4.

To guess at that, I have to go back four years, to when I was just ten, and Mark, my brother, was twelve and a half. Mark was good at everything: sport, maths, art, the electric guitar, cooking pancakes, coding, walking on his hands, French, chess, pulling wheelies … the list goes on. But he was modest. When he did something well, the most he’d do was smile, run a hand through his shock of dark blond hair, give a little shrug. He wasn’t even competitive. As often as not, whatever it was we were doing, he’d let me win. I loved him for that, but couldn’t stand him for it at the same time.

We were walking home from school on a Friday afternoon. It was summer and we’d just had sports day. I still had sand in my socks from the long jump, which I’d won, for my year group at least. I’d also won the hundred metres. Mum and Mark both knew: they’d seen me triumph, but I still couldn’t resist mentioning it again as we passed the hardware shop. I was only ten, but even then I understood that telling them I’d won when they already knew was pathetic. Still, neither of them pointed that out. I could forgive Mum’s kindness, but Mark’s ‘That’s great’ just made me feel more ashamed. ‘Really great,’ he repeated.

‘I’ve got faster,’ I said. ‘Fastest in my year.’

He didn’t reply.

‘Yeah, I’m probably as fast as you.’

He smiled and pushed his fingers through his fringe.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

‘I know you won your race.’

‘I can prove it if you like.’

He turned to Mum and changed the subject. ‘What are we having for supper?’

‘I can. And I will,’ I said.

A recycling truck had paused at the entrance to our street, with men in fluorescent clothes sorting plastic and cardboard and glass into its sides. What traffic there was had snarled up behind the truck. We passed a convertible Mini with its roof down. Its driver had close-cropped hair and a glossy, trimmed beard. Classical music soared from his car, a swirl of violins accompanied by the crashing of bottles from the recycling bins. The driver was craning his neck to see what was up beyond the truck as the tang of engine fumes swam hot in the air.

‘Fish and chips. How does that sound?’ asked Mum.

‘I’ll race you home, Mark. You’ll see,’ I said.

‘Lovely,’ he said, and to me: ‘But after this afternoon you must be all raced out.’

‘I’m not. To the lamp post outside the house.’

‘Well, I’m not sure I have the energy,’ said Mark. ‘In this heat.’

‘It’s not that hot,’ I said. ‘I think you’re scared.’

‘So I’m scared,’ he said.

‘If you won’t race, you must be frightened I’ll win. So in a way I’ve already won.’

‘You’ve won then. Congratulations.’

Mark’s refusal to rise to the challenge just made things worse. Since he wouldn’t be goaded, I was embarrassed to hear myself begging instead. ‘Please?’

Now turning me down would have been an unkindness, so he relented. He smiled and shook his head. ‘Oh all right. But go easy on me.’

‘No. You have to really race. Like it counts. Because it does!’

‘Sure.’ He handed Mum his school bag. She was already carrying mine, her phone in the crook of her neck.

From ahead came another crash of bottles; from behind violins surged, full of engine revs.

‘To the lamp post,’ said Mark.

‘Yeah, the one outside the house.’

This wasn’t our first race; we both knew where the finish line was.

‘Want a head start?’ Mark asked.

‘No.’

He shrugged. ‘You say go then.’

I looked up at him. He had our father’s sharp features, softened by Mum’s long eyelashes and wide mouth. The sun had brought out his freckles. His eyes were green, smiling yet somehow serious, giving me my due in the moment.

I took a deep breath, a step back, shouted, ‘Go!’ and hurtled off.

I really had improved. A growth spurt, or something new in my technique, had helped me win the sports-day race with ease, just as I would beat Mark now. I heard my feet pounding the pavement, felt my arms pumping me forward, was amazed by the sense of my own acceleration. My reflection flickered in the windows of parked cars. I was in the lead. I could hear Mark behind me, but as we rounded the postbox on the corner I was still holding him off. The pavement widened here. I took the middle line, ran for all I was worth, convinced I could beat him yet at the same time expecting him to surge past me.

The lamp post was in sight, right outside our house. To get to it we had to cross the street. Approaching the pavement-dip, our footsteps hit the same rhythm, but his stride was longer. I could sense him coming up alongside me, hear him breathing hard, gaining with each step. We were flying. In that moment I both loved and hated him with all my heart.

Somewhere behind us the man in the Mini had finally managed to swing around the recycling van. With his violins and his groomed beard and his convertible with the roof down in the sunshine, he must have felt freed, entitled to accelerate too. But I didn’t know that. I didn’t hear the engine pitch rise, or feel anything other than the straining of my own body at its newfound top speed. I knew nothing until I jinked off the pavement ahead of the crossing and heard an almighty screech, felt something huge and solid swerving behind me, saw the reflected light from metallic green paintwork bouncing off windscreens as the Mini careened sideways into the rear wheel-arch of a parked Ford Fiesta, ramming it into Mark.

He wasn’t killed instantly. When I realised what had happened and turned back to see the driver of the Mini climbing out of the passenger door, and Mum running as fast as she could up the pavement, shedding school bags as she came, Mark was still conscious, though pinned between the crushed Ford and a garden wall. I reached him first. He looked confused. His free arm struggled weakly as he fought for breath. It was as if I wasn’t there. His eyes blinked straight through me and then his head slumped sideways against his shoulder, and Mum was screaming, and the Mini driver, to his credit, was tugging in vain at the Ford’s back bumper. He was wearing pointy shoes with no grip. The last thing I remember is seeing him slip and sit down in the blood pooling beside the car.