smiling. It was lovely to see her so excited. ‘She’s eight years old and friendly, that’s about all I know at the moment.’

      ‘Great!’ Throwing a soggy arm around my neck, she dropped her rucksack on the carpet, draped her damp blazer over the bannister and dashed past me into the spare room.

      Flitting in and out of the space, she arranged soft toys on every available surface. Twisting a set of lights around the struts at the foot of the bed, she announced a sudden brainwave. СКАЧАТЬ