Into My Arms (13 page)

‘I’m scared that you’re related. That Ben is your brother.’

Skye jerked back. ‘My brother? What on earth are you talking about?’

Nell couldn’t look at her. Her hands fell to her lap, plucking at her dressing-gown. ‘You and Arran were conceived through IVF. You know that. There were some embryos left over, and the clinic was going to get rid of them, so Charlie and I agreed to donate them. We had our family, and we wanted to give someone else a chance.’ She took a deep breath. ‘When Ben came for dinner the other night I had this funny feeling. He was sitting between you and Arran, and there was something that bothered me. At first I thought it was because of Hamish, as you said, but then I realised that it was the three of you, lined up like that—that you all looked alike, that you had the same eyes.’

‘And that makes you think he’s my
brother
?’ Skye stood up, incredulous, and marched over to the window, where she pulled back the blinds. ‘You’ve been sitting too long in the dark. You’re going mad, like Charlie. We both have brown eyes, and suddenly Ben’s my brother?’

Nell lifted her head, squinting in the sudden light. She looked old, Skye realised. She had never thought of her mother as old.

‘It’s not just the eyes. There’s something about him . . . It was as if I knew him as soon as he walked through the door. And it’s possible, Skye. He’s younger than you. That was why I called to ask.’

‘You’ve come up with all this because he’s
younger
than me?’ Skye felt the scream gather in her chest, felt an overwhelming desire to shake her mother, or slap her into sense. ‘There are hundreds of people with brown eyes who are younger than me,’ she shouted. ‘Are they all my long-lost brothers? And what did Arran say? Did he have this so-called “feeling” too?’

‘I didn’t ask him,’ Nell admitted.

‘Well, thank God for that. He would have thought you were as crazy as I do. Fabulous—another parent with dementia.’ Skye watched the hurt flash across her mother’s face and hated herself for it. She was being horrible, she knew, but her mother was being ridiculous. ‘Look, Mum, Ben knows that Arran and I were IVF babies. You told him—you brought it up over dinner! If he was too wouldn’t he have said something then?’

Nell sighed. ‘Maybe he doesn’t know.’ She raised one hand to push her hair away from her face, her fingers shaky. ‘Don’t be angry with me, Skye. I’m sorry—I wondered if I should bring it up, but then I felt I had to. If you’re brother and sister . . .’

Skye sat down beside her again, moved by her mother’s fragility. ‘If we’re brother and sister it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything.’ She leaned forward, staring into Nell’s eyes, her anger gone, replaced with calm certainty. ‘Don’t you see? What you’re worrying about is absurd, but even if it is true, even if Ben was one of your embryos, we’re not really brother and sister. We’ve only known each other a few months; we weren’t brought up together. It’s just a fluke. It doesn’t matter.’

Nell groaned. ‘Oh, Skye, it
does
matter. You can’t have children, for a start, if Ben’s your brother. It’s too dangerous.’

Skye crossed her arms. ‘We’ll adopt, then.’

‘You can’t adopt either.’ Nell blinked. There were tears in her eyes.

‘Why not?’ asked Skye, bewildered. ‘No one would have to know that we’re related. We’re just like any other couple. It isn’t an issue.’

‘It is an issue!’ Nell exploded, shooting to her feet. ‘Most agencies prefer you to be married to adopt, and you and Ben can’t get married. It’s illegal!’

‘Illegal?’

Nell’s dressing-gown had come loose, her shoulders beneath it rising and falling in agitation. ‘Are you being dense or just pig-headed? If you’re brother and sister you can’t get married. It’s against the law. It’s
incest
, Skye.’

Skye clutched at her stomach as if she had just been kicked; felt her body recoil, the bile rise in her throat. Incest. The word was hideous, tainted. It made her think of tabloid headlines and deformed babies. It had absolutely nothing to do with Ben. She struggled for breath, and when she found it she screamed at Nell. ‘We’re not brother and sister! You’re fucking nuts! You’re insane! This is all because you don’t like Ben, and you want to break us up.’ It had to be that, she thought, sobs swelling in her chest. Nell had always loved Hamish, but it was too bad, because Skye simply didn’t anymore, and she wasn’t going to listen to this poison for a minute longer. She got to her feet and lurched towards the hallway. ‘You need help, Nell. You need to go and see someone.’

‘Fine!’ said Nell, pulling her robe tight around her. ‘I promise I’ll do that—just as soon as you and Ben go and get some blood tests and prove me wrong. I checked on the net. There’s a genetics service at the Royal Children’s Hospital. I’ll book you both in. You don’t have anything to worry about, do you, seeing as I’m mad?’

‘You will be wrong! You’re so, so wrong.’ Skye stormed blindly along the hallway, tears streaming down her face. She reached her room and slammed the door behind her, then fell back onto the bed.

Through the walls she could faintly hear Nell say, ‘I hope I am, Skye. I hope I am.’

Skye rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. It was grief. It had to be. Losing Charlie had made Nell go crazy. Ben her brother? The whole idea was ludicrous, preposterous . . . So why was she still trembling? It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be true. And how on earth could she stop loving him if it was?

15

Arran knocked on the door again, more heavily this time. No point being polite. He checked his watch and hoped somebody was home. This was an hour snatched from his regular caseload, and he couldn’t afford to waste it. As he waited, he shook open the referral form Ben had filled out a couple of weeks ago and checked over it once more. The address was correct; the phone number had rung out on the two occasions Arran had tried to call and schedule this visit. Who knew if it was even connected? Half the time these people didn’t have enough money for food, never mind luxuries like a phone line.

He kicked at the dandelion growing up through the cracks in the concrete step, scattering yellow petals. The Vasseghi family hadn’t been clients of the asylum seeker program that Arran worked for, but a few quick emails had revealed they had a caseworker with the Red Cross. Not that she’d been much help, Arran thought, wondering if he should knock again. She’d found them some accommodation and lodged a visa application, had once helped the father get in contact with relatives in Iran, but had barely spoken with them since that time. It was always the way. Everyone was overstretched. When Arran had mentioned Zia, the woman didn’t even seem to remember the child.

Arran turned away from the flat and headed back to the stairwell. Bugger Skye. He’d only come here for her, because she was bound to ask him about it the next time they met. She could be a bloody terrier like that, holding onto something, worrying away at something until she made the decision to drop it. He hoped Ben knew what he was in for. Arran reached for the steel rail alongside the stairs, then let go immediately. A fresh wad of chewing gum was stuck to his palm. As he tried to pull it off, two boys passed him on the stairs, faces averted. On a whim, and because he was too pissed off to be polite, he called after them, ‘Hey, is one of you Zia?’

The smaller one turned. ‘He is. Why?’

‘Farid! Don’t you ever listen to Baba?’ the other one scolded. He grabbed his brother by the arm and continued along the hallway.

Arran ran after him. ‘Wait,’ he called out. ‘If you’re Zia, your teacher wants you to meet me. Ben. Mr Cunningham. I have a letter from him.’ He held it up.

The older boy put down his bag and looked up at Arran suspiciously. ‘What does Mr Cunningham want? I will do my homework.’

Arran laughed. ‘It’s not about your homework. He just wants me to check on you and your family. I’m a caseworker, like Shona. Remember? She used to come to your house.’ He fumbled in his jeans for his ID badge. ‘My name’s Arran Holt.’

Zia’s eyes widened. ‘Are you Miss Holt’s husband?’

‘Brother,’ Arran said, holding out his clean hand. Zia struck him as a child who liked things done properly. ‘Pleased to meet you. Is this your flat? Can I come in?’

Farid answered before Zia had a chance to. ‘Please,’ he said, tugging at Arran’s satchel. ‘My mother will make you coffee.’

‘Farid . . .’ Zia warned, but the younger boy ignored him.

‘She will get up for visitors. Come.’

Zia unlocked the door. Once all three were inside he shut it and reached for the light switch. The flat smelled musty, stale, a combination of unwashed clothes and rubbish left too long before being taken out. A tang of urine lingered in the hallway.

Zia pulled the door to the bathroom shut as he led Arran through to the kitchen. ‘Madar,’ he called out, then switched to English. ‘Mum, Mum.’

Farid ran ahead of them. ‘I’ll get her,’ he said.

Arran looked around. The curtains over the sink were grubby, he noticed; the bench tops were littered with ashtrays and dirty plates. ‘Where are your parents?’ he asked Zia.

‘My father is out,’ Zia said. ‘My mother . . .’ He gestured to the rear of the flat.

Farid returned, leading a small and shuffling woman by the hand. She wore frayed tracksuit pants and a faded jumper but had wrapped a bright red headscarf over her hair.

‘I sorry,’ she apologised to Arran, bowing slightly. ‘You teacher Zia?’

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Arran Holt. I’m a caseworker with the Asylum Seeker Project. Zia’s teacher asked me to come and talk to his family.’ He held out the referral letter in confirmation. When she didn’t reach for it he realised that she couldn’t understand him, and tucked it back into his bag. ‘Can you tell her what I said?’ he asked Zia. Zia translated Arran’s words, then his mother’s reply.

‘She says her name is Nahal Vasseghi, and do you mind if she sits down?’ Arran nodded, and the woman lowered herself into a chair by the kitchen table, first brushing a newspaper on it onto the floor.

‘I’m sorry Mrs Vasseghi,’ said Arran, seating himself next to her. ‘Is this a bad time? Are you unwell?’

The woman shrugged, dark eyes unblinking. ‘What want you?’

Arran looked across at Zia. ‘Can you say that two of your teachers—Mr Cunningham, your class teacher, and Miss Holt, who takes you for art—were concerned that you had a nasty burn on your arm, and also some bruises. I have to investigate how these happened.’

Zia’s eyes sparked. ‘They were accidents,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Just tell her,’ Arran instructed. Reluctantly, Zia turned and spoke to his mother.

‘You no burn,’ she stated almost as soon as the words had left his mouth. Zia, still standing, just looked at the floor. His mother turned back to Arran. ‘Where burn? He no burn.’

Arran made a show of retrieving the referral and reading it in front of her, though he knew the details. ‘On his forearm apparently,’ he said, indicating on his own body. ‘The left.’

Mrs Vasseghi rose from her seat and yanked at Zia’s sleeve. The exposed skin was recently healed and still slightly puckered. She pulled his chin up so he was looking at her, and unleashed a torrent of angry Farsi.

‘My mother is asking Zia when he got burned, and how he did it,’ Farid interpreted helpfully. Then he added, ‘I saw. It was while he was cooking dinner. He spilled the water from the rice.’

Mrs Vasseghi shook her head, mumbling to herself. ‘He clumsy,’ she told Arran. ‘Not thinking.’ She turned away and began shuffling back down the hall. ‘You excuse me. I going.’

Arran called after her, but she didn’t respond, shutting the bedroom door firmly behind her. He gestured to Zia to sit down instead.

‘You didn’t tell your mum you got burned?’

The boy ducked his head. ‘I showed my father. He bandaged it. She was lying down.’

‘Is she in bed a lot, then?’ Arran asked. ‘Is that where she was today?’

‘Every day,’ Farid interjected. Zia shot him a menacing look.

Arran ignored it and turned to the younger child. ‘Does she get up when you go to school or when you come home?’

‘Never,’ Farid replied, shaking his head. Zia kicked at him under the table. ‘What?’ the younger boy yelped at his brother. ‘She doesn’t!’

‘Is that why you were cooking?’ Arran asked Zia. Zia nodded, not meeting his eyes. Arran sighed.
Thank you very much, Skye and Ben
. He pulled a pad and pen out of his bag. ‘OK, I’ll need to make a note of this,’ he said, uncapping his pen. ‘When did it start, Zia, if you can remember? Straight after you came here?’

As he waited to be served Arran deliberated over what to do. He was desperate for a coffee. He always was, after such visits—craving something that fortified and soothed, but more to the point punctuated the experience, drew a line under it. Coffee was a chance to sit down and slip back into his own life, after being immersed in someone else’s. And Zia’s life was complicated: the missing brothers, his depressed mother, the father out God knows where each day. The family had a caseworker, but Zia needed more than that. Though Arran didn’t think he was being bashed, he was nonetheless at risk of going under. Neglect could be as dangerous as fists.