Crying for Help: The Shocking True Story of a Damaged Girl with a Dark Past

We turned as one to Sophia, because it was she who had spoken, and I don’t think any of us were sure we’d heard her right. Had she really said that? She couldn’t have, could she? After all, she was smiling and eating her tea.

‘I, er, yes …’ I carried on, refusing to believe my ears. ‘I glazed it before I put it in the oven. Boiled it first and then –’

‘I do love my mummy, she’s so sweet,’ she sighed this time. I wasn’t imagining it, then. She was talking to herself.

‘That’s nice,’ I said gently. ‘I’m sure she loves you too.’ Mike and Kieron had their heads down, clearly keen to leave me to it. And Sophia seemed oblivious to me too.

‘Bitch looks lovely,’ she said next. ‘Lying there all cosy. All cosy tucked up in bed.’

There is was again. ‘Bitch’. I leaned towards her.

‘Sophia, love,’ I said. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

Once again, it was as if she couldn’t hear what I was saying. ‘Bitch should have died. She made her own fucking choice though.’ Her voice was mesmerising. Quiet and even and calm. Almost sing-song, like she was soothing a restless child.

Mike put his cutlery down. ‘Sophia!’ he said sharply. It was enough to seem to startle her. She looked across at Mike with a puzzled expression.

‘I don’t know what you’re going on about,’ he said to her firmly. ‘But we don’t speak like that in this house, you understand? That’s enough, okay? Now finish your tea.’

He resumed eating, but Sophia was still looking at him in shock. ‘Don’t speak like what?’ she asked him. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Kieron, by now, was almost choking on his dinner. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘God! You know exactly what you said!’

‘It’s all right, Kieron,’ I butted in. ‘Let’s just leave this for now, eh? I put a lot of effort into tea and it’ll soon be flat cold.’ I gave him a look, to say ‘leave it’, and thankfully he did. We finished the meal, which we’d now lost all appetite for, in silence. Only Sophia seemed intent on clearing her plate.

And once she’d left the table and gone up to her room, we gathered in the kitchen to discuss it over the washing up.

‘Mum, she really freaks me out,’ Kieron said. ‘I’m actually scared of her.’

Mike and I exchanged glances. We understood what he meant. ‘So what do we do now?’ Mike wanted to know. ‘There’s something wrong with that girl, and they never told us that, did they?’

‘I’m going to email John,’ I decided. ‘Get it all down. Everything that’s happened. And I’ll copy it to her social worker, too. And log it. In fact, I think I’ll do that now.’ I kept a detailed daily record of events for the children we fostered. It was part of our training to make sure we recorded everything. It formed an important record that could be filed for future use. Shame some of the other branches of social services we dealt with were less conscientious about doing such things, I thought wryly.

‘Good plan,’ Mike agreed.

‘And let’s hope they move her,’ Kieron said. ‘Because she’s weird. I fully expected her head to start spinning! She sounded like something out of The Exorcist!’

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Kieron, it wasn’t that bad. The time to worry is when she starts spouting Latin and spewing green slime!’ It was inappropriate and unprofessional, but the words just came out of me and both Mike and I laughed. But it was a release of tension more than anything, because this really wasn’t funny. We were all of us, I think, a little spooked. I pulled myself together. ‘Love, she’s just a child. A child with a lot of emotional problems. And emotional problems can manifest themselves in all sorts of ways.’

‘I know that,’ he said. ‘But she scares me, even so. Dad, can you put a lock on my door?’

‘Don’t worry, son,’ Mike reassured him. ‘We’ll get everything sorted. As Mum said, she’s just a kid. Nothing to be scared of. Okay?’

‘Exactly,’ I agreed. ‘Let’s not get over-dramatic, eh?’

But even so, I was troubled. I was almost 100 per cent certain that Sophia had no idea she was saying those words out loud. And if that was the case … well, surely someone at social services knew more than they were telling us. I knew the info on her illness mentioned this ‘brain fog’ symptom, but even so it just didn’t stack up. I went to bed that night, deep in thought, determined to get to the bottom of it. And it seemed I wasn’t the only one unable to put it out of their minds. After an hour of fitful tossing and turning, Mike nudged me.

‘You awake, love?’ he said.

I grimaced. ‘What do you think?’

I rolled over to find him staring at the ceiling. ‘You know, love,’ he said. ‘I think that kid has really got to Kieron. I know we all made light of it, but did you see him when we were watching TV earlier?’ He turned to face me. ‘He was chewing all the skin off his fingers.’

I had noticed, even though I hadn’t said anything. And Mike was right. It was a sign. Kieron hated change and found stress and upheavals hard to deal with. The way he was, if someone so much as moved any of his carefully catalogued DVDs, he could get anxious and upset. We all knew that, of course, because it had been like that all his life, so as a family we just worked around it. Kieron had never been the sort of boy for whom you’d arrange a surprise party. He needed routine and order and no surprises. He’d managed so well to adjust to and become close to Justin, but Sophia was a very different prospect. And him chewing his fingers was a sure indication that he was even more stressed by her being with us than he was letting on.

I wasn’t worried about the chewing itself – our doctor had told us it was quite common in people with Asperger’s – but I was definitely worried about the welfare of my son. Our decision to foster could only work long term if it didn’t adversely affect our own kids, after all.

‘I know,’ I said to Mike. ‘I did notice it. Let’s hope it’s something that will settle once she’s been to see her mum. Maybe it’s the thought of it; maybe it flips some mental switch … We’ll have to keep our fingers crossed, won’t we? But I’m definitely going to go into Sherlock Holmes mode in the morning. And if I find out they’re holding stuff back …’

‘You mean Monday,’ Mike said. ‘We’ve got the whole of the bloody weekend to get through yet …’

To our great relief, however, Saturday started well and carried on without any incidents. In fact, better than well, even, as Riley came over, and made a sustained effort to get to know Sophia better, regaling her with tales of her new school – both Riley and Kieron had been pupils there – and a lowdown on the best and worst teachers. Kieron had already called Riley to fill her in on the dinner-table mutterings, so she obviously knew which topics to avoid.

After a light lunch the three of us headed off to town and, as it was snowing again, we left Levi in the care of Mike and Kieron. Kieron usually played football on a Saturday afternoon, and Mike took him, but with the match having been cancelled because of the weather they were just as happy watching it on TV instead. Plus, Mike pointed out, he had to get his grandson into football nice and early. But perhaps I should have realised the calm and order wouldn’t last. Sophia had been with us just four days now – even if it felt so much longer – and every one of them had involved some sort of drama.

When we returned, laden down with Sophia’s school uniform and stationery, it was to find my evening had been hijacked by the boys’ continuing football plans. After dinner – I’d made a hearty stew and dumplings, which were devoured in no time – Kieron explained that it was pretty much a life-and-death situation that they be allowed to see the Liverpool match highlights, having not been able to see two games at once earlier.

‘But supposing I’ve got something I want to watch?’ I argued. ‘Last time I checked, it was me who’s been on the go all afternoon, not to mention whipping up your cordon bleu dinner …’

Mike laughed. ‘I did point that out to him, love, honest. Only fair. And this dinner is incredible, by the way. Best stew in the universe.’ He winked at Kieron.

‘Oh, go on then,’ I said. ‘I can see I’m outnumbered. I have stacks of ironing to wade through, in any case. Well, unless – Sophia, is there anything you’d like to see on telly? That would take it to stalemate.’ I grinned at Mike.

She shook her head. She’d just finished wiping her plate clean with a last slice of bread. If I could do one thing right for her, I thought, it would be to feed her. ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said brightly. ‘Got to sort out all my new school stuff. And I’ve got a DVD I want to watch anyway. Not that I don’t like football,’ she added, looking coyly at Kieron. ‘All those men running around in shorts and stuff.’

I tutted as I stood up and started to clear the table. ‘You’re much too young to be thinking about men in shorts, madam! Now, come and give me a hand with the dishes before you disappear.’

‘We’ll do them, Mum,’ Kieron offered. ‘Only fair, after all …’

But I said no. Getting to know a child, I’d always found, invariably seemed to happen most naturally in those little pockets of opportunity when you were doing something else. I headed off with Sophia into the kitchen.

‘Do you look like your mum?’ I asked her, once we’d got the washing up under way. She’d been talking about some of the things they used to like on TV when she was younger, so this seemed a good time to delve deeper.

‘I suppose so,’ she said, shrugging. ‘A bit. We’ve both got blonde hair and blue eyes, but I’m taller. Actually, people often used to think we were sisters.’

I passed her a plate to dry up. ‘Bet your mum loved that,’ I said. ‘I always do when people mistake me and Riley for sisters.’

‘Though I’m prettier than she is. And I don’t think we do.’ She continued to wipe the plate for a few moments. ‘But she still had more boyfriends.’

This brought me up short. What an odd thing for a 12-year-old to say. ‘But you’re only young, love,’ I said. ‘Bit early for boyfriends, isn’t it? Plenty of time for them as you grow up.’

She turned to face me, looking deadly serious. ‘But I am grown up. I have boobs and everything, don’t I?’ I certainly couldn’t argue with that. She was incredibly well developed for her age. Physically, at any rate. I smiled at her.

‘Thing is, love, it’s not just about your body developing,’ I said gently. ‘Just because you develop physically, doesn’t mean your mind and emotions keep pace. Sometimes it’s hard when you look older than you are –’ She seemed to like hearing that, I noticed. ‘– because people expect you to be more mature than you can be … or even should be. As I say, plenty of time for boys in a couple of years or so.’

But though I smiled as she skipped off to her room, seemingly satisfied, the little niggle of unease in my mind began to itch. She was so much a child in a woman’s body. And with her circumstances, her condition, her tragic orphan status, well, she was vulnerable to all sorts. And her provocative manner around men was disturbing. How did she get to be that way at such a young age?

I’ve always hated ironing. In contrast to all the other domestic chores – and I knew I was borderline obsessive about my housework – ironing was the one that I tended to let pile up. So my ironing pile was generally teetering by the time I got to it, and tonight was no exception. Still, once I got under way, it at least gave me some ‘me-time’. I’d do it out in the conservatory, lost in my own little world, listening to my favourite golden oldies radio station, with the consolation of at least having the odd sneaky fag break without anyone in my family nagging me. Which they did, almost constantly, about when I was giving up. Mike had, a couple of years back, and was now one of those evangelical ex-smokers, and, to be fair, I had too, for a while. But it always seemed like something stressful came along to derail me, and I’d be back to square one, puffing away. I’d have to set a new date, get stocked up with those wretched inhalators. But not yet. Not right now, with so much on my plate.