You never told me you had a brother. Oh, yeah. Ivan, he’s just a kid. Who could think about such things. Their father alone in the kitchen making up the packed lunch, Nutella sandwiches, an apple wrapped in kitchen roll. Lumpy linoleum floor. No, Peter had a world to conquer. Continental victories, all-time records, academic scholarships. Weekends Ivan spent in Skerries, ashen, speechless, Peter was accepting prizes in foreign countries. Gigantic drive of his determination. Very proud, revengeful, ambitious. With more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in. Take it out on Christine, why not. His own guilt. Also hers. They each had their own happiness to think of. Striving restless spirits, both. Ivan and their father different. Acceptance in their nature: yes, mute bewildered acceptance of life’s inexplicable cruelties. And now not even that. Pointlessly he takes his phone from his pocket again and taps the Contacts icon, scrolls to Ivan’s name. Taps again. For a moment the screen darkens, connecting, and then the signal drops. Call unsuccessful. What does he have to tell him anyway. I just want to say, I’m on your side. I know I’ve never done anything to help you, Ivan, but in principle, in spirit. I’ve been on your side all along.