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

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СКАЧАТЬ href="#ub9ecbdae-fcd9-5ca4-b0da-9a658f6dc94f">Chapter 4

      ‘We don’t kick in this house,’ Phoebe mimicked in response to my admonishment, her lip curled into an ugly sneer. She stared at me with defiance, her feet still firmly planted on the dining room table.

      Following her brother’s recent footsteps, Emily had disappeared upstairs, shocked by the violence of Phoebe’s outburst. I forced myself to take a few deep breaths, my mind racing to come up with a strategy to deal with her behaviour. Making a mental note to research autism as soon as I had the time, I summoned a commanding tone. ‘Get down from the table, please, Phoebe. I’d like to show you around.’

      As I spoke I ran through my discipline options if she refused to move. My mind drew a blank but fortunately she climbed down, giving me a flinty, hard stare. ‘Good girl,’ I said, forcing a bright tone. ‘Now, let’s show you where you’ll be sleeping.’

      A shadow crossed her features, giving me a brief glimpse of a little girl lost, but a moment later it had gone, replaced by the same disturbing glare. ‘Woof, grrrr, woof.’ Phoebe followed, close at my heels. I sensed it would be futile to ask her to be quiet so I raised my voice above hers and launched into my standard welcoming speech, hoping she might be interested enough to stop.

      ‘This is Emily’s room,’ I said as we passed my daughter’s bedroom. I pictured Emily nursing her sore arm on the other side of the closed door and a wisp of anger rose to my throat. Seeing your own children physically hurt is a bitter pill to swallow, especially when they put up with so much anyway. Phoebe’s just a young girl with a complex medical disorder, I reminded myself, she probably doesn’t even register what she’s done.

      ‘We don’t go into each other’s rooms, ever. If I’m in my bedroom and you need me, you must knock on the door and wait, OK?’

      Some of my fellow foster carers had been through the anguish of having allegations made against them and I wanted to protect my own family from a similar fate as vigorously as I possibly could. Of course, following the rules by keeping the children out of each other’s bedrooms could never provide full immunity from malicious allegations but by following the guidelines and keeping meticulous daily records, I was doing as much as I could to protect us all.

      ‘Knock on the door and wait, OK?’

      ‘And this is Jamie’s,’ I said.

      ‘This is Jamie’s.’

      I stared at her, wondering whether she even understood me, although something in her eyes told me that she was taking in every word I said. I remembered reading somewhere that some autistic children could be very bright. It would be helpful to hear what her teachers had to say about her but as the Easter holidays were about to start that wouldn’t be possible. Going by what Lenke had said, Phoebe would be back with her family before the start of the summer term so I knew I might not get the chance at all.

      Phoebe charged clumsily along the hallway but when we reached her room she hovered in the doorway, suddenly reserved.

      ‘It’s alright,’ I told her. ‘You can go in. Have a look around – this is where you’ll be sleeping. It’s a safe place. No one will come into your room except me, and only when you want me to. If you prefer me to wait at the door then I will.’

      She turned slowly towards me, suddenly bereft. ‘I want to go home,’ she said, her bottom lip quivering.

      ‘I know, sweetie,’ I said, all irritation gone. For the first time since she’d arrived she looked like an ordinary, fragile girl. No eye swivelling, flapping of arms or yelping. I felt a flash of relief knowing there were times when she could be still, if only for a moment. Reaching out, I touched the back of her head, hoping the gesture would communicate my solidarity. She flinched, darting out of the way.

      What did you do that for? I chastised myself. Knowing nothing of her history, I should have known better than to offer her physical comfort. Perhaps her parents were a bit heavy-handed with her, I thought, if the way she recoiled from me was anything to go by.

      Lowering myself to my knees at the threshold of her room, I beckoned her over. She shook her head, backing away and barking loudly like a resentful Rottweiler guarding its territory. When she reached the wall she crouched, lowering herself to her haunches. Her barks subsided to little yaps.

      ‘Phoebe, can I come in and give you a hug?’

      A look of puzzlement crossed her face and my heart went out to her. She seemed so lost. Tempted to sit beside her and take her onto my lap, I hesitated, waiting for her agreement. She stayed silent so I rocked back onto my outstretched feet instead; it would be wrong to assume she wanted comfort from someone she barely knew.

      ‘Phoebe, you’re safe here, honey. Do you understand?’

      The tiniest nod told me that she’d heard so I reached around the corner and grabbed a notepad from the bookshelf beside her bed. ‘Good. Now, this notepad is especially for you. On one page I’d like you to write down all the foods you really don’t like and then I’ll make sure I don’t give them to you. On the other side you can make a list of your favourites. Is that OK?’

      She shook her head and began barking again.

      ‘Does that mean no?’ I knew that food was one of the issues that children found most frightening when coming into care. The upheaval of leaving home, being separated from their parents and having to adjust to a whole new environment full of strangers was daunting enough. To then be confronted with strange, unfamiliar food seemed to be the tipping point for many children, often making their first mealtimes a traumatic experience, with lots of tears.

      In the past I had found the tension at the dinner table could be avoided by finding out beforehand what the children liked to eat. Phoebe continued to shake her head and I wondered about the extent of her learning disabilities. Developmental delays weren’t unusual in children who were brought into care, although Phoebe, coming from a middle-class background, wasn’t a typical example of a Looked After Child. I knew the latest neuroscience research suggested that high levels of stress in infants could have a damaging impact on the brain, affecting future learning. Perhaps she was unable to write?

      ‘I only eat porridge.’

      ‘That’s fine,’ I said, in a reassuring tone. ‘Porridge makes a great breakfast – we often have porridge too. But what else do you like to eat? Pizza? Roast, maybe?’

      Phoebe began to retch, her throat making sickening noises as she heaved. Her eyes bulged and she leaned over, projecting the contents of her stomach over the carpet. She flapped her arms as if in a spasm, spattering the vomit that clung to her fingers all around the room.

      I couldn’t believe how quickly the vomiting came on. As I leapt towards her she howled, her eyes swivelling back to reveal the whites. I grabbed hold of her hands to stop her from dancing in the mess but she fought away.

      ‘No, please, leave me, no!’

      ‘It’s alright, sweetie. Come to the bathroom and I’ll clean you up.’

      My hands were sticky with vomit and my own stomach lurched as a foul smell rose to my nostrils. Guiding her into the bathroom, I held my breath and began filling the bath. Squeezing a generous amount of bath gel into the water, I swirled it around, knowing she would probably feel more comfortable in the water if it was full of bubbles.

      ‘Right, СКАЧАТЬ