The Child Bride

by Cathy Glass

  Copyright

  Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the children.

  HarperElement

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  First published by HarperElement 2014

  FIRST EDITION

  © Cathy Glass 2014

  A catalogue record of this book

  is available from the British Library

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

  Cover photography by Nicky Rojas (posed by model)

  Cathy Glass asserts the moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  Source ISBN: 9780007590001

  Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007590018

  Version 2014-08-14

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also by Cathy Glass

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Petrified

  Chapter Two: Different House

  Chapter Three: Good Influence

  Chapter Four: Sobbing

  Chapter Five: Scared into Silence

  Chapter Six: Dreadful Feeling

  Chapter Seven: Desperate

  Chapter Eight: Lost Innocence

  Chapter Nine: Ordeal

  Chapter Ten: Optimistic

  Chapter Eleven: Worries and Worrying

  Chapter Twelve: Only Fourteen

  Chapter Thirteen: Consequences

  Chapter Fourteen: Review

  Chapter Fifteen: Vicious Threats

  Chapter Sixteen: Zeena’s Story

  Chapter Seventeen: A Special Holiday

  Chapter Eighteen: Overwhelmed

  Chapter Nineteen: Atrocity

  Chapter Twenty: I Miss Hugs

  Chapter Twenty-One: Police Business

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Suitcase

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Other Victims

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Silence Was Deafening

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Heartbreaking

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Turn of Events

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: More than I Deserve

  Epilogue: Deserves the Best

  Contacts

  Exclusive sample chapter

  Cathy Glass

  If you loved this book …

  Moving Memoirs eNewsletter

  About the Publisher

  Also by Cathy Glass

  Damaged

  Hidden

  Cut

  The Saddest Girl in the World

  Happy Kids

  The Girl in the Mirror

  I Miss Mummy

  Mummy Told Me Not to Tell

  My Dad’s a Policeman (a Quick Reads novel)

  Run, Mummy, Run

  The Night the Angels Came

  Happy Adults

  A Baby’s Cry

  Happy Mealtimes for Kids

  Another Forgotten Child

  Please Don’t Take My Baby

  Will You Love Me?

  About Writing and How to Publish

  Daddy’s Little Princess

  Acknowledgements

  A big thank-you to my editor, Holly; my literary agent, Andrew; Carole, Vicky, Laura, Hannah, Virginia and all the team at HarperCollins.

  Prologue

  A small child walks along a dusty path. She has been on an errand for her aunt and is now returning to her village in rural Bangladesh. The sun is burning high in the sky and she is hot and thirsty. Only another 300 steps, she tells herself, and she will be home.

  The dry air shimmers in the scorching heat and she keeps her eyes down, away from its glare. Suddenly she hears her name being called close by and looks over. One of her teenage cousins is playing hide and seek behind the bushes.

  ‘Go away. I’m hot and tired,’ she returns, with childish irritability. ‘I don’t want to play with you now.’

  ‘I have water,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t you like a drink?’

  She has no hesitation in going over. She is very thirsty. Behind the bush, but still visible from the path if anyone looked, he forces her to the ground and rapes her.

  She is nine years old.

  Chapter One

  Petrified

  ‘And she wouldn’t feel more comfortable with an Asian foster carer?’ I queried.

  ‘No, Zeena has specifically asked for a white carer,’ Tara, the social worker, continued. ‘I know it’s unusual, but she is adamant. She’s also asked for a white social worker.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She says she’ll feel safer, but won’t say why. I want to accommodate her wishes if I can.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, puzzled. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Fourteen. Although she looks much younger. She’s a sweet child, but very traumatized. She’s admitted she’s been abused, but is too frightened to give any details.’

  ‘The poor kid,’ I said.

  ‘I know. The child protection police office will see her as soon as we’ve moved her. She’s obviously suffered, but for how long and who abused her, she’s not saying. I’ve no background information. Sorry. All we know is that Zeena has younger siblings and her family is originally from Bangladesh, but that’s it I’m afraid. I’ll visit the family as soon as I’ve got Zeena settled. I want to collect her from school this afternoon and bring her straight to you. The school is working with us. In fact, they were the ones who raised the alarm and contacted the social services. I should be with you in about two hours.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be here.’

  ‘I’ll phone you when we’re on our way,’ Tara clarified. ‘I hope Zeena will come with me this time. She asked to go into care on Monday but then changed her mind. Her teacher said she was petrified.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Or of whom? Zeena wouldn’t say. Anyway, thanks for agreeing to take her,’ Tara said, clearly anxious to be on her way and to get things moving. ‘I’ll phone as soon as I’ve collected her from school.’

  We said a quick goodbye and I replaced the handset. It was only then I realized I’d forgotten to ask if Zeena had any special dietary requirements or other special considerations, but my guess was that as Tara had so little information on Zeena, she wouldn’t have known. I’d find out more when they arrived. With an emergency placement – as this one was – the background information on the child or children is often scarce to begin with, and I have little notice of the child’s arrival; sometimes just a phone call in the middle of the night from the duty social worker to say the police are on their way with a child. If a move into care is planned, I usually have more time and information.

  I’d been fostering for twenty years and had recently left Homefinders, the independent fostering agency (IFA) I’d been working with, because they’d closed their local branch and Jill, my trusted support social worker, had taken early
retirement. I was now fostering for the local authority (LA). While it made no difference to the child which agency I fostered for, I was having to get used to slightly different procedures, and doing without the excellent support of Jill. I did have a supervising social worker (as the LA called them), but I didn’t see her very often, and I knew that, unlike Jill, she wouldn’t be with me when a new child arrived. It wasn’t the LA’s practice.

  It was now twelve noon, so if all went to plan Tara and Zeena would be with me at about two o’clock. The secondary school Zeena attended was on the other side of town, about half an hour’s drive away. I went upstairs to check on what would be Zeena’s bedroom for however long she was with me. I always kept the room clean and tidy and with the bed made up, as I never knew when a child would arrive. The room was never empty for long, and Aimee, whose story I told in Another Forgotten Child, had left us two weeks previously. The duvet cover, pillow case and cushions were neutral beige, which would be fine for a fourteen-year-old girl. To help her settle and feel more at home I would encourage her to personalize her room by adding posters to the walls and filling the shelves with her favourite books, DVDs and other knick-knacks that litter teenagers’ bedrooms.

  Satisfied that the room was ready for Zeena, I returned downstairs. I was nervous. Even after many years of fostering, awaiting the arrival of a new child or children is an anxious time. Will they be able to relate to me and my family? Will they like us? Will I be able to meet their needs, and how upset or angry will they be? Once the child or children arrive I’m so busy there isn’t time to worry. Sometimes teenagers can be more challenging than younger children, but not always.

  At 1.30 the landline rang. It was Tara now calling from her mobile.

  ‘Zeena is in the car with me,’ she said quickly. ‘We’re outside her school but she wants to stop off at home first to collect some of her clothes. We should be with you by three o’clock.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘How is she?’

  There was a pause. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ Tara said pointedly.

  I replaced the receiver and my unease grew. From Tara’s response I guessed something was wrong. Perhaps Zeena was very upset. Otherwise Tara would have been able to reassure me that Zeena was all right instead of saying, ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

  My three children were young adults now. Adrian, twenty-two, had returned from university and was working temporarily in a supermarket until he decided what he wanted to do – he was thinking of accountancy. Lucy, my adopted daughter, was nineteen, and was working in a local nursery school. Paula, just eighteen, was in the sixth form at school and had recently taken her A-level examinations. She was hoping to attend university in September. I was divorced; my husband, John, had run off with a younger woman many years previously, and while it had been very hurtful for us all at the time, it was history now. The children (as I still referred to them) wouldn’t be home until later, and I busied myself in the kitchen.

  At 2.15 the telephone rang again. ‘We’re leaving Zeena’s home now,’ Tara said tightly. ‘Her mother had her suitcase packed ready. We’ll be with you in about half an hour.’

  I thanked her for letting me know and replaced the receiver. I sensed there was trouble in what Tara had left unsaid, and I was surprised Zeena’s mother had packed her daughter’s case so quickly. She couldn’t have known for long that her daughter was going into care – Tara hadn’t known herself for definite until half an hour ago – yet she had spent that time packing. Usually parents are so angry when their child first goes into care (unless they’ve requested help) that they have to be persuaded to part with some of their child’s clothes and personal possessions to help them settle in at their carer’s. I’d have been less surprised if Tara had said there’d been a big scene at Zeena’s home and she wouldn’t be coming into care after all, for teenagers are seldom forced into care against their wishes, even if it is for their own good.

  Now assured that Zeena was definitely on her way, I texted Adrian, Paula and Lucy: Zeena, 14, arriving soon. C u later. Love Mum xx.

  I was looking out of the front-room window when, about half an hour later, a car drew up. I could see the outlines of two women sitting in the front, and then, as the doors opened and they got out, I went into the hall and to the front door to welcome them. The social worker was carrying a battered suitcase.

  ‘Hi, I’m Cathy,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘I’m Tara, Zeena’s social worker,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you. This is Zeena.’

  I smiled at Zeena. ‘Come on in, love,’ I said cheerily.

  Had I not known she was fourteen I’d have said she was much younger – nearer eleven or twelve. She was petite, with delicate features, olive skin and huge dark eyes. But what immediately struck me was how scared she looked. She held her body tense and kept glancing anxiously towards the road outside until I closed the front door. Then she put her hand on the door to test it was shut.

  Tara saw this and asked me, ‘You do keep the door locked? It can’t be opened from the outside?’

  ‘Not without a key,’ I said.

  ‘Good. And there’s a security spy-hole,’ Tara said, pointing it out to Zeena. ‘So you or Cathy can check before you open the door.’

  Zeena gave a small polite nod but didn’t look reassured. Clearly security was going to be an issue, and I felt slightly unsettled. Zeena slipped off her shoes and then lowered her headscarf, which had been draped loosely over her head. She had lovely long, black, shiny hair, similar to my daughter Lucy’s. It was tied back in a ponytail, which made her look even younger. She was wearing her school uniform, with leggings under her pleated skirt.

  ‘Leave the case in the hall for now,’ I said to Tara. ‘I’ll take it up to Zeena’s room later. Let’s go and sit down.’

  Tara set the case by the coat stand and I led the way into the living room, which was at the rear of the house and looked out over the garden. When I fostered young children I always had toys ready to help take their minds off being separated from their parents, and on fine days the patio doors would be open. But not today – the air was chilly, although we were now in the month of May.

  Tara sat on the sofa and Zeena sat next to her.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked them both.

  ‘Could I have a glass of water, please?’ Tara said. Then, turning to Zeena, she added, ‘Would you like one too?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Zeena said quietly.

  ‘Or I have juice?’ I suggested.

  ‘Water is fine, thank you,’ Zeena said very politely.

  I went into the kitchen, poured two glasses of water and, returning, placed them on the coffee table within their reach. I sat in one of the easy chairs. Tara drank some of her water, but Zeena left hers untouched. I could see how tense and anxious she was. It was as though she was on continual alert, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. I’d seen this before in children I’d fostered who’d been badly abused. They were always on their guard, listening out for any unusual sound and continually scanning their surroundings for signs of danger.

  ‘Thank you for looking after Zeena,’ Tara began, setting her glass on the coffee table. ‘This has all been such a rush I haven’t had a chance to look at your details properly and tell Zeena. You’ve got three adult children, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, one boy and two girls,’ I said, smiling at Zeena and trying to put her at ease. ‘You’ll meet them later.’

  ‘And you don’t have any other males in the house, apart from your son?’ Tara asked.

  ‘No. I’m divorced.’

  She glanced at Zeena, who seemed to draw some comfort from this and gave a small nod. Tara had a nice manner about her, gentle and considerate. I guessed she was in her mid-thirties; she had short, wavy brown hair and was dressed in a long jumper over jeans.

  ‘Zeena is very anxious about her safety,’ Tara said to me. ‘She has a mobile phone, and I’ve put my telephone number in it, also the social services�
�� emergency out-of-hours number, and the police. It’s a pay-as-you-go phone. She has credit on it now. Can you make sure she keeps the phone in credit, please? It’s important for her safety.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, and felt my anxiety heighten.

  ‘Zeena knows she can phone the police at any time if she’s worried about her safety,’ Tara said. ‘Her family won’t be given this address. No one knows where she is staying, and the school know they mustn’t give out this address. We weren’t followed here, but please be cautious and check before answering the door.’

  ‘I always check at night,’ I said, uneasily. ‘But what am I checking for?’

  Tara looked at Zeena.

  ‘My family,’ Zeena said very quietly, her hands trembling in her lap.

  ‘Please try not to worry,’ I said, feeling I should reassure her. ‘You’ll be safe here with me.’

  Zeena’s eyes rounded in fear as she finally met my gaze, and I could see she dearly wished she could believe me. ‘I hope so,’ she said almost under her breath. ‘Because if they find me, they’ll kill me.’

  Chapter Two

  Different House

  I looked at Tara. My mouth had gone dry and my heart was drumming loudly. I could see that Zeena’s comment had shaken Tara as much as it had me. Zeena had her head slightly lowered and was staring at the floor, wringing the headscarf she held in her lap. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of the front door opening. Zeena shot up from the sofa.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she cried.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, also standing. ‘That’ll be my daughter, Paula, back from sixth form.’

  Zeena didn’t immediately relax and return to the sofa but remained standing, anxiously watching the living-room door.

  ‘We’re in here, love,’ I called to Paula, who was taking off her shoes and jacket in the hall.

  Paula came into the living room, and I saw Zeena relax. ‘This is Zeena and her social worker, Tara,’ I said, introducing them.