"Yeah," says Marc. "I'll be fine. No big deal. You good?"

The water bubbles.

"Yeah."

Craig Miller.

"How'd it go with Leia the other night?"

Craig Miller.

The water boils. Forget it.

"Lukey? What's up?"

Click.

"Nothing. Where you meeting her?"

"At hers. Hopefully her mum and her sister aren't there." His thumbs are drumming the table.

"And you're driving?" My hand wobbles as I pour the water.

"Nah, I'm gonna walk. Build up some courage, plan my lines." He forces a little laugh.

"Drive," I say, spilling hot water on the sideboard.

"Steady on, mate, I think it's full."

I grab the tea towel and mop up the spill. "You should take the car. Did Mum leave it?"

"Yeah, but I'm gonna walk."

I fetch the milk. "Take the car, Marc." My voice sounds wrong.

"What's the problem?" he says.

"Nothing." I pour the milk. "I just think it'd be better. What if her mum's there? If you've got the car, you can go somewhere else, you've got the option, you know?" I stir, feeling his eyes on me.

"Jesus, who are you? Hitch?"

I put his mug in front of him on the table then lean against the side with mine. "I'm just saying. Be prepared, yeah? You don't wanna get stuck in their living room sitting with her mum and her sister, do ya?"

I sip my tea to hide.

Marc nods. "Pretty smart. Anybody'd think you were in college or something."

And relax.

"So come on then, Princess Leia, spill it." He leans back in his chair and for a second I picture jumping on him, trying to pin him down, whether I could do that, what would happen if we fought.

"Nothing to spill. She's a mate, we're in film studies together, she knows her stuff."

Sip again.

"Shut up, Luke! You kiss her yet?"

"It's not like that." I picture Leia, in the light of the open fire.

"Ha ha! You're thinking about her right now!"

"Piss off, Marc!"

"Nah, I'm just messing. That's a good thing, man. Feels good, right?"

And it does.

We both sip. Him thinking about Donna, me about Leia, and maybe I feel closer to him. In a different way.

"One thing I know, mate," he says, staring into his mug, "the stuff you think will impress them? It's all bullshit. They see straight through it."

He looks up at me. My brother. Do we get to have actual conversations now? Ones about things that matter?

"You know what I mean, big man?"

I nod. "Is that why you're wearing two litres of aftershave?"

We look at each other.

And we laugh.

When I was six Marc nearly killed me.

We were at Nan's house. He thought I was asleep.

The room was all night-grey light and I felt him creeping across the floor from his bed and his shadow slide on to me. Then his pillow was over my face.

I tried to scream through the fabric, but his older arms pinned my head to the mattress. I can remember the hot cotton in my mouth, the dry air seeping away as my body wriggled like a dog in a noose. I started to see white spots in the black and I couldn't tell whether my eyes were open or closed, I just felt the weight of him on top of me and knew it was pointless to fight.

So I stopped.

I let my body go limp and didn't try to breathe. My head swam in the hot dark as I felt the last drops of air scrape out from my throat.

I don't know how long he waited before he got off. I just remember my gasp as the cold hit my face and my lungs filling, pushing against my ribs.

I lay there, eyes open, still seeing spots, mouth gulping like a fish out of water, as he moved back to his bed without saying a word.

Years later he'd deny it. Laugh it off. Tell me I'd dreamt the whole thing, but I know it happened.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think he wanted me dead. I don't think murder was his plan.

I honestly think he just wanted to see what would happen.

Dad's under a car, tongue out as he concentrates on unscrewing a nut.

Screen splits.

Mum's staring at a syringe as it fills with blood from an old man's arm.

Screen splits again.

Zia's in the staff toilets at the supermarket, practising a new joke.

Screen splits again.

Tommy's smacking the shit out of an old shed with a lump hammer while two older builders watch, smiling.

Screen splits again.

Noah's in the college staffroom, forcing a smile as an older woman tells him again about her husband's operation.

Screen splits again.

Donna's laughing, trying to wash up as Marc tickles her in our kitchen.

All these films, happening now, at the same time. Always. All of them moving.

All of the "What are you writing? More ideas?"

Leia's trying to read upside down. I close my notebook.

"Just stuff. We going?"

She nods and we're walking through campus at lunchtime and it feels different. Familiar. Like I've known her longer than three weeks.

Like we're already on disc two of the box set of our relationship. Why do you talk like that?

Then Michelle runs up.

"Did you ask him?" she says, and Leia looks everywhere, but at me.

Michelle clocks that she's put her foot in it and backs away. "Gotta go. I'm supposed to meet Megan. See you later, Luke." Her eyes flick to Leia, then she's gone.

"Ask me what?"

But Leia's already walking. I follow her. "What did she mean?"

I put my hand on her arm. Leia looks down at it. "Nothing."

I let go. "I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

"I said nothing."

And we walk, both feeling the weird air of an argument that should make absolutely no sense for two people who are just friends.

Then Noah's there.

He must've come out of the staffroom block. He's holding one of those padded yellow jiffy bags. He nods hello at Leia then holds the envelope out to me. I read my name and address in black marker.

"What's this?"

Noah shrugs. "I was gonna post it, didn't want to make a big deal of it in class, but you two are working together so ..."

We both stare at the envelope. It's just a bit bigger than a DVD. I look at Leia. She shrugs. We both look at Noah.

"I'll see you Friday. For your eyes only, yeah?" he says and walks back inside. I look down at the envelope. The hand-written words.

"Open it," says Leia, but for some reason I don't want to. What if it's something about Marc? Why the hell would it be?

So I tear it open.

It is a DVD, called Long Time Round.

"I've never heard of it," I say.

Leia reads the title. "Me either."

I skim the blurb on the back and see the words 'Birmingham' and 'honest' and 'trouble' and 'perfect' and then I see his name.

Written by Noah Clarke.

"This is his film."

"What do you mean?" says Leia.

"He wrote it. This is the film he wrote."

"Noah wrote a film?"

"Yeah. This one." It suddenly feels important in my hand.

"No way!" Leia's face looks like mine feels. He's given me a copy of his film. Why does it say Birmingham?

Because Noah wrote a film about Birmingham.

"We have to watch it!" Leia says. "We have to watch it right now!"

And she's right. We do.