‘Hello.’

‘I’d have passed you in the street, so I would.’

Joe couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘Mam won’t like your hair.’

‘That’s not much of a welcome home. Are you glad to see me?’

Joe nodded

Brendan held his hand out across the table.

‘Here, shake a fist. Feel me, I’m real.’

His hand was thin and engrained with travelling grime. Joe touched it briefly, almost nervously, and then sat down and looked at his brother, protected by the table from any sudden physical gesture.

‘It’s great you’re back.’

‘At last, a word of welcome. Where is everyone? How is everyone?’

‘Mam’s at work. Isn’t he …?’ He jerked his head towards the ceiling.

‘There’s not a soul about. His room is what you might call atmospheric.’

Joe smiled sourly.

‘I suppose he’s gone down the road.’

‘Oh.’

‘No one knew you were coming.’

‘I said.’

‘You didn’t say today. Mam was going to write.’

‘Oh.’

‘Not to come. That was what she was going to say. Not to come.’

Brendan laughed slightly.

‘She never changes.’

‘No.’

‘And he …?’

‘He’s never well.’

‘But in himself?’

Joe drew a line along the oilcloth with his finger nail.

‘He’s a great old skin,’ said Brendan at last.

‘If you say so.’

‘Maimed by life.’

Joe considered that remark.

‘Maimed,’ he said. ‘That’s good. He’s that all right. Maimed.’

‘You’re only a kid. You wouldn’t know what I’m talking about.’

‘No?’

‘Or what he is talking about.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Don’t bother.’

‘It’s no bother. I always make one for him at this time, when he’s in.’

‘I had one on the train.’

‘You came on the train?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s nice. I’d like to go on a train.’

‘It’s OK. I’d rather have my own … you know … vroom vroom.’

‘Yes.’

They stared at each other across the table, studying with care each likeness, each difference.

‘You’ve grown.’

‘So you said. It’d be queer if I hadn’t.’

‘What teacher do you have?’

‘Miss McCabe.’

‘God, is she still going. I’m sorry for you.’

‘There’s worse. Mam won’t like your hair.’

‘If she doesn’t like it she can lump it.’

‘What was it like over there?’

‘Great, man, really great.’

He took a small flat bottle from his pocket and put it on the table.

‘Get us a glass, would you, there’s a good chap?’

Joe got up and opened the cupboard. Brendan twisted and untwisted the cap on the bottle.

‘There’s none here,’ said Joe. ‘They must all be up in his room.’

‘No matter.’

He took the top off the bottle and tilted it to his mouth. Joe watched the stretching of his throat as he swallowed. He put the bottle carefully on the table and screwed the top back on again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

‘Fantastic.’ His hands began their fiddling again.

‘Fantastic?’

‘Yep. To begin with it’s awful. You think, Jesus, why did I ever come to this dump, and then … suddenly it’s OK. Fantastic. It’s all there. All happening. You could make a packet.’