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