Brian was sent over to West London for some reason (try as I might I cannot remember who he works for or what he does – just a tedious office job, I assume) and has used the opportunity not to return to the office (wherever that is). For the first time in fourteen years or so we play together and it is an easy way to get along, cheating really, like taking a first date to the cinema. A quick drink afterwards – who can’t make one drink go well? And who can’t sit and play a video game with someone else if that’s what you’re into? And Brian is into it. He never stopped playing them every night. He owns all the consoles and that is how he spends his evenings.
Except he is still rubbish. He plays every night but he never really got good at any of them. It is not in his make-up to excel. Merely to take part and pass time. We play online together against people from around the world and I don’t even mind that the split screen is making it harder and that my Virtual Ranking is dropping because we are getting on and that is a relief.
We play and talk intermittently, short conversations taking minutes, interspersed with cries of frustration or delight. “Hope I’m not interrupting your writing,” Brian says, using a forced break after driving his kart into some lava as an opportunity to push his glasses up his nose.
“I’m not writing today,” I say. “I only write every other day.”
“How come?”
“I can only write when I drink whiskey but I can’t write at all when I’m hung-over. Today is my recovery day.”
Brian pointed at my can of lager. “But you’re drinking now.”
“Yes. I have to drink enough to sleep but not to feel ill tomorrow. It’s a delicate balancing act. It gets easier with practice.”
“Whiskey!” Brian scoffs. He will sip one glass of bitter over the course of the three hours he is in my house. “That’s just a crutch. Have you got some romanticised Hemmingway fixation?”
“Probably,” I say. “You’ve never been drunk.”
“Maybe I should. What’s the most drunk you’ve ever been?”
“Hmmm. That was probably when I went into some restaurant after the pub. You know some places have a tank where you can select the fish you want them to cook you?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I pointed to one – or near one – and said ‘I want that fish please.’ And the man said ‘Sir. That’s just our goldfish bowl.’ There was no way of recovering from that with any dignity. But luckily I was drunk so that wasn’t a concern.”
“Sounds pretty stupid,” Brian says.
“Yes. It is. But you asked me.”
We play in silence for awhile. Then Brian says my name.
“I’m right here,” I say.
“Do you miss Mum?”
“Of course. I know what you’re thinking. Why couldn’t it have been dad, right?”
“No, that’s not what I’m thinking. I just think it’s important that we do miss her.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. She died before her time.”
“She was overweight, though.”
The race has ended and I look at my brother. “I’m saying this because I care, but Brian, do you think maybe you should shed a few pounds? Do some exercise. Eat a bit less.”
Brian reddens. “How about I keep eating and you keep drinking and we’ll see who dies first?”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, taking a gulp.
“It’s funny. I keep thinking back to something that happened when I was about thirteen. You must have been eleven. Remember she took us to Euro Disney? Just after Dad…moved out.”
“Jesus. It’s been called Disneyland Paris for how long now? And you still call it Euro Disney.”
“That’s what it was called then, dickhead.”
“Sorry, carry on.”
“We got on a shuttle bus to take us back to the hotel. It was crowded and when we got on there was one seat left. Mum tried to sit down but this woman stopped her, talking in French and pointing at this man. The man gestured for Mum to sit down but the woman still stopped her. Then Mum forced her over and sat down and the woman punched her on the arm. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah. That was weird. Mum just ignored her.”
“You were probably too young to do anything, but I should have. I just stood there, frozen. Someone punched my Mum and I did nothing.”
“Well, what could you have done? Leaned over and slapped the woman in the face?”
“Maybe I should have.”
“It happened very quickly, Brian.”
“Even so. What would you do if some girl punched Cheryl?”
“Tell you what. If that ever happens, I’ll call you over and we’ll beat the shit out of her, okay?”
We play in silence for awhile. I feel worse than I let on because I know that we were both a few years older than Brian remembers.
I win a race. Brian comes seventh. “I have a favour to ask,” he says eventually.
“Mmm.”
“I’d like to borrow some money.”
I look at him. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just want to do something.”
“If you can’t tell me what for, then, you’re my brother, I’ll do what I can. But it might be nice if you were able to be a little more specific.”
“I need a holiday. I want to get away for a week or two.”
I risk another glance in his direction even though it could send me careering off the track. “Oh really? A holiday? Anywhere nice?”
“The Caribbean, maybe. Anywhere there. I’m not fussy.”
“The Caribbean? Ooh, how lovely.”
“I can sense sarcasm.”
“Oh really? Sorry, I’m just slightly taken aback by someone asking me to fund their tropical beach holiday. You know what most people who want a holiday do? They save up their money for months and months and then pay for it themselves.”
Brian sighed. “Some of us in the family are a little disappointed that you haven’t offered to share some of your success.”
“Success?”
“Okay, you’ve done the all the work, and you deserve it, but Sharon and I weren’t lucky enough to have been born with your talent. And families should stick together. A little sharing with your siblings wouldn’t go amiss, is all I’m saying.”
“Wait. You think I’ve got money? From the book? It isn’t even out yet!”
“Come on, Christopher. You’re having a book published by a major company. There are advances and international sales and stuff. You must be rolling in it. I’ve done my research.”
“Do you know how much my advance was, Brian?” He just looks at me. “Ten thousand pounds. Nothing to be sniffed at, of course. But the days I’ve had to take off from my proper job in the last year to write and re-write mean I’ve made a loss. A significant loss. Why do you think I’d still be living here if I had money?”
Brian looks round at the small flat with damp patches on the wall and the rotting concrete back yard as though this hasn’t occurred to him. “Oh.”
“Mum left enough for a holiday.”
“I don’t want a holiday. I hate holidays. I was just using it as a reason.”
“Listen. If by some miracle my book sells well and I make some money then I will be happy to help out you and Sharon. But in the mean time I have to go into QVC tomorrow and shoot close ups of jewellery until 2am and motivate myself to write on my breaks. Alright?”
“Fair enough.” We carry on playing. “Sharon won’t be happy though. She had her heart set on a new kitchen.”
I shake my head and send a homing missile towards Brian’s kart.
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