Forbidden

‘It’s called incest, man.’

‘That’s when a guy rapes his sister, dickhead.’

There is a light flashing in my brain, like the head-lamps of a train in the dark.

‘No, it’s—’

‘OK, OK, we’re getting off topic here! Now remember, this is only one interpretation and has been refuted by many critics.’ As she stops to perch on the edge of her desk, Miss Azley’s eyes suddenly meet mine. ‘Lochan, nice to have you back with us. What do you think about Freud’s assertion that the Oedipus Complex was Hamlet’s primary motive for killing his uncle?’

I stare at her. I’m suddenly deeply afraid. Through the instant silence, my face is scorched by an invisible flame. Gripped by panic bordering on hysteria, I worry, with a sickening lurch, that perhaps it is no coincidence Miss Azley has chosen me to open this discussion. When was the last time she picked on me to answer anything? When has the subject of incest ever come up before? Her eyes drill into mine, burning holes straight through to my brain. She isn’t smiling. No, this is pla

The eyes of the class are upon me. Every single person has turned round in their seat to gape. They too appear to be in on it somehow. It is all one giant set-up.

‘Lochan?’ Miss Azley has moved away from her desk. She is walking rapidly towards me, but for some extraordinary reason I ca

‘You need to come with me, Lochan, OK?’ Miss Azley’s voice is firm but not unkind. Perhaps she even feels some degree of pity. I am, after all, sick. Sick as well as evil. Maya herself told me that’s what our love was.

Miss Azley’s hands cuff my wrists. ‘Can you stand? No? OK, just sit where you are. Reggie, would you run and fetch Mrs Shah and ask her to come immediately? The rest of you – library, right now, in silence please.’

The requiem of scraping chairs and clattering feet drowns me. Flashes of blinding colour and light. Miss Azley’s face blurs and fades before me. She is summoning the nurse, the other person involved in rescuing Maya from her fall. But something else is happening too. Beneath my arm, my desk continues to rattle. I look around, and everything appears to be moving, the walls of the emptying class threatening to topple down on us like a pack of cards. My heart keeps stopping and starting every few seconds, knocking wildly against the cage of my chest. Each time it stops, I feel this terrifying emptiness before the contraction returns with a flutter, then a violent thud. Oxygen is being drained from the room: my frantic efforts to breathe and remain conscious are in vain, darkness is slowly closing in. My shirt clings wetly to my back, rivulets of sweat ru

‘Lovey, it’s all right, it’s all right! Sit still, don’t struggle, you’re going to be fine. Try and sit forward a bit. That’s it. Put your elbows on your knees and lean forward and it’ll help your breathing. No, you’re fine where you are – hold still, don’t try and get up. Wait, wait – all I’m doing is removing your tie and undoing your collar. Leila, what are you still doing here?’

‘Oh, miss, is he go

‘Of course not, don’t be silly! We’re just waiting for Mrs Shah to come and check him out. Lochan, listen to me now – are you asthmatic? Allergic to anything? Look at me – just nod or shake your head . . . Oh Christ. Leila, quickly, go through his bag, will you? See if you can find an inhaler or tablets or something. Check his coat and blazer pockets. Look in his wallet – see if you can find any kind of medical card . . .’

She is acting very strangely, Miss Azley, as if she’s still pretending – pretending she doesn’t know. But I no longer have the strength to care. I just want this to stop. It’s too painful, these electric shots being fired through my chest and into my heart, all the muscles in my body spasming out of control, rocking the chair and shaking the desk, my body surrendering to some greater force.

‘Miss, miss, I can’t find no inhaler or nothing! But he’s got a sister in the lower sixth – maybe she’ll know?’

Leila is making these odd, whimpering noises, like a dog being beaten. Yet when she moves away, the sounds grow closer. It can’t be Miss Azley, so there must be some animal, cowering in the corner . . .

‘Lochan, hold my hand. Listen to me, love, listen. The nurse will be here any second, OK? Help is on its way.’

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 begi