Книга - The Little Princess: The shocking true story of a little girl imprisoned in her own home

The Little Princess: The shocking true story of a little girl imprisoned in her own home
Casey Watson


Six-year-old Darby arrives on Casey’s doorstep terrified and hysterical. As Casey tries to soothe the little girl she realises that this is likely to be one of the most difficult placements she had ever had to deal with…Casey is shocked to answer the door on a Sunday afternoon, the week before Christmas, to find John Fulshaw on her doorstep – unannounced and looking very serious. John explains why’s he’s come, and the Watsons sit and listen, shocked and sickened, as he describes the most recent child to appear under his radar.Six year old Darby Sykes has been taken into care just a couple of hours back, as a result of a known paedophile getting in touch with the local police, having been so sickened by something he’s seen online. Even in his murky world, this was depravity above and beyond – he recognised the little girl as being one who lived on his estate.Swift action has been taken – Darby has been removed from her home, and John believes that Casey and Mike are the best people to support this small terrified child while a long term plan of action is decided.










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Copyright (#uddfceaba-8d22-51ea-a9c0-1ef0fd45680b)


This is a work of non-fiction based on the author’s experiences. In order to protect privacy, names, identifying characteristics, dialogue and details have been changed or reconstructed.

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2016

FIRST EDITION

© Casey Watson 2016

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photograph © Vanessa Skotnitsky/Arcangel Images (posed by model)

A catalogue record of this book is

available from the British Library

Casey Watson asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

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Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780008142711

Version: 2016-08-05




Contents


Cover (#ud44c6159-fb8a-5718-969d-379a7ce65372)

Title Page (#ulink_1834fbd8-abaa-59d4-927d-0599d6313620)

Copyright (#ulink_8324b498-0b0c-5f4e-91b9-fd52ff48da3a)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_76c6bf96-7e16-50a9-85b2-aa0b4532e825)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_2d27a1fb-506e-50d5-b565-0f6e25bc58a6)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_2018d5a6-cf9e-501d-8b8b-52cab9c5c2bb)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Exclusive sneak peek: Runaway Girl (#litres_trial_promo)

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter 1 (#uddfceaba-8d22-51ea-a9c0-1ef0fd45680b)


It was the Sunday before Christmas. Almost my favourite time of year. Actually, in some ways my most favourite time of year, because it was the date of our annual family pre-Christmas dinner – or my practice run, as my son Kieron had always called it. Which was just like the main one, only in lots of ways nicer, as it involved all the fun without any of the stress, plus the anticipation of Christmas proper still to come.

Well, to my mind, at any rate. I should have known better than to mention it to my ever-loving husband Mike. ‘More like a prelude to a nightmare,’ he quipped, ‘with this gaggle of little monsters around. Look at them. If this level of mania is anything to go by, heaven help us when we get to the actual day!’

I knew, what with the house full of grandkids and mayhem, that he was probably only half-joking. He had a point, too. I winced as I watched Marley Mae, who was deep in the realm of the terrible twos now, almost collide with the Christmas tree. And for the umpteenth time today, while the film I’d put on (in the vain hope of keeping Riley’s three occupied) blared to itself in the corner. Much as I loved Arnie Schwarzenegger – the film was Jingle All the Way – I could barely hear myself think.

‘Shut up, you old Grinch,’ I told Mike. ‘You know you love it really. And how can you say such a thing? Bless them,’ I added, scooping Marley Mae into my arms. ‘You’re not a monster. You’re our little princess, aren’t you?’

It was a phrase that would very soon come to haunt me.

We’d had the luxury (in a manner of speaking, since it had been a pretty hectic time) of taking a few months off from fostering. After seeing our last foster child, Flip, off to her forever home the previous spring, we’d decided to take a bit of a break. With our Kieron and his partner Lauren having given us our fourth grandchild, Dee Dee, we’d taken the decision to devote some time to just being there for them. With Kieron’s Asperger’s (which is a mild form of autism), we’d been all too aware that they could really use the extra support. So, apart from Tyler, our permanent foster child, and very much now part of the family, we’d only accepted a couple of short-term emergency placements. We’d had a singular lad called Connor, veteran of the care system, for a brief but intense period, and a misunderstood five-year-old called Paulie, who’d been rejected by his mother and stepfather, and who was now settled with a long-term foster family.

Both had proved to us – if proof were needed – that you couldn’t fix everything for every child; sometimes you could only help smooth the transition from one kind of life to the next. Life was different for us too now – keeping Tyler had changed everything. With the fostering we did at present, we had to keep his needs always in mind.

It had been a happy time. And at the centre of it was the joy of being grandparents. That and the gratitude – Mike and I counted our blessings daily. And not least because Dee Dee had proved to be an amazingly easy baby – and Kieron and Lauren, despite the usual wobbles, very natural parents. I could still find myself welling up whenever I thought about it; just how lucky we’d all been that our anxious, fretful son had met, in Lauren, such a perfect and loving soulmate.

Today, then, was all about the simple joys of family, and as I beavered away in the kitchen, putting pans on and keeping an eye on my roast potatoes, that was what was very much on my mind. So when I saw a car pull up and soon after disgorge our fostering link worker, John Fulshaw, I found myself smiling. Trust him to be working on a Sunday. And how nice it would be to welcome him in – perhaps I’d even be able to persuade him to have a festive glass of sherry.

John always appeared at some point in the run-up to Christmas. It was one of his traditions to ‘do the rounds’ at this time of year, bestowing all his foster families with a poinsettia. ‘All the way from sunny San Diego!’ he’d always remind us as he handed it over, San Diego apparently being the poinsettia capital of the world.

There was sun for us too that particular Sunday. Sun, and the sort of frosty air that promised ice tonight, if not snow. But as I watched John walk up the path, there was no pot plant in his hand, just his usual battered briefcase. And, worryingly, no seasonal smile on his face, either. Just a deeply etched frown. I could see it clearly, even in the gathering December dusk.

I dried my hands and went out into the hallway. No poinsettia for me today, I thought, glancing down at the place I usually reserved for it – at the back of the hall table where it was generally safe from little hands.

‘Can you keep an eye on the veg for me? We’ve got a visitor,’ I called to Riley. She was still playing lion tamer in the living room with Mike, Kieron and Lauren, till Tyler returned from an outing with his half-brother, Grant, when he would assume his role as chief entertainer of the little ones till we ate.

I opened the door just as John was reaching for the knocker. Nope, it was a definite. There was no pretty red plant behind his back. ‘Come in, come in,’ I said, gesturing with my hand. ‘You look half-frozen.’

He put his case down just inside the door and rubbed his hands together. ‘Brrr,’ he said. ‘Too right. It’s really cold out there today.’

I agreed, and hurried to help him off with his coat. But I could already see he was somewhat distracted. ‘What’s up, John?’ I asked him as I threw it on top of the pile over the newel post.

He sighed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, glancing towards the living room. ‘This is not the best time is it? I did call, but …’ He gestured towards the cacophony. ‘But thought I’d try popping over, since I was out and about anyway. I was hoping you and Mike could help us out.’

By ‘us’, I immediately knew he meant the fostering team. Christmas was always a stressful time of year for them, for all the usual, depressing reasons. Family flare-ups, often compounded by the stresses of the festive season. And compounded too by the fact that – for the same festive reasons – foster carers were temporarily thin on the ground. Sad though it was, it was part and parcel of the job. He must need us to take a child in. That much was immediately evident. Not a poinsettia, but a child – most likely one in distress. And it must be urgent for him to turn up after only trying to call once. He knew what I was like, and how often I mislaid my mobile.

‘If we can, you know we will,’ I immediately reassured him. ‘But hang on – let me grab Mike and get the little ones out of the way, so we can have somewhere quiet to talk.’

Which was easier said than done, obviously, given the size of the house and the number of people currently in it. But in the end I set Riley and Lauren to work in the kitchen, minding the dinner, while Mike, Kieron and David minded the children in the living room, leaving us the conservatory – the only room in the house not yet festooned with fairy lights, which, given John’s grim expression, seemed the most appropriate.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again as we went in.

I have seen and heard an awful lot in my fostering career, some of it the sort of thing I wished I hadn’t had to. The sort of thing that, once seen and heard, you couldn’t un-see or un-hear; testament to the reality that the world could be a cruel, ugly place. And you get a sixth sense, when you’ve worked with someone as long as Mike and I had with John. Seeing his expression as he sat down in one of the two wicker armchairs, I realised this might just be one such occasion.

‘We are desperate,’ John began, ‘or I wouldn’t have come to you. I know how much Christmas means to you, and particularly this Christmas. But the truth is that I don’t have anywhere else to turn.’

Nowhere else to turn. The kind of statement that’s almost a cliché. Not to mention one I’d heard before, as it’s a bit of a theme in fostering. And sadly, when a link worker or social worker says it, it’s usually the literal truth.

Riley popped her head round the door. ‘I’ve made some coffees. You both want one?’

We both nodded and she smiled John a hello. She knew the potential score. She and David fostered too these days, though, sensibly, with three little ones on their hands, they only did it intermittently, to provide respite for full-time foster carers.

I pulled the table across in readiness, while she went to get our drinks for us. I could still hear Arnie and co jingling their merry way in the living room.

John was anything but merry, and I wondered quite what he was about to tell me.

‘So,’ I said, ‘you want us to take a child in.’ He nodded. ‘Just for over Christmas? Or are we looking at a more permanent thing?’

John rubbed his hands together again. They were pinkish, and mottled from the cold. ‘I don’t know yet. It’s a big mess. Police involved. Shocking. All very sudden, so there’s no care plan in place yet, obviously. Shocking,’ he said again. John wasn’t easily shocked. ‘It’s a little girl,’ he went on, grimacing. ‘Literally just been brought in to us. And you’ll need to prepare yourselves. Ah, Mike,’ he said, looking up. ‘Good.’

Mike came in with the coffees, having presumably left Riley and the others to deal with what needed dealing with – which, it occurred to me, could usefully involve turning the TV off.

‘Go on, then,’ I urged John, once Mike had pulled up another chair. ‘Exactly how shocking? How bad is it?’

Pretty bad, as it turned out, even to our experienced ears.

‘Her name is Darby,’ John began. ‘Six years old. Lives with both parents.’

I knew this could mean everything and nothing. Many foster kids – most of the type we tended to foster – came to us having already been involved with social services, from dysfunctional families, fractured ones, the kids of addicts of various kinds – and a fair few who’d already been in the care system for a while. That this girl came from a home with a mother and father could mean lots of things, good or bad, so I couldn’t pre-judge. What I knew it wouldn’t be was some sort of tragedy, such as both parents having been killed in a road accident. Police, he’d said. A big mess. That was telling.

‘She’s come to our attention,’ John continued, ‘via a known paedophile. And, as I said, you’ll want to brace yourselves …’

The word was galvanising. We did. In fact, I don’t think I’d sat so stiffly to attention since I’d last been to a lecture on fostering protocols. Though this time it wasn’t so I didn’t drift off to sleep. On the contrary, I’d rarely been so riveted.

The little girl, Darby Sykes, had indeed come to them via a known paedophile – one who’d been browsing through his usual diet of hardcore child pornography when he thought he recognised a child that he knew. That the images would have been disturbing wasn’t in question – physical abuse of small children was the kind of material he mostly went for, but in this case, realising he knew the child lit some flame of disquiet in him. Identifying the actual victim meant he couldn’t switch off the part of his brain that was required to pipe down in order for him to enjoy what he was doing.

And what he’d been doing, John explained, in a quiet, measured voice, was watching little six-year-old Darby, on film, on his laptop, initially dressed up, and made up, but soon almost fully naked, and acting out various scenarios with a variety of sex toys. Above each moving picture was apparently a banner. It read ‘Our Little Princess’.




Chapter 2 (#uddfceaba-8d22-51ea-a9c0-1ef0fd45680b)


The known paedophile, John continued, had been sickened. He smiled grimly, once he’d told us that, as if to say I know – even paedophiles as depraved as this one had their limits. ‘He was apparently really sickened,’ John went on. ‘Which he must have been, mustn’t he? Because he reported it to the police even knowing the probable consequences – that, when they seized his computer, which they obviously would do, he’d be in big trouble himself. They live on the same estate,’ he continued. Then spread his palms wide. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, really, does it?’

‘I feel sick too,’ Mike said, echoing my own sentiments. ‘Six? You say she’s six?’ He shook his head. ‘And her parents are filming her for paedophiles? I honestly just can’t imagine anything more terrible.’

John sipped his coffee. ‘Yes, six, and an only child, thank God. Which is not to say the couple haven’t …’

‘Jesus,’ said Mike. ‘It’s so sick.’

‘But she’s safe now. The police acted swiftly, thank goodness. She’s safe with us now.’

‘Since when?’ I asked.

‘Since two hours ago.’

‘At the office?’

He nodded. ‘But look – listen, both – don’t say yes if you don’t think …’

‘How could we possibly say no, John? God!’ I said. ‘What kind of a state must she be in?’ I tried to imagine what kind of mental turmoil the child was in. Had she been held prisoner in her own home? Forced to ‘perform’ under threat? Would she be glad to have escaped? Desperate? Hysterical? Or, on the other hand – and the thought crept unavoidably into my brain – was she more distressed at being taken away from all she knew? Was what she’d been forced to do her version of normal?

Mike and I exchanged glances. I knew his thought processes would be similar. A few years previously we’d fostered siblings who’d been born into a family that were at the centre of a terrifyingly huge paedophile ring. The older one, Ashton, was his grandfather’s son – one of several children he’d sired with his own daughters. Most chillingly, however, was that, groomed virtually from birth, these two terrified innocents had been distressed, no doubt about it, but not about the sexual abuse, which for them was just another way of showing love – no, they were distressed at being taken from their ever-loving granddad.

Hearing the shouts and whoops of my own grandchildren coming from the other room, my heart felt suddenly leaden. ‘Then go and fetch her,’ I told John, returning Mike’s affirmative nod. ‘Bring her here. Of course we’ll have her. That’s settled.’

John’s frown lines smoothed out slightly. A box had been ticked. A problem shared and halved. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and I knew he really meant it. ‘I knew I could depend on you two. And, of course, I’ll go back and organise for her to be brought to you right away. But you need to be aware of what you are taking on. Seriously. I know you’ve a lot of experience of this sort of thing –’ He spread his palms. ‘Would that it were otherwise, eh? But this appears to be a severely damaged little girl. And in all kinds of ways. It’s in a different league, honestly –’

Mike laughed grimly. ‘You said it, mate. Sheesh. You’re telling me.’

‘Horrific,’ John agreed.

‘And the parents,’ I said, thinking suddenly about the monsters who’d done this evil. ‘What’s happened to them now?’

‘Arrested,’ John said. ‘Not sure what’s happening next there. But if you’re absolutely sure you’re happy to take little Darby, even if just in the short term, I’ll go back and sort things. She’s already been allocated a social worker – though I’ve not met her myself yet – and she’s the one who’ll bring Darby over to you. Say an hour or so?’ He glanced back towards the kitchen, sniffing the air. ‘Give you time to have your dinner at least.’

Dinner, understandably, was the last thing on my mind. And, unsurprisingly, I had entirely lost my appetite. We ate anyway, because, aside from everything else, the rest of the family were all starving – all bar Tyler, who pitched up not long after John had left us, and in doing so reminding me why we did what we did. I hugged him extra hard, as if he were a living, breathing talisman against the evil that was going to come and visit, in the shape of the reality it forced into our minds.

We told Riley the bare minimum, and a white lie to Kieron – he found any kind of child abuse extremely distressing, so we simply said her parents had been arrested for unrelated offences, which, having no other family, had left her with nowhere to go over Christmas.

We also took the decision to end the family gathering early. Again, the kids were used to such things, and, with Christmas still to come, the little ones weren’t bothered either. We just explained to Levi and Jackson that we were taking in a little girl over Christmas and, so she wouldn’t be too traumatised, we needed a slightly quieter household when she arrived. Which was probably true anyway. John had told us that she’d been inconsolable. There’d been much clinging and screaming and sobbing apparently. It would be a pretty intense job for the poor social worker.

Levi, who’d just turned nine, was excited. A sociable little chap and a typical eldest, he was always in his element when there was a new young friend to take charge of, and wouldn’t leave without a promise that he’d be meeting her soon, which I was only too happy to make for him. Once she’d settled, I told him, what she’d need would be the same as all kids need. Comfort and routine and to be enveloped in love. ‘I’ll give her lots of hugs, Nana,’ he solemnly promised me.

First of all, however, she’d need a bedroom. So, as soon as we’d waved everyone off (in my case, with a pang of regret, as I watched the cars disappear down the road, Mike and Tyler in one of them, taking Kieron, Lauren and a rudely awoken Dee Dee) I hotfooted it upstairs to the bedroom.

Which wasn’t so much bedroom as junk room just lately. Since little Paulie had left it had slowly reassigned itself, almost without me realising it was happening. Knowing we’d not be needing it for a good while, we’d both found it all too easy to say ‘I’ll just pop this here’ and ‘It can stay there for the moment,’ and to such an extent that there was very little floor space – particularly since Mike had one of his major garage clear-outs and earmarked a ridiculous amount of stuff to go on eBay. ‘Yeah, right, Dad,’ Tyler had said. I remembered that well now. ‘Yeah, right, bet you a tenner it’ll still be here this time next year.’ Though to his credit, he’d downloaded some ‘app’ (apps were still something of a mystery to me) and managed to sell a good deal more than a tenner’s worth, at a hard-won but decent commission.

Still, there was a fair bit that still needed shifting, not to mention the fact that our Christmas presents were all stored there, safely away from several pairs of prying eyes, till such time as I poured myself an eggnog, popped on a favourite Christmas movie and settled down to wrap them in peace.

John had laughed about that, the tension broken as he’d left, having correctly identified the look of sudden stress on my face. ‘Look at her, Mike,’ he said. ‘Full-on panic mode now. Thinking about how she won’t have time to go out buying new curtains and duvets.’

Mike had laughed too. ‘You know her too well, John. But under the circumstances, Casey,’ he’d placed a hand on my shoulder, ‘I don’t think you need to be worrying about that.’

It had set the tone again, that, after our brief moment of levity. He’d been right. What this poor kid needed was a safe place. A sanctuary. Not a frilly duvet and a pair of matching bloody curtains.

Still, she needed a clean space, and this definitely wasn’t that, so once I’d cleared the floor somewhat and piled the presents in our bedroom wardrobe, I ran back downstairs for a bin liner, disinfectant spray and cloth. And then, as an afterthought, ragged the small set of fairy lights from around the hall mirror. After all, they weren’t going to be needed to illuminate any poinsettia, by the looks of things. And, for all that little Darby wouldn’t need a new Frozen quilt cover, she would need a light in her current darkness, however small.




Chapter 3 (#uddfceaba-8d22-51ea-a9c0-1ef0fd45680b)


Mike and Tyler were back within half an hour and, to at least stem the tide of typical Tyler-questions (which was totally reasonable, as he’d come to us as a traumatised child himself) we told him just a little – just enough to satisfy his curiosity. We told him Darby had been abused by her parents, that it was physical rather than just mental, but we left it at that. We were of one mind, Mike and I – and it had never been any different. No child should have to know about such things – that such things went on in apparently normal families. Not until they had to, at any rate. Of course, the hardest thing when Darby came to us would be to ensure that remained the case, but as Tyler, now off school for Christmas, had a packed programme of football and various teenage gatherings, I hoped we’d be able to achieve that much at least.

‘So what do you think?’ I asked Mike as we all trooped up to the bedroom, their presence required to relocate some of the junk from landing to loft.

‘It’s fine,’ Mike reassured me, while Tyler pulled down the loft ladder. Then, ‘Love, stop fretting about the décor. More important is how we’re going to play this. You know, I hate this. And it seems to be the way more often than not now. Going in blind. Nothing to go on … not knowing how to deal with her.’

I could see what we’d been told was still weighing heavily on him, and I got that. How could it not? He was a father. And, more specifically, of a daughter – not to mention two granddaughters. Though you’d have to be naïve not to be well aware that it could equally have been a little boy.

‘I think there’s a car pulling up,’ Tyler shouted down from the loft, being blessed with superhuman hearing.

And indeed there was. A swift glance out between the spare bedroom curtains confirmed it. The headlights snapped off and I could see the car door opening. ‘Well, here goes nothing,’ I said, as Mike followed me down the stairs, Tyler clattering down the ladder and close behind.

The social worker, whom I’d not come across before, was as grim-faced and stressed-looking as John had been. She introduced herself as Katy Morris, and gently touched the shoulder of the little girl by her side. ‘And this,’ she said, smiling down at the tiny child, ‘is Darby.’ She leaned down slightly. ‘Are you going to say hello, Darby?’ she said gently. ‘This is Casey, and that’s Mike. Remember, I told you all about them in the car?’

‘And this is our son Tyler,’ I added, conscious of how the little girl kept her head down, unwilling to look at us, but sufficiently interested to briefly look up at the sound of my voice. Her gaze flickered past us and I imagined Tyler beaming his mega-wattage smile. He could be a handful – he was a teenager – but I don’t think he’d ever forget what it felt like to be dumped on a stranger’s doorstep.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Katy Morris said. ‘I literally had about ten minutes to read your file.’

She looked so apologetic that I felt like patting her reassuringly on the shoulder too. She must have been on call. What festive delights had she been dragged away from? She was also quite young. No more than late twenties, I reckoned. Though with a reassuring air of quiet confidence.

Even so, this would have been a grim day for her too. ‘No apologies necessary,’ I reassured her, liking her immediately. ‘Come on. Come on in. Follow me,’ I chirped, leading the small procession into the living room, where it still looked as if a small typhoon had recently passed through. ‘Grab a seat anywhere you like,’ I added, willing myself not to start straightening cushions. ‘How about a hot drink? It’s so cold out, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘Can I?’ she answered. ‘I’d love a quick one. It’s been manic, as you can imagine.’ She put her bag down on the floor and started unbuttoning Darby’s coat, talking to her all the time in soothing tones. It was an old coat and cheap-looking, and I belatedly realised it was the only thing she had with her. Had they not even had the chance to gather up some familiar clothes and toys? Evidently not.

Mike, ever practical, put the TV back on, flicking from DVD player to the channels as he did so. ‘How about some cartoons?’ he suggested to the girl, as he navigated the remote for something child-friendly. ‘Would you like that, Darby? While the grown-ups have a quick chat? And a biscuit, perhaps? And a drink of juice or milk?’

At the mention of food and drink, Darby finally properly looked at us, and I was immediately struck by the arresting nature of her looks. She had the sort of dirty-blonde hair that young actresses paid a fortune for, shoulder length, fine, with a messy, choppy fringe that looked like it had been done with kitchen scissors. Behind it, I could now see a hauntingly beautiful little face. She had clearly been crying a lot – her cheeks were streaked with tear stains and very grubby, but those eyes! They were an amazing, almost luminous electric blue. Wide set and almond shaped, they were framed by thick lashes. Of the kind young actresses probably paid good money to have stuck on, too. It was a face that could stop you in your tracks, and, along with an appreciation of her gorgeous elfin looks, came the same sense of revulsion as had come earlier. People had





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