‘Let me help,’ he said. The moon gave enough light to see the rising shingle behind him. A million tons of loose stone at his back should have made him insignificant, should have reduced him. Yet he was solidly there, as if he’d been planted. No doubts for the man my brother had become. No conscience, no guilt. I’d always known he was lacking that extra little voice that torments the rest of us. I’d always been afraid of it, but when he offered, I felt nothing but relief.

‘What can you do?’ I said.

‘I can kill him, Davey. Like I did before.’

I could not speak for a long, slow breath. I hadn’t wanted to know. My mind filled with images of Bobby Penrith flagging as he swam in freezing water. My brother was a fine swimmer and it would not have taken much to hold him under, to exhaust him. Just a flurry of splashing and then the smooth strokes towards the shore, arriving as if exhausted. Perhaps he had been. Perhaps Bobby had struggled and fought back with all the strength of desperation.

I looked into my brother’s eyes and saw all of the years between us.

‘Tell me,’ he said.

DENIS TANTER WAS NOT the sort of man to frighten you on first meeting. In fact, when I was placed at his table during a New Year’s Eve party I hardly noticed him at first. He was short and compact, like a featherweight boxer. He’d been one in his twenties, I discovered later, and he still had the posture and freckled skin that flushed easily. He had a good grip, and red hair, which was just about all I took in before I was pulling crackers and trying to remember how I’d ended up sitting with strangers on a night meant for family. I didn’t see him as a threat and he really wasn’t at that point, not to me. I’ve met a lot of men like him over the years and they usually dismiss me after the first brief clasp of hands. I’m not one of the breed, or something. They rank me as harmless and move on. I could leave more of an impression if I tried, but I just can’t make myself care about the little rituals of life, especially between men.

Maybe that has hurt me. My wife Carol was doing her usual social duty with the other wives, sounding each other out on income, children and education. I’ve seen attractive women who can raise female hackles up to fifty yards, but Carol slips under the radar, somehow. She always dresses with a bit of class and she’s one of those who seem to be able to match earrings with a bracelet so there’s always a polished feel to her. God save us from beautiful women. They have too many advantages.

Once or twice I’ve caught the end of one of her private smiles, a glance or wink, or some more subtle signal that says ‘at least we understand’ to a complete stranger. It works to disarm women, but it also works on men. I usually see it coming, from the casual touching and standing a little too close to seeing them drive past me as I walk home. There’s nothing quite so depressing as peering into a car as it goes by in the rain. There used to be arguments. Once, when I still cared enough, I struggled with a man on wet grass until he scrambled away, leaving me with a broken nose. It’s amazing how sticky blood is when it’s on your hands.

I wouldn’t have chosen the marriage for myself, not like that. We used to scream at each other, and twice she locked me out of the house. Maybe I should have left, but I didn’t. Some people just don’t, and I can’t give you a better reason than that. I loved her then. I love her now. I know she’s scared of a thousand things – of growing old, of having children. I tell myself she takes these men into our bed when she can’t bear herself any longer and that sort of lie helps more than you might think. These days I just don’t ask her about the nights she spends away. I don’t let her come to bed until she’s washed the scent off her, and somehow we get by, year after year. I love her and I hate her, and if you don’t know how that works I really envy you.

When I was twenty-two I went with Carol to a club in Camden. I’ve known her forever, you know. My brother was with us and he had a pretty thing named Rachel on his arm, a girl who danced every Saturday at the club. She wasn’t paid for it, but they had a raised stage there and no one objected to the sight of her moving as well as she did.

That club was almost completely dark and heavy with heat and music. Whenever you thought you could catch a breath, a dry ice machine would kick in and the dance floor would fill with choking whiteness. We got ourselves drunk on large bottles of Newcastle brown ale, and when the right tune came on we climbed onto that raised section to join her. It was larger than I realized and there were people against the wall behind us as we stamped and cheered. It was hotter than you’d believe and I had my shirt off, but I was slim enough and young enough not to give a damn what anybody thought.

Some of that evening goes and comes in flashes, but I do remember my brother’s girlfriend whipping her hair round and round next to me, so that it struck my chest and shoulders hard enough to sting. I loved it.

A man came out of the shadows by the back wall and asked Carol to dance. He was short and slim and swayed slightly as he stood there. I could see he was drunk and I didn’t think he was a threat, just as I missed Denis Tanter on that first night. Maybe that’s my problem. I just don’t see these people coming.

Carol shook her head in that sweetly apologetic way she has and pointed to her loving husband, spoken for, sorry, you know how it is. He stared where she pointed before shrugging and turning away. That should have been it.

I didn’t realize anything was happening until I was struck on the back of the head. Have you ever been knocked with very little force and had it hurt like you were on fire? There are pressure points all over your body, like little traitors to your self-esteem. The way that drunk hit me was the exact opposite. I felt it had been really hard, but somehow it didn’t hurt at all. I looked around in confusion, thinking I had been bumped by someone passing by. The little bastard was standing directly behind me, his eyes shining in the strobe lights. It was Carol who shouted over the noise of the music that he’d tried to butt his head into mine.

He was completely blank with drink, and as he grinned at me I suddenly couldn’t bear it. I shoved him in the chest with both hands and he fell flat at the feet of a dozen strangers. I remember thinking that if he got up I’d have to jump down from the stage and lose myself in the crowd. I don’t fight people in clubs. I refuse to be ashamed of the fact that I don’t enjoy the rush of panic adrenalin the way others seem to.

My heart was beating so fast that I felt lightheaded and ill. Acid came into my mouth and I swallowed hard, wincing. Carol came to stand at my shoulder and the pair of us looked down at him. He still looked harmless as he lay sprawled and his grin never faltered. Even then, even though he’d gone for me already, I didn’t think he was dangerous.

My brother had managed to miss all the excitement with a trip to the bar. By the time he returned, Carol and I had moved quietly to one side of the little stage, with a solid wall to our backs. I’ve said I didn’t think he was a threat, that little man, but I didn’t want to dance with my back to him, either. My brother didn’t know anything about it, of course. He passed out the drinks and carried on dancing and whooping with the crowd. God, we were young then. He’d taken off his shirt as well, even prouder of his wiry frame than I was of mine.

I saw my attacker coming out of the darkness. My brother was dancing where I had been dancing and he was dressed almost exactly the same. The man smashed a bottle over the base of his skull and the two of them hurtled off the stage to the dance floor, parting the crowd as they fell.