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

‘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.

‘May I use the computer?’ she asked softly.

‘Erm …,’ I hesitated, knowing the grim task of confronting her about what she had been looking up couldn’t be delayed any longer. ‘You can,’ I said slowly, ‘but first we need a chat.’

Her face flushed crimson.

I felt immediately sorry for her. She knew exactly what I was going to say. ‘The internet is great,’ I said, tempering my serious tone with a touch of gentleness. She still looked mortified, though, so much so that it was actually uncomfortable to watch. ‘But there are some horrible sites on there that I wouldn’t want children to look at.’ She kept her gaze averted so I went on to explain to the side of her headscarf that, as a foster carer, I would be struck off if offensive material was found in my home, whether I was aware of it or not. Zadie nodded the whole time, but continued to study the wall beside her. I patted my knees, thinking here goes, then took a breath and said, ‘I was a bit concerned about what you were looking up when you last went online, honey.’

Zadie covered her face with her hands and made a small noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, then let her hands drop to cover her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘It just popped up and I kept clicking on the cross but …’ Her voice was wobbling. She sounded close to tears.

‘But you must have entered some strange keywords for that to come up, surely?’

She shook her head emphatically, her fingers knotting over themselves ten to the dozen. ‘Someone emailed me the link,’ she admitted eventually. ‘I shouldn’t have clicked on it. I’m sorry, Rosie.’

‘Who would email something like that to you? One of your friends?’

‘I don’t have any friends,’ she said quietly. ‘It was spam.’

She spoke without self-pity but what she said tugged at my heart, throwing me off-kilter so that I accepted her explanation even though I didn’t believe it. I realise now that I probably shouldn’t have, but being a foster carer is much like being a mother; many mistakes are made along the way.

I hardly saw anything of Zadie for the next couple of hours. When she wasn’t reading in her room she sat at the computer. I leaned my head into the dining area every now and again, partly to make sure she was OK but also to let her know that I was keeping an eye on her. Blue light from the screen flickered across her serious face as she stared in utter concentration.

About 11 a.m., just as I was putting a wash on, I heard the printer juddering into action. A few minutes later Zadie came into the kitchen and shyly offered me a wad of paper.

‘What’s this?’ I said, taking it from her. On the top page there was a chart. The left-hand column, highlighted in blue, listed the names of markets in the local area. The next one, in yellow, showed the cost of hiring a stall and the days available. Across the top, underlined, was the title ‘WEPH – Project Congo’. I was so moved that for a moment I couldn’t speak. Leafing through the pages, I saw that she had researched the telephone numbers needed for booking a sales tent and had even included directions for each location.

I remembered blathering on about the quilt making to Zadie on the day we went for a walk. She had shown a glimmer of interest at the time but I had no idea she had taken so much in.

‘Zadie, how lovely of you!’ I exclaimed, wanting to reach out and catch hold of her hand, though from her stiff demeanour I sensed she wouldn’t want me to. ‘Thank you so much.’

I could hardly believe it. It was the first time I noticed another dimension to Zadie, layers of warmth behind the unbreakable wall, but I was about to get an even bigger surprise. Shifting the weight from one foot to another and fumbling beneath her long sleeve, she produced a ten-pound note and handed it to me.

I frowned. ‘What’s this for?’

‘To put towards the collection for the school desks,’ she said, turning on her heel and scampering off before I had time to react. I stared at the money, my heart opening with a sudden rush of affection. I had given her some pocket money a few days after her arrival, her part of the weekly allowance that foster carers are paid by the local authority. Not wanting to discourage her generosity, I slipped the note into a side pocket in my bag with the intention of adding it to the savings account I was going to open for her.

I finished loading the whites into the washing machine, stunned and deeply touched.

Peggy had arranged for us to meet at the Lavender Fields, a location midway between the Hassan family home and our house. Zadie and I arrived a few minutes early and since there was no sign of her brother we waited in the gift shop. Unable to resist, I began working my way through the entire selection of lotions and aromatherapy essential oils arranged along the shelves of an ornate white dresser, sniffing at each tester pot then asking Zadie if she would like to try. She recoiled as if she’d been shot, her face quickly turning green.

It was a few minutes after two o’clock when Chit Hassan arrived. Just as Zadie was pointing out a lilac candle that was so highly decorated it looked more like a cake, I spotted his dark head crossing the car park. I nudged her. ‘I think your brother is here.’

Pausing in the doorway, Chit’s eyes swept the aisles of glossy coffee-table books and embroidered lacy cushions, eventually settling on his sister. Zadie immediately froze, morphing once again into a figure carved from granite. Chit was a good-looking young man with a square chin and cheeks so lean they gave the impression he was sucking them in. His hair was the same rich dark brown as his sister’s, though his was tinged with a reddish gold and his expression was alert, assessing. After a brief smile in his sister’s direction his eyes met mine.

I smiled, mouthing hello as we made our way towards him. Dipping his head in acknowledgement, his stare did not waver as I closed the gap between us and held out my hand. His gaze dropped, registered my proffered hand then flicked to his sister, the expression on his face serene. Thrown off-kilter by the rejection, my smile evaporated and my redundant hand flitted to my hair to tuck imaginary loose curls behind my ear.

‘Lovely to meet you, Chit. I’m Rosie. Did you have far to come?’ I asked, aware that I was talking quickly, something I did when trying to recover my equilibrium. It was a futile question; I knew exactly where the family lived. ‘I mean, did you find it OK?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ he said politely, without taking his intense eyes off his sister. Up close I could see that they resembled Zadie’s, as striking, though not quite so thickly lashed. She was facing him but seemed to be staring at a point somewhere between his chin and his chest. I glanced uncertainly from brother to sister, oddly embarrassed by whatever it was passing between them.

‘I thought you two might like to go for a walk,’ I offered, realising suddenly that Chit’s refusal to shake my hand probably had something to do with his culture, rather than a personal rebuttal of me. I remembered reading that non-essential touching between genders is forbidden in Islam and that the avoidance of physical contact is seen as a sign of humility. Chit would probably consider it disrespectful to touch me. ‘I’m sure you have lots to catch up on,’ I said, feeling a little foolish. My mind flicked to earlier that day, as I stood in front of my wardrobe worrying about which outfit I should wear to make a good impression, and yet within 30 seconds of meeting Zadie’s brother I’d already made my first gaffe.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Chit said crisply, dipping his head respectfully then gesturing towards the door that led to the fields. Zadie tugged at her robe and looked at me, swirling the dark material around her fingers. I got the impression she was seeking some sort of approval so I smiled reassuringly. I had thought that Zadie might be relieved to see a familiar face, but with her hunched shoulders and trembling hands she seemed more cowed than anything else.

Turning away from me, Chit held out his hand towards Zadie’s back, guiding her out with a proprietorial air, though I noticed he was careful not to make contact with her. I followed them, watching with a disquieted interest.

Outside, fields of lavender stretched for miles, broken only by the odd farmhouse, the purple-blue blanket following the contours of hills and rolling out of sight far into the distance. The wild, luminous beauty of the view and the sweet, soft fragrance were breathtaking, discordant with the tension between the three of us. On almost any other occasion I would have delighted in the comfortingly natural surroundings; it was a pleasantly mild day and the sun was doing its best to break through the stubborn hazy cloud, but the warmth on my face did nothing to quell my discomfort as I watched Zadie and her brother weave their way through the waist-high rows of woody shrubs.

Supervising contact is rarely a pleasant experience. Relatives usually detest being watched and it can be uncomfortable coping with the vibes of resentment and occasional open hostility. But as I trailed a few metres behind Zadie and her brother, navigating through the narrow furrows between rows of foliage, I realised that I felt more conspicuous than ever before.

There was symmetry in the siblings’ stride, their arms hanging stiffly at their sides, though Chit, at almost 18, was much taller than Zadie. They were moving so slowly that I had to keep at a snail’s pace so as not to get too close to them. Chit seemed to be doing most of the talking, his head bobbing animatedly as he twisted to look at Zadie. He put me in mind of a parent, checking to make sure that their child was paying attention. Every now and then he stopped, gesticulating with his arms as he spoke as if to underline his words. Zadie turned her head towards him once or twice, but mainly she stared at her feet. When they reached the end of the first row they turned right and kept on going, skipping several lines of plants before returning the way they came, probably trying to keep their distance from me.

Straggly stems from the plants’ woody centres cascaded over the path, their softly jagged flowers brushing against my legs and almost tripping me up. Deciding it would be daft to stalk them for the entire hour, I searched for somewhere to rest and found a bench nearby, abandoned against the wall of a derelict barn. Making myself as comfortable as I could on a seat with several slats missing, I pulled a book from my handbag and started reading. Every now and again I glanced over the top of the page to check on the pair, who remained within eyesight. Snatches of their conversation floated to me on the scented breeze but I couldn’t pick out individual words and wasn’t even sure whether they were talking in English, although Chit’s authoritarian tone was unmistakable. I had been reading for quite a while when I noticed that they had stopped halfway down one of the rows, roughly 30 feet away from me. Chit was leaning over Zadie with his hands resting on his hips, again giving the impression that he was an angry parent, dressing down a rebellious child.

Foster carers often have to make a judgement call on the spur of the moment, if relatives seem to be overstepping the mark. I usually try to keep an equal measure of trust and wariness and wanted to give Zadie and her brother space to make the most of the short time they had together, but an unnerving feeling in my stomach was bugging me to intervene. Just as I was reaching for my handbag they set off again at a gentle pace and I thought maybe it had been just an animated conversation after all. I checked my watch, telling myself I was being silly – all I had heard were the rising tones of a probably innocuous conversation that I knew nothing about.

But anyway, it was almost three o’clock. Contact had been scheduled for one hour so their time was almost up. Relieved, I made my way over to the pair. Closing the gap between us to a few feet, I called out to them. ‘Zadie, Chit. I’m afraid it’s time to head back.’