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

‘Sure? Packed lunch? PE kit?’

‘Y-e-sss, Mum,’ he said with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Bye, Mum. See you, Zadie.’

I stood at the front gate and watched until Emily and Jamie rounded the corner at the end of the road, then closed and locked the door, quite pleased at the prospect of having some time alone with Zadie. With just the two of us around I was hoping that she might open up a little and give me some idea of the problems that led her to run away.

Dropping my keys on the table in the hall, I walked through to the kitchen. Zadie was standing at the sink with the sleeves of her black robe rolled up tightly to the elbow, her forearms submerged beneath the washing-up water. Our breakfast bowls were all washed, propped over in a neat line on the draining board, each dessert spoon resting neatly beside it. ‘Zadie, you don’t have to do that, honey. Let me …’

‘OK,’ she whispered, though her hands remained where they were for a few moments, as if reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the water.

‘What do you usually do during the day?’

She lifted her hands from the sink and then turned on the tap to wash them. Squirting some liquid soap into her palms, she scrubbed between each knuckle, a few tiny bubbles escaping and floating above her head. After rinsing off the soap she stretched over the sink and released another generous blob of soap into her palm. It was a delaying tactic that wasn’t going to work for ever. When she reached for the soap a third time I handed her a towel.

She took the hint, holding her hands in mid-air for a moment as if not convinced they were clean. ‘I clean the house,’ she said softly, wiping her hands and then hurriedly pulling her sleeves down to cover her arms. ‘Put a wash on and prepare the meals. When the work is done Papa lets me read and …’

I pursed my lips, trying not to grimace. Sometimes as a foster carer it is difficult to hide personal feelings about a child’s home environment but, whatever my opinion, Zadie had the right for her relatives’ lifestyle to be respected. Children in care often have to cope with hearing negative comments about their parents, either from friends or their families, teachers, sometimes even social workers and foster carers. I have always made an effort not to judge but I still couldn’t help feeling that a day filled with housework and reading was a lonely, unfulfilling existence for someone so young. We certainly had enough books in our house to keep Zadie occupied as both Emily and I were avid readers, but I wasn’t sure that what we had was appropriate and, anyway, it all seemed a bit depressing to me. ‘Well, while you’re here, how about we make a bit of a routine to the day? You can have a look around and see if there’s anything you fancy reading and we’ll go to the library later in the week so you can choose some books for yourself.’

She nodded. ‘I’d like that, thank you,’ she said, her gaze fixed somewhere between my ear and the wall behind me.

‘And this afternoon we’ll go for a walk,’ I said. One thing I was certain of – staying cooped up in the house all day wasn’t healthy for anyone. It would be good for Zadie to get some fresh air, particularly as she was looking so peaky.

There was a flicker of anxiety in her eyes. ‘What time will we be going?’

‘After lunch probably. Is that all right?’

‘I’m supposed to pray after …’

‘That’s OK. We’ll go after that. Now, would you like to use the computer while I get this place cleaned up?’

For the first time since we’d met, her face creased into a genuine smile, the light in her eyes transforming her solemn face. It was often that way at the beginning of a placement; a child may seem untouchable, almost beyond reach, but then it’s as if they suddenly emerge from their trance, ready to engage in family life.

‘It’s all set up, honey. You know where it is, don’t you? In the dining room?’

‘Yes, yes. Thank you, Rosie,’ she whispered, backing away from me in a half bow and vanishing from the room. It was the most animated I had seen her.

As I was pulling on a pair of yellow rubber gloves the phone rang, a skirl that shattered the silence and gave me a jolt. I hadn’t realised I was feeling quite so tense. I think it was my strength of desire to put Zadie at her ease that was making me feel anxious, though I knew it probably wasn’t helping matters.

It was Peggy.

‘The brother has been in touch. He wants contact so I’ve arranged for him to come to you tomorrow afternoon if that’s OK?’

That was it. No, ‘Hello, Rosie’ or ‘How are you?’ but I was happy to dispense with small talk. Despite her sledgehammer approach, there was something about Peggy that I liked.

‘Should the family know where we live?’

‘Zadie’s only with you under a Section 20. There are no identifiable risk factors so it’s absolutely fine.’

Since Zadie was in care under a Section 20, voluntary care order, her parents retained full parental rights. Under law, they could have demanded that she be returned home to them. If social services suspected that Zadie was in immediate danger, social workers would have to apply to the courts for an interim care order.

A picture of Zadie’s face when Peggy had spoken about reuniting her with her family swept itself into my mind. I had noticed since then that Zadie was expert at presenting a benign expression, so her inability to hide the shadow that crossed her features at the mention of her family left me feeling concerned. ‘We know nothing about Zadie’s family yet, Peggy.’ I paused, biting my lip. ‘Or have you already disclosed where we live?’

‘No, certainly not. I wouldn’t do that without checking with you first.’

‘Then I’d really rather keep my address confidential for the moment.’

Peggy sighed. ‘Well, that’s awkward. There’s absolutely no capacity to facilitate contact at a centre at the moment.’

‘In the community then?’ I offered. ‘I’m happy to supervise contact,’ I continued, ‘but not at my home. I’d feel much more comfortable on neutral ground until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.’

‘Very well,’ she replied, a little stiffly. ‘Have you managed to find anything out yet? The brother says that the father is willing to forgive Zadie and my manager is pushing for us to mediate between them and try to get her settled back home as soon as possible. There’s only so long we can hold on to her.’

‘Forgive her for what?’ I asked with incredulity.

‘Well, for shaming him by running away, so it would seem.’

‘She’s frightened, Peggy.’

‘I think so, yes. But you need to find out why as soon as you can. As I say, we have no grounds to keep her in foster care unless she gives us something to go on. The family aren’t at all happy with the placement so you’ll have to bear that in mind when you meet the brother. Lots of diplomacy needed.’

Biting my lip to suppress a scoff, I muffled an ‘OK’ in agreement.

Peggy called back ten minutes later to confirm that she had spoken to Chit Hassan and that he would meet us at a local beauty spot, the Lavender Fields, at 2 p.m. the next day. The social worker then trilled a hasty goodbye and I headed for the dining room to give Zadie the news. Our house has an open-plan living, dining and kitchen area, with just a few columns dividing the space, so I could see Zadie’s back as she sat at the desk. She was leaning so close to the computer screen that her headscarf almost touched it and there was something about the intensity of her posture that stopped me in my tracks. I was too far away to identify what site she was looking at but I could see that her fingers were trembling as she scrolled the cursor down the screen.

‘Hi, honey. That was Peggy.’

Zadie spun around, her eyes wide. Her mouth began working at the edges as though she was trying to conjure a response but then she dropped her gaze and swung back to the screen. Making a few hasty clicks, she leaned back and let out a soft breath.

‘Everything all right?’ I asked, trying to muster a light tone to overcome the awkward moment. The words jarred in my throat and came out strained. It was a redundant question anyway; the wisps of unease snaking through the air between us told my senses that everything was definitely not ‘all right’.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, though her jaw was set at a tight angle. It was as though her mask had temporarily slipped.

‘You look …’ I paused, grappling for the right word. ‘You look …’ Guilty, I thought, taking in her downturned eyes and the two pink spots on her cheeks. ‘Anxious …’ I said.

‘No, I’m fine, really,’ she said. Her expression was suddenly indecipherable; the mask firmly back in place.

‘Peggy said that your brother Chit would like to see you.’ I paused to let the information sink in. Zadie watched me silently, waiting. ‘We’re meeting him tomorrow, at the Lavender Fields.’

She released the mouse and let her hand fall softly into her lap where her other hand was waiting. With her fingers concertinaed, she squeezed them together until the pads went white, though her face remained impassive. Again, there was no sign of any emotion, happy or otherwise.

‘Are you pleased about that?’

‘Yes, thank you, Rosie.’ She nodded, but suddenly her eyebrows furrowed. She jumped up and darted from the room, her hand clamped tightly over her mouth. My mind raced. Something had clearly upset her. Was it what she had been reading online? Or perhaps the news about her brother? Small sounds from the bathroom drew me to the foot of the stairs. With my head cocked, I frowned in concentration. Zadie was retching. I turned, intending to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen, but it seemed that my feet had other plans. They were already taking me back to the dining room.

At the computer I perched on the edge of the swivel chair. My eyes drifted back to the stairs as my hand hovered over the mouse. Zadie deserved for her privacy to be respected, I told myself, but then again something had upset her and I needed to find out what it was. It was unlikely that Zadie herself would open up and tell me why. Stupidly, I had forgotten to give her an internet safety lecture before allowing her online. If something untoward happened, it would be my responsibility. With my mind made up, somehow I managed to shut my ears to her gasps long enough run the cursor over the screen.

My breathing became raspy as I checked the recent history. Leaning over the desk as Zadie had done a few minutes earlier, I selected the web address at the top of the page. At first I was faced with a blank white page but then colours began to appear. I squinted as an image flickered to life in front of me. I gasped and jerked back, dropping the mouse as if it was on fire. The colour drained from my face and my breath lodged in my throat. My chest throbbed with the pressure, as if I’d been held under water.

An unexpected knock at the door brought a rush of heat to sear my cheeks but I sat unmoving, unable to tear my eyes from the moving images in front of me. The sound of a key in the latch brought me to my senses and I sprang into action, fumbling with the mouse to click on the X. My fingers were so timorous that it took several attempts before the screen cleared, the doorbell growing ever more insistent.