Fat Charlie blew his nose. “I never knew I had a brother,” he said.

“I did,” said Spider. “I always meant to look you up, but I got distracted. You know how it is.”

“Not really.”

“Things came up.”

“What kind of things?”

“Things. They came up. That’s what things do. They come up. I can’t be expected to keep track of them all.”

“Well, give me a f’rinstance.”

Spider drank more wine. “Okay. The last time I decided that you and I should meet, I, well, I spent days planning it. Wanted it to go perfectly. I had to choose my wardrobe. Then I had to decide what I’d say to you when we met. I knew that the meeting of two brothers, well, it’s the subject of epics, isn’t it? I decided that the only way to treat it with the appropriate gravity would be to do it in verse. But what kind of verse? Am I going to rap it? Declaim it? I mean, I’m not going to greet you with a limerick. So. It had to be something dark, something powerful, rhythmic, epic. And then I had it. The perfect first line: Blood calls to blood like sirens in the night. It says so much. I knew I’d be able to get everything in there—people dying in alleys, sweat and nightmares, the power of free spirits uncrushable. Everything was going to be there. And then I had to come up with a second line, and the whole thing completely fell apart. The best I could come up with was Tum- tumpty- tumpty- tumpty got a fright.”

Fat Charlie blinked. “Who exactly is Tum- tumpty- tumpty- tumpty?”

“It’s not anybody. It’s just there to show you where the words ought to be. But I never really got any further on it than that, and I couldn’t turn up with just a first line, some tumpties and three words of an epic poem, could I? That would have been disrespecting you.”

“Well—”

“Exactly. So I went to Hawaii for the week instead. Like I said, something came up.”

Fat Charlie drank more of his wine. He was beginning to like it. Sometimes strong tastes fit strong emotions, and this was one of those times. “It couldn’t always have been the second line of a poem, though,” he said.

Spider put his thin hand on top of Fat Charlie’s larger hand. “Enough about me,” he said. “I want to hear about you.”

“Not much to tell,” said Fat Charlie. He told his brother about his life. About Rosie and Rosie’s mother, about Grahame Coats and the Grahame Coats Agency, and his brother nodded his head. It didn’t sound like much of a life, now that Fat Charlie was putting it into words.

“Still,” Fat Charlie said, philosophically, “I figure that there are those people you read about in the gossip pages of newspapers. And they are always saying how dull and empty and pointless their lives are.” He held the wine bottle above his glass, hoping there was just enough of the wine left for another mouthful, but there was barely a drip. The bottle was empty. It had lasted longer than it had any right to have lasted, but now there was nothing left at all.

Spider stood up. “I’ve met those people,” he said. “The ones from the glossy magazines. I’ve walked among them. I have seen, firsthand, their callow, empty lives. I have watched them from the shadows when they thought themselves alone. And I can tell you this: I’m afraid there is not one of them who would swap lives with you at gunpoint, my brother. Come on.”

“Whuh? Where are you going?”

“We are going. We have accomplished the first part of tonight’s triune mission. Wine has been drunk. Two parts left to go.”

“Er—”

Fat Charlie followed Spider outside, hoping the cool night air would clear his head. It didn’t. Fat Charlie’s head was feeling like it might float away if it wasn’t firmly tied down.

“Women next,” said Spider. “Then song.”

It is possibly worth mentioning that in Fat Charlie’s world, women did not simply turn up. You needed to be introduced to them; you needed to pluck up the courage to talk to them; you needed to find a subject to talk about when you did, and then, once you had achieved those heights, there were further peaks to scale. You needed to dare to ask them if they were doing anything on Saturday night, and then when you did, mostly they had hair that needed washing that night, or diaries to update, or cockatiels to groom, or they simply needed to wait by the phone for some other man not to call.

But Spider lived in a different world.

They wandered toward the West End, stopping when they reached a crowded pub. The patrons spilled out onto the pavement, and Spider stopped and said hello to what turned out to be a birthday celebration for a young lady named Sybilla, who was only too flattered when Spider insisted on buying a birthday round of drinks for her and for her friends. Then he told jokes (“—and the duck says, put it on my bill? Whaddayathink I am? Some kinda pervert?”) and he laughed at his own jokes, a booming, joyful laugh. He could remember the names of all the people around him. He talked to people and listened to what they said. When Spider announced it was time to find another pub, the entire birthday group decided, as one woman, that they were coming with him—

By the time they reached their third pub, Spider resembled someone from a rock video. He was draped with girls. They snuggled in. Several of them had kissed him, half-jokingly, half-seriously. Fat Charlie watched in envious horror.

“You his bodyguard?” asked one of the girls.

“What?”

“His bodyguard. Are you?”

“No,” said Fat Charlie. “I’m his brother.”

“Wow,” she said. “I didn’t know he had a brother. I think he’s amazing.”

“Me, too,” said another, who had spent some time cuddling Spider until forced away by the press of other bodies with similar ideas. She noticed Fat Charlie for the first time. “Are you his manager?”

“No. He’s the brother,” said the first girl. “He was just telling me,” she added, pointedly.

The second ignored her. “Are you from the States as well?” she asked. “You’ve sort of got a bit of an accent.”

“When I was younger,” said Fat Charlie. “We lived in Florida. My dad was American, my mum was from, well she was originally from Saint Andrews, but she grew up in—.”

Nobody was listening.

When they moved on from there, the remnants of the birthday celebration accompanied them. The women surrounded Spider, inquiring where they were going next. Restaurants were suggested, as were nightclubs. Spider simply grinned and kept walking.

Fat Charlie trailed along behind them, feeling more left-out than ever.

They stumbled through the neon-and-striplight world. Spider had his arms around several of the women. He would kiss them as he walked, indiscriminately, like a man taking a bite from first one summer fruit, then another. None of them seemed to mind.

It’s not normal, thought Fat Charlie. That’swhat it’s not. He was not even trying to keep up, merely attempting not to be left behind.

He could still taste the bitter wine on his tongue.

He became aware that a girl was walking along beside him. She was small, and pretty in a pixieish sort of way. She tugged at his sleeve. “What are we doing?” she asked. “Where are we going?”

“We’re mourning my father,” he said, “I think.”

“Is it a reality TV show?”

“I hope not.”

Spider stopped and turned. The gleam in his eyes was disturbing. “We are here,” he announced. “We have arrived. It is what he would have wanted.” There was a handwritten message on a sheet of bright orange paper on the door outside the pub. It said on it, Tonight. Upstair’s. KAROAKE.

“Song,” said Spider. Then he said, “It’s showtime!”

“No,” said Fat Charlie. He stopped where he was.

“It’s what he loved,” said Spider.

“I don’t sing. Not in public. And I’m drunk. And, I really don’t think this is a really good idea.”