After Rachel came back to Paris in February 1996, he holed up in his house and never came out again. Two months later, on 24 April, he killed himself in his garage. I found out he was back from Momo, who always knows everything. He said, ‘Hey, I saw your bro’ down at Prisunic, Jesus, the fucking state of him! Has he got AIDS or what?’ ‘Leave it out,’ I said, ‘It’s just some middle-class bullshit, problems with his wife or his high-powered job.’ At the time I didn’t suspect anything, but what Momo said got me thinking and I decided to go round there. I made out like I was just passing. I was pretty choked up. He looked like a walking corpse, he was all hunched and confused like an old man, and Rachel had always been sharp, well turned-out, always plugged-in, always had his shit together better than any CEO. He was wearing these creepy striped pyjamas I’d never seen before and he had his head shaved like some convict. The house was upside down, the whole place was filthy, it reeked, the blinds were closed. It was like a cell in solitary. He sat on the arm of the chair and he said in this little voice, ‘I was going to come and see you on the estate . . . I will come . . . I will, I’ll come . . .’ I asked him if everything was okay. He shrugged like it was nothing serious. ‘It’s fine.’ We drank cold coffee in awkward silence. I kept looking at him out of the corner of my eye, he was staring at the floor, his hands on his knees. If I didn’t know him, I’d have thought he was some junkie who’d woken up in our place. He wasn’t there, he was off some place in his head, I could hear him thinking. It looked like he could feel everything he was thinking. He looked so frail, so alone. And so strange. I was moved. Then suddenly, doing his best to sound serious and persuasive, he started giving me one of his little lectures about reliability, honesty, decency, studying hard. I got up and said, ‘Okay, all right, I can see you’re fine, I’ll leave you to it.’ He called me back! First time ever, he was never the kind to be pushy, to keep people hanging around if they wanted to head off. He said, ‘I wanted to say I’m sorry.’ He hesitated and then he said, ‘I haven’t been a good brother to you but never forget that I’m your big brother, and I love you more than anything in the world.’ I guess I shrugged, I hate that sort of soppy shit, I found it really embarrassing. He said again, ‘Never forget that . . . whatever happens.’ What he said had me so choked up, I got angry. I got up and stormed out and didn’t look back. I regret it now. I should have stayed, talked to him, asked him what was going on, taken him in hand, moved into the house so I could keep an eye on him. I could tell he was losing it, it was obvious. But back then, the way I looked at it, I had my shit and other people had theirs. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t go back there, I wouldn’t let myself, I was pissed at him for not keeping his word, he’d said he’d come and see me on the estate. I’d even told Aunt Sakina, and she was so happy. And I’d told my mates so they could ‘accidentally’ drop by while he was there, they’re pretty useful for filling up space and giving the impression that life’s spur of the moment and everything’s a party.