My brother grabbed the controller and started to play GTA again. I snatched it out of his hands and threw it against the wall. The controller smashed into God knows how many pieces.

‘What the fuck?!’

Tobias stood up. I knew this could get messy. We’d had our fights over the years, Tobias and me, and I’d probably knocked his ass to the ground forty-nine times out of fifty. Things were different now, though. Tobias was bigger. Stronger. No doubt he’d stocked up plenty of reasons to get one back at me. The question was, who was angrier: him or me? And then a nasty thought sent a prickle of fear over my body: which of us was more capable of doing something really violent? What if my brother really was some kind of psycho?

‘I saw a video of you,’ I said, forcing myself to step forward so I was right up in his face. ‘So talk to me.’

If I’d prodded his chest with my finger, he would have exploded. Things would have gone from bad to worse. I could almost feel the sparks flying out of my eyes, though, which might have been the reason why Tobias pulled back a little.

‘Alright, I was there,’ he said, finally. ‘So what? I wanted to see the show. What the fuck is wrong with that?’

‘I don’t believe you,’ I said. ‘It’s not your kind of show. Not your kind of music. So why were you there, Tobias? I know Mum didn’t buy you a ticket.’

He lowered his eyes.

‘Answer me!’ I screamed so loud he almost jumped.

‘I went for a walk,’ he said, ‘and I kind of found myself at your school. I knew that Mum and Imo were there, so I thought I’d see if I could get in. And I did. No one was watching the door. I didn’t think anyone would notice me. No one normally does.’

‘You walked straight past someone filming the show, you fucking twat.’

He didn’t have an answer to that.

‘Did you talk to Mari?’ I asked.

Tobias said nothing, just kept his eyes down.

‘Did you?’

I took a step closer. He still said nothing.

‘How long were you there?’ I asked.

‘Don’t remember,’ he said, with a shrug.

‘Did you leave before the show was over?’

Again he waited a beat before saying: ‘Yes.’

‘How did you get home?’

‘I walked.’

‘Straight home?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘You can’t remember.’

I couldn’t believe my ears. I looked at him, trying to work out whether he was telling me the truth or not. It was difficult to tell. But he wasn’t making much sense – not remembering even the most basic details.

‘My girlfriend was killed that night, in case you’ve forgotten,’ I said. My voice was trembling. ‘If I were you, I’d try a little harder to get my facts straight.’