Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the children.
HarperElement
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
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.
Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at
www.harpercollins.co.uk/green
Source ISBN: 9780007590001
Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007590018
Version: 2016-04-22
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
A big thank-you to my editor, Holly; my literary agent, Andrew; Carole, Vicky, Laura, Hannah, Virginia and all the team at HarperCollins.
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.
‘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.’