Broken: Part 2 of 3: A traumatised girl. Her troubled brother. Their shocking secret.
Nine-year-old Archie and his five-year-old sister, Bobbi, are taken into emergency police protective custody after an incident of domestic violence at their family home.Rosie collects the children from their out-of-hours foster carer on New Year’s Day and instantly recognises Archie from a domestic violence workshop she helped with. Rosie remembers that when asked what he enjoyed most about the course, Archie said: ‘the biscuits’.Social workers are concerned that Archie and Bobbi have been neglected. As Rosie gets to know the children, she begins to suspect that something far more disturbing lies in their past.Archie, jovial and polite, bats away Rosie’s attempts to talk to him about anything serious with witty one-liners and sophisticated distractions. Bobbi reacts violently, lashing out and throwing herself around. Rosie has never seen a child as young a Bobbi behaving so viciously, but it is Archie she is most concerned about as the weeks go by.After a worrying incident at school, Archie tearfully discloses the truth – a shocking secret that has left him and his sister traumatised. Horrified at what she learns, Rosie is determined to help the young siblings find a forever-home that will provide them with the love and care they deserve.
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Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.
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First published by HarperElement 2017
FIRST EDITION
© Rosie Lewis 2017
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers
Cover photograph (posed by model) © Images by Tracy/Alamy Stock Photo
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Rosie Lewis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008242800
Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008242848
Version: 2017-11-14
Contents
Helpless (e-short)
Trapped
A Small Boy’s Cry (e-short)
Two More Sleeps (e-short)
Betrayed
Unexpected (e-short)
Torn
Taken
‘It has to be up there with the worst ones yet,’ I told Des as he followed me into the living area that evening, Mungo sniffing at his feet. It was just after seven thirty and with the girls tucked up in bed, the house was quiet but for the low buzz of the washing machine on a spin cycle in the kitchen. Emily was out for a meal with her grandmother and I wasn’t expecting her back until late. Archie was in the shower and Jamie at band practice with his friends. Throughout the day my mind had returned to our row, my throat tightening with regret. Jamie was usually such a cheerful character. I hated falling out with him. We’d had a brief chat when he got back from school that afternoon, but things were still a bit cool between us.
Des was the perfect distraction. Loud and gregarious, he sat next to me on the sofa and chuckled as I relayed the entire mortifying fiasco. ‘Par for the course in the Lewis household, I would have thought,’ he joked, his loud voice booming despite his efforts not to disturb the children. Mungo sat at my feet, his feathery whiskers tickling my legs.
I groaned. ‘It was awful. Then she came in and saw the fall-out from the weekend. Toys everywhere, smalls that had spent the entire weekend draped over the radiators stiff with rigor mortis. Honestly, it was bad.’
Des boomed a laugh and threw a hand to my shoulder. ‘Ach, it cannae have been that bad,’ he said in his soft Scottish lilt. It was a lyrical tone, one that never failed to cheer me. ‘I expect she’s seen worse. I once turned up to do an unannounced on a couple having the mother of all smash-ups. There were household objects flying across windows and everything. They didnae last long as foster carers after that.’
‘Oh, heavens! I don’t feel so bad now.’
‘I’m sure t’was fine. She didnae express any concerns, did she?’
‘She was very kind actually. She said she got the sense that ours is,’ I paused, hooking the air, ‘a “proper family home with plenty of evidence of children’s play”. Now there’s a creative way of describing it.’
‘Spot on, I’d say,’ he said, leaning forward and opening the bottle of wine on the coffee table. Left over from Christmas, I had retrieved it from the cupboard when Des had texted to let me know he was popping in. He poured me a glass and lifted his own. ‘Here’s to your proper family home, warts an’ all,’ he said, holding his glass up in front of me.
‘Cheers,’ I said with a smile. We clinked. I took a sip, shuddered and passed it back to him. I liked the idea of sharing a bottle of wine but had never found one I liked the taste of and rarely managed more than half a glass. Des, a true Scot, took a much larger swill of his own, gulped down the rest of mine and banged the glasses back on the table.
‘So how is everything? Any better?’ Des had been training in Edinburgh since the children had arrived almost two weeks earlier. We had spoken on the phone during that time, but only briefly. Absorbed with the needs of my own family, his manically busy lifestyle suited me.
I tucked my legs up next to my hips. ‘They’re gorgeous children. Absolutely lovely.’
Des shifted around until his back was pressed against the arm of the sofa, so that we were facing each other. ‘But –?’
‘But – I don’t know. Bobbi’s behaviour is familiar, although a little more extreme than I’ve experienced before. She’s aggressive, impulsive, difficult to manage generally, the little cherub. But I think she’s calming down. She’s not talking ten to the dozen anymore. I think she’ll settle with time. She has a hard time coping with school, but she’s showing some attachment to me; clinging in the mornings and reaching out when she’s upset.’ Miss Granville had written another note in SHOUTY capitals in the home school diary again, Bobbi having antagonised her classmates all morning. Totally overwhelmed, she had apparently spent most of the afternoon under one of the desks, refusing to come out even when the headmistress was called in.
