Only when the whimpers intensify do I realize they are actually coming from my own mouth. I am suddenly aware of the sound of my voice, scratching against the thin air like a saw.
‘Leila, yes, his sister, good idea. See if you can find her, will you?’
Time hiccups; it is either later or sooner, I can’t tell which. The nurse has arrived, I’m not sure why – I’m confused about everything now. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe they are actually trying to help me. Mrs Shah’s got a stethoscope in her ears and is pulling open my shirt. I immediately lash out but Miss Azley grabs my arms and I am too weak to even push her away.
‘It’s all right, Lochan,’ she says, her voice low and soothing. ‘The nurse is just trying to help you. She’s not going to hurt you. OK?’
The sawing noise continues. I throw back my head and screw up my eyes and bite down to stop it. The pain in my chest is excruciating.
‘Lochan, can we get you off this chair?’ the nurse is asking. ‘Can you lie down on the floor so I can take a proper look at you?’
I cling to the desk. No. They are not going to pin me down.
‘Should I call an ambulance?’ Miss Azley is asking.
‘It’s just a bad panic attack – he’s had them before. He’s hyperventilating and his pulse is well over two hundred.’
She gives me a paper bag to breathe into. I twist and turn and try to push it away but I haven’t the strength. I have surrendered. I’m not even trying to struggle any more, but even so the nurse has to ask Miss Azley to hold the bag over my nose and mouth.
I watch it inflate and then crumple in front of me. Inflate and crumple, inflate and crumple, the crackling sound of paper filling the air. I try desperately to push it away – it feels like they’re suffocating me: there is no more oxygen left in the bag – but I have a dim recollection of breathing into a bag like this before, and it helping.
‘OK, Lochan, just listen to me now. You were breathing much too fast and taking in far too much oxygen, which is why your body is reacting like this. Keep breathing into the bag. That’s it – you’re doing much better already. Try to slow your breathing down. It’s just a panic attack, OK? Nothing more serious than that. You’re going to be fine . . .’
Breathing into the bag lasts for ever, or it takes less than a minute, a second, a millisecond; it takes so little time that it does not happen at all. I’m holding onto the side of my desk with my head resting against my outstretched arm. Everything is still shaking around me, the desk vibrating beneath my cheek, but it’s getting easier to breathe – I am concentrating on regulating my breaths carefully now and the paper bag lies discarded by my side. The electric shocks seem to be less frequent, and I’m beginning to see and hear and feel things around me more clearly: Miss Azley is sitting beside me, her hand rubbing the back of my damp shirt. The nurse is kneeling on the floor, her finger and thumb cold against my wrist, the stethoscope dangling from her ears. I notice her brown hair is greying at the roots. I can make out a sheet of my own scrawled handwriting beneath my cheek. The sawing noise has faded, replaced by short, sharp sounds like hiccups, similar to the ones Willa makes after a long crying jag. The pain in my chest is lifting. My heart is steadier now – an aching, rhythmical thud.
‘What happened?’
The familiar voice startles me and I struggle to sit up, my hand grasping feebly at the edge of the desk to stop myself from pitching forward. The jagged breaths intensify and I start shaking again. She’s standing right in front of me, between the nurse and the teacher, her hands cupped over her nose and mouth, blue eyes huge with fright. Relief at seeing her floods through me and I reach out for her frantically, afraid she will suddenly walk away.
‘Hey, Lochie, it’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right.’ She takes my hand in hers, gripping it tightly.
‘What on earth happened?’ she asks the nurse again, panic threading her voice.
‘Nothing to worry about, love, just a panic attack. You can help by keeping nice and calm yourself. Why don’t you sit with him for a bit?’ Mrs Shah snaps her medical bag shut and moves out of sight, followed by Miss Azley.
Nurse and teacher fade to the other side of the classroom, talking softly and rapidly between themselves. Maya pulls up a chair and sits down opposite me, her knees touching mine. She is pale with shock, her eyes, sharp and questioning, boring into mine.
Elbows on thighs, I look up at her and manage an unsteady smile. I want to make some kind of joke but it’s too much effort to breathe and talk simultaneously. I try to stop shaking for Maya’s sake and press my right fist to my mouth to muffle the hiccupping sounds. My left hand grips hers with all my strength, afraid to let go.
Stroking my clammy cheek and taking my right hand in hers, she draws it gently away from my mouth.
‘Listen, you,’ she says, her voice full of concern. ‘What brought all this on?’
I think back to Hamlet and my whole conspiracy theory and realize with a jolt how ridiculous I was being.
‘N-nothing.’ Breath. ‘Being stupid.’ I have to concentrate hard to get each word out between gasps, one cluster at a time. I feel my throat constrict so I shake my head with a wry smile. ‘So stupid. I’m sorry—’ I bite down hard on my lip.
‘Stop being sorry, you idiot.’ She gives me a reassuring smile and strokes the inside of my hand. I find myself involuntarily clutching at her sleeve, afraid she is a mirage and will suddenly evaporate before my eyes.
The bell sounds, startling us both.
I feel my pulse start to race again. ‘Maya, d-don’t go! Don’t go just yet—’
‘Lochie, I’ve no intention of going anywhere.’
It’s the closest we’ve been all week, the first time she’s touched me since that terrible night in the cemetery. I swallow hard and gnaw at my lip, aware of the other two in the room, terrified I’m going to break down.
Maya notices. ‘Loch, it’s all right. This has happened before. When you first started at Belmont, just after Dad left, remember? You’re going to be fine . . .’
But I don’t want to be fine, not if it means she’s going to let go of my hand; not if it means we’re going to go back to being polite strangers.
After a while we go down to the nurse’s room. Mrs Shah checks my pulse and blood pressure, hands me a leaflet on panic attacks and mental health issues. Yet again there is talk of seeing the school counsellor, mention of exam pressure, the danger of overwork, the importance of getting enough sleep . . . Somehow I make all the right noises, nod and smile as convincingly as I can, all the while holding myself tight like a coiled spring.
We walk home in silence. Maya offers me her hand but I decline – my legs are steadier now. She asks me if there was some trigger, but when I shake my head she takes the hint and backs off.
At home I sit at the end of the couch. Right now, alone and uninterrupted, would be the perfect time for that conversation – the one where I apologize to her for what I said that night, explain again the reason for my crazy outburst, try to find out if she is still angry with me, while somehow making it clear that this is in no way an attempt to coerce her back into any kind of abnormal relationship. But I can’t find the words, and I don’t trust myself to utter a single thing. The aftershocks of the panic attack coupled with Maya’s gentle concern have thrown me, and I feel as if I’m teetering on the edge of a precipice.
Being brought juice and a peeled apple cut into quarters like for Tiffin or Willa threatens to tip me over. Maya watches me from the doorway as I switch on and mute the TV, pick at my shirt cuff, pull at a loose button. I can tell how anxious she is from the way she fiddles with her earlobe, a characteristic sign of worry she shares with Willa.