Forbidden

The young officer informs me they will now take me outside to the ‘transport vehicle’. The corridor is too narrow for the three of us. The big officer leads the way, his tread heavy and slow. The other grips me tightly just above the elbow. I’ve been able to hide the fear until now, but as we approach the staircase, I suddenly feel a surge of panic begin to rise. Stupidly, it’s triggered by nothing more than the need to pee. But suddenly I realize I’m desperate to go and have no idea when I’m next going to get the chance. After hours of questioning, locked up in some cell, in front of a whole bunch of other prisoners? I stumble to a halt at the top of the stairs.

‘Keep moving!’ I feel the press of a firm hand between my shoulder blades.

‘Can I – can I please just use the bathroom before I go?’ My voice comes out frightened and frantic. I feel my face burn, and as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. I sound pathetic.

They exchange glances. The thick-set man sighs and nods. They let me into the bathroom. The younger officer stays in the open doorway.

The cuffs don’t make it easy. I feel the man’s presence fill the small room. Shuffling round so I have my back to him, I struggle to unbutton my jeans. Sweat prickles across my neck and down my back, trapping the T-shirt against my skin. The muscles in my knees seem to vibrate. I close my eyes and try to relax, but I need to go so badly it’s impossible. I can’t. I just can’t. Not like this.

‘We haven’t got all day.’ The voice behind me makes me flinch. I button up and flush the empty toilet. Turning round, I’m too embarrassed to even raise my head.

As we jolt and shuffle our way down the narrow stairs, the young officer says in a gentler tone, ‘The station’s not far. You’ll have some privacy there.’

His words throw me. A small hint of kindness, a note of reassurance, despite the terrible thing I’ve done. I feel my façade begin to slip. Breathing deeply, I bite my lip hard. Just in case Maya sees me, it’s imperative I make it out of the house without falling apart.

Voices rise and fall from the kitchen. The door is firmly shut. So that’s where they’ve taken her. I hope to God they are still treating her as the victim, comforting her rather than bombarding her with questions. I have to grit my teeth, clench every muscle in my body to prevent myself from ru

I notice a pink skipping rope hanging over the banisters. A single Jelly Baby from last night remains on the carpet. Small shoes are scattered over the rack by the front door. Willa’s white sandals, and the lace-up trainers she has finally learned to tie – all so tiny. Tiffin’s scuffed school shoes, his much-prized football boots, his gloves and ‘lucky’ ball. Above them their school blazers hang discarded, empty, like ghosts of their real selves. I want them back, I want my children back. I miss them, the pain like a hole in my heart. They were so excited to go that I didn’t even have time to hug them. I never got to say goodbye.

Just as I am being jolted past the open door of the front room, a movement catches my eye and makes me stop. I turn my head towards a figure in the armchair and, to my astonishment, find Kit. He is sitting, white-faced and immobile, beside a woman police officer, his carefully packed Isle of Wight bags lying carelessly discarded at his feet. As he slowly turns towards me, I stare at him, uncomprehending. I am pushed from behind, told to ‘move it’. I stumble against the door-frame, my eyes begging Kit for some kind of explanation.

‘Why are you here?’ I can’t believe he is witnessing this. I can’t believe they somehow got hold of him before he left, involving him too. He’s only thirteen, for chrissakes! I want to scream. He should be on the trip of his life, not watching his brother being arrested for sexually abusing his sister. I want to kick at them in fury, force them to let him go.

His eyes leave my face, travelling down to the cuffs circling my wrists, then to the police officers trying to drag me away. His face is white, stricken.

‘You told him!’ he shouts suddenly, making me jump.

I stare at him, stu

‘Coach Wilson! You told him about the heights thing!’ Suddenly he is screaming at me, his face distorted with fury. ‘As soon as I got to school, he took me off the abseiling list in front of the whole class! Everyone laughed at me, even my friends! You ruined what was going to be the best week of my life!’

Forcing myself to keep breathing, I feel my heart start to pound. ‘It was you?’ I gasp. ‘You knew? About Maya and me? You knew?’

He nods wordlessly.

‘Mr Whitely, you need to come with us right now!’

The comment about Maya and me being left home alone, the sound of the door while we were kissing in the kitchen . . . Why on earth didn’t he confront us? Why wait until now before telling?

Because he didn’t want to be taken into care. Because he never intended to tell.

For some strange reason I am desperate for him to know I never asked him to be taken off the abseiling list, never dreamed he might be humiliated in front of his friends, never meant to ruin his first ever trip, the most exciting day of his life. But the officers are shouting at me, pushing me out of the front door with considerable force now, banging my shoulders against the walls, dragging me towards the waiting police car. I twist and turn my head, frantically trying to call back to him over my shoulder.

The neighbours have come out in full force, congregating en masse around the waiting police car, watching with fascination as I am pushed down into the back seat. The belt is drawn across me and the door beside me slams. The large officer gets into the front, his radio still crepitating, the younger one gets into the back, beside me. The neighbours are closing in now like a slow wave, leaning, peering, pointing, their mouths opening and closing with silent questions.

Suddenly there is a violent thud against the door at my side. I whip my head round in time to see Kit, pummelling frantically at the window.

‘I’m sorry!’ he screams, the sound heavily muffled by the reinforced glass. ‘Lochie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t think about what would happen – I never thought she’d call the police!’ He is crying hard, in a way he hasn’t done for years, tears lashing his cheeks. His body convulses with violent sobs as he punches at the window in a frenzied bid to free me. ‘Come back!’ he screams. ‘Come back!’

I wrestle with the locked door, desperate to tell him it’s OK, that I will be back soon – even though I am well aware this isn’t true. More than anything though, I want to tell him it’s OK, that I know he never intended for it to come to this, that I understand he simply lashed out in hurt and anger and bitter, bitter disappointment. I want to let him know that of course I forgive him, that absolutely none of this was his fault, that I love him, that I always have, despite everything . . .

A neighbour drags him off and the car begins to pull away from the kerb. As we pick up speed, I turn my head for one last look and, through the back window, see Kit sprinting after us, his long legs pummelling the pavement, the familiar look of single-minded determination on his face – the same determination he showed during all those football, catch, and British Bulldog games we used to play . . . Somehow he keeps pace with the car until we reach the end of the narrow street, until we accelerate out onto the main road. Frantically craning my head to keep him in sight, I see him finally stumble to a halt, his hands by his sides: defeated, crying.

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.