Until Proven Innocent

TWO

three months later, june, last drop café

AYLA CULBERT'S PROBLEM is that she loves too fiercely.

Love and loyalty, to her, do not come peacefully; she's crafted them into war-games. She can't remember when, exactly, - though her Anne assures her she was born like this, the grip of her baby-fingers just tight enough to hurt - but she does know she's not once loved Jasper in any way other than aggressively. When they were younger, it was less brutal: he'd push her from a tree and she'd tell their parents she hurt herself playing football, then the next day he'd take the fall when they were caught stealing flowers from the neighbour's garden. A game of give-and-take, nonetheless, warlike policies domineering their relationship right from the beginning: no man left behind, don't breathe a word against your side even with a gun to your head, it's us against them, okay?

Them, in those days, almost invariably referred to their parents. Nowadays, though, the line between friend and foe have become a little less distinguished - Ayla is no longer sure who she's supposed to be protecting Jasper from. No longer sure, even, if they're still on the same side of the battle. Sometimes, she feels as though he's charging straight at her, and all the while she's screaming for the others to let him live.

She wonders if she'd let him kill her. He knows that, in a way, he already has.

It's obvious now, even here, muted orange light showcasing Jasper's damage. There are creases in her face that weren't there before he left, one side of her mouth slipping down in comfortable habit to form a half-frown, and thick eyebrows that pull together all too often and age her by years. Jasper has to remind himself that's she's still only fifteen. That she might look it, if it weren't for him.

"You could have just met me at home, you know," Ayla says, idly stirring her coffee. It's too dark, and she winces when she sips: this place was created for lorry drivers on night breaks and uni kids attempting road trips, she's sure, not for patching up familial relationships. "You're not banned, or anything."

"Right. I'm sure that would have gone down brilliantly." Jasper rolls his eyes. Ayla knows, really, that Jasper is no longer suited to 11 Earnley Way. On the occasional event of his return, he exists uncertainly. He flits between his room and the bathroom and rarely ventures downstairs, save for meals. He's like an overly-cautious lodger, somebody who's been kicked out of one too many temporary flats and is relying on an IOU to serve as this month's rent. He's weightless, in his house, leaving no sign of his residence other than a hair in the shower, an extra plate at the kitchen table, his washing in the laundry basket. "I might not be banned, La, but I'm not exactly welcome, either."

Nice victim complex, Ayla thinks, and she has to bite her tongue to stop herself from asking whose fault he thinks that is. There's a moment of quiet. Spoons on cups, clearing of throats, a shuffle right, then left. Once, they ran smoother than this. Now, their relationship is all judders, sharp jerks forwards, a handbrake released and a hurtle down a hill.  Ayla's no engineer. Still - she can give it a shot.

"I've got dance class at three," she informs him, swallowing the last dregs of her coffee. Jasper glances up at the clock and wonders what the relevance of that statement is: it's barely a minute past eleven, and something in the way both siblings are resting on their ends of their seats tell him their trip won't extend itself for that long. "Did I tell you I'd started dance?"

She's trying, he'll give her that. She's gentler than their Anne but stronger than their Dad, a combination of the two, an amalgamation of the things they love about each other. Jasper is made up of the traits that cause arguments and threats of divorce and exasperated sighs behind closed doors. Ayla, he realises, was the better kid even before he renounced God, renounced morality, renounced family.