Читать книгу Trapped: The Terrifying True Story of a Secret World of Abuse онлайн | страница 11

A loud chanting from the living room quickened my step along the hall.

‘Jamie, Jamie, Jamie! Wet willy, wet willy!’

‘Lovely it is to see you again, Rosie,’ Lenke said breezily to my back, as though the walls of the hallway were not vibrating with the sound of piercing screeches coming from the living room.

The first thing I noticed when I stood in the doorway was the horrified expression on my son’s face. He was arching over the back of the sofa, fending Phoebe off with his arms as she fought to stick her wet finger in his ear.

‘Stop that please, Phoebe,’ I said, my voice sharp. Clearly there was to be no honeymoon period in this placement and the sooner she learnt who was in charge, the better.

‘Stop that please, Phoebe,’ she mimicked again. Although she was using a high-pitched, scornful tone, I could tell immediately that she was well-spoken, each word precisely clipped. Thankfully my own tone had an effect. Although she fixed me with a brazen look she stopped what she was doing and began staring at me with a nasty, twisted smile on her face.

‘I’m going to my room,’ Jamie wheezed. He passed me with his head bent over so I couldn’t see his expression but the slope of his shoulders told me how he was feeling. Despite his protestations about wanting a boy, I knew he had been looking forward to meeting Phoebe.

‘OK, Jamie, that’s fine,’ I said, my voice tight as a sudden guilt clawed at my throat. What had I taken on here?

‘I’m going too.’ Phoebe flipped over the sofa and charged across the room but I stepped backwards to fill the doorway by stretching out my arms.

‘No.’ I summoned my most commanding tone. ‘We don’t go into each other’s rooms. Now go and sit down. I’ll show you around the house later, if you sit nicely while I talk to Lenke.’

‘Sit nicely while I talk to Lenke,’ she repeated, spinning around and returning to the sofa. Lenke walked past and I gestured for her to take a seat. The social worker headed for the opposite end of the sofa, hardly looking at Phoebe, who sat with her legs sprawled, glaring at me. Her hair was brown and frizzy-looking. The style was boyish, cut short to make the wiry texture more manageable, I imagined. Her eyes were appealing, light brown in colour, but seemed to swivel, giving her a slightly deranged look, and she was scarily thin, so much so that the skin across her cheekbones had a translucent quality.