"Well?" she says, and I notice A4 paper rolled up in her hand. "Big day, Skywalker." She's clearly excited. We're supposed to share the character dialogue we've prepared in front of the class. Marc and Toby's first conversation after Marc gets home. I'm supposed to be Marc, she's being Toby. We've practised on the phone.

"There's no better description of your character than the words you let him speak." She's quoting Noah; he said that on Tuesday.

My stomach's empty. I didn't eat breakfast. Mum was up and scrubbing the bath before I even got out of bed. I look at Leia. "The hero returns."

She smiles. "You up to it?" She's talking about class, I'm thinking about home. I picture Dad driving, right now. Marc sitting in the passenger seat that's been mine for two years, driving through Cape Hill back to the house.

"Luke." Leia kicks my foot lightly. "Come on."

"I can't do it. I'm not coming to class today." I make my eyes stay on her, waiting for her to get angry. We've been working hard and the dialogue scene is good. We've really got something.

Leia frowns, then nods and says, "I know."

"What?"

"I know, Luke. It's all right. I know about Marc."

And she's smiling and nodding and it feels like a weight is lifting from around my neck. She knows. I didn't have to say anything; she knew and everything is all right.

Then her face is fading. Her face is getting fainter, the gravestones behind her coming into focus, as her body dissolves into the air.

A pigeon flies through her, landing on the ground, and she's gone.

The real Leia will be walking into class now, at the top of the hill, ready for the lesson. Ready to share our idea. And I won't be there.

I stare at the old gravestones ringed with moss and I remember the last time I saw him. Chin up, smiling as they led him out.

Come on, big man. It's time.

"I know. I'm coming, Marc."

People say 'It doesn't make sense' a lot.

When bad stuff happens and there's a space to fill, an awkward silence, that's what they say. Like if we don't understand what's happened maybe we don't have to feel so bad.

But he was such a good boy. It doesn't make sense.

He was on his way to great things. It doesn't make any sense.

That's not the young man I knew. It really doesn't make any sense.

Maybe sometimes they're genuinely confused.

Maybe sometimes it does honestly feel like the jigsaw pieces of what's happened don't fit together to make a picture of something they can recognise. Maybe sometimes it's true.

Mostly though, I think it's something they say to cover up the fact that even though what has happened is so bad, so horrible and shameful and cold, deep down, they know it makes complete sense.

Underneath all the talking and confused faces and shaking heads and cups of tea is the knowledge that, in their gut, everybody knew it was coming.

I feel him straight away.

The house is different. Like the air's charged.

I can hear Mum in the kitchen. Dad's car wasn't outside and I'm wondering how long he stuck around before he left. Before he felt like he had to.

I pass the living room. Just the dead TV screen and the same empty chairs. I breathe in and walk to the kitchen.

"Luke!" And Mum's hugging me like I just came home from the war or something, pinning my arms to my sides. My bag drops on to the floor. He must be upstairs. "He's home, Lukey. Marc's home!"

She's wearing perfume. Why the hell is she wearing perfume?

"OK, Mum. You can let go."

She steps back but holds my shoulders in both hands and stares at me. Her hair is up and she's got that eyeliner stuff under her eyes.

"He's upstairs. Go say hello to him."

Then she's back at the side chopping whatever she was chopping before I came in. My throat's itching. It's time. Mum calls after me, "Lukey, tell him dinner'll be ready at six."

I climb the stairs.

I see light from both our rooms cutting on to the landing carpet. The bathroom door is ajar and steam's coming from inside, like someone's had a hot bath. This is it.

He'll talk. He always did the talking. I'll just have to nod and stand there. I can't swallow. My feet are planted, my toes trying to burrow themselves into the floorboards. Two years. What do you say? What will he look like? What do I look like? What if he feels like a stranger? Stop being such a baby, just walk.

And I'm walking, expecting to hear something, expecting to hear him, but as I get closer to his door I hear nothing. I picture a shot of me standing there in his doorway, a comic speech bubble next to my head. Hi, Marc! It's me, Luke, remember?

He's asleep.

He's lying on top of his duvet on his side in just a towel, the same old maroon towel I used this morning, and he's asleep.

I don't know what to do. I'm supposed to do something, I have a line, but I've lost my script. Part of me's actually glad I don't have to speak, but the rest of me feels weird about having to wait. I've been waiting long enough. My head's torn as I stand there, taking it all in. The room seems like it's smiling, happy that its missing piece just got slotted back into place. His arms are folded and the one I can see is thick and powerful. His bed against the wall isn't touched by the sunlight and from here his skin is the colour of parcel paper. His stomach's lean and toned and there's a thin line of dark hair from his belly button running down behind the towel. I can only see part of his face, but his hair is definitely shaved close. I try to picture him in the same position, lying down in the bath, shower water falling on him as he sleeps.

He looks like a man. I mean, obviously he is a man, he's nearly twenty-one, but he looks like an actual man. And I'm just watching him, a sleeping lion, through the glass at the zoo.

He's here.

He's really here.

Then a memory.

I'm standing in front of him with my fists up. He's sitting on the bed holding up his palms ready.

He's telling me to aim past his hands, to not just hit them, to punch through them.

My stomach is dancing. I think I'm eight. His duvet cover is red with thin white diagonal stripes.

He's wearing a black vest and his muscles are like grown-up muscles. I can hear music from downstairs and Dad trying to sing along. It's that 'More Than Words' song.

He's nodding at me. I throw a punch and feel my knuckles tap his palm. He's smiling.

Telling me we've got plenty of time.

"Luke?"

His voice is sleepy, but the same as I remember, the tone thick and sure. How long have I been standing here?

"Lukey?"

I feel young. I'm a little brother again.

He slides his feet off the bed and sits up, his palms pressing down on the mattress either side of his hips, and he's big. Broader than I remember. I try not to stare.

"Yeah. It's me," I say.

He looks like a boxer. I feel my shoulders rising as he rubs his eyes.

"Holy shit. Look at you."

And our eyes meet. I watch him take me in and I know I've grown, I'm stronger, I've made sure I am, and watching him see it feels good.

He nods a smile. "You look like Dad."

He's really here, speaking to me.

"Come in, man." He beckons with his hand. "Can I get a hug?"

And I'm stepping into his room, small steps, and the air is warmer from the sunlight through the window and I'm going to hug my brother.

"Come here, big man," he says, and he starts to stand up and I'm almost at his bed and his arms are reaching out towards me and we're the same height. I'm as tall as Marc. I feel my arms coming up too, ready to hug him and then his towel falls from his waist. My brother is standing there with his arms out, completely naked, and I freeze.

"Shit! Sorry, Luke, stupid, let me get ..." and he's scrambling for the towel and looking around for clothes and there aren't any and I'm trying to not look but it's impossible, the black patch of hair, the darker skin of his ... and my feet are backing out of the room. He grips the towel next to his hip with one hand and reaches out with the other.

"No, hold on, mate. Gimme a sec."

"I'll let you get dressed." I start to leave. "Mum says dinner's at six."

"Yeah, OK. Thanks."

And I'm walking out, pulling his door closed behind me, hearing him curse himself under his breath as he fights to get his bearings.

The three of us sit at the kitchen table eating Mum's lasagne.

Marc opposite me, Mum in between us on my left, the empty space where Dad should be on my right.

Forks clink against plates. Every now and then Mum clears her throat like she's going to say something, but doesn't. Her eyes keep going back to Marc.

"This is lovely, Mum," he says, and holds up a forkful of lasagne, like it's evidence, before putting it in his mouth.

"Thanks, love. I remembered you liked it." She smiles proudly.

I'm digging at my food, not eating it. I stare at the layers of meat and pasta and think about the diagram of the Earth in cross-section from the wall in science back at school. The layers of mantle and rock and crust and how the plates underneath shift and make earthquakes.

"So. College?" says Marc, and both of them are looking at me.

I shrug. "Yeah."

He looks like one of the cast of The Fast and the Furious. The rough but handsome one, who doesn't get many lines, but has one decent fight scene. I get another flash of him curled up in the bath under the shower and then I think of Leia, sitting in class earlier this afternoon, face fuming as Noah asks her where I am.

"That's good," Marc says and it's like we have absolutely nothing to say to each other. How can we have nothing to say?

Then Mum slaps the table and both of us jump.

"I forgot! I got you something." She's up and leaving the kitchen. We hear her climb the stairs.

Marc lets out a sigh. "Man. This is kinda full on, eh?"

I nod. What things has he done inside? What things has he had to do?

He takes a sip of his tea. "She'll calm down soon enough, mate. You know what she's like." And him saying it is annoying. Like he somehow thinks things haven't changed in two years. Like we're just the same as before. I stare across at him. He's looking at my scar and I don't want him to say anything about it. Please don't say anything about it.

"It's healed good."

I resist the urge to cover my face with my hand. He points with his fork. "Actually looks pretty cool." His face betrays the fact that he knows how lame that was to say. I tell myself this is how it'll be for a while, and that it's OK. Then he says, "So you got a girlfriend then?" And it's like he's laughing at me. Like he doesn't think I could have one. Maybe he doesn't mean it like that, but it's annoying. He's annoying.

I squeeze my fork and stare at his hands as I answer; his knuckles are scratched and scarred.

"Nothing serious," I say, and it sounds like the dumbest reply ever. Marc laughs and my back teeth are grinding.

"I see," he says. "Playing the field are ya?" And I don't want him to know me. I don't want him to know anything about what I'm doing. I don't want him to take it over and undermine it. You don't know anything about me, Marc.

Mum walks back in and places a small white box on the table next to Marc's plate and sits down again.

"What's this?" He picks it up. I recognise the Apple logo.

Mum looks at him excitedly. "You'll need one. It's a good one."

She's bought him an iPhone. She's gone and spent like three hundred quid on a brand-new iPhone for him.

"You bought him an iPhone?" I say and I know I sound like a little kid, but I can't help it.

Mum looks at me briefly and frowns. "He's gonna need a phone, Luke. It's important."

Marc puts the box down. "It's great, Mum, thanks."

"An iPhone?" I say again. I'm trying to remember the last time she bought me anything. My laptop cost me a birthday and a Christmas and that was Dad's idea.

Marc can see I'm pissed off.