The Little Princess: The shocking true story of a little girl imprisoned in her own home

The Little Princess: The shocking true story of a little girl imprisoned in her own home
Casey Watson

Six-year-old Darby arrives on Casey’s doorstep terrified and hysterical. As Casey tries to soothe the little girl she realises that this is likely to be one of the most difficult placements she had ever had to deal with…Casey is shocked to answer the door on a Sunday afternoon, the week before Christmas, to find John Fulshaw on her doorstep – unannounced and looking very serious. John explains why’s he’s come, and the Watsons sit and listen, shocked and sickened, as he describes the most recent child to appear under his radar.Six year old Darby Sykes has been taken into care just a couple of hours back, as a result of a known paedophile getting in touch with the local police, having been so sickened by something he’s seen online. Even in his murky world, this was depravity above and beyond – he recognised the little girl as being one who lived on his estate.Swift action has been taken – Darby has been removed from her home, and John believes that Casey and Mike are the best people to support this small terrified child while a long term plan of action is decided.

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Copyright (#uddfceaba-8d22-51ea-a9c0-1ef0fd45680b)

This is a work of non-fiction based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

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First published by HarperElement 2016

FIRST EDITION

© Casey Watson 2016

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photograph © Vanessa Skotnitsky/Arcangel Images (posed by model)

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available from the British Library

Casey Watson asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

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Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780008142711

Version: 2016-08-05

Contents

Cover (#ud44c6159-fb8a-5718-969d-379a7ce65372)

Title Page (#ulink_1834fbd8-abaa-59d4-927d-0599d6313620)

Copyright (#ulink_8324b498-0b0c-5f4e-91b9-fd52ff48da3a)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_76c6bf96-7e16-50a9-85b2-aa0b4532e825)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_2d27a1fb-506e-50d5-b565-0f6e25bc58a6)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_2018d5a6-cf9e-501d-8b8b-52cab9c5c2bb)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Exclusive sneak peek: Runaway Girl (#litres_trial_promo)

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 1 (#uddfceaba-8d22-51ea-a9c0-1ef0fd45680b)

It was the Sunday before Christmas. Almost my favourite time of year. Actually, in some ways my most favourite time of year, because it was the date of our annual family pre-Christmas dinner – or my practice run, as my son Kieron had always called it. Which was just like the main one, only in lots of ways nicer, as it involved all the fun without any of the stress, plus the anticipation of Christmas proper still to come.

Well, to my mind, at any rate. I should have known better than to mention it to my ever-loving husband Mike. ‘More like a prelude to a nightmare,’ he quipped, ‘with this gaggle of little monsters around. Look at them. If this level of mania is anything to go by, heaven help us when we get to the actual day!’

I knew, what with the house full of grandkids and mayhem, that he was probably only half-joking. He had a point, too. I winced as I watched Marley Mae, who was deep in the realm of the terrible twos now, almost collide with the Christmas tree. And for the umpteenth time today, while the film I’d put on (in the vain hope of keeping Riley’s three occupied) blared to itself in the corner. Much as I loved Arnie Schwarzenegger – the film was Jingle All the Way – I could barely hear myself think.

‘Shut up, you old Grinch,’ I told Mike. ‘You know you love it really. And how can you say such a thing? Bless them,’ I added, scooping Marley Mae into my arms. ‘You’re not a monster. You’re our little princess, aren’t you?’

It was a phrase that would very soon come to haunt me.

We’d had the luxury (in a manner of speaking, since it had been a pretty hectic time) of taking a few months off from fostering. After seeing our last foster child, Flip, off to her forever home the previous spring, we’d decided to take a bit of a break. With our Kieron and his partner Lauren having given us our fourth grandchild, Dee Dee, we’d taken the decision to devote some time to just being there for them. With Kieron’s Asperger’s (which is a mild form of autism), we’d been all too aware that they could really use the extra support. So, apart from Tyler, our permanent foster child, and very much now part of the family, we’d only accepted a couple of short-term emergency placements. We’d had a singular lad called Connor, veteran of the care system, for a brief but intense period, and a misunderstood five-year-old called Paulie, who’d been rejected by his mother and stepfather, and who was now settled with a long-term foster family.

Both had proved to us – if proof were needed – that you couldn’t fix everything for every child; sometimes you could only help smooth the transition from one kind of life to the next. Life was different for us too now – keeping Tyler had changed everything. With the fostering we did at present, we had to keep his needs always in mind.

It had been a happy time. And at the centre of it was the joy of being grandparents. That and the gratitude – Mike and I counted our blessings daily. And not least because Dee Dee had proved to be an amazingly easy baby – and Kieron and Lauren, despite the usual wobbles, very natural parents. I could still find myself welling up whenever I thought about it; just how lucky we’d all been that our anxious, fretful son had met, in Lauren, such a perfect and loving soulmate.