Because he’s my brother I pretend I don’t hear. Don’t hear what he’s saying about the girl at work, in the burger bar, or the boy who fell from the fire escape. The boy he thought was a sack of rubbish until he heard the thump on the ground and saw the pool of blood. I just walk on, as we thread between the bonnets of cars, placing hands on their scalding surfaces. Most people have their windows open – splashes of music and traffic warnings, hairy arms beating gleaming metal paintwork. ‘You listening?’ Will calls. ‘You listening?’ The lights are green. A horn sounds and someone shouts.

Flying ants spew from the mortar of walls and gaps between paving slabs. One crawls about my nose and cheek and I brush it away. At the dented sign welcoming people to the town we turn off onto the disused railway line. The ground is dry and cracked and as we walk a fine dust covers our shoes. The burger bar’s not a chain, not a McDonalds or Burger King or anything like that, because our town isn’t big enough for one of those; it’s just some crummy joint Will works Saturdays that uses all the same colours and almost the same words, pretending it’s as good as everywhere else. He tells me about this girl who dragged him to the staff toilets. The strong stench of disinfectant. How she locked the door pulled his cock through his flies and pumped it up and down until he spooled out over her hand and the hem of his t-shirt. It was staff uniform and he had to wet the fabric before explaining away the mark during his afternoon shift. Then he tells me that just before he came, before he blew his load, she unbuttoned his trousers and stroked the wires of hair above his groin in circular motions with the flat of her hand. That’s what did him, he says, that warm touch of her hand below his stomach.