Forbidden

by Tabitha Suzuma

  ‘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 much info on it, because apparently it’s something that very, very rarely happens . . .’

  We both stop talking for a while. So long, in fact, that I begin to think Lochie has fallen asleep. 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 you mean? How do you know?’

  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 breath before trying again. ‘I just wanted to know where we stood.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With – with the law.’

  ‘To figure out a way of changing our names? Of living together?’

  He rubs his lip, refusing to meet my gaze, looking increasingly agitated and uncomfortable.

  ‘What?’ I demand loudly, frightened now. ‘To see what would happen if we got caught.’

  ‘Caught living together?’ I ask incredulously.

  ‘Caught – caught having a relationship—’

  ‘Having sex?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘The police.’

  I am finding it difficult to breathe suddenly, as if my windpipe is constricting. I sit up abruptly, hair falling down around my face.

  ‘Look, Maya. It’s not – I just wanted to check . . .’ Lochan is pulling himself up against the headboard, struggling to find words to reassure me.

  ‘Does that mean we can never—?’

  ‘No, no, not necessarily,’ he says quickly. ‘It just means that we can’t until the kids are grown up and safe, and even then we have to be very, very careful.’

  ‘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 acting so serious, as if we would be committing a real crime?

  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: ‘If we were found out, we’d be sent to prison.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-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 of sentence 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 on consensual incest, though there is plenty on the non-consensual kind, which seems to be the only type 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 them in the UK and both between siblings who met again as adults after being separated at birth.

  The topic only resurfaces briefly the following day before being dropped completely. Despite her initial reaction, Maya’s shock and outrage seem to have been assuaged by my assurances that the only legal information I have found has been hypothetical – technically, yes, a couple accused of incest could face a jail sentence, but that would rarely happen in the case of two consenting adults. I am now 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 person did 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 on earth could that person ever get enough proof to stand up in court? They would have to actually catch us in the act, and even then it would be their word against ours.

  My main concern for the future is how to protect Kit, Tiffin and Willa from being 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 each other without persecution.

  For the time being though, Maya and I have to cram for 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 in the street, he has stopped goading me, stopped slamming around the house, stopped winding up the kids and stopped trying to undermine me all the time. He hasn’t exactly become an angel overnight 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 truly begun to turn the corner.

  He runs down to dinner one evening, triumphantly waving a piece of paper. ‘I’m going on a school trip when we break up! Nya-na, nya-nya-na!’ He pulls a taunting face at the other two.

  ‘Where?’ Willa shrieks excitedly as if she were also included.

  ‘Whoa! So not fair!’ Tiffin exclaims, his face falling. ‘Here, quick, quick, you’ve gotta sign it now!’ Kit waves the sheet above my plate and thrusts a pen in my hand.

  ‘I didn’t realize your teacher was waiting for this on the doorstep!’

  Kit pulls a face at me. ‘Very funny. Just sign it, will you?’

  I scan the letter and balk at the price, quickly trying to work out where on earth we’ll get the money from. Cancel the cheque for the phone bill which I only posted yesterday, eat baked beans for the next fortnight, pretend to Mum that we have no running water and need money for 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 only an activity week on the Isle of Wight, but he has never been further 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 of the 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 of Wight will seem like Paradise to him – and a million miles away from home.

  ‘What are you going to do there?’ Tiffin asks, slouching down in his chair and prodding dejectedly at his chicken with his fork.

  Kit throws himself down and kicks back, reading from the newly-signed letter. ‘Canoeing, horse-riding, 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!’ Tiffin cries. ‘Why can’t I go? Are you allowed to bring brothers?’

  ‘Hor
se-riding!’ Willa’s eyes are huge with disbelief.

  ‘How come St Luke’s never takes us on trips?’ 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 something he has never admitted to, but there was that time – for ever etched into my memory – 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 worry from my mind.

  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 in the balance, but beyond them lies the promise of a 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 will be upon us, with last-minute revision to cram in around two weeks of childcare. 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 then poring over textbooks for hours, there is rarely time for more than a 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 being stolen from us, and we are forced instead to sneak about, in constant fear of being caught.

  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, running over and hugging when we meet at the gates after the final bell. All things 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 them for 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 by the world for just one simple reason: for having been produced by the same woman.

  The anger and frustration chips away at me, even though I try to keep it at bay, even though I keep focusing on the day Maya and I will finally be free to live together openly, free to love each other like any other couple. Sometimes, worse than watching her at school from a 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 instinctively reach for hers at the dinner table, trying to brush against her accidentally just 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 between us will be 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 will be 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 helium in a balloon. While Tiffin pretends to fall off his chair in enthusiasm and Willa drums her shoes against the underside of the table, I am ready to bounce off the walls and start dancing.

  ‘Wow. So by Saturday all three of us will be gone,’ Kit comments almost pensively, looking first at Maya, then at me. ‘It’ll just be you and Maya stuck at home.’

  I nod and shrug, struggling to keep the rush of joy from showing on my face.

  We don’t have a chance to celebrate until Maya finishes putting Tiffin and Willa to bed, but as soon as she does, she comes hurrying down to where I am squatting, Brillo pad in hand, scrubbing out 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 my face and then pulls back sharply.

  ‘What?’ I ask in surprise. ‘They’re all upstairs . . .’

  ‘I heard something.’ She is staring at the kitchen door, carelessly left ajar.

  For a brief moment Maya and I look at each other in alarm. Then we recognize the distant beat of Kit’s music and the sound of Tiffin and Willa arguing in their room above us. We begin to laugh.

  ‘Christ, we’re jumpy!’ I exclaim softly.

  ‘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 of days. The constant paranoia – worried about even touching hands!’

  ‘Two days of freedom,’ I whisper with a smile, pulling her 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 from the 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 may as well have a bit of a celebration!’

  Reluctantly I agree and the evening soon turns into mayhem as we picnic on the carpet in front of the television. Tiffin’s sugar levels go through the roof and he s
tarts 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 from the 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’m sure the neighbours are going to come knocking. Kit’s rendition of ‘I Can Be’ is actually quite impressive despite the foul language, and Tiffin leaps about the room, bouncing off the 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-high Tiffin into the bathroom. I cross Kit in the corridor and stop.

  ‘All ready for tomorrow? Got everything you need?’

  ‘Yep!’ he replies with a note of satisfaction, his eyes bright.

  ‘Kit, thank you for this evening,’ I say. ‘You were – you were a good sport, you know.’

  For a moment he appears unsure how to respond to such praise. He looks embarrassed and then smiles. ‘Yeah, well, watch out. Entertainers usually charge for their services, you know.’

  I give him a friendly shove and, as he disappears up the ladder, a giant speaker under each arm, I realize that the five-year age gap between us doesn’t feel like quite such a chasm any more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-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 from Lochan and dashes out into the hallway to gather up the rest of his 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 from too many late nights – skinny, vulnerable, almost fragile.