Forbidden (19 page)

Then, abruptly, he is puling back, turning away, breathing hard. I look round in surprise, but only the trees surround us like silent witnesses, unchanged and unmoved and undisturbed. Beside me, Lochan sits with arms circling his drawn-up knees, face turned away. ‘Sorry . . .’ He gives a smal, embarrassed laugh.

‘About what?’

His breathing is fast and shalow. ‘I needed to stop.’

Something tightens in my throat. ‘But that’s fine, Lochie. You don’t have to apologize.’

He doesn’t respond. There is something about his stilness that disturbs me. I move over so that I’m pressed close to him and give him a gentle nudge. ‘Shal we go for a wander?’

He tilts away from me slightly. Raises a shoulder without turning. Doesn’t reply.

‘You OK?’ I ask lightly.

He gives a brief nod.

A flutter of worry rises in my chest. I stroke the back of his head. ‘You sure?’

No reply.

‘Perhaps we should set up camp here, away from the rest of the world,’ I tease, but he doesn’t respond. ‘I just thought it would be nice to have some time alone, just the two of us,’ I say softly.

‘Was it – was coming here a mistake?’

‘No!’

I cover his hand with mine and stroke the back of it with my thumb. ‘What then?’

‘Just—’ His voice quavers. ‘I’m afraid that al this wil one day be nothing more than a distant memory.’

I swalow hard. ‘Don’t say that, Lochie. It doesn’t have to be.’

‘But us – this – it won’t last. It won’t, Maya, we both know that. At some point we’l have to stop—’ He breaks off suddenly and holds his breath, shaking his head wordlessly.

‘Lochie, of course it’s going to last!’ I exclaim, aghast. ‘They can’t stop us. I won’t let anyone stop us . . .’

He takes my hand in his, starts to kiss it, his lips soft and warm. ‘But it’s the whole world,’ he says, his voice an anguished whisper. ‘How – how can we make it against the whole world?’

I want Lochan to say he’l find a way. I need him to say we’l both find a way. Together we’l manage it. Together we’re so strong. Together we brought up a whole family.

‘People can’t separate us!’ I begin angrily. ‘They can’t, they can’t! Can they . . . ?’ And suddenly I realize I’ve no idea. However careful we are, there is always the chance we could get caught. Just as, however much we cover up for Mum, the threat of someone finding out and alerting the authorities gets stronger every day. We have to be so careful; everything has to be hidden, kept secret. One slipup and the whole family could colapse like a house of cards. One slip-up and we could al be torn apart . . . Lochan’s defeatist attitude terrifies me. It’s as if he knows something I don’t. ‘Lochie, tel me we can stay together!’

He reaches out for me and I crumple against him with a sob. Wrapping his arms around me, he holds me tight. ‘I’l do everything,’ he whispers into my hair. ‘I give you my word. I’l do everything I can, Maya. We’l find a way to stay together. I’l figure it out, I wil. OK?’

I look up at him and he blinks back tears, giving me a bright, reassuring, hopeful smile. I nod, smiling in return. ‘Together we’re strong,’ I reply, my voice bolder than I feel. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if in pain, then opens them again and lifts my face from his chest, kissing me gently. We hold each other tightly for a long, long time, warming each other, until the sun gradualy begins to dip in the sky.

In the mornings I shower with the speed of lightning, throw on my clothes, and as soon as I’ve got Tiffin and Wila settled at the breakfast table I run back upstairs with the excuse of a forgotten blazer or watch or book to join Maya, who has the unenviable task of trying to get Kit out of bed in the mornings. She’s usualy tying back her hair or buttoning her shirt cuffs or stuffing books into her bag, her bedroom door ajar, and pops out sporadicaly to shout up at Kit to hurry; but she stops when she sees me and, with a look of nervous excitement, takes my outstretched hand. My heart pounding in anticipation, we shut ourselves in my bedroom. With only a few precious minutes to spare, my foot pressed firmly against the bottom corner of the door, one hand gripping the handle, I pul her gently towards me. Her eyes light up with a smile, hands either reaching for my face, my hair, or sometimes even pressing up against my chest, fingertips scraping against the thin fabric of my shirt. We kiss shyly at first, half afraid. I can taste whether she has used Colgate or just grabbed the pink kiddie stuff while supervising brushing to save time.

It always gives me a jolt, that moment when our lips first meet, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Her lips are soft and warm and smooth; mine feel harsh and rough against them. At the sound of Kit’s slow, dragging footsteps just the other side of the thin wal, Maya tries to pul back. However, as soon as the bathroom door slams, she gives in and slides round so her back is pushed up against the door. I dig my nails into the wood on either side of her head in an attempt to keep my hands under control as our kisses grow increasingly frantic; the longing inside me quels any fear of being caught as I feel the last precious seconds of ecstasy run through my fingers like sand. A shout from downstairs, the sound of Kit re-emerging from the bathroom, feet pounding up the stairs – al signals that our time is up – and Maya pushes me firmly back, her cheeks aglow, mouth stained red with the flush of unfinished kisses. We stare at each other, our hot panting filing the air, but as I press in towards her again, my eyes begging for just one more second, she closes her eyes with a look of pain and turns her head away. She is usualy the first to leave the bedroom, striding into the vacated bathroom to splash water on her face while I cross over to my bedroom window and throw it open, clutching at the edge of the sil and sucking in great lungfuls of cold air.

I don’t understand, I don’t understand. Surely this has happened before. Surely other brothers and sisters have falen in love. Surely they have been alowed to express their love, physicaly as wel as emotionaly, without being vilified, ostracized, thrown into prison even. But incest is ilegal. By loving each other physicaly as wel as emotionaly, we are committing a crime. And I’m terrified. It is one thing hiding from the world, another to be hiding from the law. So I keep repeating to myself – As long as we don’t go all the way, it will be all right. As long as we don’t actually have sex, we’re not technicaly having an incestuous relationship. As long as we don’t cross that final line, our family will be safe, the kids won’t be taken away, Maya and I won’t be forced apart. All we have to do is be patient, enjoy what we have, until perhaps one day, when the others are grown up, we can move away and forge new identities and love each other freely. I have to force myself to stop thinking about it or I can’t get anything done – schoolwork, revision, making dinner, the weekly shop, fetching Tiffin and Wila from school, helping them with homework, making sure they have clean clothes for the folowing day, playing with them when they are bored. Keeping an eye on Kit – checking he does his schoolwork and makes the money he’s given last the week, cajoling him into having dinner with us instead of disappearing with his mates to McDonald’s, making sure he doesn’t skip school and comes home at night. And of course, arguing with Mum over money, always money, as less and less comes our way and more and more gets spent on alcohol and new outfits to impress Dave. Meanwhile Tiffin’s clothes get smaler, Wila’s uniform gets more ragged, Kit complains bitterly about the new gadgets his friends al have, and the bils keep flooding in . . .

Whenever I’m apart from Maya, I feel incomplete . . . less than incomplete. I feel like I’m nothing, like I don’t exist at al. I have no identity. I don’t speak, I don’t even look at people. Being around others is just as unbearable as ever – I am afraid that if they see me properly, they might guess my secret. I’m afraid that even if I do manage to speak or interact with people, I might give something away. At break times I watch Maya over the top of my book from my post on the staircase, wiling her to come over to sit with me, to talk to me, to make me feel alive and real and loved, but even just talking is too risky. So she sits on the wal at the far end of the playground, chatting to Francie, careful not to glance up at me, as aware as I am of the danger of our situation. In the evenings I seek her out as soon as Tiffin and Wila have been tucked in, too early for it to be safe. She turns from her desk, her hair skimming the page of her textbook, and points meaningfuly at the door behind me to indicate that the little ones are not yet asleep. But by the time they are, Kit is roaming the house, looking for food or watching TV, and by the time he finaly goes to bed Maya is passed out in hers.

Half-term brings little respite. It rains al week and, cooped up inside with no money for outings or even the cinema, Tiffin and Wila bicker constantly while Kit sleeps al day and then disappears with his friends until the smal hours of the morning. Late one night, restless and burning with relentless agitation, I pul on my running shoes and leave the sleeping house, jogging al the way to Ashmoore Park, climbing the railings under the light of the stars, running across the moonlit grass. Stumbling through the darkened woods, I eventualy find Maya’s oasis of peace, but it brings me none. I fal to my knees before the trunk of a huge oak tree and, making a fist, grate my knuckles up and down its harsh, jagged, unforgiving bark until they are bloody and raw.

‘Lochie needs a plaster,’ Wila announces the folowing evening to Maya, the family’s first-aider, as she comes through the door looking spent. ‘A big one.’

Maya drops her bag and blazer to the floor and gives a tired smile.

‘Rough day?’ I enquire.

‘Three tests.’ She rols her eyes. ‘And PE in the hailstorm.’

‘I’m helping Lochie make dinner,’ Wila says proudly, kneeling on a kitchen stool and arranging frozen chips into patterns on the oven tray. ‘Wanna help, Maya?’

‘I think we’re doing pretty good just the two of us,’ I point out quickly as Maya flops into a chair, her tie askew, and pushes the straggly wisps of hair back from her face, blowing me a discreet kiss.

‘Maya, look! I made my name in capital chips!’ Wila pipes up, noting our exchanged looks, anxious to be included.

‘Very clever.’ Maya gets up and lifts Wila onto her lap before settling down with her and leaning over the tray to try and create her own name. I watch them for a moment. Maya’s long arms encircle Wila’s shorter ones. Wila is ful of chatter about her day while Maya is the attentive listener, asking al the right questions. Heads bent close, their long straight hair mingles: Maya’s auburn against Wila’s gold. They both have the same delicate, pale skin, the same clear blue gaze, the same smile. On her lap, Wila is solid and alive, ful of bubble and laughter. Maya somehow looks more delicate, more fragile, more ethereal. There is a sadness in her eyes, a weariness that never realy leaves. For Maya, childhood ended years ago. As she sits with Wila on her lap, I think: Sister and sister. Mother and child.

‘You can do the M like this,’ Wila declares importantly.

‘You’re good at this, Wila,’ Maya tels her. ‘Now, what were you saying about Lochan needing a plaster?’

I realize I have been chopping up the same bunch of spring onions ever since Maya first came in. I have a board ful of green and white confetti.

‘Lochie hurt his hand,’ Wila states matter-of-factly, her eyes stil narrowed on the chips.

‘With a knife?’ Maya looks up at me sharply, her eyes registering alarm.

‘No, it’s just a graze,’ I reassure her with a dismissive shake of the head and an indulgent smile towards Wila.

Wila turns to look at Maya. ‘He’s lying,’ she stage-whispers conspiratorialy.

‘Can I see?’ Maya asks.

I flash her the back of my hand.

She flinches at the sight and instantly moves to get up, but then, anchored to her seat by Wila, is forced to sit down again. She reaches out. ‘Come here.’

‘I don’t want to see it!’ Wila lowers her head towards the tray. ‘It’s al bleeding and sticky. Eek, yuck, gross!’

I let Maya take my hand in hers, just for the pleasure of touching her. ‘It’s nothing.’

She strokes the inside of my hand with her fingers. ‘Jesus, what happened? Surely not a fight—?’

‘Of course not. I just tripped and scraped it against the wal of the playground.’

She gives me a long disbelieving look. ‘We need to clean it properly,’ she insists.

‘I have.’

Ignoring my last comment, she gently slides Wila off her lap. ‘I’m going upstairs to sort Lochie’s hand out,’ she says. ‘I’l be back in a minute.’

In the smal confines of the bathroom, I rummage around in the medicine cupboard for the antiseptic. ‘I appreciate the concern, but don’t you think you girls are being a bit paranoid?’

Ignoring me, Maya perches on the edge of the bath and reaches out towards me. ‘It’s only because we love you so much. Come here.’

I oblige, leaning in and closing my eyes for a brief moment, savouring the touch, the taste of her soft lips against mine. Gently she puls me closer and I turn away, waving the antiseptic bottle aloft. ‘I thought you wanted to play nurse!’

She looks at me with a mixture of uncertainty and surprise, as if trying to gauge whether I’m teasing.

‘Much as I love dabbing up blood, it doesn’t quite match up to grabbing a rare moment to kiss the guy I love.’

I force a laugh. ‘Are you saying you’d rather let me bleed to death?’

She pretends to consider this for a moment. ‘Ah, wel, that’s a tough one.’

I start uncapping the bottle. ‘Come on. Let’s get this over and done with.’

Cuffing my wrist gently with her fingers, she draws my hand towards her, inspecting the raw, bloody knuckles, the skin grated back from the wound: a jagged white rectangle surrounding the wet, crimson lacerations. She winces. ‘Christ, Lochan. You did this faling against a wal? It looks like you took a grater to the back of your hand!’

She gently dabs at my savaged knuckles. I take a deep breath and watch her face: her eyes are narrowed in concentration, her touch very gentle. I swalow painfuly.

After bandaging it with gauze and putting everything away, she returns to the side of the bath and kisses me again, and as I pul back, rubs my arm with an uncertain smile.

‘Is it realy hurting?’

‘No, of course not!’ I exclaim truthfuly. ‘I don’t know why you girls get into such a panic at the merest drop of blood. Anyway, thank you, Miss Nightingale.’ I give her a quick kiss on the head, stand up and reach for the door.

‘Hey!’ She reaches out a hand to stop me, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. ‘Don’t you think I deserve a bit more than that for my efforts?’

I pul a face and motion awkwardly towards the door. ‘Wila . . .’

‘She’l be spaced out in front of the TV now!’

I take a reluctant step forward. ‘OK . . .’

But she stops me before I have time to reach her, hand on my chest, gently holding me at arm’s length. Her expression is quizzical. ‘What’s up with you today?’

I shake my head with a wry smile. ‘I dunno. I think I’m just a bit tired.’

She gives me a long look, rubbing the tip of her tongue against her upper lip. ‘Loch, is everything OK?’

‘Of course!’ I smile brightly. ‘Now, shal we get out of here? This is not exactly the most romantic place!’

I can feel her bewilderment as strongly as if it were my own. Throughout dinner, I keep catching her watching me, her eyes rapidly flicking away as soon as they meet mine. She is distracted, that much is obvious, failing to notice Wila eating with her hands, or Kit openly winding up the little ones by ignoring his meal and eating the Jaffa Cakes meant for dessert. I sense it is better to let them just do what the hel they want rather than object – for fear that if I start, I won’t be able to stop and the cracks wil begin to show. I just panicked in the bathroom. I was afraid, too afraid that if I let her get that close she would sense it, realize there was something wrong.

But at night I can’t sleep, my mind plagued with fears. With constant coursework and the day-today hassle of living to contend with, added to the fact that we can never, ever show any display of affection in public or even within our own family, the familiar suffocating shackles are tightening stil further. Wil we ever be free to exist like a normal couple? I wonder. To live together, hold hands in public, kiss on a street corner? Or wil we be for ever condemned to lead closet lives, hidden away behind locked doors and drawn curtains? Or worse stil, once our siblings are old enough, wil we have no choice but to run away and leave them behind?

I keep teling myself to take one day at a time, but how is this realy possible? I am about to leave school, start university, and therefore, by default, am forced to contemplate my future. What I’d realy like to do is write – for a newspaper or magazine perhaps – but I know that is nothing more than a ridiculous flight of fancy. What matters is money: it’s imperative I aim for a job with a decent starting salary and good earning potential.

For I have little faith that once I’m earning, our mother wil continue to support us. By the time I leave uni, Wila wil be eight, stil requiring a whole decade of financial and practical support. Tiffin wil need another seven, Kit another two . . . The years and numbers and calculations blow my mind. I know that Maya wil insist on helping too, but I don’t want to have to depend on her, never want her to feel trapped. If she wanted to go on to further study, if she suddenly fancied picking up her childhood dream of being an actress, I could never let the family stand in her way. I could never deny her that right – the right of any human being to choose the life they want to lead. For my part, the choice has already been made. Having the children taken into care is something I have been trying to guard against since the age of twelve. No sacrifice is too great to keep my family together, yet the long path ahead looks so rocky and steep that I regularly wake up at night fearing I wil fal. Only the thought of Maya at my side makes the ascent seem possible at al. But lately the sacrifices just seem to be getting bigger.