It’s About Love

And then she’s gone, down the bar to serve an old man.

She called you handsome.

And I know it doesn’t mean anything, but I feel warm, and I’m wondering if this is how Marc felt every time he was with her.

Some old timer leans over the bar and stares at Donna’s body. I feel my muscles tensing as I look at his cracked blotchy face. Then he’s looking back at me, staring with cloudy eyes and he nods the nod, the one that lets me know that just like everyone else in here, he respects what Marc did.

Assault Occasioning Actual Bodily Harm.

It sounded like something from an ITV courtroom drama.

ABH, with greater harm and higher culpability.

One year and six months.

I remember I had to look at Dad to see whether that was better or worse than they’d expected. Dad’s face didn’t move. Mum was already crying. I was wearing my funeral suit, my eyes trying to find somewhere to settle that didn’t feel wrong.

The room was four different shades of beige and the wooden gate that separated Marc from everyone else was so low it didn’t make any sense. The magistrate gave a little speech about Marc’s disregard for another human life. How Craig Miller could’ve died and how, by driving round looking for Craig, unashamedly asking people where he was, Marc had demonstrated a premeditated intent to cause harm. Nothing about Craig’s history of terrorising people since I could remember.

The charge, combined with Marc’s record of minor charges for affray and violent conduct, led the magistrate to extend the sentence to twenty months.

Mum wailed, like twenty months was so much worse than eighteen. Dad’s face still didn’t move. I stared at Marc, standing firm in his white T-shirt, his chin up, like he was posing for a photograph, and I wanted to shout at the judge. To explain. Make it better.

But I didn’t. I just stood there, next to Dad, watching my older brother as the magistrate spoke.

The hammer banged. Dad held Mum as she cried and reached out towards the stand. Marc sighed and shook his head. “It’s OK, Mum. I’ll be all right.”

Then he looked at me, as the two officers led him away, and he smiled.

Marc Henry. The convicted hero. Wrong to the law, but right to anyone from round our way who knew Craig Miller, the nastiest piece of work around. Marc Henry. Local superstar. Guardian angel. Completely oblivious to the dead space he was about to leave behind.

(#ulink_e602c344-29ba-537c-8f95-25e17e7c6d56)

“She is so fit!”

Tommy’s voice is almost angry as he speaks, the smoke flowing out of his mouth like exhaust fumes. We’re standing outside the pub. He shakes his head. “I swear down, your brother, man. Lucky bastard.”

I cut him a look.

“What? I’m just saying, prison or no prison, Donna’s amazing. I’d … man, I don’t even know what I’d do.”

“Shut up, Tom.”

He’s right though. Donna would look sexy dressed as a chicken, and Marc was lucky to be with her. I rub my arms and feel my biceps tighten. Tommy takes another drag of his cigarette and the pair of us watch a wide smoke ring float up in front of us.

“Will you have a party? I mean, when he comes out?” he says, and I see a shot of me, wearing a shiny party hat, limp party blower hanging from my mouth, staring out.

“He’ll probably be even more hench, eh?” says Tommy, holding his thin arms in front of himself like a gorilla. I shrug. “No idea.”

“Course he will.” Tommy grabs my shoulders. “He’ll get a shock when he sees you though, eh? People’s champion.” He shakes me back and forth, like I just won a title fight. I shrug him off and then a car moves past and I recognise the driver.

“Noah?”

I watch the car drive past the chippy and turn up Barns Road.

“Who’s Noah?” Tommy’s squinting at me, and I’m not sure if it really was him, or if I just thought it was.

“Who’s Noah, Luke?”

“In the car. I thought I saw someone, from college.”

“Round here?”

“I dunno, probably wasn’t him. He’s a teacher.” I feel myself shiver from the cold as I try to picture Noah standing at the front of the class, but all I see is Leia, pointing her gun fingers.

Tommy snorts and spits a greeny. “No teachers round here, Lukey.”

I stare along the empty road and try to imagine where Leia is right now, what she’s doing.

“What’s your favourite film, Tom?” I turn to him. His shoulders are up by his ears, trying to hide from the cold.

“Dunno,” he says. “Don’t really have a favourite.”

“I know it depends on the mood and that, but if you had to say one, like now, what would you pick?”

And I watch him think, picturing shelves of DVDs stretching out either side of him, like Neo choosing weapons in The Matrix.

“Die Hard II.”

“What?”

“Die Hard II. Die Harder.” He’s smiling proudly.

I frown. “Die Hard II? That’s your favourite film?”

Tommy nods. “Right now, yeah.”

“What about the first one?”

Tommy lifts his hand like he was expecting me to ask.

“Number two is the same but with aeroplanes, so it’s better. The bit when he lights up the runway with the petrol from the plane and it blows up … that is so sick!”

I picture the scene, Bruce Willis lying bloodied on the snowy runway, throwing his lighter and watching the trail of flames jump up into the air, making the plane full of bad guys explode.

So many of our favourite things are passed down. It’s the younger brother template. The first Die Hard films were made years before we were even born, but through older brothers and our dads, we’ve taken them on as our own. We have that in common.

Tommy mimes flicking a cigarette – “Yippee Kayaaaay!” – then pulls open the door. Noise from inside spills out over us and, just for a second, I get the feeling we’re being watched.