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?’