Forbidden (6 page)

As we walk along Chelsea Embankment, I stuff my blazer and tie into my bag and the warm evening breeze brushes my skirt against my bare thighs. The sun is just beginning to turn orange, sprinkling drops of gold across the water’s scaly surface, muscled like the back of a serpent. This is my favourite time of day, the afternoon barely ended, the evening not yet begun; the languid hours of sunshine stretch out ahead of us before fading into dusky twilight. High above us the bridges are heavy with congested traffic – overloaded buses and impatient cars and reckless cyclists, men and women sweating in suits, desperate to get home, ferries and tugboats passing below. Gravel crunches underfoot as we cross the large, empty expanses between the glass office buildings, past the luxury apartments that stack their way high into the sky. It is so sunny that the world feels like a blank of light, a stil whiteness. I toss Lochan my bag, take a running step, skip and hop, and do a cartwheel, the grainy path rough against my palms. The sun momentarily disappears and we are plunged into cool blue shade as we pass beneath the bridge, our footsteps suddenly magnified, bouncing off the smooth arch of the supports, startling a pigeon up into the sky. A few paces to my left, keeping a safe distance from my antics, Lochan strides along, hands in his pockets, shirtsleeves roled up to the elbows. A light thread of veins is visible on his temples, and the shadows beneath his eyes lend him a haunted look. He glances at me with his bright green gaze and gives one of his trademark lopsided smiles. I grin and do another cartwheel, and Lochan lengthens his stride to match mine, appearing faintly amused. But when his gaze shifts away, the smile fades and the lip-biting starts up again. Despite his loping presence at my side, I feel there is a space between us, an indefinable distance. Even when his eyes are on me, I sense that he doesn’t quite see me, his thoughts somewhere else, out of reach. I lose my footing coming out of a forward walkover and stumble against him, almost relieved to feel him solid and alive. He laughs briefly and steadies me but quickly goes back to sucking his lip, his teeth chafing the sore. When we were young, I could do something sily and break the spel, pul him out of it, but now it’s harder. I know there are things he doesn’t tel me. Things he has on his mind. When we reach the shops, we buy pizza and Coke from a takeaway and head towards Battersea Park. Inside the gates, we wander out into the middle of the vast expanse of greenery, away from the trees, aligning ourselves with the sun, now lying westward and losing its briliance. Cross-legged, I examine a bruise on my shin while Lochan kneels in the grass, opening the pizza box and handing me a slice. I take it and stretch out my legs, lifting my chin to feel the sun on my face.

‘This is a milion times nicer than hanging out with those dorks from school,’ I inform him. ‘That was a good move, leaving when you did.’

Munching solidly, he shoots me a penetrating look and I can tel he is trying to read my mind, seeking the motive behind my words. I meet his gaze ful on, and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards as he realizes I am being completely honest.

I give up on the food before he does and lean back on my elbows, watching him eat. He’s clearly starving. I open my mouth to tel him he has tomato sauce on his chin, then change my mind. My smile, however, doesn’t go unnoticed.

‘What?’ he asks with a brief laugh, swalowing his last mouthful and wiping his hands on the grass.

‘Nothing.’ I try to reel in the smile, but with his red-streaked chin, tousled hair, untucked shirt and grubby cuffs flapping loosely against his hands, he looks like a taler, dark-haired version of Tiffin at the end of a busy school day.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he persists, regarding me quizzicaly, a touch self-conscious now.

‘Nothing. I was just thinking of what Francie says about you.’

A hint of wariness touches his eyes. ‘Oh, not that again . . .’

‘Your dimples are apparently very cute.’ I bite back a grin.

‘Ha ha.’ A little smile and he is looking down, puling at the grass, a flush creeping up his neck.

‘And you have arresting eyes – whatever that means.’

A grimace of embarrassment. ‘Piss off, Maya. You just made that up.’

‘I didn’t. I’m teling you – she says things like that. What else . . . ? Oh yes: your mouth is apparently very snoggable.’

He chokes, showering me with Coke. ‘Maya!’

‘I’m not kidding! Those were her exact words!’

He is blushing hard now, peering intently into the Coke can. ‘Can I finish this or are you stil thirsty?’

‘Stop trying to change the subject,’ I laugh.

He shoots me an evil look and swigs down the dregs.

‘She even said she caught sight of you through the open door of the boys’ changing rooms and you looked realy—’

He kicks out at me. He is stil half joking but it hurt.

I feel confused. Beneath the jokey exterior, he suddenly seems upset. I appear to have inadvertently crossed some invisible line.

‘OK.’ I raise my hands in surrender. ‘But you get the idea, right?’

‘Yeah, thanks a lot.’ He gives another wry smile to show he isn’t angry, and then turns his face away into the breeze. There is a long silence and I close my eyes, feeling the last of the summer sun on my face. The tranquility is unnerving. Muted playground shrieks reach us from what seems like a milion miles away. Somewhere amongst the trees, a dog lets out a couple of short, sharp yaps. I rol over onto my stomach and prop my chin on my hands. Lochan hasn’t realized I’m watching him, and al signs of laughter have been completely erased from his face. Elbows resting on drawn-up knees, he gazes out across the park and I can feel his mind working. Scrutinizing his face for lingering signs of annoyance, I find none. Only sadness.

‘You OK?’

‘Yeah.’ He doesn’t turn.

‘Realy?’

He’s about to say something but then remains silent. Instead he starts rubbing at his sore with the side of his thumb.

I sit up. Reaching out, I gently pul his hand down from his face. His eyes dart to meet mine.

‘Maya, I’m not going to go out with Francie.’

‘I know. That’s OK. It doesn’t matter,’ I say quickly. ‘She’l get over it.’

‘Why are you so keen to set us up?’

I feel awkward suddenly. ‘I dunno. I guess – I guess I thought if you went out with a friend of mine at least I’d stil get to see you. You wouldn’t – you’d be less likely to go away.’

He frowns, uncomprehending.

‘It’s just that if you meet somebody next year at university—’ A smal pain rises in the back of my throat. I cannot finish the sentence. ‘I mean, of course I want you to, but I don’t – I’m scared . . .’

He gives me a long, steady look. ‘Maya, surely you know I’d never leave you – you or the others.

’

I force a smile and look down, tugging at the blades of grass. But one day you will, I can’t help thinking. One day we’ll all leave each other to forge families of our own. Because that’s the way the world works.

‘To be honest, I doubt if I’m ever going to go out with anyone,’ Lochan says quietly. I look up in surprise. He glances at me and then away, an uncomfortable silence hanging between us.

I can’t help smiling. ‘That’s sily, Loch. You’re the best-looking guy at Belmont. Every girl in my class has a crush on you.’

Silence.

‘Are you saying you’re gay?’

The corners of his mouth twitch in amusement. ‘If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I’m not!’

I sigh. ‘That’s a pity. I always thought it would be pretty cool to have a gay brother.’

Lochan laughs. ‘Don’t lose hope yet. There’s stil Kit and Tiffin.’

‘Kit? Yeah, right! Rumour has it he’s already got a girlfriend. Francie swears she saw him snogging a girl from the year above in an empty classroom.’

‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t get her pregnant,’ Lochan says acerbicaly.

I wince and try to banish the thought from my mind. I don’t even want to think of Kit with a girl. He’s only thirteen, for chrissakes.

I sigh. ‘I’ve never even kissed anyone – unlike most of the girls in my class,’ I confess quietly, running my fingers through the long grass.

He turns to me. ‘So?’ he says gently. ‘You’re only sixteen.’

I pick at the stems and pout. ‘Sweet sixteen and never been kissed . . . What about you – have you ever—?’ I break off abruptly, suddenly realizing the absurdity of my question. I try to think of a way of turning it around, but it’s too late: Lochan is already picking at the ground with his fingernails, the colour high in his cheeks.

‘Yeah, right!’ He gives a derisive snort, avoiding my gaze, intent on the smal hole he is digging in the earth. ‘Like – like that’s ever going to happen!’ With a short laugh, he glances at me as if imploring me to join in, and through the embarrassment I see the pain in his eyes. Instinctively I move closer, stopping myself from reaching out and squeezing his hand, hating myself for my moment of thoughtlessness. ‘Loch, it’s not always going to be like this,’ I tel him gently.

‘One day—’

‘Yeah, one day.’ He smiles with forced nonchalance and gives a brief, dismissive shrug. ‘I know.’

A long silence stretches out between us. I look up at him in the scattered light of the afternoon, now nearing its end. ‘Do you ever think about it?’

He hesitates, the blood stil hot in his cheeks, and for a moment I think he isn’t going to reply. He continues picking at the earth, stil studiously avoiding my gaze. ‘Course.’ It’s so quiet that for a moment I think I might have imagined it.

I look at him sharply. ‘Who?’

‘There’s never realy been anyone . . .’ He stil refuses to look up, but even though he’s increasingly uncomfortable, he isn’t trying to get out of the conversation. ‘I just think that somewhere there must be—’ He shakes his head, as if suddenly aware he has said too much.

‘Hey, me too!’ I exclaim. ‘Somewhere in my head I have this idea of a perfect guy. But I don’t think he even exists.’

‘Sometimes—’ Lochan begins, then breaks off.

I wait for him to continue. ‘Sometimes . . . ?’ I prompt gently.

‘I wish things were different.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I wish everything wasn’t so damn hard.’

‘I know,’ I say quietly. ‘Me too.’

Summer gives way to autumn. The air turns sharper, the days grow shorter, grey clouds and persistent drizzle alternating with cold blue skies and bracing winds. Wila loses her third tooth, Tiffin attempts to cut his own hair when a supply teacher mistakes him for a girl, Kit is suspended for three days for smoking weed. Mum starts spending her days off with Dave and, even when she’s working, frequently stays over at his flat above the restaurant to avoid the daily commute. On the few occasions she’s home, she’s rarely sober for long, and Tiffin and Wila have given up asking her to play with them or tuck them in. I make regular trips to the bottle bank after dark.

The school term grinds on. There is too much to do and too little time to do it in: the coursework keeps piling up, I forget to go shopping, Tiffin needs new trousers, Wila needs new shoes, bils are waiting to be paid, Mum loses her chequebook again. As she continues to fade stil further from family life, Maya and I tacitly divide up the chores: she cleans, helps with homework, does the bedtime routine; I shop, cook, sort out bils, colect Tiffin and Wila from school. One thing neither of us can manage, however, is Kit. He has started smoking openly now – albeit banished to the doorstep or the street. Maya calmly talks to him about the health risks and he laughs in her face. I try a firmer approach and earn myself a string of expletives. At the weekends he goes out with a gang of troublemakers from school: I persuade Mum to give me the money to buy him a second-hand mobile but he refuses to answer it when I cal. I implore her to impose a curfew but she’s rarely around to enforce it, or when she is, she stays out later than he does. I instal a curfew myself and Kit immediately starts staying out even later, as if returning home within the alotted time is a sign of weakness, of capitulation. And then the inevitable happens: one night he doesn’t come home at al. At two in the morning, after caling him repeatedly and getting redirected to voicemail, I phone Mum in sheer desperation. She is in a club somewhere – the background noise is deafening: music, shouting, cheering. As we’re already in the smal hours of the morning, her speech is slurred and the fact that her son has gone missing barely seems to register. Laughing and breaking off every few words to talk to Dave, she informs me I need to learn to relax, that Kit is a young man now and should have some fun. I am about to point out he could be lying face down in a gutter when I suddenly realize I’m wasting my breath. With Dave she can pretend she is young again, free of the restrictions and responsibilities of motherhood. She never wanted to grow up – I remember our father citing this as a reason for leaving. He accused her of being a bad mother – but then the only reason they got married was because she accidentaly fel pregnant with me – a fact she likes to remind me of whenever we have an argument. And now that I am just a few months away from being legaly classed an adult, she feels freer than she has done in years. Dave already has a young family of his own. He has made it very clear that he doesn’t want to take on someone else’s. And so she shrewdly keeps him away, only bringing him back to the house when everyone is asleep or out at school. With Dave she has reinvented herself – a young woman caught up in a passionate romance. She dresses like a teenager, spends al her money on clothes and beauty treatments, lies about her age, and drinks, drinks, drinks – to forget that youth and beauty are behind her, to forget that Dave has no intention of marrying her, to forget that at the end of the day she is just a forty-five-year-old divorcee in a deadend job with five unwanted children. Yet understanding the reasons behind her behaviour does little to stem the hate.

It is now half past two and I am beginning to panic. Seated on the sofa, strategicaly positioned so that the weak light of the naked bulb fals directly on my books, I have been straining to read through my notes for at least three hours, the scrawled words bleeding into each other, dancing about the page. Maya came to say good-night over an hour ago, purple shadows beneath her eyes, her freckles contrasting starkly with the palor of her skin. I am stil in my uniform, the usual ink-stained cuffs pushed up, shirt half unbuttoned. From deep within my skul, a metalic shaft of pain bores its way through my right temple. Once again I glance up at the clock and my insides knot in fear and rage. I stare at my ghostly reflection in the darkened windowpane. My eyes hurt, my whole body throbs with stress and exhaustion. I have not the slightest idea what to do.

Part of me simply wants to blot the whole thing out – go to bed and just pray Kit is back by the time I wake up in the morning. But another part of me is forced to remember that he is little more than a child. An unhappy, self-destructive child who has got in with the wrong crowd because they provide him with the company and admiration his family do not. He could have been in a fight, he could be mainlining heroin, he could be breaking the law and screwing up his life before it has even begun. Worse stil, he could be the victim of a mugger or some rival gang – his behaviour has begun to earn him quite a reputation in the area. He could be lying bleeding somewhere, knifed or shot. He may hate me, he may resent me, he may blame me for everything that’s wrong in his life, but if I give up on him, then he has no one left at al. His hatred of me wil have been completely justified. Yet what can I possibly do? He refuses to share any part of his life with me, so I don’t know any of his friends or where he hangs out. I don’t even have a bike to go combing the streets with. The clock now reads a quarter to three: nearly five hours after Kit’s weekend curfew. He never actualy comes home before ten but rarely stays out much past eleven. What places around here are even open at this time? Nightclubs require ID – he has a fake one but even an idiot couldn’t mistake him for an eighteen-year-old. He has never been anywhere near as late as this before. Fear snakes into my mind. It curls around itself, its body pressing against the wals of my skul. This is not rebelion: something has happened. Kit is in trouble and no one is there to help him. I feel clammy and shivery with sweat. I have no choice but to go out and walk the streets, searching for an open bar, a nightclub – anything. But first I need to wake Maya so she can cal me if Kit returns. My mind flashes back to the exhaustion imprinted on her face and the thought of dragging her out of bed sickens me, but I have no choice.

My first knock is far too soft – I’m afraid of waking the little ones. But if Kit is hurt or in trouble, there is no time to lose. I turn the handle and push the door open. Lamplight fals through the gap in the curtains, iluminating her sleeping face, her tawny hair fanned out over the pilow. She has kicked back the sheet and is sleeping face down, splayed out like a starfish, knickers in ful view. I bend down and gently shake her. ‘Maya?’

‘Mm . . .’ She rols away from me in protest.

I try again. ‘Maya, wake up, it’s me.’

‘Huh?’ Roling onto her side, she props herself up on her elbow, looking up at me groggily, blinking beneath a curtain of hair.

‘Maya, I need your help.’ The words come out louder than I intended, the mounting panic catching in my throat.

‘What?’ She is suddenly alert, struggling to sit up, brushing the hair away from her face. She flicks on the bedside light and squints at me, wincing. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s Kit – he hasn’t come home and it’s almost three. I – I think I should go and look for him. I think something must have happened.’

She squeezes her eyes shut and then opens them wide again, as if trying to gather her thoughts.

‘Kit’s stil out?’

‘Yes!’

‘Have you tried his mobile?’

I recount my futile attempts at getting through to both Kit and Mum. Maya stumbles out of bed and folows me down into the halway as I hunt for my keys. ‘But, Lochie, d’you have any idea where he could be?’

‘No, I’l just have to look . . .’ I rummage through my jacket pockets and then through the pile of junk mail and unopened bils on the hal table, sending them flying. My hands have started shaking.

‘Jesus, where the fuck are my keys?’

‘Lochie, you’re never going to find him by combing the streets. He could be on the other side of London!’

I spin round to face her. ‘What the hel d’you suggest I do then?’

I startle myself with the force of my voice. Maya takes a step back.

I stop and heave a deep breath, cupping my hands over my mouth, then running them through my hair. ‘Sorry. I just – I just don’t know what to do. Mum was incoherent on the phone. I couldn’t even persuade the bitch to come home!’ I choke on the word bitch and find myself with barely enough breath to finish speaking.

‘OK,’ Maya says quickly. ‘OK, Lochie. I’l stay down here and wait. And I’l cal you the moment he turns up. Have you got your phone?’

I feel the pockets of my trousers. ‘No – shit – and my keys—’

‘Here . . .’ Maya reaches for her coat on the peg and digs out her phone and keys. Grabbing them, I wrench open the door.

‘Wait!’ She throws me my jacket.

I pul it on as I stride out into the cold night air.

It’s dark, the houses al sleeping save for a few stil iluminated with the flickering blue light of television screens. The silence is eerie – I can hear the juggernauts shifting their loads miles away on the ridge of the motorway. I walk rapidly down to the end of our road and turn onto the high street. The place has a deserted, haunted look, the shop shutters battened down over their dark interiors. Trash from the market stal stil litters the street, a drunk staggers out of the al-night Tesco and two skimpily clad young women weave their way across the pavement arm in arm, shril voices crisscrossing the stil night air. Suddenly a car, pulsating with music, accelerates down the road, narrowly missing the drunk, its tyres screeching as it takes a corner. I spot a group of guys hanging around a closed pub. They are al dressed the same: grey hoodies, baggy jeans sliding down their hips, white trainers. But as I cross the road and head towards them, I realize they are far too old to be part of Kit’s lot. I quickly turn my head away again, but one of them shouts out: ‘Hey, what the fuck you lookin’ at?’

I ignore them and keep on going, hands deep in my pockets, fighting the instinct to lengthen my stride. Like wolves, they folow the scent of fear. For a moment I think they’re going to come after me, but it’s only their laughter and obscenities that float in my wake. My heart continues to pound as I reach the end of the high street and cross the junction, my mind running at ful tilt. This is exactly why a thirteen-year-old boy should not be roaming the streets at this time of night. Those guys were bored: drunk or high or both, and just looking for a fight. At least one would have had a weapon of some sort – a broken bottle, if not a knife. Gone are the days of simple fist-fights, especialy round here. And what chance would a hot-head like Kit stand against a gang?

It is beginning to drizzle and the headlights of passing taxis splinter the dark, iluminating the wet tarmac. I cross the junction blindly and get honked at by an irritable cabbie. I wipe the sweat from my face with my shirtsleeve, adrenaline coursing through my body. The sudden wail of a police car makes me start violently; the sound fades into the distance and I jump again as a cacophony of demented yaps explodes from my pocket. When I pul out Maya’s phone, my hands are shaking. ‘What?’ I shout.

‘He’s back, Lochie. He’s home.’

‘What?’

‘Kit’s back. He came through the door just this second. So you can come home. Where are you, anyway?’

‘Bentham Junction. I’l see you in a minute.’

I return the phone to my pocket and turn round. Chest heaving, my breath coming in gasps, I watch the late-night cars flash by. Right, calm down, I tel myself. He’s home. He’s fine. But I can feel the sweat running down my back and there is this pressure in my chest like a baloon that’s about to burst.

I am walking too fast, breathing too fast, thinking too fast. There’s a stabbing pain in my side and my heart is pounding against my ribcage. He’s home, I keep teling myself. He’s OK – but I don’t know why I don’t feel more relieved. In fact I feel physicaly sick. I was so sure something bad had happened to him. Why else would he have failed to answer his phone – to cal?

As I near the house, the streetlamps blur and dance, and everything feels strangely unreal. My hands are shaking so hard I can’t unlock the door: the metal keys keep slipping in my clammy fingers. I end up dropping them and lean one hand against the door to steady myself as I bend down to search. When the door suddenly opens, I stumble blindly into the brightly lit hal.

‘Hey, watch out.’ Maya’s hand steadies me.

‘Where is he?’

The sound of canned laughter belts out of the front room and I push past. Kit is lying back, one arm behind his head, feet up on the couch, chuckling at something on TV. He reeks of cigarettes and booze and weed.

Suddenly the compressed anger of so many months explodes through my body like molten rock.

‘Where the hel have you been?’

Spinning the remote round and round in his hand, he takes a moment before flicking his eyes briefly away from the screen. ‘Absolutely none of your business.’ His gaze returns to the television and he starts chuckling again, turning up the volume, pre-emptively drowning out any further attempts at conversation.

I lunge for the remote and snatch it from his hand, catching him unawares.

‘Give that back, you arsehole!’ He is on his feet in an instant, grabbing my arm and twisting it.

‘It’s four in the morning! What the fuck have you been doing?’

I grapple with him, trying to push him off, but he is surprisingly strong. A bolt of pain shoots up my arm from my hand to my shoulder, and the remote fals to the floor. As Kit makes a dive for it, I grab his shoulders and yank him back. He hurls himself round, and there is a blinding crack of pain as his fist makes contact with my jaw. I launch myself at him, grabbing him by the colar, losing my balance and dragging him down to the floor. My head hits the coffee table and for a moment the lights seem to go out, but then I resurface and I’ve got my hands round his throat and his face is crimson, his eyes wide and bulging. He kicks me in the stomach, again and again, but I don’t let go, I can’t let go, even when he knees me in the groin. There is someone else puling at my hands, someone else in the way, someone shouting at me, screaming in my ear: ‘Stop it, Lochie, stop it! You’re going to kil him!’