I walk off campus, down the hill, not thinking anything. No memories, no scenes, no details, just a blank, grey screen.

A projection of empty.

EXT. DAY Reflection of strip light in the tiles of the underpass.

Dad said, we go back to what we know. The same flavour pizza, the same shampoo, the same song, the same people. We make things our own and we stick with them. Creatures of habit.

I sit on the same bench in the graveyard.

A breeze runs between the gravestones and I think about Nan's funeral. Watching Dad and Uncle Chris carry her coffin from the long black car to the crematorium. How small the wooden box looked high up on their dark-suited shoulders. I remember thinking about how weird it is that children get bigger than their parents. How people make new people and those people grow past them. Mum saying, we all outgrow who we came from and me thinking, if that's true, surely we should all be giants by now?

"Don't you have a lesson now?"

Max stands, keeping his distance, fiddling with the strap of his rucksack, his black hood half on his head.

I shrug. "Didn't feel well."

Then nothing.

I picture the wide shot of us, him standing, me sitting, dirty gravestones, the shade of the church and trees. Me looking at him.

And subtitles appear at the bottom of the screen: LUKE: I'm sorry you got hit.

MAX: I'm all right. What happened to you?

LUKE: Doesn't matter.

MAX: Can I sit down?

All that, said in one look. I shuffle across to make space for him on my right. He's waiting for me to speak, I can feel it, and I want to, but my throat feels tight. So I just wait too, wondering whether a passer-by would think we were mates or strangers.

"Pretty messed up, right?" Max says, his eyes staying forward.

"Yep," I say. "Pretty much."

"He gets like that sometimes, Sim. With Megan, I mean."

I don't understand. Is he blaming Simeon? I make myself stay silent. Max scuffs the floor in front of us with his foot. "Nobody's hit him before though." He looks at me. "Ever."

And there's something in his face, something that's not anger or disgust.

"Ever?" I say.

Max shakes his head and allows the corner of his mouth to crack a smile. I feel to smile too, but I don't.

"Is he OK?" I say.

"He's fine. Split lip and a bit of a bruise. He was so out of it he probably doesn't remember much."

For a second I feel a pang of disappointment, before allowing the relief to flow. "He wasn't in today, I thought, I dunno ..."

"Luke, when you're Simeon Mckenzie, getting battered in front of everyone you know might take a while to get over, you know? Nothing even remotely like that's ever happened before."

And now the look on his face is clearer. I think he's grateful.

I allow myself to smile. "I guess."

"I reckon he'll wait a while, let the marks fade."

We could be friends. Me and Max. In a different life.

He's staring up at the church. I look down at my hands. Her name runs up and down my throat.

"What about Leia?" I say, finally.

Max's mouth tightens as he shakes his head. "I dunno, man, that's different."

I nod like I already knew that.

"After what happened to her brother and stuff." What?

"What happened to her brother?"

"Oh," he says.

"What happened?"

Pause.

"I shouldn't have said anything."

He stands up.

"Max? What happened to him?"

Pause.

"They put him in a coma. About a year and a half ago." He swings his bag over his shoulder. "He was at a cash point. It really messed him up. Her too."

"Who did it?" I say. It feels like there's a ball bearing in my throat. Max shrugs. "Just some guys."

And looking up at him, we both know it doesn't matter who.

Just like it doesn't matter when, or why.

All that matters is that she saw it in me.

Toby got put in a coma. That's why he doesn't go out. That's why he was so awkward. And that's what Leia thinks I am. Somebody capable of that. The pit of my mistake just dropped to the core of the earth.

EXT. DAY Walking through crowded shopping street. Sound muted. Bright windows and blurred faces.

I know it's stupid.

But I just wanna feel near her.

I ride the slow escalators up between the floors, standing statue-still as the scene moves around me.

I get tea and sit in the same place we sat together. It's a little later than it was that day, but the scattered cast of afternoon old people are all here.

I take out my notebook and my pen and I scan the room, watching eyes staring into space, lost in memories.

Over by the window I recognise the old mixed-race lady from the retired spy couple I saw last time. She's alone, staring out of the window, one pot of tea on her table. Where's her partner? My pen taps the page.

He died. He died a couple of weeks ago in his sleep and now she's on her own. Name?

Rose Charmaine She's here, sitting where they used to sit, remembering him.

I'm sure of it. That's her story.

She'll come here every day now, sit at the same table, in memory of him, until she fades away herself.

I should speak to her. I should go over, ask to sit down and speak to her. Give her some company.

What makes you think she wants company?

Cos her husband just died. The love of her life.

I stand up, take my tea and start to walk over.

Nobody's looking, but it feels like I'm watching myself.

She's still staring out of the window. Her hair's back in a bun. She's wearing a cream cardigan and there's a thin gold chain against the skin of her neck. She looks like an older Leia.

"Excuse me, young man."

I step back as her partner moves in between me and their table holding a tray with two plates covered with silver lids. He's not dead.

"Thank you. Here you go, princess." He lays the tray delicately down, places her plate in front of her and sits. His dark brown pinstripe suit is immaculate and he smells like soap.

She smiles at him and I'm standing too close to their table for a stranger. They both look up at me.

"Are you OK, son?" says the lady, her voice silky and calm. I'm gripping my cup tightly.

"Sorry," I say, backing away from them. "I was just ... checking the view."

We're walking back from football. Me, Marc and Dad. I reckon I'm nine, in my coat and woolly hat. Marc's got his jacket on, over his muddy black shorts, socks pulled up, carrying his boot bag. Him and Dad are talking about the game. Marc got Man of the Match. Again.

We're waiting to cross the road on the corner. There's a big silver car trying to park next to us, on my side. I watch the red brake lights go on and off. Dad and Marc are busy talking and don't see it and, as we step out, the car reverses right towards me. I freeze.

Then Dad jumps in the way. The car jerks to a stop. I look up at Dad. His face goes hard, then he smacks both his hands down on the boot of the car. It sounds like a fridge falling over and the whole car bounces. The driver's door opens and a man who looks like a teacher gets out and he's like, "What the hell are you doing?!"

Dad moves me back on to the kerb next to Marc. "Wait here," he says, and walks round to the front. Next thing, he's pinned the guy against the side of his car and he's saying. "You could've killed my boy! Why don't you use the eyes that God gave you?" and his voice is full of thunder, but he's not shouting and I'm scared, for the guy and myself, for what might happen. Dad grips the guy's head and turns it so he's looking at me and I'm embarrassed and excited and Dad says, "Apologise to him."

The guy looks confused and my stomach drops, cos it feels wrong, but part of me's buzzing, and the guy says, "I'm sorry. I didn't see you." Dad holds him there for a second, then lets him go, walks back round to us, grabs both our hands and leads us across the road. His eyes look straight ahead the whole time.

I turn around and the guy's just standing there, shaking. I look up at Dad and he must feel it, cos he says, "Some people don't understand anything else, son."

I try to work out what he means as we walk. I look at Marc and he's staring up at Dad, like he's looking at the coolest man in the world.

INT AFTERNOON Three men sit in a living room, like Russian dolls, watching the TV.

"Quality," Marc says, as Russell Crowe floats through tall grass into the afterlife. "Father to a murdered son."

"Are you not entertained!" shouts Dad, holding his arms out to the packed coliseum. They both look at me like it's my turn to say something.

But I just check my phone, again. Nothing.

Marc and Dad are exchanging looks.

"What?" I say.

They give synchronised shrugs and pull their best oblivious expressions.

"She can't stay mad forever," says Marc, like it's a line from the big brother comfort handbook.

"Who can't?" says Dad. Nice one, big mouth.

"Leia," he says. "Luke's girl, he upset her the other night."

And just like that, I'm on stage, like it's Jeremy Kyle or something. Marc's hosting. He explains his version of my version of what happened. Dad's the relationship expert, nodding along, murmuring his approval.

"She might need some time," he says. "Time's your best friend." I look at Marc. He's not even smiling. They're both completely deadpan.

"I smacked her ex-boyfriend in front of her, Dad. He was wasted and couldn't even really defend himself. She hates violence, like properly. Everybody saw it." I see Leia's face. I don't mention Toby. "I messed up."

Dad actually rubs his chin like he's contemplating the best course of action. Marc mimics him.

"Why are we even talking about this?" I reach for the remote control.

"Easy, Lukey," says Dad, patting the air in front of him.

Marc gets up. "Time for steak. Joseph, medium-well?"

Dad nods.

"Cassanova?"

He's trying to make me laugh. I'm having none of it.