"Messed up, man."

I look up at him. His face is wrestling two different expressions.

"He did what had to be done, Luke. Everybody's glad he did it."

I'm biting my teeth together as I nod. He turns to walk away, but then turns back. "It's shitty how things work out, Lukey, you know? I think that sometimes." He's looking at me but seeing something else. "Got balls, your brother. Just went too far."

I want this to be over. He can feel it and walks away.

I rock back and forth on the swing until he's inside, then I kick off and start to fully swing, pushing my legs forward on the up and bending them back on the down. I keep swinging until my back is going horizontal each time. I'm gripping the cold chain with my hands and tilting my head back and with every swing, the world turns upside down.

Nan said: Him who can't hear, must feel.

I step through the front door and smell bacon. The house is weirdly warm and I can hear Buffalo Soldier and the crackle of the frying pan from the kitchen. I look down at the feeble bag of breakfast ingredients I waited half an hour to buy and can't help but smile. Why's she cooking? I walk to the kitchen. Who's she cooking for, me? Why's she playing Bob Marley after a twelve-hour shift?

"Hello, son." He's sitting at the little kitchen table holding Mum's mug and straight away it feels false. Mum turns from the cooker and smiles with closed lips.

I look back at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh yeah, I'm good thanks, good to see you too."

"Sorry, Dad."

Mum puts a plate full of bacon and beans and egg and fried dumpling in front of him.

"Thanks, Ange, this looks amazing." He breaks open a dumpling and I watch the steam. Mum nods without looking at him and goes back to the cooker.

"Sit down, Lukey."

I sit down. Mum puts my plate in front of me, then sits in the chair in between us, holding one of the cups we never use in both hands.

"You not eating, Mum?"

Mum shakes her head. "Your dad came over."

Classic 'state the obvious cos something bad is coming' line.

Hi, son, it's really sunny outside today, isn't it? By the way, the dog died.

Dad finishes chewing. "We need to talk."

I spear a crispy rasher of bacon and watch it crack in half.

"It's tomorrow, son."

He's looking at me. Mum's eyes are flicking between me and her mug. My hands are getting hot.

"We thought it was a good idea to talk about things," he says, then looks at Mum. "The three of us."

My fingers are strangling my fork. I'm supposed to say something, but my legs are twitching and it's them two versus me and I have to concentrate on breathing.

Then Mum speaks. "He's coming home, Luke. Marc's coming home."

And my stomach's churning.

Dad adds, "We need to prepare, big man. All of us."

Every single part of this is pissing me off. How long have they been planning it? Why are they acting like they can stand to be in the same room together? I know they can feel me squirming. Dad's chewing, Mum's sipping, both of them hiding behind the music and the breakfast.

Dad carries on. "He'll come back here, to start with."

"To start with? What does that mean?" I stare straight at him as I speak. Dad swallows.

"Things have changed, Luke. We've changed, all of us. Marc's nearly twenty-one. You'll be seventeen next month."

"What's that got to do with anything?" My eyes move between the pair of them. Mum puts down her mug. "Luke." Her voice has the same 'calm down' tone it used to have when I'd get excited in the car.

"Why now?" I blurt out.

Mum fakes confusion. "What do you mean, love?"

"I mean, why wait until the day before he comes out to 'talk about it'?"

Dad leans forward. "Easy, Luke. We've thought about this."

"Easy? What the hell part of this is easy, Dad?"

"Steady on, big man, don't forget yourself."

But I've started. My engine's running. I look at Mum. "Now we need to talk about it? Not then, not once since, but now?"

She can't look me in the eye.

I'm on the attack. "So what, then? What are the points of discussion? Do we lay out some five-step plan to deal with the return of the family convict?"

"Luke ..." The mug's shaking in her hands. "We just want to do what's best, for everyone."

Dad's hands are balling into fists. "Stop it, son."

But I can't stop, and he knows I can't, and this all feels like some shitty scene from EastEnders and I'm the emotional teenager who's just gonna storm out cos he can't handle it and leave them looking at each other, shaking their heads as the front door slams.

"This is bollocks," I say, and I'm standing up and looking at them and I know they're trying however rubbish they are at talking, this is them trying but all my brain's doing is searching for something to say that will cut them, something sharp that will stick in their skin before I leave, but all I can seem to think is, can I take the food with me? What's wrong with you?

"I don't know!"

And they're both looking up at me with big eyes, like I'm some stray dog they've just found and I want to hit them. I want to punch them both in the face.

"Sit down, son." Dad holds up one big hand like a traffic warden. I don't move.

"Sit down, Luke, please," Mum pleads.

But all of me is hot and I'm looking at my plate of food and it's just dead meat and burnt eggs and I want to smash it and smash the table and tear the walls off this stupid little kitchen and bury them in rubble.

"You're so full of it!"

I used to find him at lunchtime. I'd just started the infants' and we had a separate smaller playground to the juniors, but if you went round the side of the building you could get to theirs. Some days knowing he was in the same school was enough. Other days I needed to see him in the flesh. I'd make Tommy come with me and we'd snake through the crowds of big kids playing Gladiators, to where Marc and Jamie would be playing football, and we'd just watch. The way he moved and how people reacted to him felt like watching a film star to me and, standing next to the fence, I'd feel safe. I'd feel cool. That's my brother.

Sometimes a Year Four or Year Five kid would come up to me and try and have a go, then another one would be like, "Yo, that's Marc's little brother," and that would be the end of it. Squashed. A free pass from fear, but one that came with a contract to live in his shadow.

"Go in, son."

Dad's standing at the top of the stairs. His body almost completely blocks out the landing window behind him.

I look at Marc's door, then back at Dad, and with a sigh, anger melts into resignation. "Mum doesn't like it."

"I'm not Mum." He walks towards me and it hits me that one day I really might be that big. Fill-a-doorway big. What will that feel like?

Dad pushes open Marc's door and the pair of us stare in.

"Jesus. It's like a museum." He lays a hand on my shoulder.

I stare at Marc's perfectly made bed. "It is a museum," I say.

Dad's hand is squeezing my shoulder and it feels like we're breathing at the same time. Then he's pushing me from behind, not rough, but firmly, into the room.

We sit on the bed, the space in between us too small for Marc to fit in. I look at the black bookcase of films. Dad shakes his head. "You're not kids any more."

I'm reading film titles from left to right. Predator. Raw Deal. Commando.

Dad's looking at me. "You know?"

Last Action Hero. Eraser.

"We haven't been kids for a while, Dad."

Nowhere to Run. Timecop.

"Yeah, I guess not."

Bloodsport. Kickboxer.

"Two birthday cards, Dad. That's all I've got."

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Romeo Must Die.

Dad sighs. "He didn't forget us, Luke."

"Happy Birthday, Lukey," I say. "Stay strong, Marc. Same message. Two years. Twelve words, Dad." The DVDs go out of focus as my eyes start to well-up. "Twelve words."

"It's how he chose to deal with it, son."

"Why?"

Another sigh. "I guess because it made sense to him that way."

My cheeks are wet. "What will you say to him?"

Dad's shaking his head. "I honestly don't know, mate." Then his arm is round me, and it feels as heavy as when that guy from the zoo came into school in Year Six with the boa constrictor and me and Tommy had it across our shoulders.

"We live our choices, Luke. Sometimes it gets messy." And I'm not sure whether he's talking about Marc or himself, but sitting here next to him, my eyes full of tears, the two of them don't feel so different. We live our choices.

"Hold on." Dad sits upright and his heavy arm slips down my back. I follow his confused eyes to the shelf.

"Universal Soldier III?" He's pointing at the DVDs, but looking at me.

I sniff and smile. "And Van Damme's not even in it."

Dad's confusion goes up a notch. "I don't understand. Why would he buy that?" Then a smile creeps up and he gently digs my thigh. I close my eyes and breathe out, as the camera slowly fades to black.

INT. OPERATING ROOM NIGHT The washed-out halo of a circular light.

The beep of a heart monitor.

Muffled voices.

DOCTOR 1: We're going to need more blood.

The clink of surgical tools.

DOCTOR 2: Do we have a name yet?

DOCTOR 1: More gauze please. No idea. It's not looking good.

The tearing of plastic and paper.

DOCTOR 1: The bone's completely shattered.

Swing door. Brief hallway noise.

NURSE: We've got a name. Henry. Marc Henry.

"You ready?"

I'm staring at the gravestones, sitting on the bench.

I try to guess how Leia's got her hair before I turn to look at her. Bunches?

It's the thick plaits. She's standing a metre away. She's got her big coat on. It's Friday the thirteenth. You couldn't make it up.