She stares back at me, her blue eyes wide with shock. ‘The kids . . .’ she says softly, a new realization suddenly dawning. ‘The kids – if even one person found out, they’d be taken away!’
‘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 on her face that she already knows the answer.
Shaking my head slowly, I swallow hard and turn to look out of the kitchen window to hide the tears in my eyes. The sky is on fire and the night has ended.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Maya
I’m tired. So terribly tired. It crushes down on me like an invisible force, obliterating all rational thought, all other feeling. I’m tired 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’m beyond caring. If it weren’t for you . . . I find myself thinking. 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. Everything greys in comparison. 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, they were once close too. But then he 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 of a shared childhood have faded from their minds. Is that what will happen to Lochan and me? And even if we 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 hanging around with is 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 with Lochan? 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 all our 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 each other, and now we want to be able to love each other in a physical way as 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. Autumn gives way to winter, the days growing noticeably shorter. Lochan behaves 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 still on a one-woman mission to get him to 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 guilt-induced 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 any more. 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 am unable 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, in my mind at least, all that 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 of her book with a faint whispery sound.
‘What word does that make?’ Lochan prompts 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 them quickly. 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 an e at the end. What do we call that e?’