"You ever think about leaving, Tom?" I stay looking forward.

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean, leaving. Going somewhere else. Somewhere different."

"Where?"

"I dunno, anywhere?"

Tommy's looking at me. "What for?"

I squeeze the phone in my hand. "Just to be ... not here." I look at him. "You know?"

And his blank expression is answer enough.

"Will you drop me home?"

"I thought you were stopping at mine?"

"I just wanna go home, man."

He nods, then reaches past me to the glove compartment and pulls something out. "Here."

It's a folding knife. Black handle about the same length as my palm. It looks proper.

"What the hell's that?"

"It's a knife."

"I know it's a knife, Tom. What the hell've you got it for?"

Tommy folds out the blade. Same length as the handle and curved slightly at the point. The matt metal catches the light from outside. "It was Dad's, from time ago. I found it in his tools." He scrapes the tip along the top edge of the steering wheel. "It's proper sharp."

"Why'd you need a knife, Tom?"

"I don't. Take it. Peace of mind." And he's holding it out to me.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Cos I don't need a knife, Tom."

I push his hand back.

"And what if he comes for you again?"

"He didn't come for me, did he?"

"Not this time he didn't. What's the problem? Just take it."

"I could have him you know, on his own, I could have him easy."

"Yeah, I know. Look, I'm not saying stab him, am I? I'm saying carry it when you feel to and, if you need to, pull it out and let him know. You flash it, scare 'em so they back off, then you run like a flipping emu."

"Emu?"

"I dunno, roadrunner, whatever, just fast, yeah? Take it."

And I do.

Tommy's smiling with the pride of feeling like he's helped.

It feels like a tool. Like you're holding something that only has one job. The weight of function. I tell myself I'll take it home, put it under my bed and leave it there.

Only people who can't fight need weapons.

I drop it into my inside jacket pocket and feel it against my chest and it's stupid and pointless cos I'm never gonna use it but, as Tommy starts the engine and the car hums into life, I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel kinda cool.

Nan said: You are what people think you are. You make a reputation, then it makes you.

I ease the front door closed and tiptoe along the hall, expecting Marc to speak as I get to the living room door, but he doesn't. I turn on the light. The room's empty.

As I pull off my shoes, I feel the echo of pain in my foot. Craig Miller. Craig Miller. My eyes close as I climb the stairs. How many times have I trodden these steps?

I leave the landing light off and walk to my room with my back against the wall to avoid creaking any floorboards. As I reach my door I pat my chest and feel the knife, and I'm stupid. Stupid for taking it from Tommy. Stupid for telling him anything happened. But I saw Craig Miller and Marc needs to know.

I pass my room towards his. I'll wake him up and tell him what happened. It's what I should do. He won't lose his temper. He won't go looking for Craig again. It's different now. But I'm not convincing myself.

Then a sound, coming from the other side of his door. It's like breathing, but more forced; not snoring, but regular. I lean so my ear is almost touching the wood. What, is he ...? Wait, is he ...?

He's crying.

I picture him on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, thinking Mum is asleep and I'm stopping at Tommy's so he's safe to let it out and my head is full of so many things.

I remember the first time the police brought him home. It was Christmas Eve and Uncle Chris was staying with us. I was in Year Eight. It was just before dinner and it had been snowing, but that crap snow that turns straight to slush. The copper who was with him looked about the same age, like they were two mates, one in fancy dress.

I got sent to my room. I remember lying flat on my floor, ear to the carpet, hearing Mum crying, Uncle Chris trying to calm her down while Dad just paced up and down.

Marc had been caught stealing from Boots. I pictured him sprinting through crowds of Christmas shoppers with electric toothbrushes under his arms, some poor overweight security guard trying to keep up with the county's under-sixteen's 800m champion. It didn't make any sense to me. Why would anyone rob Boots? That was the first time I heard the name Craig Miller.

Marc tried to argue back, then I remember hearing heavy steps coming upstairs and Mum calling after Dad. I opened my door a crack and watched Dad and Uncle Chris march Marc into the bathroom, Dad pulling off his belt. I buried my head under my arms as the whips started.

Him who can't hear, must feel.

That was the only time I ever heard Marc cry. Until now. Standing outside his bedroom door, a knife in my pocket, about to pile more crap on top of someone who's just come out of prison and trying to make sense of everything? I can't do that.

I back slowly away from his door and go to my room. Craig Miller. I close my door and take out the knife. Mattress? Too obvious. The weight of it in my hand. Where then? Wardrobe. Dad's old sheepskin jacket, hanging like a beige carcass. I used to put it on when I was little, just to get lost in it. The smell of the leather and the thick fleece collar.

I pull it out and slide it on. It's still too big, but I can see my hands. The comfort in its weight. Like another skin, thick and tough.

I slip the knife into the inside chest pocket and lie on top of my bed. The smell of Dad holding me. Craig Miller. I close my eyes and all I see is his face. That smile.

I fold up the collar and muffle my ears, blocking out the world, my head swimming and, as the tears come, I don't even put up a fight.

Sitting in back seat of the parked car. Dad in the driver's seat, Mum in front of me.

I'm wearing my funeral suit. It's late morning bright. I can feel the glue from the dressing tightening the skin on my face. Nobody speaks. Every few seconds Mum sniffs.

Through the windscreen, the high brick wall of the courthouse is the colour of pumpkin.

I am heavy.

Staring at the back of their heads, it feels like I'm watching part of them die.

Dad sighs. "Well that's that then."

"You OK, Skywalker?" Leia says, as we walk towards class. She's wearing an old retro Adidas tracksuit top with the same skinny stonewashed jeans from the other night at hers. Walking a couple of paces behind her, I can just make out the line of her knickers through the denim.

"Luke." She turns back and I look up quickly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

She stares, scanning my face, trying to read me, then shrugs and walks in.

It's Tuesday. I spent most of Sunday in bed, avoiding Marc, and yesterday I skipped comms and english and stayed in my room pretending to work and doing press-ups. Everything since Friday feels like a dream.

I'm here today, right now, for film, and Leia. No sign of the blacked-out Ford Focus. Course not. Everything's fine.

Seeing Noah's gonna be awkward, though.

It really is. God knows what he's thinking.

My plan is to do what we've been raised to do, what my family have done to deal with embarrassment for generations. Ignore it and act like nothing happened. A bag full of the past.

I haven't told Leia anything about it, and if Noah's not a complete knob, he'll keep it to himself and we can just carry on.

I don't look at him as I head to my seat, but I can feel his eyes on me. Just let it go, Noah, yeah? You're from where I'm from and you've heard of my brother and it's kinda weird, but it'll all be just fine if we act like nothing happened and leave all that stuff on the other side of town.

And he does.

The lesson is all about shots and how big of a role a script should play in the director's choices. Noah says some people think a great script will have almost no shot description, just a few simple lines if they feel they're essential, while other people view it as a chance for descriptive poetry. He says there's no right or wrong, but that, to him, a strong script carries its clarity in the story and characters and the interpretation of what the camera does is left to the director. He asks us to think of ideas for an opening scene. A place to start.

"Remember," he says, "start where it matters."

He doesn't give me any eye contact. He understands. Course he does.

And the more me and Leia talk about our story, the more I relax.

She thinks we should start with Toby waiting outside of the prison for Marc, like he's been sent to pick him up. We see Toby sitting in the car, torn between excitement and disgust.

My idea is that we start with what put Marc in prison. A short violent scene that shows the dark side of Marc from the past, before we jump to present day.

"But then it's like we're just trying to shock or something," says Leia.

"No," I say. "It's like a punch in the face. A glimpse of what's possible, so that the violence is there underneath the whole time, you know?"

"Yeah, I see what you mean, I just ... it just seems a bit ..."

"A bit what?"

"A bit, boysy." She shrugs, making a face like she's smelling something bad. "I hate all that macho crap."

I feel the sting of my idea being undermined. "It's not macho. It's violent. I'm not celebrating it, I'm just ... it's ... I dunno, it's something solid. It's something clear."

I start to scribble like a sulky kid. Leia nudges my shoulder. "OK. If you think it'll work."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Just don't write any Ill Manors nonsense."

"Course not."

"I'm serious. If anybody uses the word 'gritty' or 'urban' I swear I'll throw up. That stuff is so lame."

"What about voiceover?" I say.

"What about it?"

"Well, some people think it's cheating."

"I dunno," says Leia. "What about The Royal Tenenbaums?"

"Or Shawshank Redemption?"

"Or Taxi Driver?" She smiles. "Some day a real rain will come ..."

"...and wash all this scum off the streets."

"So you do know it!"

I smile. "OK, so we're saying a voiceover is a possibility."

"Let's ask Noah," Leia says, and starts to raise her hand.

"No!" I almost shout. Leia puts her hand down and looks at me, confused.

"Why not?"