We play on, well into the dark. Willa eventually collapses in exhaustion and goes to sit in the warmth of the hallway, watching us and yelling instructions through the open door. Maya is next to join her. I am left 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 trying to use himself as a human chain between Kit and the wall.
‘I won, I won!’ Kit yells.
‘No way! You have to touch the wall, you big cheat!’
‘I touched it!’
‘You didn’t!’
‘I touched Tiff’s hand and he’s touching the wall!’
‘That doesn’t count!’
I have Kit pinned to the ground and he screams to Tiffin for help. Tiffin bravely leaves the safety of the wall but immediately gets pulled down on top of us. ‘Got you both!’ I cry.
‘Cheater, cheater!’ They deafen me with their 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 from the jar.
Kit tries to trip me as I get up to put the kettle on. ‘We should have a rematch,’ he informs me. ‘You need the practice.’
And then he smiles.
CHAPTER TWENTY-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. Mum neglects even to phone. Taking the odd day off school allows 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 from top 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 stressful again, time on our own is no longer so limited, and having fun with the children becomes as important as looking after them.
Mum ‘checks in on us’ from time to time, rarely staying more than a night or two, reluctantly handing us the cash that’s supposed to get us through the week, resentfully pulling out 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 from the 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 begging Mum for money. As a family, we are now complete.
But I live for the night. Stroking Lochan, feeling every part of him, arousing him with just the touch of my hand, makes me long for more.
‘D’you ever wonder what it would be like?’ I ask him. ‘To actually—?’
‘All the time.’
There is a long silence. He kisses me, his lashes tickling my cheek.
‘Me too,’ I whisper.
‘One day,’ he pants softly as I graze my fingers 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 than go back to our separate rooms and not touch each other at all.
At school, as I gaze up at Lochan sitting alone on the 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.
‘Oh my God, who’s he talking to?’ I cut Francie off mid-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 . . . You must have seen him around!’
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 sounding in my voice. ‘Why d’you think they’re talking?’
‘They were having lunch together yesterday,’ Francie informs me.
I turn to 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 mouth wide.
‘What?’
‘Yeah! Instead of walking straight past me, pretending he hadn’t seen me, he actually stopped and asked me how I was.’
I feel an incredulous smile light up my face.
‘So, you see, he can talk to people.’ Francie lets out a wistful sigh. ‘Maybe I can finally get him to go out with me.’
I look back up at the steps again with a smile of delight. ‘Oh my God . . .’ Declan is still there. He seems to be showing Lochan something on his mobile phone. I watch Lochan make a funny gesture in the air and Declan laughs.
Still reeling 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 they really and truly love each other, should be allowed to be together no matter who they are?’ I ask.
Francie shoots me a look of amusement, sees that I’m serious, and narrows her eyes in thought. ‘Sure, why not?’
‘What if their religion forbade it? If their parents were devastated or threatened to disown them or something – should they still go ahead anyway?’
‘Sure,’ Francie answers with a shrug. ‘It’s their lives, so they should be allowed to pick who they like. If the parents are crazy enough to try and stop them from seeing each other, they could 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 guy in the IT department? The one with the tattoo?’
Laughing, I shake my head. ‘Not me, silly! I was just thinking hypothetically. Like we were talking about in history, about society having changed so much over the last half-century . . .’
‘Oh.’ Francie’s face falls in dis
appointment.
I look at her with a snort. ‘Mr Elliot? Are you kidding me? He’s about sixty!’
‘I think he’s kind of sexy!’
I roll my eyes. ‘That’s because you’re crazy. But seriously though. Hypothetically . . .’
Francie lets out a laboured sigh. ‘Well, they should probably wait until the pupil was 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 away together? 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, sitting in class, you could . . .’
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 each other 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, then I guess any love 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 him on 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 connection with one person outside the family means that he can, that there will be 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 of his essays, I let out a squeal that has to be silenced by a pillow.
‘Why?’ I ask, gasping in delight. ‘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, mainly that you thought I could do it.’
‘What was it like?’ I ask, struggling to keep my voice a whisper, looking into eyes that, even in the half-light, sparkle with a 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 actually clapped.’ He lets out a short exclamation of surprise.
‘Well, of course they did! Your essays are completely amazing!’ 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 you to read one out. Did you say anything back 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’ll actually say something a 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’m going to beat this thing, that one day I might be normal.’
I kiss his nose. ‘You are normal, silly.’
He doesn’t respond but begins pensively rubbing a strand of my hair between his fingers. ‘Sometimes I wonder . . .’ He tails off abruptly, suddenly examining my hair in great detail.
‘Sometimes you wonder . . . ?’ I tilt my head and kiss the corner of his mouth.
‘What – what I’d do without you,’ he finishes in a whisper, gaze studiously avoiding mine.
‘Go to sleep at a reasonable time, in a bed where you can actually roll over without falling out . . .’
He laughs softly into the night. ‘Oh yeah, an easier life in so many ways. Mum should never have got pregnant again so quickly after me . . .’
His joke tails off uncomfortably and the laughter is sucked up into the darkness as the truth behind his words sinks in.
After a long silence Lochan suddenly says, ‘She certainly wasn’t meant to have children, but, well, not that I really believe in fate or anything – but what if we were meant to have each other?’
I don’t respond immediately, not quite sure what he’s getting at.
‘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 of the way it happened, led to something really special.’
I think about this for a moment. ‘Do you think, if we’d had conventional parents, or just parents, you and I would have fallen in love?’
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 form of abuse – would be linked directly to 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 seen as both abusers and abusees?’
The blue-white glow of the moon casts just enough light for me to notice Lochan’s expression turn from pensive to troubled.
‘Maya, come on, think about it. I’d be automatically seen as the abuser
and you the victim.’
‘Why?’
‘How many cases of younger sisters sexually abusing older brothers have you read about? Come to think of it, how many female 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 you saying that even if I’d abused you, people would still assume I was the victim just because I’m a girl and one year younger?’
Lochan nods slowly, his shaggy hair dark against the pillow. ‘Unless there was some really strong evidence to the contrary – an admission of guilt on your 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, especially if they’re older.’
I curl my legs up against Lochan’s stomach and ruminate on this for a while. It all seems so wrong. But at the same time I’m aware that I’m guilty of the same prejudices – if I hear there’s been a rape, or a child’s been abducted, I immediately think male rapist, male paedophile.
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