Forbidden

by Tabitha Suzuma

  Whatever I try to do now is hopeless, especially as any attempts to catch Maya out will fail as 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 if I was abusing her.

  Maya will be brought to court and sentenced to two years in prison. She will start off her adult life behind bars, separated not only from me, but from Kit, 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 all access to her other siblings for her crime, she will find 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 than I can bear. And I know that, unless I can somehow get through to her, the stubborn, passionate Maya who loves me so much will not capitulate. She has made her choice. How I wish I could tell her I would rather be locked away for life than put her through any of that . . .

  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 with any way to get Maya to change her mind.

  I’m beginning to realize that nothing will make 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, all of it. I got my wish . . . and now we are both paying the 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 much as hers did to me. Had the situation been reversed, would I have even considered falsely accusing Maya in order to avoid a punishment of my own?

  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 only hurt the children. She would have never confessed if I hadn’t been caught . . .

  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 in a cell facing jail time. I must leave.

  Unpicking the threads of the sheet sewn onto the mattress soon causes my hands to stiffen and 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 in PE. I was good at that, I remember, always the first to the top. If I can achieve 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. A desperate 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 actually reach the window, this could work.

  Six hundred and twenty-three counts since the last steps were heard outside my cell door. Once I am ready, I’ll have ten minutes or so to pull this off. I’ve read about people managing to do this before – it doesn’t just happen on cop 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 feel it shift under me, no longer attached to the mattress beneath. Positioning it in front of me, 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 material is separated into three equal pieces. But now all I have to do is wait for the guard to pass.

  The footsteps begin to approach, and suddenly I am shaking. Shaking so hard I can hardly think. 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 am going 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. My mind forces me to keep going. I have never been this afraid.

  I miss. I keep missing. Despite the weight of the plastic material and 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 total shock: it’s there, waiting to be climbed, my path to freedom. Heart pounding, I reach up to grasp the material as high as I can. Pulling myself up with my arms, I raise my legs, draw up my knees, cross my ankles to trap the material between my feet and begin to climb.

  Reaching the top takes far longer than I’d anticipated. My palms are sweaty, my fingers weak from all the unpicking and tearing, and unlike school climbing ropes, the strips of sheet 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 am able to cling on. Now for the moment of truth. Have the bars been loosened by my climb? Will a final, violent downward pull cause them to break away from the wall?

  I haven’t time to inspect the rust around the fastenings now. Like a rock climber on a cliff’s edge, I cling to the bars with my hands and to the wall with my feet, every muscle in my body straining against the pull of gravity. If they catch me now, it’s all over. But still I hesitate. Will the 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 enough is enough? There is only one answer really. Never.

  The time has come: if I fail, they will hear 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 very afraid.

  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 an
y more. It’s time for me to set us all free. Despite the terror, the blinding white terror, I slip a second loop over my head. Tighten the noose. A harsh sob breaks the still air. And then I let go.

  Willa’s big blue eyes, Willa’s dimpled-cheeked smile. Tiffin’s shaggy blond mane, Tiffin’s cheeky grin. Kit’s yells of excitement, Kit’s glow of pride. 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: Mum has stopped trying to force-feed me, Dave has stopped covering for her to the authorities, and both have drifted back across town together after restoring some kind of order in the house and putting on a convincing show for Social Services. I have returned to the familiar role of care-provider, except that nothing is familiar to me any more, least of all myself.

  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 can ever make up for what happened, for what I put them through.

  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 saucepan in one hand, completely overwhelmed, lost, with no idea why I’m standing there 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 will have some sort of breakdown, and so I beg him to stop. But at the same time I realize he needs to keep busy and feel he is helping and that I need him to.

  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 they would still be better off with me than taken away and placed in care.

  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 them together and be able to counsel and support them. They deserve to start afresh – embark on a new life where the people who care for them follow society’s norms, where loved ones don’t leave, or fall apart, or die. They deserve so much better. No doubt they always 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 strength to continue like this, I cannot go on another day: the only way to cope with such crushing guilt is to convince myself that, for their own sakes, the children will be better off elsewhere. I will not allow myself to think that I too am abandoning them.

  My reflection hasn’t changed. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, but I’m aware that some time has passed because I am starting 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 my delay is deliberate. The next step will be the hardest of all.

  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. Nothing can change the past. Nothing can bring him back. The dead remain dead.

  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 of Kit 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 him close 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 in a lifetime . . .

  After the short service we will return home and comfort each other. After a while I will go upstairs and write the letters – one to each of them, explaining why, telling them how much I love them, that I’m so, so very sorry. Reassuring them that 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, which I once shared with Lochan. 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 still so 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 full recovery, the most likely to forget, and I hope she does. Perhaps, if they allow her to keep at least one photo, some part of it will jog her memory. Perhaps she will remember a game we used to play or the funny voices I used to do for the different characters in her books at bedtime.

  She hesitates in the doorway, unsure whether to advance or retreat, clearly desperate to tell me something but afraid to do so.

  ‘What is it, my darling? You look so beautiful in your dress. Are you ready to go?’

  She stares at me, unblinking, as if trying to gauge my reaction, then slowly shakes her head, her big eyes filling with tears.

  I kneel down and hold out my arms and she launches herself into them, her small hands pressed against her eyes.