You don’t let Kit lose! I want to shout at the officers. You never let any of them lose! Even when giving them a run for their money, you always, always let them catch you in the end.
He stands there, staring at the car as if willing us back, and I watch him rapidly shrink as the space between us grows. Soon my little brother is just a tiny speck in the distance – and then I can no longer see him at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Lochan
We stop in a large car park full of different kinds of police vehicles. Once again I am taken firmly by the arm and pulled out. Pain from my bladder makes me wince as I stand, the breeze against my bare arms causing me to shiver. After crossing the tarmac, I am led through some kind of back entrance, along a short corridor and through a door labelled CHARGE ROOM. Another
uniformed officer sits behind a tall desk. The two officers at my side address him as Sergeant and inform him of my offence, but to my great relief he barely looks at me, mechanically tapping my details into his computer. The charge is read out to me yet again, but when I am asked if I understand it, my nod is not accepted. The question is repeated and I’m forced to use my voice.
‘Yes.’ This time I only manage a whisper. Away from the house and the danger of further upsetting Maya, I can feel myself losing strength: succumbing to the shock, the horror, the blind panic of the situation.
More questions follow. Again I am asked to repeat my name, address, date of birth. I struggle to reply, my brain seems to be slowly shutting down. When asked my occupation, I hesitate. ‘I – I don’t have one.’
‘Are you on unemployment benefit?’
‘No. I’m – I’m still at school.’
The sergeant looks up at me then. My face burns beneath his penetrating gaze.
Questions about my health follow, and my mental state is also questioned – no doubt they think only a psychopath would be capable of such a crime. I’m asked if I want a solicitor and respond immediately with a shake of the head. The last thing I need is someone else to be involved, to hear about all the terrible things I’ve done. Anyway, I am trying to prove my guilt, not my innocence.
After being uncuffed, I am told to hand over my possessions. Fortunately I have none and feel relieved I didn’t take the photo from my room. Perhaps Maya will remember it and keep it safe. But I can’t help hoping she’ll cut off the two adults at either end of the bench and just keep the five children sandwiched in the middle. Because, ultimately, that was the family we became. In the end we were the ones who loved each other, who struggled and fought to stay together. And it was enough, more than enough.
They ask me to empty my pockets, remove the laces from my shoes. Again the tremor in my hands betrays me, and as I kneel between the suited legs on the dirty lino, I sense the officers’ impatience, their contempt. The shoelaces are placed in an envelope and I have to sign for them, which strikes me as absurd. A body search follows, and at the touch of the officer’s hands running over me, up and down my legs, I start to shake violently, holding onto the edge of the desk to steady myself.
In a small anteroom, I am seated on a chair: my photo is taken, a cotton swab scraped around the inside of my mouth. As my fingers are pressed one by one against an ink pad and then down onto a marked piece of card, I am overcome by a feeling of complete detachment. I am a mere object to these people. I am barely human any more.
I am thankful when I am finally pushed into a cell and the heavy door slams shut behind me. To my relief it is empty: small and claustrophobic, containing nothing more than a narrow bed built into the wall. There is a barred window near the ceiling, but the light that fills the room is purely artificial, harsh and over-bright. Graffiti and what looks like faeces smear the walls. The stench is foul – far worse than the most disgusting of public urinals – and I have to breathe through my mouth to avoid gagging.
It takes me for ever to relax enough to empty my bladder into the metal toilet. Now, finally away from their watchful eyes, I cannot stop trembling. I fear that an officer will burst in at any moment, am acutely aware of the small window in the door, the flap just beneath it. How do I know I am not being watched right this minute? Normally I am not this prudish, but after being pulled out of bed in my underwear, frogmarched semi-naked to my bedroom by two policemen, forced to dress in front of them, I wish there was some way of covering myself up for ever. Ever since hearing the horrific charge, I have been feeling acutely ashamed of my whole body, of what it has done – of what others believe it has done.
Flushing the toilet, I return to the thick metal door and press my ear against it. Shouts echo down the corridor, drunken swearing, a wail that goes on and on, but they seem to be coming from some way away. If I keep my back to the door, then even if an officer peers at me through the window, at least he won’t be able to see my face.
No sooner have I ascertained that I finally have some degree of privacy than the safety valve in my mind that had kept me functioning until now opens, as if by force, and the images and memories flood in. I make a sudden dash for the bed, but my knees give way before I reach it. I sink down on the concrete floor and dig my nails into the thick plastic sheet sewn onto the mattress. I pull at it so violently, I’m scared it might rip. Doubling over, I press my face hard against the stinking bed, muffling my nose and mouth as much as I can. The gut-wrenching sobs tear at my whole body, threatening to split me apart with their force. The whole mattress shakes, my ribcage shuddering against the hard bed-frame, and I am choking, suffocating, depriving myself of oxygen but unable to raise my head to draw breath for fear of making a sound. Crying has never hurt so much. I want to crawl under the bed in case someone looks in and sees me like this, but the space is far too small. I cannot even remove the bed-sheet in order to cover myself – there is simply nowhere to hide.
I hear Kit’s anguished cries, see his fists pound against the window, his skinny frame racing to keep up with the car, his whole body crumpling as he realizes he is powerless to rescue me. I think of Tiffin and Willa playing at Freddie’s, running round the house with their friends in excitement, oblivious of what awaits them on their return. Will they be told what I have done? Will they be questioned about me too – asked about all the cuddles, the bath-times, the bedtimes, being tickled, the rough-and-tumble games we used to play? Will they be brainwashed into thinking I abused them? And in years to come, if we ever get the chance to meet again as adults, will they even want to see me? Tiffin will have vague memories of me, but Willa will have known me for only the first five years of her life – what, if any, memories, will she retain?
Finally, too weak to keep her from my thoughts any longer, I think of Maya. Maya, Maya, Maya. I choke her name into my hands, hoping that the sound of her name will bring me some comfort. I never, ever should have taken such a terrible risk with her happiness. For her sake, for the children’s sakes, I should never have allowed our relationship to develop. I cannot regret it for myself – there is nothing I wouldn’t have endured just for the few months we had together. But I never thought about the danger to her, the horror she would be forced to undergo.
I am terrified of what they might be doing to her right now – bombarding her with questions she will struggle to answer, torn between protecting me by telling the truth and accusing me of rape to enable her to protect the children. How could I have put her in such a position? How could I have asked her to make such a choice?