We nod. Fists bump.

Me and Tommy start towards the car, but stop when Zia calls out, "Lukey!" We turn back. "One more week, eh?"

Tommy looks down. I give an awkward shrug. Zia does his good Samaritan smile. "Ring me if you wanna talk, yeah?"

Then he slides inside and the door shuts, leaving me and Tommy standing there, silent. I stare at the ground.

"You all right, Lukey?"

"I'm fine." I start walking.

As we get to the car, Tommy points at the box. "Yo, the Relentless is mine."

I look at him as I open my door. "Course it is."

He opens his. "What you saying then? FIFA at mine?"

I nod. He smiles. "Friend upgrades, that is pretty funny."

I stare up at the supermarket building, at the security camera, and picture a dark room with a wall of black-and-white screens. I zoom in on one and see me, standing next to the car, staring up into the lens.

One more week. Is he thinking about me?

Mum said: Life's a record on loop; we just have to learn to love the song.

It's after midnight when Tommy drops me off.

Mum works nights at the weekend and she turns the heating off when she leaves, so the house feels like an empty cave. I kick off my shoes and climb the stairs.

The landing light has no shade so the bulb shines a circle across the ceiling and walls. Standing outside my room the landing stretches away to my left, towards his door. I feel it pulling me. Like I always do. Like part of him is always here. So I walk towards it.

The gloss painted wood, something pulsing behind. The cheap silver handle. The dark jagged letters carved into the white: MARC'S ROOM I remember sitting in my pyjamas on the landing right here, my hair still damp from the bath, listening to him play the first Eminem album. Knowing the words were bad, but not really understanding and feeling like I wanted in on the secret.

I picture inside now. The perfectly made bed with his barbell underneath. The football posters. The black veneered shelves full of trophies, nearly two years untouched. Two years of waiting, weighing everything down, pressing things into their place. My hand moves up to my face. Not long now.

I push my bedroom door closed behind me, take Leon from my DVD shelves. I switch off my light, open my laptop on my bedside table to face my pillow, slide in the disc and lie down on top of my covers. The Columbia Pictures logo comes up, the lady holding the torch as the trumpets play, and I feel the tingle in my blood. My heads sinks into my pillow as the camera flies over the water, then trees, and the strings start to play and the names of actors appear and everything's all right. I get to go somewhere else.

Morning sunlight splits my ceiling in half. I stare at the crack in the ceiling plaster that cuts from the corner in towards the lampshade like a thin black root and I feel my face.

I reach down into my bag, pull out my notepad, grab a pen from my bedside table and ...

A waterfall of rain.

Leia's staring from behind it. Her hair's out in a big afro like from some old 1970s cop show. She's wearing the big black coat, but the front is undone and there's a clear V of naked skin. It's like inside a tent or a cloud or something, everything washed in white. Leia licks her lips and raises her hand to point straight at me with two fingers. The water hits her hand and her face goes out of focus. Then there's fire, behind her and on both sides, tall flames that don't touch her but feel like they're all around. Her face becomes clear again and she's wearing an eye patch and the water is gone. Her head tilts. She smiles, then her mouth mimes a gun shot and she's stepping forward, fingers still pointing, as she moves closer and her coat is falling open. Flames dancing. Closer, and her skin, and closer, and the fire behind her, and more skin, and closer and closer and I lower my pen and stare at the ceiling. What the hell's all that about? You think she dreamt about you?

My laptop's still open from last night. I close it, then slide off my bed down into press-up position on the floor. Back level, I feel the warmth spread across my shoulders and I smile. Thirty reps, then fifty crunches and repeat. Every morning for two years. At least my body will be ready.

I can hear the TV as I come downstairs.

Mum's lying under her duvet on the sofa, half watching a chunky man cooking something with fish. The curtains are open. Dad's old varnished wooden clock, shaped like Jamaica, ticks like a mantelpiece metronome in between Marc's trophy for under-sixteens' 800m champion and a glass-framed photograph of a younger me and him on a climbing frame, me watching as he swings from the bars.

"Make us a coffee, Luke." Her heavy eyes don't leave the screen.

INT. DAY Close-up: Bubbles and steam cloud clear plastic.

I stare out of the window over the sink, holding the milk, as the kettle starts to boil. Our small square of back garden is overgrown and next to the fence I see the old deflated leather football nestled into the grass like a white rock.

I spoon coffee into the big mug with the black cat on it and keep stirring as I pour the hot water three quarters to the top. I shake the plastic milk carton like I'm making a cocktail, bang it on the sideboard to bubble it up like Marc showed me, then stir slowly as I add a little to the coffee, making a whirlpool of froth to the top edge of the mug.

Some people have machines that do it for you; in our house you do it yourself.

Mum's eyes are closed and she's mouth breathing. I kneel down next to the sofa, resting the mug on the floor and see she's still wearing her nurse's clothes under the duvet. Her skin's pale and, with her mousey hair in a ponytail, she looks young for a mum. I hold my hand up next to her face. My skin's darker than hers, but lighter than Dad's, and I think about genes and twisted strings of code. Then I notice the photograph of Marc in his Aston Villa youth kit tucked between the cushion under her head and the arm of the sofa.

"Mum. Mum, why don't you get into bed?" I put my hand on her shoulder.

She jerks awake and sits straight up, kicking the coffee all over my lap. I shout out and fall back as the hot coffee burns my thighs through my jogging bottoms. Mum looks terrified.

"Luke!" She falls forward off the sofa half on top of me, grabbing my shoulders. "Are you OK?"

The photo of Marc drops on to the floor. I can feel the heat branding my skin. "I'm OK, Mum. It's all right."

She sees the photograph and lets go of me to pick it up. Then she pulls the duvet away and looks down at the dark brown patch on the cream carpet. "Oh, look what you did! You need to be careful, Luke."

"Me?"

"This is gonna need shampooing. Get a cloth, hurry up!"

So I go to the kitchen, my thighs pulsing from the heat, to get a tea towel to clean up the mess I didn't make.

Walls work both ways. What keeps you safe, keeps you separate.

"Of course there's a difference! These ones are Honey Nut, Dad. They've got honey and nuts in ..."

"But I don't want honey and nuts."

I laugh. Zia's putting on a voice for his dad, playing both parts in this little comedy routine, hunching over and everything, pretending to adjust his glasses. Me and Tommy are his audience, sitting on the lime-green leather sofa. I can see our dark reflection in the black screen of the massive TV behind him.

"Are you kidding, Dad? Let's treat ourselves, yeah?"

"I don't want a treat, I want breakfast."

"But Dad, you're the West Midlands Carpet King, you can afford to splash out on a better cereal. Look, these ones are called clusters, they look good."

"Cornflakes."

"How about Cocopops?"

"Cornflakes."

"Fine, but let's at least get the Crunchy Nut, yeah?"

"You think I became successful by eating crunchy nuts? What's wrong with you? You used to love cornflakes, you too good for cornflakes now?"

I laugh and Zia stops his routine.

I nod at him. "This is good stuff, man."

Zia bows. "My life is my scrapbook."

He's got no idea how cool that sounded, and I make a mental note to write it down later.

"Has your dad seen you do it yet?" says Tommy.

"Are you mad? In fact, we should go. He'll be back soon."

Me and Tommy stand up.

"You should show him, man. You're getting good," I say.

"Oh yeah. 'Hey, Dad, Tommy and Luke reckon I should jack in the supermarket job you're making me do and sack off your plans for me and the family business. Yeah yeah, they think I should try and become a stand-up comedian. They think I've got potential.'"

His face is pure sarcasm. Zia's dad doesn't even like us in the house, let alone giving his only son career advice. Tommy looks round the room. "Yo. Your sister about?"

Zia digs his arm. "Shut up, yeah? It's not funny."

"What? I'm just saying."

"What are you just saying, Tom?"

Tommy blinks slowly. "I'm just saying, that I think Famida is a rare beauty and I'd like to make her my wife."

I laugh. Zia stares at Tommy. Tommy carries on. "My older, foxy wife." He closes his eyes and smiles like he's just tasted the best ice cream in the world. Zia goes for him and they're in a two-man rugby scrum. I watch their reflection in the TV.

Zia joined our school in Year Five, but he really came into his own when we moved up to secondary. He was the kid who always said the cool thing at just the right time. Some of the one-liners he rocked to teachers were incredible. Like the time when Mr Chopping was laying into us in chemistry and shouted, "Do you think I enjoy spending my time with immature young boys?" and without even blinking, Zia was like, "I don't know sir, I'd have to browse your internet history." Brilliant.

I punch them both and they stop wrestling. Tommy cracks his neck and takes out a cigarette. Zia cuts him a look. "Don't even joke you idiot, come on, let's go."

"Where we going, anyway?" I say.

Tommy puts his cigarette back and shrugs. Zia puts his hands on our shoulders. "Doesn't matter. We got wheels!"

INT. CAR DAY Close-up: A pine tree air-freshener swings from the rear-view mirror to the sounds of boys laughing.

We don't have anywhere to go and Tommy's happy just driving around, so that's what we do. I get shotgun and Zia's in the back behind me. There's no stereo in the car, but it doesn't matter cos just driving with no sound feels good. Like a music video on mute.

Then I have an idea.

We drive round to old Mr Malcom's house and nick apples from the tree in his front garden, then park outside our old school. It's only been a summer since we left, but it feels like forever. The black metal front gates are locked and it looks kinda small.

"Shithole," says Tommy.

Zia nods. "Load up."

Standing in a line in front of the gates, we cock our arms back and try to hit the technology block windows.

I'm the only one to reach, my apple exploding on the thick double-glazed glass. "Eat that, Mr Nelson."

We stop by West Smethwick park and watch the second half of an under-twelves game. It's Yellows vs Reds. Within minutes, Tommy's shouting instructions to the Yellows' defence.

Some of the parents stare.

The Yellows win 5:1.

At about four we stop at Neelam's on the high road and get masala fish and ginger beers, then park up near the bus stop and eat in the car. Heat from our food steams up the windows.

"We could go anywhere," says Zia through a mouthful of naan just as I was thinking the exact same thing; how we could just choose a direction and drive. All we'd need is petrol money. Tommy nods and I wonder what places they're both imagining. London. Manchester. Paris.

"Wolverhampton," says Tommy.

"What?"

He looks at me. "We could drive to Wolverhampton."

I stare at him. "Wolverhampton? That's where you wanna go?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?" He takes a big bite of his naan. "Jamie says wolves girls are well up for it."

Zia leans forward in between our seats. "I never went to Blackpool."

Tommy scoffs. "What the hell's in Blackpool?"

"What the hell's in Wolverhampton?" says Zia. "At least Blackpool's got a rollercoaster."

Tommy thinks about it. "Oh yeah, the Pepsi Max one, eh?"

Zia's nodding. "Exactly. The Big One."

Tommy nods back. "Yeah, sick. I'd go Blackpool. We should go to Blackpool. What you saying, Lukey? Blackpool road trip soon?"

The two of them look at me, chewing in sync, and it feels like they're on one side and I'm on the other.

I shrug. "Yeah, Blackpool. Wicked."

Zia said: My life is my scrapbook.

INT. PUB NIGHT The cackle of old man laughter.

I step out of the toilet into the noise of The Goose. It's already pretty full and I can't see across the room, but I can hear Dad's deep laugh from the corner. I weave between bodies, tensing my shoulders the whole time in case I'm bumped.