For Malcolm, she would risk more, perhaps believing he was in greater need of her protection. Malcolm knew he couldn’t keep an impassive face like John while their father raged. He was not brave like his younger brother, even though he was bigger. His father terrified him, and their mother seemed to know this. Many a time when her husband was drunk or furious or both (perhaps the boys had not cleared up after themselves, had not done their chores, had committed some minor misdemeanour at school, or perhaps, as so often, there was no reason at all except that he hated his life and could do nothing about it), she would tell him Malcolm was out of the house, would be out till teatime, when in fact she had simply hidden her son in her bedroom, where he would remain until his father’s rage had cooled. She never exerted herself in this way for John, a fact that Malcolm took for granted as a child and only started to question when he was almost grown. He had always known his mother loved him more. She told him, from time to time, that he was her special bairn, that he was like her and that John was like their father. Malcolm could never see this: John was nothing like their father, and Malcolm couldn’t imagine anyone being afraid of John. But where their mother was cool and distant with John, she adored Malcolm. She would reach for Malcolm to hug him or ruffle his hair, but he couldn’t recall her ever doing this with his brother. It brought Malcolm pleasure and shame in equal measure. He would wonder later if his mother was aloof with John because John seemed so detached himself, so self-contained and difficult to read, even before they were teenagers. It occurred to him later still that it was more likely this behaviour of John’s was simply a reaction to their mother’s indifference.

Malcolm didn’t remember himself and John ever discussing their mother when they were young, except for one time when John came into the bedroom the two of them shared, threw down his bag (this part Malcolm remembered vividly, although he had no idea what age they must have been) and said, “She doesn’t like me. She’s never liked me.” Malcolm recalled, too, the rush of guilt he felt at this, of how he had lamely said, “That’s not true,” while knowing as well as John that it was. John had turned on him at that, shoved him hard and hissed, “Shut up! You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about.” Malcolm could still picture the way his face had been screwed up in anger. He really had seemed like their father then. The subject had not been mentioned between them again.