Betrayed: The heartbreaking true story of a struggle to escape a cruel life defined by family honour. Rosie Lewis

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      Dreary swirls of grey moved across a brooding sky, following us at a pace as we ventured further along a narrowing path. Driven deeper into the woods by a high wind and squally rain, I noticed that my feet were sinking into the sodden earth while Zadie’s seemed to glide above it, like a character in a film that has been switched to fast forward. As I struggled to get free, a shadowy figure emerged from the labyrinth of trees surrounding us and hurried after Zadie.

      Beginning to panic, I clawed my way out of my shoes and stumbled off in pursuit. Every so often I caught a glimpse of Zadie’s billowing robes and the faceless stranger following her but, shapeless and fluid, it would float away in a wisp of black smoke whenever I drew near. Soon the undergrowth was too dense for me to follow and all I could do was watch helplessly as the shadowed outline rose up in front of Zadie and blocked her way.

      Towering over her, the figure turned and whispered something in a low, mocking voice before reaching out its hand. With one touch Zadie shattered into a hundred tiny pieces, the fragments falling to the soil and rolling beneath tightly interwoven tree roots.

      When the figure slipped away the undergrowth parted and I was freed. I ran to the spot where Zadie had been attacked and sank to my knees, scraping at the soil and calling her name. When my hands were too sore to continue I sank back and watched as droplets of blood sprang to colour my palms. Suddenly the dark clouds overhead scuttled away and a shaft of pale blue light pierced through a crack in the overhanging branches. A pathway opened up in front of me and at the end stood Zadie, beckoning. Somehow I knew that she was ready to give up her secrets.

      My dream had ended there but in the kitchen I kept my eyes closed, convinced that if I had followed the path Zadie would have offered me the insight I craved. Nothing but ominous grey clouds danced against the backdrop of my eyelids and so, as I drank my coffee, a feeling of frustration lingered.

      The house was so quiet that I realised Zadie must have gone back to bed after dawn prayers. It was something of a relief to be alone while I turned things over in my mind. Since her arrival, days earlier, I had found my tension increasing. In some ways, Zadie was the easiest placement I had ever had. Well behaved, courteous and helpful, there seemed to be no great challenges for me to overcome. I also got the sense that she was relieved to be in foster care, something I hadn’t experienced before. Most of the children I have looked after crave their own home; they want to be with their parents, no matter what they’ve been through. They seem to spend their first few weeks in a suspended state, always waiting – waiting for news from the courts, counting down the sleeps until their next contact or passing the time until their forever parents came to claim them. With Zadie it was different. There was no resistance to being a looked-after child. Caring for her should have been a doddle.

      And yet every time I looked at her I couldn’t shake the nagging worry that she was in trouble and I should be doing something about it. I couldn’t put my finger on why I felt that way; she was safe with us and we were taking good care of her. She wasn’t eating much but she was hardly wasting away and I was sure her appetite would pick up once she felt more at home.

      So why did I feel such a sense of urgency? Somewhere in my head was the sound of a clock, ticking rhythmically. I just couldn’t figure out why, and my dream, rather than resolving anything, only made it worse.

      Still bleary-eyed, I crept upstairs and checked myself in the bathroom mirror. My skin was a pasty tone and I noticed that my expression was pinched with anxiety. Bunching a handful of blonde curls on top of my head, I fixed the bundle into place with a large grip, hoping to reduce the hassled look that often besieges foster carers. We were to meet Zadie’s brother in a few hours and I wanted to give the impression that I was a decent, responsible woman, especially since the family had reservations about the placement.

      Splashing some water on my face and patting my skin vigorously with a towel to get the blood flowing, I took another hopeful look. A tired, middle-aged woman with eye bags and curly blonde hair stared back at me, but my ever-present optimistic air remained, and, though I tend towards self-deprecation, a definite kindness. When combined with a reassuring smile, I hoped that Chit would see that his sister was safe in my care.

      In my bedroom, I ran my hands through the clothes in my wardrobe, opting for a smart dark-blue shift dress and tailored cardigan rather than my default jumper and jeans. An hour later the residual anxiety from my dream was displaced by the bustle of breakfast time. Jamie sat at the table pouring a generous portion of Cheerios into his bowl and Emily, still in her dressing gown, was quietly making herself a cup of tea, a faraway look in her eyes.

      ‘How was your night, honey?’ I asked.

      ‘Fine,’ she said, forcing a smile. She looked tired, no trace of her usual exuberant good humour. ‘Yours?’

      ‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘Everything OK?’

      ‘Yes, why do you ask?’ she asked, returning the milk to the fridge.

      ‘You seemed preoccupied yesterday.’

      Emily dropped a teaspoon into the sink. ‘Don’t start, Mum, please,’ she sighed.

      ‘I’m not starting. I just want to know –’

      ‘Whether I’m all right,’ she interrupted, closing a cupboard door with her hip. ‘And yes, I am, so you can stop going on about it.’

      ‘Emily,’ I said, gently chiding. It was only the second time I’d asked her.

      She softened. ‘Really, Mum. I’m fine,’ she assured me. ‘I’m just tired, and we’re getting stacks of homework at the moment. But there’s nothing wrong.’ She pecked me on the cheek. ‘It’s all good,’ she said, grabbing a bowl from the draining board and turning to leave.

      I gave an internal sigh. It had been so easy when Emily and Jamie were small. If something was worrying them it would usually come tumbling out as I gave them a bath, or when they were snuggled on my lap ready for a bedtime story. There were times when I missed those intimate moments that come so few and far between once children reach adolescence.

      ‘How about we have some time together this evening?’ I suggested, following Emily through the living room.

      ‘Sure, OK.’

      In the dining room Zadie was fully dressed in a beige-coloured robe, matching headscarf and the same baggy cardigan that she had worn every day since she arrived. She stood at the table, pulling at the front of her threadbare robe as if it was damp and sticking to her skin. Resolving to take her shopping to get some new clothes, I reached for a plate from the centre of the table and helped myself to the toast I had prepared earlier. I sat next to Jamie, and Zadie, finally finding the courage, sat opposite, though she ate very little.

      After Emily and Jamie had left for school I sat beside Zadie on the sofa and asked what she had planned for the morning. We weren’t due to meet her brother until two o’clock so I suggested that we go shopping and buy her some new clothes. ‘We’ll be back in time for prayers before we have to leave for contact.’

      ‘I’d rather stay home, if that’s …’ she said quietly. She rarely seemed to finish a whole sentence. It was as if the sound of her own voice was so embarrassing to herself that she couldn’t bear to continue.

      ‘OK?’ I offered. When she nodded I agreed, though I didn’t like the thought of her drifting aimlessly through the morning and I had some chores to catch up on. ‘So, what would you like to do?’ I asked, knowing what she was going to say before I had even finished the sentence.

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