Forbidden (11 page)

‘The boss, then,’ I substitute.

‘Yeah, that’s the one!’

Lochan flashes me a look that says, What have I done to you? Again, I’m aware of a fleeting sense of satisfaction.

‘Wila, for fuck sake, clean up this mess – you’ve got water al over the table!’ Kit protests.

‘I can’t!’

‘Stop being a baby and get the sponge!’

‘Lochie, Kit said the F word.’

‘I’m not eating any more!’ Tiffin roars. ‘And I’m not doing no more tables, neither!’

‘Do you want to fail your maths test?’ Lochan shouts back.

‘I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!’

‘Lochie, Kit said the F word!’ Wila wails, angry now.

‘Fuck-a-doodle-do,’ Kit sings.

‘Wil you al just shut up! What the hel’s the matter with you!’ Lochan slams his fist down on the table.

Tiffin, seizing on this distraction, leaps up, grabs his footbal gloves and races out of the house. Wila bursts into noisy tears, slides off her chair and stamps her way up to her room. Kit tips three plates of uneaten runner beans back into the saucepan and says, ‘Look, now you can feed us the same old shit tomorrow.’

With a groan, Lochan puts his head in his hands.

Suddenly I feel awful. I don’t know what I was trying to prove. That Lochan needs me, perhaps?

Or was I just trying to get my own back for the silent treatment? Either way, I feel lousy. It would have cost me nothing to chip in and diffuse the situation. I do it al the time, without even having to think about it. I could have prevented Lochan’s stress levels going through the roof, stopped him feeling like a failure as yet another family meal ended in mayhem. But I didn’t. And the worst thing is, I actualy enjoyed watching everything fal apart.

Looking exhausted, Lochan rubs his eyes with a wry smile. Glancing at al the leftover food, he tries to make a joke of it. ‘Maya, more runner beans? Don’t be shy!’

He has every right to be angry with the lot of us, but instead he is so forgiving it makes me ache. I want to say something, do something to take it al back, but I can’t think of a thing. Chewing his lip, Lochan gets up and starts clearing away, and I suddenly notice that lately his sore has got bigger, that he has been gnawing at it more and more. It looks so painful, so raw, that to see him bite at it like that makes my eyes water. Getting up to help him clear the table, I remind Kit it’s his turn to do the washing-up and, without thinking, touch Lochan’s hand to get his attention – but this time, to my surprise, he doesn’t pul away.

‘Ouch, your poor lip,’ I say gently. ‘You’re going to make it worse.’

‘Sorry.’ He stops chewing and presses the back of his hand self-consciously against his mouth.

‘Yeah, God, that thing has become realy gross.’ Kit seizes the opportunity to chip in, his voice loud and brash as, with a crash, he drops a pile of plates unceremoniously into the sink. ‘The guys at school were asking me if it was some kind of disease.’

‘Kit, that’s rubbish—’ I begin.

‘What? I’m just agreeing with you. That thing’s gross, and if he keeps on biting it, he’s gonna end up disfigured.’

I try giving him one of my warning looks but he studiously avoids my eye, crashing the crockery around in the sink. Lochan leans one shoulder against the wal, waiting for the kettle to boil, staring out of the darkened window. I decide to give Kit a hand with the washing-up – Lochan seems to have ground to a halt and I don’t want to leave the two of them alone together while Kit stil has the bit between his teeth.

‘So you’ve finaly managed to nail yourself a boyfriend,’ Kit remarks scathingly as I join him at the sink. ‘Who the hel is it?’

I feel my insides clench. Instinctively my gaze flies over to Lochan, who drops his hand from his mouth, his head jolting back in surprise.

‘He’s not a boyfriend,’ I correct Kit quickly. ‘Just – just some random guy from school who asked me out for – uh—’ I break off. Lochan is staring at me.

‘For – uh – sex?’ Kit suggests.

‘Don’t be so childish. He asked me out for dinner.’

‘Whoa – no introductory drink at Smileys then? Straight in there, wining and dining you.’ Kit is clearly enjoying watching me squirm. ‘What guy at Belmont can possibly afford to take a girl out for dinner? Don’t tel me it’s one of your teachers!’ His eyes light up in delight.

‘Stop being ridiculous. It’s a guy in the year above caled Nico. You don’t even know him.’

‘Nico DiMarco?’ But of course Lochan does. Shit.

‘Yeah.’ I force myself to meet his look of astonishment over the top of Kit’s head. ‘I – he asked me out on Friday. Is that – can you – is that al right?’ I don’t know why I’m suddenly finding it so hard to speak.

‘Uh-oh, you should have asked permission first!’ Kit crows. ‘You’re gonna have to stick to the curfew, remember. Tel you what, I’l give you my last condom—’

‘OK, Kit, that’s enough!’ I shout, slamming a plate down on the counter. ‘Go and bring Tiffin inside and then do your homework!’ I’m the one losing it now.

‘Fine! Excuse me for breathing!’ Kit throws the washing-up brush into the sink with a splash and stalks out of the room.

Lochan hasn’t moved from his position by the window, scraping at the sore with his thumbnail. His face looks hot, his eyes deeply troubled. ‘Nico? D’you know him? I mean, the guy’s pretty, uh – you know. He’s kind of got a rep . . .’

I keep my head down, scrubbing the plates hard. ‘Yeah, wel, it’s only a date. We’l see how it goes.’

Lochan takes a step towards me and then changes his mind and moves back again. ‘Do you – do you – I mean, do you like him?’

I feel the heat rush to my face and suddenly I am angry again. How dare Lochan give me the third degree when I agreed to the date for us – for him?

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do, OK?’ I stop scrubbing and force my eyes to meet his. ‘He’s the hottest guy in school. I’ve fancied him for ages. I can’t wait to go out with him.’

It’s fine. In fact it’s great! Maya has finaly found someone she likes, and what’s more he likes her back, and they are actualy going out together this Friday. Things are coming together for her at long last; it’s the beginning of her life as an adult, away from this madhouse, from this family, from me. She seems happy, she seems excited. Nico mightn’t be the guy I’d have chosen for her, but he’s al right. He’s had a couple of proper girlfriends, doesn’t seem to be looking for just one thing. It’s normal to feel anxious but I’m not going to lose sleep over it. Maya is nearly seventeen after al, Nico only a year older. Maya wil be fine. She is a very sensible person, responsible beyond her years; she’l be careful, and maybe it wil work out. He won’t hurt her – not intentionaly at least. No, I’m sure he won’t hurt her, he wouldn’t. She is such a lovely person, she is so precious – he’l see that: he must. He’l know he can never break her heart, never harm her. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. So fine, I’m going to be able to sleep at last. I don’t need to think about this any more. What I do desperately need is sleep. Otherwise I’l fal apart. I’m going to fal apart. I am faling apart.

The first rays of dawn begin to touch the edge of the rooftops. I sit on my bed and watch the pale light dilute the inky blackness, a thin wash of colour slowly diffusing the eastern sky. The air is chiled as it blows through the cracks in the window frame, and sparse flecks of rain spatter the pane as the birds begin to wake. A golden patch of sunlight slants across the wal, slowly widening like a spreading stain. What is the point of it al? I wonder – this endless cycle. I haven’t slept al night and my muscles ache from remaining immobile so long. I’m cold but I can’t find the energy to move or even pul the duvet up around me. Now and then my head, as though succumbing to a narcotic, begins to drop, and my eyes close and then reopen with a start. As the light begins to intensify, so does my misery, and I wonder how it is possible to hurt so much when nothing is wrong. A sweling despair presses outward from the centre of my chest, threatening to shatter my ribs. I fil my lungs with the cold air and then drain them, running my hands gently back and forth over the rough cotton sheets as if anchoring myself to this bed, to this house, to this life – in an attempt to forget my utter solitude. The sore beneath my lip throbs with a pulse and it’s a struggle just to let it alone, not chafe it in an attempt to annihilate the agony inside my mind. I continue stroking the covers, the rhythmical movement soothing me, reminding me that, even if I am breaking up inside, al around me things remain the same, solid and real, bringing me the hope that perhaps one day I too wil feel real again. A single day encompasses so much. The frantic morning routine: trying to make sure everyone eats breakfast, Tiffin’s high-pitched voice jarring my ears, Wila’s continuous chatter fraying my nerves, Kit relentlessly reinforcing my guilt with his every gesture, and Maya . . . It’s best if I don’t think about Maya. But perversely I want to. I must chafe at the wound, scrape back the scab, pick at the damaged skin. I cannot leave the thought of her alone. Like last night at dinner, she is here but not here: her heart and mind have left this dingy house, the annoying siblings, the socialy inept brother, the alcoholic mother. Her thoughts are with Nico now, racing ahead to her date this evening. However long the day may seem, the evening wil arrive and Maya wil go. And from that moment, part of her life, part of herself, wil be severed from me for ever. Yet, even as I wait for this to happen, there is so much to do: coax Kit out of his lair, get Tiffin and Wila to school on time, remember to test Tiffin on his tables as he tries to run ahead down the road. Make it through my own school gates, check without being seen that Kit’s in class, sit through a whole morning of lessons, find new ways of deflecting attention should a teacher press me to participate, survive lunch, make sure I avoid DiMarco, explain to the teacher why I can’t give a presentation, make it to the last bel without faling apart. And finaly pick up Wila and Tiffin, keep them entertained for the evening, remind Kit of his curfew without prompting a row – and al the time, al the while, try to purge every thought of Maya from my mind. And the hands of the kitchen clock wil continue moving forwards, reaching midnight before starting al over again, as though the day that just ended never began. I was once so strong. I used to be able to get through al the smal things, al the details, the treadmil routine, day after day. But I never realized that Maya was the one who gave me that strength. It was because she was there that I could manage, the two of us at the helm, propping each other up when one of us was down. We may have spent the bulk of our time looking after the little ones, but beneath the surface we were realy looking after each other and that made everything bearable, more than just bearable. It brought us together in an existence only we could understand. Together we were safe – different but safe – from the outside world . . . Now al I have is myself, my responsibilities, my duties, my never-ending list of things to do . . . and my loneliness, always my loneliness – that airless bubble of despair that is slowly stifling me.

Maya leaves for school ahead of me, dragging Kit with her. She seems annoyed with me for some reason. Wila dawdles, picking up twigs and crisp, curled-up leaves along the way. Tiffin abandons us as he spots Jamie at the end of the road, and I haven’t the strength to cal him back, despite the busy junction in front of the school. It is a monumental effort not to snap at Wila – to tel her to hurry, to ask her why she seems so intent on making us both late. As soon as we reach the school gates, she spots a friend and breaks into a stumbling run, her coat flapping and flying out behind her. For a moment I just stand and watch her go, her fine golden hair streaming behind her in the wind. Her grey pinafore is stained with yesterday’s lunch, her school coat is missing its hood, her book bag is faling apart, her red tights have a large hole behind the knee, but she never complains. Even though she is surrounded by mums and dads hugging their children goodbye, even though she hasn’t seen her mother for two weeks now, even though she has no memory of ever having a father. She is only five, yet already she has learned that there is no point in asking her mother for a bedtime story, that inviting friends over is something only other children can do, that new toys are a rare luxury, that at home Kit and Tiffin are the only ones who get their own way. At the age of five she has already come to terms with one of life’s harshest lessons: that the world isn’t fair . . . Halfway up the school steps, best friend in tow, she suddenly remembers she has forgotten to say goodbye and turns, scanning the emptying playground for my face. When she spots it, her face breaks into a radiant, plump-cheeked smile, the tip of her tongue poking out through the gap of her missing front teeth. Raising a smal hand, she waves. I wave back, my arms fanning the sky.

Entering the school building, I am hit by a wal of artificial heat – radiators turned up too high. But it isn’t until I walk into the English room and come face-to-face with Miss Azley that I remember. She smiles at me, a thinly disguised attempt at encouragement. ‘Are you going to be needing the projector?

’

I freeze at her desk, a horrible, clutching, sinking feeling in my chest, and say in a rush, ‘Actualy –

actualy I thought it might work better as a written assignment – there was too much information to condense into just – just a half-hour . . .’

Her smile fades. ‘But this wasn’t a written assignment, Lochan. The presentation is part of your coursework. I can’t mark you on this.’ She takes my file and flicks through it. ‘Wel, you’ve certainly got a lot of material here, so I suppose you could just read it out.’

I look at her, a cold hand of horror wrapping itself around my throat. ‘Wel, the thing is—’ I can barely speak. My voice is suddenly no more than a whisper.

She gives a puzzled frown. ‘The thing is?’

‘It’s – it’s not realy going to make much sense if I just read it—’

‘Why don’t you just give it a try?’ Her voice is suddenly gentle – too gentle. ‘The first time is always the hardest.’

I feel the burn in my face. ‘It won’t work. I – I’m sorry.’ I take back the folder from her outstretched hand. ‘I’l make sure I make up for the failed grade with – with the rest of my coursework.’

Turning quickly, I find a seat, crimson waves crashing through me. To my relief she does not summon me back.

Nor does she bring up the subject of the presentation during the lesson. Instead she covers the gap left by my lack of a contribution by talking to us about the lives of Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf, and a heated debate arises about the link between mental ilness and the artistic temperament. Normaly this is a subject I’d find fascinating, but today the words just wash over me. Outside, the sky disgorges rain, which drums against the dirty windows, washing them with tears. I look at the clock and see there are only five more hours to go until Maya’s date. Perhaps DiMarco broke his leg playing footbal. Perhaps he is in the sick bay right now with food poisoning. Perhaps he suddenly found some other girl to pul. Any girl other than my sister. He had the whole school to choose from. Why Maya? Why the one person who matters the most to me in the world?

‘Lochan Whitely?’ The raised voice jolts through me as I head for the door amidst the chaos of exiting pupils. I turn my head long enough to see Miss Azley beckoning me over to her desk and realize I have no choice but to fight my way back through the fray.

‘Lochan, I think we need to have a little chat.’

Christ, no. Not this, not today. ‘Um – I’m sorry. I – I actualy have maths,’ I say in a rush.

‘This won’t take long. I’l give you a note.’ She indicates a chair in front of her desk. ‘Have a seat.’

Lifting the strap of my bag over my head, I take the proffered seat, realizing there is no way out. Miss Azley crosses over to the door and closes it with a harsh metalic thud that sounds like a prison gate.

She comes back towards me and takes the chair by my side, turning to me with a reassuring smile.

‘There’s no need to look so worried. I’m sure by now you know my bark is worse than my bite!’

I force myself to look at her, hoping she wil reel off the spiel about the importance of class participation more quickly if I appear co-operative. But instead she chooses the roundabout route.

‘What happened to your lip?’

Aware that I’m biting it again, I force myself to stop, my fingers flying to it in surprise. ‘Nothing –

it’s – it’s nothing.’

‘You should put some Vaseline on it and take up pen-chewing instead.’ She reaches over to her desk for a couple of gnawed biros. ‘Less painful and does the job just as wel.’ She gives me another smile.

With al the wil in the world, I cannot return it. The paly smal-talk is throwing me off-balance. Something in her eyes tels me she isn’t about to give me a lecture on the importance of class participation, teamwork and al the usual shit. Her look is not one of admonishment, but of genuine concern.

‘You know why I’ve kept you back, don’t you?’

I reply with a quick nod, my teeth automaticaly scraping my lip again. Look, this isn’t a good day, I want to tel her. I could grit my teeth and nod my way through a heart-to-heart with an overzealous teacher another time, but not today. Not today.

‘What is it about speaking out in front of your peers that frightens you so much, Lochan?’

She has caught me off guard. I don’t like the way she used the word frightens. I don’t like the way she seems to know so much about me.

‘I’m not – I don’t—’ My voice is dangerously unsteady. The air circulates slowly in the room. I am breathing too fast. She has cornered me. I’m aware of sweat breaking out across my back, heat radiating from my face.

‘Hey, it’s al right.’ She leans forward, her concern almost tangible. ‘I’m not having a go at you, Lochan, OK? But I know you’re bright enough to understand why you need to be able to speak in public from time to time – not just for the sake of your academic future but also your personal one.’

I wish I could just get up and walk out.

‘Is it just a problem at school or is it al the time?’

Why the hel is she doing this? Headmaster, detention, expulsion – I don’t care. Anything but this. I want to tune her out but I can’t. It’s that damn concern, cutting through my consciousness like a knife.

‘It’s al the time, isn’t it?’ Her voice is too gentle.

I feel the heat rush to my face. Taking a panicked breath, I let my eyes scour the classroom, as if seeking a place to hide.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lochan. It’s just perhaps something worth tackling now.’

Face thrumming, I start chewing my lip again, the sharp pain a welcome relief.

‘Like any phobia, social anxiety is something that can be overcome. I was thinking maybe we could devise an action plan together to set you on track for next year at university.’

I can hear the sound of my breathing, sharp and rapid. I reply with a barely perceptible nod.

‘We’d take it very slowly. One smal step at a time. Perhaps you could aim to put your hand up and answer just one question each lesson. That would be a good start, don’t you think? Once you can comfortably volunteer one answer, you’l find it much easier to answer two, and then three – and, wel, you get the idea.’ She laughs and I sense she is trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Then, before you know it, you’l be answering every question and no one else wil have a chance in hel!’

I try to return her smile but it doesn’t work. Take one smal step at a time . . . I used to have someone helping me do just that. Someone who introduced me to her friend, encouraged me to read out my essay in class; someone who was subtly trying to help me with my whole problem, yet I never realized. And now I’ve lost her – lost her to Nico DiMarco. One evening with him, and Maya wil realize what a loser I’ve become, start feeling the same way towards me as Kit and my mother do . . .

‘I’ve noticed you’ve been looking quite stressed recently,’ Miss Azley remarks suddenly. ‘Which is perfectly understandable – it’s a tough year. But your grades are as good as ever and you excel at written exams. So you’l sail through your A-levels: there’s nothing to worry about there.’