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Before there was anything, there was Lochan. When I look back on my life, all sixteen and a half years of it, Lochan was always there. Walking to school by my side, propelling me in a shopping trolley across an empty car park at breakneck speed, coming to my rescue in the playground after I’d caused a class uprising by calling Little Miss Popular ‘stupid’. I still remember him standing there, fists clenched, an unusually fierce look on his face, challenging all the boys to a fight despite being vastly outnumbered. And I suddenly realized that, so long as I had Lochan, nothing and no one could ever harm me. But I was eight then. I’ve grown up since those days. Now I know that Lochan won’t always be here, won’t be able to protect me for ever. Although he’s applying to study at University College, London, and says he will continue to live at home, he could still change his mind and see that this is his chance to escape. Never before have I imagined my life without him – like this house, he is my only point of reference in this difficult existence, this unstable and frightening world. The thought of him leaving home fills me with a terror so strong it takes my breath away. I feel like one of those seagulls covered with oil from a spill, drowning in a black tar of fear.
Asleep, Lochan looks like a boy again – ink-stained fingers, creased grey T-shirt, scuffed jeans and bare feet. People say there is a strong family resemblance – I don’t see it. For a start he is the only one of us with bright green eyes, as clear as cut glass. His shaggy hair is tar-black, covering the nape of his neck and reaching his eyes. His arms are still ta
But recently things have begun to change. Despite the fact that he is painfully shy, most of the girls in my year fancy him – filling me with a conflicting mixture of a
A car backfires across the street, jolting me out of my thoughts. Lochan lets out a small cry and struggles up, disorientated.
‘You fell asleep,’ I inform him with a smile. ‘I think we could market trigonometry as a new treatment for insomnia.’
‘Shit. What time is it?’ He appears panicked for a moment, pushing back the blanket and swinging his feet to the floor, ru
‘Just gone nine.’
‘What about—’
‘Tiffin and Willa are fast asleep and Kit’s busy being an angry teenager in his room.’
‘Oh.’ He relaxes slightly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and blinking sleepily down at the floor.
‘You look whacked. Perhaps you should forget homework for tonight and go to bed.’
‘No, I’m OK.’ He gestures towards the pile of books on the coffee table. ‘Anyway, gotta finish revising that lot before the test tomorrow.’ He reaches out to switch on the lamp, casting a small circle of light on the floor.
‘You should have told me you had a test. I’d have done di
‘Well, you did everything else.’ There is an awkward pause. ‘Thanks for – for sorting them out.’
‘No problem.’ I yawn, shifting sideways in the armchair to hang my legs over the armrest, and comb the hair away from my face. ‘Perhaps from now on we should just leave Kit’s meal on a tray at the bottom of the ladder. We can call it room service. Then we might all get a bit of peace.’
The hint of a smile touches his lips, but then he turns away to stare out of the blank window and silence descends.
I take a sharp breath. ‘He was being a little shit tonight, Loch. That stuff about school . . .’
He seems to freeze. I can almost see the muscles tighten beneath his T-shirt as he sits sideways on the couch, an arm slung over the back, one foot on the ground, the other tucked beneath him. ‘I’d better finish this . . .’
I recognize my cue. I want to say something to him, something along the lines of: It’s all an act. Everyone else is pretending anyway. Kit may have surrounded himself with a group of kids who spit in the face of authority, but they’re just as scared as everyone else. They make fun of others and pick on loners just so they can belong. And I’m not much better. I might appear confident and chatty, but I spend most of my time laughing at jokes I don’t find fu
‘Goodnight then. Don’t work too late.’
‘Night, Maya.’ He smiles suddenly, dimples forming at the corners of his mouth. But when I pause in the doorway, looking back at him, he is flicking through a textbook, his teeth chafing at the permanent, painfully red sore beneath his bottom lip.
You think no one else understands, I want to tell him, but you’re wrong. I do. You’re not alone.
CHAPTER THREE
Lochan
Our mother looks raddled in the harsh grey morning light. She nurses a mug of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Her bleached hair is a tangled mess, and smudged eyeliner has leaked into black halfmoons beneath her bloodshot eyes. Her pink silk robe is knotted over a skimpy nightdress – her dishevelled appearance a clear sign that Dave did not stay over last night. In fact I don’t even remember hearing them come in. On the rare occasions they come back to this house, there is the bang of the front door, muffled laughter, keys being dropped on the doorstep, loud shushes and more thuds, followed by cackling laughter as he attempts to give her a piggyback up the stairs. The others have learned to sleep through it, but I have always been a light sleeper and their slurred voices force me to acknowledge consciousness, even as I press my eyelids closed and try to ignore the grunts and squeals and the rhythmic squeak of bedsprings from the main bedroom.
Tuesday is Mum’s day off, which means that for once she gets to sort out breakfast and take the little ones to school. But it’s already quarter to eight, Kit has yet to appear, Tiffin is eating breakfast in his underwear and Willa has no clean socks and is bemoaning the fact to anyone who will listen. I fetch Tiffin’s uniform and force him to get dressed at the table since Mum seems unable to do much more than sip coffee and chain-smoke at the window. Maya goes off in search of Willa’s socks and I hear her pound on Kit’s door and yell something about the consequences of getting another late slip. Mum finishes her last cigarette and comes to sit with us at the table, talking about plans for the weekend that I know will never materialize. Both Willa and Tiffin start chatting away at once, delighted by the attention, their breakfast forgotten, and I feel my muscles tense.
‘You’ve gotta be out of the house in five minutes and that breakfast needs to be eaten before then.’