The yell from above shattered the night like a brick through a window.

Ethan jarred to a halt, earphones halfway to his head. He’d been out for another late-night walk to clear his mind. It hadn’t worked.

Looking up, he saw someone falling from the roof of the block of flats he called home; a silhouette racing towards him, getting bigger, closer, on target for a direct hit he knew would kill him.

His breath caught in his throat.

His voice didn’t.

‘Shit…’

Keeping his eyes pinned on the figure, Ethan quickly pulled himself out of its way, turning back up the street to a vandalized bus shelter that was tagged to hell.

Suddenly another sound filled the darkness, like bed sheets flapping in the wind, followed by a whoop and a shout of ‘Yeah – nailed it!’ and the silhouette exploded in the sky, expanding from a black smudge to a black oblong. Its descent slowed dramatically. It drifted away from Ethan, riding wind and moonlight.

Stunned and staring, he watched as the shape floated down just ahead of him, a human figure dangling underneath what he now guessed was a parachute. It landed gently, silently.

Ethan couldn’t believe it: some idiot had just parachuted from the top of the block of flats – his block of flats. He watched as the figure rapidly gathered in the parachute to nothing, bundling it up as though rolling the night into a ball, then jogged towards him.

A van in the road next to him sparked to life. Another figure loomed out of the darkness, emerging from the far side of the vehicle, video camera in hand. As the van door swung open, music blared out into the night, a barrage of heavy guitar and drums.

The idiot with the parachute stopped in front of Ethan. Ethan recognized him from the year above at school: he had been in the upper sixth; Ethan was in the lower. His hair was long, blond, wild; Ethan’s was night-time black, and sprang from his head like a frozen explosion. He had given up trying to do something with it years ago. He almost felt the same way about his life, but something kept him looking for the right thing to do with it. He wanted a purpose – he just hadn’t found it yet.

‘Totally awesome, Johnny!’ yelled the van driver, pointing the video camera at the guy with the parachute standing next to Ethan. Ethan turned and found himself providing an involuntary wave for the movie. Idiot.

The parachutist Ethan now knew as Johnny tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Pen?’

Ethan shook his head.

Johnny ran over to the van, reached inside, came back. He grabbed Ethan’s hand and wrote on it.

‘Check this in about an hour,’ he said, indicating the scribble on Ethan’s palm. ‘You’re famous!’

Ethan stared at his hand and the MySpace address now scrawled on it.

It was a stupid question, but Ethan couldn’t help himself: ‘Don’t people usually jump out of planes rather than off buildings?’

Johnny grinned. ‘This is BASE jumping. You do skydiving first, then this – same deal, less room for error.’

‘More chance of death,’ said Ethan. ‘Why do you do it?’

Johnny leaned a smile in close. ‘Life’s too short not to,’ he said.

Then, pulling the parachute in with him, he jumped into the van next to the driver.

Doors slammed, and the road swallowed the van.

Quiet. It was all suddenly so quiet.

Ethan stood there for a moment, staring at the space where the van had been, watching flashbacks in his mind of what he’d just witnessed. The adrenaline still surged through him; he could feel it like pinpricks in his fingers. And he hadn’t even been the one doing the jump. He tried to imagine what it had felt like for Johnny.

Just when he was wondering what to do with his life, searching for a purpose, some nutball had jumped off his roof. For some reason Ethan couldn’t explain, it changed everything.

Staring at the web address on his hand, he headed home.

‘Ethan?’

He heard his sister, Jo, calling him as he reached his bedroom door.

He turned back up the hall and went into the kitchen. Like the rest of the flat, it was small and functional. If a surface could be used, it was. Shelves sagged under the weight of tins jostling for position. Squeezed in here and there were photos of Ethan and Jo and their mum. Dad wasn’t anywhere. The only thing attached to the wall that wasn’t a shelf or a photo was one of Jo’s paintings. Ethan didn’t understand it, or even like it that much, but he admired it. Jo had always been into her art and knew it was what she wanted to do with her life. He envied that. After school, Ethan’s future was confused. He hadn’t a clue what to do with it. And that scared him a little. He often wished he had something that interested him in the same way art did Jo. But nothing had ever really grabbed him and refused to let go.

The earlier shots of Jo showed a happy girl with flyaway hair. The later ones showed a girl dressed in black, hiding behind make-up. Ethan smiled – his sister’s approach to fashion had always been interesting. She was as much a piece of art as the stuff she painted.

Ethan looked at the pictures of his mum. She mostly looked tired but happy, though nowadays she looked just tired, he thought. And he knew whose fault that was. They all did: two kids, two jobs and an arse for a husband – it was a killer. Ethan felt the anger rise in him as a picture of his dad snagged in his mind. If there was one reason to find a purpose in life, then it was to show that bastard that nothing he could say or do would ever affect Ethan again.

Jo was by the fridge, hiding behind her long black fringe. ‘You’re home, then,’ she said. ‘Hungry?’

Ethan nodded. ‘Dad still out? Shame he comes back, if you ask me.’

Jo took a bowl of pasta out of the fridge, put it in the microwave and turned the dial to heat it for two minutes. ‘Mum made this for us,’ she said. ‘She asked where you were. I couldn’t tell her because I didn’t know.’

Ethan tried to ignore her disapproving look. ‘I meant to leave a note,’ he said.

Jo sighed. ‘She’s worried about you.’

‘Oh,’ was all Ethan could manage, the guilt nagging at him again. The last time he’d seen his mum had been two days ago; somehow their paths hadn’t crossed – him getting home late after his last exam, her heading out for the night shift.

The microwave pinged. Jo got out a bowl of steaming pasta and handed it to him, then put in another bowl for herself.

She turned back to him. ‘She thinks you’re too much like Dad – you know that, don’t you?’

The words stung Ethan. ‘He’s a waster, Jo,’ he said, spitting bitterness with every word. ‘All he does is drink money away – or lose it at the bookies.’

‘Think I don’t know that?’ said Jo. ‘She’s worried you’re going the same way.’

Just talking about his dad made Ethan’s blood boil. He found it hard to stay calm. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘just because I’m not sure what I’m doing with my life doesn’t mean I’m going to end up like him. I’m not going to be a jobless alcoholic. I’ll have my A-levels. Dad’s got nothing.’

Jo didn’t answer. The microwave pinged. She took out her pasta.

‘Thanks for your support,’ said Ethan. ‘Really.’

Jo shrugged and started to eat.

Ethan stood there in silence. He hated his dad; always had. He was a bully. And now Ethan was seventeen his dad had started to really push him around. Ethan had nearly lost it with him more than once, but his mum had always stepped in, calmed things down.

‘Where did you go, anyway?’ asked Jo.

‘Out,’ said Ethan. ‘Trying to clear my head. Everyone I know seems to have a plan for what they’re doing, where they’re going, but I…’ His voice trailed off. Then he said, ‘I keep thinking about the Royal Marines.’

‘Dad would hate that,’ said Jo.