Forbidden

  In English we are doing Hamlet. I’ve read it a number of times so I don’t feel the need to even pretend to focus. Besides, Miss Azley and I have had a tacit agreement ever since her unfortunate pep talk: she does not pick on me in class so long as I volunteer an answer once in a while, usually to help her out when no one else can come up with even the most asinine response. But today I am not playing ball: the double lesson is well into its second hour and the now familiar ache in my chest has morphed into a stabbing pain. I drop my pen and stare out of the window, watching a length of broken TV cable twist and writhe in the wind.

  ‘. . . according to Freud, the personal crisis undergone by Hamlet awakens in him repressed incestuous desires.’ Miss Azley waves the book in the air and paces to and fro in front of the class, trying to keep everyone awake. I feel her gaze pause on the back of my head and I snap round from the window.

  ‘Which brings us to the Oedipus Complex, a term coined by Freud himself at the beginning of the twentieth century.’

  ‘You mean when a guy wants to have sex with his mum?’ someone asks, voice sick with disgust.

  Suddenly Miss Azley has their attention. The class is buzzing.

  ‘But that’s mental! Why would any guy want to fuck his own mum?’

  ‘Yeah, you hear about it on the news and stuff, though. Mums who fuck their sons, dads who fuck their daughters and their sons. Brothers and sisters who fuck each other—’

  ‘Language, please!’ Miss Azley protests.

  ‘That’s bullshit. Who would want to fuck – sorry, screw – their own parents?’

  ‘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 planned – contrived, premeditated and deliberate. She is waiting for my reaction . . . I suddenly recall how I ran into her outside the nurse’s office after Maya’s fall. She must have been there, helped bring her round, asked her questions. Maya hit her head, was possibly even suffering from concussion. What reason did she give for her faint? How much time elapsed between her fall and my arrival? In her confused state, what might Maya have said?

  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 cannot move. Time has stopped; time is racing. My desk rattles against me as if the ground is being shaken by an earthquake. My ears fill up with water and I focus on the humming in my head, the electric grid of my mind snapping and flashing with light. A strange sound fills the room. Everyone is frozen, staring, waiting to see what will happen next, what terrible fate awaits me. Perhaps Social Services are already in the school. The world outside swells and presses in at the walls, trying to reach me, trying to eat me alive. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it’s happening like this . . .

  ‘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 running down my body, my neck, my face.

  ‘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 gonna die?’ The voice is high-pitched with panic.

  ‘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.

&nb
sp; ‘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 beginning to see and hear and feel things around me more clearly: Miss Azley is sitting beside me, her hand rubbing the back of my damp shirt. The nurse is kneeling on the floor, her finger and thumb cold against my wrist, the stethoscope dangling from her ears. I notice her brown hair is greying at the roots. I can make out a sheet of my own scrawled handwriting beneath my cheek. The sawing noise has faded, replaced by short, sharp sounds like hiccups, similar to the ones Willa makes after a long crying jag. The pain in my chest is lifting. My heart is steadier now – an aching, rhythmical thud.

  ‘What happened?’

  The familiar voice startles me and I struggle to sit up, my hand grasping feebly at the edge of the desk to stop myself from pitching forward. The jagged breaths intensify and I start shaking again. She’s standing right in front of me, between the nurse and the teacher, her hands cupped over her nose and mouth, blue eyes huge with fright. Relief at seeing her floods through me and I reach out for her frantically, afraid she will suddenly walk away.

  ‘Hey, Lochie, it’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right.’ She takes my hand in hers, gripping it tightly.

  ‘What on earth happened?’ she asks the nurse again, panic threading her voice.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, love, just a panic attack. You can help by keeping nice and calm yourself. Why don’t you sit with him for a bit?’ Mrs Shah snaps her medical bag shut and moves out of sight, followed by Miss Azley.

  Nurse and teacher fade to the other side of the classroom, talking softly and rapidly between themselves. Maya pulls up a chair and sits down opposite me, her knees touching mine. She is pale with shock, her eyes, sharp and questioning, boring into mine.

  Elbows on thighs, I look up at her and manage an unsteady smile. I want to make some kind of joke but it’s too much effort to breathe and talk simultaneously. I try to stop shaking for Maya’s sake and press my right fist to my mouth to muffle the hiccupping sounds. My left hand grips hers with all my strength, afraid to let go.

  Stroking my clammy cheek and taking my right hand in hers, she draws it gently away from my mouth.

  ‘Listen, you,’ she says, her voice full of concern. ‘What brought all this on?’

  I think back to Hamlet and my whole conspiracy theory and realize with a jolt how ridiculous I was being.

  ‘N-nothing.’ Breath. ‘Being stupid.’ I have to concentrate hard to get each word out between gasps, one cluster at a time. I feel my throat constrict so I shake my head with a wry smile. ‘So stupid. I’m sorry—’ I bite down hard on my lip.

  ‘Stop being sorry, you idiot.’ She gives me a reassuring smile and strokes the inside of my hand. I find myself involuntarily clutching at her sleeve, afraid she is a mirage and will suddenly evaporate before my eyes.

  The bell sounds, startling us both.

  I feel my pulse start to race again. ‘Maya, d-don’t go! Don’t go just yet—’

  ‘Lochie, I’ve no intention of going anywhere.’

  It’s the closest we’ve been all week, the first time she’s touched me since that terrible night in the cemetery. I swallow hard and gnaw at my lip, aware of the other two in the room, terrified I’m going to break down.

  Maya notices. ‘Loch, it’s all right. This has happened before. When you first started at Belmont, just after Dad left, remember? You’re going to be fine . . .’

  But I don’t want to be fine, not if it means she’s going to let go of my hand; not if it means we’re going to go back to being polite strangers.

  After a while we go down to the nurse’s room. Mrs Shah checks my pulse and blood pressure, hands me a leaflet on panic attacks and mental health issues. Yet again there is talk of seeing the school counsellor, mention of exam pressure, the danger of overwork, the importance of getting enough sleep . . . Somehow I make all the right noises, nod and smile as convincingly as I can, all the while holding myself tight like a coiled spring.

  We walk home in silence. Maya offers me her hand but I decline – my legs are steadier now. She asks me if there was some trigger, but when I shake my head she takes the hint and backs off.

  At home I sit at the end of the couch. Right now, alone and uninterrupted, would be the perfect time for that conversation – the one where I apologize to her for what I said that night, explain again the reason for my crazy outburst, try to find out if she is still angry with me, while somehow making it clear that this is in no way an attempt to coerce her back into any kind of abnormal relationship. But I can’t find the words, and I don’t trust myself to utter a single thing. The aftershocks of the panic attack coupled with Maya’s gentle concern have thrown me, and I feel as if I’m teetering on the edge of a precipice.

  Being brought juice and a peeled apple cut into quarters like for Tiffin or Willa threatens to tip me over. Maya watches me from the doorway as I switch on and mute the TV, pick at my shirt cuff, pull at a loose button. I can tell how anxious she is from the way she fiddles with her earlobe, a characteristic sign of worry she shares with Willa.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  I attempt a bright, cheerful smile and the ache in my throat intensifies. ‘Fine! It was just a stupid panic attack.’

  I want to make some kind of joke, but instead I feel a sudden tremor in my chin. I pull a face to disguise it.

  Her smile fades. ‘Perhaps I should leave you in peace for a little while—’

  ‘No!’ The word comes out louder than I intended. Heat rushing to my face, I force a desperate smile. ‘I just mean, now that we’ve got some time off, perhaps we should – you know – hang out together, l-like old times. Unless of course you’ve got homework to do or something . . .’

  A hint of amusement touches her lips. ‘Yeah, right. I’m not about to waste an afternoon off school on homework, Lochan James Whitely!’

  Closing the door behind her, she curls up in the armchair. ‘So, what are we watching?’

  I grab the remote and fumble with the buttons. ‘Uh – well – surely there’s something other than CBeebies . . . How about this?’ I stop channel-flicking when I reach an old episode of Friends and look at Maya for approval.

  She gives me another of her sad smiles. ‘Great.’

  Canned laughter fills the room but neither of us seem able to join in. The episode drags on and on. I am painfully aware that the two of us, alone together, have absolutely nothing to say to each other. Has our friendship been shattered too?

  I want to ask her, beg her, to tell me what’s going on inside h
er head. I want to try and explain what was going on in my head that night, why I reacted like such a bastard. But I can’t even turn to look at her. I feel her eyes, full of concern, on my face. And I’m sinking in a quicksand of despair.

  ‘D’you want to talk about it?’ Her voice, soft with concern, makes me start. Suddenly I’m aware of the pain from biting my lip, the weight of the tears that have slowly been accumulating in my eyes.

  With a panicked breath I quickly shake my head, raising a hand to my face. I press my fingers briefly against my eyes and shake my head dismissively. ‘I’m just feeling a bit weird from before.’ Straining to keep my voice steady, I can still hear its jagged edge. Turning, I force myself to meet her stricken gaze with a desperate smile. ‘But I’m fine now. It’s nothing. Really.’

  After a moment’s hesitation she gets up and comes over to sit on the opposite end of the couch, one foot tucked beneath her, auburn wisps framing her pale face.

  ‘Come on, silly, it’s not nothing if it’s making you cry.’ The words hang in the air, her concern swelling the silence.

  ‘I’m not – it’s not—!’ I reply hotly, cheeks ablaze. ‘It’s just – I’m just—’ I take a deep breath, frantic to deflect her worry, to pull myself together. The last thing I want is for her to know how devastated I am at having lost her, for her to feel any pressure to resume a relationship that, in her mind, is fundamentally wrong.

  She hasn’t moved. ‘You’re just what?’ she asks gently.

  I clear my throat and raise my eyes to the ceiling, forcing a short, painful laugh. I run my sleeve rapidly across my eyes as, to my horror, a tear glances off my cheek.

  ‘Do you want to try to go to sleep for a bit?’

  The concern in her voice is killing me. ‘No. I don’t know. I think – I think . . . Oh, for fuck sake—!’ Another tear falls down my cheek and I swipe at it furiously. ‘Shit! What is this?’

  ‘Lochie, tell me. What happened? What happened at school?’ Sounding aghast, she leans towards me, reaching out to touch me.