‘I’m not lying.’
I am. The lie tastes of the same nothing asjust sexin a corridor in Vienna, and I’m starting to think that’s what lies taste of, not bitterness, not guilt. Nothing.
He insists on the Northern Quarter. ‘That bar from last time. The one with the good IPAs.’ The excuse is thin enough to read through—that barlike a place he’s been thinking about, the beer as cover story.
I don’t clock it. I’m on my phone under the table, thumbs moving fast:Ron is here. Don’t contact me. Will explain later.The message goes to A.
Laurence replies in four seconds.Understood.The same answer. Everyone keeps telling me to stop.
The bar. Brick walls, low light, the curated chaos of a place that knows its aesthetic. We order at the counter. I scan for a table.
Ron’s eyes are already there, already at the corner.
That person is at the same table, notebooks scattered, pencil between their teeth—different jumper, worn the same way. Rings, dark nails, hair that doesn’t resolve into any category Ron’s filing system would recognise. They look up, find Ronan across the room with the accuracy of someone aware of him all along.
Ronan looks away, fast. Too fast. The flinch disguised as disinterest. I’ve seen this before—a man feeling eyes on his back and refusing to turn around because turning around would mean admitting the looking mattered. But I’m on my phone. Texting:He asked about A. I said no.One catastrophe at a time, and the one at the corner table isn’t the one I’m watching.
Ron’s different for the rest of the night. Shorter answers. The thumb circuit, the same one from October. His questions about my love life dry up. His eyes dry up. He keeps not looking at the corner table.
‘You alright?’ I ask because I’m his brother.
‘Fine.’ He drinks. Doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t look at the corner table.
Then, softer: ‘Ewe.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How do you know if there’s someone you—’ He stops. Mouth shuts, the stopping has teeth.
I wait three seconds. Four. I have never, in nineteen years of living next to this man, seen Ron start a sentence and bin it mid-word. Ron finishes sentences like he finishes jobs, on schedule, no snags, the last screw tightened before he puts the drill down.
‘Someone I what,’ I say.
‘Nah.’ He drinks. ‘Forget it. Pint’s good.’
‘Ron.’
‘Pint’s good, Ewe. Drop it.’
Sunday evening. Ron’s train left two hours ago. I’m at Laurence’s flat. Surfacing.
‘My brother suspects.’ Into his neck. We’re on the bed, still dressed, my face against his collar—soap, coffee, skin.
Laurence’s arms tighten around me.
‘Does he know it’s me?’
‘No. But he will.’ My voice is smaller than I want it to be. ‘He’s going to find out, Laurence. He doesn’t stop.’
Silence. His hand on my back, tracing my spine. Just that.
‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘I’m not going to get hurt.’
‘Ewan.’ The name, soft and certain. ‘Your brother loves you. Whatever he does—remember that.’ Strange thing to say, from him.
I pull back. Look at him, tired and worried. He knows what comes next because he’s lived it. Cambridge, Hugo. A career.
