Forbidden

I am cuffed once again and led down several long, brightly lit corridors. I have no idea how long it’s been since I was shoved into the cell – time has ceased to exist: there are no windows and I ca

Much like my cell, the interview room is harshly lit: bright, fluorescent light turning the whole room an eerie yellow. It isn’t much bigger than the cell, but now the stench of urine is replaced by sweat and stale air, the walls are bare and the floor carpeted. The only furniture is a narrow table and three chairs. Two officers are seated on the far side: a man and a woman. The man looks to be in his early forties, with a narrow face and close-cropped hair. The hardness behind the eyes, the grave expression, the set of the jaw all suggest that he has seen this many times before, has been breaking criminals down for years – he looks sharp and shrewd, and there is something tough and intimidating about him. The woman, on the other hand, looks older and more ordinary, with scraped-back hair and a world-weary expression, but her eyes also have that sharp gaze. Both officers look as if they have been well-trained in the art of manipulating, threatening, cajoling or even lying to get what they want from their suspects. Even in my confused, hazy state, I immediately sense that they are good at what they do.

I am directed to the grey plastic chair placed opposite them, less than half a metre away from the edge of the table and backed up against the wall behind me. We may as well all be in a cage together: the table is not very wide and it all feels far too close for comfort. I am acutely aware of my clammy face, the hair sticking to my forehead, the thin fabric of my T-shirt clinging to my skin, the sweat patches visible on the material. I feel dirty and disgusting, the taste of bile in my throat, sour blood in my mouth, and despite the officers’ impassive expressions, their revulsion is almost tangible in this small, enclosed space.

The man hasn’t looked up since I was brought in, but keeps scribbling away in a file. When he does raise his eyes, I feel myself flinch and automatically try to scrape my chair back, but it does not budge.

‘This interview is going to be recorded and videoed.’ Eyes like small grey pebbles bear into mine. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

As if I have a choice. ‘No.’ I notice a discreet camera in the corner of the room, trained on my face. Fresh sweat breaks out across my forehead.

The man flicks the switch of some kind of recording device and reads out a case number, followed by the date and time. He goes on to state, ‘Present is myself, Detective Inspector Sutton. To my right, Detective Inspector Kaye. Opposite us, the suspect. Would you identify yourself, please?’ Who exactly is he speaking to? Other police officers, truth-analysts, the judge and jury? Will this interview be played in court? Will my own descriptions of my heinous crime be played back to my family? Will Maya be forced to listen to me stutter and stumble my way through this interrogation and then be asked to confirm whether I’ve been telling the truth?

Don’t think about that now, for chrissakes. Stop thinking about that now – the only two things you should be focusing on right now are your demeanour and your words. Everything that comes out of your mouth must be completely and utterly convincing.

‘Lochan Whi—’ I clear my throat; my voice is weak and uneven. ‘Lochan Whitely.’

The next few questions are the usual: date of birth? Nationality? Address? Detective Sutton barely looks up, either jotting things down in his file or fast-forwarding through my notes, his eyes flicking rapidly from side to side.

‘Do you know why you’re here?’ His eyes meet mine very suddenly, making me start.

I nod. Then I swallow. ‘Yes.’

Pen poised, he continues to look at me, as if waiting for me to continue. ‘For – for sexually abusing my sister,’ I say, my voice strained but steady.

The words hang in the air like small red puncture wounds. I feel the atmosphere thicken, tighten. Even though the interrogating officers have it all written down in front of them, my actually saying the words aloud, in the presence of both a video camera and a voice recorder, makes it all suddenly unalterable. I barely feel as if I’m lying any more. Perhaps there is no one universal truth. Consensual incest to me, sexual abuse of a child family member to them. Perhaps both labels are correct.

And then the questions begin.

At first it’s all background stuff. The tedious, endless minutiae: where I was born, the members of my family, everyone’s dates of birth, the details surrounding our father, my relationship with him, with my siblings, with my mother. I stick to the truth as much as possible, even telling them about our mother’s late shifts at the restaurant, her relationship with Dave. I am careful to omit the parts that I hope Mum and Kit will have the sense to gloss over too: her drinking problem, the fights over money, the move to Dave’s house, and finally the almost total abandonment of her family. Instead, I tell them that she has only recently started working late shifts and that I babysit in the evenings, but only once the children are in bed. So far, so good. Not an ideal family set-up, but one that just about fits within the bounds of normality. And then, after they have been given every little detail, from the number of rooms in our house to our respective schools, our grades and extra-curricular activities, the question is finally asked:

‘When was the first time you had any kind of sexual contact with Maya?’ The officer’s gaze is direct and his voice as expressionless as before, but he suddenly seems to be watching me carefully, waiting for the slightest shift in my expression.

Silence thickens the air, draining it of oxygen, and I am aware of the sound of my own rapid breathing, my lungs automatically crying out for more air. I’m aware too of the sweat ru

‘When – when you say sexual contact, do you mean like – like feelings, or when we first – I mean, I first t-touched her, or—?’

‘The first time you had any inappropriate exposure or contact.’ His voice has hardened, his jaw tightened and the words shoot out of his mouth like small bullets.

Fighting my way through the fog and panic, I try to come up with the correct answer. It is vital I get all this right so it will match up exactly with Maya’s account. Sexual contact – but what exactly does that mean? That first kiss the night of her date? Or before that, when we were dancing?

‘Would you answer the question!’ The temperature is rising. He thinks I’m stalling in order to try to exonerate myself, when in reality it’s the opposite.

‘I – I’m not sure of the exact date. It m-must have been November sometime. Y-yes, November—’ Or was it October? Oh God, I am messing this all up already.

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘OK. She – she came home from a date with a guy from school. We – we got into an argument because I was giving her the third degree. I was worried – I mean, angry – I wanted to know if she’d slept with him. I got upset—’

‘What do you mean by upset?’

No. Please.

‘I started—I began to cry . . .’ Like I’m going to do now, just at the memory of the pain I felt on that night. Turning my head towards the wall, I bite down hard, but the pain of my teeth cutting into my tongue doesn’t work any longer. No amount of physical pain can cover up the mental agony. Five minutes into the interrogation and already I’m falling apart. It’s hopeless, everything’s hopeless, I’m hopeless, I’m going to fail Maya, fail them all.