As I talk, he seems not to be listening. I use everything at my disposal: I give him pity, humour, inspiration … None of it works. It’s like I’m speaking to a jury of one, a jury who’s already received clear instructions from the bench. Theconfidence drains from me, and I feel myself shrinking even further in his sight. Eventually, I finish, and sit back.
‘So you’re not here for any other reason.’
‘Fred, do I need another reason? People are trying to kill me. Will you help?’
He tells me straight out, at least. ‘No.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘Because the police got here before you.’ For a horrible moment I think he’s about to say, ‘… and they’re here tonight!’ like Michael Aspel inThis Is Your Life, and the detective and his colleague Kate are about to climb out of the kitchen cupboard, arm in arm. But Fred keeps talking: ‘They came here a few days ago. They know who you are. They know you killed this man Harcourt. And I’m not going to help you get away with it.’
‘Fred. Please. I haven’t killed anyone.’ (Yes, I know this is a lie, as of about four hours ago. What I mean is, I haven’t killed the specific guy the police think we have.) ‘You know me, I hardly even shoo pigeons. You think I shot someone in cold blood? What the hell is my motivation?’
He just picks up his phone and addresses it: ‘Timer: ten minutes.’ It squawks confirmation back at him. ‘When that alarm goes off, I’m ringing the police and telling them you’re here.’
‘Fred. This is crazy. I’m your brother.’
He looks at me. ‘Do you know what Mum and Dad did, after you left?’
‘This isn’t about—’
‘Theyhoped. For years, they tried getting in touch, untilyou changed your number, and after that they just hoped you’d come back.’
‘There were things going on, things that—’
‘Oh, yeah, things in your life. You were nineteen, you silly twat. Everyone’s messed up at nineteen. You haven’t asked after either of them, I note.’
‘Someone tried to kill me tonight, and you—’
‘Dad’s in a home, just so you know.’
That gives me a knock.
‘What?’
‘He went in three years ago. In case you’d ever wondered.’
‘He’s not old.’
‘Ten years older than when you last saw him. Mum couldn’t cope.’
I look my parents up occasionally, just to see if they’re in the same place – I don’t contact them, you understand, just observe from a distance. The last time I checked, they were both fine. Has it really been more than three years since then? In the pit of my stomach, I know it’s been more like five. You know how it is. It’s like going to the dentist. You keep thinking you’ll make the appointment. You never do.
I’ve been sitting in silence for about thirty seconds before I think of the obvious question. ‘What about Mum?’
‘Don’t contact her. She thinks you’re dead. Easier if you are.’
I don’t have much to say to any of this. After a while, he glances at his phone. ‘Six minutes to go.’
‘Why are you doing this, Freddy?’
‘I’m not doing anything. I’m just having a normal life.’
‘Enjoying it?’
‘Not really. I work in a shop. My dad’s in a home. My only brother left a decade ago and my mum thinks he’s dead. But I’m in a choir. I read a lot. There are worse ways of living.’ He’s practically shouting the subtext:like breaking into other people’s houses. After a long pause, he speaks again. ‘Did you even get my messages?’
‘What messages?’
