TABITHA SUZUMA

Contents

Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Also byTabitha Suzuma Acknowledgements

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
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FORBIDDENADEFINITIONSBOOK 978 1 862 30816 9 First published inGreat BritainbyDefinitions, animprint ofRandomHouse Children’s BooksA RandomHouse Group Company
This editionpublished 2010
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Copyright © Tabitha Suzuma, 2010
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ACIPcatalogue record for this book is available fromthe BritishLibrary. Printed inthe UK byCPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD For Akiko, with love Also byTabitha Suzuma:

A Note of Madness A Voice in the Distance
From Where I Stand Without Looking Back
www.tabithasuzuma.com
Acknowledgements

I wish I could say writing this book was easy. It wasn’t. In fact it was possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life . . . Therefore I owe an enormous thank-you to all those who helped and supported me during this tough time. First of all, this book would have never existed had it not been for the passion and unwavering faith of my editor, Charlie Sheppard, who not only fought for this book’s creation, but continued to fight, during the many times I wanted to give up, to keep the book alive. I also want to offer my heartfelt thanks to Annie Eaton, who has been so encouraging and has kept believing in me and in this book so strongly. Editors Sarah Dudman and Ruth Knowles worked extremely hard and I am very grateful for their patience, expertise and commitment. My thanks also extend to Sophie Nelsonand to the designteamfor their invaluable contribution.

I am especially grateful for the incredible support of my family. My mother not only tirelessly proofreads my books at every stage, but also helps me find the time and energy to write them. Tansy Roekaerts offers me constructive feedback on all my books and always seems to know how to help me when I am stuck. Tiggy Suzuma is the pride of my life and somehow manages to make me laugh during the bad times and not take it alltoo seriously. Thalia Suzuma gives me invaluable feedback too, along with practical help and professional advice. Finally, I am so lucky to have as my best friend Akiko Hart, who not onlyhelps me to write, but, more importantly, to live.

You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel.
Anon.
CHAPTERONE Lochan

I gaze at the small, crisp, burned-out black husks scattered across the chipped white paint of the windowsills. It is hard to believe that they were ever alive. I wonder what it would be like to be shut up in this airless glass box, slowly baked for two long months by the relentless sun, able to see the outdoors – the wind shaking the green trees right there in front of you – hurling yourself again and again at the invisible wall that seals you off from everything that is real and alive and necessary until eventually you succumb: scorched, exhausted, overwhelmed by the impossibility of the task. At what point does a fly give up trying to escape through a closed window – do its survival instincts keep it going untilit is physically capable of no more, or does it eventually learn after one crash too many that there is no wayout?At what point do youdecide that enoughis enough?

I turn my eyes away from the tiny carcasses and try to focus on the mass of quadratic equations on the board. Athin filmof sweat coats my skin, trapping wisps of hair against my forehead, clinging to my school shirt. The sun has been pouring through the industrial-sized windows all afternoon and I am foolishly sitting in full glare, half blinded by the powerful rays. The ridge of the plastic chair digs painfully into my back as I sit semi-reclined, one leg stretched out, heel propped up against the low radiator along the wall. My shirt cuffs hang loose around my wrists, stained with ink and grime. The empty page stares up at me, painfully white, as I work out equations in lethargic, barely legible handwriting. The pen slips and slides in my clammy fingers; I peel my tongue off my palate and try to swallow. I can’t. I have been sitting like this for the best part of an hour, but I know that trying to find a more comfortable position is useless. I linger over the sums, tilting the nib of my pen so that it catches on the paper and makes a faint scratching sound – ifI finish too soon I willhave nothing to do but look at dead flies again. My head hurts. The air stands heavy, pregnant with the perspiration of thirty-two teenagers crammed into an overheated classroom. There is a weight on my chest that makes it difficult to breathe. It is far more than this arid room, this stale air. The weight descended on Tuesday, the moment I stepped through the schoolgates, back to face another schoolyear. The week has not yet ended and already I feelas ifI have been here for alleternity. Between these schoolwalls, time flows like cement. Nothing has changed. The people are still the same: vacuous faces, contemptuous smiles. My eyes slide past theirs as I enter the classrooms and they gaze past me, through me. I amhere but not here. The teachers tick me off in the register but no one sees me, for I have longperfected the art ofbeinginvisible.

There is a new English teacher – Miss Azley. Some bright young thing from Down Under: huge frizzy hair held back by a rainbow-coloured headscarf, tanned skin and massive gold hoops in her ears. She looks alarmingly out of place in a school full of tired, middle-aged teachers, faces etched with lines of bitterness and disappointment. No doubt once, like this plump, chirpy Aussie, they entered the profession full of hope and vigour, determined to make a difference, to heed Gandhi and be the change they wanted to see in the world. Now, after decades of policies, inter-school red tape and crowd control, most have given up and are awaiting early retirement – custard creams and tea in the staffroomthe highlight of their day. But the new teacher hasn’t had the benefit of time. In fact she doesn’t look much older than some of the pupils in the room. Abunch of guys erupt into a cacophony of wolf whistles until she swings round to face them, disdainfully staring them down so that they start to look uncomfortable and glance away. Nonetheless, a stampede ensues when she commands everyone to arrange the desks in a semicircle, and with all the jostling, play-fighting, desk-slamming and chair-sliding, she is lucky nobody gets injured. Despite the mayhem, Miss Azley appears unperturbed – wheneveryone finallysettles down, she gazes around the scragglycircle and beams.

‘That’s better. Now I can see you all properly and you can all see me. I’ll expect you to have the classroom set up before I arrive in future, and don’t forget that all the desks need to be returned to their places at the end of the lesson. Anyone caught leaving before having done their bit will take sole responsibility for the furniture arrangements for a week. Do I make myself clear?’ Her voice is firm but there appears to be no malice. Her grin suggests she might even have a sense of humour. The grumbles and complaints fromthe usualtroublemakers are surprisinglymuted.

She thenannounces that we are goingto take turns introducingourselves. After expoundingonher love of travel, her new dog and her previous career in advertising, she turns to the girl on her right. Surreptitiously I slide my watch round to the inside of my wrist and train my eyes on the seconds flashing past. All day I have been waiting for this – final period – and now it is here I can hardly bear it. All day I’ve been counting down the hours, the lessons, until this one. Now, all that’s left is the minutes, yet they seem interminable. I am doing sums in my head: calculating the number of seconds before the last bell. With a start I realize that Rafi, the dickhead to my right, is blabbering on about astrologyagain– almost everyone inthe roomhas had their turnnow. WhenRafifinallyshuts up about stellar constellations, there is suddensilence. I look up to find MissAzleystaringdirectlyat me.
‘Pass.’I examine mythumbnailand automaticallymumble myusualresponse without lookingup. But, to my horror, she doesn’t take the hint. Has she not read my file? She is still looking at me.
‘Few activities inmylessons are optional, I’mafraid,’she informs me.
There are sniggers fromJed’s group. ‘We’llbe here alldaythen.’
‘Didn’t anyone tellyou? He don’t speak English—’
‘Or anyother language.’Laughter.
‘Martianmaybe!’
The teacher silences themwitha look. ‘I’mafraid that’s not how things work inmylessons.’ Another long silence follows. I fiddle with the corner of my notepad, the eyes of the class

scorchingmyface. The steadytick ofthe wallclock is drowned out bythe poundingofmyheart. ‘Why don’t you start off by telling me your name?’ Her voice has softened slightly. It takes me a
moment to figure out why. ThenI realize that myleft hand has stopped fiddlingwiththe notepad and is
now vibrating against the empty page. I hurriedly slide my hand beneath the desk, mumble my name
and glance meaningfully at my neighbour. He launches eagerly into his monologue without giving the
teacher time to protest, but I can see she has backed down. She knows now. The pain in my chest
fades to a dull ache and my burning cheeks cool. The rest of the hour is taken up with a lively debate
about the merits ofstudyingShakespeare. MissAzleydoes not invite me to participate again.

When the last bell finally shrieks its way through the building, the class dissolves into chaos. I slammy textbook shut, stuff it in my bag, get up and exit the room rapidly, diving into the home-time fray. All along the main corridor over-excited pupils are streaming out of doors to join the thick current of people:I ambumped and buffeted by shoulders, elbows, bags, feet . . . I make it down one staircase, thenthe next, and amalmost across the mainhallbefore I feela hand onmyarm.

‘Whitely. Aword.’
Freeland, myformtutor. I feelmylungs deflate.
The silver-haired teacher with the hollow, lined face leads me into an empty classroom, indicates a

seat, thenperches awkwardlyonthe corner ofa woodendesk.
‘Lochan, as I’msure youare aware, this is a particularlyimportant year for you.’ TheA-levellecture again. I give a slight nod, forcingmyselfto meet mytutor’s gaze. ‘It’s also the start of a new academic year!’ Freeland announces brightly, as if I needed reminding

of that fact. ‘New beginnings. Afresh start . . . Lochan, we know you don’t always find things easy, but we’re hoping for great things from you this term. You’ve always excelled in written work, and that’s wonderful, but now you’re in your final year we expect you to show us what you’re capable of inother areas.’

Another nod. Aninvoluntaryglance towards the door. I’mnot sure I like the waythis conversation is heading. Mr Freeland gives a heavy sigh. ‘Lochan, if you want to get into UCL, you know it’s vital youstart takinga more active role inclass . . .’

I nod again.
‘Do youunderstand what I’msayinghere?’
I clear mythroat. ‘Yes.’
‘Class participation. Joining in group discussions. Contributing to the lessons. Actually replying

when asked a question. Putting your hand up once in a while. That’s all we ask. Your grades have always beenimpeccable. No complaints there.’
Silence.
Myhead is hurtingagain. How muchlonger is this goingonfor?
‘Youseemdistracted. Are youtakinginwhat I’msaying?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Look, you have great potential and we would hate to see that go to waste. If you need help again, youknow we canarrange that . . .’
I feelthe heat rise to my cheeks. ‘N-no. It’s OK. Really. Thanks anyway.’I pick up my bag, sling the strap over myhead and across mychest, and head for the door.
‘Lochan,’Mr Freeland calls after me as I walk out. ‘Just think about it.’
At last. I amheading towards Bexham, school rapidlyfading behind me. It is barely four o’clock and the sun is still beating down, the bright white light bouncing off the sides of cars which reflect it in disjointed rays, the heat shimmering off the tarmac. The high street is alltraffic, exhaust fumes, braying horns, school kids and noise. I have been waiting for this moment since being jolted awake by the alarmthis morning, but now it is finally here I feel strangely empty. Like being a child again, clattering down the stairs to find that Santa has forgotten to fill up our stockings; that Santa, in fact, is just the drunk on the couch in the front room, lying comatose with three of her friends. I have been focusing so hard on actually getting out of school that I seemto have forgotten what to do now I’ve escaped. The elation I was expecting does not materialize and I feel lost, naked, as if I’d been anticipating something wonderfulbut had suddenly forgotten what it was. Walking down the street, weaving in and out ofthe crowds, I tryto think ofsomething– anything– to look forward to.
In an effort to shake myself out of my strange mood, I jog across the cracked paving stones past the litterlined gutters, the balmy September breeze lifting the hair fromthe nape of my neck, my thinsoled sneakers moving soundlessly over the pavement. I loosen my tie, pulling the knot halfway down my chest, and undo my top shirt buttons. It’s always good to stretch my legs at the end of a long, dull day at Belmont, to dodge, skim and leap over the smeared fruit and squashed vegleft behind by the market stalls. I turn the corner into the familiar narrow road with its two long rows of small, run-down brick houses stretchinggraduallyuphill.
It’s the street I’ve lived in for the past five years. We only moved into the council house after our father took himself off to Australia with his new wife and the child support stopped. Before then, home had been a dilapidated rented house on the other side of town, but in one of the nicer areas. We were never well-off, not with a poet for a father, but nonetheless, things were easier in so many ways. But that was a long, long time ago. Home now is number sixty-two, Bexham Road: a twostorey, three-bedroomed, grey stuccoed cube, thickly sandwiched in a long line of others, with Coke bottles and beer cans sprouting amongst the weeds between the broken gate and the faded orange door.
The road is so narrow that the cars, with their boarded-up windows or dented fenders, have to park with two wheels on the kerb, making it easier to walk down the centre of the street than on the pavement. Kicking a crushed plastic bottle out of the gutter, I dribble it along, the slap of my shoes and the grate of broken plastic against tarmac echoing around me, soon joined by the cacophony of a yapping dog, shouts froma children’s football game and reggae blasting out of an open window. My bag bounces and rattles against my thigh and I feel some of my malaise begin to dissipate. As I jog past the footballers, a familiar figure overshoots the goalpost markers and I exchange the plastic bottle for the ball, easily dodging the pint-sized boys in their oversized Arsenal T-shirts as they follow me up the road, yelping in protest. The blond firework dives towards me: a tow-headed little hippy with hair down to his shoulders, his once white school shirt now streaked with dirt and hanging over torn grey trousers. He manages to get ahead of me, running backwards as fast as he can, shouting frantically, ‘To me, Loch, to me, Loch. Pass it to me!’
With a laugh I do, and whooping in triumph, my eight-year-old brother grabs the ball and runs back to his mates, yelling, ‘I got it offhim, I got it offhim! Did yousee?’
I slaminto the relative cool of the house and sag back against the front door to catch my breath, brushing the damp hair off my forehead. Straightening up, I pick my way down the hallway, my feet automatically nudging aside the assortment of discarded blazers, book bags and school shoes that litter the narrow corridor. In the kitchen I find Willa up on the counter, trying to reach a box of Cheerios fromthe cupboard. She freezes when she sees me, one hand on the box, her blue eyes wide withguilt beneathher fringe. ‘Maya forgot mysnack today!’
I lunge towards her with a growl, grabbing her round the waist with one arm and swinging her upside down as she squeals with a mixture of terror and delight, her long golden hair fanning out beneath her. Then I dump her unceremoniously onto a kitchen chair and slap down the cereal box, milk bottle, bowland spoon.
‘Half a bowlful, no more,’ I warn her with a raised finger. ‘We’re having an early dinner tonight – I’ve got a tonofhomework to do.’
‘When?’ Willa sounds unconvinced, scattering sugarcoated hoops across the chipped oak table that is the centrepiece of our messy kitchen. Despite the revised set of House Rules that Maya taped to the fridge door, it is clear that Tiffinhasn’t touched the overflowingbins indays, that Kit hasn’t even begun washing the breakfast dishes piled up in the sink, and that Willa has once again mislaid her miniature broomand has onlysucceeded inadding to the crumbs litteringthe floor.
‘Where’s Mum?’I ask.
‘Gettingready.’
I emptymylungs witha sighand leave the kitchen, takingthe narrow woodenstairs two at a time, ignoring Mum’s greeting, searching for the only person I really feel like talking to. But when I spot the open door to her empty room, I remember that she is stuck at some afterschool thing tonight and my chest deflates. Instead I return to the familiar sound of Magic FM blasting out of the open bathroom door.
My mother is leaning over the basin towards the smeared, cracked mirror, putting the finishing touches to her mascara and brushing invisible lint off the front of her tight silver dress. The air is thick with the stench of hairspray and perfume. As she sees me appear behind her reflection, her brightly painted lips lift and part ina smile ofapparent delight. ‘Hey, beautifulboy!’
She turns down the radio, swings round to face me and holds out an arm for a kiss. Without movingfromthe doorway, I kiss the air, aninvoluntaryscowletched betweenmybrows.
She begins to laugh. ‘Look at you – back in your uniform and almost as scruffy as the kiddies! Youneed a haircut, sweetie. Ohdear, what’s withthe stormylook?’
I sag against the doorframe, trailing my blazer on the floor. ‘It’s the third time this week, Mum,’ I protest wearily.
‘I know, I know, but I couldn’t possibly miss this. Davey finally signed the contract for the new restaurant and wants to go out and celebrate!’ She opens her mouth in an exclamation of delight and, whenmyexpressionfails to thaw, swiftlychanges the subject. ‘How was your day, sweetie pie?’
I manage a wrysmile. ‘Great, Mum. As usual.’
‘Wonderful!’ she exclaims, choosing to ignore the sarcasm in my voice. If there’s one thing my mother excels at, it’s minding her own business. ‘Only a year now – not even that – and you’llbe free of school and all that silliness.’ Her smile broadens. ‘And soon you’ll finally turn eighteen and really willbe the manofthe house!’
I lean my head back against the doorjamb. The man of the house. She’s been calling me that since I was twelve, ever since Dad left.
Turning back to the mirror, she presses her breasts together beneath the top of her low-cut dress. ‘How do I look? I got paid today and treated myself to a shopping spree.’ She flashes me a mischievous grin as if we were conspirators in this little extravagance. ‘Look at these gold sandals. Aren’t theydarling?’
I amunable to return the smile. I wonder how much of her monthly wage has already been spent. Retail therapy has been an addiction for years now. Mumis desperate to cling onto her youth, a time when her beauty turned heads in the street, but her looks are rapidly fading, face prematurely aged by years ofhard living.
‘Youlook great,’I answer robotically.
Her smile fades a little. ‘Lochan, come on, don’t be like this. I need your help tonight. Dave is taking me somewhere really special – you know the place that’s just opened on Stratton Road opposite the cinema?’
‘OK, OK. It’s fine, have fun.’ With considerable effort I erase the frown and manage to keep the resentment out of my voice. There is nothing particularly wrong with Dave. Of the long string of men mymother has beeninvolved withever since Dad left her for one ofhis colleagues, Dave has beenthe most benign. Nine years her junior and the owner of the restaurant where she now works as head waitress, he is currently separated fromhis wife. But like each of Mum’s flings, he appears to possess the same strange power all men have over her, the ability to transform her into a giggling, flirting, fawning girl, desperate to spend her hard-earned cash on unnecessary presents for her ‘man’ and tight-fitting, revealing outfits for herself. Tonight it is barely five o’clock and already her face is flushed with anticipation as she tarts herselfup for this dinner, no doubt having spent the last hour fretting over what to wear. Pulling back her freshly highlighted blonde perm, she is now experimenting with some exotic hairdo and asking me to fasten her fake diamond necklace – a present from Dave – that she swears is real. Her curvy figure barely fits into a dress her sixteen-year-old daughter wouldn’t be seen dead in, and the comment ‘mutton dressed as lamb’, regularly overheard from neighbours’ front gardens, echoes inmyears.
I close my bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a few moments, relishing this small patch of carpet that is my own. It never used to be a bedroom, just a small storage roomwith a bare window, but I managed to squeeze a camp bed in here three years ago when I realized that sharing a bunk bed with siblings had some serious drawbacks. It is one of the few places where I can be completelyalone:no pupils withknowingeyes and mockingsmirks; no teachers firingquestions at me; no shouting, jostling bodies. And there is still a small oasis of time before our mother goes out on her date and dinner has to get underwayand the arguments over food and homework and bedtime begin.
I drop my bag and blazer on the floor, kick off my shoes and sit down on the bed with my back against the wall, knees drawn up in front of me. My usually tidy space bears all the frantic signs of a slept-through alarm: clock knocked to the floor, bed unmade, chair covered with discarded clothes, floor littered withbooks and papers, spilled fromthe piles onmydesk. The flakingwalls are bare save for a small snapshot of the seven of us, taken during our final annual holiday in Blackpool two months before Dad left. Willa, still a baby, is on Mum’s lap, Tiffin’s face is smeared with chocolate ice cream, Kit is hanging upside down off the bench, and Maya is trying to yank him back up. The only faces clearly visible are Dad’s and mine – we have our arms slung across each other’s shoulders, grinning broadly at the camera. I rarely look at the photo, despite having rescued it fromMum’s bonfire. But I like the feel of it being close by: a reminder that those happier times were not simply a figment of my imagination.

CHAPTERTWO Maya

My key jams in the lock again. I curse, then kick the door in my usualmanner. The moment I step out of the late afternoon sunshine and into the darkened hallway, I sense that things are already a little wild. Predictably the front room is a tip – crisp packets, book bags, school letters and abandoned homework strewn across the carpet. Kit is eating Cheerios straight fromthe box, trying to throw the odd one across the roominto Willa’s openmouth.

‘Maya, Maya, look what Kit cando!’Willa calls excitedlyto me as I shed myblazer and tie inthe doorway. ‘He canget theminto mymouthallthe wayfromover there!’
Despite the mess of cereal trampled into the carpet, I can’t help smiling. My little sister is the cutest five-year-old in history. Her dimpled cheeks, flushed pink with exertion, are still gently rounded with baby chubbiness, her face lit with a soft innocence. Since losing her front teeth she has taken to poking the tip of her tongue through the gap when she smiles. Her waist-length hair hangs down her back, straight and fine like gold silk, the colour matched by the tiny studs in her ears. Beneath an overgrown fringe, her large eyes wear a permanently startled look, the colour of deep water. She has exchanged her uniform for a flowery pink summer dress, her current favourite, and is hopping from foot to foot, delighted byher teenage brother’s antics.
I turnto Kit witha grin. ‘Looks like the two ofyouhave beenhavinga very productive afternoon. I hope youremember where we keep the vacuumcleaner.’
Kit responds by throwing a handful of cereal in Willa’s direction. For a moment I think he is just goingto ignore me, but thenhe declares, ‘It’s not a game, it’s target practice. Mumwon’t care – she’s out withLover Boyagaintonight, and bythe time she makes it home she’llbe too wasted to notice.’
I open my mouth to object to Kit’s choice ofwords, but Willa is egging himon, and seeing that he is neither sulking nor arguing, I decide to let it pass, and collapse on the couch. My thirteen-year-old brother has changed in recent months: a summer growth spurt has accentuated his already skinny frame, his sandy hair has been cut short to show off the fake diamond stud in his ear and his hazel eyes have hardened. Somethinghas shifted inhis manner too. The child is stillthere but buried beneath an unfamiliar toughness: the change around the eyes, the defiant set of the jaw, the harsh, mirthless laugh all give him an alien, jagged edge. Yet during brief, genuine moments like these, when he is just havingfun, the mask slips a little and I see mykid brother again.
‘Is Lochandoingdinner tonight?’I ask.
‘Obviously.’
‘Dinner . . .’Willa’s hand flies to her mouthinalarm. ‘Lochie said one last warning.’
‘He was bluffing—’ Kit tries to forestall her, but she is off down the corridor to the kitchen at a gallop, always anxious to please. I sit up on the couch, yawning, and Kit starts flicking cereal at my forehead.
‘Watch it. That’s all we’ve got for the morning and I don’t see you eating it off the floor.’ I stand up. ‘Come on. Let’s go see what Lochan’s cooked up.’
‘Fucking pasta – what else does he ever make?’ Kit tosses the open cereal box onto the armchair, spillinghalfits contents across the cushions, his good mood evaporatingina heartbeat.
‘Well, perhaps youcould start learninghow to cook. Thenwe could allthree take turns.’
Kit shoots me a condescendinglook and stalks ahead ofme into the kitchen.
‘Out, Tiffin. I said, get the ballout ofthe room.’Lochan has a boiling saucepan in one hand and is tryingto manhandle Tiffinthroughthe door withthe other.
‘Goal!’ Tiffin yells, shooting the ball under the table. I catch it, toss it into the corridor and grab Tiffinas he tries to dive past me.
‘Help, help, she’s stranglingme!’he yells, mimingasphyxiation.
I manoeuvre himonto his chair. ‘Sit!’
At the sight of food he complies, grabbing his knife and fork and beating out a drum roll on the table. Willa laughs and picks up her cutleryto copy.
‘Don’t . . .’I warnher.
Her smile fades, and for a moment she looks chastened. I feel a pang of guilt. Willa is loving and biddable, whereas Tiffin is always bursting with energy and mischief. As a consequence she is always witnessing her brother get away with murder. Moving quickly round the kitchen, I set out the plates, pour the water, returnthe cookingingredients to their respective homes.
‘OK, tuck in, everyone.’ Lochan has dished up. Four plates, one pink Barbie bowl. Pasta with cheese, pasta withcheese and sauce, pasta withsauce but no cheese, broccoli– whichneither Kit nor Tiffinwilltouch– craftilyhiddenround the sides.
‘Hello, you.’I catchhis sleeve before he heads back to the cooker, and smile. ‘YouOK?’
‘I’ve been home two hours and they’ve already gone crazy.’ He shoots me a look of exaggerated despair and I laugh.
‘Mumleft already?’
He nods. ‘Did youremember the milk?’
‘Yeah, but we need to do a proper shop.’
‘I’ll go after school tomorrow.’ Lochan spins round in time to catch Tiffin leaping for the door. ‘Oi!’
‘I’mdone, I’mdone! I’mnot hungryanymore!’
‘Tiffin, would you just sit down at the table like a normal person and eat your meal?’ Lochan’s voice begins to rise.
‘But Ben and Jamie are only allowed out for another half-hour!’ Tiffin yells in protest, his face scarlet beneathhis mop oftow-coloured hair.
‘It’s six-thirty!You’re not goingback outside tonight!’
Tiffin throws himself back into his chair in fury, arms folded, knees drawn up. ‘That’s so not fair! I hate you!’
Lochan wisely ignores Tiffin’s antics and instead turns his attention to Willa, who has given up trying to use a fork and is eating the spaghetti with her fingers, tilting back her head and sucking in eachstrand fromthe bottom. ‘Look,’Lochanshows her. ‘Youwind it round like this . . .’ ‘But it keeps fallingoff!’
‘Just trya bit at a time.’
‘I can’t,’she moans. ‘Lochie, cut it up for me?’
‘Willa, youneed to learn—’
‘But fingers is easier!’
Kit’s place remains empty as he works his way round the kitchen, opening and slamming cupboard doors.
‘Let me save you some time – the only food we’ve got left is on the table,’ Lochan says, picking up his fork. ‘And I haven’t put anyarsenic init, so it’s unlikelyto killyou.’
‘Great, so she’s forgotten to leave us any money for Asda again? Well, of course, it’s all right for her – Lover Boy’s takingher to the Ritz.’
‘His name’s Dave,’ Lochan points out from behind a forkful of food. ‘Calling him that doesn’t make yousound inanywaycool.’
Swallowing my mouthful, I manage to catch Lochan’s eye and give a barely perceptible shake of the head. I sense Kit is gearing up for an argument, and Lochan, usually so adept at sidestepping confrontation, looks tired and onedge and seems to be steeringblindlyfor a head-oncollisiontonight.
Kit slams the last cupboard with such force that everyone jumps. ‘What makes you think I’m trying to sound cool? I’mnot the one stuck in an apron because his mother is too busy spreading her legs for—’
Lochan is out ofhis chair in a flash. I lunge for himand miss. He launches himselfat Kit and grabs him by the collar, slamming him up against the fridge. ‘You speak like that in front of the little ones againand I’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’ Kit has his older brother’s hand round his throat, and despite the cocky smirk, I recognize a glimmer of fear in his eyes. Lochan has never threatened him physically before, but in recent months their relationship has deteriorated. Kit has begun to resent Lochan more and more deeply for reasons I struggle to understand. Yet, despite his initial shock, he somehow manages to retain the upper hand with the mocking expression, the look of condescension for the brother nearly five years his senior.
Suddenly Lochan seems to realize what he is doing. He lets go of Kit and springs back, stunned byhis ownoutburst.
Kit straightens up, a slow sneer creeping onto his lips. ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. Gutless. Just like at school.’
He has gone too far. Tiffin is silent, munching slowly, his eyes wary. Willa is gazing anxiously at Lochan, tugging nervously at her ear, her mealforgotten. Lochan is staring at the now empty doorway through which Kit has just departed. He wipes his hands on his jeans and takes a long, steadying breath before turning round to face Tiffin and Willa. ‘Hey, come on, guys, let’s finish up.’ His voice quavers withfalse cheer.
Tiffineyes himdubiously. ‘Were yougonna punchhim?’
‘No!’ Lochan looks deeply shocked. ‘No, of course not, Tiff. I’d never hurt Kit. I’d never hurt anyofyou. Jeez!’
Tiffin returns to his meal, unconvinced. Willa says nothing, solemnly sucking each finger clean, silent resentment radiatingfromher eyes.
Lochan doesn’t return to his seat. Instead he appears at a loss, chewing the corner of his lip, his face working. I lean back in my chair and reach for his arm. ‘He was just trying to wind you up as usual. . .’
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he takes another deep breath before glancing at me and saying, ‘D’youmind finishingthis up?’
‘Course not.’
‘Thanks.’He forces a reassuringsmile before leaving the room. Moments later I hear his bedroom door close.
I manage to persuade Tiffin and Willa to finish their food, and then put Lochan’s barely touched plate in the fridge. Kit can have the stale bread on the counter for all I care. I give Willa a bath and force a protesting Tiffin to take a shower. After vacuuming the front room, I decide that an early bedtime would do them no harm and studiously ignore Tiffin’s furious protests about the lingering evening sunlight. As I kiss themin their bunks, Willa puts her arms round my neck and holds me close for a moment.
‘Whydoes Kit hate Lochie?’she whispers.
I draw back a little in order to look into her eyes. ‘Sweetheart, Kit doesn’t hate Lochie,’ I say carefully. ‘Kit’s just ina bad mood these days.’
Her deep blue eyes flood withrelief. ‘So theylove eachother really?’
‘Ofcourse theydo. And everybody loves you.’I kiss her againonthe forehead. ‘Nighty-night.’
I confiscate Tiffin’s Gameboy and leave the two ofthemlistening to an audio book, then make my way down to the far end of the corridor, where a ladder leads up to the box-sized attic, and shout up at Kit to turn the music down. Last year, after one pitifulcomplaint after another about having to share a roomwithhis younger siblings, Kit was helped byLochanto clear the previouslyunused tinyattic of allthe junk left there byformer owners. Eventhoughthe space is too smallto stand up inproperly, it is Kit’s lair, the private den inwhich he spends most of his time when at home, its sloping walls painted black and plastered withrockchicks, the dry, creakingfloorboards covered witha PersianrugLochan unearthed fromsome charity shop. Cut off fromthe rest of the house by a steep ladder that Tiffin and Willa have been strictly forbidden to climb, it is the perfect hideaway for someone like Kit. The music fades to a monotonous bass thud as I finallyclose the door to myroomand start myhomework.
The house is quiet at last. I hear the audio book come to an end and the air falls silent. My alarm clock reads twenty past eight, and the golden dusk of the Indian summer is fading rapidly. Night is falling, the streetlamps coming on one after the other, casting a funereal light on the exercise book in front of me. I finish off a comprehension exercise and find myself staring at my own reflection in the darkened window. Onanimpulse I stand up and walk out onto the landing.
My knock is tentative. Had it been me, I’d have probably stalked out of the house, but Lochan isn’t like that. He’s far too mature, far too sensible. Never once in all the nights since Dad left has he stormed out – not evenwhenTiffinplastered his hair downwithtreacle thenrefused to have a bath, or whenWilla sobbed for hours onend because someone had givenher dolla Mohican.
However, things have been going rapidly downhill lately. Even before his adolescent metamorphosis, Kit was prone to throwing a tantrum whenever Mum went out for the evening – the schoolcounsellor claimed that he blamed himself for Dad leaving, that he still harboured the hope that he might return and therefore felt deeply threatened by anyone trying to take his father’s place. Personally I always suspected it was something far simpler: Kit doesn’t like the little ones getting all the attentionfor beingsmalland cute and Lochanand I tellingeveryone what to do, while he’s stuck in noman’s-land, the archetypal middle child with no partner in crime. Now that Kit has gained the necessary respect at school by joining a gang who sneak out of the gates to smoke weed in the local park at lunch time, he bitterly resents the fact that at home he is still considered just one of the children. When Mum’s out, which is increasingly often, Lochan is the one in charge, the way it’s always been; Lochan, the one she dumps onwhenever she has to work overtime or fancies a night out withDave or the girls.
There is no answer to my knock, but when I wander downstairs I find Lochan asleep on the couch in the front room. A thick textbook rests against his chest, its pages splayed, and sheets of scrawled, spidery calculations litter the carpet. Uncurling his fingers fromthe book, I gather his things into a pile on the coffee table, pullthe blanket offthe back ofthe couch, and lay it over him. Then I sit in the armchair and draw up my legs, resting my chin on my knees, watching him sleep beneath the soft orange glow ofthe streetlamps fallingthroughthe curtainless window.
Before there was anything, there was Lochan. WhenI look back on my life, all sixteen and a half years of it, Lochan was always there. Walking to school by my side, propelling me in a shopping trolley across an empty car park at breakneck speed, coming to my rescue in the playground after I’d caused a class uprising by calling Little Miss Popular ‘stupid’. I stillremember himstanding there, fists clenched, an unusually fierce look on his face, challenging all the boys to a fight despite being vastly outnumbered. And I suddenly realized that, so long as I had Lochan, nothing and no one could ever harm me. But I was eight then. I’ve grown up since those days. Now I know that Lochan won’t always be here, won’t be able to protect me for ever. Although he’s applying to study at University College, London, and says he willcontinue to live at home, he could stillchange his mind and see that this is his chance to escape. Never before have I imagined my life without him– like this house, he is my only point ofreference in this difficult existence, this unstable and frightening world. The thought of him leaving home fills me with a terror so strong it takes my breath away. I feel like one of those seagulls covered withoilfroma spill, drowningina black tar offear.
Asleep, Lochan looks like a boy again – ink-stained fingers, creased grey T-shirt, scuffed jeans and bare feet. People say there is a strong family resemblance – I don’t see it. For a start he is the only one of us with bright green eyes, as clear as cut glass. His shaggy hair is tar-black, covering the nape of his neck and reaching his eyes. His arms are still tanned from summer, and even in the halflight I can make out the faint outline of his biceps. He is beginning to develop an athletic look. He hit puberty late, and for a while even I was taller than he was, something I teased himabout mercilessly, calling him‘my little brother’, back when I thought that kind of thing funny. He took it all on the chin ofcourse, the wayhe does everything.
But recently things have begun to change. Despite the fact that he is painfully shy, most of the girls in my year fancy him – filling me with a conflicting mixture of annoyance and pride. Yet he is still unable to talk to his peers, rarely smiles outside these walls, and always, always wears the same distant, haunted look, a hint of sadness in his eyes. At home, however, when the little ones aren’t being too difficult or when we are joking together and he feels relaxed, he sometimes displays an entirely different side: a love of mischief, a dimple-cheeked grin, a self-deprecating sense of humour. But even during these brief moments, I feel he is hiding a darker, unhappier part of himself – the part that struggles to cope at school, in the outside world; a world where for some reason he has never felt at peace.
A car backfires across the street, jolting me out of my thoughts. Lochan lets out a small cry and struggles up, disorientated.
‘You fell asleep,’ I inform him with a smile. ‘I think we could market trigonometry as a new treatment for insomnia.’
‘Shit. What time is it?’He appears panicked for a moment, pushingback the blanket and swinging his feet to the floor, runninghis fingers throughhis hair.
‘Just gone nine.’
‘What about—’
‘Tiffinand Willa are fast asleep and Kit’s busybeinganangryteenager inhis room.’
‘Oh.’He relaxes slightly, rubbing his eyes with the heels ofhis hands and blinking sleepily down at the floor.
‘Youlook whacked. Perhaps youshould forget homework for tonight and go to bed.’
‘No, I’m OK.’ He gestures towards the pile of books on the coffee table. ‘Anyway, gotta finish revising that lot before the test tomorrow.’He reaches out to switch on the lamp, casting a smallcircle oflight onthe floor.
‘Youshould have told me youhad a test. I’d have done dinner!’
‘Well, youdid everythingelse.’There is anawkward pause. ‘Thanks for – for sortingthemout.’
‘No problem.’ I yawn, shifting sideways in the armchair to hang my legs over the armrest, and comb the hair away frommy face. ‘Perhaps fromnow on we should just leave Kit’s mealon a tray at the bottomofthe ladder. We cancallit roomservice. Thenwe might allget a bit ofpeace.’
The hint of a smile touches his lips, but then he turns away to stare out of the blank window and silence descends.
I take a sharp breath. ‘He was beinga little shit tonight, Loch. That stuffabout school. . .’
He seems to freeze. I can almost see the muscles tighten beneath his T-shirt as he sits sideways on the couch, an arm slung over the back, one foot on the ground, the other tucked beneath him. ‘I’d better finishthis . . .’
I recognize my cue. I want to say something to him, something along the lines of:It’s all an act. Everyone else is pretending anyway. Kit may have surrounded himself with a group of kids who spit in the face of authority, but they’re just as scared as everyone else. They make fun of others and pick on loners just so they can belong. And I’m not much better. I might appear confident and chatty, but I spend most of my time laughing at jokes I don’t find funny, saying things I don’t really mean – because at the end of the day that’s what we’re all trying to do: fit in, one way or another, desperately trying to pretend we’re all the same.
‘Goodnight then. Don’t work too late.’
‘Night, Maya.’He smiles suddenly, dimples forming at the corners ofhis mouth. But when I pause in the doorway, looking back at him, he is flicking through a textbook, his teeth chafing at the permanent, painfullyred sore beneathhis bottomlip.
You think no one else understands, I want to tell him, but you’re wrong. I do. You’re not alone.

CHAPTERTHREE Lochan

Our mother looks raddled in the harsh grey morning light. She nurses a mug of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Her bleached hair is a tangled mess, and smudged eyeliner has leaked into black halfmoons beneath her bloodshot eyes. Her pink silk robe is knotted over a skimpy nightdress – her dishevelled appearance a clear sign that Dave did not stay over last night. In fact I don’t even remember hearing them come in. On the rare occasions they come back to this house, there is the bang of the front door, muffled laughter, keys being dropped on the doorstep, loud shushes and more thuds, followed by cackling laughter as he attempts to give her a piggyback up the stairs. The others have learned to sleep through it, but I have always been a light sleeper and their slurred voices force me to acknowledge consciousness, even as I press my eyelids closed and try to ignore the grunts and squeals and the rhythmic squeak ofbedsprings fromthe mainbedroom.

Tuesday is Mum’s day off, which means that for once she gets to sort out breakfast and take the little ones to school. But it’s already quarter to eight, Kit has yet to appear, Tiffin is eating breakfast in his underwear and Willa has no clean socks and is bemoaning the fact to anyone who will listen. I fetch Tiffin’s uniform and force him to get dressed at the table since Mum seems unable to do much more than sip coffee and chain-smoke at the window. Maya goes off in search of Willa’s socks and I hear her pound on Kit’s door and yell something about the consequences of getting another late slip. Mum finishes her last cigarette and comes to sit with us at the table, talking about plans for the weekend that I know willnever materialize. BothWilla and Tiffinstart chattingawayat once, delighted bythe attention, their breakfast forgotten, and I feelmymuscles tense.

‘You’ve gotta be out ofthe house infive minutes and that breakfast needs to be eatenbefore then. ’
Mum catches me by the wrist as I pass. ‘Lochie-Loch, sit down for a moment. I never get a chance to talk to you. We never sit downlike this – as a family.’
With a monumental effort I swallow my frustration. ‘Mum, we’ve got to be at school in fifteen minutes and I have a maths test first thing.’
‘Oh, so serious!’ She pulls me down into the chair beside her and cups my chin in her hand. ‘Look at you, so pale and stressy – always studying. When I was your age I was the most beautiful girlat school– all the guys wanted to go out withme. I used to cut class and spend alldayinthe park with one of my boyfriends!’ She winks conspiratorially at Tiffin and Willa, who both burst into paroxysms ofgiggles.
‘Did youkiss your boyfriend onthe mouth?’Tiffinenquires withanevilsnicker.
‘Oh yes, and not just on the mouth.’ She winks at me, running her fingers through her tangled hair witha girlishsmile.
‘Yuck!’Willa swings her legs violentlyunder the table, throwingback her head indisgust.
‘Did youlick his tongue,’Tiffinpersists, ‘like theydo onTV?’
‘Tiffin!’I snap. ‘Stop beingdisgustingand finishyour breakfast.’
Tiffin reluctantly picks up his spoon, but his face breaks into a grin as Mumquickly nods her head at himwitha mischievous smile.
‘Aargh, that’s gross!’ He starts making gagging noises just as Maya comes in, trying to coax Kit throughthe doorway.
‘What’s gross?’ she enquires as Kit slinks grumpily into his chair and drops his head to the table witha thud.
‘Youdon’t want to know,’I beginquickly, but Tiffinfills her inanyway.
Maya pulls a face. ‘Mum!’
‘Yeah, well, that little storyreallykick-started myappetite,’Kit snaps irritably.
‘You’ve got to eat something,’Maya insists. ‘You’re stillgrowing.’
‘No he’s not, he’s shrinking!’Tiffinguffaws.
‘Shut up, youlittle shit.’
‘Loch! Kit called me a little shit!’
‘Sit down, Maya,’ Mum says with a gooey smile. ‘Ah, look at all of you, so smart in your uniforms. And here we are havingbreakfast alltogether as a family!’
Maya gives her a tight smile as she butters toast and places it on Kit’s plate. I feel my pulse begin to rise. I can’t leave until they’re all ready or there’s a good chance that Kit will cut school again and Mumwillkeep Tiffinand Willa at home untilmid-morning. And I can’t be late. Not because ofthe test . . . because I can’t be the last one to walk into the classroom.
‘We’ve got to go,’ I informMaya, who is still trying to persuade breakfast into Kit as he remains slumped withhis head onhis arms.
‘Oh, why are my bunnies in such a rush this morning!’ Mum exclaims. ‘Maya, will you get your brother to relax? Look at him . . .’ She rubs my shoulder, her hand like a burn through the fabric of myshirt. ‘So tense.’
‘Loch’s got a test and we reallyare going to be late if we don’t make a move,’ Maya informs her gently.
Mum still has her other hand clenched tightly round my wrist, preventing me from getting up to grab my usual cup of coffee. ‘You’re not honestly nervous about a stupid test, are you, Loch? Because there are far more important things inlife, youknow. The last thingyouwant to do is turninto a nerd like your father, nose always buried in a book, living like a tramp just to get one of those useless PhD thingies. And look where his posh Cambridge education got him – a flipping poet, for chrissakes! He’d have earned more moneysweepingthe streets!’She gives a derisive snort.
Raising his head suddenly, Kit asks sneeringly, ‘When’s Lochan ever failed a test? He’s just afraid ofcominginlate and—’
Maya threatens to stuff the toast down his throat. I disengage myself fromMum’s clasp and rattle through the front room, collecting blazer, wallet, keys, bag. I bump into Maya in the hallway and she tells me to go ahead, she’llmake sure Mumleaves ontime withthe little ones and Kit gets to school. I squeeze her arminthanks and thenI’moff, runningdownthe emptystreet.
I reachschoolwithseconds to spare. The huge concrete buildingrises up before me, spreadingits tentacles outwards, sucking in the other ugly, smaller blocks with barren walkways and endless tunnels. I make it to the maths room just before the teacher shuffles in and starts handing out the papers. After my half-mile sprint I can hardly see – red blotches pulsate before my eyes. Mr Morris stops bymydesk and mybreathcatches inmythroat.
‘Are youallright, Lochan?Youlook as ifyou’ve just runa marathon.’
I nod quicklyand take the paper fromhimwithout lookingup.
The test begins and silence descends. I love tests. I have always loved tests, exams of any kind. As long as they are written. As long as they take up the whole lesson. As long as I don’t have to speak or look up frommypaper untilthe bellgoes.
I don’t know whenit started – this thing – but it’s growing, muffling me, suffocating me like poison ivy. I grew into it. It grew into me. We blurred at the edges, became an amorphous, seeping, crawling thing. Sometimes I manage to distract myself, trick myself out of dwelling on it, convince myself that I’mOK. At home, for instance, with my family, I can be myself, be normalagain. Untillast night. Until the inevitable happened; until news finally filtered down the Belmont grapevine that Lochan Whitely was a socially inept weirdo. Even though Kit and I never really got along, the realization that he is ashamed of me takes hold: a horrible, clutching, sinking feeling in my chest. Just thinking about it makes the floor tilt beneath my chair. I feel as if I amon a slippery slope and all I can do is plummet downwards. I know all about being ashamed of a family member – the number of times I’ve wished my mother would act her age in public, if not in private. It’s horrible, being ashamed of someone you care about; it eats away at you. And if you let it get to you, if you give up the fight and surrender, eventuallythat shame turns to hate.
I don’t want Kit to be ashamed of me. I don’t want himto hate me, even if I feel like I hate him sometimes. But that little messed-up kid fullofanger and resentment is stillmybrother; he’s stillfamily. Family:the most important thingofall. Mysiblings maydrive me crazyat times but theyare myblood. They’re allI’ve known. Myfamilyis me. Theyare mylife. Without themI walk the planet alone.
The rest are alloutsiders, strangers. They never metamorphose into friends. And even if they did, even if I found, by some miracle, a way of connecting to someone outside my family – how could they possibly compare to those who speak my language and know who I am without having to be told? Even if I were able to meet their eyes, even if I were able to speak without the words cluttering up my throat, unable to surface, even if their gaze didn’t burn holes in my skin and make me want to run a million miles, how would I ever be able to care about them the way I care about my brothers and sisters?
The bell goes and I am one of the first out of my seat. As I pass the rows and rows of pupils, they all seem to look up at me. I see myself configured in their eyes: the guy who always buries himself at the very back of every class, who never speaks, always sits alone in one of the outdoor stairwells duringbreak, hunched over a book. The guywho doesn’t know how to talk to people, who shakes his head when picked on in class, who is absent whenever there is some kind of presentation to do. Over the years they have learned just to let me be. When I first arrived here, there was plenty of ribbing, plenty of pushing around, but eventually they grew bored. Occasionally a new pupil has tried to strike up a conversation. And I’ve tried, I really have. But when you canonly come up with one-word answers, when your voice fails you altogether, what more can you do? What more can they? The girls are the worst, especially these days. They try harder, are more tenacious. Some even ask me why I never speak – as if I can answer that. They flirt, try and get me to smile. They mean well, but what theydon’t understand is that their mere presence makes me want to die.
But today, mercifully, I am left alone. I speak to no one for the whole morning. I catch sight of Maya across the lunch hall, and she glances at the usual girl gabbing away at her side and then rolls her eyes. I smile. As I fork my way through mouthfuls of watery shepherd’s pie, I watch her pretend to listen to her friend, Francie, but she keeps glancing over at me, pulling faces to crack me up. Her white school shirt, several sizes too big, hangs over her grey skirt, several inches too short. She is wearingher white PElace-ups because she has misplaced her schoolshoes. She is without socks, and a large plaster, surrounded by a multitude of bruises, covers a scraped knee. Her auburn hair reaches her waist, long and straight like Willa’s. Freckles smatter her cheekbones, accentuating the natural pallor of her skin. Even when she is serious, her deep blue eyes always hold a glimmer that suggests she is about to smile. Over the last year she has turned frompretty to beautiful in an unusual, delicate, unnervingway. Boys chat her up endlessly– alarmingly.
After lunch I take my class copy of Romeo and Juliet, which I actually read years ago, and ensconce myselfon the fourth step down ofthe north stairwelloutside the science block, the one least frequently used. This is how my wasted hours accumulate, much like my loneliness. I keep my book open in case anyone approaches, but I’m not really in the mood to read it again. Instead, from my concrete post, I watch a plane trace a white slash across the deep blue of the sky. I look at the tiny aircraft, shrunk down by distance, and marvel at the vast expanse between all those people on that huge crowded plane, and me.

CHAPTERFOUR Maya

‘ When are yougoingto introduce himto me?’Francie asks me mournfully. Fromour usualpositionon the low brick wall at the far end of the playground, she has followed my gaze to the lone figure sitting hunched onthe steps outside the science building. ‘Is he stillsingle?’

‘I told you a million times:he doesn’t like people,’I reply tersely. I look at her. She exudes a kind of restless energy, the zest for life that comes naturally with being an extrovert. Trying to imagine her goingout withmybrother is almost impossible. ‘How d’youknow you’llevenlike him?’

‘Because he’s fuckinghot!’Francie exclaims withfeeling.
I shake myhead witha smile. ‘But the two ofyouhave nothingincommon.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’She looks hurt suddenly.
‘He doesn’t have anythingincommonwithanyone,’I reassure her quickly. ‘He’s just different. He

– he doesn’t reallyspeak to people.’
Francie tosses back her hair. ‘Yeah, so I’ve heard. Taciturnas hell. Is it depression?’ ‘No.’ I play with a strand of hair. ‘The school made him see a counsellor last year but that was

just a waste of time. He speaks at home. It’s just with people he doesn’t know, people outside the family.’
‘So what? He’s just shy.’
I sighdoubtfully. ‘That’s a bit ofanunderstatement.’
‘What’s he got to be shyabout?’Francie asks. ‘I mean, has he looked ina mirror recently?’
‘He’s not just like that around girls,’ I try to explain. ‘He’s like that with everyone. He won’t even answer questions inclass – it’s like a phobia.’
Francie whistles indisbelief. ‘God, has he always beenlike that?’
‘I don’t know.’ I stop playing with my hair for a moment and think. ‘When we were young, we were like twins. We were bornthirteenmonths apart, so everyone thought we were twins anyway. We did everything together. I mean, everything. One day he had tonsillitis and couldn’t go to school. Dad made me go and I cried all day. We had our own secret language. Sometimes, when Mum and Dad were at each other’s throats, we pretended we couldn’t speak English, so we spoke to no one but each other for the whole day. We started getting into trouble at school. They said that we refused to mix, that we had no friends. But they were wrong. We had each other. He was my best friend in the world. He stillis.’
* * *
I come home to a house full of silence. The hall is empty of bags and blazers. Maybe she’s taken them to the park, I think hopefully. Then I almost laugh out loud. When was the last time that happened? I go into the kitchen – cold coffee mugs, overflowing ashtrays and cerealcongealing at the bottomofbowls. Milk, bread and butter stillleft out on the table, Kit’s hardened uneaten toast staring accusingly up at me. Tiffin’s forgotten book bag on the floor. Willa’s abandoned tie . . . Asound from the front room prompts me to spin on my heel. I walk back down the hall, noticing the dappled sunlight highlight the dustysurfaces.

I find Mum looking dolefully up at me from beneath Willa’s duvet on the couch, a wet cloth coveringher forehead.
I gape at her. ‘What happened?’
‘I think I’ve got stomach flu, sweetie. I’ve got this pounding headache and I’ve been throwing up allday.’
‘The kids—’I begin.
Her face dims and then reignites again, like a flickering match in the dark. ‘They’re at school, sweetie pie, don’t worry. I took themin this morning – I was all right then. It was only after lunch that I started—’
‘Mum. . .’I feelmyvoice beginto rise. ‘It’s four thirty!’
‘I know, sweetie. I’llget up ina minute.’
‘You were supposed to pick them up!’ I am shouting now. ‘They finish school at half past three, remember?’
Mymother looks at me, a horrible, bottomless look. ‘But isn’t it youor Lochantoday?’
‘Today’s Tuesday! It’s your dayoff!Youalways fetchthemonyour dayoff!’
Mumcloses her eyes and lets out a little moan, modulated to elicit pity. I want to hit her. Instead I lunge for the phone. She has turned the ringer off but the answerphone’s little red light flashes accusingly. Four messages from St Luke’s, the last one terse and angry, suggesting that this isn’t the first time Ms Whitely has been extremely late. I instantly press callback, rage thudding against my ribs. Tiffinand Willa willbe terrified. Theywillthink theyhave beenabandoned, that she has walked out, as she keeps threateningto do whenshe’s beendrinking.
I get through to the school secretary and start blurting out my apologies. She cuts me off with a swift, ‘Isn’t your mother the one who should be calling, dear?’
‘Our mother isn’t well,’ I say quickly. ‘But I’m leaving right now and I’ll be at the school in ten minutes. Please tell Willa and Tiffin I’m coming. Please, please just tell them that Mum’s fine and Maya’s onher way.’
‘Well, I’m afraid they’re not here any more.’ The secretary sounds a little put out. ‘They were eventuallypicked up bythe childminder halfanhour ago.’
My legs buckle. I sink down onto the armofthe couch. My body has gone so limp, I nearly drop the phone. ‘We don’t have a childminder.’
‘Oh—’
‘Who was it? What did she look like? She must have givena name!’
‘Miss Pierce will know who it was. The teachers don’t let the children go off with just anyone, youknow.’Againthe primvoice, coupled now witha defensive edge.
‘I need to speak to Miss Pierce.’Myvoice shakes withbarelycontrolled calm.
‘I’m afraid Miss Pierce left when the children were finally picked up. I can try and reach her on her mobile . . .’
I canhardlybreathe. ‘Please ask her to come straight back to the school. I’llmeet her there.’
I hang up and I am literally shaking. Mum lifts the flannel from her face and says, ‘Sweetie, you sound upset. Is everythingallright?’
I amracing through the hall, shoving on shoes, grabbing keys, mobile phone, pressing speed-dial one as I slamout ofthe house. He answers onthe third ring.
‘What’s happened?’
I can hear laughter and jeering in the background, fading as he leaves his after-school revision class. We both keep our phones on at all times. He knows I’d only call during school hours in an emergency.
I blurt out the events of the last five minutes. ‘I’m on my way to their school now.’A juggernaut brays its hornat me as I streak across the mainroad.
‘Meet youthere,’he says.
* * * WhenI arrive at St Luke’s, I find the gates closed. I start to shove and kick at themuntilthe caretaker takes pityonme and comes over to unlock them. ‘Easy,’he says. ‘What’s allthe panic?’
Ignoring him, I run to the school doors and pound on them. I ambuzzed through and lurch along the fluorescent-lit corridor which, stripped of the chaos of children, seems eerie and surreal. I spot Lochan at the far end, talking to the school secretary. He must have run all the way too. Thank God, thank God. Lochanwillknow what to do.

He hasn’t noticed my arrival and so I slow to a dignified walk, straighten my clothes, take deep breaths and try to calmmyself down. I’ve learned the hard way, through the various dealings I’ve had with figures of authority, that if you start getting upset or angry, they treat you like a child and demand to speak to your parents. Lochanhas worked hard onthe art ofappearingcalmand articulate inthese circumstances, but I’mall too aware what a terrible struggle it is for him. As I approach, I notice that his hands are shakinguncontrollablybyhis sides.

‘Miss P-Pierce was the onlypersonto see themleave?’he is asking. I cantellhe’s havingto force himselfto meet the secretary’s gaze.
‘That’s right,’ says the horrible platinumblonde I’ve always despised. ‘And Miss Pierce would of never—’
‘But surely – surely there’s another number she canbe reached on?’ His voice is clear and firm. No one but I could detect the subtle tremor.
‘I told you– I tried. Her mobile’s switched off. But like I said, I left a message onher home line— ’
‘Please could youjust keep tryingher phone?’
The secretarymutters somethingand disappears back inside her office. I touchLochan’s hand. He jumps as ifhe has beenshot, and beneaththe calmexterior I see that he is crumblingtoo.
‘She keeps talking about a childminder,’he says to me raggedly, backing out into the corridor and grabbingmyhand. ‘Did Mumever sayanythingto youabout payingsomeone to fetchthem?’
‘No!’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Lying on the couch with a flannel on her face,’ I whisper. ‘When I asked her where Tiffin and Willa were, she said she thought it was our turnto pick themup!’
Lochan is breathing hard. I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath his school shirt. His bagand blazer are nowhere to be seenand he has removed his tie. It takes me a moment to realize he is tryingto disguise the fact that he is stilljust a schoolboy.
‘I’m sure it’s some kind of misunderstanding,’ he says, desperate optimism creeping into his voice. ‘Another parent must have come in late and picked them up. It’s all right. We’re going to get this sorted out, Maya. OK?’He squeezes myhands and gives me a tense smile.
I nod, forcingmyselfto breathe. ‘OK.’
‘I’d better go back and speak to the—’
‘D’youwant me to?’I ask quietly.
The heat immediatelysprings to his cheeks. ‘Ofcourse not! I can– I cansort this—’
‘I know,’I back-pedalquickly. ‘I know youcan.’
He leaves myside to cross the office threshold and takes anaudible breath. ‘Still– stillno luck?’
‘Nope. She could ofgot stuck intraffic, I s’pose. She could be anywhere, really.’
I hear Lochan exhale in exasperation. ‘Look, I’msure the teacher wouldn’t have wilfully let them go with a stranger. B-but you’ve got to understand that, right now, these children are missing. So I think it would be best if you called the headmaster or the deputy or – or someone who can help. We’re going to have to notify the police, and they’re probably going to want to speak to the people who runthis school.’
In the corridor, out of sight of Platinum Blonde, I sag against the wall and press the back of my hand against my mouth. Police means the authorities. The authorities means Social Services. Lochan reallymust think that Tiffinand Willa have beenkidnapped ifhe is willingto risk gettingtheminvolved.
I ambeginning to feel increasingly wobbly, so I go and sit down on the stairs. I don’t understand how Lochan can stand there being so controlled and sensible until I notice the damp patch of sweat on the back of his shirt, the increasing tremor in his hands. I want to get up and squeeze them, tellhim it’s goingto be allright. Except I don’t know that it is.
The headmaster, a stout, greying man, arrives at the same time as Miss Pierce – Willa’s teacher. It transpires that she waited for over half an hour with both children before a lady, Sandra someone, showed up, apparentlyunder instructions to fetchthem.
‘But surelyyoumust have got a last name?’Lochanis sayingfor the second time.
‘Naturally we have a record of each child’s parent or guardian or childminder. But the only contact information we were ever given for Tiffin and Willa was the mother’s name and a home number,’ Miss Pierce, a pinched, pink-cheeked young woman, is saying. ‘And despite all our attempts, we couldn’t get through. So when this lady arrived saying she was a family friend and had beenasked to pick up the children, we had no reasonto disbelieve her.’
I see Lochan’s hands clenchinto fists behind his back. ‘Surelycheckingwho the childrengo home withis part ofyour job!’He’s beginningto lose it now:the cracks are startingto show.
‘I would have thought it part of the parent’s job to pick up their children on time,’ Miss Pierce retorts, piqued, and suddenly I want to take her head and smash it against Platinum Blonde’s and scream, Don’t you realize that while you stand there acting all self-righteous and arguing over who is to blame, a paedophile might be speeding off with my little brother and sister?
‘Where are the parents in all this?’ the headmaster interrupts. ‘Why have we only got the siblings here?’
I feelthe breathcatchinmythroat.
‘Our mother is illright now,’Lochan says, and even as he comes out with this well-practised line I cantellthat he is strugglingto keep his voice calm.
‘Too ill to come down the road and find out what has happened to her children?’ Miss Pierce asks.
There is a silence. Lochan is staring at the teacher, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly. Don’t react, I beghimsilently, pressingmyknuckles against mylips.
‘Well, look, I think we should alert the authorities,’ the headmaster is now saying. ‘I’msure it’s a false alarm, but obviouslywe need to be onthe safe side.’
Lochan is backing away now, tugging at his hair in a characteristic gesture of extreme distress. ‘OK. Yes, ofcourse. But canyoujust give us a minute?’
He moves away fromthe office door and rushes over. ‘Maya, they want to call the police—’ His voice is shaking and his face glistens with sweat. ‘They’llcome to the house. Mum– she’llhave to be involved . . . Was she sober?’
‘I don’t know. She’s definitelyhungover!’
‘Maybe – maybe I should stayhere and wait for the police while yougo home and tryand get her together. Hide any bottles and open allthe windows.’ He is gripping the tops of my arms so hard they hurt. ‘Do whatever you can to get rid of the smell. Tell her to cry or – or something, so that she appears hystericalinstead of—’
‘Lochan, I’ve got it, I cando it. Go ahead and callthe police. I’llmake sure theynever know—’
‘They’lltake the kids awayand separate us—’His voice is fragmenting.
‘No theywon’t. Lochie, callthe police – this is more important!’
Drawing back, he cups his hands over his nose and mouth, his eyes wide, and nods at me. I’ve never seenhimlook so afraid. Thenhe turns and walks back across the hallwayand into the office.
I break into a run, heading towards the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor. The black and white lino disappears rhythmicallybeneathmyfeet. The bright colours onthe walls seemto swim. . . The sudden shout from behind me rips like a bullet through my chest. ‘They’ve found Sandra’s number!’
One hand onthe door, I stop. Lochan’s face is alight withrelief.
When they finally come through the school doors after another agonizing ten-minute wait, Tiffin is blowingpink bubbles, his mouthfullofgum, and Willa is brandishinga lollipop. ‘Look what I got!’
I hug Willa so tight I can feel her heart beat against mine. Her lemon-scented hair is in my face, and all I can do is squeeze her and kiss her and try and keep her in my arms. Lochan has one arm round Tiffinas he wriggles and giggles inhis grasp.

It’s clear that neither of them have a clue that anything was amiss, so I bite my tongue to stop myself from crying. Sandra turns out to be nothing more sinister than an elderly lady, childminder to one of the boys in another class. According to her, Lily Whitely rang just after four this afternoon, explaining that she was too ill to leave the house and asking whether she could do her a favour and pick up the children. Sandra had kindly returned to the school, collected Willa and Tiffin and tried to drop themback home. Getting no reply when she rang the bell, she dropped a note through the door and took themback to her owncharge’s house, awaitingLily’s phone call.

As we cross the playground, I hold Tiffin and Willa tightly with each hand and try my best to engage in the prattle about their unexpected ‘playdate’. I overhear Lochan thanking Sandra and see himscribble down his mobile number, telling her to call himshould Lily ever ask her for a ‘favour’ of this kind again. As soon as we leave the school, Tiffin tries to disengage himself from my grasp, looking for something in the gutter to kick and dribble down the road. I tell him I’ll play Battleships with him for half an hour if he holds my hand all the way home. Surprisingly, he agrees, bounding up and down like a yo-yo on the end of my arm, threatening to dislocate it from its socket, but I don’t care. As longas he keeps hold ofmyhand, I reallydon’t care.

We follow Lochan all the way home. He strides ahead, and something prevents me fromtrying to catchup with him. Tiffin and Willa don’t seem to mind: they are still full of stories about the new PlayStation they got to try out. I start a spiel on stranger-danger but it emerges that they have already beenpicked up byCallum’s childminder severaltimes.

As soon as we get in, Tiffin and Willa spot Mum, stillhalfpassed out on the couch. With a whoop they run over to her, delighted to find her home for a change, their anecdotes pouring out all over again. Mum uncovers her face, sits up and laughs, hugging them tight. ‘My little bunnies,’ she says. ‘Did youhave a good time? I missed youallday, youknow.’

I stand in the doorway, the sharp edge of the frame cutting into my shoulder, watching this little scene unfold in silence. Tiffin is showing off his juggling skills with some old tennis balls and Willa is trying to interest Mum in a game of Guess Who? It takes me a moment to realize that Lochan disappeared upstairs the moment we entered the house. I turnawayfromthe front room, utterlyspent, and slowly climb the stairs. Music blasting from the attic above reassures me that at least the third child made it home without incident. I go into my room, shed my blazer and tie, kick off my shoes, and flop downonmybed inanexhausted heap.

I must have dozed off, for when I hear Tiffin shout ‘Dinner!’I sit up in bed with a start to discover a bluish dusk filling the small room. Combing the hair out of my eyes with my fingers, I pad sleepily downstairs.

The atmosphere in the kitchen is jarring. Mum has mutated into a butterfly – all wispy skirts and trailing sleeves and bright, patterned colours. She has showered and washed her hair – having apparently recovered from her earlier bout of flu. The heavy make-up gives her away – clearly she isn’t staying in to watchEastEnders tonight. She has cooked up some kind of baked beans and sausage dish that Kit is prodding around disdainfully with his fork. Tiffin and Willa sit side by side, swinging their legs and trying to kick each other under the table, tell-tale signs ofchocolate round their mouths, ignoringthe unappetizingmixture laid out before them.

‘This isn’t food.’ Head propped up on his hand, Kit scowls down at his plate, flicking the pieces ofsausage around his plate. ‘CanI go out?’
‘Just shut up and eat,’ Lochan snaps uncharacteristically, reaching into the cupboard for glasses. Kit is about to retort, then appears to decide against it and starts prodding at his food again. The tone ofLochan’s voice suggests that this is no time to argue.
‘Well, get started, everyone,’ Mum says with a nervous giggle. ‘I know I’m not the world’s best cook, but I canassure youthis tastes a lot better thanit looks.’
Kit snorts and mutters something inaudible. Willa lances a single baked bean with the prong ofher fork and brings it reluctantly to her mouth, licking it gingerly with the tip of her tongue. With a longsuffering air, Tiffin takes a mouthful of sausage and then pulls a face, his eyes watering, ready to either gag or spit it out. I quickly bring over the water jug and fill the glasses. Finally Lochan sits down. He smells of schooland sweat, and his tousled black hair contrasts sharply with his wan face. I notice the clench of his jaw, the stormy look in his eyes, and feel the tension radiate from his body like white heat.
‘Are you going out again tonight, Mum?’ Willa asks, taking delicate bird bites out of a piece of sausage.
‘No, she’s not,’Lochansays quietlywithout lookingup. Beneaththe table, I press myfoot against his inwarning.
Mumturns to himin surprise. ‘Davey’s picking me up at seven,’ she protests. ‘It’s OK, bunnies. I’lltuck youinbefore I go.’
‘Forget about it,’Tiffinmumbles angrily.
‘Seveno’clock is a veryearlybedtime,’Willa comments witha sigh, spearinga second bean.
‘You’re not goingout againtonight,’Lochanmutters at her.
There is a stunned silence. ‘Told you he thinks he rules the place!’ Kit looks up from his plate, delighted at his chance to chip in. ‘Are yougonna let himboss youaround like this, Mum?’
I shoot Kit a warning look and shake my head. His face instantly darkens again. ‘What – I’mnot evenallowed to talk now?’
‘Oh, I won’t be late—’Mumsays witha benignsmile.
‘You’re not going out!’ Lochan shouts suddenly, slamming his hand down on the table. The crockeryrattles and everyone jumps. I feela familiar tensionheadache grip mytemples.
Mumclaps a hand to her throat and lets out a highpitched exclamation of surprise, a kind of shrill laugh. ‘Oh, listento the bigmanofthe house, tellinghis mummywhat to do!’
‘See how the other halflive,’Kit mutters.
Lochan throws down his fork, his face puce, the cords standing out in his neck. ‘Two hours ago you were too damn hungover to make it down the street to fetch your own children fromschool, and youcouldn’t evenremember you’d asked someone else to pick themup!’
Mumopens her eyes wide. ‘But, darling, aren’t youpleased I’mfeelingso muchbetter?’
‘That’s not going to last if you go out for another night on the piss!’ Lochan yells, gripping the edge of the table with both hands, his knuckles white. ‘We nearly had to involve the police today. Nobody had any idea where the kids were. Anything could have happened to them, and you’d have beentoo out ofit to notice!’
‘Lochie!’ Mum’s voice quivers like a little girl’s. ‘I had food poisoning. I couldn’t stop throwing up. I didn’t want to disturb youand Maya at school. What else was I supposed to do?’
‘Food poisoning, my arse!’ Lochan leaps up so violently he sends his chair crashing back against the tiles. ‘Whenare yougoingto face realityand accept you’ve got analcoholproblem?’
‘Oh, I’ve got a problem!’ Mum’s eyes flash suddenly, the little-girl act tossed aside. ‘I’m not a conventionalmother – so sue me. I’ve had a hard life! I’ve finallymet someone great and I want to go out and have some fun! Fun – something you might want to try experiencing, Lochan, instead of living your life with your head in a book like your father. Where are your friends, hey? When do you ever go out – or bringsomeone home for that matter?’
Kit has rocked back inhis chair, watchingthe scene withrelish.
‘Mum, please don’t—’ I reach out for her but she swats me away. I smell fresh alcohol on her breath – in this state she is capable of saying anything, doing anything. Especially as Lochan has mentioned the unmentionable.
Lochan has turned to stone, one hand gripping the sideboard for support. Tiffin has his hands clamped over his ears and Willa is lookingfromone face to the other, her eyes wide and staring.
‘Come on.’ I get up and pull them after me into the corridor. ‘Go up to your room and entertain yourselves for a while. I’llbringyousome sandwiches ina minute.’
Willa scampers fearfully up the stairs; Tiffin scowls, trailing in her wake. ‘We should of stayed at Callum’s,’I hear himmutter and his words make mythroat ache.
With no choice but to return to the kitchen in an attempt at damage-control, I find Mum still shouting, her eyes narrowed under the weight of her lids. ‘Don’t look at me like that – you know exactly what I’mtalking about. You’ve never had a proper girlfriend, never even managed to make a single friend, for chrissakes! What does beingtop ofthe class matter whenthe schoolkeeps tellingme you need to see a psychologist because you’re so shy you can’t even speak to anyone! The only personwho’s got a problem is you!’
Lochan hasn’t moved: he’s staring at her with a look of sick horror. His lack of response only serves to spur Mumon as she starts trying to justify her outburst by fuelling her own rage. ‘You take after himin every way – thinking you’re better than everyone else with your long words and your top grades. You have absolutely no respect for your own mother!’ she shrieks, her face mottled with fury. ‘How dare youspeak to me like that infront ofmychildren!’
I position myself in front of her and start manoeuvring her out of the kitchen. ‘Just go out with Dave,’I begher. ‘Go and meet himearlyor something. Surprise him! Go, Mum, just go.’
‘Youalways take his side!’
‘I’mnot taking anyone’s side, Mum. I just think you’re getting yourself into a state, which isn’t a very good idea considering you haven’t been feeling very well.’ I manage to get her into the hallway. She grabs her handbag, but not without one last barb thrown over her shoulder. ‘Lochan, you can accuse me ofnot beinga normalmother the dayyoustart actinglike a normalteenager!’
I propelher out ofthe door, and it is an effort not to slamit hard behind her. Instead I lean against it, afraid she might unlock it and come storming back in. I close my eyes for a moment. When I open themagain, I notice a figure sittingat the top ofthe stairs.
‘Tiffin, haven’t yougot homework to do?’
‘She said she was gonna tuck us in.’There’s a tremor inhis voice.
‘I know,’ I say quickly, straightening up. ‘And she meant it. But I said I would do it instead because she was runninglate—’
‘I don’t want you to do it, I want Mum!’ Tiffin shouts, and jumping up, he runs into his room, slammingthe door behind him.
Back in the kitchen, Kit has his feet on the table, shaking with silent laughter. ‘God, what a fucked-up familythis is!’
‘Just go upstairs. You’re not helping,’I tellhimquietly.
He opens his mouth to protest, then launches himself angrily to his feet, his chair screeching against the tiles. Grabbing Tiffin and Willa’s dinner money from the hall table, he makes for the front door.
‘Where are yougoing?’I shout after him.
‘Out to get some fuckingfood!’
Lochan is pacing the kitchen floor. He seems somehow dismantled, confused. His face is variegated withlines ofcrimson, givinghis skina curious raw look.
‘I’msorry, I shouldn’t have started it—’ He sounds like he is being shaken. I try to touch his arm but he jumps away fromme as if stung. His pain is almost tangible: the hurt, the resentment, the fury, allfillingthe smallroom.
‘Lochie, you had every right to lose your temper. What Mum did today was inexcusable. But listen to me . . .’ I position myself in front of himand try to touch himagain. ‘Lochie, listen. That stuff she said was just her way of lashing out. You mentioned her drinking and she just can’t deal with the truth. So she tried to find the most hurtfulthingshe could to throw back at you—’
‘She meant it, she meant every word.’ He tugs at his hair, rubs his cheeks. ‘And she’s right. I’m not – I’mnot normal. There’s somethingwrongwithme and—’
‘Lochie, don’t worry about that right now, OK? It’s something you can work on – it’s something that’s goingto get better withtime!’
Pulling away from me, he continues to pace, as if the continuous movement will stop him falling apart. ‘But she’s like Kit. She’s – she’s—’ He can’t bring himself to say the word. ‘Ashamed,’ he whispers finally.
‘Lochie, stop for a minute. Look at me.’
I grab himbythe arms and hold himstill. I canfeelhimtremblingbeneathmytouch.
‘It’s allright. The kids are allright and that’s allthat matters. Don’t listen to her. Never, ever listen to her. She’s just a bitter old cow who never grew up. But she’s not ashamed of you. No one’s ashamed of you, Lochie. God, how could anyone be? We all know that without you this family would fallapart.’
He drops his head indefeat. I canfeelthe clenched muscles inhis shoulders beneathmyfingers.
‘It is fallingapart.’
I give hima small, desperate shake. ‘Lochan, it’s not. Willa and Tiffinare fine. I’mfine! Kit is your standard screwed-up teenager. We’re all together – all those years since Dad left – since Mum’s problemstarted. We haven’t beentakeninto care, and that’s entirelythanks to you.’
There is a long silence. All I can see is the top of Lochan’s head. He leans towards me slightly. I reach up and put my arms around himand hold himtight. I lower my voice to a whisper. ‘You’re not just mybrother, you’re mybest friend.’

CHAPTERFIVE Lochan

I replay that sentence over and over during the next few days. It is a way of blotting out everything else – the awful incident with Tiffin and Willa, the row with my mother, the constant hell that is school. Everytime I decline to answer a questioninclass, eachmoment I spend alone bent over a book, I am reminded of what my family think of me. Pathetic. A socially inept weirdo. A teenage son who can’t get a friend, let alone a girlfriend. I try – I really try:smallthings, like asking my neighbour for the time. He has to lean across the aisle to ask me to repeat my question. I can’t even hear the sound of my own voice. I still don’t fully understand it – I managed to talk to the school staff the afternoon Tiffin and Willa disappeared. But that was an emergency, and the horror of the situation overrode any inhibitions I might have had. Talking to adults is bearable; it’s talking to people my age that’s impossible. So I keep replaying Maya’s words in my head. Maybe there is someone who isn’t ashamed ofme after all. Perhaps there is one member ofmyfamilywhomI haven’t totallylet down.

But the void yawns open like a cavern inside my chest. I feel so damn lonely all the time. Even though I’msurrounded by pupils, there is this invisible screen between us, and behind the glass wall I amscreaming – screaming in my own silence, screaming to be noticed, to be befriended, to be liked. And yet when a friendlylooking girl from my maths class comes up to me in the canteen and says ‘Mind if I sit here?’ I just give a quick nod and turn away, hoping to God she won’t try to engage me in conversation. And at home it’s hardly as if I’m alone, either. The house is never silent – but Kit is still going through his evil phase, Tiffin is only interested in his Gameboy and his footie friends, and Willa is sweet but still just a baby. I play Twister and Hide-and-Seek with the little ones, help them with their homework, feed them, bathe them, read them goodnight stories, but all the while I have to stay upbeat for them, put on the damn mask, and sometimes I fear it willcrack. Only with Maya can I reallybe myself. We share the burdentogether and she is always onmyside, bymyside. I don’t want to need her, to depend onher, but I do, I reallydo.

At lunch break I amsitting in my usual place during the tired afternoon, watching the cold light slowly move across the empty stairwell beneath me, when footsteps fromabove startle me. I lower my eyes to my book. Behind me, the feet slow and I feelmy pulse rate rise. Someone passes me on the steps. I feel a leg brushagainst my shirtsleeve and I concentrate on the page of blurred print before me. To myhorror, just below me, the footsteps stop altogether.
‘Hi!’a girl’s voice exclaims.
I flinch. Force myself to look up. I meet the browneyed gaze of someone I vaguely recognize. It takes me several seconds to place her. It’s the girl Maya always hangs around with. I can’t even remember her name. And she is lookingat me witha wide, toothygrin.

‘Hi,’she says again.
I clear mythroat. ‘Hi,’I mumble.
I’m not sure she can even hear me. Her gaze is unflinching and she seems to be waiting for

somethingmore.
‘The Hours,’she comments, glancingdownat mybook. ‘Isn’t that a film?’
I nod.
‘Any good?’ Her determination to make conversation is impressive. I nod again and return to the

page. ‘I’mFrancie,’she says, stillgrinningbroadly.
‘Lochan,’I reply.
She raises her eyebrows meaningfully. ‘I know.’
I canfeelmyfingers makingdamp indentations inthe pages ofthe book.
‘Maya talks about youallthe time.’
There is nothing subtle about this girl. Her frizzy hair and dark skin contrast sharply with her

blood-red lipstick and she is wearinganobscenelyshort skirt and huge silver hoops inher ears. ‘Youknow who I am, right?You’ve seenme hangingaround withyour sister?’ Another nod, the words evaporatingas soonas theyreachmythroat. I start chewingmylip. Francie looks at me pensivelywitha little smile. ‘Youdon’t talk much, do you?’ My face starts to burn. If she hadn’t been a friend of Maya’s, I would be pushing past her down

the stairs bynow. But Francie seems more curious thanamused.
‘People sayI never stop talking,’she continues breezily. ‘It pisses themoff.’
You’re telling me.
‘I have a message for you,’Francie declares suddenly. ‘Fromyour sister.’
I feelmyselftense. ‘W-what is it?’
‘Nothing serious,’ she says quickly. ‘Just that your mum is taking your brothers and sister out to
McDonald’s tonight so there’s no need to rush home. Maya wants you to meet her at the postbox at the end ofthe street after school.’
‘M-Maya asked you to c-come here and tell me that?’ I ask, waiting for her to smirk at my stammer.
‘Well, not exactly. She was trying to send you a text, but then she was kept in to finish off some coursework so I figured I might as welltellyoumyself.’
‘Thanks,’I mumble.
‘And . . . I also wanted to invite you to have a drink at Smileys with Maya and me, since the two ofyoudon’t have to go rushingofffor once.’
I stare at her, mute.
‘Is that a yes?’She eyes me hopefully.
Mymind has gone blank. I can’t for the life ofme think ofanexcuse. ‘Uh, well– OK.’
‘Cool!’Her face lights up. ‘I’llsee youat the postboxafter school!’
She is gone as suddenlyas she arrived.

At the finalbellI pack my bag with unsteady hands; I amthe last to trailout of the classroom. I make a dive for the toilets and lock myself in a cubicle. Sitting on the closed lid after peeing, I try to pull myself together. On the way out I stop in front of the mirrors. In the afternoon light the pale face staring back at me has the glittering green eyes of some alien creature. Leaning over the basin, I cup icy water in my hands and bring it up to my face, pressing my cheeks into the shallow puddles. I want to hide out here for ever, but someone else bangs in through the door and I have no choice but to leave.

Maya and Francie are standing side by side by the postbox at the end of the street, talking in rapid-fire to each other, their eyes scanning the crowds. It takes all the will in the world to stop me fromdoubling back, but the look of expectation on Maya’s face forces me forward. Her face breaks into a smile ofdelight as she catches sight ofme.

‘Thought youwere goingto do a no-show!’she whispers.
I smile againand nod, words runningthroughmymind like a streamofeffervescent bubbles. ‘Well, come on, guys!’ Francie exclaims after a moment’s awkward silence. ‘Are we going to

Smileys or not?’
‘Absolutely,’ Maya says, and as she turns to follow her friend, her hand brushes against mine in a
gesture ofreassurance – or perhaps it is thanks.
Smileys is stillmercifully empty at this time. We take a smallround table by the window and I hide
behind the menu, mytongue rubbingthe roughskinbeneathmylip.
‘Are youguys gettingfood?’Francie wants to know.
Maya glances at me and I give a subtle shake ofthe head.
‘Shallwe share some garlic bread?’Francie suggests. ‘I’mdyingfor a Coke.’
Maya leans back in her seat to try and catch the waiter, and Francie turns to me. ‘So, are you
lookingforward to gettingthe hellout ofBelmont?’
I put downthe menuand nod, forcinga smile.
‘You’re so lucky,’ Francie continues. ‘Just another nine months and you’llbe free of this hell-hole.
’
Maya finishes ordering and returns to the one-sided conversation, which even Francie is struggling
to maintain. ‘Lochan’s goingto UCL,’she announces proudly.
‘Well, no, I – I’mapplying—’
‘It’s a dead cert.’
‘Shit, youmust reallybe smart!’Francie exclaims.
‘He is,’Maya informs her. ‘He’s beenpredicted fourAs.’
‘Fuck!’
I wince and catch Maya’s eye, pleading with her to back off. I want to object, play it down, but I
can feel the heat rushing to my face and the words evaporating from my mind the moment I conjure
themup.
Maya elbows me gently. ‘Francie’s no fool either,’ she says. ‘She is actually the only person I
know who cantouchthe tip ofher nose withher tongue.’
We alllaugh. I breathe again.
‘Youthink I’mkidding?’Francie challenges me.
‘No . . .’
‘He’s just beingpolite,’Maya informs her. ‘I think he’s gonna need proof.’
Francie is alltoo keen to oblige. She sits up straight, extends her tongue as far as it willgo, curls it
upwards and touches the verytip to her nose. The cross-eyed look completes the picture. Maya falls against me with mirth and I find myself laughing too. Francie’s OK. As long as this
doesn’t last too long, I think I’mgoingto survive.
Suddenly there is a commotion in the doorway. Francie spins round in her seat and I identify a
group ofBelmont pupils bytheir uniform.
‘Hey, guys!’Francie shouts. ‘Over here!’
They clatter over, and through blurred vision I recognize a couple of girls from Maya’s class, a
guy from one of the other year groups and Rafi, a guy from English. There are greetings and
backslaps, and two tables are pushed together and more chairs drawnup.
‘Whitely!’Rafiexclaims inastonishment. ‘What the hellare youdoinghere?’
‘Just, uh, mysister—’
‘He’s hanging out with us!’ Francie exclaims. ‘Is that a crime? He’s Maya’s brother – didn’t you
know?’
‘Yeah, I just never thought I’d see him in a place like this!’ There is no malice in Rafi’s laughter,
just genuine surprise, but now everybody’s lookingat me and the two other girls are talking. Maya is doingthe introductions, but althoughI canhear the voices, I canno longer make sense of
what is being said. Emma, who has been going out of her way to bump into me since the beginning of
term, is determined to engage me in conversation. Their sudden intrusion just as I was beginning to
relax, combined withthe fact that theyallknow me as the class weirdo, is suddenlyalltoo much, and I
feellike the prey in some claustrophobic nightmare. Their words are like hammers, pounding my skull.
I give in to the tide and feel myself beginning to drown. Their mouths move underwater, opening and
closing, I read the question marks on their faces – most of their questions are directed at me – but
panic has caused my senses to shut down. I cannot distinguish one sentence from another: it has all
turned into a blanket of noise. Abruptly I scrape back my chair and get to my feet, grabbing mybag
and blazer. I mumble something about having left my mobile at school, raise my hand in goodbye and
lunge for the door.
I head down one street, then another. I’mnot even sure where I’mgoing. I suddenly feel stupidly
close to tears. I drape myblazer over myschoolbagand hook the strap over myshoulder, walkingas
fast as I can, the air rasping in my lungs, the sound of traffic drowned out by the frantic thud of my
heart. I hear the smack of shoes on the pavement behind me and instinctively move aside to let the
jogger past, but it’s Maya, grabbingme bythe arm.
‘Slow down, Lochie, please – I’ve got a reallybad stitch. . .’
‘Maya, what the hellare youdoing? Go back to your friends.’
She catches hold ofmyhand. ‘Lochie, wait—’
I stop and pull away from her suddenly, stepping back. ‘Look, I appreciate the effort, but I’d
rather youjust left me alone, OK?’Myvoice begins to rise. ‘I didn’t ask youfor help, did I?’ ‘Hey, hey!’ She steps towards me, holding out her hand. ‘I wasn’t trying to do anything, Loch. It
was allFrancie’s idea. I onlywent alongwithit because she told me you’d agreed.’ I run my hands through my hair. ‘Jesus, this was such a fucking mistake. Now I’ve gone and
embarrassed youinfront ofyour friends . . .’
‘Are you insane?’ She laughs, grabs my hand and swings my armas we start walking again. ‘I’m
glad youleft! Gave me anexcuse to get out too.’
I check my watch, feeling myself relax slightly. ‘You know, since Mum’s looking after the kids for
once, we have the whole eveningfree.’I raise a tentative eyebrow.
Maya flicks back her hair and a smile lights up her face, her eyes widening in animation. ‘Ooh,
were youthinkingoffleeingthe country?’
I grin. ‘Tempting. . . But maybe somethingmore alongthe lines ofcatchinga film?’ She tilts her face up to the sky. ‘But the sun’s shining. It stillfeels like summer!’ ‘OK then, youchoose.’
‘Let’s just walk,’she says.
‘Walk?’
‘Yes. Let’s catcha bus over to Chelsea Harbour. Let’s ogle the houses ofthe richand famous and
wander downbythe river.’

CHAPTERSIX Maya

As we walk along Chelsea Embankment, I stuff my blazer and tie into my bag and the warmevening 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 stretchout ahead ofus before fadinginto duskytwilight. Highabove 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 still whiteness. I toss Lochan my bag, take a running step, skip and hop, and do a cartwheel, the grainypathroughagainst mypalms. The sunmomentarilydisappears and we are plunged into cool blue shade as we pass beneath the bridge, our footsteps suddenly magnified, bouncing off the smooth arch ofthe supports, startling a pigeon up into the sky. Afew paces to my left, keeping a safe distance frommyantics, Lochanstrides along, hands inhis pockets, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Alight 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 silly and break the spell, pull himout of it, but now it’s harder. I know there are things he doesn’t tellme. Things he has onhis mind.

When we reach the shops, we buy pizza and Coke froma takeaway and head towards Battersea Park. Inside the gates, we wander out into the middle of the vast expanse of greenery, away fromthe trees, aligning ourselves with the sun, now lying westward and losing its brilliance. Cross-legged, I examine a bruise onmyshinwhile Lochankneels inthe grass, openingthe pizza boxand handingme a slice. I take it and stretchout mylegs, liftingmychinto feelthe sunonmyface.

‘This is a million times nicer than hanging out with those dorks from school,’ I inform him. ‘That was a good move, leavingwhenyoudid.’
Munching solidly, he shoots me a penetrating look and I can tell he is trying to read my mind, seeking the motive behind my words. I meet his gaze full on, and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards as he realizes I ambeingcompletelyhonest.
I give up on the food before he does and lean back on my elbows, watching himeat. He’s clearly starving. I openmymouthto tellhimhe has tomato sauce onhis chin, thenchange mymind. Mysmile, however, doesn’t go unnoticed.
‘What?’he asks witha brieflaugh, swallowinghis last mouthfuland wipinghis hands onthe 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 taller, dark-haired version of Tiffin at the end ofa busyschoolday.
‘Whyare youlookingat me like that?’he persists, regardingme quizzically, a touchself-conscious now.
‘Nothing. I was just thinkingofwhat Francie says about you.’
Ahint ofwariness touches his eyes. ‘Oh, not that again. . .’
‘Your dimples are apparentlyverycute.’I bite back a grin.
‘Ha ha.’Alittle smile and he is lookingdown, pullingat the grass, a flushcreepingup his neck.
‘And youhave arrestingeyes – whatever that means.’
Agrimace ofembarrassment. ‘Piss off, Maya. Youjust made that up.’
‘I didn’t. I’m telling you – she says things like that. What else . . . ? Oh yes: your mouth is apparentlyverysnoggable.’
He chokes, showeringme withCoke. ‘Maya!’
‘I’mnot kidding! Those were her exact words!’
He is blushing hard now, peering intently into the Coke can. ‘Can I finish this or are you still thirsty?’
‘Stop tryingto change the subject,’I laugh.
He shoots me anevillook and swigs downthe dregs.
‘She even said she caught sight of you through the open door of the boys’ changing rooms and youlooked really—’
He kicks out at me. He is stillhalfjokingbut it hurt.
I feel confused. Beneath the jokey exterior, he suddenly seems upset. I appear to have inadvertentlycrossed some invisible line.
‘OK.’I raise myhands insurrender. ‘But youget the idea, right?’
‘Yeah, thanks a lot.’ He gives another wry smile to show he isn’t angry, and then turns his face awayinto the breeze. There is a longsilence and I close myeyes, feelingthe last ofthe summer sunon my face. The tranquillity is unnerving. Muted playground shrieks reach us from what seems like a million miles away. Somewhere amongst the trees, a dog lets out a couple of short, sharp yaps. I roll over onto my stomach and prop my chin on my hands. Lochan hasn’t realized I’mwatching him, and allsigns oflaughter have beencompletelyerased fromhis face. Elbows restingondrawn-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. Onlysadness.
‘YouOK?’
‘Yeah.’He doesn’t turn.
‘Really?’
He’s about to say something but then remains silent. Instead he starts rubbing at his sore with the side ofhis thumb.
I sit up. Reaching out, I gently pull his hand down from his face. His eyes dart to meet mine. ‘Maya, I’mnot goingto go out withFrancie.’
‘I know. That’s OK. It doesn’t matter,’I sayquickly. ‘She’llget over it.’
‘Whyare youso keento 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 stillget to see you. Youwouldn’t – you’d be less likelyto go away.’
He frowns, uncomprehending.
‘It’s just that if you meet somebody next year at university—’Asmall pain rises in the back of my throat. I cannot finishthe sentence. ‘I mean, ofcourse I want youto, but I don’t – I’mscared . . .’
He gives me a long, steadylook. ‘Maya, surelyyouknow I’d never leave you– youor 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 ifI’mever goingto go out withanyone,’Lochansays 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 silly, Loch. You’re the best-looking guy at Belmont. Every girl in my class has a crushonyou.’
Silence.
‘Are yousayingyou’re gay?’
The corners ofhis mouthtwitchinamusement. ‘Ifthere’s one thingI do know, it’s that I’m not!’
I sigh. ‘That’s a pity. I always thought it would be prettycoolto have a gaybrother.’
Lochanlaughs. ‘Don’t lose hope yet. There’s stillKit and Tiffin.’
‘Kit?Yeah, right! Rumour has it he’s alreadygot a girlfriend. Francie swears she saw himsnogging a girlfromthe year above inanemptyclassroom.’
‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t get her pregnant,’Lochansays acerbically.
I wince and try to banish the thought frommy mind. I don’t even want to think of Kit with a girl. He’s onlythirteen, for chrissakes.
I sigh. ‘I’ve never even kissed anyone – unlike most of the girls in my class,’ I confess quietly, runningmyfingers throughthe longgrass.
He turns to me. ‘So?’he says gently. ‘You’re onlysixteen.’
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 highinhis cheeks.
‘Yeah, right!’ He gives a derisive snort, avoiding my gaze, intent on the small hole he is digging in the earth. ‘Like – like that’s ever goingto happen!’Witha short laugh, he glances at me as ifimploring me to joinin, and throughthe embarrassment I see the paininhis 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 tellhimgently. ‘One day—’
‘Yeah, one day.’He smiles withforced 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 nearingits end. ‘Do youever think about it?’
He hesitates, the blood still hot in his cheeks, and for a moment I think he isn’t going to reply. He continues picking at the earth, still studiously avoiding my gaze. ‘Course.’ It’s so quiet that for a moment I think I might have imagined it.
I look at himsharply. ‘Who?’
‘There’s never really been anyone . . .’ He still 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 ifsuddenlyaware 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 evenexists.’
‘Sometimes—’Lochanbegins, thenbreaks off.
I wait for himto continue. ‘Sometimes . . . ?’I prompt gently.
‘I wishthings were different.’He takes a deep breath. ‘I wisheverythingwasn’t so damnhard.’
‘I know,’I sayquietly. ‘Me too.’

CHAPTERSEVEN Lochan

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. Willa 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, frequentlystays over at his flat above the restaurant to avoid the dailycommute. Onthe few occasions she’s home, she’s rarelysober for long, and Tiffinand Willa have givenup askingher to playwiththem or tuck themin. I make regular trips to the bottle bank after dark.

The school termgrinds 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, Willa needs new shoes, bills are waiting to be paid, Mumloses her chequebook again. As she continues to fade stillfurther fromfamily life, Maya and I tacitly divide up the chores: she cleans, helps withhomework, does the bedtime routine; I shop, cook, sort out bills, collect Tiffin and Willa 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 fromschool: I persuade Mumto give me the money to buy hima second-hand mobile but he refuses to answer it when I call. 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 install a curfew myself and Kit immediately starts staying out even later, as if returning home within the allotted time is a sign of weakness, ofcapitulation. And thenthe inevitable happens:one night he doesn’t come home at all.

At two in the morning, after calling 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 small 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 amabout to point out he could be lyingface downina gutter whenI 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 accidentally fell pregnant with me – a fact she likes to remind me of whenever we have anargument. And now that I amjust a few months awayfrombeinglegallyclassed 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 all 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 stemthe hate.

It is now halfpast two and I ambeginning to panic. Seated on the sofa, strategically positioned so that the weak light of the naked bulb falls directly on my books, I have been straining to read through my notes for at least three hours, the scrawled words bleeding into eachother, 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 pallor of her skin. I am still in my uniform, the usual ink-stained cuffs pushed up, shirt half unbuttoned. From deep within my skull, a metallic 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 ofme 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 still, he could be the victimof a mugger or some rival gang – his behaviour has begun to earn himquite a reputationinthe 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 all. His hatred of me will 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 evenhave a bike to go combingthe streets with.

The clock now reads a quarter to three: nearly five hours after Kit’s weekend curfew. He never actually 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 himfor aneighteen-year-old. He has never beenanywhere near as late as this before.

Fear snakes into my mind. It curls around itself, its body pressing against the walls of my skull. This is not rebellion: 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 call 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’mafraid 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 falls through the gap in the curtains, illuminating her sleeping face, her tawny hair fanned out over the pillow. She has kicked back the sheet and is sleepingface down, splayed out like a starfish, knickers infullview.

I bend downand gentlyshake her. ‘Maya?’
‘Mm. . .’She rolls awayfromme inprotest.
I tryagain. ‘Maya, wake up, it’s me.’
‘Huh?’ Rolling onto her side, she props herself up on her elbow, looking up at me groggily,
blinkingbeneatha curtainofhair.
‘Maya, I need your help.’ The words come out louder than I intended, the mounting panic catchinginmythroat.
‘What?’She is suddenly alert, struggling to sit up, brushing the hair away fromher face. She flicks onthe bedside light and squints at me, wincing. ‘What’s goingon?’
‘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 somethingmust have happened.’
She squeezes her eyes shut and then opens them wide again, as if trying to gather her thoughts. ‘Kit’s stillout?’
‘Yes!’
‘Have youtried his mobile?’
I recount my futile attempts at getting through to both Kit and Mum. Maya stumbles out of bed and follows me down into the hallway as I hunt for my keys. ‘But, Lochie, d’you have any idea where he could be?’
‘No, I’lljust have to look . . .’ I rummage through my jacket pockets and then through the pile of junk mail and unopened bills on the hall table, sending them flying. My hands have started shaking. ‘Jesus, where the fuck are mykeys?’
‘Lochie, you’re never going to find himby combing the streets. He could be on the other side of London!’
I spinround to face her. ‘What the helld’yousuggest I do then?’
I startle myselfwiththe force ofmyvoice. Maya takes a step back.
I stop and heave a deep breath, cupping my hands over my mouth, then running themthrough my hair. ‘Sorry. I just – I just don’t know what to do. Mumwas 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 breathto finishspeaking.
‘OK,’ Maya says quickly. ‘OK, Lochie. I’ll stay down here and wait. And I’ll call you the moment he turns up. Have yougot your phone?’
I feelthe pockets ofmytrousers. ‘No – shit – and mykeys—’
‘Here . . .’ Maya reaches for her coat on the peg and digs out her phone and keys. Grabbing them, I wrenchopenthe door.
‘Wait!’She throws me myjacket.
I pullit onas I stride out into the cold night air.
It’s dark, the houses all sleeping save for a few still illuminated 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 stall still litters the street, a drunk staggers out of the all-night Tesco and two skimpily clad young women weave their way across the pavement arm in arm, shrill voices crisscrossing the still 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. Theyare alldressed the same:greyhoodies, baggyjeans slidingdowntheir 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 follow the scent of fear. For a moment I think they’re going to come after me, but it’s onlytheir laughter and obscenities that float inmywake.
My heart continues to pound as I reach the end of the high street and cross the junction, my mind running at full 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, especiallyround 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, illuminating the wet tarmac. I cross the junction blindly and get honked at by an irritable cabbie. I wipe the sweat frommy face with my shirtsleeve, adrenaline coursing through my body. The sudden wailofa 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 pull 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?’
‘BenthamJunction. I’llsee youina 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 tell 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 balloon that’s about to burst.
I amwalking 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 telling myself. He’s OK – but I don’t know why I don’t feel more relieved. In fact I feel physically sick. I was so sure something bad had happened to him. Whyelse would he have failed to answer his phone – to call?
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 metalkeys 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. Whenthe door suddenlyopens, I stumble blindlyinto the brightlylit hall.
‘Hey, watchout.’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 armbehind 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 hellhave youbeen?’
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 snatchit fromhis hand, catchinghimunawares.
‘Give that back, youarsehole!’He is onhis feet inaninstant, grabbingmyarmand twistingit.
‘It’s four inthe morning! What the fuck have youbeendoing?’
I grapple with him, trying to push himoff, but he is surprisingly strong. Abolt ofpain shoots up my armfrommy hand to my shoulder, and the remote falls 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 himby the collar, losing my balance and dragging himdown to the floor. My head hits the coffee table and for a moment the lights seemto 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 pulling at my hands, someone else in the way, someone shoutingat me, screaminginmyear:‘Stop it, Lochie, stop it!You’re goingto killhim!’
I’ve let go, he’s got away, doubled over on hands and knees, coughing and retching, strings of saliva hanging from his mouth. Someone is restraining me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides, but all the strength has suddenly left me and I can barely sit up. I hear gasping sounds fromKit as he lurches to his feet, and suddenlyhe is toweringover me.
‘You ever touch me again and I’ll kill you.’ His voice is hoarse and rasping. I hear himleave, hear him thunder up the wooden stairs, hear the sound of a wailing child. I seem to be falling, except the carpet is solid beneath me and the cold hard wall presses against my back. Through a dimhaze I see Willa wrap her legs around Maya’s waist as Maya lifts her into a hugand murmurs, ‘It’s allright, it’s all right, my love – they just had a silly argument. Everything’s fine now. Let’s go back upstairs and tuck youinto bed, OK?’
Theyleave the roomand the wails fade but continue above me, onand onand on.
My legs are unsteady as I make my way to my room. Safely inside, I sit down on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, cupping my hands over my nose and mouth, trying to stop hyperventilating, the paininmystomachsendingsmallaftershocks throughmybody. I feelsweat runningdownthe sides of my face and cannot stop trembling. The halo round the light bulb above me expands and retracts, creating dancing spots of light. The full horror of what happened is only just starting to hit me. I have never got into any kind of physical fight with Kit before, yet tonight I provoked one, I almost wanted one; once I’d got my hands round his throat, I honestly didn’t want to let go. I don’t understand what’s happening to me – I seem to be unravelling. So Kit came home a few hours late – what teenager hasn’t? Parents get angrywiththeir children, sure:theyshout, threaten, swear at themmaybe, but theydon’t tryto strangle them.
The knock on the door sends another jolt through my body. But it’s only Maya, looking completelywiped out as she sags against the doorframe.
‘Are youallright?’
Hands still covering my mouth, I nod, desperate for her to leave but unable to speak. She observes me soberly in the gloom, hesitates for a moment, then switches on my overhead light and comes in.
I take my hands away from my face, clenching them into fists to stop them shaking. ‘I’m fine,’ I say, myvoice raw and ragged. ‘We should alljust go to bed.’
‘You don’t look fine.’ She closes the door and leans against it, her eyes huge, her expression unreadable. I can’t tellifshe’s angry, horrified, disgusted . . .
‘Maya, I’msorry, I – I just lost it . . .’Ajagged painruns throughme.
‘I know, Loch, I know.’
I want to tellher just how sorry I am. I want to ask her whether Willa is OK. I want to ask her to check on Kit, make sure he’s not packing his bags and planning to run away, reassure me that I haven’t hurt him, even though I know I have. But I can’t get the words out. Only the sound of my heaving breaths fills the air. I press my hands against my nose and mouth to try to muffle the sound, push my elbows down hard against my knees in an effort to stop shaking, and find myself rocking back and forthwithout knowingwhy.
Peelingherselfoffthe door, Maya moves towards me, takinga seat beside me onthe bed.
Instinctivelymyarmflies up to ward her off. ‘Maya, d-don’t – I don’t need—’
She takes my outstretched hand and gently pulls it onto her lap, rubbing my palm in circular motions withher thumb. ‘Try and relax.’ Her voice is gentle – too gentle. ‘It’s all right. Everyone’s OK. Willa’s gone back to sleep and Kit’s fine.’
I shift awayfromher, strugglingto disengage myhand fromhers. ‘I – I just need some sleep . . .’
‘I know youdo, but youhave to calmdownfirst.’
‘I’mtrying!’
Her face is pinched with concern and I’m aware that the sight of me in this state is doing little to reassure her. Her fingers are warmon my wrist, moving up to stroke the inside of my arm, the touch ofher hand somehow comforting. ‘Lochie, it wasn’t your fault.’
I bite downhard and turnaway.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she says again. ‘Lochie, you know that. Kit’s been trying to provoke you into somethinglike this for ages. Anyone would have snapped.’
There is a mountingpainat the back ofmythroat, a warningpressure behind myeyes.
‘You can’t keep blaming yourself for everything, just because you’re the eldest. None of this is your fault – Mum’s drinking, Dad leaving, Kit turning out the way he has. There’s nothing more you could have done.’
I don’t know how she’s figured all this out. I don’t understand how she is able to read my mind like this. I turn to face the wall, shaking my head to tell her she’s wrong. I pull my hand away from hers and rub the side ofmyface, tryingto shield it fromview.
‘Lochie . . .’
No. I can’t take this any more, I can’t, I can’t. I’m not even going to get her out of the room before it’s too late. My eyes pulsate with a rising ache. IfI move, if I speak, if I so much as blink, I’m goingto lose this battle.
Her hand touches myshoulder, strokes myback. ‘It’s not always goingto be like this.’
Atear skims the side of my cheek. I put my hand up to my eyes to stop the next one. My fingers are suddenlywet. I take a deep breathand tryto hold it, but a smallsound escapes.
‘Oh– Loch, no. Don’t – not over this!’Maya sounds softlydesperate.
I move closer to the wall, wishing I could disappear into it. I press my fist hard against my mouth. Thenthe bottled breathexplodes frommylungs witha violent chokingsound.
‘Hey, hey . . .’Despite her reassuring tone, I recognize the note ofpanic. ‘Lochie, please, listen to me. Just listen. Tonight was hideous, but it’s not the end of the world. I know things have been really, really tough recently, but it’s all right, it’s all right. Kit’s fine. You’re only human. These things happen . . .’
I tryto drymyeyes onmyshirtsleeve, but the tears keep comingand I can’t understand whyI am so utterlypowerless to stop them.
‘Shh, come here—’ Maya tries to pull me round to face her, I push her roughly away. She tries again. FrenziedlyI fend her offwithone arm.
‘Don’t! Maya, stop it, for chrissakes – please! Please! I can’t – I can’t—!’ The sobs burst out witheachword. I can’t breathe, I’mterrified, I’mfallingapart.
‘Lochie, calmdown. I just want to hold you, that’s all. Just let me hold you.’Her voice adopts the soothingtone she uses whenTiffinor Willa are upset. She’s not goingto give up.
I scrape the fingernails of one hand against the wall, violent sobs running in shock waves through my body, tears soaking my sleeve. ‘Help,’ I find myself gasping. ‘I don’t understand what’s wrong withme!’
Maya slides into the space between me and the wall, and suddenly there is nowhere for me to hide any more. As she puts her arms around me and pulls me close, I try to resist one final time, but I amdrained of all strength. Her body is warmagainst mine – alive, familiar, reassuring. I press my face against the curve of her neck, my hands clutching at the back of her nightdress as if she might suddenlydisappear.
‘I – I didn’t meanto – I didn’t meanto – Maya, I didn’t meanto!’
‘I know youdidn’t meanto, Lochie. I know that, I know.’
She is talking to me softly now, almost whispering, one armwrapped tightly around me, the other stroking the back of my head, rocking me gently back and forth. I cling to her as the sobs rack my bodywithsuchforce, I think I willnever be able to stop.

CHAPTEREIGHT Maya

I open my eyes and find myself staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. My head feels fuzzy with sleep, and it isn’t until I find myself blinking over at a desk laden with A-level textbooks, a chair covered in discarded shirts and trousers, that I remember where I am. There is a distinctive smell too – not unpleasant, but unmistakablyLochan. Aslight weight onmychest prompts me to look down, and with a start I see an armslung over my ribcage, bitten-down fingernails, a large black digitalwatch secured around the wrist. Lochan is fast asleep by my side, stretched out on his front, pressed up against the wall, his armdraped over me.

My mind flashes back to the previous night and I remember the fight, remember coming up and finding himin a really bad way, the shock ofseeing himon the verge oftears, the feeling ofhorror and helplessness as he broke down and sobbed – the first time since the day Dad left. Seeing himlike that sucked me back throughthe years, back to the day Dad came to the house for that ‘specialgoodbye’ before catching the flight that was to take himand his new wife to the other side of the world. There were presents, and photos of the new house with the pool, and promises of school holidays with him there, and assurances that he would be back regularly. The others had naturally bought into the whole charade – they were still so young – but somehow Lochan and I sensed that was it, we would not be seeingour dad again– ever. And it wasn’t longbefore we were proved right.

The weekly phone calls became monthly, then only on special occasions, then stopped altogether. When Mum told us his new wife had just given birth, we knew it was only a matter of time before eventhe birthdaypresents ceased. And cease theydid. Everythingceased. EvenMum’s child support. We older two had expected it – just never guessed he would erase us all fromhis life quite so fast. I clearly remember that moment after the final goodbye, after the front door had closed and the sound of Dad’s car faded down the street. Huddled up against the pillows with my new cuddly dog and the picture of the house I knew I’d never get to visit, I was suddenly overcome by a huge surge of rage and hatred for a father who had once claimed to love me so much. But to mysurprise and annoyance, Lochan had seemed to go along with it all, rejoicing with the others at the idea of us all jetting off to Australia some day soon. I actually thought he was stupid. I sulked and ignored him all day while he forced himself through his charade. Only later that night, once he thought I was asleep, did he break down – softly sobbing into his pillow in the bunk above mine. He had been inconsolable then too – fighting me off when I attempted to give hima hug before finally giving in, letting me snuggle under the duvet and cry with him. We’d promised each other then that even when we grew up, we would always stay together. Finally, exhausted and all cried out, we’d fallen asleep. And now here we are, five years on, and so muchhas changed, and yet so little.

It feels strange, lying here in Lochan’s bed with him sleeping beside me. Willa used to climb into bed with me whenever she had nightmares – in the morning I’d wake up to find her small body pressed against mine. This is Lochan though: my brother, my protector. Seeing his arm slung so casually across me makes me smile – he would be very quick to remove it if he woke. I don’t want him to wake up just yet though. His leg is pressed against mine, squashing it slightly. He is still in his schoolclothes, his shoulder heavy against my arm, pinning it to the bed. I amwelland truly wedged in – infact we bothare:his other armhas disappeared downthe narrow crack betweenthe mattress and the wall. I turn my head gingerly to see if he looks as if he might wake up anytime soon. He doesn’t. He is sound asleep, taking those long, deep, rhythmical breaths, his face turned towards me. It’s not often that I have him so near – not since we were young. It is strange to observe him at such close range: I see things I’ve barely noticed before. The way his hair, drenched in a shaft of sunlight slanting through the curtains, is not quite jet-black but actually contains streaks of golden brown. I can make out a pattern in the fine tracing of veins beneath the skin of his temples, even distinguish the individual hairs of his eyebrows. The faint white scar above his left eye froma childhood fall has not completely faded, and his eyelids are fringed with surprisingly long dark lashes. My eyes follow the smooth ridge of his nose down to the bow of his upper lip, so clearly defined now that his mouth is relaxed. His skin is smooth, almost translucent; the only blemish a self-inflicted sore beneath his mouth where his teeth have repeatedly rubbed, chafed and scraped at the skin to leave a small crimson wound: a reminder of his ongoing battle with the world around him. I want to stroke it away, erase the hurt, the stress, the loneliness.

I find myself thinking back to Francie’s comment. A kissable mouth . . . What does that mean exactly?At the time I thought it was funny, I don’t anymore. I wouldn’t want Francie to kiss Lochan’s mouth. I wouldn’t want anyone to. He is my brother, my best friend. The idea of anyone seeing him like this, so close, so exposed, is suddenly unbearable. What if they hurt him, broke his heart? I don’t want himto fallinlove withsome girl– I want himto stayhere, lovingus. Lovingme.

He shifts slightly, his armsliding up my ribcage. I can feel his sweaty warmth against my side. The way his nostrils contract slightly each time he inhales reminds me of the tenuous, precarious hold we allhave onlife. Asleep, he looks so vulnerable it frightens me.

There are shouts, yelps from downstairs. Thundering feet on the stairs. A loud bang against the door. Tiffin’s unmistakable, over-excited voice yelling, ‘Homey! Homey!’
Lochan’s arm contracts and he opens his eyes with a start. For a long moment he just stares at me, emerald irises flecked withblue, his face verystill. Thenhis expressionbegins to change.
‘What – what’s goingon?’
I smile at the blurriness ofhis speech. ‘Nothing. I’mstuck.’
He glances downat his arm, stillslungacross mychest, and retracts it quickly, strugglingto sit up.
‘Why are you—? What on earth are you doing here?’ He looks disorientated and slightly panicked for a moment, tousled hair hanging in his eyes, face hazy with sleep. The imprint of the pillow has left scarlet indentations across his cheek.
‘We were talking late last night, remember?’ I don’t want to mention the fight, or its aftermath. ‘I guess we both just crashed out.’ I pull myself up against the head-board, curl my legs up beneath me and stretch. ‘I haven’t been able to move for the last fifteen minutes because you were half crushing me.’
He has retreated to the far end of the bed, leaning against the wall, dropping his head back with a thud. He closes his eyes for a moment. ‘I feel rough,’ he murmurs as if to himself, hugging his knees, his torso limp and yielding.
Concerngrips me:it’s not like Lochanto complain. ‘Where does it hurt?’
He releases his breathwitha ghost ofsmile. ‘Everywhere.’
The smile fades when I don’t return it and he holds me with his gaze, eyes heavy with sadness. ‘Today’s Saturday, right?’
‘Yes, but everything’s fine. Mum’s up – I heard her voice a few minutes ago. And Kit’s up too. It sounds like they’re alldownstairs havingbreakfast or brunchor something.’
‘Oh. OK. Good.’ Lochan sighs in relief and closes his eyes again. I don’t like the way he is talking, sitting, behaving. He seems helpless somehow, in pain and utterly defeated. There is a long silence. He doesn’t openhis eyes.
‘Lochie?’I venture softly.
‘Yeah.’He looks at me witha start and blinks rapidlyas ifattemptingto engage his brain.
‘Stayhere while I get yousome coffee and painkillers, OK?’
‘No, no . . .’He catches me by the wrist to restrain me. ‘I’mfine. I’llwake up properly once I’ve had a shower.’
‘OK. There’s paracetamolinthe bathroomcabinet.’
He gazes blanklyat me. ‘Right,’he says dully.
Nothinghappens. He doesn’t move. I beginto feeluneasy.
‘You’re not looking too good, you know,’ I informhimgently. ‘How about you get back into bed for a bit and I’llbringyoubreakfast?’
He turns his head to look at me again. ‘No – seriously, Maya, I’m fine. Just give me a minute, OK?’
The unspoken rule in our family is that Lochan is never ill. Even last winter, when he had flu and a hightemperature, he insisted he was wellenoughto do the schoolrun.
‘Then I’m going to get you some coffee,’ I declare abruptly, jumping up from the bed. ‘Go and have a hot shower and—’
He stops me, catchingmyhand before I reachthe door. ‘Maya . . .’
I turn, tighteningmyfingers around his. ‘What?’
His jaw tenses and I see himswallow. His eyes seemto be searchingmine, hopingfor something– a sign of understanding perhaps. ‘I can’t – I really don’t think I can—’ He breaks off, breathing deeply. I wait. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the energy to do the whole family meal thing today.’ He pulls an apologetic face.
‘Well, of course I’ll do it, you silly!’ I think for a moment and begin to smile. ‘Hey, I’ve got an evenbetter idea.’
‘What?’He looks hopefulsuddenly.
I grin. ‘I’llget rid ofthemall– you’llsee.’

I stand in the doorway for a moment, soaking up the chaos. They are seated around the kitchen table, a mess of Coco Pops, Coke cans, Jaffa Cakes and crisps strewn out in front of them. Mum must have sent Tiffin to the corner shop when she discovered only muesli and brown bread for breakfast. But at least she’s up before noon, albeit still in her sleazy pink dressing gown, her blonde hair uncombed, great bags beneath her bloodshot eyes. Judging by the ashtray, she has already been through half a packet of cigarettes, but despite her appearance, she seems surprisingly spry and perky, helped no doubt bythe shot ofwhiskyI cansmellinher coffee.

‘Princess!’She holds out her arms. ‘Youlook like anangelinthat dress.’
‘Mum, this is the same nightie I’ve beenwearingfor the last four years,’I informher witha sigh. Mum just smiles complacently, my words barely registering, but Kit chuckles through a mouthful

of Coco Pops, showering the table. I’m relieved to see that he looks none the worse for his run-in with Lochan last night. Beside him, Tiffin is trying to juggle with three oranges fromthe fruit bowl, his sugar levels clearly sky-high. Willa is talking rapidly and indistinctly, her mouth crammed to capacity, chocolate smeared across her chin. I make some coffee, retrieve the muesli from the cupboard and start slicingthe bread onthe sideboard.
‘Wanna Mars bar?’Tiffinoffers me generously.
‘No thanks, Tiff. And I think you’ve probably had enough chocolate for today. Remember what happens whenyouhave too muchsugar?’
‘I get sent to the head,’Tiffinresponds automatically. ‘But I ain’t at schoolnow.’
‘I’mnot at school now,’ I correct him. ‘Hey, guess what, I’ve had a really good idea for a family dayout!’
‘Oh, how lovely!’Mumexclaims eagerly. ‘Where are yougoingto take them?’
‘ActuallyI was thinkingofa dayout withthe whole family,’I continue jovially, carefulto keep the edge out ofmyvoice. ‘And we’d definitelywant youto come too, Mum!’
Kit glances up at me with dark, mistrustfuleyes, snorting in derision. ‘Yeah, let’s go to the seaside or somethingand have a fuckingpicnic and pretend we’re just one bighappyfamily.’
‘Where, where?’Tiffinshouts.
‘Well, I was thinkingwe could allgo to—’
‘The zoo, the zoo!’Willa cries, practicallyfallingoffher chair inexcitement.
‘No, the park!’Tiffincounters. ‘We canplaythree-aside football.’
‘How about the bowlingalley?’Kit suggests unexpectedly. ‘Theyhave arcade games there.’
I smile indulgently. ‘We might be able to do all three. There’s a massive fairground that’s just opened inBattersea Park – there’s a zoo onthe other side ofthe park, and I think the fairground even has arcade games, Kit.’
Aflicker ofinterest registers inhis eyes.
‘Mum, willyoubuyme candyfloss?’Tiffinyells.
‘And me, and me!’Willa shrieks.
Mumsmiles wanly. ‘Adayout withallmybunnies. How lovely.’
‘But you’llallhave to get readydouble quick,’I warn. ‘It’s almost noon.’
‘Mum, come on!’ Tiffin yells at her. ‘You gotta put on all your make-up and get dressed right now!’
‘Just one last ciggie . . .’
But Tiffin and Willa have already gone tearing out of the room to put on their coats and shoes. EvenKit has swunghis feet offthe table.
‘Is Lochan coming on this little jaunt?’ Mum asks me, dragging heavily on her cigarette. I notice Kit’s eyes sharpensuddenly.
‘No, he’s got a ton of homework to catch up on.’ I stop clearing the table suddenly and slap a hand to myforehead. ‘Ohno. Damn!’
‘What’s the matter, sweetie?’
‘I completely forgot. I can’t come today. I promised I’d babysit the Davidsons’ new baby this afternoon.’
Mumlooks alarmed. ‘Well, can’t youjust canceland sayyou’re illor something?’
‘No, they’re going to a wedding and I told themI’d do it ages ago.’ I can’t believe what a good liar I am. ‘Besides,’I add pointedly, ‘we could do withthe money.’
Tiffin and Willa return to the kitchen, bundled up in their coats, and stop, instantly sensing the change inatmosphere.
‘Clever Maya’s just realized we can’t go after all,’Kit informs them.
‘We’ll go tomorrow instead!’ Mum exclaims brightly. ‘Nooo!’ Tiffin’s howl is one of despair. Willa looks up at me accusingly, her blue eyes stricken.
‘But youcanstillgo withMum,’I saycasually, carefullyavoidingher gaze.
Tiffinand Willa turnto gaze at her, their eyes pleading. ‘Mum! Mum, pleeeease!’
‘Oh, all right, all right,’ she sighs, shooting me a pained, almost angry look. ‘Anything for my babies.’
As Mumgoes upstairs to get dressed and Tiffin and Willa tear about the house in a sugar-induced frenzy, Kit returns his feet to the table and starts idly flicking through a comic. ‘Well, look how that turned out,’he mutters without lookingup.
I feel myself tense but continue to clear the table. ‘What difference does it make?’ I retort quietly. ‘Tiffin and Willa get to go out and have fun and you get five times your usual pocket money to spend onarcades.’
‘I’m not complaining,’ he says. ‘I just think it’s touching the way you fabricate this whole complicated lie just ’cos Lochan’s too ashamed to face the fact that he’s a violent bastard.’
I stop cleaning the table, squeezing the sponge so hard that the warm, soapy water runs through the cracks betweenmyfingers.
‘Lochan doesn’t know anything about this, OK?’ I retort, my voice low with repressed anger. ‘It was myidea. Because frankly, Kit, it’s the weekend, Tiffin and Willa deserve to have a bit of fun, and Lochanand I are completelyshattered fromrunningthe house allweek.’
‘I bet he is – after trying to kill me last night.’ He glares up at me now, his dark eyes as hard as pebbles.
I find myself gripping the edge of the table. ‘Fromwhat I remember it was a two-way deal. And Lochan’s so bashed up, he canhardlymove.’
A slow grin of triumph spreads across Kit’s face. ‘Yeah, well, I can’t say I’m surprised. If he didn’t spend his days hidinginstairwells and actuallylearned to fight like a real—’
I slam my fist down on the table. ‘Don’t give me your macho gang bullshit,’ I hiss in a furious whisper. ‘Last night wasn’t some kind of sick competition! Lochan’s really upset about what happened. He never wanted to hurt you.’
‘How very considerate of him,’ Kit replies, voice dripping with sarcasm, still flicking infuriatingly through his magazine. ‘But kind of hard to believe when just a few hours ago he had his hands around myneck.’
‘You played a part in this too, you know. You punched himfirst!’ I glance nervously at the closed kitchendoor. ‘Look, I’mnot goingto get into anargument withyouabout who started what. As far as the fight’s concerned, you’re both as guilty as each other. But just ask yourselfthis:why the helld’you think Lochan was so upset in the first place? How many of your friends have a brother who would stay up half the night waiting for them to return? How many of them have a brother who would go scouring the streets at three in the morning because he was afraid something terrible might have happened? How many have brothers who shop for them, cook for them, attend parent–teacher meetings and stick up for them when they’re suspended from school? Don’t you get it, Kit? Lochan lost it last night because he cares about you, because he loves you!’
Kit throws the magazine across the table, making me jump, his eyes igniting in anger. ‘Did I ask him to do any of those things? D’you think I like having to depend on my fuckingbrother for every little thing? No, you’re right, my mates don’t have older brothers like that. They have brothers who hang out with them, get pissed with them, help themget fake IDs and sneak theminto nightclubs and stuff. Whereas I’ve got a brother who tells me what time I’ve got to be home and then beats me up if I’mlate! He’s not my father! He may pretend to care, but it’s only because he’s on some sick power trip! He doesn’t love me like Dad did, but he sure as hell thinks he can tell me what to do every second ofthe day!’
‘You’re right,’ I say quietly. ‘He doesn’t love us the way Dad did. Dad buggered off halfway round the world with his new family the moment things got tough. Lochan could have left school last year, got himself a job and moved out. He could choose to run off next year to a university at the other end of the country. But no, he’s only applying to ones in London, even though his teachers were desperate for him to try for Oxbridge. He’s staying in London so he can live here and look after us and make sure we’re allright.’
Kit manages to pull off a sardonic laugh. ‘You’re deluded, Maya. You know why he isn’t going anywhere? ’Cos he’s too damn scared, that’s why. You’ve seen him – he can’t even talk to his classmates without stammeringlike some kind ofretard. And he certainlyisn’t stayinghere because of me. He’s staying because he’s power-drunk – he gets his kicks from bossing Tiff and Willa around ’cos it makes himfeel better about the fact he can’t even articulate a single word at school. And he’s staying here because he adores you, because you always take his side in everything, you think he’s some kind of God, and his sister’s the only friend he’s got in the world.’ He shakes his head. ‘How pathetic is that?’
I stare at Kit, stare at the anger in his face, the colour in his cheeks, but most of all at the sadness in his eyes. It pains me to see him still hurting so much about Dad and I keep reminding myself he’s only thirteen. But I just can’t find a way to make himstep out of his own selfcentred circle, even for a second, and see the situationfromanyother viewpoint thanhis own.
Finally, in desperation, I say, ‘Kit, I understand why you resent Lochan’s position of authority, I really do. But it’s not his fault that Dad left and it’s not his fault that Mum’s the way she is. He’s just trying to look out for us because there’s no one else. I promise you, Kit, Lochan would much rather have remained your brother and friend. But just think – under the circumstances, what else could he possiblyhave done? What choice did he ever have?’

When the front door finally slams shut and the excited voices fade down the street, I heave a sigh of relief and glance at the kitchen clock. How many hours do we have until Tiffin and Willa start to bicker, Kit starts arguing about money and Mumdecides she has done more than enough to make up for her absence all week? Factoring in travel time, we can expect three hours – four if we’re lucky. I feel as if I should immediately start making the most of it, try out all those things that I’m forever planning to do but putting off because there is always something more pressing at hand . . . But suddenly it feels absurdly luxurious just to be sitting here in the silent kitchen, the dappled sunlight falling through the kitchen window and warming my face – not thinking, not moving, not worrying about homework or arguing with Kit or trying to control Tiffin or entertaining Willa. Just being. I feel I could stay here for ever in the sunny, empty afternoon, slung sideways on a wooden chair, my arms folded against the smooth curve of its back, watching the sunbeams dance through the leaves, the branches peering in through the window, creating swaying shadows on the tiled floor. The sound of silence fills the air like a beautiful smell: no raised voices, no slamming doors, no pounding feet, no deafening music or babbling cartoons. I close my eyes, warm sun caressing my face and neck, filling myeyelids witha bright pink haze, and rest myhead onmyfolded arms.

I must have fallen asleep, for time suddenly seems to have leaped forward and I find myself sitting up in a shaft of bright white light, wincing and massaging a crick in my neck and the stiffness in my arms. I stretchand stand up stiffly, movingover to the kettle and fillingit. Paddingout into the corridor with two steaming mugs and heading for the stairs, I hear the rustle of paper behind me and turn. Lochan has ensconced himself in the front room, lever arch files, textbooks and copious notes spread out over the coffee table and carpet around himas he sits on the floor against the edge of the couch, one legstretched out beneaththe table, the other drawnup to prop opena heftytome. He is lookinga lot better: much more relaxed in his favourite green T-shirt and faded jeans, barefoot, his hair still wet fromthe shower.

‘Thanks!’ Sliding the textbook off his lap, he takes the mug from me. He leans back against the couch, blowing on his coffee as I sit down on the carpet against the opposite wall, yawning and rubbingmyeyes.

‘I’ve never seen anyone sleep with their head hanging off the back of a wooden chair before – was the couch not comfortable enough for you?’ His face lights up with a rare smile. ‘So tell me – how the helldid youget rid ofthe whole lot ofthem?’

I tellhimabout myfairground suggestion, mylie about the babysitting.
‘And youmanaged to persuade Kit to accompanythemonthis little familyouting?’ ‘I told himthere were arcade games at the fair.’
‘Are there?’
‘No idea.’
We bothlaugh. But Lochan’s amusement is quick to fade. ‘Did Kit seem. . . ? Was he . . . ?’ ‘Absolutelyfine. Intrue antagonistic form.’
Lochannods but his eyes remaintroubled.
‘Honestly, Lochan. He’s fine. How’s the revisiongoing?’I ask quickly.
Shovingthe huge textbook awayfromhimindisgust, he emits a laboured sigh. ‘I don’t understand
this stuff. And if Mr Parris understood it, at least I wouldn’t have to be teaching myself from some librarybook.’
I groan inwardly. I was hoping we’d go out and do something this afternoon – take a long walk in the park or have a hot chocolate at Joe’s or even treat ourselves to the cinema – but Lochan’s mocks are only three months away, and trying to study over the Christmas break with the kids at home all day willbe a nightmare. I can’t say I’mparticularly bothered about myAS-levels – unlike Lochan I’m just sticking to the subjects I find easiest. My strange brother, on the other hand, has decided, for reasons best known to himself, to take on his two most challenging subjects, further maths and physics, as well as English and history, the two big essay ones. My sympathy is limited: just like our ex-father, he’s a naturalacademic.

Absent-mindedly sipping his coffee, he picks up his pen again and starts sketching some complex diagram on the nearest scrap of paper, labelling the various shapes and symbols with illegible code. Closing his eyes for a moment, he proceeds to pick up the scrap and compare it to the diagramin the book. Crumplingup the sheet, he tosses it across the roomindisgust and starts chewinghis lip.

‘Perhaps youneed a break,’I suggest, lookingup fromthe newspaper spread out at myside. ‘Why the hell can’t I get this to stick?’ He gazes at me imploringly, as if hoping I will magically conjure up the answer. I look at his pale face, the shadows beneath his eyes and think:Because you’re exhausted.
‘D’youwant me to test you?’
‘Yeah, cheers. Just give me a minute.’
As he returns to his textbook and his diagrams and scribbles, his eyes narrow inconcentrationand he continues to gnaw at his lip. I flick idly through the paper, my mind flitting briefly to the French homework buried at the bottom of my bag, before deciding it can wait. I reach the sports section without finding a single article ofinterest and, suddenly bored, stretch out on my stomach and pullone of Lochan’s files off the coffee table. Leafing through it, I glance enviously at the pages and pages of essays, invariablyaccompanied bynothingbut ticks and exclamations ofpraise. NothingbutAs andA stars – I wonder if next year I could get away with passing off some of Lochan’s work as my own. They’d think I’d morphed into a genius overnight. Arecent piece of creative writing makes me pause: anessay, writtenless thana week ago, its usuallist ofsuperlatives inthe margins. But it’s the teacher’s comment at the end that catches myattention:
An extremely evocative, powerful depiction of a young man’s inner turmoil, Lochan. This is a beautifully crafted story about suffering and the human psyche.
Beneath this panegyric, in large letters, the teacher has added:Please at least consider reading this out in class. It would really inspire the others and would be good practice for you ahead of your presentation.
My curiosity aroused, I leaf back through the pages and start reading Lochan’s essay. It’s about a young man, an undergraduate, returning to university in the summer break to find out whether he has got his degree. Joining the throngs that crowd the display boards, the guy discovers to his astonishment that he has received a first, the onlyone inhis department. But instead ofelation, he feels only a sense of emptiness, and as he moves away from the crowds of students hugging distressed friends or celebrating with others, nobody seems to notice him, no one even looks in his direction. He receives not one single word of congratulation. My first thought is that this is some kind of ghost story – that this guy, at some point between sitting finals and coming back to find out his results, has died in an accident or something – but an eventual greeting from one of his professors, who manages to mispronounce his name, proves me wrong. The guyis verymuchalive. Yet, as he turns his back onthe department and crosses the quad, he looks up at the tall buildings that surround him, trying to gauge whichone willguarantee hima fatalfall.
The story ends and I raise my head from the page, stunned and shaken, blown away by the strength of the prose and suddenly close to tears. I glance across at Lochan, who is drumming his fingers onthe carpet, eyes closed, chantingsome physics formula under his breath. I tryto imagine him writingthis tragicallypoignant piece, and fail. Who could think up sucha story? Who would be able to write about something like this so vividly unless they had experienced such pain, such desperation, suchalienationthemselves . . . ?
Lochan opens his eyes and looks right at me. ‘The force per unit length between long parallel straight current-carrying conductors: F equals mu to the power of zero, iota to the power of one, iota to the power oftwo over two pir . . . Oh, for chrissakes let it be right!’
‘Your storyis incredible.’
He blinks at me. ‘What?’
‘The Englishessayyouwrote last week.’I glance downat the pages inmyhand. ‘Tall Buildings.’
Lochan’s eyes sharpensuddenlyand I see himtense. ‘What are youdoing?’
‘I was flickingthroughyour Englishfile and I found this.’I hold it aloft.
‘Did youread it?’
‘Yes. It’s bloodygood.’
He looks away, appearing acutely uncomfortable. ‘It was just taken fromsomething I saw on TV. Could youtest me onthis now?’
‘Wait . . .’ I refuse to let himbrush this aside so easily. ‘Why did you write this? Who’s the story about?’
‘Nobody. It’s just a story, OK?’He sounds angrysuddenly, his eyes dartingawayfrommine.
The essaystillinmyhand, I don’t move, givinghima long, hard look.
‘Youthink it’s about me? It’s not about me.’His voice rises defensively.
‘OK, Lochan. OK.’I realize I have no choice but to back off.
He is chewing his lip hard, aware that I’mnot convinced. ‘Well, you know, sometimes you take a few things fromyour ownlife, change them, exaggerate parts,’he concedes, turningaway.
I take a deep breath. ‘Have youever—? Do yousometimes feellike this?’
I brace myselffor another angry reaction. But instead he just gazes blankly at the opposite wall. ‘I think – I think maybe everyone does . . . now and again.’
I realize this is the closest I’m going to get to an admission and his words make my throat ache. ‘But youknow – youdo know you’llnever ever find yourselfalone like the guy in your story, right?’I sayina rush.
‘Yeah, yeah, ofcourse.’He gives a quick shrug.
‘Because, Lochan, you’llalways have someone who loves you – just you – more than anybody in the world.’
We are silent for a moment and Lochan goes back to his formulae, but the colour is stillhigh in his cheeks and I can tell he’s not really taking anything in. I glance back down at the teacher’s scrawled message at the end.
‘So, hey– did youever read this out inclass?’I ask brightly.
He looks up at me witha laboured sigh. ‘Maya, youknow I’mcrap at stufflike that.’
‘But this is so good!’
He pulls a face. ‘Thanks, but evenifthat were true, it wouldn’t make anydifference.’
‘Oh, Lochie . . .’
Drawing up his knees, he leans back against the couch, turning his head to gaze out of the window. ‘I’ve got to give this damn presentation soon,’ he says quietly. ‘I don’t know – I really don’t know what the hellto do.’He seems to be askingme for help.
‘Did youask ifyoucould hand it inas a writtenassignment?’
‘Yes, but it’s that crazyAussie. I’mtellingyou, she’s got it infor me.’
‘From the comments and the grades she’s been giving you, it’s clear she thinks pretty highly of you,’I point out gently.
‘It’s not that. She wants – she wants to turn me into some kind of orator.’ He gives a strained laugh.
‘Maybe it’s time you allowed yourself to be converted,’ I suggest tentatively. ‘Just a little bit. Just enoughto give it a go.’
Along silence. ‘Maya, you know I can’t.’ He turns away suddenly, looking out of the window at two boys on bikes doing stunts in the street. ‘It – it feels like people are burning me with their stares. Like there’s no air left inmybody. I get the stupid shakes, myheart pounds, and the words just – they just disappear. My mind goes completely blank and I can’t even make out the writing on the page. I can’t speak loud enough for people to hear me, and I know that everyone’s just waiting – waiting for me to fall apart so they can laugh. They all know – they all know I can’t do it—’ He breaks off, the laughter gone fromhis eyes, his breathingshallow and rapid, as ifaware he has alreadysaid too much. His thumb rubs back and forth over the sore. ‘Jesus, I know it’s not normal. I know it’s something I’ve got to sort out. And – and I will, I’msure I will. I have to. How else can I ever get a job? I’llfind a way. I’mnot always goingto be like this . . .’He takes a deep breath, tuggingat his hair.
‘Of course you’re not,’ I reassure him quickly. ‘Once you’re free of Belmont, the whole stupid schoolsystem—’
‘But I’ll still have to find a way to get through uni – and work, after that . . .’ His voice quavers suddenlyand I see desperationinhis eyes.
‘Have you talked to this English teacher about it?’ I ask. ‘She doesn’t sound too bad, you know. Maybe she could help. Give you some tips. Better than that useless counsellor they forced on you – the one who made youdo breathingexercises and asked whether youwere breast-fed as a baby!’
He starts laughing before I do. ‘Oh God, I’d almost forgotten about her – she really was a nutcase!’He sobers suddenly. ‘But the thingis – the thingis, I can’t – I reallycan’t.’
‘You keep saying that,’ I point out gently. ‘But you massively underestimate yourself, Lochie. I know you could read something out in class. Maybe not start off with a whole presentation, but perhaps you could agree to read out one of your essays. Something shorter, a bit less personal. You know, it’s like with anything: once you take that first step, the next is a whole lot easier.’ I break off witha smile. ‘Youknow who first told me that?’
He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. ‘No clue. MartinLuther?’
‘You, Lochie. Whenyouwere tryingto teachme to swim.’
He smiles briefly at the memory, then exhales slowly. ‘OK. Maybe I could try . . .’ He shoots me a teasinggrin. ‘The wise Maya has spoken.’
‘Indeed!’ I suddenly jump to my feet, deciding that on our rare day off a bit of fun is called for. ‘And inreturnfor allthis wisdom, I want youto do somethingfor me!’
‘Uh-oh.’
I turn on the radio, tuning in to the first pop station I find. I turn to Lochan and hold out my arms. He groans, droppinghis head back against the cushions. ‘Oh, Maya, please be kidding!’
‘How amI supposed to practise without a partner?’I protest.
‘I thought you’d givenup salsa dancing!’
‘Only because they moved the lunchtime club to after school. Anyway, I’ve learned loads of new moves fromFrancie.’ I push the coffee table out of the way, pile up the papers and books, and reach downto grab his hand. ‘Onyour feet, partner!’
Witha dramatic show ofreluctance, he obeys, mutteringcrosslyabout his unfinished homework.
‘It’llrestore the bloodflow to your brain,’I tellhim.
Trying not to look embarrassed and failing, Lochan stands in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets. I raise the volume a couple of decibels, place one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. We begin with a few easy steps. Even though he constantly looks down at his feet, he isn’t a bad dancer. He has a good sense ofrhythmand picks up new moves more quickly than I do. I show himthe new steps Francie taught me. Once he’s got it, we’re on a roll. He treads on my toes a few times, but as we’re bothbarefoot it just makes us laugh. After a while I start to improvise. Lochan twirls me around and nearly sends me into the wall. Finding this highly amusing, he tries to do it again and again. The sun is on his face, the dust particles swirlabout himin the golden light of the afternoon. Relaxed and happy, he suddenly, for a briefmoment, seems at peace withthe world.
Soon we are breathless, sweaty and laughing. After a while the style of the music changes – a crooner with a slow beat, but it doesn’t matter because I am too dizzy from spinning round and laughingto continue. I hook myarms about Lochan’s neck and collapse against him. I notice the damp hair sticking to his neck and inhale the smelloffresh sweat. I expect himto pullaway and return to his physics now that our moment of silliness is over, but to my surprise he just puts his arms around me and we sway from side to side. Pressed up against him, I can feel the thud of his heart against mine, his ribcage expandingand contractingrapidlyagainst mychest, the warmwhisper ofhis breathtickling the side of my neck, the brush of his leg against my thigh. Resting my arms on his shoulders, I pull back a little to get a look at his face. But he isn’t smilinganymore.

CHAPTERNINE Lochan

The room is plunged in golden light. Maya is still smiling at me, her face bright with laughter, tawny wisps ofhair hanginginher eyes and down her back, tickling my hands clasped around her waist. Her face glows like an old-fashioned streetlamp, lit from the inside, and everything else in the room disappears as ifinto a dark fog. We are stilldancing, swaying slightly to the crooning voice, and Maya feels warmand alive in my arms. Just standing here, moving gently fromside to side, I realize I don’t want this moment to end.

I find myself marvelling at how pretty she is, standing here, leaning against me in her short-sleeved blue shirt, bare arms warm and smooth against my neck. Her top buttons are undone, revealing the curve of her collarbone, the expanse of smooth white skin beneath. Her white cotton skirt stops well above her knees and I’m aware of her bare legs brushing against the thin, worn fabric of my jeans. The sun highlights her auburn hair, catches in her blue eyes. I drink in every tiny detail, from her soft breaths to the touch of each finger on the back of my neck. And I find myself filled with a mixture of excitement and euphoria so strong that I don’t want the moment to ever end . . . And then, out of nowhere, I am aware of another sensation – a tingling surge across my whole body, a familiar pressure against my groin. Abruptly I let go of her, shove her away from me, and stride over to the radio to cut the music.

Heart slamming against my ribs, I withdraw to the couch, coiling into myself, groping for the nearest textbook to pull across my lap. Still standing where I left her, Maya looks at me, a bemused expressiononher face.

‘They’re going to be back any minute,’ I tell her by way of explanation, my voice rushed and ragged. ‘I’ve – I’ve got to finishthis.’
Seemingly unperturbed, she sighs, still smiling, and flops down onto the couch beside me. Her leg touches my thigh and I recoil violently. I need an excuse to leave the room but I can’t seem to think straight, my mind a mess of jumbled thoughts and emotions. I feel flushed and breathless, my heart hammering so loudly I’m afraid she will hear it. I need to get as far away from her as possible. Pressing the textbook against my thighs, I ask her if she could make me some more coffee and she obliges, pickingup the two used mugs and headingoffto the kitchen.
The moment I hear the rattle of crockery in the sink, I dash upstairs, trying to make as little noise as possible. I lock myself in the bathroom and lean against the door as if to reinforce it. I pull off all my clothes, almost tearing at themin my haste, and, carefulnot to look down at myself, step under an icy shower, heaving with shock. The water is so cold it hurts, but I don’t care: it’s a relief. I have to stop this . . . this – this madness. After just standing there for a while, eyes tightly closed, I start to go numb and my nerve endings deaden, erasing allsigns of my earlier arousal. It stills the racing thoughts, relieves the pressure of the madness that has begun crushing my mind. I lean forward against the wall, lettingthe frigid water lashmybody, untilallI cando is shiver violently.
I don’t want to think – so long as I don’t think or feel, I will be fine and everything will return to normal. Seated at my bedroom desk in a clean T-shirt and jogging bottoms, wet hair sending cold rivulets down the back of my neck, I pore over quadratic equations, grappling to keep the figures in my head, fighting to make sense of the numbers and symbols. I repeat the formulae under my breath, cover page after page with calculations, and every time I sense a crack in my self-imposed armour, a chink of light entering my brain, I force myself to work harder, faster, obliterating all other thoughts. I am dimly aware of the others returning, of their raised voices in the hall, of the clatter of plates from the kitchen beneath me. I concentrate on tuning it allout. When Willa comes in to say they’ve ordered pizza, I tellher I’mnot hungry:I must finishthis chapter bytonight, I must work mywaythroughevery exercise at top speed, I have no time to stop and think. AllI cando is work or I willgo crazy.
The sounds of the house wash over me like white noise, the evening routine for once unfolding without me. An argument, a door slamming, Mum shouting – I don’t care. They can sort themselves out, theyhave to sort themselves out, I must concentrate onthis untilit’s so late allI cando is collapse into bed, and then it will be morning and none of this will have happened. Everything will be back to normal – but what am I on about? Everythingis normal! I just forgot, for one insane moment, that Maya was mysister.

For the remainder of the weekend I keep myself closeted in my room, buried in schoolwork, and leave Maya in charge. In class on Monday I struggle to sit still, jittery and restless. My mind has become strangely diffuse – I am possessed by myriad different sensations at once. There is a light flashing in my brain, like the headlight of a train in the dark. A vice is slowly tightening around my head, grippingmytemples.

When Maya came into my roomyesterday to say goodnight, informing me she had left my dinner inthe fridge, I couldn’t eventurnround to look at her. This morningI shouted at Willa duringbreakfast and made her cry, dragged Tiffin out of the door, allegedly causing him grievous bodily harm, completely ignored Kit and snapped at Maya when she asked me for the third time what was wrong . . . I ama person coming undone. I amso disgusted with myself I want to crawl out of my own skin. My mind keeps pulling me back to that dance: Maya, her face, her touch, that feeling. I keep telling myself these things happen, I’msure they are not all that uncommon. After all, I’ma seventeen-yearold guy – anything can set us off; just because it happened while I was dancing with Maya doesn’t meana thing. But the words do little to reassure me. I’mdesperate to escape myselfbecause the truth of the matter is that the feeling is still there – perhaps it always has been – and now that I’ve acknowledged it, I am terrified that however much I may want to, I will never be able to turn things back.

No, that’s ridiculous. My problem is that I need someone to focus my attention on, some object of desire, some girl to fantasize about. I look around the class but there is no one. Attractive girls – yes. A girl that I care about – no. She can’t just be a face, a body; there has to be more than that, some kind ofconnection. And I can’t connect, don’t want to connect, withanyone.

I send Maya a text askingher to pick up Tiffinand Willa, thenskip last period, go home to change into my running gear and drag myself round the sodden periphery of the local park. After a glorious weekend, the day is grey, wet and miserable: bare trees, dying leaves and slippery mud underfoot. The air is tepid and damp, a fine veil of drizzle speckles my face. I run as far and as hard as I can, until the ground seems to shimmer beneath my feet, and the world around me expands and retracts, blood-red blotches puncturing the air in front of me. Eventually pain courses through my body, forcing me to stop, and I return home to another freezing shower and work until the others return and the eveningchores begin.

Over half-termI playfootie out inthe street withTiffin, attempt to strike up conversations withKit and play endless games of Hide-and-Seek and Guess Who? with Willa. At night, after my mind shuts down frominformation overload, I rearrange kitchen drawers and cupboards. I go through Tiffin and Willa’s bedroom, collecting outgrown clothes and discarded toys, and haul them off to the charity shop. I ameither entertaining or tidying or cooking or studying:I comb through revision notes late into the night, pore over my books until the small hours of the morning, until there is nothing else to do but collapse onmybed and fallinto a short, deep and dreamless sleep. Maya comments onmyboundless energy but I feel numb, utterly drained fromtrying to keep myself occupied at all times. Fromnow on I willjust do and not think.

Back at school, Maya is busy with coursework. If she notices a difference in my behaviour towards her, she doesn’t mention it. Perhaps she too feels uncomfortable about that afternoon. Perhaps she too realizes that there needs to be more distance between us. We negotiate each other with the caution of a bare foot avoiding shards of glass, confining our brief exchanges to practicalities: the school run, the weeklyshop, ways to persuade Kit to take over the laundry, the likelihood of Mum turning up sober on parents’ evening, weekend activities for Tiffin and Willa, dental appointments, figuring out how to stop the fridge leaking. We are never alone together. Mum is increasingly absent from family life, the pressure of balancing schoolwork and housework intensifies and I welcome the endless chores:they literally leave me with no time to think. Things are beginning to improve – I’m starting to return to a state of normality – until late one night there is a knock on my bedroomdoor.

The sound is like a bomb explodinginanopenfield.
‘What?’ I am horribly jumpy from an overdose of caffeine. My daily coffee consumption has reached new heights, the only way to keep up my energy levels through the days and late into the sleepless nights. There is no reply but I hear the door open and close behind me. I turn frommy desk, biro stillpressed against the indentations in my fingers, my borrowed schoollaptop anchored amidst a sea of scribbled notes. She is in that nightdress again – the white one that she has long outgrown and that barely reaches her thighs. How I wish she wouldn’t walk around in that thing; how I wish her copper hair wasn’t so long and shiny; how I wish she didn’t have those eyes, that she wouldn’t just wander in uninvited. How I wish the sight of her didn’t fill me with such unease, twisting my insides, tensingeverymuscle inmybody, settingmypulse thrumming.
‘Hi,’she says. The sound ofher voice pains me. With that single word she manages to exude both tenderness and concern. With just one word she conveys so much, her voice calling to me from outside a nightmare. I tryto swallow, mythroat dry, a bitter taste trapped inmymouth. ‘Hi.’
‘AmI disturbingyou?’
I want to tellher she is. I want to ask her to leave. I want her presence, her delicate, soapy smell, to evaporate from this room. But when I fail to reply, she sits down on the end of my bed, inches awayfromme, one bare foot tucked beneathher, leaningforward.
‘Maths?’she asks, glancingdownat mysheaves ofpaper.
‘Yeah.’I returnmygaze to the textbook, penpoised.
‘Hey—’ She reaches out for me, making me flinch. Her hand misses mine as I jerk away, and comes to rest, loose and empty, against the desk’s surface. I train my eyes back on my computer screen, the blood hurting my cheeks, heart paining my chest. I amstill aware of her hair, falling like a curtainaround her face, and there is nothingbetweenus but torturous silence.
‘Tellme,’she says simply, her words piercingthe fragile membrane that surrounds me.
I feelmy breathing quicken. She can’t do this to me. I lift my eyes to stare out of the window, but allI see is myownreflection, this smallroom, Maya’s soft innocence bymyside.
‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ Her voice continues to puncture the silence like an unwanted dream.
I pushmychair awayfromher and rub myhead. ‘I’mjust tired.’Myvoice grates against the back ofmythroat. I sound alien, evento myownears.
‘I’ve noticed,’ Maya continues. ‘Which is why I’mwondering why you carry on running yourself into the ground.’
‘I’ve got a lot ofwork to do.’
Silence tightens the air. I sense she is not going to be brushed off so easily. ‘What happened, Lochie? Was it somethingat school? The presentation?’
I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you, of all people. Throughout my life you were the one person I could turn to. The one person I could always count on to understand. And now that I’ve lost you, I’ve lost everything.
‘Are youjust generallyfeelingdownabout things?’
I bite down on my lip until I recognize the metallic taste of blood. Maya notices and her questions stop, leavingintheir place a muddysilence.
‘Lochie, saysomething. You’re frighteningme. I can’t bear seeingyoulike this.’She reaches again for myhand and this time makes contact.
‘Stop it! Just go to bed and leave me the fuck alone!’ The words fire frommy mouth like bullets, ricocheting off the walls before I can even register what I amsaying. I see Maya’s expression change, her face freeze in a look of incredulous surprise, her eyes wide with incomprehension. No sooner have my words slammed into her than she is moving away, flicking her head to hide the tears pooling inher eyes, the door clickingshut behind her.

CHAPTERTEN Maya
‘Oh my God, oh my God, you’llnever guess what happened this morning!’Francie’s eyes are burning withexcitement, the corners ofher cherry-red lips drawnup into a grin.
I drop my bag on the floor and collapse on the seat beside her, my head still echoing with Tiffin’s yells as he had to be dragged to school this morning after a furious row with Kit over a plastic Transformer at the bottomofa cerealpacket. I close myeyes.

‘Nico DiMarco was talkingto Matt and—’
I force myeyes opento cut her off. ‘I thought youwere goingona date withDanielSpencer.’ ‘Maya, I may have decided to give Danny a chance while I wait for your brother to come to his

senses, but this has nothing to do with that. Nico was talking to Matt this morning, and guess what he said . . . guess!’ Her voice spikes with excitement and Mr McIntyre stops screeching his pen against the whiteboard for a moment to turn and give us a long-suffering sigh. ‘Girls, if you could at least pretend to payattention.’

Francie flashes himher toothysmile and thenturns back round inher seat to face me. ‘Guess!’ ‘I have no idea. His ego got so bigit exploded and now he needs surgery?’
‘Nooo!’ Francie clatters her non-regulation school shoes against the lino in a tap-dance of
excitement. ‘I overheard him telling Matt Delaney he was going to ask you out after school today!’
She opens her mouthso wide I canactuallymake out her tonsils.
I gaze at her numbly.
‘Well?’ Francie shakes me brutally by the arm. ‘Isn’t this huge? Everyone’s been after him since

he broke up withAnorexic Annie, and he’s gone and picked you! And you’re the only girl in the class who doesn’t wear make-up!’
‘I’mso flattered.’
Francie throws back her head dramatically and groans. ‘Aargh! What the hell’s the matter with you these days? At the beginning of term you were telling me he was the only guy at Belmont you’d ever consider snogging!’
I heave a sigh. ‘Yeah, yeah. So he’s hot. But he knows it.
I might fancyhimjust like everyone else, but I never said I wanted to go out withthe guy.’
Francie shakes her head in disbelief. ‘D’you know how many girls would kill for a date with Nico? I think I’d evenput Lochanonhold for a chance to snogMister Latino.’
‘OhGod, Francie. Thenyou go out withhim.’
‘I went over to find out if he was serious and he asked me if I thought you’d be interested! So of course I said yes!’
‘Francie! Tellhimto forget it. Tellhimat morningbreak.’
‘Why?’
‘I’mnot interested!’
‘Maya, d’yourealize what you’re doinghere? I mean, he maynot give youa second chance!’

I drag myself through the rest of the day. Francie isn’t talking to me because I accused her of being a meddling cow when she refused to go back and tell Nico I wasn’t interested. But I honestly don’t care if she never speaks to me again. A cold slab of despair presses down on my chest, making it difficult to catch my breath. My eyes ache with suppressed tears. By mid-afternoon even Francie is worried, breaking her vow of silence and offering to accompany me to see the nurse. What could the school nurse offer me? I wonder. A pill to make the loneliness disappear? A tablet that would get Lochan to speak to me again? Or perhaps a capsule to turn back time, rewinding the days so I could break away from Lochan when we’d finished dancing the salsa, instead of remaining in his arms, swaying to the gentle crooning of Katie Melua. Is he angry with me because he thinks I planned it somehow? That the salsa was just a ruse to get him to slow-dance with me, our bodies pressed up against each other, the heat of his soaking into mine? I didn’t mean to stroke the back of his neck – it just happened. My thigh rubbing against the inside of his was just an accident. I never meant any of it to happen. I had no idea that something like slow-dancing could get a guy aroused. But when I felt it, pressingagainst myhip, whenI suddenly realized what it was, I felt this crazy head-rush. I didn’t want to stop dancing. I didn’t pullaway.

I can’t bear to think I might have lost our closeness, our friendship, our trust. He was always so much more than just a brother. He is my soul mate, my fresh air, the reason I look forward to getting up every morning. I always knew I loved him more than anyone else in the world – and not just in a brotherly way, the way I feel about Kit and Tiffin. Yet somehow it never crossed my mind there could be a whole step beyond . . .

But I know it’s ridiculous, too stupid to even think about. We’re not like that. We’re not sick. We’re just a brother and sister who also happen to be best friends. That’s the way it’s always been betweenus. I can’t lose that or I will not survive.

By the end of the day Francie is pestering me about Nico DiMarco again. She seems to think I’m depressed and that having a boyfriend – especially one of the hottest guys in school – will help snap me out of my funk. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps I need a distraction. And what better way to show Lochanthat what happened the other daywas just anaccident, a bit offun? If I have a boyfriend then he’ll realize that none of that stuff meant anything. And Nico is very cute. His hair is the same colour as Lochan’s. His eyes are kind of greenish too. Although Francie is way off beam when she claims they are in the same league. No way. Lochan is ferociously bright, emotionally intelligent, the kindest, most selfless person I know. Lochan has a soul. Nico might be the same age but he is just a boy in comparison – a spoiled little rich boy, expelled from his posh private school for smoking weed, a pretty face with an arrogant swagger, a charmas carefully crafted as his clothes and hairstyle. But yes, I suppose the idea ofdatinghim, kissinghimeven, isn’t totallyrepellent.

After the last bell, as we are crossingthe playground towards the gates, I see himheadingtowards us. He’s been waiting, that much is clear. Francie gives a half-strangled squawk and elbows me in the ribs so hard I am momentarily winded, before swerving away. Nico is coming straight for me. As if drawn towards each other by an invisible cord, we walk and walk. He has removed his tie even thoughit’s enoughto earnhima detentionthis side ofthe schoolexit.

‘Maya, hi!’ His smile broadens. He’s very smooth, very confident: he’s been doing this for years. He stops close to me, too close, and I have to take a step back. ‘How’re you doing? I haven’t had a chance to speak to youfor ages!’

He is actinglike a long-lost friend, despite the fact that we have barelyexchanged more thana few words until now. I force myself to meet his gaze and smile. I was wrong: his eyes are nothing like Lochan’s – the green is muddied with brown. His hair is brown too. I don’t know why I ever saw any similarities.
‘Are youina hurry,’he asks, ‘or d’youhave time for a drink at Smileys?’
Jesus, he doesn’t waste any time. ‘I have to pick up my little brother and sister,’ I answer truthfully.
‘Listen, I’m gonna be straight with you.’ He places his school bag between his feet as if to indicate that this has turned into a proper conversation, and tosses the hair out of his eyes. ‘You’re a great girl, you know. I’ve always had – you know – a kind of thing for you. I didn’t think it was reciprocated so I haven’t said anythinguntilnow. But hell, youknow, carpe diem and allthat.’
Does he think he’s goingto impress me withhis command ofLatin?
‘I’ve always considered you a good friend, but you know what? I think it could be even stronger than that, you know. All I’m saying is – perhaps we could get to know each other a little better, you know?’
Ifhe says you know one more time, I swear I’mgoingto scream.
‘I’d be reallyhonoured ifyou’d let me take youout to dinner one night. Is there even the remotest possibility I could get you to agree to that?’He flashes his teeth at me again in what could almost pass for a wistfulsmile. Oh, he’s good at this allright.
I pretend to consider it for a moment. His smile doesn’t falter. I’mimpressed. ‘OK, I suppose . . . ’
His smile broadens. ‘That’s great. Reallygreat. How would Fridaysuit you?’
‘Friday’s fine.’
‘Cool. What kind offood do youlike? Japanese, Thai, Mexican, Lebanese?’
‘Pizza’s good for me.’
His eyes light up. ‘I know this great restaurant – serves the best Italian food round here. I’ll drive byto pick youup at, say, seven?’
I am about to protest that it would be easier to meet him there when it dawns on me that having himcome to the house might be no bad thing.
‘Allright. Seveno’clock onFriday.’I smile again. Mycheeks are beginningto ache.
He cocks his head and raises his eyebrows. ‘You’llhave to give me your address!’
He produces a pen while I rummage through my pockets and find a crumpled receipt. I write down my address and number and hand it back to him. As I do so, he holds onto my fingers for a moment and flashes another ofhis high-wattage smiles. ‘I look forward to it.’
I’mbeginning to think this might be quite fun, even if it’s just to laugh about himthe next day with Francie. I manage a genuine smile this time and say, ‘Yeah, me too.’
Francie leaps out frombehind the phone box at the end of the street. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, tellme everything!’
I wince and bring my hand up to my ear. ‘Aargh, Jesus – try and give me a heart attack, why don’t you?’
‘You’re blushing! OhmyGod, yousaid yes, didn’t you?’
I briefly recount the conversation. Francie grabs me by the shoulders, shakes me brutally and starts to shriek. Awomanlooks round inalarm.
‘Calmdown,’I laugh. ‘Francie, he’s a complete twat!’
‘So? Tellme youdon’t fancyhim!’
‘OK, maybe I find himslightly attractive—’
‘I knew it! You were complaining just the other week you’d never kissed a guy! As of Friday, you’llbe able to cross that offyour list.’
‘Maybe . . . Listen, I’ve got to run. I’mlate for Tiffinand Willa.’
Francie grins at me as I begin to move off. ‘You’re gonna tellme everything, Maya Whitely. Every little detail. Youowe me that much!’

I have to confess that the prospect of a date with Nico does make me feel fractionally better. Fractionally less abnormal, at least, and that’s quite something. That evening, as I sit at the kitchen table helping Tiffin and Willa with their homework, my mind keeps flicking back to the flirtatious exchange, the wayhe smiled at me. It’s not a lot – not nearlyenoughto fillthe gapingvoid inside me – but it’s something. It’s always nice beingfancied. It’s always nice being wanted. Even if it’s by the wrongperson.

I’d let it slip to Tiffin and Willa. I was ten minutes late picking themup, and when Tiffin demanded to know why, in my stupidity, still a little dazed, I told him that I was talking to a boy from school. I thought this would be the end of it, but I’d forgotten Tiffin is almost nine. ‘Maya’s got a boyfriend, a boyfriend, a boyfriend!’he sangallthe wayhome.
Willa looked worried. ‘Does that meanyou’re goingto go awayand get married?’
‘No, of course not,’ I laughed, trying to reassure her. ‘It just means I’ve got a friend who’s a boy and maybe I’llgo and see himonce ina while.’
‘Like Mumand Dave?’
‘No! Nothing like Mumand Dave. I’llprobably only ever go out with himonce or twice. And ifI do go out with himmore than that, it’llstillbe hardly ever. And ofcourse it willonly be when Lochie’s at home to look after you.’
‘Maya’s got a boyfriend!’ Tiffin announces as Kit slams through the door and executes a whirlwind tour ofthe kitchen, huntingfor snacks.
‘Great. I hope the two ofyouwillhave lots ofbabies and be veryhappytogether.’
Bydinner time Tiffinhas other things onhis mind – namelythe footballgame his friends are playing loudly and unhelpfully right outside the house while he is stuck inside, simultaneously being force-fed runner beans and grilled on his times tables by Lochan. Willa is studying ‘materials’ at school and wants to know what everything is made of: the plates, the cutlery, the water jug. Kit, bored, is in one of his most dangerous moods, trying to wind everyone up so that he can sit in the eye of the storm and laughat the chaos he has created allaround him.
‘Four sevens?’ Lochan picks up Tiffin’s fork and spears two runner beans before handing it back to him. Tiffinlooks downat it and grimaces.
‘Come on. Four sevens. You’ve got to be quicker thanthat.’
‘I’mthinking!’
‘Do it like I told you. Go throughit inyour head. One seven’s seven, two sevens are—?’
‘Thirty-three,’Kit chips in.
‘Thirty-three?’Tiffinechoes optimistically.
‘Tiff, you’ve got to think for yourself.’
‘Why did you put two beans on my fork? It’ll make me choke! I hate runner beans!’ Tiffin exclaims angrily.
‘What are runner beans made of?’Willa asks.
‘Snake poo,’Kit informs her.
Willa drops her fork and looks downat her plate inhorror.
‘One seven’s seven,’Lochancontinues doggedly. ‘Two sevens are . . . ?’
‘Lochie, I don’t like runner beans too!’Willa protests.
For the first time inmylife I don’t feelthe slightest bit inclined to help out. Lochanhas said exactly five words to me since cominghome two hours ago:Have they done their homework?
‘Tiffin, youmust know what two sevens are! Just add themtogether for chrissakes!’
‘I can’t eat allthis, you’ve givenme too much!’
‘Hey’ – Kit cocks his head – ‘did you hear those shouts, Tiff? Sounds like Jamie just scored another goal.’
‘That’s my footballthey’re playingwith!’
‘Kit, just leave himalone, willyou?’Lochansnaps.
‘I’ve finished.’ Willa pushes her plate as far away as possible, knocking over Kit’s glass in the process.
‘Willa, watchwhat you’re doing!’Kit yells.
‘How come she gets to leave allher beans?’Tiffinbegins to shout.
‘Willa, just eat your beans! Tiffin, if you don’t know what four sevens are, you’re going to fail your test tomorrow!’Lochanis losinghis cool. It gives me a perverse sort ofpleasure.
‘Maya, do I have to eat mybeans?’Willa turns to me plaintively.
‘Ask Lochan, he’s the cook.’
‘I think you’re being a bit free and loose with the word cook there,’ Kit remarks, chuckling to himself.
‘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 ofsatisfaction.
‘Willa, for fuck sake, cleanup this mess – you’ve got water allover the table!’Kit protests.
‘I can’t!’
‘Stop beinga babyand get the sponge!’
‘Lochie, Kit said the F word.’
‘I’mnot eatinganymore!’Tiffinroars. ‘And I’mnot doingno more tables, neither!’
‘Do youwant to failyour maths test?’Lochanshouts back.
‘I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!’
‘Lochie, Kit said the F word!’Willa wails, angrynow.
‘Fuck-a-doodle-do,’Kit sings.
‘Will you all just shut up! What the hell’s the matter with you!’ Lochan slams his fist down on the table.
Tiffin, seizing on this distraction, leaps up, grabs his football gloves and races out of the house. Willa 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.’
Witha groan, Lochanputs his head inhis hands.
Suddenly I feelawful. I don’t know what I was trying to prove. That Lochan needs me, perhaps? Or was I just tryingto get myownback for the silent treatment? Either way, I feellousy. It would have cost me nothing to chip in and diffuse the situation. I do it all the time, without even having to think about it. I could have prevented Lochan’s stress levels going through the roof, stopped himfeeling like a failure as yet another family meal ended in mayhem. But I didn’t. And the worst thing is, I actually enjoyed watchingeverythingfallapart.
Looking exhausted, Lochan rubs his eyes with a wry smile. Glancing at all the leftover food, he tries to make a joke ofit. ‘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 all 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 himbite 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 pullaway.
‘Ouch, your poor lip,’I saygently. ‘You’re goingto make it worse.’
‘Sorry.’He stops chewingand presses the back ofhis hand self-consciouslyagainst his mouth.
‘Yeah, God, that thing has become really 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 schoolwere askingme ifit was some kind ofdisease.’
‘Kit, that’s rubbish—’I begin.
‘What? I’mjust 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 inthe sink. Lochanleans one shoulder against the wall, waitingfor the kettle to boil, staringout 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 still has the bit betweenhis teeth.
‘So you’ve finally managed to nailyourselfa boyfriend,’Kit remarks scathingly as I join himat the sink. ‘Who the hellis it?’
I feel my insides clench. Instinctively my gaze flies over to Lochan, who drops his hand from his mouth, his head joltingback insurprise.
‘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. Lochanis staringat 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 tellme it’s one ofyour teachers!’His eyes light up indelight.
‘Stop beingridiculous. It’s a guyinthe year above called Nico. Youdon’t evenknow him.’
‘Nico DiMarco?’But ofcourse Lochandoes. 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 all 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. Tellyouwhat, I’llgive youmylast condom—’
‘OK, Kit, that’s enough!’ I shout, slamming a plate down on the counter. ‘Go and bring Tiffin inside and thendo your homework!’I’mthe one losingit now.
‘Fine! Excuse me for breathing!’ Kit throws the washing-up brush into the sink with a splash and stalks out ofthe room.
Lochanhasn’t moved fromhis positionbythe window, scrapingat the sore withhis 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 ofgot a rep . . .’
I keep my head down, scrubbing the plates hard. ‘Yeah, well, it’s only a date. We’ll 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 youlike him?’
I feelthe heat rush to my face and suddenly I amangry again. How dare Lochan give me the third degree whenI 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 guyinschool. I’ve fancied himfor ages. I can’t wait to go out withhim.’

CHAPTERELEVEN Lochan

It’s fine. In fact it’s great! Maya has finally found someone she likes, and what’s more he likes her back, and they are actually 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 fromthis madhouse, fromthis family, fromme. She seems happy, she seems excited. Nico mightn’t be the guy I’d have chosen for her, but he’s all right. He’s had a couple of proper girlfriends, doesn’t seem to be looking for just one thing. It’s normal to feelanxious but I’mnot goingto lose sleep over it. Maya is nearlyseventeenafter all, Nico onlya year older. Maya willbe fine. She is a verysensible person, responsible beyond her years; she’llbe careful, and maybe it will work out. He won’t hurt her – not intentionally at least. No, I’msure he won’t hurt her, he wouldn’t. She is such a lovely person, she is so precious – he’ll see that: he must. He’ll know he cannever break her heart, never harmher. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. So fine, I’mgoingto 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’llfallapart. I’mgoingto fallapart. I am fallingapart.

The first rays ofdawn begin to touch the edge ofthe 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 chilled 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 wall, slowly widening like a spreading stain. What is the point of it all? I wonder – this endless cycle. I haven’t slept all night and my muscles ache from remaining immobile so long. I’m cold but I can’t find the energy to move or evenpullthe duvet up around me. Now and thenmyhead, as thoughsuccumbingto 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 swelling despair presses outward from the centre of my chest, threatening to shatter my ribs. I fill my lungs with the cold air and then drain them, running my hands gently back and forth over the rough cotton sheets as ifanchoring myselfto 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 ifI ambreaking up inside, allaround me things remain the same, solid and real, bringingme the hope that perhaps one dayI too willfeelrealagain.

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, Willa’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 socially 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 will arrive and Maya will go. And from that moment, part of her life, part of herself, willbe severed fromme 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 Willa 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 bell without falling apart. And finally pick up Willa and Tiffin, keep them entertained for the evening, remind Kit of his curfew without prompting a row – and all the time, all the while, try to purge every thought of Maya from my mind. And the hands of the kitchen clock will continue moving forwards, reaching midnight before startingallover again, as thoughthe daythat just ended never began.

I was once so strong. I used to be able to get through all the small things, all the details, the treadmillroutine, dayafter 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 really 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 – fromthe outside world . . . Now allI have is myself, my responsibilities, my duties, my never-ending list of things to do . . . and my loneliness, always my loneliness – that airless bubble ofdespair that is slowlystiflingme.

Maya leaves for schoolahead ofme, dragging Kit with her. She seems annoyed with me for some reason. Willa 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 call himback, despite the busy junction in front ofthe school. It is a monumental effort not to snap at Willa – to tell 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 falling 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 oflife’s harshest lessons:that the world isn’t fair . . . Halfway up the schoolsteps, 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 small hand, she waves. I wave back, myarms fanningthe sky.

Entering the school building, I amhit by a wall of artificial heat – radiators turned up too high. But it isn’t until I walk into the English roomand come face-to-face with Miss Azley that I remember. She smiles at me, a thinlydisguised attempt at encouragement. ‘Are yougoingto be needingthe projector? ’

I freeze at her desk, a horrible, clutching, sinking feeling in my chest, and say in a rush, ‘Actually – actually 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. ‘Well, you’ve certainly got a lot ofmaterialhere, so I suppose youcould just read it out.’

I look at her, a cold hand of horror wrapping itself around my throat. ‘Well, the thing is—’ I can barelyspeak. Myvoice is suddenlyno more thana whisper.
She gives a puzzled frown. ‘The thingis?’
‘It’s – it’s not reallygoingto make muchsense ifI 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’ll 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 summonme 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 illness and the artistic temperament. Normallythis is a subject I’d find fascinating, but todaythe words just washover 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 football. Perhaps he is in the sick bay right now with food poisoning. Perhaps he suddenly found some other girl to pull. Any girl other than my sister. He had the whole school to choose from. WhyMaya? Whythe one personwho matters the most to me inthe 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 mywayback throughthe fray.
‘Lochan, I think we need to have a little chat.’
Christ, no. Not this, not today. ‘Um– I’msorry. I – I actuallyhave maths,’I sayina rush.
‘This won’t take long. I’ll 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 metallic thud that sounds like a prison gate.
She comes back towards me and takes the chair bymyside, turningto me witha reassuringsmile. ‘There’s no need to look so worried. I’msure bynow youknow mybark is worse thanmybite!’
I force myself to look at her, hoping she will 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’mbiting 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 well.’ She gives me another smile.
With all the will in the world, I cannot return it. The pally small-talk is throwing me off-balance. Something in her eyes tells me she isn’t about to give me a lecture on the importance of class participation, teamwork and all the usual shit. Her look is not one of admonishment, but of genuine concern.
‘Youknow whyI’ve kept youback, don’t you?’
I reply with a quick nod, my teeth automatically scraping my lip again. Look, this isn’t a good day, I want to tell 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 speakingout infront ofyour peers that frightens youso much, Lochan?’
She has caught me off guard. I don’t like the way she used the word frightens. I don’t like the wayshe seems to know so muchabout 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 radiatingfrommyface.
‘Hey, it’s all 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 fromtime to time – not just for the sake ofyour academic future but also your personalone.’
I wishI could just get up and walk out.
‘Is it just a problemat schoolor is it allthe time?’
Why the hell 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 allthe 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 seekinga place to hide.
‘It’s nothingto be ashamed of, Lochan. It’s just perhaps somethingworthtacklingnow.’
Face thrumming, I start chewingmylip again, the sharp paina welcome relief.
‘Like any phobia, social anxiety is something that can be overcome. I was thinking maybe we could devise anactionplantogether to set youontrack for next year at university.’
I canhear the sound ofmybreathing, sharp and rapid. I replywitha barelyperceptible nod.
‘We’d take it very slowly. One small step at a time. Perhaps you could aim to put your hand up and answer just one questioneachlesson. That would be a good start, don’t youthink? Once youcan comfortablyvolunteer one answer, you’llfind it mucheasier to answer two, and thenthree – and, well, you get the idea.’ She laughs and I sense she is trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Then, before you know it, you’llbe answeringeveryquestionand no one else willhave a chance inhell!’
I try to return her smile but it doesn’t work. Take one small 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 will realize what a loser I’ve become, start feelingthe same waytowards me as Kit and mymother 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 writtenexams. So you’llsailthroughyourA-levels:there’s nothingto worryabout there.’
I give a tense nod.
‘Are things difficult at home?’
I look at her then, unable to disguise myshock.
‘I have two childrento look after,’she says witha little smile. ‘I gather youhave four?’
Myheart stutters and almost stops. I stare at her. Who the hellhas she beentalkingto?
‘N-no! I’mseventeen. I do have two brothers and – and two sisters, but we live with our mother, and she—’
‘I know that, Lochan. It’s all right.’ It isn’t until she cuts me off that I realize I’m not speaking in particularlymeasured tones.
For God’s sake, try to keep it cool! I beg myself. Don’t go and react as if you’ve got something to hide!
‘What I meant was, you have younger siblings to help take care of,’ Miss Azley continues. ‘That can’t be easy, ontop ofallyour schoolwork.’
‘But I don’t – I don’t take care of them. They’re – they’re just a bunch of annoying brats. They certainlydrive mymother round the bend . . .’Mylaughsounds painfullyartificial.
Another strained silence stretches out between us. I glance desperately at the door. Why is she talking to me about this? Who has she been speaking to? What other information do they have in that damn file? Are they thinking of contacting Social Services? Did St Luke’s get in touch with Belmont whenthe kids went missing?
‘I’m not trying to meddle, Lochan,’ she says suddenly. ‘I just want to make sure you know that you don’t have to carry the burden alone. Your socialanxiety, the responsibilities at home . . . it’s a lot to have to dealwithat your age.’
Out of nowhere a pain rises through my chest and into my throat. I find myself biting down on my lip to stop it trembling.
I see her face change and she leans towards me. ‘Hey, hey, listen to me. There is lots of help available. There’s the schoolcounsellor or anyone ofyour teachers youcantalk to – or outside help I can recommend if you don’t want to involve the school. Youdon’t have to carry all this on your own—’
The paininmythroat intensifies. I’mgoingto lose it. ‘I – I reallyhave to go. I’msorry—’
‘Allright, that’s allright. But, Lochan, I’malways here if you want to talk, OK? You can make an appointment with the counsellor at any time. And if there’s any way I can make things easier in class . . . We’ll forget the presentations for the moment. I’ll just mark it as a written assignment as you suggested. And I’ll leave answering questions up to you and stop pushing you to participate. I know it’s not much, but would that help at all?’
I don’t understand. Whycan’t she just be like the other teachers? Whydoes she have to care?
I nod wordlessly.
‘Oh, love, the last thing I wanted was to make you feelworse! It’s just that I think really highly of youand I’mworried. I wanted youto know there’s help available . . .’
It’s only when I hear the defeat in her voice, see the look of shock on her face, that I realize my eyes have filled withtears.
‘Thank you. C-canI go now?’
‘Ofcourse youcan, Lochan. But would youjust think about it – think about talkingto someone?’
I nod, unable to utter another word, grab mybagand runfromthe room.
‘No, stupid. You’re only supposed to lay four places.’ Tiffin yanks one of the plates off the table and returns it to the cupboard witha loud clatter.
‘Why? Is Kit going to Burger King again?’ Willa nibbles the end of her thumb nervously, her large eyes dartingaround the kitchenas iflookingfor signs oftrouble.
‘Tonight Maya’s goingonher date, stupid!’
I turn fromthe cooker. ‘Stop calling her stupid. She’s younger than you, that’s all. And how come she’s done her job and youhaven’t evenstarted yours?’
‘I don’t want Maya to go out on a date,’ Willa protests. ‘If Maya goes out and Kit goes out and Mumgoes out, that means there’s onlythree ofus left inthis family!’
‘Actuallyit means there’s two left ’cos I’mgoingfor a sleepover at Jamie’s,’Tiffininforms her.
‘Oh no, you’re not,’ I intervene quickly. ‘That wasn’t discussed, Jamie’s mother never rang, and I’ve alreadytold youto stop invitingyourselfover to other people’s houses – it’s veryrude.’
‘Fine then!’ Tiffin shouts. ‘I’ll tell her to phone you! She invited me herself, so you’ll see!’ He stalks out ofthe kitchenjust as I beginto dishup.
‘Tiff, get back inhere or no Gameboyfor a week!’

He arrives at ten past seven. Maya has been on edge ever since she got in. For the last hour she has been upstairs, vying with Mumfor the bathroom. I even heard the two of themlaughing together. Kit jumps up, banging his knee on the table leg in his haste to be the first to greet him. I let him go and quicklyclose the kitchendoor behind him. I don’t want to see the guy.

Fortunately Maya doesn’t invite himin. I hear her feet pounding down the stairs, voices raised in greeting, followed by:‘I’llbe withyouina minute.’
Kit returns, lookingimpressed and exclaimingloudly, ‘Whoa, that guy’s loaded. Have youseenhis designer gear?’
Maya rushes in. ‘Thank you for doing this.’ She comes straight over to me and squeezes my hand inthat annoyingwayshe has. ‘I’lltake themout alldaytomorrow, I promise.’
I pullaway. ‘Don’t be silly. Just have a good time.’
She’s wearing something I’ve never seen before. In fact she looks totally different: burgundy lipstick, her long russet hair pinned up, a few stray wisps delicately framing her face. Small silver pendants hangfromher ears. Her dress is short, black and figure-hugging, sexyina sophisticated kind ofway. She smells ofsomethingpeachy.
‘Kiss!’Willa cries, flingingup her arms.
I watch her hug Willa, kiss the top of Tiffin’s head, give Kit a punch on the shoulder and smile againat me. ‘Wishme luck!’
I manage to returnthe smile and give a smallnod.
‘Good luck!’ Tiffin and Willa shout at the tops of their voices. Maya cringes and laughs as she hurries out into the corridor.
There are slamming doors and then the sound of an engine starting. I turn to Kit. ‘He came by car?’
‘Yeah, I told you, he’s loaded! It wasn’t exactly a Lamborghini, but Jeez, he’s got his own wheels at seventeen?’
‘Eighteen,’I correct him. ‘I hope he doesn’t intend to drink.’
‘Youshould have seenhim,’Kit says. ‘That guy’s got class.’
‘Maya looked like a princess!’ Willa exclaims, her blue eyes wide. ‘She looked like a grown-up too.’
‘OK, who wants more potatoes?’I ask.
‘Maybe she’ll marry him and then she’ll be rich,’ Tiffin chips in. ‘If Maya’s rich and I’m her brother, does that meanI get to be richas well?’
‘No, it means she dumps you as a brother ’cos you’re an embarrassment – you don’t even know your times tables,’Kit replies.
Tiffin’s mouthfalls openand his eyes fill.
I turnto Kit. ‘You’re not evenfunny, d’yourealize that?’
‘Never claimed I was a comedian, just a realist,’Kit retorts.
Tiffin sniffs and wipes the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘Don’t care what you say, Maya would never do that, and anyway, I’mher brother untilI die.’
‘At whichpoint you’llgo to helland never see anyone again,’Kit shoots back.
‘If there’s a hell, Kit, believe me, you’ll be in it.’ I can feel myself losing my cool. ‘Now would youjust shut up and finishyour mealwithout tormentinganyone else?’
Kit tosses his knife and fork onto his half-finished plate with a clatter. ‘To hell with this. I’mgoing out.’
‘Teno’clock and no later!’I shout after him.
‘Inyour dreams, mate,’he calls back fromhalfwayup the stairs.
Our mother is next to come in, reeking of perfume and struggling to light a cigarette without smudging her freshly painted nails. The complete antithesis to Maya, she is all glitter and crimson lips, her ill-fitting red dress leaving little to the imagination. Soon she disappears again, already unsteady on her highheels, screechingup at Kit for havingnicked her last packet offags.
I spend the rest ofthe evening watching TV with Tiffin and Willa, simply too exhausted and fed up to attempt anything more productive. When they start to bicker, I get themready for bed. Willa cries because I get shampoo in her eyes, and Tiffin forgets to hang the shower curtain inside the bath and floods the floor. Teeth-brushing seems to take hours: the kiddie toothpaste tube is almost empty so I use mine instead, whichmakes Tiffin’s eyes water and Willa gaginto the basin. ThenWilla takes fifteen minutes to choose a story, Tiffin sneaks downstairs to play on his Gameboy and, when I object, gets unreasonably upset and claims Maya always lets him play while she reads to Willa. Once they are in bed, Willa is immediately hungry, Tiffin is thirsty by association, and by the time the clamouring finally stops it is halfpast nine and I amshattered.
But once they are asleep, the house feels eerily empty. I know I should go to bed myself and try to get an early night but I feel increasingly agitated and on edge. I tell myself I have to stay up to check that Kit comes home at some point, but deep down I know that it’s only an excuse. I’m watching some stupid action movie but I’ve no idea what it’s about or who is supposed to be chasing who. I can’t even focus on the special effects – all I can think of is DiMarco. It’s past ten now: they must have finished dinner, they must have left the restaurant. His father is often away on business – or so Nico claims, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. Which means he has his mansion to himself. . . Has he taken her back there? Or are they in some dodgy car park, his hands and lips allover her? I beginto feelsick. Maybe it’s because I haven’t eatenallevening. I want to wait up and see for myself what kind of state she’s in when she gets home. If she decides to come home. It suddenly strikes me that most sixteen-year-olds would have some kind of curfew. But I’monly thirteen months her senior, so amhardly in a position to impose one. I keep telling myselfthat Maya has always been so sensible, so responsible, so mature, but now I remember the flushed look on her face when she came into the kitchen to say goodbye, the sparkle in her smile, the fizz of excitement in her eyes. She is still only a teenager, I realize; she is not yet an adult, however much she may be forced to behave like one. She has a mother who thinks nothing of having sex on the floor of the front room while her children lie sleeping overhead, who brags to them about her teenage conquests, who goes out on the piss every week and staggers in at six in the morning with smudged make-up and torn clothes. What kind ofrole modelhas Maya ever had? For the first time in her life she is free. AmI so sure she won’t be tempted to make the most ofit?
It’s stupid to think like that. Maya is old enough to make her own choices. Plenty of girls her age sleep with their boyfriends. Ifshe doesn’t this time, she willthe next, or the time after, or the time after that. One wayor another it’s going to happen. One way or another I’mgoing to have to deal with it. Except I can’t. I can’t deal with it at all. The very idea makes me want to pound my head against the walland smashthings. The idea ofDiMarco, or anyone, holdingher, touchingher, kissingher . . .
A deafening bang, a blinding crack, pain shooting up my arm before I realize I’ve punched the wall with all my might: pieces of paint and plaster are flaking away from the imprint of my knuckles above the couch. Bent over double, I clutch my right hand with my left, clenching my teeth to stop myself frommaking a sound. For a moment everything darkens and I think I’mgoing to pass out, but then the pain hits me repeatedly in shocking, terrifying waves. I actually don’t know what hurts more, my hand or my head. The thing I have feared and railed against these past few weeks – the total loss of control over my mind – has set in, and I have no way to fight it any more. I close my eyes and feel the coilofmadness climb up my spine and creep into my brain. I watch it explode like the sun. So this is it, this is what it feels like after a longhard struggle – to lose the battle and finallygo crazy.

CHAPTERTWELVE Maya

He’s lovely. I don’t know why I ever thought he was some arrogant tosser. Just goes to show how flawed one’s perception of others can be. He’s considerate, he’s courteous, he’s polite; he actually seems genuinely interested in me. He tells me I look beautiful and then gives me a bashful smile. Once we are seated in the restaurant, he translates every single itemon the menu for me and doesn’t laugh or even look surprised when I tell him I’ve never tried artichokes before. He asks me lots of questions, but when I explain that my family situation is complicated, he appears to take the hint and backs off. He agrees that Belmont is a shithole and admits he can’t wait to get out. He asks about Lochan and says he wishes he could get to know him better. He confides that his father is more interested in his business than in his only son and buys himridiculous presents like a car to assuage his guilt for being abroad half the year. Yes, he is rich and he is spoiled, yet he is as neglected as we are. Acompletelydifferent set ofcircumstances; the same sad outcome.

We talk for a long time. As he drives me home, I find myself wondering if he is going to kiss me. At one point, as we bothreachout to turndownthe radio, our hands touchand his lingers onmine for a moment. It feels strange, his fingers unfamiliar.

‘Shall I walk you to your door or would that be . . . awkward?’ He looks at me hesitantly and smiles when I do. I envision small faces peering from upstairs windows and agree that it’s probably best if I get out alone. Fortunately, in the darkness, he has overshot the front door by two houses so no one fromhome cansee us.

‘Thank youfor dinner. I had a reallygood time,’I say, surprised to find myselfmeaningit. He smiles. ‘Me too. D’youthink maybe we could do it againsometime?’
‘Yeah, whynot?’
His smile broadens. He leans towards me. ‘Goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight.’I hesitate, myfingers onthe door handle.
‘Goodnight,’ he says again with a smile, but this time he cups my chin in his hand. His face

approaches mine and suddenly the realization hits me. I like Nico. I actually think he’s a pretty decent person. He’s good-looking and I’mattracted to him. But I don’t want to kiss him. Not now. Not ever . . . I turnmyhead awayjust as his face meets mine and his kiss lands onmycheek instead.

As I draw back, he looks surprised. ‘OK, well, tillnext time.’
I take a deep breath, groping for my bag at my feet, grateful for the darkness that hides the blush spreading across my face. ‘I really like you as a friend, Nico,’ I say in a rush. ‘But, I’msorry, I don’t think I cango out withyouagain.’
‘Oh.’He sounds surprised and a little hurt now. ‘Well, look, just think about it, OK?’
‘OK. See you Monday.’ I get out of the car and slamthe door behind me. I wave, and he is still wearingthat look ofperplexed amusement as he drives off, as ifhe thinks I amplayinggames.
I lean against a thick tree-trunk, staring up through the drizzle at a moonless sky. I have never felt so embarrassed inallmylife. Whydid I spend the whole eveningleadinghimon?Actingfascinated by his stories, confiding in him? Why did I agree to see himagain ten seconds before telling himwe could only be friends? Why did I turn down a guy who, as well as being hot, actually turned out to be nice? Because you’re crazy, Maya. Because you are crazy and stupid and you want to spend the rest of your life as a social outcast. Because you so wanted this to work, you so desperately wanted this to work, you actually kidded yourself into believing things were going really well. Until you realized that the idea of kissing Nico, or any guy you could think of, was not what you wanted at all.
What does this mean, then – I’m afraid? Scared of physical intimacy? No. I crave it, I dream about it. But for me there’s no one. No one. Anyguy, evenimaginary, would just feellike second best. Second best to what? I don’t even have an image of the perfect boyfriend. I just know he must exist. Because I have allthese feelings – oflove, longing, wanting to be touched, dreaming ofbeing kissed – yet no one to focus themon. It makes me want to screamin frustration. It makes me feel like a freak. But worse than that, I feel so desperately disappointed. Because all evening I believed Nico was the one. And then, whenhe tried to kiss me inthe car, I realized withtotal, earth-shatteringcertaintythat it would never feelright.
I trail back up to the house. This stupid dress is so short and skimpy, I’m beginning to freeze. I feel so empty, so let down. Yet I have only let myself down. Why couldn’t I have acted normal for a change? Why couldn’t I have forced myself to kiss him? Maybe it wouldn’t have been so terrible. Maybe I could have borne it . . . The lights in the front roomare stillon. I check my watch:quarter to eleven. Oh please, not another argument between Kit and Lochan. I unlock the door and it sticks. I kick it with the stupid high heels I doubt I’ll ever wear again. The house, like a giant tomb, makes no sound. I slide off my shoes and pad in stockinged feet down the hallway to switch off the light in the front room. AllI want to do is go to bed and forget about this whole lousy, self-deluded evening.
Afigure seated on the edge of the couch makes me jump. Lochan is hunched over, his head in his hands.
‘I’mback.’
Not evena flicker ofacknowledgement.
‘Is Kit stillout?’I ask withtrepidation, fearinganother scene.
‘He came inabout twentyminutes ago.’Lochandoesn’t evenlook up. Charming.
‘I had a great evening, by the way.’ My tone is caustic. But if he’s feeling sorry for himself just because he had to put the children to bed on his own for once, I refuse to give himthe satisfaction of knowingthat myeveningwas crap too.
‘You only went out for dinner?’Abruptly he lifts his head and favours me with a penetrating gaze. Self-conscious under his sudden scrutiny, I become aware that my hair is coming down, stray strands hangingover myface, damp fromstandingout inthe drizzle.
‘Yes,’I answer slowly. ‘Why?’
‘Youwent out at seven. It’s nearlyeleven.’
I can’t believe this is Lochan talking. ‘You’re telling me I have to be home by a certain time?’ My voice rises inoutrage.
‘Of course not,’ he snaps irritably. ‘I’mjust surprised. Four hours is a hell of a long time to spend over dinner.’
I close the front-room door behind me as I feel my blood pressure begin to rise. ‘It wasn’t four hours. Bythe time we’d drivenhalfwayacross town, found a place to park, waited for a table . . . We just talked – a lot. Turns out he’s a prettyinterestingguy. He doesn’t exactlyhave it easy, either.’
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Lochan leaps up, strides over to the window, then swings back wildly. ‘I don’t give a damn about how poor little rich boy didn’t get the exact car he wanted for his eighteenth – I’ve heard all about that at Belmont. What I’m having trouble understandingis whythe hellyoupretend to have just beenout for dinner whenyou’ve beengone four hours!’
This can’t be happening. Lochan has gone mad. He’s never spoken to me like this in his life. I’ve never seenhimso furious withme before.
‘Are you saying I have to account for my every move?’ I challenge him, my eyes widening in disbelief. ‘You’re actually asking me for a blow-by-blow account of what happened throughout the whole evening?’Myvoice continues to rise.
‘No! I just don’t want to be lied to!’Lochanstarts to shout.
‘What I do or don’t do ona date is none ofyour damnbusiness!’I yellinreturn.
‘But whydoes it have to be secret? Can’t youjust be honest?’
‘I am beinghonest! We went out for dinner, we talked, he drove me home. End ofstory!’
‘Do youreallythink I’mthat gullible?’
This is the last straw. A row with Lochan after a week of being ignored: the perfect end to an evening of bitter disappointment that, had I allowed it, could have been so great. All I wanted to do whenI came inwas crawlinto bed and tryto put this wasted opportunityout ofmymind. And instead I find myselfsubjected to this.
I start backingawaytowards the door, raisingmyhands insurrender. ‘Lochan, I don’t know what the hell your problem is but you’re being an absolute bastard. What’s happening to you? I come in expectingyouto ask me ifI had a nice time, and instead yougive me the third degree and thenaccuse me of lying! Even if somethinghad happened on this date, what on earth makes you think I’d want to tellyou?’I turnfor the door.
‘So youdid sleep withhim,’he says flatly. ‘Like mother, like daughter.’
His words slice the air between us. My hand freezes around the cold metal knob. Slowly, painfully, I turn. ‘What?’The word escapes fromme ina smallpuffofair, barelymore thana whisper.
Time seems to be suspended. He is standing there in his green T-shirt and faded jeans, squeezing the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other, his back to the giant slice of night. And I find myself facing a stranger. His face has a curious raw look, as if he’s been crying, but the fire in his eyes scorches my face. How foolish I was to kid myself I knew himso well. He is my brother and yet, for the veryfirst time, appears before me as a stranger.
‘I can’t believe you said that.’ My voice, a quiver of disbelief, emanates from a being I barely recognize; one that is crushed, hurt beyond repair. ‘I always thought of you as the one person’ – a steadyingbreath– ‘the one personwho would never, ever hurt me.’
He looks stricken, his face mirroring the pain and disbelief I feel inside. ‘Maya, I’m not feeling well – that was unforgiveable. I don’t know what I’m saying any more.’ His voice is shaking, as appalled as my own. Pressing his hands to his face, he swings away from me, pacing the room, gaspingfor breath, his eyes filled witha wild, almost manic look.
‘I just need to know – please understand – I have to know, otherwise I’m going to lose my mind!’He shuts his eyes tight and inhales raggedly.
‘Nothinghappened!’I shout, myanger abruptlyreplaced byfear. ‘Nothinghappened. Whywon’t you believe me?’ I grab him by the shoulders. ‘Nothing happened, Lochie! Nothing happened – nothing, nothing, nothing!’ I am practically screaming but I don’t care. I don’t understand what is happeningto him. What is happeningto me.
‘But he kissed you.’ His voice is hollow, devoid of all emotion. Pulling away from me, he crouches down on his heels. ‘He kissed you, Maya, he kissed you.’ His eyes are half closed, his face expressionless now, as ifhe is so depleted he no longer has the strengthto react.
‘He didn’t kiss me!’ I yell, grabbing his arms and trying to shake him back to life. ‘He tried to, OK, but I didn’t let him! D’you know why? D’you want to know why? D’you really, really want to know why?’ Still gripping him with both hands, I lean forward, gasping, as tears, hot and heavy, fall down my cheeks. ‘This is why . . .’ Crying, I kiss Lochan’s cheek. ‘This is why . . .’ With a muffled sob, I kiss the corner ofLochan’s lips. ‘This is why. . . !’Closingmyeyes, I kiss Lochan’s mouth.
I’m falling, but I know I’m OK, because it’s with him, it’s with Lochie. My hands are on his burning cheeks, my hands are in his damp hair, my hands are against his warmneck. He is kissing me back now, with strange little sounds that suggest he might be crying too, kissing me so hard that he is shuddering, gripping the tops of my arms tight and pulling me towards him. I taste his lips, his tongue, the sharp edges of his front teeth, the soft warmth inside his mouth. I slide up astride his lap, wanting to get even closer, wanting to disappear into him, blend my body with his. We come up briefly for air and I catchsight ofhis face. His eyes brimwithunfallentears. He emits a ragged sound; we kiss some more, soft and tender, thenfierce and hard again, his hands graspingat the straps ofmydress, twisting them, clenching the materialin his fists as iffighting back pain. And I know how he feels – it’s so good it hurts. I think I’mgoing to die fromhappiness. I think I’mgoing to die frompain. Time has stopped; time is racing. Lochie’s lips are rough yet smooth, hard yet gentle. His fingers are strong:I feelthemin myhair and onmyneck and downmyarms and against myback. And I never want himto let me go.
Asound explodes like a thunderclap above us; our bodies jolt in unison and suddenly we are not kissing any more, although I cling to the collar of his T-shirt, his arms strong and tight around me. There is the sound ofthe toilet flushing, then the familiar creak of Kit’s ladder. Neither of us seems able to move, even though the ensuing silence makes it clear Kit has gone back to bed. My head against Lochan’s chest, I hear the magnified sounds of his heart – very loud, very fast, very strong. I canhear his breathingtoo:sharp jagged spikes piercingthe frozenair.
He is the first to break the silence. ‘Maya, what the hell are we doing?’ Although his voice is barely more than a whisper, he sounds close to tears. ‘I don’t understand: why – why the hell is this happeningto us?’
I close my eyes and press against him, stroking his bare armwith my fingertips. ‘All I know right now is that I love you,’ I say in quiet desperation, the words spilling out of their own accord. ‘I love youfar more thanjust as a brother. I . . . I love youin– ineverykind ofway.’
‘I feellike that too . . .’His voice is shocked and raw. ‘It’s – it’s a feeling so big I sometimes think it’s going to swallow me. It’s so strong I feel it could kill me. It keeps growing and I can’t – I don’t know what to do to stop it. But – but we’re not supposed to do this – to love each other like this!’ His voice cracks.
‘I know that, OK? I’mnot stupid!’I’mangrysuddenlybecause I don’t want to hear it. I close my eyes because I just can’t think about that now. I can’t let myself think about what it means. I won’t think about what it’s called. I refuse to let labels fromthe outside world spoil the happiest day of my life. The day I kissed the boy I had always held in my dreams but never allowed myself to see. The day I finally ceased lying to myself, ceased pretending it was just one kind of love I felt for himwhen in reality it was every kind of love possible. The day we finally broke free of our restraints and gave wayto the feelings we had so longdenied just because we happened to be brother and sister.
‘We’ve – oh God – we’ve done a terrible thing.’Lochan’s voice is shaking, hoarse and breathless withhorror. ‘I – I’ve done a terrible thingto you!’
I wipe my cheeks and turn my head to look up at him. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong! How canlove like this be called terrible whenwe’re not hurtinganyone?’
He gazes downat me, his eyes glistening in the weak light. ‘I don’t know,’he whispers. ‘How can somethingso wrongfeelso right?’

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN Lochan

I tellMaya that she needs to sleep but I know I can’t – I’mtoo afraid to go upstairs and sit onmybed and go crazy in that tiny room, alone with my terrifying thoughts. She says she wants to stay with me: she’s frightened that if she goes away, I’ll disappear. She doesn’t need to explain – I feel it too: the fear that ifwe part now, this incredible night willjust vanish, evaporate like a dream, and we willwake inthe morningback inour separate bodies, back inour ordinarylives. Yet here onthe couch, myarms around her as she sits curled up against me, head resting against my chest, I stillfeelfrightened – more frightened than I’ve ever been before. What just happened was unbelievable yet somehow completely natural, as if deep down I always knew this moment would come, even though I never once allowed myself to consciously think about it, to imagine it in any way. Now that it has arrived, I can only think ofMaya, sittingright here against me, her breathwarmagainst mybare arm.

It’s as if there is a great wall preventing me from crossing to the other side, fromcasting my mind out into the external world, the world beyond the two of us. Nature’s security valve is at work, preventing me from even contemplating the implications of what just happened, keeping me, for the moment at least, safe fromthe horror ofwhat I have done. It’s as ifmy mind knows it cannot go there yet, knows that right now I’m not strong enough to deal with the outcome of these overwhelming feelings, these momentous actions. But the fear remains – the fear that in the cold light of day we will be forced to come to terms with what was, quite simply, an awful mistake; the fear that we will have no choice but to bury this night as ifit never took place, a shamefulsecret to be filed away for the rest of our lives until, brittle with age, it crumbles to dust – a faint, distant memory, like the powder of a moth’s wings on a windowpane, the spectre of something that perhaps never occurred, existing solely inour imagination.

I cannot bear the thought of this being just one moment in time, over almost before it started, alreadyretreatinginto the past. I must hold onto it withallmymight. I cannot allow Maya to slip away because, for the first time in my life, my love for her feels whole, and everything that has led up to this point suddenly makes sense, as if all this was meant to be. But as I gaze down at her sleepy face, the freckled cheekbones, the white skin, the dark curl of her eyelashes, I feel an overwhelming ache, like acute homesickness – a longing for something I can never have. Sensing my eyes on her, she looks up and smiles, but it is a sad smile, as ifshe too knows how precarious our new love is, how dangerously threatened by the outside world. The ache inside me deepens, and all I can think of is what it felt like to kiss her, how briefthat moment was and how desperatelyI want to live it once more.

She keeps on looking at me with that little wistful smile, as if waiting, as if she knows. And the blood is hot in my face, my heart racing, my breath quickening, and she notices that too. Raising her head frommychest, she asks, ‘Do youwant to kiss me again?’

I nod, mute, heart poundinganew.
She looks at me expectantly, hopefully. ‘Go on, then.’
I close my eyes, my breathing laboured, my chest filling with a mounting sense of despair. ‘I don’t

– I don’t think I can.’
‘Whynot?’
‘Because I’mworried . . . Maya, what ifwe can’t stop?’
‘We don’t have to . . .’
I breathe deeply and turn away, the air around me thrumming with heat. ‘Don’t even think like
that!’
Her expression sobers and she brushes her fingers up and down the inside of my arm, her eyes heavy with sadness. Yet her touch fills me with longing. I never thought that the mere touch of a hand could stir so much.

‘Allright, Lochie, we’llstop.’
‘You have to stop. Promise me.’
‘I promise.’She touches my cheek, turning me back towards her. I take her face in my hands and

start to kiss her, gently at first; and as I do so, all the pain and worry and loneliness and fear start to evaporate until all I can think of is the taste of her lips, the warmth of her tongue, the smell of her skin, her touch, her caresses. And then I’mstruggling to keep calmand her hands are pressing against the sides of my face, her breath hot and rapid against my cheek, her mouth warmand wet. My hands want to touch her all over, but I can’t, I can’t, and we’re kissing so hard it hurts – it hurts that I can’t do more, it hurts that however hard I kiss her I can’t . . . I can’t—
‘Lochie . . .’
I don’t care about the promise. I don’t remember why I even suggested it. I don’t care about anything– anythingexcept for—
‘Easy, Lochie—’
I press mylips back downover her mouth, holdingher tight to stop her frommovingaway.
‘Lochie, stop.’ This time she pulls away and pushes me back, holding me at arm’s length, her fingers grippingmyshoulders. Her lips are red – she looks flushed and wild and exquisite.
I’mbreathingtoo fast. Muchtoo fast.
‘Youmade me promise.’She looks upset.
‘I know, all right!’ Jumping up, I start pacing the room. I wish there was an icy pool of water for me to dive into.
‘Are youOK?’
No, I’mnot. I’ve never felt like this before and it scares me. My body seems to have taken over. I’m so aroused I can hardly think. I’ve got to calm down. I’ve got to stay in control. I can’t let this happen. I runmyhands throughmyhair repeatedlyand the air escapes frommylungs ina rush.
‘I’msorry. I should have said it sooner.’
‘No!’I spinround. ‘It’s not your fault, for God’s sake!’
‘Allright, allright! Whyare youangry?’
‘I’mnot! I’mjust—’I stop and lean my forehead against the wall, fighting the urge to head-butt it. ‘Oh, Jesus, what are we goingto do?’
‘Nobodywould have to find out,’she says softly, chewingthe tip ofher thumb.
‘No!’I shout.
Storming into the kitchen, I rummage furiously through the freezer for ice cubes for a cold drink. Hot acid shoots through my veins and my heart is hammering so hard I can hear it. It’s not just the physical frustration, it’s the impossibility of our situation, the horror of what we’ve got ourselves into, the despair ofknowingthat I willnever be able to love Maya the wayI want to.
‘Lochie, for goodness’ sake, calmdown.’ Her hand touches my armas I wrestle with the freezer drawer.
I knock it away. ‘Don’t!’
She takes a step back.
‘D’you know what we’re doing here? Have you anyidea at all? D’you know what they callthis?’ I slamthe freezer shut and move round to the other side ofthe table.
‘What’s got into you?’she breathes. ‘Whyare yousuddenlyturningonme?’
I stop abruptly and stare at her. ‘We can’t do this,’ I blurt out, aghast with the sudden realization. ‘We can’t. If we start, how will we ever stop? How on earth will we be able to keep this a secret from everyone for the rest of our lives? We’ll have no life – we’ll be trapped, living in hiding, always havingto pretend—’
She stares back at me, her blue eyes wide with shock. ‘The kids . . .’ she says softly, a new realizationsuddenlydawning. ‘The kids – ifevenone personfound out, they’d be takenaway!’
‘Yes.’
‘So we can’t do this? We really can’t?’ It’s phrased as a question, but I can see by the stricken look onher face that she alreadyknows the answer.
Shaking my head slowly, I swallow hard and turn to look out of the kitchen window to hide the tears inmyeyes. The skyis onfire and the night has ended.

CHAPTERFOURTEEN Maya

I’m tired. So terribly tired. It crushes down on me like an invisible force, obliterating all rational thought, all other feeling. I’mtired of dragging myself through each day, wearing my mask, pretending everything is OK. Trying to take in what others are saying, trying to concentrate in class, trying to appear normal in front of Kit, Tiffin and Willa. I’m tired of spending every minute of every hour of every day fighting back tears, swallowing repeatedly to try and ease the constant ache at the back of my throat. Even at night, as I lie there hugging my pillow, staring out through the open curtains, I don’t allow myself to give in – because if I did I would fall apart, I would fragment into a thousand pieces like shattered glass. People constantly ask me what’s the matter and it makes me want to scream. Francie thinks it’s because Nico dumped me and I let her – it’s easier than coming up with another lie. Nico tries to talk to me a couple of times during break but I make it clear that I’m in no mood for conversation. He looks hurt, but I’mbeyond caring. If it weren’t for you . . . I find myselfthinking. If it weren’t for that date . . .

But how can I blame Nico for making me realize I was in love with my brother? The feeling had been there for years, rising closer and closer to the surface with every passing day; only a matter of time before it broke through our fragile web of denial, forcing us to confront the truth and acknowledge who we are: two people in love – a love that nobody else could possibly understand. Do I really regret that night? That one moment of joy beyond compare – some people never experience it in a lifetime. But the downside to that taste of pure happiness is that, like a drug, a glimmer of paradise, it leaves you craving more. And after that moment, nothing can ever be the same again. Everythinggreys incomparison. The world becomes bland and vacuous, there seems little point to anything any more. Going to school – for what? To pass exams, to get good marks, to go to university, to meet new people, to find a job, to move away? How will I be able to live a life apart from Lochan? Will I just see him a few times a year, like Mum and Uncle Ryan? They grew up together, theywere once close too. But thenhe got married and moved to Glasgow. So what do Mum and Uncle Ryan have in common now? Separated by so much more than distance and lifestyle, even their memories ofa shared childhood have faded fromtheir minds. Is that what willhappen to Lochan and me? And even ifwe both stay here in London, when he finds a girlfriend, when I find a boyfriend, how will we bear it? How will we be able to watch each other leading separate lives, knowing what could have been?

I try to shock myself out of the pain by thinking about the alternative. Having a physical relationship with one’s brother? Nobody does that, it’s disgusting, it would be like having Kit as my boyfriend. I shudder. I love Kit, but the idea of kissing him is beyond revolting. It would be horrendous, it would be repulsive – even the thought of him snogging that skinny American girl he’s always hangingaround withis bad enough. I don’t want to know what he gets up to with his so-called girlfriend. When he’s older, I hope he meets someone kind, I hope he falls in love, gets married, but I would never, ever want to even think about the intimate details, the physical side of things. That’s his business. Why, then– why is it so different withLochan? But the answer is so simple:because Lochan has never felt like a brother. Neither an annoying younger one nor a bossy older one. He and I have always been equals. We’ve been best friends since we were toddlers. We’ve shared a bond closer than friendship allour lives. Together we’ve brought up Kit, Tiffin and Willa. We’ve cried together and comforted each other. We’ve each seen the other at their most vulnerable. We’ve shared a burden inexplicable to the outside world. We’ve been there for each other – as friends, as partners. We’ve always loved eachother, and now we want to be able to love eachother ina physicalwayas well.

I want to explain all this to him, but I know I can’t. I know that whatever the reasons for our feelings, however much I try to justify them, it doesn’t change anything: Lochan cannot be my boyfriend. Out of the millions and millions of people that inhabit this planet, he is one of the tiny few I can never have. And this is something I must accept – even if, like acid on metal, it is slowly corroding me inside.

The term grinds on, grey, bleak, relentless. At home, the daily routine continues to follow its course, over and over. Autumngives wayto winter, the days growingnoticeablyshorter. Lochanbehaves as if that night never happened. We both do. What alternative do we have? We speak together about mundane things, but our gazes rarely meet, and when they do, it is only a moment or two before they shrink nervously away. But I wonder what he is thinking. I suspect that, seeing it as something so wrong, he has pushed it right out of his head. And anyway, he has enough on his mind. His English teacher is stillon a one-woman mission to get himto speak in front of the class and I know he dreads her lessons. Mum’s behaviour is increasingly erratic – she spends more and more time at Dave’s and rarely comes home sober. Now and then she goes out on a shopping spree and returns with guiltinduced presents for everyone: flimsy toys that will get broken within days, more computer games to keep Kit glued to his screen, sweets that will send Tiffin hyper. I watch it all as if from a very great distance, incapable of engaging with anything anymore. Lochan, white-faced and tense, tries to keep some kind of order in the house but I sense he too is close to breaking point and I amunable to help him.

Sitting across from him at the kitchen table, watching him help Willa with her homework, I’m overcome with this terrible ache, this profound sense of loss. Stirring my long-cold tea, I watch all his familiar traits: the way he blows the hair out of his eyes every few minutes, chews on his lower lip whenever he feels tense. I look at his hands, with their bitten-down nails, resting on the tabletop, his lips, which once touched mine, now chapped and raw. The pain I feel when looking at him is more than I can bear but I force myself to keep watching, to soak in as much of him as I can, trying to recapture, inmymind at least, allthat I’ve lost.

‘The boy went into the c – a – v – e.’ Willa sounds the letters out. Kneeling up on the kitchen chair, she points at each letter in turn, her fine golden hair curtaining her face, the ends brushing the page ofher book witha faint whisperysound.
‘What word does that make?’Lochanprompts her.
Willa studies the picture. ‘Rock?’ she says optimistically, glancing up at Lochan, her blue eyes wide and hopeful.
‘No. Look at the word: c – a – v – e. Put the sounds together and say themquickly. What word does it make?’
‘Kav?’ She is restless and inattentive, desperate to go and play but pleased, nonetheless, by the attention.
‘Nearly, but there’s ane at the end. What do we callthat e?’
‘Acapital e?’
Lochan’s tongue darts out, rubbing his lip in impatience. ‘Look, this is a capitale.’ He flicks throughthe book insearchofone, fails, and writes one himselfona piece ofused kitchenroll.
‘Eugh. Tiffinblew his nose onthat.’
‘Willa, are youlooking? That’s a capitale.’
‘Asnottycapital e.’Willa begins to laugh; she catches myeye and I feelmyselfsmile too.
‘Willa, this is very important. It’s an easy word – I know you can read it ifyou try. This is a magic e. What does a magic e do?’
She frowns hard and leans over the book again, curling her tongue above her lip in concentration, her hair partially obscuring the page. ‘It makes the vowel say its name!’ she shouts out suddenly, punchingthe air triumphantlywithher smallfist.
‘Good. So whichone’s the vowel?’
‘Hm. . .’She returns to the page withthe same frown, the same curled tongue. ‘Hm. . .’she says again, stallingfor time. ‘The a?’
‘Good girl. So the magic e turns the a sound into an—’
‘Ay.’
‘Yes. So tryand sound out the word again.’
‘C – ay– v. Cave! The boywent into the cave! Look, Lochie, I read it!’
‘Clever girl! See, I knew you could do it!’ He smiles, but there is something else in his eyes. A sadness that never fades.
Willa finishes reading her book and goes to join Tiffin in front of the TV. I pretend to sip my tea, watching Lochan over the rim of the mug. Too tired to move, he sits back, limp, bits of paper and scattered books and school letters and Willa’s book bag spread out in front of him. A long silence stretches out betweenus, as taut as a rubber band.
‘Are youOK?’I ask himeventually.
He gives a wry smile and appears to hesitate, gazing down at the littered table. ‘Not really,’ he replies at length, avoidingmygaze. ‘You?’
‘No.’Withthe rimofmymugI press mylip downagainst myteethinanattempt to stop the tears. ‘I miss you,’I whisper.
‘I miss you too.’ He is still staring down at the cover of Willa’s reading book. His eyes seem to catchthe light. ‘Maybe—’His voice comes out unsteadyso he tries again. ‘M-maybe youshould give DiMarco another chance. Rumour has it he’s – he’s prettycrazyabout you!’Aforced laugh.
I stare at him in stunned silence. I feel like I’ve been dealt a blow to the head. ‘Is that what you want?’I ask withcarefullycontrolled calm.
‘No – no. That’s not what I want at all. But maybe it would . . . help?’He glances up at me witha look ofpure desperation.
I continue pressing my teeth into my lip until I’m sure I’m not going to start crying, swirling his outrageous propositionaround inmyhead. ‘Help me or help you?’
His bottomlip quivers for a moment and he immediatelybites downonit, apparentlyunaware that he is making a concertina out of the cover of Willa’s reading book. ‘I don’t know. Maybe both of us,’he says ina rush.
‘Thenyoushould go out withFrancie,’I shoot back.
‘OK.’He doesn’t look up.
I am momentarily speechless. ‘You – but – I thought you didn’t fancy her?’ The horror in my voice resonates across the room.
‘I don’t, but we’ve got to do something. We’ve got to go out with other people. It’s – it’s the onlyway—’
‘The onlywayto what?’
‘To – to get over this. To survive.’
I slam my mug down on the table, sloshing tea over my hand and shirt cuff. ‘You think I’m just goingto get over this?’I shout, the blood poundinginmyface.
Ducking his head and flinching as if I am about to deal him a blow, he raises a hand to ward me off. ‘Don’t – I can’t – please don’t make it worse.’
‘How could I?’I gasp. ‘How could I possiblydo anything to make this worse?’
‘All I know is that we have to do something. I can’t go on – I can’t go on like this!’ He inhales raggedlyand turns away.
‘I know.’I lower myvoice, forcingmyselfback into some semblance ofcalm. ‘Neither canI.’
‘What else canwe do?’His eyes plead withmine.
‘Fine.’ I shut down my thoughts, shut down my senses. ‘I’ll tell Francie tomorrow. She’ll be over the moon. But she’s a decent person, Lochan. Youcan’t just dump her after a week.’
‘I won’t.’ He looks at me, his eyes full. ‘I’ll stay with her for as long as she likes. I’ll marry her, if that’s what she wants. I mean, at the end of the day, what the hell does it matter who I end up with if it can’t be you?’

Everything feels different today. The house is chilled and alien. Kit, Tiffin and Willa seem like impersonators of their real selves. I can’t even look at Lochan, the embodiment of my loss. The streets on the way to school seem to have changed overnight. I could be in some foreign town, in some far-flung country. The pedestrians around me don’t feel quite alive. I don’t feel alive. I’m not sure who I amany more. The girlwho existed before that night, before the kiss, has been erased from life. I am no longer who I was; I still don’t know who I will become. The nervous honks of cars jar me, as do the sounds of feet on the pavement, buses going by, shops opening their shutters, the highpitched chatter ofchildrenmakingtheir wayto school.

The building is bigger than I remember:a stark, colourless concrete landscape. Pupils hurrying this way and that look like extras on a film set. I must move inorder to fit into all this activity, just as an electron must obey the current. I take the stairs very slowly, one at a time, as people shove and push past me. When I reach my formroom, I see things I have never noticed before:the fingerprints on the walls, the speckled lino, cracked like a delicate eggshell, disappearing rhythmically beneath my feet. Far off, voices try to bump up against me, but I repel them. The sounds bounce off me without registering: the scraping of chairs, the laughs and the chatter, Francie’s nattering, the history teacher’s drone. Sunlight breaks through the blanket of cloud, slanting in through the great glass windows, across my desk, into my eyes. White spots form in the space in front of me, dancing bubbles of colour and light that hold me captive until the bell goes. Francie is at my side, her mouth full of questions, her painted red lips forming and re-forming – lips that will soon touch Lochan’s. I have to tellher now before it’s too late, but myvoice is gone and allthat comes out is emptyair.

I skip second period to escape her. Walk around the empty school, my giant prison cell, searching for answers that can never be found. My shoes tap against the steps as I go up and down and round and round each floor, searching for – what – some kind of absolution? The harsh winter light strengthens, flooding through the windows and bouncing off the walls. I feel the pressure of it against my body, burning holes into my skin. I amlost in this maze ofcorridors, staircases, floors stacked one above the other like a pile ofcards. If I keep going, maybe I will find my way back – back to the person I used to be. I ammoving more slowly now. Maybe even floating. I swimthrough space. The earthhas lost its gravity, everythingfeels liquid around me. I reachanother staircase, the treads melting down. The sole ofmyshoe peels offthe topmost one and I step into nothingness.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN Lochan

I stare at the back of Nico DiMarco’s head. I fix on his dark, blunt-fingered hand resting on the edge of his desk, and the thought of those fingers touching Maya makes me feel physically sick. I can’t stand by and watch anyone go out with my sister, any more than I myself can go out with Francie or anyother girland pretend she canreplace her. I need to find Maya and hope to God it’s not too late. I need to tellher the dealis off. Perhaps, withtime, she willfind someone she canbe with. And I willbe happy, if only for her. But for me there can never be anyone else. The absolute certainty of this fact suffocates me.

Above the board, the hands of the clock are moving. Second period is almost over. She wouldn’t have told Francie yet, surely? She must be planning to wait untilmorning break. I feelspectacularly ill. Just because I can’t go ahead with this doesn’t mean she willfeelthe same way. It may have been my idea, but she proposed the exchange. Maybe she has made up her mind to give DiMarco a second chance. Maybe the agony of the past few weeks has made her realize what a relief a normal relationship would be.

The bell goes and I shoot out of my seat, grabbing my bag and blazer as I go, ignoring the teacher’s shouts about homework. There is a massive jamon staircase five. I head for the stairs at the other end. Throngs of people have accumulated here too. Except they are motionless. They have stopped intheir tracks, anamoeba-like cluster, turningto one another to talk inurgent, excited tones. I push past them. Thick red tape strung across the top of the staircase brings me to a halt. As I duck underneath, I’mpulled back bya hand onmyshoulder.

‘Youcan’t go downthat way,’a voice says. ‘There’s beenanaccident.’
I take aninvoluntarystep back. Oh, this is just great.
‘Some girlfell. They’ve onlyjust moved her to the medicalroom. She was unconscious,’someone

else adds ina reverentialtone.
I look at the tape, tempted just to duck underneathagain.
‘Who fell?’I hear another voice behind me ask.
‘It was a girlfrommyclass. Maya Whitely. I saw it happen– she didn’t fall, she jumped.’ ‘Hey!’
I dive under the tape and race down the two flights of stairs, the soles of my shoes screeching on

the lino. The ground floor is crawling with pupils heading out to break, everyone moving in slow motion. I shove my waythrough the crowds, shoulders bruising shoulders, people jostling me fromall angles, angryshouts followingme as I force mywaypast.

‘Hey, hey, hey—’ Someone has me by the arm. I spin round, ready to shove themback, and find myselfstaringinto the face ofMissAzley. ‘Lochan, youneed to wait out here – the nurse is busy—’
I wrenchmyarmout ofher grasp and she moves to block the entrance.
‘What’s the matter?’she asks. ‘Are youfeelingunwell? Sit here and let me see ifI canhelp you.’
I take aninvoluntarystep backwards. ‘Let me past,’I gasp. ‘For God’s sake, I need to—’
‘You need to wait here. Someone’s just had an accident and Mrs Shah is dealing with that at the moment.’
‘It’s Maya—’
‘What?’
‘Mysister!’
Her face changes. ‘Oh God. Lochan, listen, she’s going to be fine. She just fainted. She didn’t fall veryfar—’
‘Please let me see her!’
‘Sit downfor a second and I’llask the nurse.’
Miss Azley disappears through the door. I sit on one of the plastic chairs and press my fist against mymouth, mylungs cryingout for air.
Minutes later, Miss Azley comes out to tell me that Maya is fine, just a little shocked and bruised. She asks me for our mother’s phone number – I tell her that she is away and that I will take Maya home. She looks concerned and informs me that Maya needs to be taken to A&E to be checked for concussion. I insist I candealwiththat too.
Finally they let me see her. She is in the small white anteroom, sitting on a bed, sagging back against a cushion, a lime-green blanket pulled halfway across her lap. Her tie has been removed and her right sleeve rolled up, revealing a thin white armwith vivid pink bruising. Alarge plaster covers her elbow. Her shoes have been taken off too and her bare legs hang off the side of the bed, a white crepe bandage enveloping one knee. Her copper hair, freed from its ponytail, hangs loose over her shoulders. Her face is drained of all colour. Cracked, dried blood surrounds a small cut on her cheekbone, the crimson stain contrasting painfully with the rest of her face. Violet shadows underline pink-rimmed, empty eyes. She doesn’t smile when she sees me: the light is gone fromher face, a dull look ofshocked resignationinits place.
As I take a step into the small space between the door and the bed, she seems to shrink away. QuicklyI move back again, pressingmysweatypalms against the cold wallbehind me.
‘What – what happened?’
She blinks a couple oftimes and studies me wearilyfor a moment. ‘It’s allright. I’mallright—’
‘Just t-tellme what happened, Maya!’There is anedge to myvoice that I can’t conceal.
‘I fainted while I was goingdownthe stairs. I skipped breakfast and I was dehydrated, that’s all.’
‘What did the nurse say?’
‘That I’mfine. That I shouldn’t miss meals. She wants me to go to the hospital to be checked out for concussionbut there’s no need. Myhead doesn’t hurt.’
‘They think you fainted because you missed breakfast?’ My voice begins to rise. ‘But that’s absurd!You’ve never fainted before and youhardlyever eat breakfast.’
She closes her eyes as if my words are hurting her. ‘Lochie, I’m fine. Really. Could you please just persuade the nurse to let me out of here?’ She opens her eyes again and looks troubled for a moment. ‘Or – or have yougot classes youcan’t miss?’
I gape at her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’mtakingyouhome withme right now.’
She gives me a little smile and I feelas ifI’mfalling. ‘Thank you.’
Mrs Shahcalls a cab to take us to the localhospital, but as soonas we’re outside the gates, Maya sends the driver away. She moves away from me along the pavement, her hand trailing the wall for balance. ‘Come on. I’mgoinghome.’
‘The nurse said youmight have concussion! We’ve got to go to the hospital!’
‘Don’t be silly. I didn’t even bump my head.’ She continues her unsteady path down the road, thenhalfturns, holdingout her hand. At first I just stare at it, uncomprehending.
‘CanI leanonyoua bit?’Her eyes are apologetic. ‘Mylegs feelkind ofwobbly.’
I rush to her and grab her hand, wrapping her arm round my waist, putting my arm around her. ‘Like this? Is – is this OK?’
‘That’s great, but youdon’t have to squeeze me so tight . . .’
I loosenmygrip fractionally. ‘Better?’
‘Much better.’ We move off down the road, her body, leaning against mine, as light and frail as a bird’s.
‘Hey, look at this,’ she says, a hint of amusement in her voice. ‘I got us both a whole day off school and it’s not even’ – she lifts my hand from her waist to get a look at my watch – ‘eleven o’clock.’With a smile, she raises her face so that her eyes meet mine and the late morning sun washes across her colourless face.
I force anunevenbreathinto mylungs. ‘Crafty,’I manage, swallowinghard.
We walk on for a few minutes in silence. Maya is holding onto me tightly. Now and again she slows to a halt and I ask her ifshe wants to sit downbut she shakes her head.
‘I’msorry,’she says softly.
God. No. The air starts to shudder inmychest.
‘It was myidea too,’she adds.
I take a deep breath and hold it, turning my head away. If I bite my lip hard enough and force myself to meet the stares of curious passers-by, I can keep myself together for a bit longer, just a bit longer. But she cantell. I feelher concernpermeate myskinlike a gentle warmth.
‘Lochie?’
Stop. Don’t speak. I can’t bear it, Maya. I can’t. Please understand.
She turns her face towards me. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about it, Lochie. It wasn’t your fault,’ she whispers against myshoulder.

Maya goes into the kitchenwhile I hangback, pretendingto sort throughthe post, tryingto pullmyself together. And then, suddenly, I’maware ofher silhouette in the doorway. She looks battered, with her tangled hair and crumpled clothes and bandaged knee. Aburgundy stain is spreading beneath the skin of her cheekbone: in a couple of days it will have bloomed into a large bruise right across her cheek. Maya, I’m so sorry, I want to say. I never ever meant to hurt you.
‘Would youmind makingme a cup ofcoffee?’she asks witha tentative smile.
‘Course . . .’I glance downunseeinglyat the envelopes inmyhand. ‘Ofc-course . . .’ She smiles at me properly this time. ‘I think I might curl up on the couch in front of some crappy
daytime TV.’
There is a silence. I flick throughsome junk mailand take a moment to replyas a pain, like a sliver ofglass, slowlypierces the back ofmythroat.
‘Come and keep me company?’She is hesitatingnow, stillwaitingfor myreply.
Aninvisible noose tightens round myneck. I cannot answer.
‘Lochie?’
I don’t move. If I do, I lose. ‘Hey . . .’ She takes a sudden step towards me and I immediately back up, bangingmyelbow against the front door.
‘Lochie, I’m all right.’ Slowly she holds up her hands. ‘Look at me, I’m fine. You can see that, can’t you? I just slipped, that’s all. I was tired. Everything’s allright.’
But it’s not, it’s not, because I’mslowly being torn in two. You stand there, covered in cuts and bruises that I might as well have inflicted on you with my own hands. And I love you, so much that it’s killing me, yet all I can do is push you away and hurt you until eventually your love will turn to hate.
The pain wells up in my chest, my breathing starts to fragment and scalding tears force their way into my eyes. Abruptly I crumple up the glossy ads in my hands and lean heavily against the wall, pressingthe shinypaper against myface.
There is a moment of shocked silence before I feel Maya by my side, gently pulling at my hands. ‘Don’t, Lochie, it’s allright. Look at me. I’mfine!’
I take anunevenbreath. ‘I’msorry– I’mjust so sorry!’
‘Sorryabout what, Lochie? I don’t understand!’
‘The idea – last night – it was so awful, it was so stupid—’
‘It doesn’t matter about that now. It’s finished, OK? We know we can’t do it so we’re never goingto think about doinganythinglike that again.’Her voice is firm, reassuring.
I throw down the paper and bang my head back against the wall, rubbing my armsavagely across my eyes. ‘I didn’t know what else to do! I was desperate – I’mstill desperate! I can’t stop feeling like this!’I amshoutingnow, frantic. I feellike I’mlosingmymind.
‘Listen . . .’ She takes my hands and rubs themin an effort to calmme. ‘I never wanted Nico or anyone else. Just you.’
I look at her, the sound ofmybreathroughand uneveninthe suddensilence. ‘Youcan have me,’ I whisper shakily. ‘I’mhere. I’llalways be here.’
Her face floods with relief as her hands reach for my face. ‘We were stupid – we thought they could stop us.’ She strokes my hair, kisses my forehead, my cheeks, the edge of my lip. ‘They’ll never stop us. Not as long as this is what we both want. But you’ve got to stop thinking it’s wrong, Lochie. That’s just what other people think; it’s their problem, their stupid rules, their prejudices. They’re the ones who are wrong, narrow-minded, cruel. . .’She kisses myear, myneck, mymouth.
‘They’re the ones who are wrong,’ she repeats. ‘Because they don’t understand. I don’t care if you happen biologically to be my brother. You’ve never just felt like a brother to me. You’ve always beenmybest friend, mysoulmate, and now I’ve falleninlove withyoutoo. Whyis that sucha crime? I want to be able to hold you and kiss you and – and do all the things that people in love are allowed to do.’She takes a deep breath. ‘I want to spend the rest ofmylife withyou.’
I close my eyes and press my hot face against her cheek. ‘We will. We’ll find a way. Maya, we have to . . .’

When I push open her bedroomdoor with my elbow, a glass of juice in one hand, a sandwich in the other, I find her fast asleep, sprawled out face down on the bed, the duvet kicked back, arms circling her head on the pillow. She looks so vulnerable, so fragile. The bright midday light illuminates the side of her sleeping face, a strip of her crumpled, oversized school shirt, the edge of her white knickers, the top of her thigh. Navigating the discarded skirt, socks and shoes strewn across the carpet, I place the plate and glass beside a stack of papers on her desk and straighten up slowly. I watch her for a long time. After a while my legs begin to ache and I slide down into a sitting position against the wall, arms restingonmyknees. I’mafraid that ifI leave, evenfor a moment, somethingmight happento her again; I’mafraid that if I leave, the black wall of fear will return. But here beside her, the sight of her sleepingface reminds me that nothingelse matters, that inthis I’mnot alone. This is what Maya wants, this is what I want – fighting it is no use, can only hurt us both. The humanbody needs a constant flow ofnourishment, air and love to survive. Without Maya I lose allthree; apart we willslowlydie.

I must have drifted off, for the sound of her voice sends a jolt through my body and I straighten up, rubbing my neck. She blinks at me sleepily, her cheek resting on the edge of the mattress, russet hair brushing the floor. I don’t know what she said to wake me, but now her armis outstretched, her palmturned towards me. I take her hand and she smiles.
‘I made youa sandwich,’I tellher, glancingup at the desk. ‘How are youfeeling?’
She doesn’t reply, her eyes drawing me in. The warmth of her hand seeps into mine and her fingers tighten as she pulls me gently towards her. ‘Come here,’ she says in a voice still scratchy with sleep.

I stare back at her, feeling my pulse quicken. She releases my hand and moves back to the far side of the bed, leaving a space for me. I pull off my shoes and socks and stand up unsteadily as she holds out her arms.

As I lower my body onto the mattress beside her, I inhale her smell and feel her legs entwine with mine. She kisses me gently – soft, whispery kisses that make my face tingle and send tremors running through my body, creating instant arousal. I amacutely aware of her bare legs caught between mine – afraid she will feel, afraid she will know. I close my eyes and inhale deeply in an effort to keep calm, but she kisses my eyelids and her hair tickles my neck and face and I hear my breathing become shallow and rapid.
‘It’s allright,’she says witha smile inher voice. ‘I love you.’
I open my eyes and lift my head off the pillow and start kissing her back, gently at first, but then she puts her armround myneck and pulls me closer, and our kisses begin to quicken, growing deeper and more urgent until it’s difficult to find time to breathe. I cradle her head with one arm, clasping her hand with the other. Every kiss is becoming fiercer than the one before until I’mfrightened I’mhurting her. I don’t know where to go fromhere, I don’t know what to do. I press my face into the hot curve of her neck with a strange sound and find myself stroking her breasts, the cotton shirt rough beneath my fingers. I feel her fingertips running up and down my back, beneath my shirt, then travelling round beneath my arms to reach my chest, touching my nipples. Small electric shocks ricochet though my body. Mymouthreaches for hers againand I’mgaspingfor air and she’s makingsounds that make my heart pound harder and harder. I feel swept up in some kind of burning whirl of madness, barraged by a million sensations at once – the heat of her lips, the pressure of her tongue, the taste of her mouth, the smell of her hair, the feel of her breasts – the buttons of her shirt scratching my palm as I slide my hand down them, the peaks of her ribs abruptly giving way to the soft inward curve of her stomach, the shock of reaching under her shirt and feeling taut, warmskin. Maya has one hand in my hair and the other on my stomach. My muscles convulse in response to her touch, pulling away yet desperate for her hand to follow, and I’m acutely aware of her fingers sliding under the top of my trousers, pressing against my stomach, hesitating at the waistband ofmy boxers; I have to break away fromthe kiss and press my face into the pillow to stop myself frombegging her to keep going. I can’t think of anything any more except for this blind madness; I want to stop myself but I’munable to hold still. I want to pretend that it’s an accident, that I don’t know what I’m doing, but I do. My hands claw at the sheet, twisting it into knots as I push myself towards her, rubbing myself against her, imperceptibly at first, in the hope she won’t notice – but soon that too is out ofmy controlas the pace and the pressure increase of their own accord, my crotch against her pelvic bone, the thin, soft materialofour clothing allthat is left between us. I wish I could feelher bare skin, yet even the feelof her body under her uniform is enough to send me into a whirl of longing and desire. I can hear the sound ofmy rasping breath, the friction between our two bodies. I know I should stop, I know I must stop now, because if I keep going, if I keep going, I know what will happen . . . I have to stop, I must, I must . . . Then her mouth finds mine, she kisses me deeply, and a crackling, spitting electric current shoots through my body, sending out red sparks of exquisite elation. And suddenly I’m shudderinghard against her, ecstasyexplodingthroughout mybodylike the sun. . .

Maya rolls onto her side to face me and strokes the hair away frommy face, looking startled, a touch of amusement on her lips. As her laughing eyes meet mine, I take a sharp breath and feel a strong wave ofembarrassment washover me.

‘I got – I got a bit carried away.’ I pull a face to try and disguise my acute discomfort. Does she actuallyknow what happened? Is she disgusted?
She raises her eyebrows and bites back a smile. ‘No kidding!’
She does. Fuckinghell.
‘Well, that’s what happens when you – when youdo stuff like that.’ My voice comes out louder thanI intended:defensive, shaky, uneven.
‘I know.’She says quietly. ‘Wow.’
‘I couldn’t – I couldn’t stop.’Myheart is pounding. I feelfrantic withembarrassment. She kisses mycheek. ‘Lochie, it’s OK – I didn’t want youto stop!’
Relieffloods throughme and I pullher closer so that her hair is inmyface. ‘Really?’ ‘Really!’
I close myeyes withrelief. ‘I love you.’
‘I love youtoo.’
A long moment passes, then hot spasmodic breaths blow against my cheek: silent laughter. ‘You’ve gone allsleepy!’
I force my eyes open and give an embarrassed laugh. It’s true. I’m wiped out. My eyelids are dragged down by invisible weights and every ounce of energy has evaporated from my body. I have just experienced the most intense few minutes of my life and my whole body feels weak. I shift uncomfortablyagainst the bed and pullanembarrassed face. ‘I think I need a shower . . .’

I can’t stop thinking about it – at night, but during the daytime too. What have we done? What have we done? Even though we never took our clothes off, even though what we did isn’t technically against the law, I know we have started on a dangerous slippery slope. Where it could eventually land us is both too terrifying and too fantastic to even think about. I try telling myself that it was nothing, that I was just trying to comfort her – but even I’m not self-deluded enough to believe my own ridiculous excuse. And now it’s like a drug, and I cannot believe I have managed to live so long, in the dailypresence ofMaya, without this new levelofcloseness . . .

CHAPTERSIXTEEN Maya

At the end of the day, it’s all about how much you can bear, how much you can endure. Being together, we harm nobody; being apart, we extinguish ourselves. I wanted to be strong – wanted to show Lochan that if he could walk away after that first night, then so could I; that if he could distract himself by going out with a girl, then I could do the same with a guy. My mind was set on the idea but the rest of me wouldn’t obey. Rather than go through with our deal, my body chose to take a dangerous tumble downa flight ofstairs.

Lochan is still Lochan, except he’s not. When I look at him, he seems different to me now. My mind keeps flashing back to that afternoon on the bed: the taste of his hot mouth, the brush of his fingertips against my skin. I want to be with himall the time. I follow himfromroomto room, finding any excuse to be near him, to look at him, to touch him. I want to hold him, stroke him, kiss him, but of course, with the others always around, I can’t. Loving him like this has become a deep physical ache. I amovercome by a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions: on the one hand fizzing with so much adrenaline and excitement I find it difficult to eat, on the other, consumed with terror that Lochan is suddenly going to say we cannot do this because it’s wrong. Or that someone may find out and force us apart. I will not listen to the ticking time bomb inside my head, will not think of the future, that gaping dark hole in which neither of us can exist, together or apart . . . I refuse to allow my fears for the future to ruin the present. All that matters right now is that Lochan is here with me, and that we love eachother. I have never felt so happyinmylife.

Lochan too seems more alive. The strained look of exhaustion and false cheer is erased fromhis face. He cracks up at Tiffin’s jokes, tickles Willa and swings her round and round until I beg him to stop. He humours Kit and lets the usual inflammatory remarks go; he has even stopped chewing his lip. And everytime his eyes meet mine, his face ignites witha smile.

On Friday morning, two whole weeks after we last held each other on the bed, I come up behind himas he stands alone at the sink with his back to the door, sipping his morning coffee and staring out of the window. His raven hair is still tousled from the night, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows as usual. The skin on his arms looks so smooth, I long to stroke them. Unable to hold back, I slip my hand into his loose one. He turns to me with a smile of surprise but I recognize a hint of alarm inhis eyes, accompanied byanother emotion:a longingache, a painfuldesperation.
‘The others willbe downina minute,’Lochanwarns me softly.
I glance at the closed kitchen door, wishing it had a lock. Turning back, I stroke the inside of his palmwithmyfingertips. ‘I miss you,’I whisper.
He smiles slightlybut his eyes are sad. ‘We just have to – to wait for the right moment, Maya.’
‘There never is a right moment,’ I reply. ‘Between the kids and school and Kit up half the night, we’re never alone.’
He starts on his lip again, turning to stare out of the window. I rest my head against the top of his arm.
‘Don’t!’he says hoarsely.
‘But I was just—’
‘Don’t you get it? It makes it even harder. It makes it even worse.’ He takes an unsteady breath. ‘I can’t – I can’t bear it whenyou. . .’
‘WhenI what?’
He doesn’t reply.
‘Whyare youtuningme out?’
‘You don’t understand.’ He turns to me almost angrily, his voice beginning to shake. ‘Seeing you, being with you every day but not being able to do anything – it’s like cancer, it’s like this cancer growinginside mybody, inside mymind!’
‘OK. I know. I’msorry.’I tryto disengage myhand but his fingers tightenround mine.
‘Don’t—’
I lean towards him and hold him tight as he wraps his arms around me. The warmth of his body flows into mine like an electric current. His hot cheek brushes against my face, his lips touch mine then pull away again; his breath is moist and urgent against my neck. I want him to kiss me so much, it hurts.
The door crashes open like the sound of a gunshot. We reel apart. Tiffin stands there, trailing his tie, his shirt untucked. His eyes are wide, flickingfrommyface to Lochan’s.
‘Wow, first one to be ready!’ My voice comes out shrill with false cheer. ‘Come here and I’ll do your tie. What d’youfancyfor breakfast?’
He stilldoesn’t move. ‘What happened?’he asks at length, his face worried.
‘Nothing!’ Lochan turns from making the coffee and gives him a reassuring smile. ‘Everything’s fine. Now, muesli, toast or both?’
Tiffinignores Lochan’s attempts at distraction. ‘Whywere youcuddlingMaya?’he asks instead.
‘Because – because – Maya was feeling a bit upset about this test she’s got today,’ Lochan replies raggedly. ‘She’s feelingverynervous.’
I nod inagreement, quicklyerasingmyfalse smile.
Unconvinced, Tiffin walks slowly over to his chair, forgetting his usual complaints as Lochan fills his bowlwithmuesli.
My heart is hammering. We only heard the door after it had swung open all the way and hit the corner of the sideboard. Did Tiffin see Lochan kiss my neck – notice my lips brush against his? Tiffin starts eating his muesli without further comment and I know he doesn’t believe our story. I know he senses something isn’t right. It’s almost a relief when Kit and Willa arrive, loud and complaining, one protesting about the breakfast menu, the other about the loss of her sticker album. I glance nervously at Tiffinbut he stays unusuallysilent.
Lochan is clearly shaken too. The colour is high in his cheeks and he is gnawing at his lip. He knocks over Willa’s juice and spills cerealon the table. He downs coffee after coffee and tries to rush everyone throughbreakfast, eventhoughit is not yet eight, and his eyes keep returningto Tiffin’s face.
After dropping the kids off at school, I turn to him and say, ‘Tiffin couldn’t have seen anything. There wasn’t time.’
‘He just saw you give me a hug and now he’s worried that you’re upset about something more serious than a test. I should never have come up with that pathetic excuse. But by this evening he’ll have forgottenallabout it, or ifhe hasn’t, he’llrealize you’re OK. Everything’s fine.’
I canstillfeelthe knot offear inmystomach. But I just nod and smile reassuringly.

In maths, Francie chews gum and props her feet up on the empty chair in front, passing me notes about the way SalimKumar is looking at me and speculating about what he would like to do with me. But all I can think is that something has got to change. Lochan and I have to find a way of being together without fear of interruption for at least a little while every day. I know that after what happened this morning, he isn’t going to touch me again while the others are in the house, which is basically whenever we are. And I still don’t understand why I can’t even stand close to him, hold his hand, rest my head against his arm while we are in an empty room. He says it makes it worse, but how could anythingbe worse thannot touchinghimat all?

It’s my turn to pick up Tiffin and Willa today because Lochan has a late class. On the way home, they charge ahead as usual, giving me a heart attack at every road-crossing. When we get in, I sort out snacks and rummage through their book bags for teachers’ notes and homework while they fight over the remote in the front room. I put on a wash, clear away the breakfast things and go upstairs to tidy their room. When I return to the front room they have tired of TV, the Gameboy isn’t working properly and Tiffin’s neighbourhood friends are all out at football club. They start to bicker, so I suggest a game of Cluedo. Exhausted fromthe long week, they agree, and so we set up the game on the carpet in the front room: Tiffin lying on his front with his head propped up on his hand, his blond mane hanging in his eyes; Willa cross-legged at the foot of the couch, an enormous new hole in her red schooltights revealingpart ofanevenlarger stickingplaster.

‘What happened to you?’I ask, pointing.
‘I fell!’ she announces, her eyes lighting up in anticipatory relish as she begins her account of the drama. ‘It was very, veryserious. Myknee gashed openand there was blood alldownmylegand the nurse said we was gonna have to go to hospitalto get stitches!’She glances at Tiffin to make sure she has a captive audience. ‘I hardly cried much at all. Only till the end of break time. The nurse said I was reallybrave.’
‘Youhad stitches!’I stare at her, appalled.
‘No, ’cos after a while the blood stopped gushing out, so the nurse said she thought it would be OK. She kept tryingto callMumbut I told her and told her it was the wrongnumber.’
‘What d’youmean, the wrongnumber?’
‘I kept telling her that she had to callyou or Lochie instead, but she didn’t listen, even when I told her I knew the numbers off by heart. She just left a lot of messages on Mum’s mobile. And she asked me ifI had a grannyor a grandpa who could come and pick me up instead.’
‘OhGod, let me see. Does it stillhurt?’
‘Onlya bit. No—Ow – don’t take the plaster off, Maya! The nurse said I have to leave it on!’
‘OK, OK,’ I say quickly. ‘But next time, you tell the nurse she has to call me or Lochie. You say she has to, Willa, OK? She has to!’I suddenlyfind myselfalmost shouting.
Willa nods distractedly, intent on setting out the pieces of the game now the account of her drama is over. But Tiffinis lookingat me solemnly, his blue eyes narrowing.
‘Why does schoolalways have to callyou or Lochan?’ he asks quietly. ‘Are you secretly our real parents?’
Shock runs like icy water through my veins. I am unable to draw breath for a moment. ‘No, of course not, Tiffin. We’re just a lot older than you, that’s all. What – what on earth made you think that?’
Tiffin continues to fix me with his penetrating stare and I find myself literally holding my breath, waitingfor himto comment onwhat he witnessed this morning.
‘’Cos Mum’s never here no more. Even hardly at weekends. She’s got a new family now at Dave’s house. She lives there and she’s evengot new kids.’
I stare at him, sadness seeping through me. ‘It’s not her new family,’ I attempt at last in desperation. ‘They only stay over at the weekend and they’re Dave’s children, not hers. We’re her children. She just spends lots of time there at the moment because she works so late – it’s dangerous for her to come home inthe middle ofthe night onher own.’
My heart is beating too fast. I wish Lochan were here to say the right thing. I don’t know how to explainit to them. I don’t know how to explainit to myself.
‘Then how come she’s never even here at weekends any more?’ Tiffin asks, his voice suddenly sharp with anger. ‘How come she never takes us to school or picks us up at hometime like she used to onher dayoff?’
‘Because—’ My voice wavers. I know I’mgoing to have to lie here. ‘Because she now works at weekends too and doesn’t take days off during the week any more. It’s just so she can earn more moneyto buynice things for us.’
Tiffin gives me a long hard look, and with a start I see the teenager he willbe in a few years’ time. ‘You’re lying,’he says ina low voice. ‘Allofyouare lying.’He gets up and rushes offupstairs.
I sit there, paralysed with fear, guilt and horror. I know I should go up after him, but what can I possibly say? Willa is pulling at my sleeve, demanding to be played with, the conversation thankfully lost onher. And so I pick up the pieces withanunsteadyhand and start to play.

As time passes, the afternoon I fainted begins to feel like a dream, slowly evaporating from the coils of my mind. I don’t try touching Lochan again. I keep telling myself that this is only temporary – just until things calm down with Tiffin and he starts to focus on other things and gets back to his usual cheeky self. It doesn’t take himlong, but I know the memory is still there, along with the doubt, and the hurt, and the confusion. And that is enoughto keep me fromreachingout to Lochan.

The Christmas nightmare begins:Nativityplays, costumes to be made fromscratch, a disco for the sixth formers which Lochan is the only pupil not to attend. Then everyone breaks up and Christmas is upon us, the house decorated with streamers and tinsel that Lochan nicks from school. It takes the combined efforts of all five of us to carry the tree home from the high street, and Willa gets a pine needle in her eye, and for a few dreadful moments we think we’ll have to take her to Casualty, but Lochan finally manages to remove it. Tiffin and Willa adorn the tree with home- and school-made decorations, and even though the end result is a great lopsided, glittery mess, it cheers us all up tremendously. Even Kit deigns to join in with the preparations, although he spends most of his time tryingto prove to Willa that Santa isn’t real. Mumgives us our Christmas moneyand I go shoppingfor Willa while Lochan takes care of Tiffin – a system we devised one unfortunate year when I bought Tiffin a pair offootballgloves with a pink stripe down the side. Kit only wants money, but Lochan and I club together to get him the pair of ridiculously expensive designer trainers he’s been banging on about for ages. On Christmas Eve we wait till we hear himsoftly snoring before placing the wrapped boxat the foot ofhis ladder withthe words From Santa writtenonit for good measure.

Mum makes an appearance late Christmas morning, when the turkey is already in the oven. She has presents too – mostly second-hand stuff that Dave’s children have grown tired of: Lego and toy cars for Tiffin, despite the fact he stopped playing with such things some time ago, a second copy of Bambi on DVD and a grubby Teletubby for Willa, which she gazes at with a mixture ofconfusion and horror. Kit gets some old video games that don’t work withhis console but that he reckons he cansell at school. I get a dress several sizes too big that looks as if it probably once belonged to Dave’s exwife, and Lochan is the proud new owner of an encyclopaedia, generously adorned with obscene drawings. We all make the appropriate exclamations of joy and surprise, and Mum sits back on the couch, pours herself a large glass of cheap wine, lights up a cigarette and pulls Willa and Tiffin onto her lap, her face alreadyflushed withalcohol.

Somehow we survive the day. Dave is spending the occasion with his family, and Mumpasses out on the couch just before six. Tiffin and Willa are cajoled into bed early by being allowed to take their presents up with them, and Kit disappears upstairs with his video games to start wheeling and dealing. Lochan offers to clean up the kitchen and, to my shame, I let himdo it and collapse into bed, thankful that the dayis at anend.

It is almost a reliefwhenschoolstarts up again. Lochanand I bothhave mocks, and keepingTiffin and Willa amused every day for two weeks has taken its toll. We return to school, exhausted, and admire the new iPods, mobiles, designer clothes and laptops that surround us. At lunch, Lochanwalks past my table. ‘Meet me on the stairs,’ he whispers. Francie lets out a loud wolf-whistle as he moves awayand I swinground intime to see his face turncrimson.

Up here the wind is almost a gale, cutting right through you like slivers of ice. I have no idea how Lochan can bear it, day after day. He is hugging himself against the cold, his teeth chattering, his lips tinged withblue.

‘Where’s your coat?’I reproachhim.
‘I forgot it inthe usualmorningrush.’
‘Lochan, you’re going to catch pneumonia and die! Would you at least go read in the library, for

God’s sake?’
‘I’mOK.’He is so cold, he canbarelytalk. But ona daylike this, halfthe schoolis crammed into
the library.
‘What’s up? I thought youdidn’t like me comingup here. Has somethinghappened?’ ‘No, no.’He bites his lip inanattempt to hold back a smile. ‘I’ve got somethingfor you.’ I frown, confused. ‘What?’
He reaches into his blazer pocket and brings out a smallsilver box. ‘It’s a late Christmas present. I
wasn’t able to get it till now. And I didn’t want to give it to you at home because, you know . . .’ His
voice tails offawkwardly.
I take it fromhimslowly. ‘But we made a pact ages ago,’ I protest. ‘Christmas was for the kids.
We weren’t goingto waste anymore moneythanwe had to, remember?’
‘I wanted to break the pact this year.’He looks excited, his eyes onthe box, willingme to openit. ‘But thenyoushould have told me. I didn’t get youanything!’
‘I didn’t want youto get me anything. I didn’t tellyoubecause I wanted it to be a surprise.’ ‘But—’
He takes me bythe shoulders and gives me a gentle shake, laughing. ‘Aargh! Would youjust open
it?’
I grin. ‘OK, OK! But I stillobject to this pact-breakingwithout myconsent . . .’I lift the lid. ‘Oh.
. . God . . . Lochie . . .’
‘Do you like it?’ He is practically bouncing on his toes, grinning in delight, a glow of triumph
shining from his eyes. ‘It’s solid silver,’ he informs me proudly. ‘It should fit you perfectly. I took the
measurement fromthe mark onyour watchstrap.’
I continue to stare into the box, aware I haven’t moved or spoken for severalmoments. The silver
bracelet lying there against the black velvet is the most exquisite thing I have ever seen. Made up of
intricate loops and swirls, it sparkles as it catches the white light ofthe winter sun.
‘How did youpayfor this?’Myvoice is a shocked whisper.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes!’
He hesitates for a moment, the glow fades and he lowers his eyes. ‘I’ve – I’ve been saving. I had
a kind ofjob—’
I look up fromthe beautifulbracelet, incredulous. ‘Ajob? What? When?’
‘Well, it wasn’t a real job.’ The light has gone from his eyes and he sounds embarrassed now. ‘I
offered to write some essays for a few people and it kind ofcaught on.’
‘Youdid people’s homework for money?’
‘Yeah. Well, coursework mostly.’He looks downsheepishly.
‘Since when?’
‘Beginningoflast term.’
‘You’ve beensavingfor this for four months?’
His shoes scuff at the ground and his eyes refuse to meet mine. ‘At first it was just extra money
for – you know – household stuff. But then I thought about Christmas and how you hadn’t had a
present for – for ever . . .’
I’mfinding it hard to catch my breath. It’s a struggle to take allthis in. ‘Lochan, we have to return
this immediatelyand get your moneyback.’
‘We can’t.’His voice wavers.
‘What d’youmean?’
He turns the bracelet over. Onthe inside are the words:Maya, love you for ever. Lochan x I stare at the engraving, numb with shock, the silence between us punctuated only by distant
shouts fromthe playground.
Lochan says quietly, ‘I thought – it shouldn’t be too loose, so no one will be able to see the
engraving. And if you’re worried, you could always just keep it hidden at home. L-like a lucky charm
or something– I mean, only– onlyifyoulike it ofcourse . . .’His voice trails offinto silence again. I cannot move.
‘It was probably a silly idea.’ He’s talking very fast now, tripping over his words. ‘It’s – it’s
probably not what you’d have picked out for yourself– guys have the worst taste in this kind ofthing.
I should have waited and asked you. I should have let you choose, or got something more useful like,
um, like – like . . .’
I drag my eyes away from the bracelet again. Despite the cold, Lochan’s cheeks look hot with
embarrassment, his eyes radiating disappointment. ‘Maya, look, it really doesn’t matter. You don’t
need to wear it or anything. You– youcould just keep it hiddenat home – for the engraving.’He gives
me anunsteadysmile, desperate to shrugthe whole thingoff.
I shake my head slowly, swallow hard and force myself to speak. ‘No, Lochie, no. It’s – it’s the
most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned. It’s the most incredible present I’ve ever been given. And the
engraving . . . I’m going to wear it all my life. I just can’t believe you did this. Just for me. All that
work, night after night. I thought youwere goingcrazyabout exams or something. But it was alljust to
– just to give me—’ I can’t finish the sentence and, holding tightly onto the box, lean towards him, my
face pressed against his chest.
I hear himexhale inrelief. ‘Hey, youknow, the polite thingto do is smile and saythank you!’ ‘Thank you,’I whisper against him, but the words meannothingcompared to what I feel. He takes the boxand lifts my armfrommy side. I feelhimreach round me and push up the sleeve
ofmycoat. After a few moments offumbling, I feelthe coolsilver against myskin.
‘Hey, how’s that? Take a look at it,’he says proudly.
I take a deep breath, blinking back tears. The intricate silver round my wrist gleams. Against my
pulse point rest the words Love you for ever. Yet I alreadyknow that he will.

I wear the bracelet all the time. I only ever take it off in the safety of my own room, resting it in the palm of my hand and gazing, enraptured, at the engraving. At night I sleep with the curtains partially opened so the moonlight catches against the metal, making it sparkle. In the dark I feelits indentations withmylips, as ifkissingit brings me closer to Lochan.

OnSaturdayeveningMumsurprises us byslamminginto the house, her make-up running, hair wet with rain. ‘Oh, you’re all here,’ she sighs, making no attempt to hide her disappointment, standing in the doorway of the front roomin an oversized man’s anorak, fishnet stockings and tottery heels. Tiffin is practising head-stands on the couch, Willa is sprawled out on the carpet gazing dully at the TV and I’mattemptingto finishmyhistoryhomework onthe coffee table. Kit is alreadyout withhis mates and Lochanis upstairs, revising.

‘Mummy!’Willa leaps up and runs over, holdingup her arms for a hug. Mumpats her on the head without lookingdown, and Willa settles for huggingher legs instead.
‘Mum, Mum, look what I can do!’ Tiffin shouts triumphantly, launching himself into an aerial somersault and knockingmypile ofbooks to the floor.
‘How come you’re not at Dave’s?’I ask her acerbically.
‘He had to go and rescue his ex-wife,’she replies, her lip curlingindisgust. ‘Apparentlyshe’s now anagoraphobic or something. More like a chronic attention-seeker, ifyouask me.’
‘Mummy, let’s go out somewhere. Please!’Willa begs, hangingonto her leg.
‘Not now, sweetie pie. It’s rainingand Mummy’s verytired.’
‘You could take them to the cinema,’ I suggest quickly. ‘Superheroes starts in fifteen minutes. I was goingto take them, but since theyhaven’t seenyouinover two weeks . . .’
‘Yeah, Mum! Superheroes sounds well cool – you’ll love it! Everyone in my class has seen it.’ Tiffin’s face lights up.
‘And popcorn!’Willa begs, jumpingup and down. ‘I love popcorn!And Coke!’
Mummanages a tight smile. ‘Kids, I’ve got a splittingheadache and I’ve onlyjust got in.’
‘But you’ve beenat Dave’s for two whole weeks!’Tiffinsuddenlyshouts, his face puce.
She flinches slightly. ‘OK, OK. Fine.’ She shoots me an angry look. ‘You do realize I’ve been working for the past two weeks, right?’
I stare back at her coldly. ‘So have we.’
She turns on her heel, and after an argument over an umbrella, furious yells about a missing coat and anguished wails about someone’s foot being stepped on, the front door bangs shut. I drop my head back against the edge of the couch and close my eyes. After a moment I open them again and smile. They’ve gone. They’ve all gone. This is too good to be true. We finally have the house to ourselves.
I tiptoe upstairs, my heart-rate picking up. I’m going to surprise him. Creep up behind him, slide onto his lap and announce our unexpected window of freedomwith a long, deep kiss. Poised outside his bedroomdoor, I hold mybreathand gentlyturnthe handle.
Slowly I push the door ajar. Then I stop. He is not at his desk, head bent over his book as I expected. Instead he’s by the window: one hand fiddling intently with the broken mobile he still thinks he can salvage, the other trying to pull off a sock as he wobbles precariously on one leg. He is half turned away from me so he hasn’t noticed me behind the door and I watch him in amusement as he struggles to remove his other sock, eyes stillfixed onthe phone’s cracked screen. Then, witha sighof annoyance, he chucks it onto his bed and, grabbing his T-shirt, pulls it swiftly over his head, his hair emerging comically tousled. Spotting the towelslung over the back of his chair, I realize he is about to take a shower and start to draw back, when something stops me. I’msuddenly struck by how much his body has changed. Always on the skinny side, he has now become more muscular. Aslight curve of the biceps, his chest smooth and hairless, not exactly a six-pack but the hint of definition in his stomach. . .
Sneakingup behind him, I slide myarms around his waist and feelhimtense.
‘She’s takenthemout,’I whisper inhis ear.
He turns in my arms and suddenly we are kissing hard, frantically – no one to stop us, no limit on our time. But instead of making us languorous, it adds a new element of excitement and urgency to the situation. Lochan’s hands shake as he cups my face in them. Between kisses, he pants gently against my cheek and the pain of longing pulses through my whole body. He kisses every part of my face, my ears, my neck. I run my hands up and down the warmth of his bare chest, his arms, his shoulders. I want to feel every part of his body. I want to inhale him. I want himso much, it hurts. He is kissing me so fiercely now he hardly gives me time to draw breath. His hands are in my hair, against my neck, beneath my collar. His bare skin tingles beneath my touch. But there are still too many clothes, too manyobstacles betweenour two bodies. I slip myhand under the top ofhis jeans. ‘Wait . . .’I whisper.
His breath shudders against my ear and he tries to kiss my neck but I push him gently away. ‘Wait,’I tellhim. ‘Stop for a second. I have to concentrate.’
As I lower my head, I feel his body tauten in frustration and surprise. I force myself to focus on what I’m doing, careful not to rush. I don’t want to get this wrong, make a mistake, make a fool of myself, hurt him. . .
Undoing the button is easy. Sliding down the zip is less so – on the first try it sticks and I have to draw it back up before sliding it down all the way. But suddenly Lochan is grabbing me by the wrists, wrenchingback myhands.
‘What are youdoing?’He sounds incredulous, almost angry.
‘Shh. . .’I returnto his opentrousers.
‘Maya, no!’ He is panting hard, a frantic edge to his voice. His hands are between mine now, tryingto zip himselfup again, but his fingers are fumbling, shakinginshock.
Pulling back the waistband of his boxers, I slide my fingers inside, and feel a rush of elation as I make contact. It feels surprisingly warm and hard. With a small gasp, Lochan buckles forward, sucking in his breath, tensing and staring at me with a look of complete astonishment, as if he has forgotten who I am, the colour flooding his cheeks, his breathing fast and shallow. Then, with a small cry, he grabs me bythe shoulders and shoves me backwards.
‘What the hellare youdoing?’
I recoil, speechless, as he grapples with his flies. He is yelling at the top of his voice, literally shaking with rage. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you? What the hell were you trying to do? You know we cannever ever—’
‘I’msorry,’I gasp. ‘I – I only– I onlywanted to touch—’
‘This whole thing’s completely out of hand!’ he screams at me, the cords standing out in his neck. ‘You’re just sick, you know that? This whole thing’s just sick!’ He pushes past me, his face puce, and slams into the bathroom. Moments later I hear the shower running.
Downstairs in the front room, I pace the floor, breathing hard, anger and guilt coursing through me in equalmeasures. Anger at the way he just screamed at me. Guilt at not having stopped when he first told me to. Still, I don’t understand, I just don’t understand. I thought we’d decided not to bother with what other people thought. I thought we’d decided we would be together no matter what. I hadn’t been trying to trick him into anything. I’d just suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to touch him everywhere, even there – especially there. But fear now tugs at my throat, my shoulders, my chest. Fear that I’ve ruined what I thought we had.
The sound of his feet pounding on the stairs makes me back into the furthest corner of the room. But from the hall I hear only the jangle of keys, the squeak of trainers, the zip of a jacket. And then the front door bangs.
I stand there, stunned. Appalled. I was expectinga confrontationofsome sort, the chance to offer an explanation at the very least. Instead he has just gone off and left me. I won’t accept this, I won’t. It’s not like I’ve done anythingso terrible.
I shove my feet into my shoes and grab my school coat. Without even bothering to stop for my keys, I run out of the house. I can just make out his figure disappearing into the wet darkness at the end ofour street. I break into a run.
When the sound of my footsteps reaches him, he veers off across the road, lengthening his stride still further. Even as I draw level with him, straining for breath, he raises his armand knocks away my outstretched hand.
‘Just leave it, willyou? Just go back and leave me the hellalone!’
‘Why?’ I shout back, gasping in icy air as the rain lances my hair and face with sharp, wet needles. ‘What on earth have I done that’s so awful? I crept up to surprise you. I wanted to tell you that Mum had come back and I’d cornered her into taking the kids to the cinema. When we started kissing, I just wanted to touch—’
‘D’yourealize how fuckingstupid that was? How dangerous?Youcan’t just suddenlydo stufflike that!’
‘Lochie, I’msorry. I thought we could at least touch each other. It doesn’t mean we would have gone anyfurther—’
‘Oh, really? Well, you can forget your fucking fairytale! Welcome to the real world!’ He turns briefly– longenoughfor me to make out a face mottled withfury. ‘IfI hadn’t stopped it, d’yourealize what would have happened? It’s not just disgusting, Maya, it’s fuckingillegal!’
‘Lochie, that’s crazy! Just because we can’t have sex doesn’t mean we can’t touch each other and—’ I reach out for him but he shoves my arm away again. Abruptly he turns down the alley towards the cemetery, only to find a padlocked fence at the end. With nowhere to go, he still refuses to turnback towards me. Standinginthe middle ofthe rain-soaked road, myhair whippingagainst my face, I watch himgrab the wire-mesh fence, shake it dementedly, punch it with both hands, kick at it wildly.
‘You’re crazy, you know that?’ I scream at him, my fear suddenly replaced with anger. ‘Why would this have been such a big deal? How would this have been any different to what happened that time onthe bed?’
He whirls round, crashing violently back into the fence. ‘Well, maybe that was a fucking mistake too! But at least – at least then one of us wasn’t half undressed! And I’d have never – I’d have never let it go anyfurther—’
‘I wasn’t planningto this time!’I exclaiminastonishment.
He sags back against the netting suddenly, the fury dissipating into the night like the white breath fromour mouths.
‘I can’t do this any more,’ he says, his voice hoarse and broken, and abruptly my anger is joined by a cold rush of fear. ‘It’s too painful, it’s too dangerous. I’mterrified – I’mjust terrified of what we might end up doing.’
His despair feels almost tangible, draining the frozen air around us of every last shred of hope. I wrap myarms around myselfand beginto shiver.
‘So what are you saying?’ My voice begins to rise. ‘If we can’t have sex, you’d rather we did nothingat all?’
‘I guess so.’He stares at me, his green eyes suddenly hard in the lamplight. ‘Let’s face it, this is all pretty sick. Maybe the rest of the world’s right. Maybe we’re just a couple of fucked-up, emotionally disturbed teenagers who just—’
He breaks off, pushing himself away from the fence as I slowly back away from him, pain and horror rushingthroughme like liquid ice.
‘Maya, wait – I didn’t mean that.’ His expression changes abruptly and he approaches me cautiously with his armoutstretched as if I’ma wild animal, ready to flee. ‘I – I didn’t mean that. I – I’mnot thinking straight. I got carried away. I need to calmdown. Let’s just go somewhere and talk. Please . . .’
I shake my head and move in a wide arc around him, suddenly breaking away and hurling myself througha gap at the edge ofthe mesh.
Once inside, I turn into the bitter wind, heading up the darkened, cracked path, littered with the usual beer bottles, cigarette stubs and syringes. The glow ofthe streetlamps reaches me froma great distance, the sound of traffic fading to a distant murmur, the outlines of abandoned, broken gravestones nothingmore thanamorphous shapes inthe dark. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t. I trusted him. I try to make sense of what just happened, to process Lochan’s words without completely falling apart. To somehow accept that the magic of that one night when we first kissed and the afternoon in my room was, to him, simply a dreadful, perverted mistake, to be filed away at the back of our minds until we can eventually kid ourselves it never happened. I need to try to absorb Lochan’s true feelings about the situation – the feelings he has been hiding from me since this first started. And I need to work out how to survive this sudden revelation. But how cananything hurt so much? How canjust those few words make me want to curlup and die?
‘Maya, come on.’ I hear his feet thudding on the path behind me and a screambegins to build in mythroat. I have to be alone right now or I willlose mymind, I will.
‘You know I didn’t mean any of that stuff! I was just embarrassed that I – that I nearly . . . you know. I was just scared of my own feelings, of what we might have done!’ He looks frantic and wild. ‘Please, just come back to the house. The others willbe back ina minute and they’llbe worried.’
The fact that he thinks he can appeal to my sense of duty shows how little he understands the effect ofhis earlier words, the violence ofthe emotions coursingthroughme.
He tries to grab myarm.
‘Get offme!’I scream, myvoice magnified inthe silence ofthe cemetery.
He recoils as if he’s been shot, shielding his face fromthe hysteria in my voice. ‘Maya, just try to calmdown,’he begs me, his voice shaking. ‘Ifanyone hears us, they’ll—’
‘They’llwhat?’I interrupt aggressively, whippinground to face him.
‘They’llthink—’
‘Think what?’
‘Theymight think I’mattacking—’
‘Oh, it’s all about you!’ I scream at him, sobs threatening to explode in my throat. ‘This whole thing– it’s always beenabout you! What willpeople think? How willI look? How might I be judged? Whatever feelings once existed between us clearly mean nothing to you compared to your pathetic fear of other people’s narrow-minded, bigoted, parochial prejudices that you once despised but now adopt as your own!’
‘No!’ he yells desperately, launching himself after me as I start striding off again. ‘It’s not like that – it’s got nothing to do with that! Maya, please listen to me. You don’t understand! I just said those things because I feel like I’mgoing crazy: seeing you every day but never being able to – to hold you, to touch you when anyone else is around. I just want to take your hand, kiss you, hug you, without having to hide it all the time. All those little things every other couple just takes for granted! I want to be free to do themwithout beingterrified that someone willcatchus and force us apart, callthe police, take the kids away, destroy everything. I can’t bear it, don’t you understand? I want you to be my girlfriend, I want us to be free—’
‘Fine!’ I scream, tears springing frommy eyes. ‘If it’s allso sick and twisted, if it’s causing you so much grief, then you’re right, we should just end it, right here, right now! That way at least you won’t have to walk around with some awful guilty conscience, thinking how disgusting we are for having these feelings for eachother!’Frantic now to get away, I break into a stumblingrun.
‘For chrissakes!’he yells after me. ‘Didn’t youhear what I said? That’s the last thingI want!’
He tries to grab me again, tries to force me to slow down, but I can’t – I’m going to fall apart, break downintears, and I refuse to have himor anyone else as mywitness.
Spinning round, I slam my hands against his chest and push him as hard as I can. ‘Just get away from me!’ I scream. ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone for five minutes? Please go home! You’re right, we should never have started this! So get away fromme! Just give me some space and time to think!’
His eyes are frantic, his expression stricken. ‘But I was wrong! Why won’t you listen to me? What I said was bullshit – I just lashed out infrustration, this is not what I want!’
‘Well, it’s what I want!’ I shriek. ‘God forbid you should stay with me out of pity! Everything you said is true:we’re sick, we’re twisted, we’re deranged, and we have to end this now! So what the hell are you still doing here? Go home to your normal, socially acceptable life and we’ll pretend nothing ever happened!’
I’ve completely lost it. Hammers pound against my skull and red lights zigzag in the darkness. But I’mafraid that ifI don’t keep screamingat himinblind fury, I’mgoingto collapse intears. And I don’t want himto see that:the last thingI want is for himto feelsorryfor me, to feelhe has to pretend to be inlove withme, to realize I can’t live without him.
With a desperate cry, he moves towards me, reaching out for me again. I take a step back. ‘I meanit, Lochan! Go home! Don’t touchme or I’llshout for help!’
He withdraws his outstretched armand steps back in defeat. Tears fill his eyes. ‘Maya, what the helld’youwant me to do?’
I take anunevenbreath. ‘Just go,’I saysoftly.
‘But don’t you understand?’ he says in quiet despair. ‘I want to be with you, no matter what. I love you—’
‘But not enough.’
We stare at each other. His hair is ruffled by the wind, his green eyes luminous in the darkness, the zip of his black jacket broken, revealing his grey T-shirt beneath. He shakes his head, his eyes scanning the dark cemeteryaround us as if searching for help. He looks back at me and a harsh sob escapes him. ‘Maya, that’s not true!’
‘Youjust called our love sick and disgusting, Lochan,’I remind himquietly.
He claws at the sides ofhis face. ‘But I didn’t mean it!’His chinstarts to tremble.
A sharp pain rises through me, filling my lungs, my throat, my head – so sharp I think I might collapse. ‘Then why would you say it? You meant it, and now so do I. You’re right, Lochan. You’ve made me see this whole sordid mess for what it is. Just a terrible mistake. We were both just bored, disturbed, lonely, frustrated – whatever. We were never inlove—’
‘But we were!’ His voice cracks. He screws up his eyes and presses his fist against his mouth to muffle a sob. ‘We are!’
I look at him, numb. ‘Thenhow come it’s gone?’
He stares at me, aghast, tears wet onhis cheeks. ‘W-what are youtalkingabout?’
I take a steadying breath, bracing myself against an onslaught of tears. ‘I mean, Lochan, how come I don’t love youanymore?’

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN Lochan

Something inside me has broken. There are moments during the day when I just grind to a halt and simply cannot find the energy to draw another breath. I stand there, immobile, in front of the cooker, or in class, or listening to Willa read, and all the air exits my lungs and I cannot muster the strength to fill themagain. If I keep breathing, then I have to keep living, and if I keep living, then I have to keep hurting, and I can’t – not like this. I tryto divide the dayup into sections, take it one hour at a time:get through first period, then second, then break, then third, then lunch . . . At home the hours are broken down into housework, homework supervision, dinner, bedtime, revision, bed. It’s the only time I’ve ever been grateful for the relentless routine. It keeps me going fromone section to the next, and when I start to think too far ahead and feelmyself crumble, I manage to reelmyself in by telling myself, Just one more section, and then just one more after that. Get through today – you can fall apart tomorrow. Get through tomorrow, you can fall apart the day after . . .

When Maya told me she no longer loved me, I had no choice but to retreat, to retract. At first I told myself it was said in anger, a reaction to my own stupid words – my inane declaration that it had all been a sick mistake – but now I know differently. I play and replay that phrase in my head, wondering where on earth it came from when I never believed it for a single moment. It must have been the anger of the moment, my embarrassment and shame – shame at wanting more than I could ever have – that made me blurt out the most hurtful, hatefulthing that came to mind. Instead of coping with my own misery and frustration, I’d turned on Maya, as if by blaming her I could absolve myself . . .

But now, throughmyownstupidityand selfishcruelty, I have lost everything, degraded everything, even our friendship. Despite the sadness in her eyes, Maya has been very good at going back to normal, pretending everything is fine, being friendly while keeping her distance. No awkwardness that might alarmthe others – infact she is almost cheerful. So cheerfulthat at times I even wonder whether she is not secretly relieved it’s all over, whether she actually does believe it was all a sick mistake, an aberration, born out of physical need. She has stopped loving me, Maya has stopped loving me . . . And this one thought is slowlyeatingawayat mymind.

Concentrating at school has long become a thing of the past; now, to my horror, teachers notice me, and for all the wrong reasons. I barely manage half a page oftrigonometry before realizing I have been sitting immobile, staring into space, for the best part of an hour. They ask me if I’mall right, if I need to see the nurse, what it is I don’t understand. I shake myhead and avoid meetingtheir eyes, but without the counterbalance of top grades my reticence is no longer acceptable, and so they summon me to the front, demandinganswers to questions onthe board, afraid that I amfallingbehind, that I am going to let them down by failing to gain an A in their subject this summer. Summoned to the whiteboard in front of the whole class, I fumble my way through easy questions, make stupid mistakes, and watch the bewildered horror spread across the teachers’ faces as I return to my desk amidst jeers and laughter, all too conscious of the sniggers of satisfaction that Weirdo Whitely has finallylost the plot.

In English we are doing Hamlet. I’ve read it a number of times so I don’t feel the need to even pretend to focus. Besides, MissAzleyand I have had a tacit agreement ever since her unfortunate pep talk:she does not pick on me in class so long as I volunteer an answer once in a while, usually to help her out when no one else can come up with even the most asinine response. But today I am not playing ball: the double lesson is well into its second hour and the now familiar ache in my chest has morphed into a stabbing pain. I drop my pen and stare out of the window, watching a length of brokenTV cable twist and writhe inthe wind.

‘. . . according to Freud, the personal crisis undergone by Hamlet awakens in him repressed incestuous desires.’ Miss Azley waves the book in the air and paces to and fro in front of the class, trying to keep everyone awake. I feel her gaze pause on the back of my head and I snap round from the window.

‘Which brings us to the Oedipus Complex, a termcoined by Freud himself at the beginning of the twentiethcentury.’
‘Youmeanwhena guywants to have sexwithhis mum?’someone asks, voice sick withdisgust.
SuddenlyMissAzleyhas their attention. The class is buzzing.
‘But that’s mental! Whywould anyguywant to fuck his own mum?’
‘Yeah, youhear about it onthe news and stuff, though. Mums who fuck their sons, dads who fuck their daughters and their sons. Brothers and sisters who fuck eachother—’
‘Language, please!’MissAzleyprotests.
‘That’s bullshit. Who would want to fuck – sorry, screw – their ownparents?’
‘It’s called incest, man.’
‘That’s whena guyrapes his sister, dickhead.’
There is a light flashinginmybrain, like the head-lamps ofa traininthe dark.
‘No, it’s—’
‘OK, OK, we’re getting off topic here! Now remember, this is only one interpretation and has been refuted by many critics.’ As she stops to perch on the edge of her desk, Miss Azley’s eyes suddenly meet mine. ‘Lochan, nice to have you back with us. What do you think about Freud’s assertionthat the Oedipus Complexwas Hamlet’s primarymotive for killinghis uncle?’
I stare at her. I’m suddenly deeply afraid. Through the instant silence, my face is scorched by an invisible flame. Gripped by panic bordering on hysteria, I worry, with a sickening lurch, that perhaps it is no coincidence Miss Azley has chosen me to open this discussion. When was the last time she picked on me to answer anything? When has the subject of incest ever come up before? Her eyes drill into mine, burning holes straight through to my brain. She isn’t smiling. No, this is planned – contrived, premeditated and deliberate. She is waiting for my reaction . . . I suddenly recall how I ran into her outside the nurse’s office after Maya’s fall. She must have been there, helped bring her round, asked her questions. Maya hit her head, was possibly even suffering from concussion. What reason did she give for her faint? How much time elapsed between her fall and my arrival? In her confused state, what might Maya have said?
The eyes of the class are upon me. Every single person has turned round in their seat to gape. Theytoo appear to be inonit somehow. It is allone giant set-up.
‘Lochan?’MissAzley has moved away fromher desk. She is walking rapidly towards me, but for some extraordinary reason I cannot move. Time has stopped; time is racing. My desk rattles against me as if the ground is being shaken by an earthquake. My ears fill up with water and I focus on the humming in my head, the electric grid ofmy mind snapping and flashing with light. Astrange sound fills the room. Everyone is frozen, staring, waiting to see what will happen next, what terrible fate awaits me. Perhaps Social Services are already in the school. The world outside swells and presses in at the walls, tryingto reachme, tryingto eat me alive. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it’s happeninglike this . . .
‘You need to come with me, Lochan, OK?’ Miss Azley’s voice is firm but not unkind. Perhaps she even feels some degree of pity. I am, after all, sick. Sick as well as evil. Maya herself told me that’s what our love was.
Miss Azley’s hands cuff my wrists. ‘Can you stand? No? OK, just sit where you are. Reggie, would you run and fetch Mrs Shah and ask her to come immediately? The rest of you – library, right now, insilence please.’
The requiemof scraping chairs and clattering feet drowns me. Flashes of blinding colour and light. MissAzley’s face blurs and fades before me. She is summoningthe nurse, the other personinvolved in rescuingMaya fromher fall. But somethingelse is happeningtoo. Beneathmyarm, mydesk continues to rattle. I look around, and everything appears to be moving, the walls of the emptying class threatening to topple down on us like a pack of cards. My heart keeps stopping and starting every few seconds, knocking wildly against the cage of my chest. Each time it stops, I feel this terrifying emptiness before the contraction returns with a flutter, then a violent thud. Oxygen is being drained from the room: my frantic efforts to breathe and remain conscious are in vain, darkness is slowly closing in. My shirt clings wetly to my back, rivulets of sweat running down my body, my neck, my face.
‘Lovey, it’s all right, it’s all right! Sit still, don’t struggle, you’re going to be fine. Try and sit forward a bit. That’s it. Put your elbows on your knees and lean forward and it’ll help your breathing. No, you’re fine where you are – hold still, don’t try and get up. Wait, wait – all I’mdoing is removing your tie and undoingyour collar. Leila, what are youstilldoinghere?’
‘Oh, miss, is he gonna die?’The voice is high-pitched withpanic.
‘Of course not, don’t be silly! We’re just waiting for Mrs Shah to come and check him out. Lochan, listen to me now – are you asthmatic? Allergic to anything? Look at me – just nod or shake your head . . . Oh Christ. Leila, quickly, go through his bag, willyou? See if you can find an inhaler or tablets or something. Check his coat and blazer pockets. Look in his wallet – see if you can find any kind ofmedicalcard . . .’
She is acting very strangely, Miss Azley, as if she’s stillpretending – pretending she doesn’t know. But I no longer have the strength to care. I just want this to stop. It’s too painful, these electric shots being fired throughmy chest and into my heart, all the muscles in my body spasming out of control, rockingthe chair and shakingthe desk, mybodysurrenderingto some greater force.
‘Miss, miss, I can’t find no inhaler or nothing! But he’s got a sister in the lower sixth – maybe she’llknow?’
Leila is making these odd, whimpering noises, like a dog being beaten. Yet when she moves away, the sounds grow closer. It can’t be MissAzley, so there must be some animal, coweringinthe corner . . .
‘Lochan, hold myhand. Listento me, love, listen. The nurse willbe here anysecond, OK? Help is onits way.’
Only when the whimpers intensify do I realize they are actually coming frommy own mouth. I am suddenlyaware ofthe sound ofmyvoice, scratchingagainst the thinair like a saw.
‘Leila, yes, his sister, good idea. See ifyoucanfind her, willyou?’
Time hiccups; it is either later or sooner, I can’t tellwhich. The nurse has arrived, I’mnot sure why – I’m confused about everything now. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe theyare actually trying to help me. Mrs Shah’s got a stethoscope in her ears and is pulling open my shirt. I immediately lash out but MissAzleygrabs myarms and I amtoo weak to evenpushher away.
‘It’s all right, Lochan,’ she says, her voice low and soothing. ‘The nurse is just trying to help you. She’s not goingto hurt you. OK?’
The sawing noise continues. I throw back my head and screw up my eyes and bite down to stop it. The paininmychest is excruciating.
‘Lochan, can we get you off this chair?’ the nurse is asking. ‘Can you lie down on the floor so I cantake a proper look at you?’
I clingto the desk. No. Theyare not goingto pinme down.
‘Should I callanambulance?’MissAzleyis asking.
‘It’s just a bad panic attack – he’s had them before. He’s hyperventilating and his pulse is well over two hundred.’
She gives me a paper bagto breathe into. I twist and turnand tryto pushit awaybut I haven’t the strength. I have surrendered. I’m not even trying to struggle any more, but even so the nurse has to ask MissAzleyto hold the bagover mynose and mouth.
I watch it inflate and then crumple in front of me. Inflate and crumple, inflate and crumple, the crackling sound of paper filling the air. I try desperately to push it away – it feels like they’re suffocating me:there is no more oxygen left in the bag – but I have a dimrecollection ofbreathing into a baglike this before, and it helping.
‘OK, Lochan, just listen to me now. You were breathing much too fast and taking in far too much oxygen, which is why your body is reacting like this. Keep breathing into the bag. That’s it – you’re doing much better already. Try to slow your breathing down. It’s just a panic attack, OK? Nothing more serious thanthat. You’re goingto be fine . . .’
Breathinginto the baglasts for ever, or it takes less thana minute, a second, a millisecond; it takes so little time that it does not happen at all. I’mholding onto the side of my desk with my head resting against my outstretched arm. Everything is still shaking around me, the desk vibrating beneath my cheek, but it’s getting easier to breathe – I am concentrating on regulating my breaths carefully now and the paper bag lies discarded by my side. The electric shocks seem to be less frequent, and I’m beginning to see and hear and feel things around me more clearly: Miss Azley is sitting beside me, her hand rubbing the back of my damp shirt. The nurse is kneeling on the floor, her finger and thumb cold against my wrist, the stethoscope dangling from her ears. I notice her brown hair is greying at the roots. I can make out a sheet of my own scrawled handwriting beneath my cheek. The sawing noise has faded, replaced by short, sharp sounds like hiccups, similar to the ones Willa makes after a long cryingjag. The paininmychest is lifting. Myheart is steadier now – anaching, rhythmicalthud.
‘What happened?’
The familiar voice startles me and I struggle to sit up, my hand grasping feebly at the edge of the desk to stop myself from pitching forward. The jagged breaths intensify and I start shaking again. She’s standing right in front of me, between the nurse and the teacher, her hands cupped over her nose and mouth, blue eyes huge with fright. Relief at seeing her floods through me and I reach out for her frantically, afraid she willsuddenlywalk away.
‘Hey, Lochie, it’s allright, it’s allright, it’s allright.’She takes myhand inhers, grippingit tightly.
‘What onearthhappened?’she asks the nurse again, panic threadingher voice.
‘Nothing to worry about, love, just a panic attack. You can help by keeping nice and calm yourself. Why don’t you sit with himfor a bit?’ Mrs Shah snaps her medical bag shut and moves out ofsight, followed byMissAzley.
Nurse and teacher fade to the other side of the classroom, talking softly and rapidly between themselves. Maya pulls up a chair and sits down opposite me, her knees touching mine. She is pale withshock, her eyes, sharp and questioning, boringinto mine.
Elbows on thighs, I look up at her and manage an unsteady smile. I want to make some kind of joke but it’s too much effort to breathe and talk simultaneously. I try to stop shaking for Maya’s sake and press my right fist to my mouth to muffle the hiccupping sounds. My left hand grips hers with all mystrength, afraid to let go.
Stroking my clammy cheek and taking my right hand in hers, she draws it gently away from my mouth.
‘Listen, you,’she says, her voice fullofconcern. ‘What brought allthis on?’
I think back to Hamlet and my whole conspiracy theory and realize with a jolt how ridiculous I was being.
‘N-nothing.’ Breath. ‘Being stupid.’ I have to concentrate hard to get each word out between gasps, one cluster at a time. I feelmythroat constrict so I shake myhead witha wrysmile. ‘So stupid. I’msorry—’I bite downhard onmylip.
‘Stop being sorry, you idiot.’ She gives me a reassuring smile and strokes the inside of my hand. I find myself involuntarily clutching at her sleeve, afraid she is a mirage and will suddenly evaporate before myeyes.
The bellsounds, startlingus both.
I feelmypulse start to race again. ‘Maya, d-don’t go! Don’t go just yet—’
‘Lochie, I’ve no intentionofgoinganywhere.’
It’s the closest we’ve been all week, the first time she’s touched me since that terrible night in the cemetery. I swallow hard and gnaw at my lip, aware of the other two in the room, terrified I’mgoing to break down.
Maya notices. ‘Loch, it’s all right. This has happened before. When you first started at Belmont, just after Dad left, remember?You’re goingto be fine . . .’
But I don’t want to be fine, not if it means she’s going to let go of my hand; not if it means we’re goingto go back to beingpolite strangers.
After a while we go down to the nurse’s room. Mrs Shah checks my pulse and blood pressure, hands me a leaflet on panic attacks and mental health issues. Yet again there is talk of seeing the school counsellor, mention of exam pressure, the danger of overwork, the importance of getting enough sleep . . . Somehow I make all the right noises, nod and smile as convincingly as I can, all the while holdingmyselftight like a coiled spring.
We walk home in silence. Maya offers me her hand but I decline – my legs are steadier now. She asks me ifthere was some trigger, but whenI shake myhead she takes the hint and backs off.
At home I sit at the end of the couch. Right now, alone and uninterrupted, would be the perfect time for that conversation – the one where I apologize to her for what I said that night, explain again the reason for my crazy outburst, try to find out if she is still angry with me, while somehow making it clear that this is in no way an attempt to coerce her back into any kind of abnormalrelationship. But I can’t find the words, and I don’t trust myself to utter a single thing. The aftershocks of the panic attack coupled with Maya’s gentle concern have thrown me, and I feel as if I’mteetering on the edge ofa precipice.
Being brought juice and a peeled apple cut into quarters like for Tiffin or Willa threatens to tip me over. Maya watches me fromthe doorway as I switch on and mute the TV, pick at my shirt cuff, pull at a loose button. I can tell how anxious she is from the way she fiddles with her earlobe, a characteristic signofworryshe shares withWilla.
‘How are youfeeling?’
I attempt a bright, cheerful smile and the ache in my throat intensifies. ‘Fine! It was just a stupid panic attack.’
I want to make some kind of joke, but instead I feel a sudden tremor in my chin. I pull a face to disguise it.
Her smile fades. ‘Perhaps I should leave youinpeace for a little while—’
‘No!’ The word comes out louder than I intended. Heat rushing to my face, I force a desperate smile. ‘I just mean, now that we’ve got some time off, perhaps we should – you know – hang out together, l-like old times. Unless ofcourse you’ve got homework to do or something. . .’
Ahint of amusement touches her lips. ‘Yeah, right. I’mnot about to waste an afternoon off school onhomework, LochanJames Whitely!’
Closingthe door behind her, she curls up inthe armchair. ‘So, what are we watching?’
I grab the remote and fumble with the buttons. ‘Uh – well – surely there’s something other than CBeebies . . . How about this?’ I stop channel-flicking when I reach an old episode ofFriends and look at Maya for approval.
She gives me another ofher sad smiles. ‘Great.’
Canned laughter fills the roombut neither ofus seemable to joinin. The episode drags on and on. I am painfully aware that the two of us, alone together, have absolutely nothing to say to each other. Has our friendship beenshattered too?
I want to ask her, beg her, to tell me what’s going on inside her head. I want to try and explain what was going on in my head that night, why I reacted like such a bastard. But I can’t even turn to look at her. I feelher eyes, fullofconcern, onmyface. And I’msinkingina quicksand ofdespair.
‘D’you want to talk about it?’ Her voice, soft with concern, makes me start. Suddenly I’maware ofthe painfrombitingmylip, the weight ofthe tears that have slowlybeenaccumulatinginmyeyes.
With a panicked breath I quickly shake my head, raising a hand to my face. I press my fingers briefly against my eyes and shake my head dismissively. ‘I’m just feeling a bit weird from before.’ Straining to keep my voice steady, I can still hear its jagged edge. Turning, I force myself to meet her strickengaze witha desperate smile. ‘But I’mfine now. It’s nothing. Really.’
After a moment’s hesitation she gets up and comes over to sit on the opposite end of the couch, one foot tucked beneathher, auburnwisps framingher pale face.
‘Come on, silly, it’s not nothing if it’s making you cry.’ The words hang in the air, her concern swellingthe silence.
‘I’m not – it’s not—!’ I reply hotly, cheeks ablaze. ‘It’s just – I’m just—’ I take a deep breath, frantic to deflect her worry, to pull myself together. The last thing I want is for her to know how devastated I am at having lost her, for her to feel any pressure to resume a relationship that, in her mind, is fundamentallywrong.
She hasn’t moved. ‘You’re just what?’she asks gently.
I clear my throat and raise my eyes to the ceiling, forcing a short, painful laugh. I run my sleeve rapidlyacross myeyes as, to myhorror, a tear glances offmycheek.
‘Do youwant to tryto go to sleep for a bit?’
The concern in her voice is killing me. ‘No. I don’t know. I think – I think . . . Oh, for fuck sake—!’Another tear falls downmycheek and I swipe at it furiously. ‘Shit! What is this?’
‘Lochie, tell me. What happened? What happened at school?’ Sounding aghast, she leans towards me, reachingout to touchme.
I immediatelyraise myarmto deflect her. ‘Just give me a minute!’I can’t halt this – there’s nothing I can do. My chest shudders with repressed sobs. I cup my hands over my face and try holding my breath.
‘Lochie, it’s goingto be allright. Please don’t . . .’Her voice is softlyimploring.
The air bursts frommylungs. ‘Goddamnit, I’mtrying, OK? I can’t – I j-just can’t seemable to—’ I’mout ofcontrolnow and it terrifies me. I don’t want Maya to witness this. But neither do I want her to go. I need to get off this couch, out of this house, but my legs won’t obey me. I’mtrapped. I can feelthe blind panic descendingagain.
‘Hey, hey, hey.’ Maya firmly takes my hand in one of hers and cups my cheek with her other. ‘Shh. It’s OK, it’s OK. Just a build-up of stress, Lochie, that’s all. Look at me. Look at me. Was it the argument? Was it? Canwe talk about that a little bit?’
I’mtoo tired to fight any more. I feel my torso crumple, slowly tilting towards her until the side of myhead rests against hers, myhand coveringmyface. She strokes myhair and, reachingfor myother hand, starts kissingmyfingers.
‘In – in the cemetery,’ I choke, closing my eyes. ‘Please just tell me the truth. W-what you said, was it – was it true?’I breathe deeply, hot tears escapingfrombeneathmylashes.
‘God, Lochie, no,’she gasps. ‘Ofcourse it wasn’t! I was just angryand upset!’
Relief floods through me, so strong it almost hurts. ‘Maya, Jesus, I thought it was all over. I thought I’d ruined everything.’ I straighten up, breathing hard, rubbing my face fiercely. ‘I’mso sorry! All that horrible stuff I said. I just totally freaked out. I thought you wanted to – I thought you were goingto—’
‘I just wanted to touch you,’ she says quietly. ‘I know we can never go all the way. I know it’s illegal. I know the kids could be taken away if anyone found out. But I thought we could still touch eachother, stilllove eachother inother ways.’
I take a frantic breath. ‘I know. Me too. Me too! But we have to be so careful. We can’t get carried away. We can’t – we can’t risk . . . The kids . . .’
I see the sadness inher eyes. It makes me want to scream. It’s so unfair, so horriblyunfair.
‘Maybe one day, hey?’ Maya says softly with a smile. ‘One day, when they’ve grown up, we can runaway. Start anew. As a realcouple. No longer brother and sister. Free fromthese awfulties.’
I nod, desperatelytryingto share insome ofher hope for the future. ‘Maybe. Yes.’
She gives a tired smile and wraps her arms around my neck, resting her cheek against my shoulder.
‘And until then we can stillbe together. We can hold each other and touch each other and kiss eachother and be witheachother ineveryother way.’
I nod and smile through the tears, suddenly realizing how much we do have. ‘As well as the most important thingofall,’I whisper.
The corner ofher mouthtwitches. ‘What’s that then?’
Stillsmiling, I blink rapidly. ‘We canlove eachother.’I swallow hard to ease the constrictioninmy throat. ‘There are no laws, no boundaries onfeelings. We can love each other as much and as deeply as we want. No one, Maya, no one canever take that awayfromus.’

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN Maya

‘How come it’s youtoday?’
‘Because Lochan’s not feelingverywell.’
‘Did he throw up?’Willa flicks her long fair hair back behind her shoulders and the tiny gold studs

in her ears sparkle in the fading afternoon sun. Remnants of custard dapple the front of her pinafore and she is without her cardiganagain.
‘No, no. Nothingserious like that.’
‘Throwingup isn’t serious. Mummydoes it allthe time.’
Ignoring this last comment, I turn my attention to her clothes. ‘Willa, willyou do up your coat? It’s freezing!’
‘Can’t. The buttons are gone.’
‘Allofthem?Youshould have told me!’
‘I did. Miss Pierce says I’mnot allowed sellotape on my book bag too. She says I have to get a new one.’ She takes my hand and we cross the playground to the football area, where Tiffin is tearing around half undressed with a dozen other boys. ‘And we’re not allowed holes inour tights. I got told offinfront ofthe whole ofassembly.’
‘Tiff! Time to go!’ I yellas soon as he shoots past us. The game pauses briefly for a free kick and I yellagain.
He glances over angrily. ‘Five more minutes!’
‘No. We’re goingnow. It’s freezing, and youcanplayfootballat home withJamie.’
‘But we’re inthe middle ofa match!’
The game resumes and I try to get closer, nervously skirting the running, darting, yelling boys, their cheeks ablaze, eyes fixed on the ball, shouts echoing across the darkening playground. As he races past, I make a valiant grab for Tiffin, missing by miles. Behind me, Willa stands pressed up against the fence, coat flappingopen, shiveringhard.
‘Tiffin Whitely! Home, now!’ I shout at the top of my voice, hoping to embarrass him into submission. Instead, he dives into a tackle, wrong-footing his opponent and dribbling the ball towards the other side of the pitch at lightning speed. He pauses for a moment as a boy twice his size comes hurtling straight for him. Then he draws back his leg and shoots, the ball skimming the inside edge of the goalpost.
‘Goal!’ His hands punch the air. Whoops and yells join his own as his team-mates rush up to slap himonthe back. I give hima moment before divinginand dragginghimout bythe arm.
‘I’m not going!’ he screams at me as the game resumes behind us. ‘My team was winning! I scored the first goal!’
‘I saw that and it was a great goal but it’s getting dark. Willa is freezing and you’ve both got homework to do.’
‘But we always have to go straight home! How come the others are allowed to play? I’msick of stupid homework! I’msick ofalways beingat home!’
‘Tiffin, for God’s sake act your age and stop makinga scene—’
‘It’s not fair!’ The tip of his shoe suddenly makes violent contact with my shin. ‘I never get to do anythingfun. I hate you!’

Bythe time we locate Tiffin’s missingschoolbagand I get thembothout ofthe playground, it’s almost dark and Willa is so cold her lips are purple. Tiffin stalks on ahead, his face puce, blond hair wild, deliberately trailing his coat on the ground to annoy me, kicking at the tyres of parked cars in rage. My leg throbs painfully. Four bloody hours till bedtime, I think ruefully. Another hour before they are actually asleep. Five. My God, almost the length of a new school day. All I want is to reach that moment when the house goes quiet, when Kit finally turns down the rap and Tiffin and Willa stop bombarding me with requests. That moment when rushed, half-finished homework is pushed aside and Lochan is there, his smile tentative, his eyes bright, and anything, almost anything seems possible . . .

‘. . . so I don’t think she wants to be my friend anymore,’ Willa finishes mournfully, her icy hand buried inmine.
‘Mm, never mind, I’msure Lucywillchange her mind tomorrow – she always does.’
The smallhand is suddenlywrenched frommyown. ‘Maya, you’re not listening!’
‘I am, I am!’ I protest quickly. ‘You said that – uh – Lucy didn’t want to be your friend because—’
‘Not Lucy – Georgia!’ Willa cries woefully. ‘I told you yesterday that Lucy and me broke up because she stole my favourite purple pen, the one with the blue hearts on it, and she wouldn’t give it back eventhoughGeorgia saw her take it!’
‘Oh, that’s right,’I fumble, franticallytryingto recallthe conversation. ‘Your pen.’
‘You always forget everything these days, just like Mumdid when she used to live at home,’ she mutters.
We walk on for a few minutes in silence. Guilt coils itself around me, cold and unforgiving as a snake. I tryinvainto recallthe saga ofthe missingpen, and fail.
‘Bet youdon’t evenknow who’s mybest friend now,’Willa says, throwingdownthe gauntlet.
‘Course I do,’I answer quickly. ‘It’s – it’s Georgia.’
Willa shakes her head at the pavement ina gesture ofdefeat. ‘Nope.’
‘Well, then, it’s Lucy really, because I’m sure once she gives you back your pen, the two of you will—’
‘It’s no one!’ Willa shouts suddenly, her voice cutting through the sharp air. ‘I don’t even have a best friend!’
I stop and stare at her inastonishment. Willa has never shouted at me withsuchfurybefore.
I tryto put myarmaround her. ‘Willa, come on, you’ve just had a bad day—’
She pulls away. ‘No I haven’t! Miss Pierce gave me three gold stars and I got all my spellings right. I told youabout it but allyousaid was Mm. Younever listento me anymore!’
Wrenching herself away fromme, she breaks into a run. I catch up with her just as she rounds the corner into our street. Forcing her round to face me, I squat down and try to hold her still. She sobs quietly, rubbingher face angrilywiththe palms ofher hands.
‘Willa, I’m sorry – I’m sorry, my darling, I’m so sorry. You’re right. I haven’t been listening properly and that was really mean of me. It’s not that I’mnot interested, it’s not that I don’t care. It’s just that I’ve beenso busyrevisingfor myexams and I’ve got so muchwork and I’ve beenso tired— ’
‘That’s not true!’ She gives a muffled sob and tears spill over her fingers, running down between the cracks. ‘Youdon’t . . . listen. . . or playwithme . . . as much. . . as youdid . . . before . . .’
I clutch at a nearby railing for support. ‘Willa, no – It’s not that – I d . . .’ But even fumbling for excuses, I’mforced to confront the truthbehind her words.
‘Come here,’ I say at last, wrapping my arms tightly around her. ‘You’re my favourite girl in the whole world and I love you so, so much. You’re right. I haven’t beenlistening to you properly because Lochie and I are always trying to sort out all the household things. But that’s all boring stuff. Fromnow onI’mgoingto start havingfunwithyouagain. OK?’
She nods and sniffs and wipes her hair away fromher face. I pick her up and she wraps her arms and legs around me like a baby monkey. But through the warmth ofher arms round my neck, the heat ofher cheek against mine, I sense mywords have left her unconvinced.

Despite the loud slap of shoes against the concrete steps, he does not lower his book. I stop halfway up the flight of steps and lean against the rail, waiting, the sounds of the playground rising up from below me. Still he refuses to look up, no doubt hoping whoever it is will ignore him and continue on their way. When it becomes clear that this is not going to happen, he glances briefly over the top of the paperback before almost droppingit insurprise. His face lights up witha slow smile. ‘Hey!’
‘Heyyourself!’
He closes his book and looks at me expectantly. I stand there watching him, fighting back a grin.
He clears his throat, suddenlyshy, a flushcreepinginto his cheeks.
‘What – um– what are youdoinghere?’
‘I came to sayhi.’
He reaches for my hand and begins to get up, readyto move further up the staircase, out of sight

ofthe pupils inthe playground below.
‘It’s allright, I’mnot staying,’I informhimquickly.
He stops and the smile fades. Registering the school bag on my back, the PE kit slung over my

shoulder, he looks concerned. ‘Where are yougoing?’
‘I’mtakingthe afternoonoff.’
His eyes sharpenand his expressionsobers. ‘Maya—’
‘It’s just one afternoon. I’ve onlygot art and crap.’
He gives a worried sigh, looking bothered. ‘Yeah, but if you get caught, you know there could be

trouble. We can’t risk drawinganymore attentionto ourselves now that Mum’s never around.’ ‘We won’t. Not ifyoucome withme and use your Upper Sixthpass.’
He eyes me witha mixture ofuncertaintyand surprise. ‘Youwant me to come too?’ ‘Yes please.’
‘I could just give youmypass,’he points out.
‘But thenI wouldn’t have the pleasure ofyour company.’
The flush rises again, but the corner of his mouth pulls upwards. ‘Mum said something about

poppinghome todayto pick up some clothes—’
‘I wasn’t thinkingofgoinghome.’
‘Youwant to walk the streets tillthree thirty? I haven’t got anymoneyonme.’
‘No. I want to take yousomewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s a surprise. Not far.’
I cansee his curiosityis roused. ‘O-OK—’
‘Great. Go get your stuff. I’llmeet youbythe mainentrance.’
I disappear back down into the playground before he has time to start worrying again and change
his mind.
Lochan takes an age. By the time he arrives, break is almost over and I fear he’ll be questioned for leaving the building just before the bell. But the security guard barely glances at his pass as I slip unnoticed ahead ofhimthroughthe glass doors.

Out onthe street, Lochanturns up his jacket collar against the cold and asks, ‘Now are yougoing to tellme what allthis is about?’
I smile and shrug. ‘It’s about havinganafternoonoff.’
‘We should have planned this. I’ve onlygot fiftypence onme.’
‘I’mnot askingyouto take me to the Ritz! We’re just goingto the park.’
‘The park?’He looks at me as ifI’mcrazy.

Ashmoore on a weekday in the middle ofwinter is predictably empty. The trees are mostly bare, their long spiked branches silhouetted against the pale sky, the large expanses of grass splashed with silver patches of ice. We follow the wide central path towards the wooded area on the far side, the humof the city gradually fadingbehind us. A few damp benches dot the empty landscape, abandoned and redundant. In the distance, an old man is throwing sticks for his dog, the animal’s sharp yaps breaking the stillair. The park feels vast and desolate:a cold, forgotten island in the middle of a big city. Curled sandpaper leaves skim across the path, carried by a whisper of wind. A scatter of pigeons dart excitedly around some crumbs, their heads bobbing up and down, pecking feverishly at the ground. As we approachthe trees, squirrels dashout boldlyinfront ofus, turningtheir heads this way and that to eye us with shiny big black beads, hoping for signs of food. High above us in an anaemic sky, the white orb of the sun, like a giant spotlight, fixes the park with its hard wintry rays. We abandon the pathand enter the smallwood, dried foliage and twigs cracklingand crunchingagainst the frozenearth beneathour feet. The unevenground slopes gentlydownwards.

Lochan follows me silently. Neither of us have spoken since entering the park gates and abandoning the world behind us, as if we are trying to leave our daily selves behind in the noisy hubbub of dirty streets and jostling traffic. As the trees begin to thicken around us, I duck beneath a fallenlogand thenstop and smile. ‘This is it.’

We are standing in a small hollow. The shallow dip in the ground is carpeted with leaves and surrounded by a few remaining green ferns and winter shrubs, enclosed in a circle of bare trees. The ground beneath us is a tapestry of russet and gold. Even in the depths of winter, my little piece of paradise is stillbeautiful.

Lochanlooks around inbewilderment. ‘Are we here to burya bodyor digone up?’ I give hima long-suffering look, but just then a sudden gust ofwind causes the branches overhead to sway, scattering the sun’s icy rays like shards of glass into my corral, making it feel magical, mysterious.
‘This is where I come when things get too much at home. When I want to be alone for a while,’ I tellhim.
He looks at me in astonishment. ‘You come here by yourself?’ He blinks in bewilderment, hands dugdeep into his jacket pockets, stillgazingaround. ‘Why?’
‘Because when Mum starts drinking at ten o’clock in the morning, when Tiffin and Willa are tearing around the house screaming, when Kit is trying to pick a row with everyone who crosses his path, when I wish I didn’t have a family to look after, this place gives me peace. It gives me hope. In summer it’s lovelyhere. It silences the roar that’s constantlyinmyhead . . .
‘Maybe, fromtime to time, this could be your place too,’ I suggest quietly. ‘Everyone needs time off, Lochan. Evenyou.’
He nods again, still looking around, as if trying to imagine me here by myself. Then he turns back to me, the collar ofhis black jacket flapping against his untucked white shirt, tie loosened, the bottoms of his grey trousers muddied by the soft earth. His cheeks are pink from the long cold walk, hair tousled by the wind. However, we are sheltered here, the sun warmonour faces. Asudden flurry of birds alight on the topmost branch of a tree, and as he raises his head, the light is reflected in his eyes, turningthemtranslucent, the colour ofgreenglass.
His gaze meets mine. ‘Thanks,’he says.
We sit down in my grassy enclave and huddle together for warmth. Lochan wraps his armaround me and pulls me towards him, kissingthe top ofmyhead.
‘I love you, Maya Whitely,’he says softly.
I smile and tilt myface to look up at him. ‘How much?’
He doesn’t answer, but I hear his breathing quicken: he lowers his mouth over mine and a strange humfills the air.
We kiss for a long time, sliding our hands in between layers ofclothing and absorbing each other’s heat untilI amwarm, hot even, myheart thumpinghard, a sparkling, tinglingfeelingrushingthroughmy veins. Birds continue to peck at the earth around us, somewhere in the distance a child’s whoop breaks the air. Here, we are truly alone. Truly free. Ifanyone happened to walk by, allthey would see is a girl and her boyfriend kissing. I feel the pressure of Lochan’s lips strengthen as if he too realizes how priceless this little moment of freedomis. His hand slides beneath my school shirt and I press my hand up against his thigh.
Then, abruptly, he is pulling 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 small, embarrassed laugh.
‘About what?’
His breathingis fast and shallow. ‘I needed to stop.’
Somethingtightens inmythroat. ‘But that’s fine, Lochie. Youdon’t have to apologize.’
He doesn’t respond. There is somethingabout his stillness that disturbs me.
I move over so that I’m pressed close to him and give him a gentle nudge. ‘Shall we go for a wander?’
He tilts awayfromme slightly. Raises a shoulder without turning. Doesn’t reply.
‘YouOK?’I ask lightly.
He gives a briefnod.
Aflutter ofworryrises inmychest. I stroke the back ofhis head. ‘Yousure?’
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 cominghere a mistake?’
‘No!’
I cover his hand withmine and stroke the back ofit withmythumb. ‘What then?’
‘Just—’ His voice quavers. ‘I’m afraid that all this will one day be nothing more than a distant memory.’
I swallow hard. ‘Don’t saythat, 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’ll have to stop—’He breaks offsuddenlyand holds his breath, shakinghis 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 ananguished whisper. ‘How – how canwe make it against the whole world?’
I want Lochan to say he’ll find a way. I need him to say we’ll both find a way. Together we’ll 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 ofsomeone 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 collapse like a house of cards. One slip-up and we could all be torn apart . . . Lochan’s defeatist attitude terrifies me. It’s as if he knows something I don’t. ‘Lochie, tell me we canstaytogether!’
He reaches out for me and I crumple against himwith a sob. Wrapping his arms around me, he holds me tight. ‘I’ll do everything,’ he whispers into my hair. ‘I give you my word. I’ll do everything I can, Maya. We’llfind a wayto staytogether. I’llfigure it out, I will. OK?’
I look up at himand he blinks back tears, givingme a bright, reassuring, hopefulsmile.
I nod, smilinginreturn. ‘Together we’re strong,’I reply, myvoice bolder thanI 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 sungraduallybegins to dip inthe sky.

CHAPTERNINETEEN Lochan

In the mornings I shower with the speed of lightning, throw on my clothes, and as soon as I’ve got Tiffin and Willa 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 usually tying back her hair or buttoning her shirt cuffs or stuffing books into her bag, her bedroomdoor ajar, and pops out sporadically 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 pull 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 supervisingbrushingto 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 warmand smooth; mine feelharsh and rough against them. At the sound ofKit’s slow, dragging footsteps just the other side ofthe thin wall, Maya tries to pullback. However, as soon as the bathroom door slams, she gives in and slides round so her back is pushed up against the door. I digmynails into the wood oneither side ofher head inanattempt to keep myhands under control as our kisses grow increasingly frantic; the longing inside me quells any fear of being caught as I feel the last precious seconds of ecstasy run through my fingers like sand. Ashout fromdownstairs, the sound of Kit re-emerging fromthe bathroom, feet pounding up the stairs – all 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 filling 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 usually the first to leave the bedroom, striding into the vacated bathroom to splashwater onher face while I cross over to mybedroomwindow and throw it open, clutchingat the edge ofthe silland suckingingreat lungfuls ofcold air.

I don’t understand, I don’t understand. Surely this has happened before. Surely other brothers and sisters have fallen in love. Surely they have been allowed to express their love, physically as well as emotionally, without beingvilified, ostracized, throwninto prisoneven. But incest is illegal. Byloving each other physically as well as emotionally, 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 technicallyhaving 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 Willa from school, helping them with homework, makingsure theyhave cleanclothes for the followingday, playingwiththemwhentheyare 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 Mumover 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 smaller, Willa’s uniform gets more ragged, Kit complains bitterly about the new gadgets his friends all have, and the bills keep floodingin. . .

Whenever I’mapart fromMaya, I feelincomplete . . . less thanincomplete. I feellike I’mnothing, like I don’t exist at all. 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, willing her to come over to sit with me, to talk to me, to make me feelalive and realand loved, but even just talking is too risky. So she sits on the wallat the far end ofthe playground, chatting to Francie, careful not to glance up at me, as aware as I amofthe danger ofour situation.

Inthe evenings I seek her out as soonas Tiffinand Willa have beentucked in, too earlyfor it to be safe. She turns fromher desk, her hair skimming the page of her textbook, and points meaningfully 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 finally goes to bed Maya is passed out inhers.

Half-term brings little respite. It rains all week and, cooped up inside with no money for outings or even the cinema, Tiffin and Willa bicker constantly while Kit sleeps all day and then disappears with his friends until the small hours of the morning. Late one night, restless and burning with relentless agitation, I pull on my running shoes and leave the sleeping house, jogging all 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 eventually find Maya’s oasis of peace, but it brings me none. I fall to my knees before the trunk of a huge oak tree and, making a fist, grate my knuckles up and down its harsh, jagged, unforgivingbark untiltheyare bloodyand raw.

‘Lochie needs a plaster,’ Willa announces the following evening to Maya, the family’s first-aider, as she comes throughthe door lookingspent. ‘Abigone.’
Maya drops her bagand blazer to the floor and gives a tired smile.
‘Roughday?’I enquire.
‘Three tests.’She rolls her eyes. ‘And PEinthe hailstorm.’
‘I’m helping Lochie make dinner,’ Willa says proudly, kneeling on a kitchen stool and arranging frozenchips into patterns onthe oventray. ‘Wanna help, Maya?’
‘I think we’re doing pretty good just the two ofus,’I point out quickly as Maya flops into a chair, her tie askew, and pushes the stragglywisps ofhair back fromher face, blowingme a discreet kiss.
‘Maya, look! I made my name in capital chips!’ Willa pipes up, noting our exchanged looks, anxious to be included.
‘Very clever.’ Maya gets up and lifts Willa onto her lap before settling down with her and leaning over the tray to try and create her own name. I watch themfor a moment. Maya’s long arms encircle Willa’s shorter ones. Willa is fullofchatter about her day while Maya is the attentive listener, asking all the right questions. Heads bent close, their long straight hair mingles: Maya’s auburn against Willa’s gold. They both have the same delicate, pale skin, the same clear blue gaze, the same smile. On her lap, Willa is solid and alive, full of bubble and laughter. Maya somehow looks more delicate, more fragile, more ethereal. There is a sadness in her eyes, a weariness that never really leaves. For Maya, childhood ended years ago. As she sits with Willa on her lap, I think:Sister and sister. Mother and child.
‘Youcando the M like this,’Willa declares importantly.
‘You’re good at this, Willa,’ Maya tells her. ‘Now, what were you saying about Lochan needing a plaster?’
I realize I have beenchoppingup the same bunchofspringonions ever since Maya first came in. I have a board fullofgreenand white confetti.
‘Lochie hurt his hand,’Willa states matter-of-factly, her eyes stillnarrowed onthe chips.
‘Witha knife?’Maya looks up at me sharply, her eyes registeringalarm.
‘No, it’s just a graze,’ I reassure her with a dismissive shake of the head and an indulgent smile towards Willa.
Willa turns to look at Maya. ‘He’s lying,’she stage-whispers conspiratorially.
‘CanI see?’Maya asks.
I flashher the back ofmyhand.
She flinches at the sight and instantly moves to get up, but then, anchored to her seat by Willa, is forced to sit downagain. She reaches out. ‘Come here.’
‘I don’t want to see it!’ Willa lowers her head towards the tray. ‘It’s all bleeding and sticky. Eek, yuck, gross!’
I let Maya take myhand inhers, just for the pleasure oftouchingher. ‘It’s nothing.’
She strokes the inside ofmyhand withher fingers. ‘Jesus, what happened? Surelynot a fight—?’
‘Ofcourse not. I just tripped and scraped it against the wallofthe playground.’
She gives me a longdisbelievinglook. ‘We need to cleanit properly,’she insists.
‘I have.’
Ignoring my last comment, she gently slides Willa off her lap. ‘I’mgoing upstairs to sort Lochie’s hand out,’she says. ‘I’llbe back ina minute.’
In the small confines of the bathroom, I rummage around in the medicine cupboard for the antiseptic. ‘I appreciate the concern, but don’t youthink yougirls are beinga bit paranoid?’
Ignoring me, Maya perches on the edge of the bath and reaches out towards me. ‘It’s only because we love youso 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 pulls me closer and I turn away, waving the antiseptic bottle aloft. ‘I thought youwanted to playnurse!’
She looks at me with a mixture of uncertainty and surprise, as if trying to gauge whether I’m teasing.
‘Muchas I love dabbingup blood, it doesn’t quite matchup to grabbinga rare moment to kiss the guyI love.’
I force a laugh. ‘Are yousayingyou’d rather let me bleed to death?’
She pretends to consider this for a moment. ‘Ah, well, that’s a toughone.’
I start uncappingthe 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 fromthe wound: a jagged white rectangle surrounding the wet, crimson lacerations. She winces. ‘Christ, Lochan. You did this falling against a wall? It looks like you took a grater to the back ofyour hand!’
She gently dabs at my savaged knuckles. I take a deep breath and watch her face: her eyes are narrowed inconcentration, her touchverygentle. I swallow painfully.
After bandaging it with gauze and putting everything away, she returns to the side of the bath and kisses me again, and as I pullback, rubs myarmwithanuncertainsmile.
‘Is it reallyhurting?’
‘No, of course not!’ I exclaim truthfully. ‘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 reachfor 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 thanthat for myefforts?’
I pulla face and motionawkwardlytowards the door. ‘Willa . . .’
‘She’llbe spaced out infront ofthe 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 expressionis quizzical. ‘What’s up withyoutoday?’
I shake myhead witha wrysmile. ‘I dunno. I think I’mjust 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, shallwe 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 Willa eating with her hands, or Kit openly winding up the little ones byignoringhis mealand eatingthe Jaffa Cakes meant for dessert. I sense it is better to let themjust do what the hell they want rather than object – for fear that if I start, I won’t be able to stop and the cracks will 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 somethingwrong.
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 still further. Will 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 will we be for ever condemned to lead closet lives, hidden away behind locked doors and drawn curtains? Or worse still, once our siblings are old enough, will we have no choice but to runawayand leave thembehind?
I keep telling myself to take one day at a time, but how is this really possible? I amabout to leave school, start university, and therefore, by default, amforced to contemplate my future. What I’d really 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 aimfor a job with a decent starting salaryand good earningpotential.
For I have little faith that once I’m earning, our mother will continue to support us. By the time I leave uni, Willa willbe eight, stillrequiring a whole decade of financialand practicalsupport. Tiffin will need another seven, Kit another two . . . The years and numbers and calculations blow my mind. I know that Maya will 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 dreamof being an actress, I could never let the family stand in her way. I could never deny her that right – the right ofanyhumanbeingto choose the life theywant 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 will fall. Only the thought of Maya at my side makes the ascent seem possible at all. But lately the sacrifices just seemto be gettingbigger.
Our mother has been desperate to marry Dave from the moment she set eyes on him, yet Dave, even with his divorce now finalized, has not proposed, clearly not prepared to take on the extra baggage ofanother large family. Our mother has already made her choice – but now I’mabout to turn eighteen and legally become an adult I fear she may cut us off completely in a final bid to get that ring on her finger. Every time I force her to part with some money for the basics – food, bills, new clothes, schoolthings – she starts yellingabout how she left schooland started work at sixteen, moved out and asked her parents for nothing. Reminding her that she didn’t have three younger siblings to care for is her cue to go onabout how she never wanted childreninthe first place, how she onlyhad us to please our father, how he’d wanted another and another until, tiring of us all, he’d run off to start anew with someone else. I point out that our father’s desertion does not somehow magically give her the right to desert us too. But this only provokes her further, prompting the cheap-shot reminder that she would never have married our father had she not accidentally got pregnant with me. I know she says this out ofdrunken fury, but I also know it’s true:this is why she has continued resenting me, far more than the others, all my life. This then leads to the usual tirade about how she works fourteen-hour days just to keep a roofover our heads, that allshe asks ofme is that I look after my siblings for a few hours after school each day. If I try reminding her that although this was the initial set-up when our father left, the reality now is very different, she starts screaming about her right to a life too. Finally I find myself reduced to blackmail: only the threat of us all turning up at Dave’s, suitcases in hand, will force her to part withthe cash. Inmanyways I amthankfulshe has finallygone fromour lives, evenifit means that thoughts about the future, our future, weighheavilyuponme.
Sleep evades me once more, so in the early hours of the morning I go down to the kitchen to tackle the pile of letters addressed to Mum that have been accumulating on the sideboard for weeks now. By the time I finish opening them all, the kitchen table is completely covered with bills, credit card statements, payment demands . . . Maya touches the back ofmyneck, makingme jump.
‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’ She takes the chair beside me, resting her bare feet on the edge of mine, circlingher knees withher arms. Inher nightdress, her hair hangingloose and smooth, the colour of autumn leaves, she looks up at me with eyes as wide and innocent as Willa’s. Her beauty makes me ache.
‘You look just like Tiffin when he’s lost a match and is trying to put on a brave face,’ she comments, laughter inher eyes.
I manage a smalllaugh. Sometimes, beingunable to hide myemotions fromher is frustrating.
The laughter leaves anunsettlingsilence.
Maya tugs gentlyat myhand. ‘Tellme.’
I take a sharp, shallow breath and shake my head at the floor. ‘Just, you know, the future and stuff.’
Although she keeps smiling, I see her eyes change and sense she has been thinking about this too. ‘That’s a bigtopic for three o’clock inthe morning. Anypart ofit inparticular?’
I force my eyes to meet hers. ‘Roughly from here up until the part where Willa goes off to universityor starts work.’
‘I think you’re jumping the gun a bit!’ Maya exclaims, clearly determined to snap me out of my mood. ‘Willa is destined for greater things. The other dayI had to take her to Belmont withme to pick up some homework I’d forgotten and everyone turned to mush! My art teacher said we should get her signed up with a children’s modelling agency. So I reckon we just invest in her, and by the time she’s eighteen she’ll be on the catwalk and supporting us! Then there’s Tiffin. Rumour has it, Coach Simmons has never seen so much talent in one so young! And you know what they pay footballers!’ She laughs, frantic inher efforts to cheer me up.
‘Good point. Exactly . . .’ I try to imagine Willa on a catwalk in the hope it will prompt a genuine smile. ‘That’s a great idea!Youcanbe her, um, stylist and I canbe her manager.’
But the silence descends again. It’s clear from her expression that Maya is aware her tactics haven’t worked. She skims her nails over the palmof my hand, her expression sobering. ‘Listen, you. First of all, we don’t know what’s going to happen with Mumand the whole financial situation. Even if she does marry Dave and tries to cut us off financially, we could just threaten to take her to court and sue her for neglect – she’s too stupid to realize we’d never go through with it because of Social Services. And by our mere existence, we’llalways have the potentialto mess up her relationship – the threats about turningup at Dave’s inorder to get her to paythe bills have worked so far, haven’t they? Thirdly, by the time you finish uni, a lot will almost have changed. Willa will be nearly nine, Tiffin will almost be a teenager. They’ll be going to school by themselves, will be responsible for their own homework. Kit may have grown a conscience by then, but even ifhe hasn’t, we’llinsist he either goes out and gets a job or takes over his fair share of the chores – even if we have to resort to blackmail.’ She smiles, raising my hand to her mouth to kiss it. ‘The toughest part is happening right now, Lochie – with Mum suddenly out of the picture and Tiffin and Willa still so young. But it’s only going to get easier: things will get better for all of us, and you and I will have more and more time together. Trust me, mylove. I’ve beenthinkingabout it too and I’mnot just sayingallthis to tryand cheer youup.’
I raise my eyes to meet hers and feel some of the weight lift frommy chest. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that . . .’
‘That’s because you’re always busy thinking ofthe worst-case scenario!And because you always do your worrying alone.’ She gives me a teasing smile and shakes her head. ‘Also you always forget about the most important thing!’
I manage to matchher smile. ‘What’s that then?’
‘Me,’ she declares with a flourish, flinging out her arm and knocking over the milk carton in the process. Fortunatelyit is almost empty.
‘Youand your abilityto send things flying.’
‘Well, exactly,’ she concurs. ‘And the very important fact that I’mhere to worry with you and go throughall of this – every little bit of it by your side: even your worst-case scenario, should it somehow come to that. You wouldn’t be doing any of it alone.’ Her voice drops and she looks down at our hands, fingers entwined, restingonher lap. ‘Whatever happens, there willalways be us.’
I nod, suddenly unable to speak. I want to tellher that I can’t pullher down. I want to tellher that she has to let go of my hand in order to swim. I want to tell her that she must live her own life. But I sense she alreadyknows these options are opento her. And that she too has made her choice.

CHAPTERTWENTY Maya
‘Fifteen minutes,’ Francie begs. ‘Oh, come on, then – ten. Lochan knows you had a late class so surelyanextra tenminutes isn’t goingto make muchdifference!’
I look at my friend’s pleading, hopeful face and a moment of temptation flickers through me. An ice-cold Coke and maybe a muffin at Smileys with Francie while she tries to get herselfnoticed by the new young waiter she has discovered there – postponing the hectic evening routine of homework, dinner, baths and bed – suddenlyfeels like anabsurd luxury. . .

‘Just give Lochan a call now,’ Francie persists as we cross the playground, bags slung over our shoulders, heads foggy and bodies restless after the long, stale school day. ‘Why on earth would he mind?’

He wouldn’t, that’s the whole point. In fact he would urge me to go, and that knowledge weighs me down with guilt. Leaving himto make dinner and supervise homework and deal with Kit when his school day has been nearly as long as mine and undoubtedly more painful. But more to the point, I ache to see him even ifit entails spending another evening struggling against the painful urge to hold him, touch him, kiss him. I miss himafter a whole day apart – I literally miss him. And even if it means diving straight froma deathly history lesson into the manic home fray, I can’t wait to do it just to see his eyes light up at the sight of me, the smile of delight that greets me whenever I step through the front door – evenwhenhe is jugglingsaucepans inthe kitchen, tryingto persuade Tiffinto laythe table and stop Willa stuffingherselfwithcereal.
‘I just can’t. I’msorry,’I tellFrancie. ‘There’s just so muchstuffto do.’
But for once she displays no sympathy. Instead she sucks on her lower lip, leaning her shoulder against the outer wall of the school playground, the place at which we normally part. ‘I thought I was your best friend,’she says suddenly, hurt and disappointment resonatinginher voice.

I flinchinsurprise. ‘Youare – youknow youare – it’s got nothingto do with—’ ‘I know what’s goingon, Maya,’she interrupts, her words slicingthe air betweenus. Mypulse begins to quicken. ‘What onearthare youtalkingabout?’
‘You’ve met someone, haven’t you.’ She phrases it as a statement, folding her arms across her
chest and turningto press her back against the wall, lookingawayfromme, her jaw set.
I am momentarily lost for words. ‘No!’ The word is no more than an astonished little gasp. ‘I haven’t. I promise. Whydid you. . . ? What made youthink . . . ?’
‘I don’t believe you.’ She shakes her head, still staring angrily into the distance. ‘I know you, Maya, and you’ve changed. Whenyoutalk, youalways seemto be thinkingabout somethingelse. It’s like you’re daydreaming or something. And you seem weirdly happy these days. And you’re always rushing off at the last bell. I know you’ve got all that shit to deal with at home but it’s as if you’re lookingforward to it now, as ifyoucan’t wait to get away—’
‘Francie, I really haven’t got some secret boyfriend!’ I protest desperately. ‘You know you’d be the first to know if I had!’ The words sound so sincere as they leave my lips that I feel slightly ashamed. But he’s not just a boyfriend, I tellmyself. He’s so much more.
Francie scrutinizes my face as she continues to quiz me, but after a few moments she begins to calm down, appearing to believe me. I have to make up some crush on a boy in the Upper Sixth to explainthe daydreaming, but fortunatelyI have the presence ofmind to choose one who alreadyhas a steady girlfriend so Francie won’t try to matchmake. But the conversation leaves me shaken. I’m going to have to be more careful, I realize. I’m even going to have to watch the way I behave when I’mawayfromhim. Just the tiniest slip could give us away. . .

I arrive home to find Kit and Tiffin in the front roomwatching TV, which surprises me. Not so much the fact that they are watching television, but that they are doing it simultaneously and that Tiffin is the one with the remote control. Kit is slouched down at one end of the couch, his muddy school shoes halfuntied, head propped up on his hand, gazing dully at the screen. Tiffin has traces ofketchup down his shirt and is kneeling up at the other end of the couch, transfixed by some violent cartoon, his eyes wide, mouthhoveringopenlike a fish. Neither one turns as I enter.
‘Hello!’I exclaim.
Tiffin holds up a packet of Coco Pops and shakes it vaguely in my direction, his gaze still fixed straight ahead. ‘We’re allowed,’he announces.
‘Before dinner?’ I query suspiciously, tossing my blazer onto the sofa and collapsing on top of it. ‘Tiffin, I don’t think that’s a verygood—’
‘This is dinner,’ he informs me, taking another large handful from the box and cramming it in his mouth, scatteringthe area around him. ‘Lochie said we could eat whatever we liked.’
‘What?’
‘They’ve gone to the hospital.’ Kit rolls his head round to look at me with a long-suffering air. ‘And I have to staydownhere withTiffinand live offcerealfor the foreseeable future.’
I sit up slowly. ‘Lochie and Willa have gone to hospital?’I ask, disbeliefresonatinginmyvoice.
‘Yeah,’comes Kit’s reply.
‘What the hell happened?’ My voice rises and I jump up and start rummaging in my bag for my keys. Startled bymyshout, bothboys finallytear their eyes awayfromthe screen.
‘I bet it’s nothing,’Kit says bitterly. ‘I bet they’re goingto spend allnight waitinginCasualty, Willa willfallasleep and bythe time she wakes up, she’llbe sayingit doesn’t evenhurt anymore.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Tiffin turns to him, his blue eyes wide and accusing. ‘Maybe she’ll have to get anoperation. Maybe they’llamputate her—’
‘What happened?’I yell, frantic now.
‘I dunno! She hurt her arm, I wasn’t evendownhere!’Kit says defensively.
‘I was,’ Tiffin announces importantly, shoving his whole arminto the cereal box. ‘She slipped off the counter and fell onto the floor and started screaming. When Lochie picked her up she screamed evenmore so he carried her out into the street to get a taxiand she was still screaming—’
‘Where have theygone?’I grab Kit bythe armand shake him. ‘St Joseph’s?’
‘Ow, get off!Yes, that’s what he said.’
‘Neither of you move!’ I shout from the doorway. ‘Tiffin, you’re not to go outside, do you hear me? Kit, can you promise you’ll stay with Tiffin until I get back? And answer the phone as soon as it rings?’
Kit rolls his eyes dramatically. ‘Lochan’s alreadybeenthroughallthis—’
‘Do youpromise?’
‘Yes!’
‘And don’t openthe door to anyone, and ifthere’s anyproblemcallmymobile!’
‘OK, OK!’
I run the whole way. It’s a good two miles but the rush-hour traffic is such that taking a bus would be slower ifnot more torturous. Running helps activate the safety valve in my brain, forcing out visions of an injured, screaming Willa. If anything terrible has happened to that child, I will die, I know it. My love for her is like a violent pain in my chest and the blood throbs in my head, a pounding hammer of guilt, once again forcing me to acknowledge that since my relationship with Lochan began – despite my recent efforts – I have still not been paying my little sister as much attention as before. I’ve rushed her through baths and bedtimes and stories, I’ve snapped at her at times when Tiffin was the culprit, I’ve declined request after request to play with her, citing housework or homework as an excuse, too wrapped up in keeping everything in order to give her a mere ten minutes of my time. Kit commands attention constantly with his volatility, Tiffin with his hyperactivity, leaving Willa by the wayside, drowned out by her brothers during dinner-table conversations. As her only sister, I used to play dolls and tea-parties with her, dress her up, play with her hair. But these days I have been so preoccupied with other things I even failed to register that she’d fallen out with her best friend, failed to recognize that she needed me: to listen to her stories, ask her about her day, and praise her for her almost impeccable behaviour which, by its very nature, did not draw attention. The gash on her leg for example: not only was Willa stuck at school in pain all afternoon with no one to fetch her and comfort her, but – worse and more telling still – she didn’t even think of saying anything to me about the incident untilI happened to notice the huge plaster beneaththe hole inher tights.
I amclose to tears by the time I reach the hospital, and once inside, trying to get directions almost sends me over the edge. Eventually I locate Children’s Outpatients, am told that Willa is fine but ‘resting’ and that I will be able to see her as soon as she wakes. I am shown to a small room off a long corridor and informed that Willa’s ward is just round the corner and that a doctor will come and speak to me shortly. As soonas the nurse disappears, I burst back out again.
Rounding a corner, I recognize, down at the far end of another blindingly white corridor, a familiar figure in front of the brightly painted doors of the children’s ward. Head lowered, he is leaning forward onhis hands, grippingthe edge ofa windowsill.
‘Lochie!’
He whirls round as if struck, straightens up slowly, then approaches me rapidly, raising his hands as ifinsurrender.
‘She’s fine, she’s fine, she’s absolutely fine – they gave her a sedative and gas and air for the pain and were able to push the bone straight back in. I’ve just seen her and she’s fast asleep but she looks completely fine. After they X-rayed her the second time, the doctors said they were certain there’d be no long-termdamage – she won’t even need a plaster cast and her shoulder willbe back to normalin a week or possibly even less! They said dislocated shoulders happen to children all the time, that it’s really quite common, they see it all the time, it’s nothing to worry about!’ He is speaking insanely fast, his eyes radiating a kind of frenzied optimism, looking at me with a frantic, almost pleading look as if expectingme to start jumpingup and downinrelief.
I stop dead, pantinghard, brushingthe straywisps ofhair back frommyface, and stare at him.
‘She dislocated her shoulder?’I gasp.
He flinches, as ifstung by the words. ‘Yeah, but that’s all! Nothing else! They’ve X-rayed her and everythingand—’
‘What happened?’
‘She just fell off the kitchen counter!’ He tries to touch me but I move out of the way. ‘Look, she’s fine, Maya, I’mtelling you! There’s nothing broken: the bone just popped out of the shoulder socket. I know it sounds dramatic, but all they had to do was push it back in. They gave her gas and air so it wasn’t too – too painful, and – and now she’s just resting.’
His manic demeanour and rapid-fire speech is faintly horrifying. His hair is on end, as if he has been runninghis fingers through it and tugging it repeatedly, his face white, his school shirt hanging loose over his trousers, clingingto his skinindamp patches.
‘I want to see her—’
‘No!’ He catches me as I try to push past. ‘They want her to sleep off the sedative – they won’t let youinuntilshe wakes up—’
‘I don’t give a shit! She’s my sister and she’s hurt and so I’mgoing in to see her and no one can stop me!’I beginto shout.
But Lochan is forcibly restraining me and, to my astonishment, I suddenly find myself grappling with himin this long, bright, empty hospital corridor. For a moment I amalmost tempted to kick him, but thenI hear himgasp, ‘Don’t make a scene, youmustn’t make a scene. It’lljust make it worse.’
I fallback, breathinghard. ‘Make what worse? What are youtalkingabout?’
He approaches me, his hands reaching for my shoulders, but I back away, refusing to be pacified by any more meaningless words of comfort. Lochan lets his arms fallwith a hopeless, desperate look. ‘They want to see Mum. I told themthat she was abroad on business, but they insisted on a number. So I gave themher mobile but it just went straight to voicemail—’
I pullmyphone out. ‘I’llcallher at Dave’s. And I’lltrythe pub and Dave’s mobile too—’
‘No.’Lochanholds his hand up ina gesture ofdefeat. ‘She’s – she’s not there . . .’
I stare at him.
Lowering his arm, he swallows and walks slowly back towards the window. I notice that he’s limping. ‘She’s – she’s gone away with him. Just for a holiday, apparently. Somewhere in Devon, but Dave’s son doesn’t seem to know where. He just said he thought – he thought they’d be back on Sunday.’
I gape at him, horror coursingthroughmyveins. ‘She’s gone for the whole week?’
‘Apparently. Luke didn’t seemto know – or care. And her phone’s been off for days. Either she forgot her charger or she’s switched it off deliberately.’ Lochan goes back to lean against the windowsill, as if the weight of his body is too great for his legs to bear. ‘I’ve been trying to call her about the bills. Yesterday after school I went round, and that’s when Luke told me. He’s staying in his dad’s flat withhis girlfriend. I didn’t want to worryyou—’
‘Youhad no right not to tellme!’
‘I know, I’msorry, but I figured there was nothingwe could do . . .’
‘So what now?’ I amno longer speaking in measured tones. Ahead pops out froma door further downand I tryto reelmyselfin. ‘She has to stayinhospitaluntilMumcomes to fetchher?’I hiss.
‘No, no . . .’ He puts out a reassuring hand and again I dodge it. I’m furious at him for trying to shush me, for keeping this from me, for treating me like one of the children and just repeating that everythingis goingto be allright.
Before I have the chance to quiz him any more, a short, balding doctor comes out through the double doors, introduces himself to me as Dr Maguire and shows us back into the small room. We each take a seat on a spongy, low-slung chair and, holding up large X-rays, the doctor shows us the before and after pictures, explains the procedure that took place and what to expect next. He is cheerful and reassuring, echoes most of what Lochan has told me already and assures me that although Willa’s shoulder will be sore for a few days and she will have to wear a sling, it should be back to normal in a week. He also informs us that she is now awake and eating dinner and that we cantake her home as soonas she is ready.
We can take her home. I feel myself go limp. We all stand up and Lochan thanks Dr Maguire, who smiles broadly, reiterates that we can take Willa home as soon as she’s ready, and then asks if it would be all right to send Mrs Leigh in now. Lochan puts his hand against the wall as if to steady himselfand nods rapidly, chewingonhis thumbnailas the doctor leaves.
‘Mrs Leigh?’I turnto Lochanwitha questioningfrown.
He swings round and looks at me, breathing hard. ‘Don’t say anything. OK? Just don’t say anything.’His voice is low and urgent. ‘Let me do the talking – we can’t risk contradicting each other. If she asks you anything, just go along with the usual business-trip story and tell her the truth – you had a late class and didn’t come home tillafter it had happened.’
I gaze at Lochan across the small roomin bewilderment. ‘I thought you said they were fine about Mum.’
‘They are. It’s – it’s just procedure . . . for this type of injury, they say. Apparently they have to file some kind of report—’ Before he can get any further, a knock sounds and a large woman with a head offrizzyginger hair enters.
‘Hello there. The doctor told you I’d be coming in to have a word? I’mAlison – from the Child ProtectionAgency.’She extends her hand towards Lochan.
Asmallsound escapes me. I turnit into a cough.
‘LochanWhitely. N-nice to meet you.’
He knew!
I’m aware I’m being addressed. I take her podgy hand in mine. For a moment I literally cannot speak. My mind has gone blank and I’ve forgotten my own name. Then I force a smile, introduce myselfand take a seat inthe smalltriangle.
Alison is rummaging about in a large bag, pulling out a folder and pen and various forms, chatting as she does so. She asks Lochan to confirm the situation with Mum, which he does in a surprisingly steady voice. She appears satisfied, scribbles a few things down, and then looks up from her notes witha broad, artificialsmile.
‘Well, I’ve already had a word with Willa about what happened. She’s a delightful little girl, isn’t she? She explained she was in the kitchen with you, Lochan, when she fell. And that, Maya, you were stillat school, but your two brothers were at home.’
I look across at Lochan, willing him to make eye-contact with me. But he seems to have deliberatelyturned away. ‘Yes.’
Another of those fake smiles. ‘OK, so in your own time, explain to me how the accident occurred.’
I don’t understand. This isn’t even about Mum. And surely Lochan gave the details of the fall to the doctor incharge whenhe brought Willa in.
‘R-right. OK.’ Lochan leans forwards, elbows on knees, as if desperate to tell this woman every detail. ‘I – I came into the kitchen and Willa was up on the counter where she’s not allowed to be because it’s – it’s really quite high, and – and she was on tiptoe trying to reach a box of b-biscuits on the top shelf—’He is speaking in that manic, staccato way again, almost tripping over his words in his hurry to get them out. I can see the muscles in his arms vibrating, and he is scraping at the sore beneathhis mouthso hard that it’s startingto bleed.
Alisonjust nods, scribbles some more, looks up againexpectantly.
‘I t-told her to get down. She refused, saying her brothers had each eaten some and had then ddeliberately put the biscuits up there out of her reach.’ He is panting, staring at the formas if trying to read what’s beingrecorded.
‘Go on. . .’
‘So I – I repeated what I’d just said—’
‘What exactlydid yousay?’The woman’s voice is sharper now.
‘J-just – well, basicallyjust:Willa, get down now.’
‘Was that spokenor shouted?’
He seems to be having trouble breathing, the air making a scraping noise at the back of his throat. ‘Um– well – well – the first time I was speaking quite loudly b-because I was worried to see her up there again, and – and the second time, after she refused, I – I suppose, y-yes, I sort of shouted.’ He glances up at her, chewingthe corner ofhis lip, the rise and fallofhis chest rapid.
I can’t believe this woman! Making Lochan feel guilty about shouting at his sister when she was doingsomethingdangerous?
‘And then?’The woman’s eyes are verysharp. She seems particularlyattentive now.
‘Willa – she, well, she i-ignored me.’
‘And so what did youdo?’
There is a terrible silence. What did you do? I repeat to myself, desperate to butt in but trapped by my promise to let Lochan do the talking, on top of the fact that I wasn’t actually there. Does this Child Protection person ask the parent of every injured child brought into hospital what it was the parent had done? Guilty until proven innocent? This is ridiculous! Children fall and hurt themselves all the time!
But Lochan isn’t answering. I feelmy heart start to pound. Don’t start getting stage-fright now, I begwithhiminmyhead. Don’t make it look as if you have something to hide!
Lochan is frowning and sighing and chewing his lip as if trying to remember, and with a shock I realize he is close to tears.
I press myselfback into the chair and bite downhard to stop myselffromintervening.
‘I p-pulled her down.’His chinquivers briefly. He doesn’t look up.
‘Could youexplainexactlyhow youdid that?’
‘I went – I went over and g-grabbed her by the arm and then – and then I pulled her off the counter.’ His voice cracks and he raises his fist to his face, pressing his knuckles hard against his mouth.
Lochan, what the hell are you talking about? You would never deliberately hurt Willa – you know that as well as I do.
‘Yougrabbed her armand pulled her to the floor?’The womanarches her eyebrows.
Silence stretches out across the room. I can hear my own heartbeat. Finally Lochan lowers his fist fromhis mouth and takes a ragged breath. ‘I pulled her armand – and—’ He looks up at the corner of the ceiling, tears amalgamating in his eyes like translucent marbles. ‘I know I shouldn’t have – I wasn’t thinking—’
‘Just tellme what happened.’
‘I p-pulled her arm and she slipped. She – she was wearing tights and her feet just slid off the counter’s surface. I – I kept hold of her arm as she fell to try and stop her from hurting herself and that’s whenI felt this – this snap!’He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, as ifinterrible pain.
‘So you were holding onto her arm when she hit the floor and the weight of her body pulled the bone out ofthe socket?’
‘It was counter-intuitive to let go of her as she fell. I – I thought I’d c-caught her, not – not wrenched her arm out of its socket. Jesus!’ A tear glances off his cheek. He swipes at it rapidly. ‘I didn’t think—’
‘Lochie!’
His eyes meet mine this time. ‘It – it was anaccident, Maya.’
‘I know!’I exclaiminsoft outrage.
The damn woman is scribbling again. ‘Are you often left in charge of your siblings, Lochan?’ she asks.
I recoil back into the chair. Lochan presses his fingers against his eyes and takes some steady breaths, trying to pull himself together. He shakes his head vehemently. ‘Only when our mother has to go awayonbusiness.’
‘And how oftendoes that happen?’
‘It – it depends . . . Everycouple ofmonths or so . . .’
‘And when she’s away, I presume you have to fetch themfromschool, cook for them, help them withhomework, entertainthem, put themto bed—’
‘We do it together,’I sayquickly.
The womanturns towards us bothnow. ‘That must be exhaustingafter a longschoolday—’
‘They’re good at entertainingthemselves.’
‘But whentheymisbehave, youmust have to discipline them.’
‘Not really,’I sayfirmly. ‘They’re prettywell-behaved.’
‘Have youever hurt one ofyour siblings before?’the womanasks, turningtowards Lochan.
He takes a breath. The fight with Kit flashes through my mind. ‘No!’I exclaimin outrage. ‘Never! ’

In the cab on the way home we are all three silent, spent, exhausted. Willa is curled up on Lochan’s lap, her armstrapped up across her chest, the thumb of her other hand in her mouth. Her head rests against Lochan’s neck, spots of light from passing cars float over her golden hair. Lochan holds her tightly against him, staring blankly out of the window, face pale and stunned, his eyes glazed, refusing to meet mine.

We arrive home to a tornado-hit kitchen, the front room’s carpet embedded withcrisp, biscuit and cereal crumbs. To our amazement, however, Tiffin is actually in bed and Kit is still in the house, up in the attic, music pounding down through the ceiling. While Lochan gives a groggy Willa a drink and some Calpoland puts her to bed, I climb up the ladder to let Kit know we’re back.

‘So has she broken her arm, or what?’ Despite the nonchalant tone of his voice, I recognize a spark of worry in his eyes as he glances up at me from his Gameboy. I push his legs to one side to make roomonhis mattress and sit downbeside his sprawled-out figure.
‘She hasn’t actuallybrokenanything.’I explainabout the dislocated shoulder.
‘Yeah. Tiff said Loch lost his temper and pulled Willa off the kitchen counter.’ His face darkens suddenly.
I pullmyknees to mychest and take a deep breath. ‘Kit, youknow it was anaccident. Youknow Lochan would never hurt Willa intentionally, don’t you?’ My voice is questioning, serious. I know the answer, I know he does too, but I need himto be honest withme for a moment and actuallyadmit it.
Kit takes a breath, ready for a sarcastic retort, but then seems to hesitate as his gaze locks into mine. ‘Yeah,’he confesses after a moment, a hint ofdefeat inhis voice.
‘I know you’re angry,’ I say quietly, ‘about how things turned out with Mum and Dad, about Lochan and me always being the ones in charge – and Kit, you have every right to be . . . but you know what the alternative is.’
His eyes have slid away, back to his Gameboy, uncomfortable about the sudden change in conversation.
‘IfSocialServices found out that Mumwas no longer livingat home, that we were onour own—’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ he interrupts gruffly, pounding the buttons of his games console viciously with his thumbs. ‘We’d be taken into care and split up and all that shit.’ His voice sounds fed up and angry, but I cansense the fear behind it.
‘It’s not going to happen, Kit,’ I reassure him quickly. ‘Lochan and I will make sure of that, I promise. But it does mean we have to be careful, really careful, about what we say to other people. Even ifit’s just some mate at school. Allit would take would be for himto mention it to his parents, or to another friend . . . allit would take is one call to SocialServices—’
‘Maya, I get it.’ His thumbs stop moving against the buttons and he looks up at me sombrely, suddenly appearing much older than his thirteen years. ‘I won’t tell anybody about Willa’s arm – or anythingelse that could get us into trouble, OK? I promise.’

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE Lochan

We keep Willa off school for the rest of the week in order to avoid awkward questions, and I call in sick and stayat home withher. But byMondayshe is bored, has lost the slingand is eager to returnto her friends. Mum returns from Devon, and when I finally track her down at Dave’s for money, she shows scant interest inWilla’s injury.

I am having trouble sleeping again. Whenever I ask Willa about her shoulder, she gives me this worried look and assures me that it’s ‘allmended now’. I know she reads the guilt onmyface, but this onlymakes me feelworse.

The green glow of my digital alarm reads 02:43 when I get up and creep out of my room and down the corridor. Released fromthe warmth ofthe duvet, I quickly start to shiver in my holey T-shirt and boxers. The creak of the bedroomdoor makes Maya stir and I wince, anxious not to wake her. Closing it softly behind me, I pad over to the wall opposite her bed, sliding down against it, my bare arms turning silver in the light of the moon. She continues to shift sleepily, nuzzling her face against the pillow, thenabruptlyraises herselfonone elbow, pushingback her longcurtainofhair.

‘Lochie, is that you?’Astartled, frightened whisper.
‘Yeah– shh– sorry– go back to sleep!’
She struggles to sit up, rubbing sleep fromher eyes. Finally her eyes focus on me and she shivers,

pullingthe duvet around her. ‘Are youtryingto give me a heart attack? What onearthare youdoing?’ ‘I’msorry– I reallydidn’t meanto wake you—’
‘Well, youhave now!’She gives me a sleepysmile and holds up the edge ofthe duvet. I quickly shake my head. ‘No . . . I just – can I watch you sleep? I know that sounds weird but –

but I can’t sleep at the moment and it’s doing my head in!’I give a sharp, painfullaugh. ‘Watching you sleep makes me feel—’ I inhale deeply. ‘I dunno . . . at peace . . . D’you remember, I used to do it whenwe were young.’

She smiles in faint recollection. ‘Well, you’re unlikely to get to sleep sitting there on the floor.’ She holds out a portionofduvet again.
‘No, no, it’s fine. I’lljust stayhere for a while and thengo back to bed.’
With a sigh of mock-irritation, she gets out of bed, pads over and pulls me up by the wrist. ‘Come on, get in. God, you’re shaking.’
‘I’mjust cold!’I snap, myvoice comingout harsher thanI intended.
‘Well, come here then!’
The warmth of her duvet envelops me. She slides onto my lap and the touch of her warm skin, her arms and legs wrapped around me, forces me to begin to relax. Hugging me tight, she buries her face inmyneck. ‘MyGod, you’re anicicle.’
I let out a strained laugh. ‘Sorry.’
For a few moments we are both quiet. Her damp breath tickles my cheek. We lie down and I feel my body gently thaw against hers as she strokes the back of my head, running her fingers across my neck . . . God, how I wish we could stay like this for ever. Suddenly, for no reason, I feel close to tears.
‘Tellme.’
It’s as ifshe canfeelthe painthroughmyskin. ‘Nothing. Just, youknow, the usualcrap.’
I can tell she doesn’t believe me. ‘Listen,’ she says. ‘Remember what Willa said the other day? We’re the grown-ups. We’ve always shared the responsibilities. Youdon’t have to start tryingto shield me fromrealitynow.’
I press my mouth against her shoulder and close my eyes. I’m afraid of worrying her, afraid of tellingher how tornup I feelinside.
‘You think you can do the worrying for the both of us,’ she whispers. ‘But it doesn’t work like that, Loch. Not in an equal relationship. And that’s what ours is. That’s what we’ve always had. Our relationship maybe changinginsome ways, but we can’t possiblylose what we had before.’
I exhale slowly. Everything she says makes sense. In every way imaginable she is so much wiser thanme.
Blowinginto myear, she tickles me. ‘Hey, have youfallenasleep?’
I smile slightly. ‘No, I’mthinking.’
‘Ofwhat, mylove?’
Asmallaftershock runs through me. My love. She has never called me that before. Yet that’s who we’ve become. Two people inlove.
‘What happened withWilla . . .’I beginunsteadily. ‘That must have givenyoua fright.’
‘I think it gave us botha fright.’
Unspokenwords hover inthe air betweenus.
‘Maya, you know, I – I really did pull her armquite hard. It’s – it’s no wonder she fell,’ I manage ina frantic rush.
She lifts her head from my chest and props it up on one hand, her face turning white in the moonlight. ‘Lochie, did youmeanto pullher offthe counter?’
‘No.’
‘Did youmeanto hurt her?’
‘Course not.’
‘Did youmeanto dislocate her shoulder?’
‘No!’
‘OK,’ she says gently, stroking my face. ‘Then that train of thought leads nowhere. It was a complete accident. Don’t let that stupid woman at the hospital make you doubt that for one tiny second!’
Tears of relief threaten to overwhelm me. I didn’t think she blamed me, but I couldn’t be sure. I take a deep breath. ‘But now SocialServices have got us ontheir radar – Jesus!’
‘Then we’ll just have to keep beneath it, same as always.’ Maya pulls herself up onto her elbow, looking down at me. Her hair partly obscures her face and I cannot read her expression. ‘Lochie, you’ll be eighteen next month. We’ve got this far. We can keep going! We can keep this family together, youand I. We’re a good team, we’re a great team. Together we’re strong!’
I nod slowly against the pillow and reach up to stroke her cheek. Maya circles my wrist with her hand and gently kisses each finger. My hand slides down her neck, her chest, comes to rest against her breast . . . SuddenlyI canfeelmyheart.
Maya is watching me intently, her eyes very bright in the shadows. I can hear my breath, hot and heavy, suddenly acutely aware that all that separates our two bodies is a cotton nightie, a thin T-shirt and underwear. I runmyhand downher ribs, across her stomach, towards her bare thigh. Maya leans forward. Taking the bottom of my T-shirt in her hands, she begins to raise it, slowly pulling it up and over my head. She then reaches down and pulls off her nightie. I emit a ragged gasp. Her body is perfectlywhite, insharp contrast to her hair, almost fieryinthe moonlight. Her lips are a dark pink, her cheeks lightly flushed, and her eyes bluer than the sea – watchful, uncertain. The colours and contrasts overwhelm me. My gaze travels down over her, taking in the upward curve of her breasts, the taut skin of her stomach, the long slender legs. I could stare at her for ever. I can make out the ridge of her collarbone, the peaks of her hips. Her skin looks so smooth I long to kiss it. I want to feel every part ofher but myhands tightenagainst the sheet.
‘We cantoucheachother,’Maya whispers. ‘Just touch eachother. There’s no law against that.’
Reaching out, she gently runs her finger up my stomach, across my chest and into the curve of my neck; cupping my cheek in her hand, she leans forward to kiss me. I close my eyes, and with trembling hands, stroke her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Circling her with my arms, I pull her gently back down against the pillows and slowly, tentatively, as if afraid of hurting her, begin to trace myfingers downher body. . .

I awake with a start to find myself alone in Maya’s bed, but the house around me is silent. Ascrap of paper bearing my name is left beside me on the floor. After reading it, I fall back against the pillows, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Last night feels like a dream. I can’t believe we spent it together, naked, our hands stroking each other’s bodies; can’t believe I actually felt her naked form press against mine. At first I was scared we might get carried away – might cross that final, forbidden barrier, but just touching each other was so incredible, so powerful, so thrilling, it took my breath away. I wanted more, of course I wanted more, but I knew that, for now, this would have to be enough.

I am jolted out of my reverie by the slam of the front door, the sound of a school bag being dropped to the floor, followed by softly creaking footsteps on the stairs. The bedroom door inches open, and I pullmyselfup against the headboard as Maya’s face breaks into a smile. ‘You’re awake!’

She bounds over to the window and throws open the curtains, and I rub my eyes against the bright morninglight. I yawnand stretch, wavingthe note she left me.
‘Maya, what were you thinking? We can’t just skip school.’ The reproach in my voice fades as she jumps onto the bed beside me and gives me a cold kiss.
‘Eek, you’re freezing.’
She collapses beside me, the back of her head hitting the wall with a thud, squashing my legs with hers. ‘Youdidn’t have anythingimportant ontoday, did you?’
‘I don’t think so . . .’
‘Good, well, me neither.’
I take in her flushed face, the wisps of hair framing her face, her school uniform. ‘You pretended to the others youwere goingto schooland thenjust came home again?’
‘Yes – as soonas I saw Kit go throughthe gates, I turned back!Youdidn’t think I was gonna give youthe dayoffalone, did you?’She gives me a wicked grin. ‘Come on, youawake yet?’
Shaking my head, I raise my hand to my mouth and yawn again. ‘I don’t think so. How come I didn’t hear the alarm?’
‘I turned it off.’
‘Why?’
‘You were sleeping so deeply, Loch. You’ve been looking so knackered. I just couldn’t bear to wake you—’
I start to smile, blinkingat her sleepily. ‘I’mnot complaining.’
‘Really?’ I watch her face light up. ‘We have the whole day to ourselves!’ She gazes up at the ceiling in delight. ‘I’mgoing to get changed, and then I thought we could make pancakes and then we could go for a walk and then—’
‘Wait, wait, wait. Come here first.’I reachfor her armjust as she is about to rolloffthe bed.
‘What?’
‘Come here!’Stillsquintingslightlyagainst the light, I tugat her wrist. ‘Kiss me.’
Maya laughs and obliges, sliding back down beside me. Slowly I unbutton her shirt and she wriggles out of her skirt. Ducking beneath the warmth of the duvet, I start tracing a line of kisses downher body. . .

She is standing naked in front of the open door of her wardrobe when I return fromthe shower and it takes her a moment to notice me hovering in the doorway, watching her. She turns, meets my gaze, and blushes. She reaches out for the crumpled sheet at the end ofher bed and wraps it round beneath her arms. The white materialswirls around her feet, making me smile. I pullon my underwear and join her bythe window, kissingher cheek. ‘I do.’

She looks at me questioninglyand thendownat the sheet before breakinginto giggles. ‘Insickness and inhealth?’she asks. ‘Tilldeathus do part?’
I shake myhead. ‘Waybeyond that,’I say. ‘For ever.’
She takes my hands and leans in for a kiss. It hurts. Suddenly everything hurts and I don’t know

why.
‘Look at the sky,’she says, restingher head inthe crook ofmyneck. ‘It’s so blue.’ And suddenlyI do know:it’s because everythingis so beautiful, so wonderful, so utterlyglorious –
yet it cannot possiblylast, and I want to preserve this moment for the rest ofmylife.
I wrap my arms around her and press my cheek against the top of her head, then notice the bracelet against her white wrist, the silver glintinginthe morningsun. I reachdownand touchit.
‘Promise me you’llalways keep it,’I say, myvoice unsteadysuddenly.
‘Ofcourse,’she replies instantly. ‘Whywouldn’t I? I love it. It’s the most beautifulthingI own.’
‘Promise me,’ I say again, running my fingers over the smooth metal. ‘Even if – even if things don’t work out . . . Youdon’t have to wear it. Just keep it hiddensomewhere.’
‘Hey.’ She tilts her head so that I amforced to meet her eyes. ‘I promise. But things are going to work out. Look at us – they already have. You’re about to be eighteen, and then next month I’ll be seventeen. We’re nearly adults, Lochie, and once we are, no one will be able to stop us from doing what we want.’
I lift myhead, nod and force a smallsmile. ‘Right.’
I see her expression shift. She leans her forehead against my cheek and closes her eyes as if in pain. ‘You have to believe it, Lochie,’ she whispers. ‘We both have to believe it with all our might if we want to make it happen.’
I swallow hard and grasp the tops ofher arms. ‘I believe it!’
She opens her eyes and smiles. ‘So do I!’
This is the definition of happiness: a whole day stretching out ahead of me, beautiful in its emptiness and simplicity. No crowded classrooms, no packed corridors, no lonely breaks, no cafeteria lunch, no droning teachers, no relentless ticking clock, no counting down the minutes to the end of yet another dreary day . . . Instead we spend it in a kind of joyous delirium, trying to savour every moment, enjoy to the full our bubble of happiness before it bursts. We make pancakes and mess about with the strangest combinations of fillings: Maya wins Most Disgusting with her combination of Marmite, cornflakes and ketchup, which has me gagging over the bin. I win Most Artistic with frozen peas, red grapes and Smarties on a bed of mayonnaise. We close the curtains in the front room and cuddle up on the sofa. Sometime in the early afternoon Maya falls asleep in my arms. I watch her in slumber, tracing my finger across the contours of her face, down her neck, over the smooth white shoulder, down the length of her arm, along each of her fingers. The sun pours in through the hastily drawn curtains, the clock on the mantelpiece ticks its relentless countdown, the thin needle making its way mercilessly round and round the face. I close my eyes and bury my face in Maya’s hair, trying to shut out the sound, desperate to stop the precious time we have together from runningthroughmyfingers like sand.
When she wakes, it is just gone three. In half an hour she will have to pick up Tiffin and Willa, while I clean up the mess in the kitchen and carefully remove any remaining items of clothing fromher bedroom floor. I cup her flushed, sleepy face in my hands and start kissing her with a fervour borderingonhysteria. I feelangryand desperate.
‘Lochie, listen to me,’ she tries to say between kisses. ‘Listen, my love – listen. We’ll just start skippingschooleverycouple ofweeks!’
‘I can’t wait another whole fortnight—’
‘What if we don’t have to?’ she says suddenly, eyes igniting. ‘We could spend every night together, like yesterday. Once we’re sure Tiff and Willa are asleep, you can come and get into my bed—’
‘Every night? What ifone ofthemwalks in? We can’t do that!’But she has myattention.
‘There’s that rusty bolt at the bottomof my door, remember? We can just lock it! Kit always falls asleep plugged into his headphones. And the other two hardlyever wake up inthe night anymore.’
I chew on my thumbnail, thinking hard about the risks, desperately torn. I look up into Maya’s bright eyes and remember last night, feeling her smooth naked body beneath my hands for the first time. ‘OK!’I whisper witha smile.
‘Lochie?Are you better, Lochie?Are you taking us to schooltomorrow, Lochie?’Willa is allconcern, climbingonto mylap as I sit sprawled out infront ofthe TV.
Tiffin’s concern is more casual, but present nonetheless. ‘You got flu or what?’ he asks me in his growing East End accent, blowing the long fair hair out of his eyes. ‘Are you ill? You don’t look ill. How longare yougonna be illfor, anyway?’

With a jolt, I realize that my taking a day off schoolhas thrown them. Previously I’ve gone in with flu and even bronchitis, just because the kids had to be taken in, Kit had to be watched, Social Services had to be kept off our backs, so taking a day off wasn’t usually an option. I realize too that they associate any kind of ‘serious’ illness with Mum: Mum collapsing drunk on the doorstep, Mum retching over the toilet bowl, Mum lying passed out on the kitchen floor. They aren’t worried about mysupposed headache, theyare worried I willdisappear.

‘I’ve never felt better,’ I reassure them truthfully. ‘My headache’s all gone. Why don’t we all go and playoutside together for a bit?’
It is amazing the difference a day off school can make. Usually, by this time, I amdragged down with exhaustion, snappy and on edge, desperate to get the kids into bed so I can get a moment alone with Maya and a start on homework before I find myself falling asleep at my desk. Today, as the four of us set up a game of British Bulldog, I feel almost weightless, as if the Earth’s gravity has dramatically decreased. So, as the sun begins to set on the mild March day, I find myself standing in the middle of the empty street, hands on knees, waiting for the three of themto come tearing towards me, hopingto make it to the opposite side without gettingcaught. Tiffinlooks allreadyfor takeoff, one sneakered foot pressed back against the wall, his arms bent, hands clenched into fists, a look offierce determinationinhis eyes. I know that onthe first round, I have to give hima runfor his moneywithout actually catching him. Willa is receiving last-minute instructions from Maya who, by the looks of things, is planning diversionary tactics to allow her to run straight across the road without getting caught.
‘Come on!’Tiffinyells impatiently.
Maya straightens up, Willa hops up and down in excitement and I count down, ‘Three, two, one, go!’
Nobody moves. I gallop sideways so that I’m directly facing Willa and she squeals in delighted terror, pressing herself back against the wall like a starfish, as iftrying to push herself right through. Then Tiffin is off like a bullet, heading away from me at a sharp angle. Anticipating his move, I race towards him, blocking his trajectory. He hesitates, torn between the humiliation of running back to the safety of the wall and the risk of making a run for it. Boldly, he chooses the latter. I give chase immediately, but he’s surprisinglyfast for his size. He makes it to the other side bythe skinofhis teeth, face glowingpink withexertion, eyes triumphant.
Maya has used this diversionto send Willa onher way. She runs wildlytowards Tiffin, so intent on reaching safety she almost launches herself straight into my arms. I take a step back and growl in an attempt to send her offin a different direction. She freezes, a rabbit caught in headlights, her blue eyes huge withthe thrilloffear. Fromeither side ofthe street, the other two screamout instructions.
‘Go back, go back!’Tiffinscreeches.
‘Go around him, dodge him!’ Maya yells, confident in the knowledge that I’ll only pretend to try and catchher.
Willa makes a move to my right. I lunge for her, my fingers brushing the hood of her coat, and with a squeal she hurls herself towards the wall, head-butting Tiffin in the stomach, who promptly doubles over witha dramatic yell.
Maya is now the only one left, dancing about on the other side of the street, making Tiffin and Willa laugh.
‘Run, just runfor it, Maya!’Tiffinscreams helpfully.
‘Go this way– no this way!’Willa squeals, pointingwildlyinalldirections.
I flash Maya an evil grin to signal that I have every intention of catching her, and she bites back a smile, a hint ofmischiefinher eyes. Hands inpockets, I start saunteringtowards her.
She goes for it. Catching me off guard, she sets off at an acute angle. I match her pace for pace and start laughing in anticipated triumph as we approach the boundary. Then, out of nowhere, she wrong-foots me and goes tearing back the opposite way. I hurl myself after her but it’s no use. She makes it to the other wall, yelpingintriumph.
In the next round I catch Tiffin, whose disappointment soon turns to glee as he finds himself in the role of predator. Ruthlessly, he goes straight for Willa and catches her within seconds of her leaving the safety of the wall, sending her flying. Bravely she picks herself up, briefly examines her scraped palms, and then dances about excitedly in the middle of the road, stretching her arms out as if hoping to block our path. As we surge towards her, Maya and I both try so hard to allow her to catch us that we end up colliding and she grabs us both, provoking much hysteria. Maya has just begun her turn when, in the distance, I make out a lone figure trailing down the road towards us, and recognize Kit, dragginghimselfhome dejectedlyafter anhour spent indetentionfor swearingat a teacher.
‘Kit, Kit, we’re playing British Bulldog!’ Tiffin yells excitedly. ‘Come and join in! Please! Lochie and the girls are allrubbish. I’mrulingthis game!’
Kit stops at the gate. ‘Youalllook like a bunchofretards,’he announces coldly.
‘Well, come and livenup the game then,’I suggest. ‘Youknow, I could do withsome competition. This game is piss easyfor a runner like me.’
Kit lowers his bag and I see him hesitate, torn between expressing the usual contempt for his familyand the desire just to be a kid again.
‘Unless you’re worried I’lloutrunyou,’I say, throwingdownthe gauntlet.
‘Yeah, right, in your dreams,’ Kit sneers. He turns towards the front door but at the last minute pulls back. Abruptly, he takes offhis blazer.
‘Yay!’Tiffinscreams.
‘Youcanbe onour team!’Willa screams.
‘We don’t have teams, youdumbhead!’Tiffinyells back.
Soonwe are embroiled inyet another round. I amback inthe middle and determined to chase Kit into the ground – without actually catching him, obviously. Typically, he is the last to peel himself off the wall after all the others have made it safely to the other side. He waits for what feels like an eternity, clearly trying to test my patience. I start wandering off, turning my back on him, even bending down to tie my shoelace, but he is wise to all my tricks. Only when I am a couple of metres away from him does he finally move, deliberatelymaking it as difficult for himself as possible. He wrongfoots me, legs it sharp right, hesitates as I block him, then begins to back away. He gives me his cocky, mockingsmile, but I cansee the sharp determinationinhis eyes. I lunge for him. He dodges me by millimetres and sets off at a blinding sprint. I charge after him, intent on making up the short gap between us. I grab himby his shirt collar just as his hands slap the wall. When he turns to face me, his face is aglow witha delight I haven’t seeninhimfor years.
We play on, well into the dark. Willa eventually collapses in exhaustion and goes to sit in the warmthofthe hallway, watchingus and yellinginstructions throughthe opendoor. Maya is next to join her. I amleft with Tiffin and Kit, and suddenly we’re all playing for real. Tiffin’s football skills come in handy, making him impossibly slippery to catch. Kit uses every trick in the book to distract me, and soon the two of them are ganging up on me, using each other as foils, locking me into the role of chaser. Finally, in exhaustion, I go for Kit like a demented bull. I catch him inches away from safety but he refuses to surrender, reaching out desperately for the wall and half dragging me along with him. We fall to the ground and I’m tearing at his shirt to stop him sliding out of my grasp while Tiffin is tryingto use himselfas a humanchainbetweenKit and the wall.
‘I won, I won!’Kit yells.
‘No way!Youhave to touchthe wall, youbigcheat!’
‘I touched it!’
‘Youdidn’t!’
‘I touched Tiff’s hand and he’s touchingthe wall!’
‘That doesn’t count!’
I have Kit pinned to the ground and he screams to Tiffinfor help. Tiffinbravelyleaves the safetyof the wallbut immediatelygets pulled downontop ofus. ‘Got youboth!’I cry.
‘Cheater, cheater!’Theydeafenme withtheir yells.
Soon we can’t move for laughter and exhaustion, Tiffin straddling my back and Kit, shaking with mirth, reaching out for a nearby twig and using that to touch the wall. We finally peel ourselves off the road, filthy and battered. Kit’s face is streaked with dirt and Tiffin’s shirt collar torn as we limp inside, long after dinner time, long after the homework hour. Once the boys have been persuaded to wash their hands, we collapse around the kitchen table with Maya and Willa, feasting on snacks and Nutella straight fromthe jar.
Kit tries to trip me as I get up to put the kettle on. ‘We should have a rematch,’ he informs me. ‘Youneed the practice.’
And thenhe smiles.

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO Maya

Over the last few weeks a momentous change seems to have occurred. Suddenly everyone seems so much happier, so much more at ease. Kit starts behaving like a civilized human being. Lochan turns eighteen – we all go out to Burger King to celebrate and Willa and I make a delicious, albeit lopsided cake. Mumneglects even to phone. Taking the odd day off schoolallows Lochan and me time for us, time to tackle the mountain of things that needed doing long ago: trips to the doctor’s, the dentist’s, the hairdresser’s. Lochan helps Kit fix his bike and finally gets enough cash from Mum to buy new uniforms and pay some of the overdue bills. Together, we clean the house fromtop to bottom, devise a fresh set of house rules to encourage the kids to take on a few responsibilities of their own, but, most important of all, we make time to do things as a family – to play in the park or sit around the kitchen table with a board game. Now that Lochan and I spend our nights together and skip school whenever things start to get too stressfulagain, time on our own is no longer so limited, and having fun withthe childrenbecomes as important as lookingafter them.

Mum ‘checks in on us’ from time to time, rarely staying more than a night or two, reluctantly handingus the cashthat’s supposed to get us throughthe week, resentfullypullingout her chequebook to pay the bills that Lochan thrusts at her. A lot of her anger stems from the fact that Lochan and I refuse to leave school and get jobs, but there is a deeper reason there too. She is still forced to support a family she is no longer a part of – has chosen to no longer be a part of. But apart fromthe financial side of things, none of us expect anything from her any more, so no one is disappointed. Tiffin and Willa cease rushing to greet her, no longer beg for a few minutes of her time. Lochan is already starting to look for a job after his A-levels. At university, he insists, he will be able to work part-time and we won’t have to keep beggingMumfor money. As a family, we are now complete.

But I live for the night. Stroking Lochan, feeling every part ofhim, arousing himwith just the touch ofmyhand, makes me longfor more.
‘D’youever wonder what it would be like?’I ask him. ‘To actually—?’
‘Allthe time.’
There is a longsilence. He kisses me, his lashes ticklingmycheek.
‘Me too,’I whisper.
‘One day,’he pants softlyas I graze myfingers up his thigh.
‘Yes . . .’
Yet some nights we come so close. I feel the longing ache in my body and sense Lochan’s frustration as keenly as my own. When he kisses me so hard it almost hurts and his body thrums against mine, desperate to go further, I begin to worry that by sharing a bed every night we are tormenting each other. But whenever we talk about it, we always agree we would far, far rather be together like this thango back to our separate rooms and not toucheachother at all.
At school, as I gaze up at Lochansittingalone onthe steps at break time and he looks back down at me, the gulf between us seems enormous. We discreetly raise a hand in greeting and I count down the hours until I’ll get to see him properly at home. Sitting on the low wall with Francie at my side, I often lose track of the conversation and sit there daydreaming about him, until one day, to my astonishment, I see that he is not alone.
‘OhmyGod, who’s he talkingto?’I cut Francie offmid-sentence.
Her eyes follow my gaze. ‘Looks like Declan, that new guy in the Upper Sixth. His family just moved here from Ireland, I think. Apparently he’s super smart, applying for all these universities . . . Youmust have seenhimaround!’
I haven’t, but unlike Francie I don’t spend most of my time ogling every male pupil in the Sixth Form.
‘Jesus!’I exclaim, astonishment soundinginmyvoice. ‘Whyd’youthink they’re talking?’
‘Theywere havinglunchtogether yesterday,’Francie informs me.
I turnto stare at her. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah. And when I passed Lochan in the corridor the other day, we kind of had a conversation.’ She opens her mouthwide.
‘What?’
‘Yeah! Instead ofwalking straight past me, pretending he hadn’t seen me, he actually stopped and asked me how I was.’
I feelanincredulous smile light up myface.
‘So, yousee, he can talk to people.’Francie lets out a wistfulsigh. ‘Maybe I canfinallyget himto go out withme.’
I look back up at the steps again with a smile ofdelight. ‘Oh my God . . .’Declan is stillthere. He seems to be showing Lochan something on his mobile phone. I watch Lochan make a funny gesture in the air and Declanlaughs.
Stillreeling with shock, I decide to take the plunge and ask Francie the question I’d been wanting to put to her for some time now.
‘Hey, I’ve been wondering about something . . . Do you – do you think that any two people, if theyreallyand trulylove eachother, should be allowed to be together no matter who theyare?’I ask.
Francie shoots me a look of amusement, sees that I’m serious, and narrows her eyes in thought. ‘Sure, whynot?’
‘What if their religion forbade it? If their parents were devastated or threatened to disown them or something– should theystillgo ahead anyway?’
‘Sure,’ Francie answers with a shrug. ‘It’s their lives, so they should be allowed to pick who they like. Ifthe parents are crazyenoughto tryand stop themfromseeingeachother, theycould run away, elope.’
‘What if it was something even more difficult?’ I ask, thinking hard. ‘What if it was – I dunno – a teacher and a pupil?’
Francie’s eyes widen and she suddenly grabs my arm. ‘No way! Who the hell is it? Mr Elliot? That guyinthe ITdepartment? The one withthe tattoo?’
Laughing, I shake my head. ‘Not me, silly! I was just thinking hypothetically. Like we were talking about inhistory, about societyhavingchanged so muchover the last half-century. . .’
‘Oh.’Francie’s face falls indisappointment.
I look at her witha snort. ‘Mr Elliot?Are youkiddingme? He’s about sixty!’
‘I think he’s kind ofsexy!’
I rollmyeyes. ‘That’s because you’re crazy. But seriouslythough. Hypothetically. . .’
Francie lets out a laboured sigh. ‘Well, they should probably wait untilthe pupilwas over the legal age limit for starters—’
‘But what if she was? What if she was sixteen and the guy was in his forties? Should they run awaytogether? Would that be right?’
‘Well, the guy would lose his job and the girl’s parents would be worried sick, so they’d probably be better off keeping it secret for a few years. Then, by the time the girl was nineteen or so, it wouldn’t even be a big deal any more!’ She shrugs. ‘I think it would be kinda cool to go out with a teacher. Just imagine, sittinginclass, youcould . . .’
I tune her out and inhale deeply, frustrated. There is nothing, I suddenly realize, nothing that can compare to our situation.
‘So nothing is taboo any more?’ I interrupt. ‘You’re saying there are no two people who, if they love eachother enough, should be forced apart?’
Francie thinks for a moment and then shrugs. ‘I guess not. Not here, anyway, thank God. We’re lucky enough to live in a country which is pretty open-minded. As long as one person isn’t forcing the other one, thenI guess anylove is allowed.’
Any love. Francie isn’t stupid. Yet the one kind of love that will never be allowed hasn’t even crossed her mind. The one love so disgusting and taboo, it isn’t even included in a conversation about illicit relationships.

The conversation haunts me over the following weeks. Although I have no intention of ever confiding our secret to anyone, I can’t help wondering what Francie’s reaction would be if she somehow found out. She is an intelligent, broad-minded person with a rebellious streak in her. Despite her bold declaration that no love is wrong, I strongly suspect that she would be as horrified as the next person if she knew of my relationship with Lochan. But he’s your brother! I can hear her exclaim. How could you ever do it with your brother? That’s so gross! Oh God, Maya, you’re sick, you’re really sick. You need help. And the strangest thing is that a part of me agrees. Part of me thinks: Yes, if Kit was older and it was with him, then it would be totally gross. The very idea is unthinkable, I don’t even want to imagine it. It actually makes me feel physically sick. But how to get across to the outside world that Lochan and I are siblings only through a biological mishap? That we were never brother and sister in the real sense, but always partners, having to bring up a real family as we grew up ourselves. How to explain that Lochan has never felt like a brother but like something far, far closer than that – a soul mate, a best friend, part of the very fibre of my being? How to explain that this situation, the love we feel for one another – everything that to others may seem sick and twisted and disgusting – to us feels completely natural and wonderful and oh – so, so right?

At night, after kissing and cuddling and touching each other, we lie there and talk, late into the night. We talk about anything and everything: how the kids are doing, funny anecdotes from school, how we feel about each other. And ever since I spotted himon the steps having a conversation, we talk about Lochan’s new-found voice. Although he is keen to play it down, he does confess to having made a sort of friend in Declan, who initially approached Lochan because they both had offers from UCL. Speaking to anyone else is still something he avoids, but I’m overjoyed. The fact that he has made a connectionwithone personoutside the familymeans that he can, that there willbe others, and that once he goes to university he will finally meet people he has something in common with. And the night Lochan tells me he actually managed to stand up in front of the whole of his English class and read out one ofhis essays, I let out a squealthat has to be silenced bya pillow.
‘Why?’I ask, gaspingindelight. ‘How come? What happened? What changed?’
‘I’d been thinking about – about what you said, that I should take one step at a time and that, well, mainlythat youthought I could do it.’
‘What was it like?’I ask, strugglingto keep myvoice a whisper, lookinginto eyes that, eveninthe half-light, sparkle witha gentle triumph.
‘Horrible.’
‘Oh, Loch!’
‘My hands were trembling and my voice was shaking and the words on the page suddenly turned into this mass of hieroglyphics, but somehow I got through it. And when I finished there were some people – and not just the girls – who actuallyclapped.’He lets out a short exclamationofsurprise.
‘Well, ofcourse theydid!Your essays are completelyamazing!’I reply.
‘There was also this guy – a guy called Tyrese who’s OK – and he came up to me after the bell and said something about the essay. I don’t know what exactly, because I was still deafened by terror’ – he laughs – ‘but it must have been vaguely complimentary because he slapped me on the back.’
‘See?’ I crow softly. ‘They were inspired by your essay! No wonder your teacher was so keen for youto read one out. Did yousayanythingback to Tyrese?’
‘I think I said something along the lines of oh-umyeah-uh-cheers.’ Lochan lets out a derisive snort.
I laugh. ‘That’s great!And next time you’llactuallysaysomethinga little more coherent!’
Lochan smiles and turns on his side, propping his head up on his hand. ‘You know, recently, even when we’re apart, I sometimes think that maybe I’mgoing to beat this thing, that one day I might be normal.’
I kiss his nose. ‘Youare normal, silly.’
He doesn’t respond but begins pensively rubbing a strand of my hair between his fingers. ‘Sometimes I wonder . . .’He tails offabruptly, suddenlyexaminingmyhair ingreat detail.
‘Sometimes youwonder . . . ?’I tilt myhead and kiss the corner ofhis mouth.
‘What – what I’d do without you,’he finishes ina whisper, gaze studiouslyavoidingmine.
‘Go to sleep at a reasonable time, ina bed where youcanactuallyrollover without fallingout . . .’
He laughs softly into the night. ‘Oh yeah, an easier life in so many ways. Mumshould never have got pregnant againso quicklyafter me . . .’
His joke tails offuncomfortably and the laughter is sucked up into the darkness as the truth behind his words sinks in.
After a longsilence Lochansuddenlysays, ‘She certainly wasn’t meant to have children, but, well, not that I reallybelieve infate or anything– but what ifwe were meant to have eachother?’
I don’t respond immediately, not quite sure what he’s gettingat.
‘I guess what I’m trying to say is that maybe what seemed like a shitty situation for a bunch of abandoned kids actually, because ofthe wayit happened, led to somethingreallyspecial.’
I think about this for a moment. ‘Do you think, if we’d had conventional parents, or just parents, youand I would have falleninlove?’
Silence from him now. Moonlight illuminates the side of his face, a silvery-white glow washing across one half, leaving the other in shadow. He has that distant look in his eyes which either means that his mind is on something else, or that he’s giving my tentative question some very serious consideration.
‘I’ve often wondered . . .’ he begins quietly. I wait for him to continue. ‘Many people claim that the abused often go on to abuse, so for most psychologists, our mother’s neglect – which is considered a formofabuse – would be linked directlyto our “abnormal”behaviour, which they would interpret as abuse too.’
‘Abuse?’ I exclaim in astonishment. ‘But who would be abusing who? In abuse, there’s an attacker and a victim. How could we be seenas bothabusers and abusees?’
The blue-white glow ofthe moon casts just enough light for me to notice Lochan’s expression turn frompensive to troubled.
‘Maya, come on, think about it. I’d be automaticallyseenas the abuser and youthe victim.’
‘Why?’
‘How many cases of younger sisters sexually abusing older brothers have you read about? Come to think ofit, how manyfemale rapists and female paedophiles are there?’
‘But that’s crazy!’ I exclaim. ‘I could have been the one to force you into a sexual relationship! Not physically, but by– I dunno – bribes, blackmail, threats, whatever!Are yousayingthat evenifI’d abused you, people would stillassume I was the victimjust because I’ma girland one year younger?’
Lochan nods slowly, his shaggy hair dark against the pillow. ‘Unless there was some really strong evidence to the contrary– anadmissionofguilt onyour part, witnesses or something– then, yes.’
‘But that’s so sexist, so unfair!’
‘I agree, but people rely heavily on generalizations, and although it must sometimes happen the other way round, it’s gotta be pretty rare. For a start, there’s the physical aspect . . . So it’s not really all that surprising that in situations like this, guys are automatically assumed to be the abusers, especiallyifthey’re older.’
I curlmylegs up against Lochan’s stomachand ruminate onthis for a while. It allseems so wrong. But at the same time I’maware that I’mguilty of the same prejudices – if I hear there’s been a rape, or a child’s beenabducted, I immediatelythink male rapist, male paedophile.
‘But what about if no one’s being abused?’ I ask suddenly. ‘What if it’s one hundred percent consensual, like us?’
He exhales slowly. ‘I don’t know. It would still be against the law. It’s still incest. But there’s not muchinfo onit, because apparentlyit’s somethingthat very, veryrarelyhappens . . .’
We bothstop talkingfor a while. So long, infact, that I beginto think Lochie has fallenasleep. But when I turn my head on the pillow to check, I see his eyes are wide open, staring up at the ceiling, bright and intense.
‘Lochie . . .’ I roll onto my side and run my fingers down his bare arm. ‘When you said there’s not much info on it, what did youmean? How do youknow?’
He is chewing his lip again. Beside me, his body feels tense. He hesitates for a moment, then rolls back over to face me. ‘I – I did a bit of research on the Internet . . . I just – I just . . .’ He takes a deep breathbefore tryingagain. ‘I just wanted to know where we stood.’
‘Withwhat?’
‘With– withthe law.’
‘To figure out a wayofchangingour names? Oflivingtogether?’
He rubs his lip, refusingto meet mygaze, lookingincreasinglyagitated and uncomfortable.
‘What?’I demand loudly, frightened now. ‘To see what would happenifwe got caught.’
‘Caught livingtogether?’I ask incredulously.
‘Caught – caught havinga relationship—’
‘Havingsex?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bywho?’
‘The police.’
I amfinding it difficult to breathe suddenly, as if my windpipe is constricting. I sit up abruptly, hair fallingdownaround myface.
‘Look, Maya. It’s not – I just wanted to check . . .’ Lochan is pulling himself up against the headboard, strugglingto find words to reassure me.
‘Does that meanwe cannever—?’
‘No, no, not necessarily,’ he says quickly. ‘It just means that we can’t until the kids are grown up and safe, and eventhenwe have to be very, verycareful.’
‘I knew it was officially illegal,’ I tell him desperately. ‘But pot’s illegal, so is speeding, so is peeing in a public place. Anyway, how would the police even notice and why would they even care – it’s not like we’re hurting anyone or even ourselves!’ I feel like I’m running out of breath but I’m determined to make my point. ‘And anyway, if we did somehow get caught, what the hell would the police do? Fine us?’ I let out a harsh laugh. Why is Lochan trying to freak me out like this? Why is he actingso serious, as ifwe would be committinga realcrime?
Half propped up against the headboard, Lochan stares at me. If it weren’t for the stricken expression in his eyes, he would look quite comical, his hair all on end. His face radiates a mixture of fear and despair. ‘Maya . . .’
‘Lochie, what? What’s the matter?’
He breathes:‘Ifwe were found out, we’d be sent to prison.’

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE Lochan

Thankfully we were too exhausted to talk about it much more that night. Before sleep overcame us, however, Maya wanted to know further details:what kind ofsentence we could face, whether the law was different in other countries – but I could only repeat the little I had gleaned from my closet scouring of the Internet. There is actually precious little information to be found onconsensual incest, thoughthere is plentyonthe non-consensual kind, whichseems to be the onlytype most people think exists. I have thoroughly searched for online testimonies but found only two that had actually made it into the public domain – neither of themin the UK and both between siblings who met again as adults after beingseparated at birth.

The topic only resurfaces briefly the following day before being dropped completely. Despite her initialreaction, Maya’s shock and outrage seemto have beenassuaged bymyassurances that the only legal information I have found has been hypothetical – technically, yes, a couple accused of incest could face a jailsentence, but that would rarelyhappeninthe case oftwo consentingadults. I amnow legally an adult and Maya is close behind me, so we won’t have to wait much longer. Police hardly go out searching for this kind of thing. And in the very unlikely event that some random persondid find out – why on earth would they try and have us arrested or taken to court? Because they hated us? Wanted some kind of revenge? And unless we had biological children of our own – which would be insane – how onearthcould that personever get enoughproofto stand up incourt? They would have to actuallycatchus inthe act, and eventhenit would be their word against ours.

My main concern for the future is how to protect Kit, Tiffin and Willa frombeing ostracized in the event of rumours about Maya and I living together and never having partners of our own. But by then they would have their own lives, Maya and I would have hopefully moved away and, if necessary, changed our names by Deed Poll. Yes, we could simply change our names and live as openly and freely as any unmarried couple. No more hiding, no more locked doors. Freedom. And the right to love eachother without persecution.

For the time being though, Maya and I have to cramfor exams. We are astonished when, out of the blue one day, Kit offers to take Tiffin and Willa to the cinema to give us time to revise. On another occasion he takes them to the park to play football. Roughly since that first game of British Bulldog out inthe street, he has stopped goadingme, stopped slammingaround the house, stopped windingup the kids and stopped tryingto undermine me allthe time. He hasn’t exactlybecome anangelovernight but he no longer seems to feel threatened by my role in the family. It’s almost as if he’s accepted Maya and me as surrogate parents. I have no idea where it’s all come from. Perhaps he has joined a nicer group of boys at school. Perhaps he is just growing up. But whatever the reason, I dare to believe Kit has trulybegunto turnthe corner.

He runs down to dinner one evening, triumphantly waving a piece of paper. ‘I’m going on a schooltrip whenwe break up! Nya-na, nya-nya-na!’He pulls a tauntingface at the other two.
‘Where?’Willa shrieks excitedlyas ifshe were also included.
‘Whoa! So not fair!’Tiffinexclaims, his face falling. ‘Here, quick, quick, you’ve gotta signit now!’ Kit waves the sheet above myplate and thrusts a peninmyhand.
‘I didn’t realize your teacher was waitingfor this onthe doorstep!’
Kit pulls a face at me. ‘Veryfunny. Just sign it, willyou?’
I scan the letter and balk at the price, quickly trying to work out where on earth we’ll get the money from. Cancelthe cheque for the phone billwhich I only posted yesterday, eat baked beans for the next fortnight, pretend to Mumthat we have no runningwater and need moneyfor a plumber . . .
I forge our mother’s signature. It saddens me a little to see how delirious with excitement Kit is about the trip – it’s onlyanactivityweek onthe Isle ofWight, but he has never beenfurther afield than Surrey.
‘It’s abroad!’ he crows at Tiffin. ‘We have to take a boat! We’re going to an island in the middle ofthe sea!’
I open my mouth, about to readjust Kit’s vision of a desert island surrounded by palm trees in order to avoid terrible disappointment, when Maya catches my eye and subtly shakes her head. She’s right. Kit won’t be disappointed. Even rainy and cold, the muddy Isle ofWight willseemlike Paradise to him– and a millionmiles awayfromhome.
‘What are you going to do there?’Tiffin asks, slouching down in his chair and prodding dejectedly at his chickenwithhis fork.
Kit throws himself down and kicks back, reading fromthe newly-signed letter. ‘Canoeing, horseriding, abseiling, orienteering’ – his voice rises with mounting delight – ‘camping ?’ He returns the front legs of his chair to the floor with an astonished thud. ‘I didn’t see that one. Yes! I’ve always wanted to go camping!’
‘Me too!’Tiffincries. ‘Whycan’t I go?Are youallowed to bringbrothers?’
‘Horse-riding!’Willa’s eyes are huge withdisbelief.
‘How come St Luke’s never takes us ontrips?’Tiffin’s lower lip quivers. ‘Life is so unfair.’
I don’t remember ever seeing Kit so excited. The only problem, though, is his fear of heights. It is somethinghe has never admitted to, but there was that time – for ever etched into mymemory– when he fainted on the edge of the top diving board and dropped unconscious into the water. Then, only last year, he started feeling dizzy and fell while attempting to follow his friends across a high wall. He has never been abseiling before and, knowing he would rather die than sit out and watch his classmates, I go to speak to Coach Wilson, the teacher in charge of the expedition, careful to ask for Kit not to be excluded, but for an adult to keep an eye on him. Still, I find myself worrying. Things with Kit are going so well, almost too well. I worry that the trip won’t live up to his expectations; I worry even more that, with his dare-devil nature, he may have an accident. Then I remember what Maya said to me about always thinking about the worst-case scenario and force myself to purge the worryfrommymind.

By the end of term Maya and I are exhausted, clawing our way towards the Easter holidays. I can’t believe that school will soon be a thing of the past. Apart from a few revision classes after the holidays, all I have left are the actual exams. Naturally, they scare me a little as my university place hangs inthe balance, but beyond themlies the promise ofa new life.

Time alone with Maya has been scant and I ache to have her to myself, even just for a day. But as soon as Kit leaves for his trip, the Easter holidays willbe upon us, with last-minute revision to cramin around two weeks ofchildcare. I feel as if we will never get the chance to be properly alone together. After being at school all day, entertaining children all evening, rushing through household chores and thenporingover textbooks for hours, there is rarelytime for more thana few kisses before falling asleep in each other’s arms. I miss those hours we once had at the end of each day; I miss stroking every part of her body, feeling her hands against mine, talking until we fall asleep. And I bitterly, bitterly resent that, just because our relationship is considered wrong, all those hours of happiness we could have together are beingstolenfromus, and we are forced instead to sneak about, inconstant fear ofbeingcaught.

I find myself desperate for even the little things – being able to hold her hand on the way to school, kissing her goodbye in the corridor before heading for our separate classes, having lunch together, spending break times snuggled up together on a bench or kissing passionately behind one of the buildings, runningover and huggingwhenwe meet at the gates after the finalbell. Allthings that the other couples at Belmont take for granted. Their liaisons are looked upon with a mixture of awe and envy by the pupils who are still single, despite the fact that they rarely last for more than a few weeks before crumbling over some stupid fight or because a new, better-looking prospect comes along. I don’t view these people with horror or disgust for being so shallow and fickle. So many superficial liaisons surround me, so many guys just looking for sex, for another conquest to add to their brag-list before swiftly moving on. One might struggle to understand why anyone would embark on relationships that lack any real, meaningful emotion, yet nobody judges themfor it. They are ‘young’, ‘just having a good time’, and sure, if that’s what they want, why shouldn’t they? But then why is it so terrible for me to be with the girl I love? Everyone else is permitted to have what they want, express their love as they please, without fear of harassment, ostracism, persecution or even the law. Even emotionally abusive, adulterous relationships are often tolerated, despite the harm they cause others. In our progressive, permissive society, all these harmful, unhealthy types of ‘love’ are allowed – but not ours. I can think of no other kind of love that is so totally rejected, even though ours is so deep, passionate, caring and strong that forcing us apart would cause us unimaginable pain. We are being punished bythe world for just one simple reason:for havingbeenproduced bythe same woman.

The anger and frustration chips away at me, even though I try to keep it at bay, even though I keep focusingonthe dayMaya and I willfinallybe free to live together openly, free to love eachother like any other couple. Sometimes, worse than watching her at school froma distance is seeing her at home, too close to touch, together but apart, so near and yet so far. Having to yank back my hand as I instinctivelyreachfor hers at the dinner table, tryingto brushagainst her accidentallyjust for the small tingle of pleasure caused by the touch of her skin. Gazing at her face as she reads to Willa on the couch, yearning to feel her hair, her cheek, her mouth. Even though I can’t wait for the holidays to begin so I can spend every minute of the day with her, I know that this tiny but impenetrable distance betweenus willbe torture.

And then, just days before the end of term, a miracle occurs. Maya gets off the phone one evening and returns to the dinner table to announce that Freddie and his little sister have invited both Tiffin and Willa for a sleepover that weekend. The timing could not be better – that same day Kit willbe leaving for the Isle of Wight. Two days – two whole days of uninterrupted time together. Two days of freedom. . . Surreptitiously, Maya shoots me a look of pure delight, and elation fills me like heliumin a balloon. While Tiffin pretends to falloffhis chair in enthusiasmand Willa drums her shoes against the underside ofthe table, I amreadyto bounce offthe walls and start dancing.

‘Wow. So by Saturday all three of us will be gone,’ Kit comments almost pensively, looking first at Maya, thenat me. ‘It’lljust be youand Maya stuck at home.’
I nod and shrug, strugglingto keep the rushofjoyfromshowingonmyface.
We don’t have a chance to celebrate until Maya finishes putting Tiffin and Willa to bed, but as soonas she does, she comes hurryingdownto where I amsquatting, Brillo pad inhand, scrubbingout the fridge.
‘We have so earned this!’ she whispers in near-hysteria, grabbing me by the shoulders and giving me an excited shake. Straightening up, I laugh at the sight of her face, her eyes shining in excitement. I drop the Brillo pad and wipe my hands on my jeans as she slides her arms around my neck and pulls me gently towards her. Closing my eyes, I kiss her long and hard, stroking the hair away from her eyes. She reaches up to stroke myface and thenpulls back sharply.
‘What?’I ask insurprise. ‘They’re allupstairs . . .’
‘I heard something.’She is staringat the kitchendoor, carelesslyleft ajar.
For a brief moment Maya and I look at each other in alarm. Then we recognize the distant beat ofKit’s music and the sound ofTiffinand Willa arguingintheir roomabove us. We beginto laugh.
‘Christ, we’re jumpy!’I exclaimsoftly.
‘It’ll be so great not to have to be like this for a bit,’ Maya breathes. ‘Even if it’s just for a couple ofdays. The constant paranoia – worried about eventouchinghands!’
‘Two days offreedom,’I whisper witha smile, pullingher close.

As the big day approaches, I find myself counting down the hours. Kit will set off for school at the usual time, we’re taking Tiffin and Willa to their friends’ house shortly after. Come ten o’clock Saturday morning, we will shed our meaningless labels of brother and sister and be free, finally free fromthe ties that force us apart.

Friday evening, Kit is packed and ready, bags lined up carefully in the hall. Everyone is in a hyper mood and I realize we have forgotten to do the weekly shop and the kitchen is devoid of all food. To my astonishment, Kit volunteers to go down to the local supermarket and pick up something for dinner. However, my surprise soon turns to annoyance when he returns with a bag crammed full of crisps, biscuits, chocolate bars, sweets and ice cream. But Maya just laughs. ‘It’s the end of term, we mayas wellhave a bit ofa celebration!’

Reluctantly I agree and the evening soon turns into mayhemas we picnic on the carpet in front of the television. Tiffin’s sugar levels go through the roof and he starts doing somersaults off the couch while Kit tries to provoke a crash-landing by getting in the way. Willa wants to join in too and I am sure someone is going to break their neck, but they are laughing so wholeheartedly at Kit’s karate moves that I refrain from trying to calm them down. Then Kit has the bright idea of fetching his speakers down fromthe attic and setting up a makeshift karaoke machine. Soon we are all squished up on the couch together, desperately trying to keep a straight face as Willa delivers a performance of ‘Mamma Mia’, getting all the words mixed up yet singing with such gusto I’msure the neighbours are going to come knocking. Kit’s rendition of ‘I Can Be’ is actually quite impressive despite the foul language, and Tiffinleaps about the room, bouncingoffthe walls like a rubber ball.

By ten o’clock an exhausted Willa has passed out fully-clothed on the couch. I carry her up to bed while Maya manhandles a sugar-highTiffininto the bathroom. I cross Kit inthe corridor and stop.
‘Allreadyfor tomorrow? Got everythingyouneed?’
‘Yep!’he replies witha note ofsatisfaction, his eyes bright.
‘Kit, thank youfor this evening,’I say. ‘Youwere – youwere a good sport, youknow.’
For a moment he appears unsure how to respond to such praise. He looks embarrassed and then smiles. ‘Yeah, well, watchout. Entertainers usuallycharge for their services, youknow.’
I give hima friendly shove and, as he disappears up the ladder, a giant speaker under each arm, I realize that the five-year age gap betweenus doesn’t feellike quite sucha chasmanymore.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR Maya

Never before have I seen Kit quite so eager to go to school. If only it were like this every day, I think ruefully. After devouring his toast in three bites, downing his juice in two gulps, he grabs his packed lunch fromLochan and dashes out into the hallway to gather up the rest ofhis things. When he returns with his bags, I look at him in his new khaki jacket, bought especially for the occasion, at odds with the holey jeans he refuses to part with and the torn sweatshirt several sizes too big, and feel a pang. His sandy hair is uncombed and he looks pale fromtoo many late nights – skinny, vulnerable, almost fragile.

‘Did youremember to pack your mobile charger?’I ask him.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Remember to call us when you arrive, all right?’ Lochan adds. ‘And, you know, maybe again at

some point duringthe week, just to let us know how you’re gettingon.’
‘Yeah, yeah. OK.’He slings the strap ofone bagacross his chest, the other onto his shoulder. ‘Have yougot the moneyI gave you?’Lochanasks.
‘No, I spent it.’
Lochan’s eyes widen.
Kit snorts withlaughter. ‘You’re allso gullible!’
‘Veryfunny. Just don’t spend it oncigarettes or youknow you’llget sent straight home.’ ‘Only if I’m caught! Right, I’m off!’ he yells before Lochan can respond, banging his way down

the hall.
‘Bye-bye!’Willa calls after him. ‘I’llmiss you!’
‘Bringme back a present!’Tiffinyells optimistically.
‘Have funand be good!’Lochanshouts.
‘And careful!’I add.
The door slams, shakingthe walls. I look at the kitchenclock, catchLochan’s eye and laugh. Half

past eight:has to be some kind ofrecord. One down, I think withgrowinganticipation, two to go. After a forced breakfast, Tiffin starts bouncing around, saying it doesn’t matter if we’re early,
Freddie won’t mind, we have to go! Willa takes refuge on my lap, picks at the dried cereal in her
bowl and debates whether spending the whole night at someone else’s house is actually such a good
idea after all. Especially given that she doesn’t like the dark, that she sometimes has nightmares, that
Susie might not share her toys, that four blocks away is actually quite far if you decide you need to
come home in the middle of the night. Lochanturns fromthe sink to look at us with an expression of
suchhorror that I can’t help but laugh.
It doesn’t take me long to remind Willa of the benefits of spending the night with a friend from
schoolwho not only has a garden and a Wendy house, but also, apparently, a new puppy. Willa perks
up and suddenly decides her new plastic tea-set will almost certainly come in useful and runs upstairs
to add it to her bag of toys. As soon as she leaves the room, Lochan turns from the sink, up to his
elbows infoam.
‘What if she changes her mind?’ he asks, stricken. ‘She’s never been for a sleepover before. She
could throw a wobbly in the middle of the night or decide she wants to go home as soon as it gets
dark. We’d have to go and pick her up—’
I laugh. ‘Don’t look so worried, my love! She won’t. Tiffin will be there, she adores Susie and
there’s a puppy, for chrissakes.’
He shakes his head with a slow smile. ‘You’d better be right. If the phone rings, I’munplugging it,
I swear to God—’
‘You’d do that to your five-year-old sister?’I gasp inmock outrage.
‘For one whole night alone? Jesus, Maya, I’d sellher to the gypsies!’
Laughing, I go out to fetch something from the hall table. ‘Guess what I’ve got.’ Gleefully I hold
out myclosed fist.
Lochangentlytakes myhand inhis. Uncurls myfingers. ‘Akey?’
‘Mum’s key. I slipped it off her key-ring when she dropped by last weekend to pick up some
clothes.’
His face lights up. ‘Whoa, smart move!’
‘I know! She’s hardly likely to turn up, but now we know that even if she did, she wouldn’t be
able to get into the house!’
‘Pitywe can’t lock her out for ever!’
After dropping the kids off at Freddie’s, I run like I used to when I was a child – wild and fast
and free. My shoes splash through muddy puddles, spattering my bare legs with dirty spray, and old
ladies, hunched under umbrellas, move hastily aside to let me pass, stopping to turn and stare as I go
tearing by. The bland white sky unleashes hard, thick cords of rain, a freezing wind lashing the hard
spikes against my face, making my skin sting. I am completely drenched, my coat flapping open, my
shirt almost transparent, my hair dripping down my back. I continue running faster and faster. I feel as
if I’m about to be caught by the wind, lifted up into the air like a kite, and sent dipping and swirling
high above the treetops towards the distant horizon. I have never felt so alive, so brimming with
freedomand joy.
Slamming into the kitchen, I raise my arms in the air. ‘Wow.’ I stare at him, happiness threatening
to burst from me like a stream of effervescent bubbles. ‘I can’t believe it. I literally can’t believe it. I
thought this moment would never come.’
Lochanstarts to laugh.
‘What?’
‘Youlook like a drowned rat.’
‘Thanks!’
‘Come here!’He darts towards me around the kitchen table and grabs me by the wrist. ‘Kiss me!
’
I laughand tilt myhead up as he raises his warmhands to myface. ‘Ugh, you’re freezing.’He kisses me softly, and then a little harder. I’maware ofmy hair, dripping
allover him.
‘Let me get changed then!’
I turn and run upstairs to my room. As I retrieve my towel from beneath the pile of clothes,
Lochan comes in and leaps onto my bed, then turns round to sit with his knees drawn up, his back to
the wall. I rub my hair and dry my face, then peel off my soaked skirt, grappling with the top button
with one hand, bending over to rummage for a pair of jeans with the other. Unable to find them, I
realize that mybuttonis stuck. Witha sighofannoyance, I stop and pick at it withmynails. I’m aware of Lochan getting up from the bed and coming over. ‘Jeez, you’re even more useless
thanTiffin!’
‘It’s because it’s wet! I think this stupid shirt shrank inthe rainor something.’
‘Hold on, hold on . . .’ His warmhands brush against mine, tugging gently at the sodden material.
Shivering, I drop my arms by my sides and feel his fringe tickle myforehead as he leans towards me,
head lowered, breath warmagainst my neck. His eyes are narrowed in concentration as, beneath his
insistent fingers, the buttonfinallystarts to loosen. He continues to fiddle with it, his head stillbent, and
I can feel his breath quickening, heat radiating from his cheeks. The top button comes undone, and
without lookingup, he starts unfasteningthe next.
I am standing very still, acutely aware that neither of us have spoken for several minutes. A
strange hum seems to fill the air like an unspoken thought hanging between us. Lochan is intent on
undoing my shirt but seems to be having trouble, his hands unsteady. I watch his face carefully,
wondering if we are sharing the same thought. When he gets to the third button, my shirt flaps open,
revealing the top of my bra. I hear Lochan’s breath quicken as he continues to work his way
downwards in silence, concentrating on his task. The edge of his hand brushes against the top of my
breast; he is undoing the last button now and I’maware ofthe rapid rise and fallofmy own chest, the
touch of his fingers through the thin, wet fabric raising gooseflesh all over my skin. My shirt falls open
and he slides it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the carpet. Reaching for my bra, he suddenly stops,
one hand hoveringabove mybreasts, and fromthat one moment ofhesitationI know. ‘It’s OK,’I whisper, myvoice suddenlyweak. ‘I want to.’
His eyes dart nervously to mine, the blood hot in his cheeks, his expression a mixture of fear and
longing. ‘Really?’
‘Yes!’
Tears and laughter swirl together inside me. I stroke my cheek against his gently, so gently that his
skin feels like the wings of a butterfly. I close my eyes and move my lips lightly across his face, barely
touching, so that my whole mouth begins to tingle. He closes his eyes too, takes a long deep breath
and lets it out very slowly. My lips follow a path down his neck, into the hollow beneath his
collarbone. His fingers tighten around mine and he lets out a small gasp. Raising my head, I softly kiss
the corner of his mouth before moving away across his face. His mouth follows mine and I tease him,
refusing to allow our lips to meet, until his breathing quickens and he releases my hand to cup my
cheek and coaxmymouthtowards his. We finally start to kiss – soft, gentle, fluttery kisses. Shivers of
pleasure run through my whole body and his hand trembles against my cheek. His breathing deepens, he wants to kiss me harder, but I resist, trying to draw this out for as long as I can. He touches my face, runs his fingers over my cheek, and we continue our small, feathery kisses, skin against skin, so
warm, so familiar, so gentle, untilhe reaches up behind myback and unhooks mybra. He strokes my breasts with quivering fingers, circling my nipples, sending nervous shivers of
excitement through me. Eyes fixed, brow narrowed in concentration, he seems to be holding his
breath. Then, suddenly he emits a smallsound, the air exiting his lungs in a rush. Tentatively I reach for
the bottom of his T-shirt. When he doesn’t protest, I pull it gently up and over his head. As he
reappears, hair ruffled, he brushes his fingertips across my skin, kissing my breasts. I un-button his
jeans and he inhales sharply, his body immediately contracting beneath my touch. His breath is hot,
fast and damp against mycheek and he reaches for mymouth, kissingme harder still. As he draws me
towards him, a strong tremor runs through his body and into mine. His arms tightly encircle me, and
the warmth of his chest pressed against me makes me gasp. He is kissing my neck, my shoulders, my
nipples, breaking off to take in small gulps of air, his hands on my breasts, my stomach, inside my
knickers, pushing themdown my legs. I slide themoff and step out of them, then reach for his boxers
and pull themdown. He kicks themfromaround his ankles and then we are standing together, naked
together for the first time inthe bright light ofday.
How amazing to be together like this with the door open, the window open, the curtains fluttering
in the breeze! The rain clouds have passed and the sun has come out and everything in my room
seems white and bright. Lochan reaches instinctively for the door handle, and then stops himself,
laughing. And suddenly it’s as if all the laughter and happiness in the world is right here, right here
between us in this room. Our love, our first taste of freedom – even the sun seems to be beaming
downits approval– and I finallyfeelthat everythingbetweenus is goingto be allright. We won’t have
to hide for ever: people will accept, people willhave to accept. When they see how much we love
each other, when they realize we were always destined to be together, when they understand how
happy we are – how could they possibly reject us? All our struggles were so we could reach this
point, this exquisite moment – finally holding each other, touching each other, kissing each other
without fear of being caught, without guilt or shame – sharing our bodies, our beings, every part of
our souls.
He follows me onto the bed, lying down beside me and continuing to kiss me, stroking my nipples
withhis fingertips, lickingmyneck. I touchhis penis but he pulls myhand away, breathinghard. ‘Wait—’ He stares at me, his taut body thrumming against me like a live wire. ‘Maya, are – are
yousure?’
I nod slowly, a touchoffear creepinginto me. ‘Willit hurt?’
‘If it hurts, we’ll – we’ll just stop. All you have to do is say stop. I’ll be really careful, I will, I
promise . . .’
I smile at the fervour inhis voice. ‘It’s allright. I trust you, Lochie.’
‘But only if you’re sure . . .’ His hands are like vices round my wrists, still trying to prevent me
fromtouchinghim.
I take a deep breath, as ifpreparingto launchmyselfinto a void. ‘I’msure.’
Our eyes lock together, sealing a silent agreement with our gaze, and in his face I see reflected my
ownfear and longing.
‘Did youremember to get some—?’
‘Yes.’He raises himselfquicklyoffthe bed and disappears fromthe room.
Moments later, he returns with it in his hand. Apanicky flutter rises in my chest. Without a word,
Lochan sits down with his back to me and starts fiddling with the shiny purple wrapper. Lying against
the pillows, I pull the duvet over me. My heart is slamming against my ribs. I can’t believe we’re
actually going to do this. I watch the smooth, white curve of his spine, the sharp angles of his shoulder
blades, his ribcage rapidly expanding and contracting, the muscles in his arms tightening as his hands
fumble betweenhis legs. I notice that he is trembling.
Finally he turns back towards me, his breathing shallow and rapid. I lean in for a kiss and we lie
back down on the bed, his mouth fierce and urgent against mine. This time he is on top of me,
propped up on his elbows, rubbing his face against my cheek. I run my hands up and down his
stomach and feel himshudder. Tentatively I move my legs apart and draw up my knees. I feel it prod
mythigh.
‘Further up,’I whisper.
He has stopped kissing me now, his face inches above mine, concentration etched between his
brows as he shifts slightly, trying to find the right place. After severalnear misses, he leans over to one
side and reaches downto tryand guide it in. His hand knocks against myleg. ‘Help me,’he whispers. I reach down and, after what seems an eternity, get it to the right place. I withdraw my hand and
immediately feelmyselftense. Lochan presses against me; I wince in anticipation:this is never going to
fit. For a moment nothinghappens. ThenI feelhimbeginto pushhis wayinside me. I inhale sharply. Lochan’s face hovers above mine, staring down at me, his breath rapid and
laboured. His eyes are wide, greenirises flecked withblue. I canmake out eachindividualeyelash, the
cracks in his lips, the sweat beading on his forehead. And I can feel himinside me, his body trembling
withthe desire to go further.
‘Are youallright?’he asks shakily.
I nod.
‘Can– canI keep going?’
Another nod. It hurts, but that’s not important right now. I want him, want to hold him, want to feel
himinside me. He begins to push further. Asharp stab makes me flinch, but then suddenly he is all the
wayin. We are as close as two people canbe. Two bodies, blended into one . . .
Lochan is still staring down at me, an urgent look in his eyes, emitting ragged little gasps. He
begins to move slowly back and forth, his elbows sunk into the mattress, clutching at the sheet on
either side ofmyhead.
‘Kiss me,’I breathe.
He lowers his face towards mine, lips brushing my cheek, my nose, then slowly making their way
towards my mouth. He kisses me gently, very gently, breathing hard now. The pain between my legs
starts to fade as he continues to move inside me, and I feel another sensation, one that makes my
whole body quiver. I run the backs of my hands gently down his chest and stomach, into the depressions between his hips and then up the sides, urging him with my hands to move a little faster. He does, pressing his lips together and holding his breath, the flush on his face deepening, spreading down to his neck and across his chest. Sweat glistens on his forehead and cheeks, a small drop running down his face, then falling onto mine. As he moves, his fringe brushes against my forehead. I hear the sound of my own breath, small puffs of air escaping my mouth, mingling with his. I never want this to stop: this fear mixed with ecstasy, my whole being humming with longing, the press of his body against mine. The feel of himinside me, moving against me, making me shiver with excitement. I tilt my head up for another kiss and his lips descend over mine, harder this time. Scrunching up his eyes, he breaks away and holds his breath for a few seconds, then lets it out in a rush. Suddenly he
opens his eyes again, his look desperate and urgent.
‘It’s OK,’I reassure himquickly.
‘I can’t—’The words catchinhis throat and I feelhimtremble against me.
‘That’s OK!’
Witha smallgasp, his movements beginto quicken. ‘Sorry!’
I feelhimtwitchinside me, his pelvic bone digginginto mine. Suddenlyhe seems locked inhis own
world. He closes his eyes and his jagged gasps tear at the air, his body growing tighter and tighter, his
hands tearing at the sheets. Then, with a deep, sharp inhalation, he presses himselfhard into me, again
and again, shudderingviolentlywitha series ofsmall, wild sounds.
Once he is still, the fullweight of his body presses down on me and he collapses against my neck.
He is holding me very tightly, his arms pressing against mine, his fingers digging into my shoulders, his
body still twitching. Exhaling slowly into the cool air of the room, I run my hand over his damp hair,
across his neck and down his back, feeling his heart pound violently against my own. I kiss his
shoulder, the only part of him I can reach, and stare up in astonishment at the familiar faded blue
ceiling.
Reality has been altered, or at least my perception of it has dramatically changed. Everything feels
different, looks different . . . For a few moments I amnot evensure who I amanymore. This boy, this
man, lying in my arms has become a part of me. We have a new identity together: two parts of a
whole. In the last few minutes, everything between us changed for ever. I saw Lochie as no one had
ever seen him, felt himinside me, sensed himat his most vulnerable, opened myself up to himinturn.
In those few minutes I took him inside me, became a part of him, as close as two separate beings
could ever be.
He slowly raises his head frommy shoulder and looks down at me with a worried gaze. ‘Are you
OK?’he pants softly.
I nod, smiling. ‘Yes.’
He heaves a sigh of relief and presses his mouth against my neck, the sweat running between us.
He kisses me between ragged breaths, and when I catch sight of the wild, flushed look on his face, I
begin to laugh. Gazing down at me, he starts laughing too, and his whole being seems to radiate joy.
And allat once I think – This whole time, my whole life, that harsh, stony path was leading up to
this one point. I followed it blindly, stumbling along the way, scraped and weary, without any
idea of where it was leading, without ever realizing that with every step I was approaching the light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. And now that I’ve reached it, now that I’m here, I want to catch it in my hand, hold onto it for ever to look back on – the point at which my new life really began. Everything I ever wanted, right here, right now, all captured in this one moment. The laughter, the joy, the enormity of the love between us. This is the dawn of
happiness. It all begins now.
Then, fromthe doorway, comes a shatteringscream.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE Lochan

Never in my life have I heard such a terrible sound. Ascreamof pure horror, of undiluted hatred and fury and rage. And it keeps coming, rising louder and louder, closer and closer, blocking out the sun, sucking out everything: the love, the warmth, the music, the joy. Tearing at the brilliant light all around us, slashingagainst our naked bodies, rippingthe smile fromour faces, the breathfromour lungs.

Maya grabs hold of me in horror, arms wrapped around me, gripping me tight, face pressed against my chest, as if imploring her body to merge into mine. For a moment I cannot react, simply clutching her to me, intent only on protecting her, shielding her body with my own. Then I hear the sobs – the shrieking, hysterical sobs, the screeching accusations, the demented wails. I force my head up and see, framed inthe opendoor, our mother.

As soon as her horrified eyes make contact with mine, she launches herself at us, grabbing me by the hair and yanking back my head with astonishing force. Her fists pound against me, her long nails cutting into my arms, my shoulders, my back. I don’t even try to push her off. My arms circle Maya’s head, my body presses down over hers, acting as a human shield between her and this madwoman, desperatelytryingto protect her fromthe attack.

Maya cries out interror beneathme, tryingto buryherselfinthe mattress, pullingme downagainst her with all her might. But then the shrieks begin to coalesce into words, perforating my frozen brain, and I hear: ‘Get off her! Get off her! Youmonster! You evil, twisted monster! Get off my baby! Get off! Get off! Get off!’

I will not move, will not let go of Maya even as I continue to be yanked by the hair and half dragged fromthe bed. Maya, suddenly realizing that the intruder is our mother, starts struggling to free herselffrommygrasp.

‘No! Mum! Leave him! Leave him! He didn’t do anything! What are you doing? You’re hurting him! Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!’
She is screaming at her now, sobbing in terror, pulling herselfout frombeneath me, trying to reach over and fight Mum off, but I won’t let them touch, won’t let the monster reach her. When I see a clawed hand descend towards Maya’s face, I swing my arm wildly, making contact with Mum’s shoulder. She staggers back and there is a thud, the sound of books tumbling fromshelves, and she is gone, her wails echoingallthe waydownto the floor below.
I leap fromthe bed, hurlmyselfat the bedroomdoor and slamit shut, shootingthe bolt across.
‘Quick!’I yellat Maya, grabbing knickers and T-shirt fromher clothes pile and tossing themover. ‘Put themon. She’llcome back withDave or someone. The lock’s not strongenough—’
Maya is sitting in the middle of the bed, sheet clutched to her chest, hair wild and tangled, face white withshock and wet withtears.
‘She can’t do anything to us,’ she says desperately, her voice rising. ‘She can’t do anything, she can’t do anything!’
‘It’s allright, Maya. It’s allright, it’s allright. Just please put these on. She’s goingto be back!’
I can only find my underwear – the rest of my stuff must be buried beneath the heap of fallen books.
Maya pulls on her clothes, leaps up and runs over to the open window. ‘We can climb out,’ she gasps. ‘We canjump—’
I yank her back, forcing her to sit down on the bed. ‘Listen to me. We can’t run away – they’d catch us anyway, and think, Maya, think! What about the others? We can’t just abandon them. We’re going to wait here, OK? No one’s going to hurt you, I promise. Mum’s just being hysterical. And she wasn’t tryingto attack you, she was tryingto rescue you. Fromme.’I amfightingfor breath.
‘I don’t care!’ Maya is shouting again, tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘Look what she did to you, Lochie! Your back is bleeding! I can’t believe she hurt you like that! She was pulling out your hair! She – she—’
‘Shh, sweetheart, shh . . .’Turning to face her on the edge ofthe bed, I clasp the tops ofher arms in an attempt to hold her still. ‘Maya, you’ve got to calmdown. You’ve got to listen to me. No one’s goingto hurt us, d’youunderstand? Theyjust want to rescue you—’
‘From what?’ she sobs. ‘From who? They can’t take me away from you! They can’t, Lochie, theycan’t!’
More yelling. We both freeze at the sound, this time coming fromthe street. I amthe first to reach the window. Mumis pacingup and downinfront ofthe house, shoutingand screaminginto her mobile phone.
‘You’ve got to come now!’ she’s sobbing. ‘Oh God, please hurry! He’s already punched me, and now he’s bolted himself in with her! When I went in, he tried to suffocate her! I think he’s going to kill her!’
Curious neighbours are popping their heads out of windows and doors, some already hurrying across the street towards her. I feel myself break out in a cold sweat and my legs threaten to give way.
‘She’s calling Dave,’Maya shouts, trying to pullaway as I drag her fromthe window. ‘He’s going to break the door down. He’s going to beat you up! I’ve got to go down and explain everything! I’ve got to tellthemyouhaven’t done anythingwrong!’
‘Don’t, Maya, don’t. You can’t! It won’t make any difference! You have to stay here and listen. I have to talk to you.’
Suddenly I know what I must do. I know that there is only one solution, only one way left to save Maya and the kids from harm. But she won’t listen, struggling and kicking her bare feet against my legs as I lock my arms around her to stop her fromrunning to the door. I force her back down on the edge ofthe bed, pinningher against me.
‘Maya, youhave to listen. I – I think I have a plan, but you’ve got to listen or it won’t work. Please, sweetheart. I’mbeggingyou!’
Maya stops struggling. ‘OK, Lochie, OK,’ she whimpers. ‘Tell me, I’mlistening. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever youwant.’
Still gripping her, I stare at her terrified, wild-eyed face and breathe deeply in a frantic effort to organize my thoughts, calm myself, hold back the mounting tears that will only terrify her further. I tightenmygrip onher wrists and prepare to grab her should she make a runfor the door.
‘Mumisn’t callingDave,’I explain, myvoice shakinghard. ‘She’s callingthe police.’
Maya freezes, her blue eyes wide with shock. Tears hang on her lashes, the colour is gone from her face. The silence inthe roomis brokenonlybyher frantic gasps.
‘It’s allright,’I say firmly, struggling to keep my voice steady. ‘In fact it’s a good thing. The police willsort this out. They’llcalmMumdown. They’lltake me awayfor questioning, but it willonlybe—’
‘But it’s against the law.’ Maya’s voice is quiet with horror. ‘What just happened. We’ll be arrested because we’ve brokenthe law.’
I take another deep breath, my lungs cracking under the strain, my throat threatening to close up completely. If I break down, it’s all over. I’ll frighten her so much she’ll stop listening to me and will never agree to what I’m about to suggest. I have to convince her that this is the best way, the only way.
‘Maya, you’ve got to listen, we have to go throughthis fast, theycould be here anyminute.’I stop to catchmybreathagain. Despite the terror inher eyes, she just nods, waitingfor me to continue.
‘OK. First you’ve got to remember that being arrested does not mean going to prison. We won’t be going to prison because we’re only teenagers. But listen to me now: this is very, very important. If we both get arrested, we’llbe kept in for questioning. That could take a few days. Willa and Tiffin will come back to find us gone. Mum will probably be drunk, and even if she’s not, Social Services will be called in by the police and all three kids will be taken away because of what we’ve done. Just imagine Willa, imagine Tiffin, imagine how terrified they’ll be. Willa was worried—’ My voice quavers and I break off for a moment. ‘W-Willa was worried about spending just one night away!’ Tears force their way into my eyes like knives. ‘D’you understand? D’you understand what will happen to themifwe bothget arrested?’
Maya shakes her head at me insilent horror, mute withshock, freshtears fillingher eyes.
‘There is a way,’ I carry on desperately. ‘There’s a way we can prevent all that. They won’t take themaway if there’s one of us here to look after themand cover for Mum. D’you get it, Maya?’ My voice begins to rise. ‘One ofus has to stay. It has to be you—’
‘No!’ Maya’s cry slices straight through my heart. I tighten my grip on her wrists as she begins to pullaway. ‘No! No!’
‘Maya, if they’re taken away by Social Services, neither of us will ever see them again until they’re adults! They’ll be scarred for life! If you let me go, there’s a good chance I’ll be out in a few days.’I stare at her, desperatelyhopingshe trusts me enoughto believe this lie.
‘You stay!’ Maya looks at me, her eyes imploring. ‘You stay and I’ll go! I’m not scared. Please, Lochie. Let’s do it that way!’
I shake my head in desperation. ‘It won’t work!’ I say frantically. ‘Remember that conversation we had a few weeks ago? No one will believe us if we say it was you who forced me. And if we tell them it was consensual, they’ll arrest us both! We have to do it like this. Don’t you understand? Think, Maya, think! You know there are no other options! If one of us is to stay behind, it has to be you!’
Maya’s whole body crumples forward as the realityhits her. She falls towards me but I cannot take her inmyarms, not yet.
‘Please, Maya,’I begher. ‘Tellme you’lldo it. Tellme now, right now. Otherwise I’llgo crazynot knowing – not knowing whether you and the others are safe or not. I won’t be able to take it. You’ve got to do it. For me. For us. It’s our onlychance to ever be together as a familyagain.’
She hangs her head, her beautifulamber hair hidingher face fromview.
‘Maya—’Afrantic sound escapes me and I give her a shake. ‘Maya!’
She nods silently, without lookingup.
‘You’lldo it?’I ask.
‘I’lldo it,’she whispers.
Several minutes pass and she doesn’t move. With shaky hands, I wipe the sweat from my face. Then, suddenly, Maya raises her head witha strangled sob and holds out her arms for comfort. I can’t do it. I simply can’t. With a sharp shake of the head, I move away fromher, straining my ears for the sound of a siren. A low murmur of voices rises from beneath us – no doubt concerned neighbours, rushing in to comfort our mother. Denied the hug she so desperately needs, Maya seeks comfort instead froma pillow drawnup against her chest. Rockingback and forth, she appears to be ina state ofcomplete shock.
‘There’s one more thing . . .’ I turn to her, realizing suddenly. ‘We – we have to get our stories straight. Otherwise they’ll hold me for longer and you’ll be pulled in repeatedly for questioning and things willget muchworse—’
Maya closes her eyes as ifto shut me out.
‘We haven’t got time to make anything up,’I say, my voice catching on every word. ‘We’ll– we’ll just have to tell it exactly how it was. E-everything that happened, how it first started, how long it’s been . . . If our stories don’t match up they could arrest you too. So you’ve got to tell the truth, Maya, d’you understand? Everything – every detail they ask you for!’ I take a frantic breath. ‘The only thing we’re going to add is that – is that I forced you. I forced you into everything we did, Maya. D’youhear me?’
I’mlosingcontrolagain, the words shakinglike the air around me. ‘The first time we kissed, I said you had to go along with it, or – or I’d beat you. I swore that if you told anyone, I’d kill you. You were terrified. You really believed I was capable of it, and so from then on, every time I – I wanted you, you– youjust did what I asked.’
She looks up at me inhorror, silent tears spillingdownher cheeks. ‘They’llsend youto prison!’
‘No.’I shake my head, struggling to sound as convincing as possible. ‘You’llsimply say you don’t want to press charges. If there’s no accuser, there’ll be no court case. I’ll be out in a few days!’ I stare at her, silentlyimploringher to believe me.
She frowns and shakes her head slowly, as if desperately trying to comprehend. ‘But that doesn’t make sense . . .’
‘Trust me.’ I’mbreathing too fast. ‘Most sexualabuse cases are never taken to court because the victims are too afraid or ashamed to press charges. So you’ll just sayyou don’t want to press charges, either . . . But, Maya’ – I reach out and grip her arm – ‘you must never, ever say this was consensual. You must never, ever admit to taking part in this freely. I forced you. Whatever they ask, whatever theysay, I threatened you. D’youunderstand?’
Astunned nod.
Unconvinced, I grab her roughly by the arms. ‘I don’t believe you! Tellme what happened! What did I do to you?’
She looks up at me, bottomlip quivering, eyes glistening. ‘Youraped me,’she replies, and presses her hands to her mouthto muffle a scream.
We huddle together beneath the duvet one last time. She is curled in towards me, cheek resting against my chest, shaking in shock. I hold her tight, staring up at the ceiling, terrified I will start crying, terrified she willsee just how afraid I am, terrified she willsuddenly realize that even thoughshe won’t press charges, there’s someone else who will.
‘I d-don’t understand,’ Maya gasps. ‘How could this happen? Why did Mum come back today ofalldays? How the helldid she get inwithout her key?’
I’mtoo stressed to even think about that, or care. The only thing that matters is that we’ve been caught. Reported to the police. I never reallythought it could actuallycome to this.
‘It must have been a neighbour. We weren’t carefulenough with the curtains.’Maya shakes with a silent sob. ‘You’ve stillgot time. Lochie, I just don’t understand! Whywon’t yourun?’Her voice rises inanguish.
Because then I won’t be around to tell my version of the story. The version I want the police to hear. The version that absolves you of all wrongdoing. If I run, they could arrest you instead. And if we both go, we expose ourselves as accomplices and it’s all over.
I saynothing, just hold her tighter inthe hope that she willtrust me.
The sound of the siren makes us both start. Maya jack-knifes from the bed and tries to leap for the door. I force her back and she starts to cry.
‘No, Lochie, no! Please! Let me go downstairs and explain. It looks so muchworse like this!’
I need it to look worse. I need it to look as bad as it can. From now on I have to think like a rapist, act like a rapist. Prove I’ve beenholdingMaya against her will.
Sounds ofslammingcar doors rise fromthe street below. Mum’s hystericalvoice starts up again.
The front door bangs. Heavy treads in the hallway. Maya screws up her eyes and clings to me, sobbingsilently.
‘It’ll be all right,’ I whisper desperately in her ear. ‘This is just protocol. They’ll only arrest me so theycanquestionme. Whenyoutellthemyoudon’t want to press charges, they’lljust let me go.’
I hold her tight, stroking her hair, hoping that one day she’llunderstand, that one day she’llforgive me for lying. Careful not to think, careful not to panic, careful not to waver. Loud voices frombelow, Mum’s mainly. The sound ofmultiple footsteps onthe stairs.
‘Let go ofme,’I whisper urgently.
She doesn’t respond, still pressed up against me, her head buried against my shoulder, arms wound tightlyaround myneck.
‘Maya, let go ofme, now!’I tryto unhook her arms. She won’t let go. She won’t let go!
The thuds against the door make us both start violently. The noise is followed by a sharp, authoritative voice:‘This is the police. Openthe door.’
I’m sorry, but I’ve just raped my sister and am holding her here against her will. I cannot be so obliging.
They give me a warning. Then the first strike is heard. Maya lets out a terrified scream. She still won’t let go of me. It’s vital I turn her round so that when they get in, they find me grasping her with her back to me, arms pinned by her sides. Another crack. The wood around the bolt splinters. Just one more strike and theywillbe in.
I push Maya away from me with all my strength. I look into her eyes – her beautiful blue eyes – and feel the tears surge. ‘I love you,’ I whisper. ‘I’mso sorry!’ Then I raise my right hand and strike her hard across the face.
Her scream fills the room seconds before the lock breaks and the door crashes open. The doorway is suddenly crowded with dark uniforms and crackling radios. My armcircles Maya’s arms and waist, pinning her back against me. Beneath the hand clapped over her mouth, I feel a reassuring trickle ofblood.
When they order me to let go of her and step away from the bed, I cannot move. I need to cooperate, but physically I can’t. I am frozen in fear. I am terrified that if I uncover Maya’s mouth, she willstart to tellthemthe truth. I’mterrified that once theytake Maya away, I willnever see her again.
They ask me to put my hands up. I begin to loosen my grip on Maya. No, I’m screaming inside. Don’t leave me, don’t go!You are my love, my life!Without you, I am nothing, I have nothing. If I lose you, I lose everything. I raise my hands very slowly, fighting to keep them in the air, fighting against the overwhelming urge to take Maya back into my arms, kiss her one last time. A female officer cautiously approaches as if Maya were a wild animal, about to take flight, and coaxes her out of the bed. She lets out a small, muffled sob, but I hear her take a deep breath and hold it. Someone wraps a blanket around her. Theyare tryingto usher her fromthe room.
‘No!’ she screams. Bursting into a sudden volley of broken sobs, she turns frantically back towards me, blood staining her lower lip. Lips that once touched me so gently, lips I know so well, love so much, lips I could never have imagined hurting. But now, withher cut lip and tear-stained face, she looks so shocked and battered that even if she were to lose her resolve and tell the truth, I’m almost confident she would not be believed. Her eyes meet mine, but under the officers’watchfulgaze I’munable to give her the slightest sign of reassurance. Go, my love, I beg her with my gaze. Follow the plan. Do this. Do this for me.
As she turns, her face crumples and I fight against the urge to cryout her name.
As soonas Maya is out ofthe way, the two male officers descend uponme. Eachgrabbing me by an arm, they instruct me to stand up slowly. I do so, tensing every muscle and clenching my teeth in an effort to stop shaking. Athick-set officer with small eyes and a puffy face smirks as I get up fromthe bed and the sheet falls away and I’m left standing in my boxers. ‘Don’t think we need to frisk this one,’he chuckles.
I can hear the sound of Maya crying downstairs. ‘What are they going to do to him? What are theygoingto do to him?’she keeps shouting.
The reply is repeated over and over by a soothing female voice. ‘Don’t worry. You’re safe now. He won’t be able to hurt youagain.’
‘Have you got some clothes?’ the other officer asks me. He looks not much older than me. How long has he been in the police force? I wonder. Has he ever been involved in a crime as disgusting as this?
‘Inmyb-bedroom. . .’
The young officer follows me to my room and watches me get dressed, his radio sputtering into the silence. I feelhis eyes on my back, on my body, fullofdisgust. I can’t seemto find anything clean. For some irrational reason, I feel the need to wear something that’s freshly washed. The only thing to hand is my school uniform. I sense the man’s impatience in the doorway behind me but I am so desperate to cover my body that I can’t even think straight, can’t remember where I keep my things. Finally I pull on a T-shirt and jeans, shoving my bare feet into my trainers before realizing that my Tshirt is inside out.
The bulky officer joins us in the room. They seemfar too big for this confined space. I’mpainfully aware of my unmade bed, the socks and underwear that litter the carpet. The broken curtain rail, the old chipped desk, the peeling walls. I feel ashamed of it all. I glance at the small family snapshot still tacked to the wall above my bed, and suddenly wish I could take it with me. Something, anything, to remind me ofthemall.
The older officer asks me some basic questions: name, date of birth, nationality . . . My voice still manages to shake despite all my efforts to keep it steady. The more I try not to stammer, the worse it gets. When my mind goes blank and I can’t even remember my own birthday, they stare me down, as if they think I’m deliberately withholding this information. I strain for the sound of Maya’s voice but canhear nothing. What have theydone to her? Where have theytakenher?
‘Lochan Whitely,’ the officer states in a flat, mechanicaltone. ‘An allegation has been made to the police that you raped your sixteen-year-old sister a short time ago. I am arresting you for breach of Section Twenty-five of the Sexual Offences Act for engaging in sexual activity with a child family member.’
The accusation hits me like a fist in my stomach. This makes me sound like more than a rapist: a paedophile. And Maya, a child? She hasn’t been one for years. And she isn’t below the age of consent! But ofcourse, I realize suddenly, even just two weeks shy ofher seventeenth birthday, she is still considered a child in the eyes of the law. At eighteen, however, I am an adult. Thirteen months. Might as well be thirteen years . . . The officer is now reading me my rights. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harmyour defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ His voice is deliberate, heavy with authority; his face a mask – blank, cold, devoid of all expression. But this is not some cop show. This is real. I have committed a realcrime.
The young officer informs me they will now take me outside to the ‘transport vehicle’. The corridor is too narrow for the three ofus. The big officer leads the way, his tread heavy and slow. The other grips me tightly just above the elbow. I’ve been able to hide the fear until now, but as we approach the staircase, I suddenly feela surge ofpanic begin to rise. Stupidly, it’s triggered bynothing more thanthe need to pee. But suddenlyI realize I’mdesperate to go and have no idea whenI’mnext going to get the chance. After hours of questioning, locked up in some cell, in front of a whole bunch ofother prisoners? I stumble to a halt at the top ofthe stairs.
‘Keep moving!’I feelthe press ofa firmhand betweenmyshoulder blades.
‘Can I – can I please just use the bathroom before I go?’ My voice comes out frightened and frantic. I feel my face burn, and as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. I sound pathetic.
They exchange glances. The thick-set man sighs and nods. They let me into the bathroom. The younger officer stays inthe opendoorway.
The cuffs don’t make it easy. I feel the man’s presence fill the small room. Shuffling round so I have my back to him, I struggle to unbutton my jeans. Sweat prickles across my neck and down my back, trapping the T-shirt against my skin. The muscles in my knees seemto vibrate. I close my eyes and tryto relax, but I need to go so badlyit’s impossible. I can’t. I just can’t. Not like this.
‘We haven’t got all day.’ The voice behind me makes me flinch. I button up and flush the empty toilet. Turninground, I’mtoo embarrassed to evenraise myhead.
As we jolt and shuffle our way down the narrow stairs, the young officer says in a gentler tone, ‘The station’s not far. You’llhave some privacythere.’
His words throw me. A small hint of kindness, a note of reassurance, despite the terrible thing I’ve done. I feel my façade begin to slip. Breathing deeply, I bite my lip hard. Just in case Maya sees me, it’s imperative I make it out ofthe house without fallingapart.
Voices rise and fall fromthe kitchen. The door is firmly shut. So that’s where they’ve taken her. I hope to God they are still treating her as the victim, comforting her rather than bombarding her with questions. I have to grit my teeth, clench every muscle in my body to prevent myself from running to her, huggingher, kissingher one last time.
I notice a pink skipping rope hanging over the banisters. A single Jelly Baby from last night remains on the carpet. Small shoes are scattered over the rack by the front door. Willa’s white sandals, and the lace-up trainers she has finallylearned to tie – allso tiny. Tiffin’s scuffed schoolshoes, his much-prized football boots, his gloves and ‘lucky’ ball. Above them their school blazers hang discarded, empty, like ghosts of their real selves. I want them back, I want my children back. I miss them, the pain like a hole in my heart. They were so excited to go that I didn’t even have time to hug them. I never got to saygoodbye.
Just as I ambeing jolted past the open door of the front room, a movement catches my eye and makes me stop. I turn my head towards a figure in the armchair and, to my astonishment, find Kit. He is sitting, white-faced and immobile, beside a woman police officer, his carefully packed Isle of Wight bags lying carelessly discarded at his feet. As he slowly turns towards me, I stare at him, uncomprehending. I am pushed from behind, told to ‘move it’. I stumble against the door-frame, my eyes beggingKit for some kind ofexplanation.
‘Whyare youhere?’I can’t believe he is witnessingthis. I can’t believe theysomehow got hold of him before he left, involving him too. He’s only thirteen, for chrissakes! I want to scream. He should be on the trip of his life, not watching his brother being arrested for sexually abusing his sister. I want to kick at theminfury, force themto let himgo.
His eyes leave my face, travelling down to the cuffs circling my wrists, then to the police officers tryingto dragme away. His face is white, stricken.
‘Youtold him!’he shouts suddenly, makingme jump.
I stare at him, stunned. ‘What?’
‘Coach Wilson! You told him about the heights thing!’ Suddenly he is screaming at me, his face distorted with fury. ‘As soon as I got to school, he took me off the abseiling list in front of the whole class! Everyone laughed at me, even my friends! You ruined what was going to be the best week of mylife!’
Forcing myself to keep breathing, I feel my heart start to pound. ‘It was you?’ I gasp. ‘You knew?About Maya and me?Youknew?’
He nods wordlessly.
‘Mr Whitely, youneed to come withus right now!’
The comment about Maya and me being left home alone, the sound of the door while we were kissinginthe kitchen. . . Whyonearthdidn’t he confront us? Whywait untilnow before telling?
Because he didn’t want to be takeninto care. Because he never intended to tell.
For some strange reason I am desperate for him to know I never asked him to be taken off the abseiling list, never dreamed he might be humiliated in front of his friends, never meant to ruin his first ever trip, the most exciting day of his life. But the officers are shouting at me, pushing me out of the front door with considerable force now, banging my shoulders against the walls, dragging me towards the waitingpolice car. I twist and turnmyhead, franticallytryingto callback to himover myshoulder.
The neighbours have come out in full force, congregating en masse around the waiting police car, watching with fascination as I am pushed down into the back seat. The belt is drawn across me and the door beside me slams. The large officer gets into the front, his radio still crepitating, the younger one gets into the back, beside me. The neighbours are closing in now like a slow wave, leaning, peering, pointing, their mouths openingand closingwithsilent questions.
Suddenly there is a violent thud against the door at my side. I whip my head round in time to see Kit, pummellingfranticallyat the window.
‘I’msorry!’he screams, the sound heavilymuffled by the reinforced glass. ‘Lochie, I’msorry, I’m sorry, I’msorry! I didn’t think about what would happen – I never thought she’d call the police!’ He is crying hard, in a way he hasn’t done for years, tears lashing his cheeks. His body convulses with violent sobs as he punches at the window in a frenzied bid to free me. ‘Come back!’ he screams. ‘Come back!’
I wrestle with the locked door, desperate to tell him it’s OK, that I will be back soon – even though I am well aware this isn’t true. More than anything though, I want to tell him it’s OK, that I know he never intended for it to come to this, that I understand he simply lashed out in hurt and anger and bitter, bitter disappointment. I want to let him know that of course I forgive him, that absolutely none ofthis was his fault, that I love him, that I always have, despite everything. . .
Aneighbour drags himoff and the car begins to pull away fromthe kerb. As we pick up speed, I turn my head for one last look and, through the back window, see Kit sprinting after us, his long legs pummelling the pavement, the familiar look of single-minded determination on his face – the same determinationhe showed duringallthose football, catch, and BritishBulldoggames we used to play. . . Somehow he keeps pace withthe car untilwe reachthe end ofthe narrow street, untilwe accelerate out onto the main road. Frantically craning my head to keep himin sight, I see himfinally stumble to a halt, his hands byhis sides:defeated, crying.
You don’t let Kit lose! I want to shout at the officers. You never let any of them lose! Even when giving them a run for their money, you always, always let them catch you in the end.
He stands there, staring at the car as if willing us back, and I watch him rapidly shrink as the space between us grows. Soon my little brother is just a tiny speck in the distance – and then I can no longer see himat all.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX Lochan

We stop in a large car park full of different kinds of police vehicles. Once again I amtaken firmly by the armand pulled out. Pain frommy bladder makes me wince as I stand, the breeze against my bare arms causing me to shiver. After crossing the tarmac, I am led through some kind of back entrance, alonga short corridor and througha door labelled CHARGEROOM. Another

uniformed officer sits behind a tall desk. The two officers at my side address himas Sergeant and inform him of my offence, but to my great relief he barely looks at me, mechanically tapping my details into his computer. The charge is read out to me yet again, but when I amasked if I understand it, mynod is not accepted. The questionis repeated and I’mforced to use myvoice.

‘Yes.’This time I only manage a whisper. Away fromthe house and the danger offurther upsetting Maya, I can feel myself losing strength: succumbing to the shock, the horror, the blind panic of the situation.

More questions follow. Again I amasked to repeat my name, address, date of birth. I struggle to reply, my brain seems to be slowly shutting down. When asked my occupation, I hesitate. ‘I – I don’t have one.’

‘Are youonunemployment benefit?’
‘No. I’m– I’mstillat school.’
The sergeant looks up at me then. Myface burns beneathhis penetratinggaze. Questions about my health follow, and my mental state is also questioned – no doubt they think

only a psychopath would be capable of such a crime. I’m asked if I want a solicitor and respond immediately with a shake of the head. The last thing I need is someone else to be involved, to hear about allthe terrible things I’ve done. Anyway, I amtryingto prove myguilt, not myinnocence.

After being uncuffed, I am told to hand over my possessions. Fortunately I have none and feel relieved I didn’t take the photo frommy room. Perhaps Maya willremember it and keep it safe. But I can’t help hoping she’llcut offthe two adults at either end ofthe bench and just keep the five children sandwiched inthe middle. Because, ultimately, that was the familywe became. Inthe end we were the ones who loved each other, who struggled and fought to stay together. And it was enough, more than enough.

They ask me to empty my pockets, remove the laces from my shoes. Again the tremor in my hands betrays me, and as I kneel between the suited legs on the dirty lino, I sense the officers’ impatience, their contempt. The shoelaces are placed in an envelope and I have to sign for them, which strikes me as absurd. A body search follows, and at the touch of the officer’s hands running over me, up and down my legs, I start to shake violently, holding onto the edge of the desk to steady myself.

Ina smallanteroom, I amseated ona chair:myphoto is taken, a cottonswab scraped around the inside of my mouth. As my fingers are pressed one by one against an ink pad and then down onto a marked piece of card, I am overcome by a feeling of complete detachment. I am a mere object to these people. I ambarelyhumananymore.

I amthankfulwhenI amfinallypushed into a celland the heavydoor slams shut behind me. To my relief it is empty: small and claustrophobic, containing nothing more than a narrow bed built into the wall. There is a barred window near the ceiling, but the light that fills the roomis purely artificial, harsh and over-bright. Graffiti and what looks like faeces smear the walls. The stench is foul – far worse thanthe most disgustingofpublic urinals – and I have to breathe throughmymouthto avoid gagging.

It takes me for ever to relax enough to empty my bladder into the metal toilet. Now, finally away fromtheir watchful eyes, I cannot stop trembling. I fear that an officer will burst in at any moment, am acutely aware ofthe smallwindow in the door, the flap just beneath it. How do I know I amnot being watched right this minute? Normally I am not this prudish, but after beingpulled out of bed in my underwear, frogmarched semi-naked to my bedroom by two policemen, forced to dress in front of them, I wish there was some way of covering myself up for ever. Ever since hearing the horrific charge, I have been feeling acutely ashamed of my whole body, of what it has done – of what others believe it has done.

Flushing the toilet, I return to the thick metal door and press my ear against it. Shouts echo down the corridor, drunken swearing, a wail that goes on and on, but they seem to be coming from some way away. If I keep my back to the door, then even if an officer peers at me through the window, at least he won’t be able to see myface.

No sooner have I ascertained that I finally have some degree of privacy than the safety valve in my mind that had kept me functioning until now opens, as if by force, and the images and memories flood in. I make a sudden dash for the bed, but my knees give way before I reach it. I sink down on the concrete floor and dig my nails into the thick plastic sheet sewn onto the mattress. I pull at it so violently, I’mscared it might rip. Doubling over, I press my face hard against the stinking bed, muffling my nose and mouth as much as I can. The gut-wrenching sobs tear at my whole body, threatening to split me apart with their force. The whole mattress shakes, my ribcage shuddering against the hard bed-frame, and I amchoking, suffocating, depriving myself of oxygen but unable to raise my head to draw breathfor fear ofmakinga sound. Cryinghas never hurt so much. I want to crawlunder the bed in case someone looks in and sees me like this, but the space is far too small. I cannot even remove the bed-sheet inorder to cover myself– there is simplynowhere to hide.

I hear Kit’s anguished cries, see his fists pound against the window, his skinny frame racing to keep up with the car, his whole body crumpling as he realizes he is powerless to rescue me. I think of Tiffin and Willa playing at Freddie’s, running round the house with their friends in excitement, oblivious ofwhat awaits themontheir return. Willtheybe told what I have done? Willtheybe questioned about me too – asked about all the cuddles, the bath-times, the bedtimes, being tickled, the rough-andtumble games we used to play? Willthey be brainwashed into thinking I abused them?And in years to come, ifwe ever get the chance to meet againas adults, willtheyevenwant to see me? Tiffinwillhave vague memories of me, but Willa will have known me for only the first five years of her life – what, if any, memories, willshe retain?

Finally, too weak to keep her frommy thoughts any longer, I think of Maya. Maya, Maya, Maya. I choke her name into my hands, hoping that the sound of her name will bring me some comfort. I never, ever should have taken such a terrible risk with her happiness. For her sake, for the children’s sakes, I should never have allowed our relationship to develop. I cannot regret it for myself – there is nothing I wouldn’t have endured just for the few months we had together. But I never thought about the danger to her, the horror she would be forced to undergo.

I am terrified of what they might be doing to her right now – bombarding her with questions she will struggle to answer, torn between protecting me by telling the truth and accusing me of rape to enable her to protect the children. How could I have put her in such a position? How could I have asked her to make sucha choice?

The clash and crash of keys and metal locks jolts through my body, startling me into confused, panicked consciousness. An officer orders me to get up, informs me I’mbeing taken to the interview room. Before I can get my body to respond I amseized by the armand jolted to my feet. I pullaway for a moment, desperate to get my thoughts in order – all I need is a moment to clear my head, remember what it is I have to say. This could be my only chance and I have to get it right, all of it, make sure there isn’t the slightest discrepancybetweenMaya’s storyand myown.

I amcuffed once again and led down several long, brightly lit corridors. I have no idea how long it’s been since I was shoved into the cell – time has ceased to exist: there are no windows and I cannot tell what time of day or night it is. I feel dizzy with pain and fear: one wrong word, one wrong move and I could mess it allup, let somethingslip that would somehow implicate Maya inthis too.

Much like my cell, the interview roomis harshly lit:bright, fluorescent light turning the whole room aneerie yellow. It isn’t muchbigger thanthe cell, but now the stenchofurine is replaced bysweat and stale air, the walls are bare and the floor carpeted. The only furniture is a narrow table and three chairs. Two officers are seated on the far side: a man and a woman. The man looks to be in his early forties, with a narrow face and close-cropped hair. The hardness behind the eyes, the grave expression, the set of the jaw all suggest that he has seen this many times before, has been breaking criminals down for years – he looks sharp and shrewd, and there is something tough and intimidating about him. The woman, on the other hand, looks older and more ordinary, with scraped-back hair and a world-weary expression, but her eyes also have that sharp gaze. Both officers look as if they have been well-trained in the art of manipulating, threatening, cajoling or even lying to get what they want fromtheir suspects. Even in my confused, hazy state, I immediately sense that they are good at what theydo.

I amdirected to the grey plastic chair placed opposite them, less than half a metre away fromthe edge of the table and backed up against the wallbehind me. We may as wellallbe in a cage together: the table is not very wide and it all feels far too close for comfort. I amacutely aware of my clammy face, the hair sticking to my forehead, the thin fabric of my T-shirt clinging to my skin, the sweat patches visible on the material. I feeldirty and disgusting, the taste of bile in my throat, sour blood in my mouth, and despite the officers’ impassive expressions, their revulsion is almost tangible in this small, enclosed space.

The man hasn’t looked up since I was brought in, but keeps scribbling away in a file. When he does raise his eyes, I feel myself flinch and automatically try to scrape my chair back, but it does not budge.
‘This interview is going to be recorded and videoed.’ Eyes like smallgrey pebbles bear into mine. ‘Do youhave a problemwiththat?’
As if I have a choice. ‘No.’ I notice a discreet camera in the corner of the room, trained on my face. Freshsweat breaks out across myforehead.
The man flicks the switch of some kind of recording device and reads out a case number, followed by the date and time. He goes on to state, ‘Present is myself, Detective Inspector Sutton. To my right, Detective Inspector Kaye. Opposite us, the suspect. Would you identify yourself, please?’ Who exactly is he speaking to? Other police officers, truth-analysts, the judge and jury? Will this interview be played in court? Will my own descriptions of my heinous crime be played back to my family? Will Maya be forced to listen to me stutter and stumble my way through this interrogation and thenbe asked to confirmwhether I’ve beentellingthe truth?
Don’t think about that now, for chrissakes. Stop thinking about that now – the only two things you should be focusing on right now are your demeanour and your words. Everything that comes out of your mouth must be completely and utterly convincing.
‘LochanWhi—’I clear mythroat; myvoice is weak and uneven. ‘LochanWhitely.’
The next few questions are the usual:date ofbirth? Nationality? Address? Detective Sutton barely looks up, either jotting things down in his file or fast-forwarding through my notes, his eyes flicking rapidlyfromside to side.
‘Do youknow whyyou’re here?’His eyes meet mine verysuddenly, makingme start.
I nod. ThenI swallow. ‘Yes.’
Pen poised, he continues to look at me, as if waiting for me to continue. ‘For – for sexually abusingmysister,’I say, myvoice strained but steady.
The words hang in the air like small red puncture wounds. I feel the atmosphere thicken, tighten. Even though the interrogating officers have it all written down in front of them, my actually saying the words aloud, in the presence of both a video camera and a voice recorder, makes it all suddenly unalterable. I barely feel as if I’mlying any more. Perhaps there is no one universal truth. Consensual incest to me, sexualabuse ofa child familymember to them. Perhaps bothlabels are correct.
And thenthe questions begin.
At first it’s allbackground stuff. The tedious, endless minutiae:where I was born, the members of my family, everyone’s dates of birth, the details surrounding our father, my relationship with him, with my siblings, with my mother. I stick to the truth as much as possible, even telling them about our mother’s late shifts at the restaurant, her relationship with Dave. I am careful to omit the parts that I hope Mumand Kit will have the sense to gloss over too: her drinking problem, the fights over money, the move to Dave’s house, and finally the almost total abandonment of her family. Instead, I tell them that she has only recently started working late shifts and that I babysit in the evenings, but only once the children are in bed. So far, so good. Not an ideal family set-up, but one that just about fits within the bounds of normality. And then, after they have been given every little detail, from the number of rooms inour house to our respective schools, our grades and extra-curricular activities, the questionis finallyasked:
‘When was the first time you had any kind of sexual contact with Maya?’ The officer’s gaze is direct and his voice as expressionless as before, but he suddenly seems to be watching me carefully, waitingfor the slightest shift inmyexpression.
Silence thickens the air, draining it of oxygen, and I am aware of the sound of my own rapid breathing, my lungs automatically crying out for more air. I’m aware too of the sweat running down the sides of my face and certain he can see the fear in my eyes. I am exhausted and in pain and desperate for the toilet again, but clearlythe interview has a longtime yet to run.
‘When – when you say sexual contact, do you meanlike – like feelings, or when we first – I mean, I first t-touched her, or—?’
‘The first time you had any inappropriate exposure or contact.’ His voice has hardened, his jaw tightened and the words shoot out ofhis mouthlike smallbullets.
Fighting my way through the fog and panic, I try to come up with the correct answer. It is vital I get all this right so it will match up exactly with Maya’s account. Sexual contact – but what exactly does that mean? That first kiss the night ofher date? Or before that, whenwe were dancing?
‘Would you answer the question!’ The temperature is rising. He thinks I’m stalling in order to try to exonerate myself, wheninrealityit’s the opposite.
‘I – I’m not sure of the exact date. It m-must have been November sometime. Y-yes, November—’Or was it October? OhGod, I ammessingthis allup already.
‘Tellme what happened.’
‘OK. She – she came home from a date with a guy from school. We – we got into an argument because I was giving her the third degree. I was worried – I mean, angry – I wanted to know if she’d slept withhim. I got upset—’
‘What do youmeanbyupset?’
No. Please.
‘I started—I began to cry . . .’ Like I’mgoing to do now, just at the memory of the pain I felt on that night. Turning my head towards the wall, I bite down hard, but the pain of my teeth cutting into my tongue doesn’t work any longer. No amount of physical pain can cover up the mental agony. Five minutes into the interrogation and already I’m falling apart. It’s hopeless, everything’s hopeless, I’m hopeless, I’mgoingto failMaya, failthemall.
‘Thenwhat happened?’
I tryeverytrick inthe book to keep the tears at bay, but nothingworks. The pressure mounts, and I see fromSutton’s expressionthat he thinks I amstallingfor time, pretendingto feelremorse, lying.
‘Thenwhat happened?’This time, his voice is raised.
I flinch. ‘I said to her – I tried to – I said she had to – I forced her to—’
I can’t get the words out, even though I’m desperate to, wishing I could scream them from the rooftops. It’s like being forced up in front ofthe class again, the words clogging up my throat, my face burning with shame. Except this time I’mnot being asked to read out an essay, I’mbeing interrogated about the most intimate and personal details of my life, all those tender moments spent with Maya, all those precious times that have made the last three months the happiest I’ve ever known. Yet now they are being smeared across our family like the faeces in the cell – putrid, foul, horrific abuse, myself as perpetrator, forcingmyyounger sister into revoltingsexualacts against her will.
‘Lochan, I strongly suggest you stop wasting our time and start to co-operate. As I’msure you’re aware, in the UK, the maximum sentence for rape is life imprisonment. Now, if you co-operate and show remorse for what you’ve done, that sentence will almost certainly be reduced, perhaps even to as little as seven years. But if you lie or try to deny anything, we will find out anyway and a judge will be far less lenient.’
Again I try to answer, again I fail. I see myself through their eyes – the sick, screwed-up, pathetic sexaddict, reduced to abusinga younger sister he once played with, his ownfleshand blood.
‘Lochan . . .’ The female detective is leaning towards me, clasped hands stretched out across the table. ‘I can see you feel bad about what happened. And that’s good. It means you’re beginning to take responsibility for your actions. Perhaps you didn’t really believe that having a sexual relationship with your sister would harmher, perhaps you never meant it when you threatened to kill her, but you need to tell us exactly what happened, exactly what you did, what you said. If you try to gloss over things or leave things out or stallor lie, thenthings are goingto get much, muchworse for you.’
Taking a deep breath, I nod, trying hard to show them that I’m willing to co-operate, that they don’t have to keep up this Good Cop, Bad Cop charade in order for me to confess. All I need is the strength to pullmyselftogether, hold back the tears and find the right words to describe allthe things I forced Maya to do to me, allthe things I forced her to endure.
‘Lochan, do youhave a nickname?’
Detective Kaye is still doing her pally stuff, where she pretends to comfort and befriend me in the hope that I will trust her enough to relax, calmdown, believe she is trying to actually help rather than to extract a confession.
‘Loch—’I blurt. ‘Lochie—’No, ohno. Onlymyfamilycallme that. Onlymyfamily!
‘Lochie, listen to me now. Ifyou co-operate with us today, ifyou tellus everything that happened, it will make a big difference to the outcome of all this. We’re all human. We all make mistakes, right? You’re only eighteen, I’msure you didn’t realize the severity ofwhat you were doing, and a judge will take that into consideration.’
Yeah, right. How stupid do you think I am? I’m eighteen and I’ll be tried as an adult. Save your manipulating lies for the ones who are really trying to conceal their actions.
I nod and dry my eyes on my sleeve. Tearing at my hair with cuffed hands raised above my head, I beginto talk.
The lies are the easy part – forcing Maya to stay off school, getting into bed with her every night, repeating the same threat, again and again, whenever she begged me to leave her alone. It’s when I have to tellthemthe truththat I flounder – it’s our truth, our innermost secrets, our most intimate times, the precious little details of our brief, idyllic moments together. Those are the parts that make me stammer and shake. But I force myself to continue, even when I can’t hold back the tears any longer, even when they start spilling down mycheeks and my voice starts to shake with repressed sobs, even whenI feeltheir looks ofrevulsionmerge withones ofpity.
They want to know every little detail. The time on the bed, our first night together. What I did, what she did, what I said, what she said. How I felt . . . How I responded . . . How mybody responded . . . I tell themthe truth, and someone reaches into my chest and slowly starts splitting me apart. When we finally reach this morning’s events, when it comes to what they refer to as ‘penetration’, I want to die to stop the pain. They ask me if I used protection, they ask me if Maya cried out, they ask me how long it lasted . . . It hurts so much, feels so utterly humiliating, so completelydegrading, that I feelsick.
The interrogation seems to go on for hours. It feels like the middle of the night and we have been shut up inthis tiny, airless roomfor alleternity. Theytake turns poppingout for coffee or snacks. They offer me water, which I decline. Eventually I am so wrung out that all I can do is suck on my middle two fingers like I used to as a small child and slump sideways against the wall, my voice completely hoarse, face stickywithcongealed sweat and tears. Througha thick haze, I hear theminformme that I willbe escorted back to mycelland that the interview willcontinue tomorrow.
The tape is switched off, another officer comes to collect me, but for a few moments I can’t even get to my feet. Detective Sutton – who, for the most part, has remained cold and impassive – sighs and shakes his head with a look bordering on pity. ‘You know, Lochan, I’ve been in this job for years and I can tell that you’re feeling remorse for what you’ve done. But I’mafraid it’s all rather too late. Not only are you charged with committing a very serious crime, but your threats appear to have left your sister so terrified, she has signed a statement swearing that your sexual relationship together was fullyconsensualand instigated byher.’
All the air exits my body. My exhaustion evaporates. Suddenly only the thudding of my horrified heartbeat fills the air. She told themthe truth? She told them the truth?
‘A signed statement – but that’s void now, right? Now that I’ve admitted everything, told you exactly what happened. You know she only said those things because I told her to, because I said I’d have her killed ifI ended up inprison. So no one believes her, do they? Not now I’ve confessed!’My cracked, dried-up voice is shaking hard, but I must stay calm. Showing remorse is one thing, but I have to somehow disguise the extent ofmyhorror and disbelief.
‘That’lldepend onhow the judge sees it.’
‘The judge?’ I’m shouting now, my voice verging on hysteria. ‘But Maya’s not the one being accused ofrape!’
‘No, but even consensual incest is against the law. Under Section Sixty-five of the Sexual Offences Act, your sister could be tried for “consent to beingpenetrated by an adult relative”, which carries a sentence ofup to two years inprison.’
I stare at him. Speechless. Stunned. It cannot be. It cannot be.
The detective sighs and tosses the file back onto the table in a sudden gesture of weariness. ‘So unless she retracts her statement, your sister now faces arrest too.’
Why? Maya, my love? Why, why, why?
Collapsed on the floor, halfpropped up against the metaldoor, I stare blindly at the opposite wall. My whole body hurts from lying completely motionless for what must be several hours now. I no longer have the strength to continue banging my head back against the door in a desperate, frenzied attempt to think of a way of somehow getting Maya to retract her statement. After shouting over and over, pleading with the guards to let me call home, I eventually lose my voice completely. Maya and I will never be allowed to contact each other again – at least not until I’ve served out my sentence which, accordingto that interrogationofficer, could be over a decade fromnow!

My mind is falling apart and I can barely think, but as far as I understand it, the fact is that unless Maya retracts her statement, she will be arrested just as I was, possibly even in front of Tiffin and Willa. With no one to look after them, no one to cover for our mother’s drinking and neglect, allthree children will doubtlessly be taken into care. And Maya will be brought to the police station, subjected to the same humiliations, the same interrogations, and accused, just as I was, of committing a sexual crime. Even with my word against hers, there will be little I can do. If I continue to insist I am the abuser, they willimmediately question why I amsuddenly so desperate to absolve Maya ofallwrongdoing – especially after having both repeatedly abused and threatened to kill her should she tell anyone. I will be cornered, powerless to protect her, for the more I insist that Maya is innocent and I amthe guiltyone, the more likelytheywillbe to believe Maya’s confession. It won’t take themlongto figure out that I’mtaking the blame to protect her, that I’mlying because I love her and that I would never abuse, threaten or harmher in any way. And of course there’s Kit – the only real witness. Even Tiffin and Willa, ifthey are questioned, willinsist that never once did Maya ever appear afraid ofme – that she was always smiling at me, laughing with me, touching my hand, even hugging me. And so they willrealize that Maya is as complicit inthis crime as I am.

Whatever I tryto do now is hopeless, especiallyas anyattempts to catchMaya out willfailas she will be the one telling the truth. She’ll easily be able to explain away the blow to her lip as my last, desperate attempt to make it look as ifI was abusingher.

Maya willbe brought to court and sentenced to two years in prison. She willstart offher adult life behind bars, separated not only fromme, but fromKit, Tiffin and Willa, who love her so much. Even after serving out her prison sentence, she will emerge emotionally scarred, and stuck with a criminal record for the rest of her life. Denied allaccess to her other siblings for her crime, she willfind herself utterly alone in the world, ostracized by her friends, while I remain locked up, serving out a considerably longer sentence because I’ll have been tried as an adult. The thought of all this is, quite simply, more thanI canbear. And I know that, unless I cansomehow get throughto her, the stubborn, passionate Maya who loves me so much will not capitulate. She has made her choice. How I wish I could tellher I would rather be locked awayfor life thanput her throughanyofthat . . .

No use sitting here falling apart. None of this can happen. I will not let it. Yet despite thinking and thinking for hours on end, lashing out sporadically against the cold concrete around me in utter frustration, I cannot come up withanywayto get Maya to change her mind.

I’mbeginning to realize that nothing willmake Maya retract her statement and accuse me of rape. She’ll have had time now to realize that, by doing so, she will send me to prison. If I’d run, as she initially suggested, if by some miracle I’d managed to avoid getting caught, she would have lied in a heartbeat for the sake of the children. But knowing that I am sitting here, locked in a prison cell, the rest of my life dependent on her accusation or confession, she will never capitulate. I realize this now with earth-shattering certainty. She loves me too much. She loves me too much. I so wanted her love, allofit. I got mywish. . . and now we are bothpayingthe price. How stupid I was to ever ask her to do this, I realize, to expect her to sacrifice my freedom for hers. My happiness meant everything to her, as muchas hers did to me. Had the situationbeenreversed, would I have evenconsidered falsely accusingMaya inorder to avoid a punishment ofmyown?

Yet still the regret gnaws away at me. If I’d run when I had the chance, if I’d left and somehow escaped arrest, Maya would not have confessed. Nothing would have been gained by telling the truth, it would have onlyhurt the children. She would have never confessed ifI hadn’t beencaught . . .

My gaze travels slowly up the wall to the small window in the corner, just below the ceiling. And suddenly the answer is right there in front of me. If I want Maya to retract her confession, then I must not be here to receive a sentence, I must not be trapped ina cellfacingjailtime. I must leave.

Unpickingthe threads ofthe sheet sewnonto the mattress sooncauses myhands to stiffenand my fingers to go numb. I keep track of the time between guard checks, counting rhythmically to myself beneath my breath as I carefully, methodically, sever the seams. Whoever designed these cells has done a good job of ensuring their security. The small window is so high off the ground it would require a three-metre ladder to reach it. It is also barred, of course, but the bars stick out at the top. With an accurate throw, I feel confident that I can lasso a loop over the spiked bars so that the knotted strips of torn sheet hang down just low enough for me to reach, like those ropes we used to climb inPE. I was good at that, I remember, always the first to the top. IfI canachieve a similar result this time, I will reach the window, that small patch of sunlight, my gateway to freedom. It’s a crazy plan, I know. Adesperate one. But I am desperate. There are no options left. I have to go. I have to disappear.

The bars covering the glass show signs of rust and don’t look that strong. So long as they don’t break before I actuallyreachthe window, this could work.
Six hundred and twenty-three counts since the last steps were heard outside my celldoor. Once I amready, I’llhave tenminutes or so to pullthis off. I’ve read about people managingto do this before – it doesn’t just happenoncop shows. It is possible. It has to be.
After finally working my way round the entire edge of the plastic sheet, I give it a small tug and feelit shift under me, no longer attached to the mattress beneath. Positioning it in front ofme, I use my teeth to make the first tear and begin to rip, bit by bit. By my rough calculations, three strips of sheet tied together should be just about long enough. The material is tough and my hands are aching, but I can’t risk just yanking at the sheet for fear of the sound of tearing being overheard. My nails are torn, my fingertips a bleeding mess by the time the materialis separated into three equalpieces. But now all I have to do is wait for the guard to pass.
The footsteps beginto approach, and suddenlyI amshaking. Shakingso hard I canhardlythink. I can’t go through with it. I’m too much of a coward, too damn scared. My plan is ridiculous – I am going to get caught, I amgoing to fail. The bars look too loose. What if they break before I reach the window?
The footsteps begin to recede and I immediately start tying the strips together. The knots have to be tight, really tight – enough to take my full weight. Sweat pours off me, running into my eyes, blurring my vision. I have to hurry, hurry, hurry, but my hands won’t stop shaking. My body screams at me to stop, back down. Mymind forces me to keep going. I have never beenthis afraid.
I miss. I keep missing. Despite the weight ofthe plastic materialand the heavy knotted loop at the end, I cannot get it to catch on one of the spikes. I made the loop too small. I overestimated my ability to hit a target while panicking with unsteady hands. Finally, in mad desperation, I hurl it right up to the ceiling and, to my astonishment, the loop comes down to catch on a single outer spike, the knotted strips of sheet hanging down against the wall like a thick rope. I stare at it for a moment in totalshock:it’s there, waiting to be climbed, my path to freedom. Heart pounding, I reach up to grasp the materialas highas I can. Pullingmyselfup withmyarms, I raise mylegs, draw up myknees, cross myankles to trap the materialbetweenmyfeet and beginto climb.
Reaching the top takes far longer than I’d anticipated. My palms are sweaty, my fingers weak fromallthe unpicking and tearing, and unlike schoolclimbing ropes, the strips ofsheet have almost no grip. As soon as I reach the top, I hook my arms round the bars, my feet scrabbling for a foothold against the bumpy, chipped wall. The toe of my shoe finds a small protrusion, and thanks to the grip of my trainers, I amable to cling on. Now for the moment of truth. Have the bars been loosened by myclimb? Willa final, violent downward pullcause themto break awayfromthe wall?
I haven’t time to inspect the rust around the fastenings now. Like a rock climber ona cliff’s edge, I cling to the bars with my hands and to the wallwith my feet, every muscle in my body straining against the pullof gravity. If they catch me now, it’s allover. But stillI hesitate. Willthe bars break? Will they break? For one brief moment I feel the golden light of the dying sun touch my face through the dirty window. Beyond it lies freedom. Shut up in this airless box, I am able to catch a glimpse of the outdoors, the wind shaking the green trees in the distance. The thick glass is like an invisible wall, sealing me off from everything that is real and alive and necessary. At what point do you give up – decide enoughis enough? There is onlyone answer really. Never.
The time has come:ifI fail, they willhear me and either keep me under surveillance or transfer me to a more secure cell, so I’m acutely aware that this is my one and only chance. A terrified sob threatens to escape me. I’m losing it – someone will hear. But I don’t want to do this. I’m so afraid. So veryafraid.
With my left arm still hooked over the bars, taking almost the full weight of my body – metal cutting into flesh, digging into bone – I release one hand to reach for the sheet hanging down below me. And then I realize this is it. The guard will be back down the corridor any minute now. I have no excuses any more. It’s time for me to set us all free. Despite the terror, the blinding white terror, I slip a second loop over myhead. Tightenthe noose. Aharshsob breaks the stillair. And thenI let go.
Willa’s big blue eyes, Willa’s dimpled-cheeked smile. Tiffin’s shaggy blond mane, Tiffin’s cheeky grin. Kit’s yells ofexcitement, Kit’s glow ofpride. Maya’s face, Maya’s kisses, Maya’s love.
Maya, Maya, Maya . . .

EPILOGUE Maya

I stare at myself in the mirror on my bedroom wall. I can see myself clearly, but it’s as if I’m not actually there. The reflection thrown back at me is that of another, an impersonator, a stranger. One who looks like me, yet appears so normal, so solid, so alive. My hair is neatly fastened back, but my face looks alarmingly familiar, my eyes are the same – wide, blue. My expression is impassive – calm, collected, almost serene. I look so shockingly ordinary, so devastatingly normal. Only my ashen skin, the deep shadows beneath my eyes, betray the sleepless nights, the hours and hours of darkness spent staring up at a familiar ceiling, my bed a cold tomb in which I now lie alone. The tranquillizers have long been binned, the threat of hospitalization dropped now that I’m managing to eat and drink again, now that I’ve regained my voice, found a way of making my muscles contract then relax in order to be able to move, stand, function. Things are almost back to normal: Mumhas stopped trying to force-feed me, Dave has stopped covering for her to the authorities, and bothhave drifted back across town together after restoring some kind oforder in the house and putting on a convincing show for SocialServices. I have returned to the familiar role of care-provider, except that nothing is familiar to me anymore, least ofallmyself.

A basic routine has resumed: getting up, showering, dressing, shopping, cooking, cleaning the house, trying to keep Tiffin and Willa and even Kit as busy as possible. They cling to me like limpets – most nights all four of us end up together in what used to be our mother’s bed. Even Kit has regressed to a frightened child, although his valiant efforts to help and support me make my heart ache. As we huddle together beneath the duvet in the big double bed, sometimes they want to talk; mostly they want to cry and I comfort them as best I can, even though I know nothing can ever be enough, no words canever make up for what happened, for what I put themthrough.

During the day there is so much to do:speak to their teachers about returning to school, go to our sessions with the counsellor, check in with the social worker, make sure they are clean, fed and healthy . . . I am forced to keep a checklist, remind myself what I’m supposed to be doing at each point during the day – when to get up, when to have meals, when to start bedtime . . . I have to break down each chore into little steps, otherwise I find myself standing in the middle of the kitchen with a saucepaninone hand, completelyoverwhelmed, lost, withno idea whyI’mstandingthere or what I’m supposed to do next. I start sentences I cannot finish, ask Kit to do me a favour and then forget what it was. He tries to help me, tries to take over and do everything, but then I worry that he is doing too much, that he too willhave some sort of breakdown, and so I beg himto stop. But at the same time I realize he needs to keep busyand feelhe is helpingand that I need himto.

Since the day it happened, the day the news came, every minute has been agony in its simplest, strongest form, like forcing my hand into a furnace and counting down the seconds knowing they will never end, wondering how I can possibly endure another one, and then another after that, astonished that despite the torture I keep breathing, I keep moving, even though I know by doing so the pain will never go away. But I kept my hand in life’s furnace for a single reason only – the children. I covered for our mother, I lied for our mother, I even told the children exactly what to say before Social Services arrived – but that was when I still had the arrogance, the ridiculous, shameful arrogance to believe that theywould stillbe better offwithme thantakenawayand placed incare.

Now I know different. Even though I have slowly reestablished some sort of routine, some semblance of calm, I have turned into a robot and can barely look after myself, let alone three traumatized children. They deserve a proper home with a proper family who will keep themtogether and be able to counsel and support them. They deserve to start afresh – embark on a new life where the people who care for themfollow society’s norms, where loved ones don’t leave, or fall apart, or die. Theydeserve so muchbetter. No doubt theyalways have.

I do honestly believe all this now. It took me a few days to convince myself fully, but eventually I realized that I had no choice: there was actually no decision to make, no option but to accept the facts. I do not have the strengthto continue like this, I cannot go onanother day:the onlywayto cope with such crushing guilt is to convince myself that, for their own sakes, the children will be better off elsewhere. I willnot allow myselfto think that I too amabandoningthem.

My reflection hasn’t changed. I’mnot sure how long I’ve been standing here, but I’maware that some time has passed because I amstarting to feel very cold again. This is a familiar sign that I have ground to a halt, come to the end of the current step and forgotten how to make the transition to the next. But maybe this time mydelayis deliberate. The next step willbe the hardest ofall.

The dress I bought for the occasion is actually quite pretty without being too formal. The navy jacket makes it look suitably smart. Blue because it is Lochan’s favourite colour. Was Lochan’s favourite colour. I bite my lip and blood wells up on the surface. Crying is apparently good for the children – someone told me that, I don’t remember who – but I’ve learned that for me, as with everything I do now, there is no point to it. Nothing can relieve the pain. Not crying, laughing, screaming, begging. Nothingcanchange the past. Nothingcanbringhimback. The dead remaindead.

Lochan would have laughed at my clothes. He never saw me so poshly dressed. He would have joked I looked like a city banker. But then he would have stopped laughing and told me that actually I looked beautiful. He would have chuckled at the sight ofKit in such a smart suit, suddenly seeming so much older than his thirteen years. He would have teased us for buying Tiffin a suit too, but would have liked the brightly coloured football tie, Tiffin’s own personal touch. He would have struggled to laugh at Willa’s choice of outfit though. I think the sight of her in her treasured violet ‘princess dress’ that we got her for Christmas would have brought himclose to tears.

It has taken so long – nearly a month because of the autopsy, the inquest and all the rest – but finally the time has come. Our mother decided not to attend, so it will just be the four of us in the pretty church up on Millwood Hill – its cool, shady interior empty, echoey and quiet. Just the four of us and the coffin. Reverend Dawes will think Lochan Whitely had no friends, but he’ll be wrong – he had me, he had all of us . . . He will think Lochan wasn’t loved, but he was, more deeply than most people are ina lifetime . . .

After the short service we willreturn home and comfort each other. After a while I willgo upstairs and write the letters – one to each of them, explaining why, telling them how much I love them, that I’mso, so very sorry. Reassuring themthat they will be well looked after by another family, trying to convince them, as I did myself, that they will be much better off without me, much better off starting over. Then the rest will be easy, selfish but easy – it has been carefully planned for over a week now. Obviously I can’t possibly remain in the house for the children to find, so I will go to my refuge in Ashmoore Park, the place I called Paradise, whichI once shared withLochan. Except this time I shall not return.

The kitchen knife I’ve been keeping beneath the stack of papers in my desk drawer will be hidden beneath my coat. I will lie down on the damp grass, stare up at the star-studded sky and then raise the knife. I know exactly what to do so that it will be over quickly, so quickly – the same way I hope it was for Lochan. Lochie. The boy I once loved. The boy I still love. The boy I will continue to love, even when my part in this world is over too. He sacrificed his life to spare me a prison sentence. He thought I could look after the children. He thought I was the strong one – strong enough to go on without him. He thought he knew me. But he was wrong.

Willa bursts into the room, making me start. Kit has brushed her long, golden hair, wiped her face and hands clean after breakfast. Her baby face is stillso sweet and trusting, it pains me to look at her. I wonder whether, when she is my age, she will still look like me. I hope someone will show her a picture. I hope someone will let her know how much she was loved – by Lochan, by me – even though she won’t be able to remember it for herself. Out of the three of them, she is the most likely to make a fullrecovery, the most likelyto forget, and I hope she does. Perhaps, iftheyallow her to keep at least one photo, some part ofit willjogher memory. Perhaps she willremember a game we used to playor the funnyvoices I used to do for the different characters inher books at bedtime.

She hesitates in the doorway, unsure whether to advance or retreat, clearly desperate to tell me somethingbut afraid to do so.
‘What is it, mydarling?Youlook so beautifulinyour dress. Are youreadyto go?’
She stares at me, unblinking, as if trying to gauge my reaction, then slowly shakes her head, her bigeyes fillingwithtears.
I kneel down and hold out my arms and she launches herself into them, her small hands pressed against her eyes.
‘I d-don’t want to – I don’t want to go! I don’t! I don’t want to go saygoodbye to Lochie!’
I pull her close, her small body sobbing softly against mine, and kiss her wet cheek, stroke her hair, rock her back and forthagainst me.
‘I know you don’t, Willa. I don’t want to either. None of us do. But we need to, we need to say goodbye. It doesn’t mean we can’t visit his grave in the churchyard, it doesn’t mean we can’t still think about himand talk about himwhenever we want.’
‘But I don’t want to go, Maya!’ she cries, her sobbing voice almost pleading. ‘I’m not going to say goodbye, I don’t want him to go! I don’t, I don’t, I don’t!’ She starts to struggle against me, tryingto pullaway, desperate to escape the ordeal, the finalityofit all.
I wrap my arms tightly around her and attempt to hold her still. ‘Willa, listen to me, listen to me. Lochie wants you to come and say goodbye to him. He really wants that a lot. He loves you so much – youknow that. You’re his favourite little girlinthe whole world. He knows you’re verysad and very angryright now, but he reallyhopes one dayyouwon’t feelso bad anymore.’
Her struggles become more half-hearted, her bodyweakeningas her tears increase.
‘W-what else does he want?’
FranticallyI tryto come up withsomething. For you to someday find a way to forgive him. For you to forget the pain he caused you even if it means you have to forget him. For you to go on to live a life of unimaginable joy . . .
‘Well – he always loved your drawings, remember? I’m sure he’d really like it if you made him something. Maybe a card with a special picture. You could write a message inside if you want to – or otherwise just your name. We’ll cover it in special transparent plastic, so that even if it rains, it won’t get wet. And thenyoucould take it to himwhenyougo and visit his grave.’
‘But ifhe’s asleep for ever and ever, how willhe evenknow it’s there? How willhe evensee it?’
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes. ‘I don’t know, Willa. I honestly don’t know. But he might – he might see it, he might know. So, just incase he does—’
‘O-OK.’ She draws back slightly, her face still pink and tear-stained, but with a tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes. ‘I think he will see it, Maya,’ she tells me, as if begging me to agree. ‘I think he will. Don’t you?’
I nod slowly, bitingdownhard. ‘I think he willtoo.’
Willa gives a small gulp and a sniff, but I can tell her mind is already on the work of art she is going to create. She leaves my arms and moves off towards the door but then, as if suddenly rememberingsomething, turns back.
‘So what about youthen?’
I feelmyselftense. ‘What d’youmean?’
‘What about you?’she repeats. ‘What are yougoingto give him?’
‘Oh – maybe some flowers or something. I’mnot artistic like you. I don’t think he’d want one of mydrawings.’
Willa gives me a long look. ‘I don’t think Lochie would want you to give himflowers. I think he’d want youto do somethingspecial-er.’
Turning away from her abruptly, I walk over to the window and peer up at the cloudless sky, pretending to check for rain. ‘Tell you what – why don’t you go and start making the card? I’ll be down in a minute and thenwe can all set off together. And remember, on the way home we’re going to have cakes at—’
‘That’s not fair!’ Willa shouts suddenly. ‘Lochie loves you! He wants you to do something for him too!’
She runs out of the room and I hear the familiar sound of her feet thudding down the stairs. Anxiously I follow her to the end of the corridor, but when I hear her ask Kit to help her find the felttips, I relax.
I return to my room. Back to the mirror I can’t seem to leave. If I keep looking at myself, I can persuade myselfI’mstillhere, at least for today. I have to be here today, for the children, for Lochie. I have to turn off the mechanical switch just for these next few hours. I have to let myself feel, just for now, just for the funeral. But now that my mind is thawing, coming back to life, the pain begins to rise again, and Willa’s words won’t leave me alone. Why did she get so angry? Does she somehow sense that I’ve given up? Does she think that because Lochie’s gone, I no longer care what he might have wanted fromus, for us?
I suddenly grip the sides of the mirror for support. I am on dangerous ground – this is a train of thought I cannot afford to follow. Willa loved Lochan as much as I did, yet she is not hiding behind an anaesthetic; she is hurting as much as I am, yet she is finding ways to cope, even though she’s only five. Right now she isn’t thinking about herself and her own grief, but about Lochie, about what she cando for him. The least I can do is ask myselfthe same question:ifLochie could see me now, what would he be askingfor?
But of course I know the answer already. I’ve known the answer all along. Which is why I’ve carefully avoided thinking about it untilnow . . . I watch the eyes of the girlin the mirror fillwith tears. No, Lochie, I tellhimdesperately. No! Please, please. You can’t ask me for that, you can’t. I can’t do it, not without you. It’s too hard. It’s too hard. It’s too painful!I loved you too much!
Cana personas kind as Lochie ever be loved too much? Was our love reallydestined to cause so much unhappiness, so much destruction and despair? In the end, was it wrong after all? If I am still here, doesn’t that mean I have the chance to keep our love alive? Doesn’t that mean I still have the opportunityto make somethinggood come out ofallthis rather thanunendingtragedy?
He gave up his life to rescue mine, to rescue the children. That was what he wanted, that was his choice, that was the price he was willing to pay for me to continue living, for me to have a life worth living. IfI die too, his ultimate sacrifice willhave beeninvain.
I sway forward so that my forehead presses against the cold glass. I close my eyes and start to cry, silent tears tracking down my cheeks. Lochie, I can go to prison for you, I can die for you. But the one thing I know you want, I can’t do. I can’t go on living for you.
‘Maya, we need to leave. We’re going to be late!’ Kit’s voice calls up from the hall. They’re all waiting, waiting to say goodbye, to take the first step towards letting go. If I amto live, I will have to start lettinggo too. Let go ofLochie. How canI possiblyever do that?
I look at myface one more time. I look into the eyes Lochie used to callas blue as the ocean. Just a few moments ago I told myself that he never really knew me if he thought, even for a second, that I could survive without him. But what ifI’m the one who is wrong? Lochie died to save us, to save the family, to save me. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d thought, even for a moment, that I wasn’t strong enough to go on without him. Perhaps, just perhaps, at the end of the day, he is right and I am wrong. Perhaps I never knew myselfas wellas he knew me.
I walk slowlytowards mydesk and pullopenthe drawer. I slide myhand under the piles ofpaper and close my fingers around the knife’s handle. I pick it up, its sharp edge glinting in the sun. I hold it under my jacket and go downstairs. In the kitchen, I open the cutlery drawer and place it right at the veryback, out ofsight. ThenI pushthe drawer firmlyclosed.
A violent sob escapes me. As I press the back of my wrist against my mouth, my lips meet the coolsilver. Lochan’s present to me. Now it’s myturn. Closingmyeyes against the tears, I take a long, deep breathand whisper, ‘OK, I’lltry. That’s allI canpromise youright now, Lochie, but I’lltry.’
As we leave the house, everyone is fussing and squabbling. Willa has lost her butterfly clip, Tiffin claims his tie is choking him, Kit complains that Willa’s moaning will make us all late . . . We file out through the broken gate and onto the street, all dressed up in the smartest clothes we have ever owned. Willa and Tiffin both want to hold my hand. Kit hangs back. I suggest he takes Willa’s so that we can swing her between us. He obliges, and as we launch her high into the air, the wind whips back her long dress, revealing a pair of bright pink knickers. As she clamours for us to do it again, Kit’s eyes meet mine withanamused smile.
We walk down the middle of the road holding hands, the pavement far too narrow for all four of us together. A warm breeze brushes across our faces, carrying the smell of honeysuckle from a front garden. The midday sun beams down froma bright blue sky, the light shimmering between the leaves, scatteringus withgoldenconfetti.
‘Hey!’Tiffinexclaims, his voice ringingwithsurprise. ‘It’s nearlysummer!’

A Note of Madness by Tabitha Suzuma
Why is this happening to me? he asked himself desperately. What is wrong with me?
Life as a student should be good for Flynn. He’s one ofthe top pianists at the RoyalCollege of Music, he’s beenput forward for anopportunity-of-a-lifetime concert, and he’s got great friends. But beneaththe surface, he’s fallingapart.

Ona good dayhe feels fullofenergyand life, but ona bad daybeingalive is worse thanbeingdead. Sometimes he wants to compose and practise allnight, at other times he can’t get out ofbed. Withthe pressure ofthe forthcomingconcert and the growingconcernofhis familyand friends, emotions come
to a head. Sometimes things canonlyget worse before theyget better.
A Voice in the Distance by Tabitha Suzuma
Every thought hurts like hell. Everything you see is awful, twisted, pointless. And the worst – the worst of it is yourself.
Star pianist FlynnLaukonenhas the world at his feet. He has moved inwithhis girlfriend Jennahand is alreadygettingconcert bookings for what promises to be a glitteringcareer. Yet he knows he is skatingonthinice – onlytwo smallpills a daykeep himfromplungingback into the whirlpoolof
manic depressionthat once threatened to destroyhim.
SuddenlyFlynnfinds himselfinhospital, carnage left behind him. The medicationisn’t workingany more and depressionstrikes again, this time withhorrific consequences. It seems like he has to make a choice betweenthe medicationand his career. But inallthis he has forgottenthe one personhe would
give his life for, and Flynnsuddenlyfinds himselffacingthe biggest sacrifice ofall.
fromwherei Stand tabithasuzuma

Ravenis a deeplydisturbed teenager. After witnessingthe deathofhis mother and livingina children’s home, he’s now beenplaced infoster care.
His new family, the Russells, do their best to earnhis trust but it’s goingto take a longtime.

Meanwhile, at school, bullies are makingRaven’s life a livinghell. And thenanunexpected saviour comes inthe formofLotte, a classmate bored byher ‘ordinary’friends. Together, theyset out to track downRaven’s mum’s killer, inorder to expose himto the police. But their carefullycrafted plan goes dangerouslywrongand suddenlynothingis as it seems. Everythingis fallingapart, and ultimately there is onlyone, final, wayout.