I lay on my bed and stared straight ahead. I wanted it to be tomorrow so I could get back to Edie. The minutes ticked by with a stubborn lack of haste. My room was damp and colder than it should be in the middle of summer. As dusk turned to darkness, shadows formed on the ceiling and the floorboards creaked as the timbers cooled. I could hear the sea faintly, the crashing of the waves against the rocks reduced to purring by the distance. I couldn’t get rid of the image of Edie rushing out of the house and chasing me away.

When insomnia finally beat me, I reached over and pressed the button on my clock to illuminate its face. Seven minutes past three. I reached beneath my pillow for the mix tape again and stroked my thumb over its smoothness. Then I climbed out of bed and crept out of my box and across the landing to Jago’s room. I trod carefully. Heel to toe, distributing my weight evenly so as not to make any sound.

My brother’s door was covered in the black marker pen graffiti that my mother had turned a blind eye to when he’d decorated it in a fit of anger aged fifteen. I stood in front of it and listened for noises from within. There were none, so I turned the handle as quietly as I could. The door creaked as I pushed it open. I held my breath, expecting him to wake, but he didn’t stir. I stepped into his room. The smell enveloped me, stale smoke and musty clothes, deodorant and leather boots, sweat and the sweet tang of joss sticks. He slept silently and heavily, covers half off his body, chest bare and lit by the moonlight pouring in through the window. I wondered what images flickered in his head. Was he helping Dad with his motorbike? Or dreaming of his bloated, drowned body?

I went to his chest of drawers and tapped the flat of my hand over its surface which was strewn with Jago’s tobacco and Zippo, coins, a packet of gum, motorbike magazines and two overflowing ashtrays. My fingers closed around his Walkman. I lifted it silently then backed out of the room and pulled the door closed.