The school term grinds on. There is too much to do and too little time to do it in: the coursework keeps piling up, I forget to go shopping, Tiffin needs new trousers, Willa needs new shoes, bills are waiting to be paid, Mum loses her chequebook again. As she continues to fade still further from family life, Maya and I tacitly divide up the chores: she cleans, helps with homework, does the bedtime routine; I shop, cook, sort out bills, collect Tiffin and Willa from school. One thing neither of us can manage, however, is Kit. He has started smoking openly now – albeit banished to the doorstep or the street. Maya calmly talks to him about the health risks and he laughs in her face. I try a firmer approach and earn myself a string of expletives. At the weekends he goes out with a gang of troublemakers from school: I persuade Mum to give me the money to buy him a second-hand mobile but he refuses to answer it when I call. I implore her to impose a curfew but she’s rarely around to enforce it, or when she is, she stays out later than he does. I install a curfew myself and Kit immediately starts staying out even later, as if returning home within the allotted time is a sign of weakness, of capitulation. And then the inevitable happens: one night he doesn’t come home at all.
At two in the morning, after calling him repeatedly and getting redirected to voicemail, I phone Mum in sheer desperation. She is in a club somewhere – the background noise is deafening: music, shouting, cheering. As we’re already in the small hours of the morning, her speech is slurred and the fact that her son has gone missing barely seems to register. Laughing and breaking off every few words to talk to Dave, she informs me I need to learn to relax, that Kit is a young man now and should have some fun. I am about to point out he could be lying face down in a gutter when I suddenly realize I’m wasting my breath. With Dave she can pretend she is young again, free of the restrictions and responsibilities of motherhood. She never wanted to grow up – I remember our father citing this as a reason for leaving. He accused her of being a bad mother – but then the only reason they got married was because she accidentally fell pregnant with me – a fact she likes to remind me of whenever we have an argument. And now that I am just a few months away from being legally classed an adult, she feels freer than she has done in years. Dave already has a young family of his own. He has made it very clear that he doesn’t want to take on someone else’s. And so she shrewdly keeps him away, only bringing him back to the house when everyone is asleep or out at school. With Dave she has reinvented herself – a young woman caught up in a passionate romance. She dresses like a teenager, spends all her money on clothes and beauty treatments, lies about her age, and drinks, drinks, drinks – to forget that youth and beauty are behind her, to forget that Dave has no intention of marrying her, to forget that at the end of the day she is just a forty-five-year-old divorcee in a dead-end job with five unwanted children. Yet understanding the reasons behind her behaviour does little to stem the hate.
It is now half past two and I am beginning to panic. Seated on the sofa, strategically positioned so that the weak light of the naked bulb falls directly on my books, I have been straining to read through my notes for at least three hours, the scrawled words bleeding into each other, dancing about the page. Maya came to say good-night over an hour ago, purple shadows beneath her eyes, her freckles contrasting starkly with the pallor of her skin. I am still in my uniform, the usual ink-stained cuffs pushed up, shirt half unbuttoned. From deep within my skull, a metallic shaft of pain bores its way through my right temple. Once again I glance up at the clock and my insides knot in fear and rage. I stare at my ghostly reflection in the darkened windowpane. My eyes hurt, my whole body throbs with stress and exhaustion. I have not the slightest idea what to do.
Part of me simply wants to blot the whole thing out – go to bed and just pray Kit is back by the time I wake up in the morning. But another part of me is forced to remember that he is little more than a child. An unhappy, self-destructive child who has got in with the wrong crowd because they provide him with the company and admiration his family do not. He could have been in a fight, he could be mainlining heroin, he could be breaking the law and screwing up his life before it has even begun. Worse still, he could be the victim of a mugger or some rival gang – his behaviour has begun to earn him quite a reputation in the area. He could be lying bleeding somewhere, knifed or shot. He may hate me, he may resent me, he may blame me for everything that’s wrong in his life, but if I give up on him, then he has no one left at all. His hatred of me will have been completely justified. Yet what can I possibly do? He refuses to share any part of his life with me, so I don’t know any of his friends or where he hangs out. I don’t even have a bike to go combing the streets with.
The clock now reads a quarter to three: nearly five hours after Kit’s weekend curfew. He never actually comes home before ten but rarely stays out much past eleven. What places around here are even open at this time? Nightclubs require ID – he has a fake one but even an idiot couldn’t mistake him for an eighteen-year-old. He has never been anywhere near as late as this before.
Fear snakes into my mind. It curls around itself, its body pressing against the walls of my skull. This is not rebellion: something has happened. Kit is in trouble and no one is there to help him. I feel clammy and shivery with sweat. I have no choice but to go out and walk the streets, searching for an open bar, a nightclub – anything. But first I need to wake Maya so she can call me if Kit returns. My mind flashes back to the exhaustion imprinted on her face and the thought of dragging her out of bed sickens me, but I have no choice.
My first knock is far too soft – I’m afraid of waking the little ones. But if Kit is hurt or in trouble, there is no time to lose. I turn the handle and push the door open. Lamplight falls through the gap in the curtains, illuminating her sleeping face, her tawny hair fanned out over the pillow. She has kicked back the sheet and is sleeping face down, splayed out like a starfish, knickers in full view.
I bend down and gently shake her. ‘Maya?’
‘Mm . . .’ She rolls away from me in protest.
I try again. ‘Maya, wake up, it’s me.’
‘Huh?’ Rolling onto her side, she props herself up on her elbow, looking up at me groggily, blinking beneath a curtain of hair.
‘Maya, I need your help.’ The words come out louder than I intended, the mounting panic catching in my throat.
‘What?’ She is suddenly alert, struggling to sit up, brushing the hair away from her face. She flicks on the bedside light and squints at me, wincing. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s Kit – he hasn’t come home and it’s almost three. I – I think I should go and look for him. I think something must have happened.’
She squeezes her eyes shut and then opens them wide again, as if trying to gather her thoughts. ‘Kit’s still out?’
‘Yes!’
‘Have you tried his mobile?’
I recount my futile attempts at getting through to both Kit and Mum. Maya stumbles out of bed and follows me down into the hallway as I hunt for my keys. ‘But, Lochie, d’you have any idea where he could be?’
‘No, I’ll just have to look . . .’ I rummage through my jacket pockets and then through the pile of junk mail and unopened bills on the hall table, sending them flying. My hands have started shaking. ‘Jesus, where the fuck are my keys?’
‘Lochie, you’re never going to find him by combing the streets. He could be on the other side of London!’
I spin round to face her. ‘What the hell d’you suggest I do then?’
I startle myself with the force of my voice. Maya takes a step back.
I stop and heave a deep breath, cupping my hands over my mouth, then running them through my hair. ‘Sorry. I just – I just don’t know what to do. Mum was incoherent on the phone. I couldn’t even persuade the bitch to come home!’ I choke on the word bitch and find myself with barely enough breath to finish speaking.
‘OK,’ Maya says quickly. ‘OK, Lochie. I’ll stay down here and wait. And I’ll call you the
moment he turns up. Have you got your phone?’
I feel the pockets of my trousers. ‘No – shit – and my keys—’
‘Here . . .’ Maya reaches for her coat on the peg and digs out her phone and keys. Grabbing them, I wrench open the door.
‘Wait!’ She throws me my jacket.
I pull it on as I stride out into the cold night air.
It’s dark, the houses all sleeping save for a few still illuminated with the flickering blue light of television screens. The silence is eerie – I can hear the juggernauts shifting their loads miles away on the ridge of the motorway. I walk rapidly down to the end of our road and turn onto the high street. The place has a deserted, haunted look, the shop shutters battened down over their dark interiors. Trash from the market stall still litters the street, a drunk staggers out of the all-night Tesco and two skimpily clad young women weave their way across the pavement arm in arm, shrill voices crisscrossing the still night air. Suddenly a car, pulsating with music, accelerates down the road, narrowly missing the drunk, its tyres screeching as it takes a corner. I spot a group of guys hanging around a closed pub. They are all dressed the same: grey hoodies, baggy jeans sliding down their hips, white trainers. But as I cross the road and head towards them, I realize they are far too old to be part of Kit’s lot. I quickly turn my head away again, but one of them shouts out: ‘Hey, what the fuck you lookin’ at?’
I ignore them and keep on going, hands deep in my pockets, fighting the instinct to lengthen my stride. Like wolves, they follow the scent of fear. For a moment I think they’re going to come after me, but it’s only their laughter and obscenities that float in my wake.
My heart continues to pound as I reach the end of the high street and cross the junction, my mind running at full tilt. This is exactly why a thirteen-year-old boy should not be roaming the streets at this time of night. Those guys were bored: drunk or high or both, and just looking for a fight. At least one would have had a weapon of some sort – a broken bottle, if not a knife. Gone are the days of simple fist-fights, especially round here. And what chance would a hot-head like Kit stand against a gang?
It is beginning to drizzle and the headlights of passing taxis splinter the dark, illuminating the wet tarmac. I cross the junction blindly and get honked at by an irritable cabbie. I wipe the sweat from my face with my shirtsleeve, adrenaline coursing through my body. The sudden wail of a police car makes me start violently; the sound fades into the distance and I jump again as a cacophony of demented yaps explodes from my pocket. When I pull out Maya’s phone, my hands are shaking. ‘What?’ I shout.
‘He’s back, Lochie. He’s home.’
‘What?’
‘Kit’s back. He came through the door just this second. So you can come home. Where are you, anyway?’
‘Bentham Junction. I’ll see you in a minute.’
I return the phone to my pocket and turn round. Chest heaving, my breath coming in gasps, I watch the late-night cars flash by. Right, calm down, I tell myself. He’s home. He’s fine. But I can feel the sweat running down my back and there is this pressure in my chest like a balloon that’s about to burst.
I am walking too fast, breathing too fast, thinking too fast. There’s a stabbing pain in my side and my heart is pounding against my ribcage. He’s home, I keep telling myself. He’s OK – but I don’t know why I don’t feel more relieved. In fact I feel physically sick. I was so sure something bad had happened to him. Why else would he have failed to answer his phone – to call?
As I near the house, the streetlamps blur and dance, and everything feels strangely unreal. My hands are shaking so hard I can’t unlock the door: the metal keys keep slipping in my clammy fingers. I end up dropping them and lean one hand against the door to steady myself as I bend down to search. When the door suddenly opens, I stumble blindly into the brightly lit hall.
‘Hey, watch out.’ Maya’s hand steadies me.
‘Where is he?’
The sound of canned laughter belts out of the front room and I push past. Kit is lying back, one arm behind his head, feet up on the couch, chuckling at something on TV. He reeks of cigarettes and booze and weed.
Suddenly the compressed anger of so many months explodes through my body like molten rock. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
Spinning the remote round and round in his hand, he takes a moment before flicking his eyes briefly away from the screen. ‘Absolutely none of your business.’ His gaze returns to the television and he starts chuckling again, turning up the volume, pre-emptively drowning out any further attempts at conversation.
I lunge for the remote and snatch it from his hand, catching him unawares.
‘Give that back, you arsehole!’ He is on his feet in an instant, grabbing my arm and twisting it.
‘It’s four in the morning! What the fuck have you been doing?’
I grapple with him, trying to push him off, but he is surprisingly strong. A bolt of pain shoots up my arm from my hand to my shoulder, and the remote falls to the floor. As Kit makes a dive for it, I grab his shoulders and yank him back. He hurls himself round, and there is a blinding crack of pain as his fist makes contact with my jaw. I launch myself at him, grabbing him by the collar, losing my balance and dragging him down to the floor. My head hits the coffee table and for a moment the lights seem to go out, but then I resurface and I’ve got my hands round his throat and his face is crimson, his eyes wide and bulging. He kicks me in the stomach, again and again, but I don’t let go, I can’t let go, even when he knees me in the groin. There is someone else pulling at my hands, someone else in the way, someone shouting at me, screaming in my ear: ‘Stop it, Lochie, stop it! You’re going to kill him!’
I’ve let go, he’s got away, doubled over on hands and knees, coughing and retching, strings of saliva hanging from his mouth. Someone is restraining me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides, but all the strength has suddenly left me and I can barely sit up. I hear gasping sounds from Kit as he lurches to his feet, and suddenly he is towering over me.
‘You ever touch me again and I’ll kill you.’ His voice is hoarse and rasping. I hear him leave, hear him thunder up the wooden stairs, hear the sound of a wailing child. I seem to be falling, except the carpet is solid beneath me and the cold hard wall presses against my back. Through a dim haze I see Willa wrap her legs around Maya’s waist as Maya lifts her into a hug and murmurs, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right, my love – they just had a silly argument. Everything’s fine now. Let’s go back upstairs and tuck you into bed, OK?’
They leave the room and the wails fade but continue above me, on and on and on.
My legs are unsteady as I make my way to my room. Safely inside, I sit down on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, cupping my hands over my nose and mouth, trying to stop hyperventilating, the pain in my stomach sending small aftershocks through my body. I feel sweat running down the sides of my face and cannot stop trembling. The halo round the light bulb above me expands and retracts, creating dancing spots of light. The full horror of what happened is only just starting to hit me. I have never got into any kind of physical fight with Kit before, yet tonight I provoked one, I almost wanted one; once I’d got my hands round his throat, I honestly didn’t want to let go. I don’t understand what’s happening to me – I seem to be unravelling. So Kit came home a few hours late – what teenager hasn’t? Parents get angry with their children, sure: they shout, threaten, swear at them maybe, but they don’t try to strangle them.
The knock on the door sends another jolt through my body. But it’s only Maya, looking completely wiped out as she sags against the doorframe.
‘Are you all right?’
Hands still covering my mouth, I nod, desperate for her to leave but unable to speak. She observes me soberly in the gloom, hesitates for a moment, then switches on my overhead light and comes in.
I take my hands away from my face, clenching them into fists to stop them shaking. ‘I’m fine,’ I say, my voice raw
and ragged. ‘We should all just go to bed.’
‘You don’t look fine.’ She closes the door and leans against it, her eyes huge, her expression unreadable. I can’t tell if she’s angry, horrified, disgusted . . .
‘Maya, I’m sorry, I – I just lost it . . .’ A jagged pain runs through me.
‘I know, Loch, I know.’
I want to tell her just how sorry I am. I want to ask her whether Willa is OK. I want to ask her to check on Kit, make sure he’s not packing his bags and planning to run away, reassure me that I haven’t hurt him, even though I know I have. But I can’t get the words out. Only the sound of my heaving breaths fills the air. I press my hands against my nose and mouth to try to muffle the sound, push my elbows down hard against my knees in an effort to stop shaking, and find myself rocking back and forth without knowing why.
Peeling herself off the door, Maya moves towards me, taking a seat beside me on the bed.
Instinctively my arm flies up to ward her off. ‘Maya, d-don’t – I don’t need—’
She takes my outstretched hand and gently pulls it onto her lap, rubbing my palm in circular motions with her thumb. ‘Try and relax.’ Her voice is gentle – too gentle. ‘It’s all right. Everyone’s OK. Willa’s gone back to sleep and Kit’s fine.’
I shift away from her, struggling to disengage my hand from hers. ‘I – I just need some sleep . . .’
‘I know you do, but you have to calm down first.’