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 even the birthday presents ceased. And cease they did. Everything ceased. Even Mum’s child support. We older two had expected it – just never guessed he would erase us all from his 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 my surprise 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 him a 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 much has 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 school clothes, his shoulder heavy against my arm, pinning it to the bed. I am well and truly wedged in – in fact we both are: his other arm has disappeared down the narrow crack between the 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 from a 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 any more. 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 him to fall in love with some girl – I want him to stay here, loving us. Loving me.
He shifts slightly, his arm sliding 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 all have on life. 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 with blue, his face very still. Then his expression begins to change.
‘What – what’s going on?’
I smile at the blurriness of his speech. ‘Nothing. I’m stuck.’
He glances down at his arm, still slung across my chest, and retracts it quickly, struggling to 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.
Concern grips me: it’s not like Lochan to complain. ‘Where does it hurt?’
He releases his breath with a ghost of smile. ‘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 all downstairs having breakfast or brunch or 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 open his eyes.
‘Lochie?’ I venture softly.
‘Yeah.’ He looks at me with a start and blinks rapidly as if attempting to engage his brain.
‘Stay here while I get you some coffee and painkillers, OK?’
‘No, no . . .’ He catches me by the wrist to restrain me. ‘I’m fine. I’ll wake up properly once I’ve had a shower.’
‘OK. There’s paracetamol in the bathroom cabinet.’
He gazes blankly at me. ‘Right,’ he says dully.
Nothing happens. He doesn’t move. I begin to feel uneasy.
‘You’re not looking too good, you know,’ I inform him gently. ‘How about you get back into bed for a bit and I’ll bring you breakfast?’
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 high temperature, he insisted he was well enough to do the school run.
‘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, catching my hand before I reach the door. ‘Maya . . .’
I turn, tightening my fingers around his. ‘What?’
His jaw tenses and I see him swallow. His eyes seem to be searching mine, hoping for 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.