Broken: A traumatised girl. Her troubled brother. Their shocking secret.

‘Erm, well, we’re still getting to know each other really. Archie seems to have taken the move in his stride –’

‘Oh?’ Danny cut in. ‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘– yes, I know, I know,’ I said, lowering my voice. Social workers always reserved more concern for children who seemed not to react when their entire world had tilted on its axis. Some children were highly skilled at concealing their vulnerability beneath a phoney exterior, usually because they feared that their true feelings were too ugly to expose. Such camouflage requires years of practice and monumental levels of self-control. One of my tasks as Archie’s foster carer was to help him peel away the protective layers he’d wrapped around himself. I also had to prepare myself to nurture whatever lurked underneath.

‘And Bobbi?’

I hesitated for a moment. ‘I think it’s fair to say that Bobbi and I are still trying to reach an understanding. We’ve had a few hiccups so far, but we’re getting there.’ It was a sanitised version, given that the siblings were within earshot. In truth the last few days had passed in a blur of frenzied, violent meltdowns. I was grateful that the children had arrived during the holidays when Emily and Jamie were at home. Whenever Bobbi began to blow, one or the other of them had taken Megan off to play, sparing her the worst of the fall-out.

The trouble was, Bobbi flew off the handle at the slightest provocation and with very little warning. Most of the time it was impossible to even begin to ascertain the trigger. She refused to comply with the simplest of requests – I had only managed to brush her teeth three times in five days, and even then only for a few seconds while she thrashed around, snarling and snapping. It was like trying to groom a bowl of jelly laced with nitroglycerin.

Archie, on the other hand, spent most of his time either covering up Bobbi’s misdeeds or assuming responsibility for them, even when it was clear he’d had not the slightest involvement. He spoke to her in soothing tones and went out of his way to try and calm her down, his parentified behaviour offering an insight into the peace-making role he may have assumed at home. Archie had cleaned up the mess Bobbi made in their room, his sister shouting instructions from the sidelines.

He was always eager to help, though he made an effort at being cool whenever Jamie graced us with his presence. He’d been pleased on Saturday when Jamie and a couple of his mates had allowed him to join in their game of basketball in the garden. Since then it became clear that there was a bit of hero-worship going on. Jamie, having grown up with fostering, took it all in his stride.

Danny belted out a laugh. ‘We’ll have a proper chat at the Placement Planning Meeting. You home tomorrow? I’m thinking early. I can’t seem to get hold of your supervising social worker, a –’ There was another rustle of papers. ‘– Sarah Baker? Is she away at the moment?’

‘I’m afraid Sarah left Bright Heights weeks ago. I don’t have a supervising social worker at the moment.’ Des, my longest-running supervising social worker (SSW) at Bright Heights, had left the agency over three years earlier to gather information on a youth behavioural scheme that had been showing signs of success in Boston. Our friendship had grown over the years and I missed his impromptu visits while he was away, so much so that when he returned to England in 2014, we began spending more time together. We weren’t quite in a relationship, but things seemed to be heading that way.

Since Des left the agency I had been assigned to seven different SSWs, each staying in post for such a short time that it had been difficult to build anything other than a polite working relationship with them. ‘I’m able to approach the fostering manager if I have any concerns though,’ I added in defence of the agency, although if I’m honest I did feel a little cast adrift.

‘Yeah, yeah, course you are.’

I sucked in a breath, unsure whether he was serious or not.

‘Mate, I’m joking. We’ll manage. See you tomorrow.’

I laughed. ‘Yes, I’ll see you then.’ I lowered the receiver but then quickly lifted it to my ear again. ‘Danny, sorry, before you go –’

‘Jeez, what now? You’re gonna be one of those awkward ones, aren’t you? I can always tell.’

‘Danny, you have no idea,’ I said with a grin, already getting the measure of him. A low chuckle came down the line. ‘Can I just check, what school do the children go to? Is it Millfield Primary?’

Danny snorted. ‘Yeah. Well, put it this way, that’s where they’re supposed to go. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.’

I spent the next half an hour trying to cajole Bobbi into getting dressed. Neither Bobbi nor Archie had a full uniform to wear in the morning and I wanted to get to the school outfitters before lunchtime so that I could label everything and still make it to Megan’s swimming lesson, which was due to start at half past one.

I had rolled out every weapon in my armoury to try and persuade Bobbi into her clothes: playfulness, competitiveness – I bet you can’t get your jumper on within the next twenty seconds – bribery with chocolate. With Megan’s enthusiastic help, I’d even involved her in crafting a postbox out of cardboard and red paint, so that we could post pictures of each item of clothing she managed to get on herself. It worked a treat with Megan, who paraded her entire wardrobe in front of me in the time it took to get Bobbi into her socks.

‘If you don’t get dressed we won’t be able to get you a costume and you won’t be able to swim with Megan,’ I said, kneeling in front of her and holding out her jumper invitingly. I had spoken to Megan’s swimming teacher that morning and she’d kindly agreed to squeeze Bobbi into the lesson so that she wouldn’t feel left out. I often found people went out of their way to be accommodating for fostered children.

My spirits lifted as Bobbi ducked her head and allowed me to slip her jumper on. I could hardly believe she might finally relent. ‘Woo-hoo!’ I said, clapping and making a big fuss of her as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. ‘Well done, Bobbi!’ She beamed.

Megan joined in with the applause. ‘Well done, Bobs!’ she cheered. ‘Yippee!’ From beneath the coffee table, Mungo gave a soft bark.

‘She’ll take it off again in a minute,’ Archie predicted morosely from the sofa. He peered over the top of his book and then quickly returned his attention to the page, his eyes eagerly running left to right. Within half a second Bobbi’s arms were out of the sleeves, the rest of the jumper hanging like a thick woollen chain from her neck.

I gave Archie a dark look. Ever since his arrival he had been nothing less than accommodating and helpful. This morning, though, he seemed determined to derail my efforts to prepare him for school. He had faked surprise when I told him that Danny had confirmed that he went to Millfield Primary, and since then had dragged his feet at every turn. ‘Bobbi,’ I said in a low tone. ‘Put it back on, please.’ She looked at me, her head in a defiant tilt, and then she whipped the jumper right off.

‘Back on now or you won’t go swimming,’ I said warningly. Megan stood close by, her eyes flitting between us. I feigned an interest in the TV magazine on the coffee table, half-aware of Bobbi picking up her leggings as I flicked through the pages.

‘Yay!’ Megan shouted. ‘You can come swimming with me now, Bobs!’

‘Ow-a!’ Bobbi growled. ‘I can’t do them.’

‘Come here. I’ll help.’ She crawled over and gave them to me. I lifted her to her feet and told her to hold on to my shoulder. ‘That’s it, now lift your leg.’ She didn’t move. ‘Come on, honey, lift your leg.’

Half a second later Megan cried out and clamped a hand over her eyes – while I’d been leaning over, Bobbi had slapped her face.

‘Right, that’s it. No swimming for Bobbi.’ I had tried to keep my voice even but it hadn’t worked. My patience was drained and it showed. Megan wasn’t crying – I think she was more shocked than anything else – but I drew her onto my lap and kissed the top of her head. She leaned into me and rested her head on my chest.

A sickening thud reached my ears a second or two later. I swung around just in time to see Bobbi’s head slamming into the floor for a second time, the crack of skull meeting floorboard making my stomach flip. Megan got off my lap and stared at Bobbi in horror. ‘It’s alright, Meggie,’ I said, steering her towards the door. ‘You go upstairs and see if you can find a towel and your goggles. I’ll take care of Bobbi.’

Megan backed slowly out of the room, her eyes fixed on Bobbi, who was now on her feet and biting her own forearm. It must have been painful, but with the red mist working its numbing magic, she continued to gnaw at her skin. I crouched in front of her, aware that Megan was still staring at us from the doorway. ‘Go, Megan, please,’ I said, without taking my eyes off Bobbi. I heard her scurry away and my chest tightened with guilt.

‘Bobbi, I’m not going to let you hurt yourself,’ I said, taking a firm hold of her arm and pulling it free of her jaws. ‘I can see that you’re feeling cross,’ I continued, in a lame attempt at naming her feelings, but she’d already reached a point from which it was going to be difficult to return. She just needed to be held.

‘GET OFF ME!’ she screamed as I reached out to her, battering me with her fists and then clawing her hands down her own face. I pulled her onto my lap and pinned her arms down with my own to protect us both. She struggled and screamed, her feet slamming repeatedly into the floor. Once again, though, it was Archie’s reaction that unnerved me most. He was watching me from the sofa, an expression of suppressed fury on his face.

‘What’s wrong, Arch?’

‘You shouldn’t have kept asking her to lift her leg,’ he snapped, chucking his book aside. ‘You scared her.’

I looked at him. ‘How come?’ I leaned over Bobbi, who had stiffened on my lap. ‘Why were you scared to lift your leg, sweetheart?’

‘Jason makes her stand on one leg when she’s naughty, that’s why,’ Archie spat out.

My throat tightened. ‘Oh, Bobbi, that’s very wrong of him. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t know.’ She allowed me to cuddle her to my chest. I gave Archie a regretful look over the top of her head. He glared at me, his cheeks flushed red.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_f87e6a5f-3768-52df-9c22-203b326ecdf6)

Swirling grey clouds hung low in the sky as we drove towards Millfield Primary the next morning. As luck would have it, Megan’s nursery opened fifteen minutes earlier than Archie and Bobbi’s school, so I had been able to drop her off with confidence that I’d make it to Millfield on time.

It was Tuesday 6 January, Bobbi and Archie’s first day back at school after the holidays, and I had woken everyone earlier than usual in anticipation of a major fall-out in getting Bobbi dressed. With careful avoidance of any ‘lifting leg’ instructions, it wasn’t the battle I’d anticipated, as it turned out, and by 8 a.m. everyone had been tucking into their breakfast.

The Jason comment aside, I still knew little about Bobbi’s past – my gentle attempt to encourage her to talk about her fears of punishment batted away last night by a loud screechy song – but there was every reason to suppose that she had been neglected from birth. There were all sorts of likely triggers to her panicked behaviour, some I would only ever be able to guess at.

The smell of sour milk, for example, might set off a hysterical reaction in a child who had lain untended in their cot for hours at a time. I knew that some children in foster care flew off the handle whenever they were cold, the sensation reminding them of the terror they felt as babies, when they had been left to go to sleep without clothes or blankets. For others, loud music caused fear, or shouting, or being smiled at in a certain way; a once-used code from Daddy signalling that it was time to join him upstairs. Trauma triggered behaviour was unpredictable by its very nature; I knew it would take some time to decode.

At a red light I glanced at Bobbi in the rear-view mirror as she made an infernal noise. She looked smart in her uniform and older somehow. I had bought two new sets of uniform for each of the children when I finally made it to the shops yesterday, my mother stepping into the breach so I didn’t have to drag Bobbi around town in her PJs. ‘They’ve been as good as gold,’ Mum announced on my return, a twinkle in her eye. It was often the way with the children I looked after. They seemed to sense the genuine warmth beneath Mum’s firm exterior and responded well to her gentle attentiveness. As an unwanted replacement of their birth mother, it often took longer for me to gain a child’s trust.

‘Maybe you could try being a bit firmer,’ Mum had whispered to me on her way out. My mother holds firmly to the view that punishment and retribution are the most effective means of keeping children on the straight and narrow. Though rarely openly critical, I often got the feeling that she believed my own system of using positive praise, consistency and continuity alongside a careful balance of love and discipline was ridiculously soft.

I rolled my eyes at my brother, Chris, who had popped by to pick Mum up and drop her and Megan to the leisure centre for her swimming lesson. When Bobbi had seen Chris on the doorstep she froze. A few seconds later she had wrapped herself around his shins and was planting rapid kisses on his knee.

Stunned, Chris gave her head a quick pat and threw me a ‘What’s this all about?’ look. I raised my eyes and pulled her gently away. ‘Bobbi, this is my brother but you don’t know him yet. We keep our cuddles for people we know well. Okay, poppet?’ I began to wonder whether she had some sort of attachment disorder. Unscrupulous abusers seemed to have internal radar for vulnerable children like Bobbi. Foster carers are taught to gently dissuade children from being overfamiliar to reduce their risk of sexual exploitation. Bobbi’s random friendliness was yet another concern to add to the list in my diary. I was glad that the siblings’ social worker was due to visit this morning so I could discuss it with him.

‘See, there. That’s where I come out, Rosie,’ Archie told me as we crossed the colourful springy tarmac of the playground. He pointed to an archway at the far end of the brick building in front of us. ‘I’ll be there at half past three, but Bobbi comes out five minutes earlier.’