Forbidden Read Free

of others, with Coke bottles and beer cans sprouting amongst the weeds between the broken gate and the faded orange door.
    The road is so narrow that the cars, with their boarded-up windows or dented fenders, have to park with two wheels on the kerb, making it easier to walk down the centre of the street than on the pavement. Kicking a crushed plastic bottle out of the gutter, I dribble it along, the slap of my shoes and the grate of broken plastic against tarmac echoing around me, soon joined by the cacophony of a yapping dog, shouts from a children’s footbal game and reggae blasting out of an open window. My bag bounces and rattles against my thigh and I feel some of my malaise begin to dissipate. As I jog past the footbalers, a familiar figure overshoots the goalpost markers and I exchange the plastic bottle for the bal, easily dodging the pint-sized boys in their oversized Arsenal T-shirts as they folow me up the road, yelping in protest. The blond firework dives towards me: a tow-headed little hippy with hair down to his shoulders, his once white school shirt now streaked with dirt and hanging over torn grey trousers. He manages to get ahead of me, running backwards as fast as he can, shouting franticaly,
    ‘To me, Loch, to me, Loch. Pass it to me!’
    With a laugh I do, and whooping in triumph, my eight-year-old brother grabs the bal and runs back to his mates, yeling, ‘I got it off him, I got it off him! Did you see?’
    I slam into the relative cool of the house and sag back against the front door to catch my breath, brushing the damp hair off my forehead. Straightening up, I pick my way down the halway, my feet automaticaly nudging aside the assortment of discarded blazers, book bags and school shoes that litter the narrow corridor. In the kitchen I find Wila up on the counter, trying to reach a box of Cheerios from the cupboard. She freezes when she sees me, one hand on the box, her blue eyes wide with guilt beneath her fringe. ‘Maya forgot my snack today!’
    I lunge towards her with a growl, grabbing her round the waist with one arm and swinging her upside down as she squeals with a mixture of terror and delight, her long golden hair fanning out beneath her. Then I dump her unceremoniously onto a kitchen chair and slap down the cereal box, milk bottle, bowl and spoon.
    ‘Half a bowlful, no more,’ I warn her with a raised finger. ‘We’re having an early dinner tonight –
    I’ve got a ton of homework to do.’
    ‘When?’ Wila sounds unconvinced, scattering sugarcoated hoops across the chipped oak table that is the centrepiece of our messy kitchen. Despite the revised set of House Rules that Maya taped to the fridge door, it is clear that Tiffin hasn’t touched the overflowing bins in days, that Kit hasn’t even begun washing the breakfast dishes piled up in the sink, and that Wila has once again mislaid her miniature broom and has only succeeded in adding to the crumbs littering the floor.
    ‘Where’s Mum?’ I ask.
    ‘Getting ready.’
    I empty my lungs with a sigh and leave the kitchen, taking the narrow wooden stairs two at a time, ignoring Mum’s greeting, searching for the only person I realy feel like talking to. But when I spot the open door to her empty room, I remember that she is stuck at some afterschool thing tonight and my chest deflates. Instead I return to the familiar sound of Magic FM blasting out of the open bathroom door.
    My mother is leaning over the basin towards the smeared, cracked mirror, putting the finishing touches to her mascara and brushing invisible lint off the front of her tight silver dress. The air is thick with the stench of hairspray and perfume. As she sees me appear behind her reflection, her brightly painted lips lift and part in a smile of apparent delight. ‘Hey, beautiful boy!’
    She turns down the radio, swings round to face me and holds out an arm for a kiss. Without moving from the doorway, I kiss the air, an involuntary scowl etched between my