‘Peter,’ he managed.

Of course. The brother who’d become. Who’d taken over the family, but laid it to rest in the brick-clad collapse of pier and asbestos sheeting.

‘Righto,’ I said, reclaiming my essay.

A few minutes later I was sitting with Peter at the kitchen table. He placed my essay on the melamine and read. ‘It needs an edit.’

‘Could you?’

He found a red pen and started correcting. ‘You know, if we have a good go, I could get you an A.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Easy. You’ve thought it through, and there’s evidence. I always thought there was something stirring in the grey cells.’ He tapped my head. ‘Though it’s taken a while.’

He corrected, and I watched David, searching up and down the road where nothing was happening. ‘Do you reckon he gets bored?’ I asked.

‘Here, look … needs a footnote. Sounds like you just made it up.’

I checked. ‘I’ll add it later.’ But returned to David. ‘What about when he needs the toilet?’

‘Rings his bell.’

I waited. ‘What’s it called?’

‘What?’

‘What he’s got.’

‘Muscular dystrophy.’

‘Is it bad yet?’

He looked up. ‘Not yet. Next coupla years. Which worries Mum.’

I’d overheard conversations between the mothers. The invocation of nursing homes, carers, nappies, machines, hospitals. Years of thinking and planning and avoiding doing anything, yet. Like the future would fix things. But my experience suggested the future just fucked things up.

‘So, like, when she’s gone?’ I dared. ‘What happens then?’

He seemed surprised I didn’t realise. ‘Well, I’m his brother, eh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Course I’m gonna …’

The thought had crossed my mind. If he’d worked as a proper lawyer, earned a lot of money, he could’ve had a nice place and car and holidays, and when Val went, he’d be able to pop Davo in a home where he’d get looked after properly. But people in Lanark Avenue didn’t do that.

‘Might have to make some changes, inside,’ I said.

‘Yeah, we’re applying for some money.’ And he indicated a letter on the table. ‘So we can redo the shower.’

Something I’d often thought about. The impractical bath, the poky receptacle. ‘How does he …?’

‘Mum or me, we gotta use a flannel.’

Enough said. I wanted to ask, but dared not. A mother, with a son that age. See, this is what I mean. What book tells you about that?

Write an essay. To understand, they say. But that’s not understanding anything. And why couldn’t the topic be: How do mums clean their disabled sons?

‘So you’ll look after him?’ I asked.

He didn’t answer. Such an obvious question, I suppose.

‘Here you say: The persuasive powers of Trotsky were enough to convince the Russian people … but not all of them, surely?’

‘Ernie.’

‘No doubt. He’s a good talker, but that’s about all.’ He circled the passage, and continued.