'Did you see the newspapers this morning?'

'Yeah, I saw them.'

'It's all bulls.h.i.t,' she says, quietly. 'I don't think Daniel was in trouble. I don't think he's been kidnapped or hurt.'

'No one's saying that, Sylvie.'

'So why are the police spending time on this idiot, then? Just because some guy who worked in his building was dealing c.o.ke, I don't see what it's got to do with Daniel.'

'The man said he'd been threatened. He looks similar to Daniel, they're just making sure. They have to check every lead they can.'

'It's a waste of time, that's all I'm saying. It's just a waste of everyone's time.'

She's probably right; it feels like they're clutching at straws now. But what else is there to go on? His bank accounts still haven't been touched, his pa.s.sport wasn't used, there's no evidence that he tried to board a flight or ride a ferry. The newspaper story is most likely garbage but the truth is we're lucky to get the coverage. Daniel is white, wealthy and middle cla.s.s. He has an attractive, articulate wife and a cute, photogenic baby. It's Christmas, there's not much other news, it means we're getting far more attention than we reasonably deserve.

In some respects this actually makes things worse. Half the country probably knows my brother's story by now but still no one has come up with a concrete sighting of him. If he was hiding out in a hotel or renting a room, someone would have spotted him by now, surely? He has to get money, he has to eat; someone must have sold him something or served him some food. It can't last much longer, this media interest. We've probably got until new year's day before it dies down for good. And then what? Another curious story that people half remember; another file growing dusty on a police station shelf.

Sylvie is shivering now. Her shoulders are twitching under her dressing-gown and her lips are pursed into a silent growl.

'You know,' she says, suddenly, 'you might want to think about your part in all of this. Did you ever think about that?'

'My part?' part?'

'Yes. If you hadn't kept borrowing money off them all the time; giving Daniel extra stuff to worry about.'

'What was he worried about? Kay swears everything was fine.'

'Why was he on antidepressants, then? Have you thought to ask Kay about that?'

'What are you talking about?'

'I saw them in the bathroom cabinet, a half-dozen packs of Ceroxil.'

'Are you sure they were his?'

'They had his name on them. So he didn't need you coming to him with your problems. He didn't need the extra worry.'

'It was only a few hundred pounds, Sylvie. It was only a few hundred pounds.'

'But it all mounts up. And you're always doing it. You've been a drain on everyone in this family since your divorce.'

She takes my breath away. Sometimes she just takes my breath away.

'I should leave,' I say, standing up. 'I'll talk to Kay about the tablets. I'll let you know what she says.'

'He didn't approve, you know,' she says, as I walk towards the door.

'Of what?'

'You two separating. He said you two ought to have worked it out.'

'He said that?'

'Yeah, he said it all the time. He said you two gave up too easily.'

'I didn't love him any more, Sylvie. Michael didn't love me.'

'Yeah, well, so what? He didn't deserve what you did to him.'

'What did I do do to him? It was Michael that lost us the flat.' to him? It was Michael that lost us the flat.'

'Christ knows,' she says, turning up the TV. 'But Daniel said you must have done something.'

I have to keep reminding myself how young she is. She's hurting; she's just lashing out.

'Is this about you and Sam?' I say, trying to make sense of her outburst. 'Have you two been having more problems?'

She rolls her eyes.

'Jesus, Claire. We split up ages ago, that's all done with. And, no...it's got f.u.c.k all to do with this.'

I wonder what she means by agesin my sister's language that could mean a matter of hours.

'Well, you never said anything. I didn't know.'

She laughs.

'Yeah, that's right, you don't know anything anything. And it doesn't matter now, anyway. I'm already going out with someone new.'

'Already? With all this going on?' With all this going on?'

'I have to get out. I have to see my friends. It's the only thing keeping me sane.'

'Who is it? Someone from the hospital, another doctor?'

'No. It's that pastry guy...Gabriel. We went out a couple of times. I've been seeing him.'

Jin Itchi

When I'm feeling this negative and down on the world I like to have something good to eat. A Portuguese cake, a bar of the cheapest kind of chocolate, or a thick slice of freshly b.u.t.tered toast. Right now I'm craving something savoury, something rich raw and slippery, like fish. And if it's going to be sushi at midnight on Christmas Eve then there's only one place it can beladies and gentlemen I give you, the Jin Itchi Sushi Bar and Restaurant.

I've been coming to this placeoff and onfor the last eight months, and it's definitely something of an acquired taste. Ordering food here is a minefield. The menu is seven pages long with letters the size of rice grains, and only half the items have an English translation next to them. The pages are grubby and sticky to the touch, and whatever you decide to eat, the waitress always acts like you've chosen spectacularly badly.

'I'd like the mackerel sashimi.'

'Bad idea. Stupid lady.'

'Did you just call me stupid?'

'No.'

'Well, what about the mixed tempura? I'd like that. How about the mixed tempura?'

'Foolish. Foolish Foolish.'

'The sea urchin?'

'No.'

'The sushi set?'

'Uh uh.'

'Well, is there something that you could recommend?'

'Hold it. I see what we got left over in the kitchen.'

On balance, you might think this is the type of dining establishment that's best avoided, but in the months since I split up with Michael I've made a special effort to seek it out. Jin Itchi is not the kind of place you could happen upon casually; it's hidden away in a low-rent bas.e.m.e.nt room in China Town and you need a detailed set of directions in order to find it. There's no sign on the door, no gaudy pictures on the steamed-up windows, no two-for-one buffets to reel in the h.o.a.rds of bargain-hungry tourists. Just a narrow set of stepsperilous when it's wetleading down to a battered, smoky vestibule.

It seems like there have been a few attempts to brighten the place up over the years but none of them have made it look any more cheerful. There's a poster of Mount Fuji on the back wall, its edges stained black from the constant breeze of pa.s.sing nicotine; a couple of paper lanterns tied loosely to the ceiling, their thin folds choked up with fish grease and dust; and over in the corner an ancient TV set plays silently for no one, its speaker long since blown from overuse.

When they're not serving gourmet sushi or insulting their nervous customers, the waiters sometimes feed tapes to a worn-out video machine. j.a.panese soap operas and quiz shows broadcast on a loopbizarre, garish, soundlessbut no one pays them much attention. Occasionally you might glance up to see a midget hitting an old woman with a rubber truncheon or a topless girl chasing after a bus, but the programmes are mostly there for decoration. It all adds to the general sense of otherworldliness, to the feeling that you could be anywhere other than central London.

The customers here are mostly localsChinese shopkeepers, Asian businessmen, the odd language student chain-smoking cigarettes and reading Manga comicsand most lunchtimes you'd be hard pressed to hear an English voice. From time to time a lost shopper takes a wrong turn and heads down the steps in the hope of sustenance, but they almost always leave without taking a seat. The noise and the heat and the general ill will hits them, and they quickly scamper back from whence they came.

And that's the way I like it. When I was breaking up with Michael, this place always felt like the perfect balm and it still feels comforting to me now. I know I won't b.u.mp into anyone that I recognise here, and even in the midst of all this craziness with my brother I'm unlikely to come across a nosy soul who will recognise me. It's quiet and calm and I can practise my j.a.panese, and if you can tolerate the insults and the decor, it's an excellent place to sit and think. The other great thing about Jin Itchi is that it was Daniel who first recommended it to me.

When I say recommended what I mean is, that I once asked Daniel if he knew of anywhere near his office that I could eat a good lunch for less than five pounds, and Jin Itchi was the best he could come up with. It was April this year, I'd just moved back to London and I was as broke as I'd ever been in my life. Daniel was loaning me some money to see me through the ruins of my marriage break-up and he'd seemed almost confused by the question. A cheap restaurant? A place you could eat lunch for less than five pounds? Who knew of such a place? He seemed a little embarra.s.sed that he could actually come up with an answer.

'So, remember,' said Daniel, writing out my loan cheque, with his Mont Blanc pen. 'Whatever you do, don't order the sushi.'

'No, OK. I won't.'

'It's great, but it's too pricey for your budget.'

'OK, I get it. I understand.'

'Stick to the noodle soup. 4.50 a bowl, it's pretty good.'

'The soup. I hear you.'

'And the waiters can be a little rude, so don't take any s.h.i.t from them.'

'I won't.'

'It's not the most salubrious place in the world, but if you want to eat that cheaply...it's the best I can do.'

'Daniel?'

'What?'

'Why don't you come with me?'

'I can't, I'm busy this afternoon.'

I frowned at him.

'Daniel?'

'What?'

'You're a partner partner.'

'So?'

'So, live a bit. Take some time off.'

My brother smiled at me; a firm polite smile that said it was never going to happen; a signal that said it was time for me to leave...

'Well...look, I'd better go. And thanks again...for the money.'

'That's OK. No problem.'

'I'll pay you back as soon as I can.'

'No hurry. I know things are difficult, take your time.'

'I'll see you soon, then?'

'Yep...uh-huh...absolutely.'

He'd already turned back to his files. He was already lost somewhere else.