Lochan takes a step towards me and then changes his mind and moves back again. ‘Do you – do you – I mean, do you like him?’
I feel the heat rush to my face and suddenly I am angry again. How dare Lochan give me the third degree when I agreed to the date for us – for him?
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do, OK?’ I stop scrubbing and force my eyes to meet his. ‘He’s the hottest guy in school. I’ve fancied him for ages. I can’t wait to go out with him.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lochan
It’s fine. In fact it’s great! Maya has finally found someone she likes, and what’s more he likes her back, and they are actually going out together this Friday. Things are coming together for her at long last; it’s the beginning of her life as an adult, away from this madhouse, from this family, from me. She seems happy, she seems excited. Nico mightn’t be the guy I’d have chosen for her, but he’s all right. He’s had a couple of proper girlfriends, doesn’t seem to be looking for just one thing. It’s normal to feel anxious but I’m not going to lose sleep over it. Maya is nearly seventeen after all, Nico only a year older. Maya will be fine. She is a very sensible person, responsible beyond her years; she’ll be careful, and maybe it will work out. He won’t hurt her – not intentionally at least. No, I’m sure he won’t hurt her, he wouldn’t. She is such a lovely person, she is so precious – he’ll see that: he must. He’ll know he can never break her heart, never harm her. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. So fine, I’m going to be able to sleep at last. I don’t need to think about this any more. What I do desperately need is sleep. Otherwise I’ll fall apart. I’m going to fall apart. I am falling apart.
The first rays of dawn begin to touch the edge of the rooftops. I sit on my bed and watch the pale light dilute the inky blackness, a thin wash of colour slowly diffusing the eastern sky. The air is chilled as it blows through the cracks in the window frame, and sparse flecks of rain spatter the pane as the birds begin to wake. A golden patch of sunlight slants across the wall, slowly widening like a spreading stain. What is the point of it all? I wonder – this endless cycle. I haven’t slept all night and my muscles ache from remaining immobile so long. I’m cold but I can’t find the energy to move or even pull the duvet up around me. Now and then my head, as though succumbing to a narcotic, begins to drop, and my eyes close and then reopen with a start. As the light begins to intensify, so does my misery, and I wonder how it is possible to hurt so much when nothing is wrong. A swelling despair presses outward from the centre of my chest, threatening to shatter my ribs. I fill my lungs with the cold air and then drain them, running my hands gently back and forth over the rough cotton sheets as if anchoring myself to this bed, to this house, to this life – in an attempt to forget my utter solitude. The sore beneath my lip throbs with a pulse and it’s a struggle just to let it alone, not chafe it in an attempt to annihilate the agony inside my mind. I continue stroking the covers, the rhythmical movement soothing me, reminding me that, even if I am breaking up inside, all around me things remain the same, solid and real, bringing me the hope that perhaps one day I too will feel real again.
A single day encompasses so much. The frantic morning routine: trying to make sure everyone eats breakfast, Tiffin’s high-pitched voice jarring my ears, Willa’s continuous chatter fraying my nerves, Kit relentlessly reinforcing my guilt with his every gesture, and Maya . . . It’s best if I don’t think about Maya. But perversely I want to. I must chafe at the wound, scrape back the scab, pick at the damaged skin. I cannot leave the thought of her alone. Like last night at dinner, she is here but not here: her heart and mind have left this dingy house, the annoying siblings, the socially inept brother, the alcoholic mother. Her thoughts are with Nico now, racing ahead to her date this evening. However long the day may seem, the evening will arrive and Maya will go. And from that moment, part of her life, part of herself, will be severed from me for ever. Yet, even as I wait for this to happen, there is so much to do: coax Kit out of his lair, get Tiffin and Willa to school on time, remember to test Tiffin on his tables as he tries to run ahead down the road. Make it through my own school gates, check without being seen that Kit’s in class, sit through a whole morning of lessons, find new ways of deflecting attention should a teacher press me to participate, survive lunch, make sure I avoid DiMarco, explain to the teacher why I can’t give a presentation, make it to the last bell without falling apart. And finally pick up Willa and Tiffin, keep them entertained for the evening, remind Kit of his curfew without prompting a row – and all the time, all the while, try to purge every thought of Maya from my mind. And the hands of the kitchen clock will continue moving forwards, reaching midnight before starting all over again, as though the day that just ended never began.
I was once so strong. I used to be able to get through all the small things, all the details, the treadmill routine, day after day. But I never realized that Maya was the one who gave me that strength. It was because she was there that I could manage, the two of us at the helm, propping each other up when one of us was down. We may have spent the bulk of our time looking after the little ones, but beneath the surface we were really looking after each other and that made everything bearable, more than just bearable. It brought us together in an existence only we could understand. Together we were safe – different but safe – from the outside world . . . Now all I have is myself, my responsibilities, my duties, my never-ending list of things to do . . . and my loneliness, always my loneliness – that airless bubble of despair that is slowly stifling me.
Maya leaves for school ahead of me, dragging Kit with her. She seems annoyed with me for some reason. Willa dawdles, picking up twigs and crisp, curled-up leaves along the way. Tiffin abandons us as he spots Jamie at the end of the road, and I haven’t the strength to call him back, despite the busy junction in front of the school. It is a monumental effort not to snap at Willa – to tell her to hurry, to ask her why she seems so intent on making us both late. As soon as we reach the school gates, she spots a friend and breaks into a stumbling run, her coat flapping and flying out behind her. For a moment I just stand and watch her go, her fine golden hair streaming behind her in the wind. Her grey pinafore is stained with yesterday’s lunch, her school coat is missing its hood, her book bag is falling apart, her red tights have a large hole behind the knee, but she never complains. Even though she is surrounded by mums and dads hugging their children goodbye, even though she hasn’t seen her mother for two weeks now, even though she has no memory of ever having a father. She is only five, yet already she has learned that there is no point in asking her mother for a bedtime story, that inviting friends over is something only other children can do, that new toys are a rare luxury, that at home Kit and Tiffin are the only ones who get their own way. At the age of five she has already come to terms with one of life’s harshest lessons: that the world isn’t fair . . . Halfway up the school steps, best friend in tow, she suddenly remembers she has forgotten to say goodbye and turns, scanning the emptying playground for my face. When she spots it, her face breaks into a radiant, plump-cheeked smile, the tip of her tongue poking out through the gap of her missing front teeth. Raising a small hand, she waves. I wave back, my arms fanning the sky.
Entering the school building, I am hit by a wall of artificial heat – radiators turned up too high. But it isn’t until I walk into the English room and come face-to-face with Miss Azley that I remember. She smiles at me, a thinly disguised attempt at encouragement. ‘Are you going to be needing the projector?’
I freeze at her desk, a horrible, clutching, sinking feeling in my chest, and say in a rush, ‘Actually – actually I thought it might work better as a written assignment – there was too much information to condense into just – just a half-hour . . .’
Her smile fades. ‘But this wasn’t a written assignment, Lochan. The presentation is part of your coursework. I can’t mark you on this.’ She takes my file and flicks through it. ‘Well, you’ve certainly got a lot of material
here, so I suppose you could just read it out.’
I look at her, a cold hand of horror wrapping itself around my throat. ‘Well, the thing is—’ I can barely speak. My voice is suddenly no more than a whisper.
She gives a puzzled frown. ‘The thing is?’
‘It’s – it’s not really going to make much sense if I just read it—’
‘Why don’t you just give it a try?’ Her voice is suddenly gentle – too gentle. ‘The first time is always the hardest.’
I feel the burn in my face. ‘It won’t work. I – I’m sorry.’ I take back the folder from her outstretched hand. ‘I’ll make sure I make up for the failed grade with – with the rest of my coursework.’
Turning quickly, I find a seat, crimson waves crashing through me. To my relief she does not summon me back.
Nor does she bring up the subject of the presentation during the lesson. Instead she covers the gap left by my lack of a contribution by talking to us about the lives of Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf, and a heated debate arises about the link between mental illness and the artistic temperament. Normally this is a subject I’d find fascinating, but today the words just wash over me. Outside, the sky disgorges rain, which drums against the dirty windows, washing them with tears. I look at the clock and see there are only five more hours to go until Maya’s date. Perhaps DiMarco broke his leg playing football. Perhaps he is in the sick bay right now with food poisoning. Perhaps he suddenly found some other girl to pull. Any girl other than my sister. He had the whole school to choose from. Why Maya? Why the one person who matters the most to me in the world?
‘Lochan Whitely?’ The raised voice jolts through me as I head for the door amidst the chaos of exiting pupils. I turn my head long enough to see Miss Azley beckoning me over to her desk and realize I have no choice but to fight my way back through the fray.
‘Lochan, I think we need to have a little chat.’
Christ, no. Not this, not today. ‘Um – I’m sorry. I – I actually have maths,’ I say in a rush.
‘This won’t take long. I’ll give you a note.’ She indicates a chair in front of her desk. ‘Have a seat.’
Lifting the strap of my bag over my head, I take the proffered seat, realizing there is no way out. Miss Azley crosses over to the door and closes it with a harsh metallic thud that sounds like a prison gate.
She comes back towards me and takes the chair by my side, turning to me with a reassuring smile. ‘There’s no need to look so worried. I’m sure by now you know my bark is worse than my bite!’
I force myself to look at her, hoping she will reel off the spiel about the importance of class participation more quickly if I appear co-operative. But instead she chooses the roundabout route. ‘What happened to your lip?’
Aware that I’m biting it again, I force myself to stop, my fingers flying to it in surprise. ‘Nothing – it’s – it’s nothing.’
‘You should put some Vaseline on it and take up pen-chewing instead.’ She reaches over to her desk for a couple of gnawed biros. ‘Less painful and does the job just as well.’ She gives me another smile.
With all the will in the world, I cannot return it. The pally small-talk is throwing me off-balance. Something in her eyes tells me she isn’t about to give me a lecture on the importance of class participation, teamwork and all the usual shit. Her look is not one of admonishment, but of genuine concern.
‘You know why I’ve kept you back, don’t you?’
I reply with a quick nod, my teeth automatically scraping my lip again. Look, this isn’t a good day, I want to tell her. I could grit my teeth and nod my way through a heart-to-heart with an over-zealous teacher another time, but not today. Not today.
‘What is it about speaking out in front of your peers that frightens you so much, Lochan?’
She has caught me off guard. I don’t like the way she used the word frightens. I don’t like the way she seems to know so much about me.
‘I’m not – I don’t—’ My voice is dangerously unsteady. The air circulates slowly in the room. I am breathing too fast. She has cornered me. I’m aware of sweat breaking out across my back, heat radiating from my face.
‘Hey, it’s all right.’ She leans forward, her concern almost tangible. ‘I’m not having a go at you, Lochan, OK? But I know you’re bright enough to understand why you need to be able to speak in public from time to time – not just for the sake of your academic future but also your personal one.’
I wish I could just get up and walk out.
‘Is it just a problem at school or is it all the time?’
Why the hell is she doing this? Headmaster, detention, expulsion – I don’t care. Anything but this. I want to tune her out but I can’t. It’s that damn concern, cutting through my consciousness like a knife.
‘It’s all the time, isn’t it?’ Her voice is too gentle.
I feel the heat rush to my face. Taking a panicked breath, I let my eyes scour the classroom, as if seeking a place to hide.
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lochan. It’s just perhaps something worth tackling now.’
Face thrumming, I start chewing my lip again, the sharp pain a welcome relief.
‘Like any phobia, social anxiety is something that can be overcome. I was thinking maybe we could devise an action plan together to set you on track for next year at university.’
I can hear the sound of my breathing, sharp and rapid. I reply with a barely perceptible nod.
‘We’d take it very slowly. One small step at a time. Perhaps you could aim to put your hand up and answer just one question each lesson. That would be a good start, don’t you think? Once you can comfortably volunteer one answer, you’ll find it much easier to answer two, and then three – and, well, you get the idea.’ She laughs and I sense she is trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Then, before you know it, you’ll be answering every question and no one else will have a chance in hell!’
I try to return her smile but it doesn’t work. Take one small step at a time . . . I used to have someone helping me do just that. Someone who introduced me to her friend, encouraged me to read out my essay in class; someone who was subtly trying to help me with my whole problem, yet I never realized. And now I’ve lost her – lost her to Nico DiMarco. One evening with him, and Maya will realize what a loser I’ve become, start feeling the same way towards me as Kit and my mother do . . .
‘I’ve noticed you’ve been looking quite stressed recently,’ Miss Azley remarks suddenly. ‘Which is perfectly understandable – it’s a tough year. But your grades are as good as ever and you excel at written exams. So you’ll sail through your A-levels: there’s nothing to worry about there.’
I give a tense nod.
‘Are things difficult at home?’
I look at her then, unable to disguise my shock.
‘I have two children to look after,’ she says with a little smile. ‘I gather you have four?’
My heart stutters and almost stops. I stare at her. Who the hell has she been talking to?
‘N-no! I’m seventeen. I do have two brothers and – and two sisters, but we live with our mother, and she—’
‘I know that, Lochan. It’s all right.’ It isn’t until she cuts me off that I realize I’m not speaking in particularly measured tones.
For God’s sake, try to keep it cool! I beg myself. Don’t go and react as if you’ve got something to hide!
‘What I meant was, you have younger siblings to help take care of,’ Miss Azley continues. ‘That can’t be easy, on top of all your schoolwork.’
‘But I don’t – I don’t take care of them. They’re – they’re just a bunch of annoying brats. They certainly drive my mother round the bend . . .’ My laugh sounds painfully artificial.
Another strained silence stretches out between us. I glance desperately at the door. Why is she talking to me about this? Who has she been speaking to? What other information do they have in that damn file? Are they thinking of contacting Soci
al Services? Did St Luke’s get in touch with Belmont when the kids went missing?
‘I’m not trying to meddle, Lochan,’ she says suddenly. ‘I just want to make sure you know that you don’t have to carry the burden alone. Your social anxiety, the responsibilities at home . . . it’s a lot to have to deal with at your age.’
Out of nowhere a pain rises through my chest and into my throat. I find myself biting down on my lip to stop it trembling.
I see her face change and she leans towards me. ‘Hey, hey, listen to me. There is lots of help available. There’s the school counsellor or any one of your teachers you can talk to – or outside help I can recommend if you don’t want to involve the school. You don’t have to carry all this on your own—’
The pain in my throat intensifies. I’m going to lose it. ‘I – I really have to go. I’m sorry—’
‘All right, that’s all right. But, Lochan, I’m always here if you want to talk, OK? You can make an appointment with the counsellor at any time. And if there’s any way I can make things easier in class . . . We’ll forget the presentations for the moment. I’ll just mark it as a written assignment as you suggested. And I’ll leave answering questions up to you and stop pushing you to participate. I know it’s not much, but would that help at all?’
I don’t understand. Why can’t she just be like the other teachers? Why does she have to care?
I nod wordlessly.
‘Oh, love, the last thing I wanted was to make you feel worse! It’s just that I think really highly of you and I’m worried. I wanted you to know there’s help available . . .’
It’s only when I hear the defeat in her voice, see the look of shock on her face, that I realize my eyes have filled with tears.
‘Thank you. C-can I go now?’
‘Of course you can, Lochan. But would you just think about it – think about talking to someone?’
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