The Child Bride. Cathy Glass

at her with a mixture of awe and astonishment. ‘But how did your best friend’s aunty know you were in care?’

      Zeena gave a small shrug. ‘Easy, really. My friend will have told her mother when she asked her, and she would have mentioned it to her sister (my friend’s aunty), who would have asked her neighbour. Because it was put out by my parents that I’d run away and was in danger, they’d all think they were doing right in helping to find me. Girls don’t run away in our community. It brings shame and dishonour, not only on the family but on the whole community. If they do run away they don’t stay lost for long.’

      A chill ran down my spine. I could see now how it had happened and I was really worried – far more than Zeena appeared to be. ‘Norma suggested you go to a safe house out of the area,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think that’s a good idea?’

      ‘I’d rather stay here and be with my friends,’ Zeena said sadly. ‘I’ve lost my family; I don’t want to lose my friends as well. If I go to a safe house I’ll be all alone. What sort of life would I have?’

      I could see her point, although I was no less worried.

      ‘You told that woman, Mrs Parvin, that I wasn’t here,’ Zeena said. ‘So she doesn’t know. I’ll be OK. I’m probably safer here now than I was before. They’ll be looking somewhere else for me.’ Which had a certain logic to it; as long as she wasn’t spotted.

      ‘I’m still very concerned that someone could see you coming in or leaving the house,’ I said. ‘Or follow you home.’

      ‘My friends wait with me at the bus stop at the end of school,’ she said. ‘And when I get off in the high street here I make sure I’m not followed. I suppose I could always start wearing a full veil.’ For a moment I thought she was serious, then her expression gave way to a very small smile. ‘That would really draw attention to me!’ she said. ‘I’m only joking.’

      I smiled too. Zeena was a lovely child and it was pitiful that she had to be so fearful, and that her life had been so compromised, when at her age she should have been running free. In having this conversation I felt we’d grown a little closer. Would she now feel comfortable enough to share some of her heartache with me? ‘Zeena, love, can you tell me why you fled your family and asked to go into care?’

      She looked at me, and then lowered her gaze. ‘No. I don’t want you to think badly of me. If you knew you’d think I was evil and treat me like my family do.’

      I was shocked. ‘Of course I wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘Children are never to blame for the abuse they’ve suffered. Although they might have been told they are. Sadly, I’ve looked after many children who have been abused, and nothing shocks me any more.’

      There was a small silence before Zeena said: ‘If you knew what happened to me you’d be shocked.’

      Her words hung in the air and I had a dreadful feeling she would be right.

Chapter Seven

       Desperate

      The following day, as Zeena left for school, I reminded her to text me when she arrived, and also to come straight home at the end of school as we had the doctor’s appointment at five o’clock. I saw her to the garden gate and then watched her walk up the street. Before she turned the corner and was out of sight she looked back and gave a little wave. I waved back. In her uniform, with her bag over her shoulder, she could have been any teenager going to school if you didn’t know her inner turmoil. She said she enjoyed school work and wanted to do well.

      I returned indoors but I couldn’t settle until Zeena texted to say that she had arrived safely. I woke Adrian with a cup of tea and then switched on the computer in the front room to check my emails. Like most businesses and services, the social services were going digital and expected carers to use email where appropriate. As I worked Adrian came downstairs.

      ‘Zeena’s phone keeps going off in her room,’ he said, poking his head round the front-room door.

      ‘That’s odd,’ I said. ‘She’s taken the phone that works with her. I saw it in her hand.’

      ‘Well, it’s bleeping a lot,’ he said, and then went to the kitchen to make himself breakfast.

      I saved the document I was working on and went upstairs. I respected the privacy of the young people I looked after and usually only went into their rooms to put their clean clothes on their beds (for them to put away), unless I had reason to believe they were taking drugs or up to other mischief, in which case I might have a look around. This didn’t apply to Zeena; there was no suggestion she was taking drugs, but I was concerned that perhaps someone was trying to get hold of her urgently and didn’t have her new mobile number. As I went into her room I saw the phone lying on the shelf and I picked it up. It was working. The screen showed dozens of missed calls and text messages, mostly from one mobile number. I returned the phone to the shelf and went downstairs. Clearly someone was trying to get in touch with Zeena urgently and I thought she should know. I took my mobile from my bag and texted: Ur old phone keeps ringing. Is it urgent? Shall I answer?

      She texted back immediately: NO! Don’t touch it. Pleeeease!

      I thought this was a bit of an overreaction but I texted back. OK. Don’t worry. I won’t.

      Five minutes later – when Zeena had had a chance to think about it – she texted: Sorry. Secret boyfriend. Don’t tell anyone.

      Of course that explained it, I thought. Zeena’s parents were so strict that they certainly wouldn’t have allowed her to have a boyfriend at her age, so she used the separate phone just for him. It was quite romantic, really, I thought – a bit like Romeo and Juliet with their clandestine meetings. I supposed she hadn’t liked to tell me in case I disapproved, so she’d made up the excuse of the phone not working. I remember she’d pushed it furtively under her pillow before so I couldn’t see the screen.

      That afternoon when Zeena returned home from school she was still very anxious about me seeing the phone. The first thing she said when I opened the door was: ‘You didn’t answer my phone or read my messages, did you?’

      ‘No, of course not, love,’ I said. ‘Although I think perhaps we should have a little chat about boyfriends in general?’ As her carer I thought this might be wise, as I doubted her parents had had that conversation, given they didn’t know he existed.

      ‘I’ll get changed quickly,’ Zeena said, and went up to her room to change out of her school uniform to go to the doctor’s.

      Five minutes later she reappeared in jeans and a long shirt and we left the house to walk to the surgery, which was about fifteen minutes away. I usually walked to the surgery as it had limited car-parking facilities, reserved mainly for the disabled and the elderly. As Zeena didn’t know where the practice was and it was her first visit, we agreed I’d go with her and would sit in the waiting room while she went in to see the doctor. I’d offered to go in to see the doctor with her, but she said she’d rather go in alone, which at her age was reasonable. But as we walked I could see she was growing increasingly anxious. ‘The doctor is lovely,’ I said. ‘Try not to worry.’

      She nodded but didn’t seem any less anxious, so I began to make light conversation to try to take her mind off it, and asked her if she’d had a good day at school. She said she had; she liked Tuesdays as she had science all morning – one of her favourite subjects. Then she suddenly turned to me and said: ‘I won’t be seeing that boy again. It’s over, so there is no need for you to worry or tell anyone.’

      ‘I think Tara should know,’ I said. ‘If you have boyfriend problems she or I might be able to advise you. We were both young once.’

      ‘There’s nothing to advise me about,’ she said. ‘It’s finished and I’ll make sure my phone is off in future.’

      ‘I wasn’t prying, love,’