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

A shadow crossed her face. She shook her head again. ‘Just my brothers, Papa and me.’

‘Ah,’ I said softly. ‘I didn’t know that.’

She lowered her head, the silent curtain of her headscarf shielding her expression. I could tell she was uncomfortable but then I remembered Peggy’s earlier words: if we didn’t find out something soon, Zadie could find herself having to return home. While I phrased the next question in my head, the silent pause worked its magic.

‘I can’t really remember much about her,’ she said softly, risking a glance in my direction. There was a strained quality to her voice and for the first time her expression was transparent, the pain in her eyes diffusing across her whole face. Above, clouds shifted, closing in on us.

‘Your mother?’

She nodded.

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

She let out a breath so gentle it was almost masked by the strengthening breeze. Again her fingers tapped a secret rhythm on her knees. ‘I think I was about five.’ Bobby began to whine. He trotted over and rested his head on Zadie’s lap as if sensing her discomfort. Absent-mindedly massaging his chin, she said, ‘I don’t even remember what she looks like but I can feel her sometimes, as if she’s still around.’

The heavy sadness in her voice brought a sudden lump to my throat. I nodded, hoping to communicate how much I wanted to understand, and all the while other thoughts whirled around my brain, like was her mother dead? Or had she walked out on her family? I was trying to think how to frame my questions delicately when the rain started. Grabbing my handbag, I brushed dried leaves from the back of my jeans and sprinted after Zadie who, slipping and sliding, ran ahead with her arms out, steadying herself. By the time we reached the fence the fine rain had fortified into a deluge. I stumbled over the stile but Zadie waited behind, calling out to Bobby. He ran around the field in wide circles, barking at the air and catching raindrops on his tongue.

When he finally reached us, yapping in excitement, we were both drenched. He jumped up to rest his muddy paws on Zadie’s chest, lapping at her face with his tongue. She closed her eyes and threw her head one way and then the other, laughing loudly. ‘Rosie, help!’ she shrieked, her brown eyes full of life.

It was one of those moments that fixed itself in my mind so vividly that I can still picture every detail. I stood motionless for a few seconds with the rain lashing down on my back, captivated. Her teeth were very white, the front two crossing over one another slightly – not enough to worry about getting braces fitted but perfect for adding a touch of character to her smile. Her headscarf and robes became indistinguishable, clinging cold and heavy against her skin. Curves appeared where before they were hidden and it was clear from her silhouette that she wasn’t as thin as I’d first thought. It was a relief to know that I wouldn’t have to worry too much about her lack of appetite. Still giggling and with water pouring from her face, she closed her eyes and wrestled Bobby away.

‘You jump in,’ I shouted to Zadie over a rumble of thunder when we reached the car. ‘I’ll put Bobby on a blanket in the back.’

Ten minutes later we dropped a drenched, smelly pup back to Jenny. The foster carer gasped when she saw him but I knew she wouldn’t mind. ‘See you on Monday then, Rosie?’

‘Yes, lovely.’

‘I sent Liz and Rachel a text, so hopefully they’ll be here too.’

On the way home I turned the radio on for some background noise. It seemed that a walk in the rain had broken the ice, as far as I was concerned at least. Zadie had told me something about herself, albeit reluctantly at first, but it was a start and it was only her first full day. Feeling much more at ease, I began singing along to the music. Zadie’s expression in the rear-view mirror was a mixture of surprise and amusement.

‘Would you like to use the bathroom first?’ I asked as I stood in the hall shivering, water dripping down my nose.

Zadie nodded and slipped off her shoes, bending over to straighten them at a neat right angle to the wall. While she ran a bath I got a clean robe out of her rucksack and draped a fluffy towel over the radiator in the hall, so that it would be warm by the time she was ready to leave the water. Getting her things ready reminded me of when Emily and Jamie were small. Every Sunday afternoon we would go for a walk in the hills or by the river. More often than not, one of them would end up with their clothes soaked through or covered in mud. I relished the thought of getting them home, giving them a hot bath then wrapping them in their soft dressing gowns.

I think one of the reasons I enjoyed fostering so much was the opportunity it gave to lavish comfort on children who’ve sometimes not even experienced basic care. Often, when a child arrives in the foster home, they’ve never known the pleasure of tucking into a home-cooked meal or climbing, sleepy and safe, into a warm, clean bed. Being in a position to console someone in crisis is such a privilege, one I don’t think I will ever tire of.

In the kitchen I made two mugs of hot chocolate and reached for the biscuit tin. Suffused by a feeling of optimism, I still had no sense of the traumas that lay ahead.

Chapter 5 (#uc9790101-6853-5bf5-9560-56ef66dd35bc)

Lunch was pasta with cheese sauce. Zadie had told me not to worry about special food for her as she was vegetarian and I had checked that it was something she liked, but she barely touched anything. She sat in silence, her eyes fixed on her plate as she twirled her fork in her right hand. Her left hand was out of sight under the table, no doubt tapping out nervous rhythms on her thigh.

Des, my supervising social worker, had called soon after we arrived home, to ask if he could pop in later to make one of his statutory visits. He was a gregarious character and always managed to bring out the louder side of my own personality, so I was looking forward to introducing him to Zadie. If anyone could bring Zadie out of her shell, it would be him.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, with Zadie up in her room reading The Red Pony. I was happy with her choice, confident that the classic was unlikely to cause offence to anyone. While she was occupied I sat in the conservatory to write up my daily diary. Recording our earlier conversation in the forest, I remembered how abruptly it had ended. It was a shame the rain had started just at the moment she spoke of her mother. I sat mulling over what she had said, itching to find out more.

When my records were up to date I invited Zadie to help me prepare a chicken pie for our evening meal, hoping that we might take up the conversation where we left off. Emily and Jamie were going to the golf driving range with their dad after school – although we had divorced years earlier, Gary remained dedicated to the children and saw them often – so we had a long afternoon to fill. She seemed content pottering around the kitchen and was adept at preparing food, even the meat, despite being a vegetarian. It was clear that she was well practised at preparing meals for a large family. Without any direction from me she tore the plastic from a pack of chicken and rinsed each fillet under the tap before deftly snipping slivers into some hot oil with a pair of kitchen scissors.

I began kneading the pastry and chattered on about the rest of our family; my mother and nieces and nephews, but, while Zadie seemed interested, she didn’t join in or volunteer anything of her own. I remembered what Peggy had said about her father pressurising for Zadie to be returned to him and couldn’t help feeling a sense of urgency, but I didn’t want to force it so I avoided any more direct questions.

Emily and Jamie arrived home just after five o’clock. As soon as Zadie heard their steps on the gravel driveway she washed her hands and then left the kitchen. After a hurried greeting in the hall, she withdrew to the dining room, burying her head in her book.

Emily went straight up to her room and Jamie, following his usual after-school routine, raided the biscuit tin then switched on the Xbox. Leaning his head into the dining room, he invited Zadie to join him. She shook her head shyly, diving straight back into her book. A little pride swelled up in me; it was always so lovely to see my own children’s efforts to welcome others in, even though their friendliness was often shunned in the early days. Jamie shrugged off her rejection and carried on with his game.

Des arrived just before dinner time, as was his usual habit. Jamie answered the door, greeting the social worker by thrusting an Xbox controller in his hands. Although half the time my son made an effort to show that he was now beyond all forms of play by shrugging nonchalantly and forcing a look of disinterest, computer games seemed to be an acceptable caveat.

‘How about you let me take my shoes off first, eh, Jamie? He doesnae give me a chance,’ Des muttered, removing his shoes using the heel of each foot and leaving them in the hall. ‘Hi, Zadie,’ he said casually when he passed the dining room, as if he’d met her dozens of times before. ‘How do you put up wi’ him, you lot?’

Jamie grunted, revelling in the banter. Zadie peered over the top of her book, a little intrigued. Des was such an affable character; he just had that way that some people have about them, of creating an immediate air of familiarity.

‘Don’t start another game yet, Jamie. Dinner’s almost ready,’ I said, leaning against the doorway. It was one of those moments when I wished I had thought to run a brush through my manic hair. I managed to tuck some of it behind each ear. ‘Hi, Des. Would you like to join us?’

He looked at me sideways, his blue eyes shining with their usual glint of humour. ‘What are you having?’ There was no mistaking the caution in his voice and I couldn’t disguise my smile. Des struck me as such a bold character. He was outgoing, charming and had travelled all over the world, yet he was such a baby about food. One sniff of something spicy and his lips would go pale. ‘Not that I’m fussy,’ he insisted, ‘so you can stop looking at me like that, Rosie Lewis.’

‘Chicken pie. We made it this afternoon, didn’t we, Zadie?’

She raised her eyes, nodding silently.

‘You didnae sneak anything hot in there, I hope?’ he teased.

Zadie looked serious. She frowned, shaking her head.

‘Don’t worry, Zadie. Des thinks pepper is an exotic flavouring, don’t you?’

The social worker snorted. Zadie pinched her lips in imitation of a smile but her features didn’t soften accordingly.

‘Yes, count me in then, if there’s enough,’ he said as I leaned my head into the hallway and called up to Emily. ‘Dinner’s ready, love.’

At the table, Des and Jamie argued playfully about the upcoming friendly football match between England and Scotland, Des going into a rant in imitation of a well-known sports commentator. Dark wavy hair that was usually swept back from his temple flew out at odd angles and soon Jamie was in fits of laughter. It was easy to picture Des in his earlier days, as a bit-part actor in dodgy American sitcoms. Tonight he surprised us by throwing into the conversation that he’d also been the lead guitarist in an unsuccessful rock band known as The Bad Natives. Lifting his leg, he wrapped one hand round his shin, strummed his thigh and threw his head back, launching into a rendition of ‘Mustang Sally’.

Jamie whooped, drumming his palms on the table. Zadie raised her eyes, interested but a little taken aback by the banter. Every now and again she would cast a furtive glance around the table but whenever any of us looked her way she would stare into her plate and play lifelessly with her food. But she wasn’t the only one. I could see that Emily was troubled too. I can read my daughter’s expression from across a room, interpreting her mood from the angle of her head or slant in her shoulders, but that night I didn’t need a mother’s instinct to know she was upset. She was usually animated when Des came to visit but she prodded at the same speck of food with her fork, barely glancing in his direction.

‘Are you all right, Ems?’ I asked.

‘Yes, fine,’ she nodded. Des stopped teasing Jamie for a moment and turned to look at her. Emily smiled but quickly returned her attention to her plate, clearly stewing over something. It was unusual for anything to cloud Emily’s brightly glowing aura. She was such a cheerful, buoyant soul that it was a surprise to see her gloomy. I wondered whether Zadie’s brooding silence was affecting her, but then I dismissed the thought. Emily had grown used to children arriving in a much more distressed state than Zadie appeared to be in. I was wondering whether to say anything more when Jamie distracted my attention. ‘Can I leave the table, Mum? I told Ben I’d meet him on FIFA at 7.’

As usual, his plate was clear. ‘Go on then.’

We watched silently as Jamie sprang to his feet and disappeared from sight. Des can’t be described as anything other than a people person; his ability to mingle was the trait I admired in him the most, yet without Jamie at the table he seemed to lose his momentum, as if the silence of the rest of us was contagious.

Our attention soon focused on Zadie. Holding her fork in her right hand, she separated the food on her plate into small mouthfuls; a couple of peas, a piece of her own mini-vegetarian pie and some mashed potato were dotted around the plate in small mounds. If a pea rolled away she manoeuvred it back to the required position with robotic movements. It was mesmerising.

A minute or two of silence passed before Des recovered. ‘I’ve been thinking about reviving the old band actually,’ he said, reaching for his glass of water. ‘First there was the Spice Girls, then Take That. I think the world might be ready for a Bad Natives reunion. What do you think, Ems?’

That was it. Emily guffawed, much like her usual self. Zadie touched her forefinger to the tip of her nose and examined what was left of her pie. She tilted her head then set to work rearranging the layout, making minute adjustments. Des put his fork down and cocked his head, giving me a knowing look. I stretched my lips and gave a slight nod.

It wasn’t unusual for fostered children to display symptoms of OCD, especially where food was concerned. But Zadie’s compulsive behaviour went beyond that; the strumming, the counting under her breath, the tidying. And then it suddenly struck me: the chapped skin on her hands might have nothing to do with sleeping out in the cold for two nights, and all the time she spent in the bathroom may not have been just purifying herself for prayers.