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 . . .’