Memories bulleted through my brain. Some of them were too fast to catch, but one exploded like grenade.

The accident.

I remembered that it wasn’t just my accident. Someone else got hurt.

You.

I let go of Eric’s hand. Just like I must have let go of your hand on that day.

Eric must have said something, but I wasn’t listening. I ran out into the woods and kept running until I got home.

Mum was at the front door. I stopped in front of her.

‘Mum . . .’ I said.

I didn’t need to say any more. She could tell just by looking at me.

‘Ah,’ she said, taking my hand. ‘You’ve remembered, haven’t you?’ She led me into the kitchen and made me sit down. ‘Take your time,’ she said. ‘I’ve waited for this to happen for so long. I can wait a bit longer.’

Words and pictures and feelings were still streaming into my brain. Sometimes, they’d stop as if they were buffering. Sometimes, they’d torrent into my head like a super-fast download.

It was you.

I’d finally remembered you.

My little brother, Arty.

How could I have completely forgotten about my own brother?

‘Mum, where’s Arty?’

This time, I was the one who didn’t have to wait to hear. Asking that question was like clicking ‘open’ on a zip file . . .

A bus is coming down the road.

I’m holding your hand. You’re on your scooter. It was a really sunny day. We’d been up to the shops at the Circus. You want to dash out into the road. It’s a game. The buses stop and back up if anyone runs in front of them. It’s in their programming. So they are totally one hundred per cent safe. The bus stops. You wave at it, and it flashes its lights at you. Every kid loves that. Everyone is always doing it, just to see the lights go. I yank you backwards on to the pavement.

‘That,’ I said, ‘is reckless.’

‘I’m big four,’ you said.

You thought being four years old meant you were indestructible.

I held you back. We were going home. We’d been scootering down the underpass. You loved the underpass because the ramp made the scooter go fast, and the tunnel because it made your screams go loud.

The bus goes by. Nothing else is coming, so we step into the road. Someone must have stepped in front of the bus after it went by, though, because it stopped. Then it backed into us.

The picture goes a bit fuzzy after that.

I remember my hand in the road and not being able to figure out how it got there. I don’t remember any pain. I remember lots of fear. You were lying in the road. It didn’t look like there was anything wrong with you. You were perfect. No bruises or cuts. Not in my memory anyway. It looked like you were asleep.

The bus just drove itself away. It left you lying in the road. And me kneeling next to you . . .

‘Mum,’ I said, ‘is Arty . . .’

‘He’s in hospital. I sit with him every day as soon as I finish work.’

Other thoughts and memories shot into my brain after that. Like the fact that Mum was normally nearly always there. We always did stuff together. Went places. The three of us. For weeks and weeks, I’d been mostly on my own. I’d never normally have got away with going to the airport all on my own. Mum had been missing.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s time you came with me.’