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‘Tiffin and Wila get to go out and have fun and you get five times your usual pocket money to spend on arcades.’

‘I’m not complaining,’ he says. ‘I just think it’s touching the way you fabricate this whole complicated lie just ’cos Lochan’s too ashamed to face the fact that he’s a violent bastard.’

I stop cleaning the table, squeezing the sponge so hard that the warm, soapy water runs through the cracks between my fingers.

‘Lochan doesn’t know anything about this, OK?’ I retort, my voice low with repressed anger. ‘It was my idea. Because frankly, Kit, it’s the weekend, Tiffin and Wila deserve to have a bit of fun, and Lochan and I are completely shattered from running the house al week.’

‘I bet he is – after trying to kil me last night.’ He glares up at me now, his dark eyes as hard as pebbles.

I find myself gripping the edge of the table. ‘From what I remember it was a two-way deal. And Lochan’s so bashed up, he can hardly move.’

A slow grin of triumph spreads across Kit’s face. ‘Yeah, wel, I can’t say I’m surprised. If he didn’t spend his days hiding in stairwels and actualy learned to fight like a real—’

I slam my fist down on the table. ‘Don’t give me your macho gang bulshit,’ I hiss in a furious whisper. ‘Last night wasn’t some kind of sick competition! Lochan’s realy upset about what happened. He never wanted to hurt you.’

‘How very considerate of him,’ Kit replies, voice dripping with sarcasm, stil flicking infuriatingly through his magazine. ‘But kind of hard to believe when just a few hours ago he had his hands around my neck.’

‘You played a part in this too, you know. You punched him first!’ I glance nervously at the closed kitchen door. ‘Look, I’m not going to get into an argument with you about who started what. As far as the fight’s concerned, you’re both as guilty as each other. But just ask yourself this: why the hel d’you think Lochan was so upset in the first place? How many of your friends have a brother who would stay up half the night waiting for them to return? How many of them have a brother who would go scouring the streets at three in the morning because he was afraid something terrible might have happened? How many have brothers who shop for them, cook for them, attend parent–teacher meetings and stick up for them when they’re suspended from school? Don’t you get it, Kit? Lochan lost it last night because he cares about you, because he loves you!’

Kit throws the magazine across the table, making me jump, his eyes igniting in anger. ‘Did I ask him to do any of those things? D’you think I like having to depend on my fucking brother for every little thing? No, you’re right, my mates don’t have older brothers like that. They have brothers who hang out with them, get pissed with them, help them get fake IDs and sneak them into nightclubs and stuff. Whereas I’ve got a brother who tels me what time I’ve got to be home and then beats me up if I’m late! He’s not my father! He may pretend to care, but it’s only because he’s on some sick power trip! He doesn’t love me like Dad did, but he sure as hel thinks he can tel me what to do every second of the day!’

‘You’re right,’ I say quietly. ‘He doesn’t love us the way Dad did. Dad buggered off halfway round the world with his new family the moment things got tough. Lochan could have left school last year, got himself a job and moved out. He could choose to run off next year to a university at the other end of the country. But no, he’s only applying to ones in London, even though his teachers were desperate for him to try for Oxbridge. He’s staying in London so he can live here and look after us and make sure we’re al right.’

Kit manages to pul off a sardonic laugh. ‘You’re deluded, Maya. You know why he isn’t going anywhere? ’Cos he’s too damn scared, that’s why. You’ve seen him – he can’t even talk to his classmates without stammering like some kind of retard. And he certainly isn’t staying here because of me. He’s staying because he’s power-drunk – he gets his kicks from bossing Tiff and Wila around

’cos it makes him feel better about the fact he can’t even articulate a single word at school. And he’s staying here because he adores you, because you always take his side in everything, you think he’s some kind of God, and his sister’s the only friend he’s got in the world.’ He shakes his head. ‘How pathetic is that?’

I stare at Kit, stare at the anger in his face, the colour in his cheeks, but most of al at the sadness in his eyes. It pains me to see him stil hurting so much about Dad and I keep reminding myself he’s only thirteen. But I just can’t find a way to make him step out of his own selfcentred circle, even for a second, and see the situation from any other viewpoint than his own.

Finaly, in desperation, I say, ‘Kit, I understand why you resent Lochan’s position of authority, I realy do. But it’s not his fault that Dad left and it’s not his fault that Mum’s the way she is. He’s just trying to look out for us because there’s no one else. I promise you, Kit, Lochan would much rather have remained your brother and friend. But just think – under the circumstances, what else could he possibly have done? What choice did he ever have?’

When the front door finaly slams shut and the excited voices fade down the street, I heave a sigh of relief and glance at the kitchen clock. How many hours do we have until Tiffin and Wila start to bicker, Kit starts arguing about money and Mum decides she has done more than enough to make up for her absence al week? Factoring in travel time, we can expect three hours – four if we’re lucky. I feel as if I should immediately start making the most of it, try out al those things that I’m forever planning to do but putting off because there is always something more pressing at hand . . . But suddenly it feels absurdly luxurious just to be sitting here in the silent kitchen, the dappled sunlight faling through the kitchen window and warming my face – not thinking, not moving, not worrying about homework or arguing with Kit or trying to control Tiffin or entertaining Wila. Just being. I feel I could stay here for ever in the sunny, empty afternoon, slung sideways on a wooden chair, my arms folded against the smooth curve of its back, watching the sunbeams dance through the leaves, the branches peering in through the window, creating swaying shadows on the tiled floor. The sound of silence fils the air like a beautiful smel: no raised voices, no slamming doors, no pounding feet, no deafening music or babbling cartoons. I close my eyes, warm sun caressing my face and neck, filing my eyelids with a bright pink haze, and rest my head on my folded arms. I must have falen asleep, for time suddenly seems to have leaped forward and I find myself sitting up in a shaft of bright white light, wincing and massaging a crick in my neck and the stiffness in my arms. I stretch and stand up stiffly, moving over to the kettle and filing it. Padding out into the corridor with two steaming mugs and heading for the stairs, I hear the rustle of paper behind me and turn. Lochan has ensconced himself in the front room, lever arch files, textbooks and copious notes spread out over the coffee table and carpet around him as he sits on the floor against the edge of the couch, one leg stretched out beneath the table, the other drawn up to prop open a hefty tome. He is looking a lot better: much more relaxed in his favourite green T-shirt and faded jeans, barefoot, his hair stil wet from the shower.

‘Thanks!’ Sliding the textbook off his lap, he takes the mug from me. He leans back against the couch, blowing on his coffee as I sit down on the carpet against the opposite wal, yawning and rubbing my eyes.

‘I’ve never seen anyone sleep with their head hanging off the back of a wooden chair before –

was the couch not comfortable enough for you?’ His face lights up with a rare smile. ‘So tel me –

how the hel did you get rid of the whole lot of them?’

I tel him about my fairground suggestion, my lie about the babysitting.

‘And you managed to persuade Kit to accompany them on this little family outing?’

‘I told him there were arcade games at the fair.’

‘Are there?’

‘No idea.’

We both laugh. But Lochan’s amusement is quick to fade. ‘Did Kit seem . . . ? Was he . . . ?’

‘Absolutely fine. In true antagonistic form.’

Lochan nods but his eyes remain troubled.

‘Honestly, Lochan. He’s fine. How’s the revision going?’ I ask quickly. Shoving the huge textbook away from him in disgust, he emits a laboured sigh. ‘I don’t understand this stuff. And if Mr Parris understood it, at least I wouldn’t have to be teaching myself from some library book.’

I groan inwardly. I was hoping we’d go out and do something this afternoon – take a long walk in the park or have a hot chocolate at Joe’s or even treat ourselves to the cinema – but Lochan’s mocks are only three months away, and trying to study over the Christmas break with the kids at home al day wil be a nightmare. I can’t say I’m particularly bothered about my AS-levels – unlike Lochan I’m just sticking to the subjects I find easiest. My strange brother, on the other hand, has decided, for reasons best known to himself, to take on his two most chalenging subjects, further maths and physics, as wel as English and history, the two big essay ones. My sympathy is limited: just like our ex-father, he’s a natural academic.

Absent-mindedly sipping his coffee, he picks up his pen again and starts sketching some complex diagram on the nearest scrap of paper, labeling the various shapes and symbols with ilegible code. Closing his eyes for a moment, he proceeds to pick up the scrap and compare it to the diagram in the book. Crumpling up the sheet, he tosses it across the room in disgust and starts chewing his lip.

‘Perhaps you need a break,’ I suggest, looking up from the newspaper spread out at my side.

‘Why the hel can’t I get this to stick?’ He gazes at me imploringly, as if hoping I wil magicaly conjure up the answer. I look at his pale face, the shadows beneath his eyes and think: Because you’re exhausted.

‘D’you want me to test you?’

‘Yeah, cheers. Just give me a minute.’

As he returns to his textbook and his diagrams and scribbles, his eyes narrow in concentration and he continues to gnaw at his lip. I flick idly through the paper, my mind flitting briefly to the French homework buried at the bottom of my bag, before deciding it can wait. I reach the sports section without finding a single article of interest and, suddenly bored, stretch out on my stomach and pul one of Lochan’s files off the coffee table. Leafing through it, I glance enviously at the pages and pages of essays, invariably accompanied by nothing but ticks and exclamations of praise. Nothing but As and A stars – I wonder if next year I could get away with passing off some of Lochan’s work as my own. They’d think I’d morphed into a genius overnight. A recent piece of creative writing makes me pause: an essay, written less than a week ago, its usual list of superlatives in the margins. But it’s the teacher’s comment at the end that catches my attention:

An extremely evocative, powerful depiction of a young man’s inner turmoil, Lochan. This is a beautifully crafted story about suffering and the human psyche.

Beneath this panegyric, in large letters, the teacher has added: Please at least consider reading this out in class. It would really inspire the others and would be good practice for you ahead of your presentation.

My curiosity aroused, I leaf back through the pages and start reading Lochan’s essay. It’s about a young man, an undergraduate, returning to university in the summer break to find out whether he has got his degree. Joining the throngs that crowd the display boards, the guy discovers to his astonishment that he has received a first, the only one in his department. But instead of elation, he feels only a sense of emptiness, and as he moves away from the crowds of students hugging distressed friends or celebrating with others, nobody seems to notice him, no one even looks in his direction. He receives not one single word of congratulation. My first thought is that this is some kind of ghost story

– that this guy, at some point between sitting finals and coming back to find out his results, has died in an accident or something – but an eventual greeting from one of his professors, who manages to mispronounce his name, proves me wrong. The guy is very much alive. Yet, as he turns his back on the department and crosses the quad, he looks up at the tal buildings that surround him, trying to gauge which one wil guarantee him a fatal fal.

The story ends and I raise my head from the page, stunned and shaken, blown away by the strength of the prose and suddenly close to tears. I glance across at Lochan, who is drumming his fingers on the carpet, eyes closed, chanting some physics formula under his breath. I try to imagine him writing this tragicaly poignant piece, and fail. Who could think up such a story? Who would be able to write about something like this so vividly unless they had experienced such pain, such desperation, such alienation themselves . . . ?

Lochan opens his eyes and looks right at me. ‘The force per unit length between long paralel straight current-carrying conductors: F equals mu to the power of zero, iota to the power of one, iota to the power of two over two pi r . . . Oh, for chrissakes let it be right!’

‘Your story is incredible.’

He blinks at me. ‘What?’

‘The English essay you wrote last week.’ I glance down at the pages in my hand. ‘Tall Buildings.’

Lochan’s eyes sharpen suddenly and I see him tense. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I was flicking through your English file and I found this.’ I hold it aloft.

‘Did you read it?’

‘Yes. It’s bloody good.’

He looks away, appearing acutely uncomfortable. ‘It was just taken from something I saw on TV. Could you test me on this now?’

‘Wait . . .’ I refuse to let him brush this aside so easily. ‘Why did you write this? Who’s the story about?’

‘Nobody. It’s just a story, OK?’ He sounds angry suddenly, his eyes darting away from mine. The essay stil in my hand, I don’t move, giving him a long, hard look.

‘You think it’s about me? It’s not about me.’ His voice rises defensively.

‘OK, Lochan. OK.’ I realize I have no choice but to back off.

He is chewing his lip hard, aware that I’m not convinced. ‘Wel, you know, sometimes you take a few things from your own life, change them, exaggerate parts,’ he concedes, turning away. I take a deep breath. ‘Have you ever—? Do you sometimes feel like this?’