‘Aye, because the marauding sheep are a real threat.’ He stops and spears me with a face of cold North Sea basalt and locks the brakes. ‘Sit down, Scott.’
‘I’m fine standing.’
‘Sit the fuck down.’
My knees unlock, and I dump my weight onto the rusted iron bench. David fishes a packet of fags from his pocket. He doesn’t smoke often – Mum would leather him if she found out – but he keeps a stash for bad days. The lighter clicks, and a quick flame eats the end of the cigarette.
‘You look like proper shite.’ He exhales a plume of grey smoke.
‘Thanks, arsehole.’
‘Want one?’
I glance at the white cylinders he’s holding up. A hit of nicotine would calm my hands. But there are rules. ‘Naw. Only at Christmas. You know that.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He shrugs and puts the packet away. ‘I’m serious, though. How long are you going to keep at this?’
‘What? Breathing?’
‘Don’t give me that. You’re miserable, and I know why.’ He turns his head to face me. ‘You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing since Dad died?’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Fixing everything. Now paying the mortgage. Payments for my FES-therapy. Driving up here every time a tap drips. You’ve been trying to earn your seat at this table since my accident.’
His words smack the blood from my face. We never talk about it. We never name the debt.
I scratch a curl of rust off the bench with my thumbnail. ‘It’s what family does.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’ David rolls his eyes. ‘Newsflash: you can’t make it all better and magically go away by grinding yourself down.’
‘I did what I had to do.’
‘You know what pisses me off the most?’ David leans forward. ‘You don’t see your brother. All you see is the accident.’
‘I climbed up first.’ I fight a shallow, stinging breath before the rest comes. ‘I should’ve watched out for you. I should’ve stopped you. I was a fucking bad example. It was my fault.’
‘I followed you, and I slipped,’ he says. ‘Have I cursed that day? Aye, plenty. But it doesn’t change the score. Look, I’m at uni. I have a life. A girlfriend who likes me. You’re the only one who treats me like I’m half a man.’
‘Dave—’
‘You know I can call the repair service myself,’ he says. ‘I have a phone. I have a bank account. I even have opposable thumbs.’
‘I’m trying?—’
‘I know,’ he interrupts. ‘But I don’t want you to. It’s pissing me off, to be honest. You could lose the money, the career, the strength, this fucking helper’s syndrome. You could be totally fucking useless, and I’d still want you at this table. Because you’re my big brother, for fuck’s sake.’
His words slug me in the middle. I stare at my palms. Blunt, battered slabs of skin and bone. If I’m not the muscle or the brace, if I don’t have a load to shift, I’m nothing but meat in the way.
‘I’m saying it because I’m bored with it, Scottie. I’m bored with watching you punish yourself. It’s fucking tedious, man.’
‘I didn’t know you felt that way.’
‘Well, you were too busy crucifying yourself to notice, let alone ask.’ He takes a deep drag of his cigarette. ‘You know what I actually want? I want to finish my degree. I want to move to Edinburgh with Freya. And I want you to back the fuck off.’
‘Our arsehole dad is dead, Evan pissed off to London, Katie’s doing her PhD, so this family is my responsibility.’
‘Don’t you dare hide behind that word,’ David says. ‘You think if you stop being useful, we’ll all realise we don’t actually like you.’
