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“You were in a fight?” She looks horrified. Clearly, she’s decided it was a street fight. I could tell her I’m a professional fighter and it was just a bit of sparring, but I don’t bother. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never fought outside the cage. Who is she to judge me?

Instead, I say, “Never met anybody who’s been in a fight before? Well. Aren’t we privileged.”

Her mouth opens. Closes.

I shift the bags in my hands then go inside. Let her rise above that.

CHAPTER FOUR

BRIONY

If I weren’t busy being annoyed with Ryan Sloan, I’d be enjoying the walk to my parents’ house. Golden light on the blonde sandstone buildings, window boxes going daft with tulips and violas, a man in slippers watering pots clustered around a doorway, and wisps of barbecue smoke drifting from the back courts. Penny trots beside me with her nose up, sniffing the air with interest.

“Aren’t we privileged,” I mutter.

Penny glances at me.

“Sorry, I’m not talking to you, Pen. Just to myself.”

There was me trying to be fair and gracious, trying to draw a line under things so we could move on as neighbours, and he threw it back in my face.

Aren’t we privileged.

What sort of grown man gets into fights anyway? And during the day! Because the bruise on his cheek was fresh. It was red and raised—it hadn’t gone purple yet. Maybe he really is some kind of gangster.

We turn up towards Broomhill, and the tenement rows begin to break up, houses appearing between them with hedges and front gardens.

Could the whole “caught a hook” thing have been a wind-up? Because I don’t actually know anything about Ryan Sloan. Maybe it was his idea of a joke. But no, because he wasn’t amused by my reaction. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m pretty sure it was my surprise that led to the “privileged” comment.

I reach my parents’ street and their house comes into view: red sandstone, bay window, my dad’s ferns crowding the sill. The ramp to the front door still looks newer than everything around it, even after four years. Penny tugs on the lead, eager to get inside and say hello to the people who always spoil her.

“I know, Pen. I’m excited to see them too.”

Inside, the hall is filled with the warm, spicy smell of Mum’s chilli. She appears from the kitchen, in her apron, a tea towel over one shoulder. Her strawberry-blonde curls, greying now, escape their clip the exact same way that mine escape my bun.

“Briony! I thought I heard the door. And hello to you too, Penny.”

She kisses my cheek, then bends to make a fuss of the dog. “Shall we see if there’s a treat for you in the kitchen?”

Penny follows her without a backward glance.

“Can you go and tell your brother dinner is in five minutes?” Mum says over her shoulder. “He’s in his room playing that football game.”

Innes’s room is in the extension at the back of the house, off the end of the hall where the utility room used to be. The door is open. His powered wheelchair is facing the TV, which is showing a football match.

“Dinner’s in five minutes,” I tell him.

He draws back from the mouthpiece he uses to control the game through a combination of sips and puffs. “Oh, hey, sis,” he says, eyes still on the screen. “Two seconds. I’m absolutely destroying this guy.” Then he leans in again.

“You can’t pause it?”

He gives a brief negative hum without looking away. Play races on for another few seconds until somebody in red goes down theatrically and the whistle blows.

“Oh, come on!” Innes says, pulling away from the mouthpiece again. “He barely touched him.” Then, to me: “Can’t pause. I’m online. Playing a real person here.”

As the players line up for a free kick, he goes back to it, and I sit down on his bed to wait. As usual, he’s in a T-shirt and joggers, his bare forearms resting on the chair’s padded arm supports. They’re thinner than mine now. They didn’t used to be.

His gaze tracks the ball, his mouth working the control, a flush high on his cheeks. Before long the final whistle goes, and Innes grins. “Three–one,” he says.