'Where've you been?'

'I've been here.'

'All this time?'

He thinks for a long while. He listens.

'Yes,' he says. 'A part of me has been here all this time.'

There's only a few dozen left now and I turn and exit along with them. Off they all go to their coaches and their cars, and off I go to the sea. It's a short walk to the beach, a thin spit of coa.r.s.e sand and white polished pebbles, holding back the whole of the ocean. And I just want to dive right into it; to rip off my clothes and to swim.

It isn't as calm as I would have liked, the fat waves b.u.t.ting me awkwardly from side to side, making me shiver in my bra and knickers. I spread out on my back, floating, floating, while the waves break over my face. Perhaps Kay found him, perhaps he's OK, perhaps she was right and he went to Kennedy. Maybe he's with them both now, her and Julian; hugging them, holding them, beginning his small world of repairs. But Pinhead, I know you were out here. I know you stood out here in Jetty Park. It would have been just like you, you stubborn b.a.s.t.a.r.d. To rest on that very same spot. To look out in that self-same direction. To visit the last place you stood with your father and replay that moment in your head. I failed you. I missed you. Didn't we always? I stuttered. I looked the wrong way.

I swim farther outhead down, arms tightuntil all of my muscles ache and burn. They tell me to turn back, to return to the beach, but my head just tells me to keep on going. I stop for a breath when my lungs force me up, and when I surface the sh.o.r.e seems very far away. I could keep on going, I want want to keep on going; the sea feels so warm, so obliging. to keep on going; the sea feels so warm, so obliging.

I bob up and down to get my breath back while the sun beats down on my head. I feel tired and small and alone and incapable, and I want to close my eyes and go to sleep. When I open them againmy lids sore and stinging from saltI spot a cargo boat sailing for the horizon, heading east; its narrow bow slung low in the water. I don't know where it's going, where it's headed, what it's called, but it's justwell, it mightthose figures on the deck, it could be them. It's possible I did a good thing today; there's a chance that I made two people happy. If they did what I said, if they called the right people; if they got there in time, then who knows.

They can't see me waving, but still I wave. Splashing the water, spoiling the surf, warming my muscles and my heart. Some energy from somewhere skids through my bones and suddenly it feels like I'm swimming. For home, for the sh.o.r.e.

A man has broken off from one of the j.a.panese tour groups that were in the park and he's wandering towards me now, along the beach. I'm drying myself off with my T-shirt, wondering if my underwear is see-through, grabbing at my jeans and my shoes. He nods, he doesn't speak good English. I ask him if he saw the rocket launch. Yes, he liked it. It was his first and only one; he took pictures of it on his digital camera. What happened to his group, is he lost? Lost? He doesn't understand the word. I explain it to him in j.a.panese. He smiles, he doesn't think he's lost. But their coach is delayed. It's being held up, they don't seem to know for how long.

'What's the problem?' I say, pulling my T-shirt over my head, 'Why can't your tour bus leave the park?'

'No point,' he says. 'The road is full of problems outside.'

I'm gone in an instant. Long before he tells me it's a traffic jam.

A Light As Sharp as Lemons What rage there is brewing outside this park today: the honking and spitting and railing of horns, men and women out of their cars. They have their arms in the air and their fists, and their mouths are wide open, full of shouts. They curse and moan and stand close to one another, like they might spill over into blows. Is this what it was like when the shuttle went down? Were people in a rage like this, that day? Or had the disaster neutered and tempered them a while; left them thoughtful, unsettled and perplexed. These people aren't asking any questions. There is nothing they are fighting to comprehend. They want revenge, pure and simple. They are all for making rash decisions.

'What is it?' I say. 'What's the hold up?'

'Man up ahead, on the road.'

'Crazy f.u.c.k. I hope they run him over. Run him down, man man. I need to get back to work.'

Somebody laughs and an engine revs. Another man shouts run the f.u.c.ker down run the f.u.c.ker down. I don't think they'll do it, not on purpose, but I do think there's a chance he might die. I hear cars swerving and skidding up ahead. There's been one crash already, a saloon car has rear-ended a mobile home and the exit ramp is stuffed shut and blocked. That's where he was. That's what they tell me. The exit ramp is where he broke onto the road. And now what? Where is he now? Out on the main highway? It can't be possible; there is no way on earth he could survive it.

I don't have the physical strength. I am disjointed, un-athletic, not so tough. He always had a rhythm, what was it? Arms then legs, legs then arms; head, neck and torso impossibly still. I force my forearms like pistons but they still feel weak from the swim. I dredge some adrenalin from my organs, hammer my legs into the ground. I take off onto the tarmac, directly into the line of the oncoming traffic. I'm right through the barrier. I'm flying.

'Now there's two of them...s.h.i.t,' says the man on my left. 'f.u.c.k, lady. Get off the road! road!'

I have the right shoes: my white trainers. I have the right T-shirt: canary yellow. They can see methere's no doubtthey can all see me coming, they can hear my lungs crying for gas. I'm shouting, I think I must be shouting. Warning the traffic, warning the road, screaming for everything to stop. Slow down, can't you? Daniel, Daniel Daniel. Why do you have to run so fast? There is nowhere to go to, no place left to run, no possible spot he can hide. But there is, of course. If he could just go one step faster, if he could just make better time; he could twist his entire world back to front. It would shift on its axisnorth to south, south to northand turn its face up to a different set of stars. He'd make the years and the days and the minutes slip away, and somehow he'd be back where he started: back on this same stretch of tarmac, back on this very same road, and this time, this this time, he'd make it. time, he'd make it.

Because he's trained for this moment, I know it. Every minute of every day since he got here. Out on the beach, to the north of Sunny Isles, grinding his body back into shape. Hours of it, days of it, the wrath of it, the pain of it; until he was immune to the strain. One week, two weeks, morning and evening and now he has speed over distance. His blood is thick with protein. His muscles are sinewy and strong. His lungs and his heart run in unison, and they beat together sweetly, like a clock. So how can I catch him? How will I reach him? I can't. I can't I can't.

'I need it, please please.'

'It's brand new.'

'I'll bring it back. I promise. I'll bring it back.'

'Get on. Get up here. I'll drive you.'

The motorbike growls like an animal as the driver fights to control it; turning it quickly, redirecting its wheels towards the oncoming traffic. He's working it now and it's looser, more liquid, and look how it weaves in and out. We don't scratch the bonnets, we don't skid or fall; we sew the dense traffic like a needle. I can see something ahead of us, a body, a figure? How is he so rigid, so straight? He looks neither to the right nor the left. He takes no avoiding action at any time. He leaves it to the cars, to the drivers; he is dependent on the sheer grace of others. He runs like he doesn't begin to see them. He chews up the centre of the road. His feet come down faster and faster, powered by instinct, some ancient engine. He runs like a rocket, higher, higher. We're gaining on him now and then we're not. A truck is stopped sideways, directly in front of us, and we can't get around it. And then we can.

On the other side, I can't see him. We pull the bike up on the hard shoulder, stall and shut down its engine. My eyes scan the road, forwards, backwards; over to the right then to the left. I walk along the road with my mouth held open; slowly, awkwardly, unable to comprehend what just happened. Maybe he actually did it, the f.u.c.ker. Maybe he ran so fast he went back in time.

'Did you see where he went?'

'The runner?'

'The runner.'

'Went over the embankment just there. Came to this spot and stopped dead. Went over the railing, crazy f.u.c.k.'

Over the lip of the embankment stands the body of my crazy f.u.c.king brother. He's staring at a length of road that runs below us, a tributary to the main highway. The traffic isn't slow here, it's moving along fast, and the cars are flying like bombs. He's edging towards it, to the bottom of the verge, trying to work out where it was. That's right, of course course, it must have been down there. That's where the family car stopped. And on he goes towards it and I'm running down towards him, a hundred metres take a million seconds. I'll never get down there, my body is collapsing, stabbing me, whipping me with the effort. He's not looking, I know know he's not looking. He'll step out onto the asphalt and he'll die. he's not looking. He'll step out onto the asphalt and he'll die.

My voice. I think he hears my voice. Daniel, I say to him. Daniel! Daniel! I scream. Nothing. Nothing. No response. I scream. Nothing. Nothing. No response. Pinhead Pinhead, you f.u.c.king pinhead. Do you hear me? His legs bend and buckle by the kerb. Pinhead, I'm telling you to stop! Pinhead, I'm telling you to stop! And he does. Miraculously he does. And I pull him and shove him to the ground. And for a moment, for a momentfor a moment the universe stops turning. And he does. Miraculously he does. And I pull him and shove him to the ground. And for a moment, for a momentfor a moment the universe stops turning.

We are salty and smothered like newborns, both of our bodies drenched in sweat. His face is rough and unshaven, peppered with specks of white and grey. We are old and young all at once. I hold his hand like I did when we were children, except this time it's me drawing him to safety. Across the haunted landing, from the dangers of this highway, through the traffic to the gentle gra.s.sy incline. We collapse onto the knoll, our legs made of fabric, my lungs screaming louderso much louderthan his. My heart is attacking me, beating me up: angry, affronted, alarmed. The sun shines down on us even so, feeding us filling us up.

'Are you OK?'

'I'm not.'

'I mean your legs. Are you OK to walk.'

'I'd rather stay here.'

'You don't want to move?'

'No, I don't want to move.'

We're drying from the heat, we're congealing. We can see the horizon in the distance; we can hear the faint spill of waves.

'How beautiful it is out here.' I say. 'The sea a deep religious blue...'

'The light as sharp as lemons.'

The Best We Can Do.

As soon as he's able to stand I drag him away from the hard shoulder and down through the embankment to the trees. There are police sirens giddy on the highway and we need a place we can both sit still and hide. They can't see us, it's too dense in these mangroves; we are a couple of runaways in the gloom. We stop. We don't say much of anything. My brother's face is blood-drained and grey; cracked up, broken and tear stained. He mutters under his breath. 'I could have made it. I would have made it. I should have run, run, run runfaster, faster faster.' This is what he thinks. This is what he says. This is most of what he says before he sleeps. I tell it to him over and over while he dreams. It wasn't you. It wasn't your fault.

All is reordered when Daniel wakes up, the traffic noise restored to a roar. No one came looking for us here, which doesn't mean they won't, but life has pushed forward without us. My brother rubs his head and asks for water. I have a packet of Juicy Fruit squashed in my pocket. I hand it to him; it's the best I can do. We sit back together against a tree stump: silent, reflective, chewing gum. Listening to the traffic. Listening for bird sounds in the trees.

'Why did you find me?'

'You mean how did I find you?'

'No.'

'That's a stupid question.'

'Is it? I wish you'd just left me, let me go.'

'f.u.c.k you, Daniel. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.'

He blanches, hallelujah; a reaction, a response. The slamming down of a mash-potato-covered fork.

'Is that what you think, that I'm sorry for myself?'

'Aren't you?'

'No. No, I'm not.'

He lowers his head. He looks so empty.

'Hey...I didn't mean it. It's going to be all right, it's...OK.'

He tries hard to smile, but he can't.

'How did you find me?'

'You mean why?'

'No, Claire. How did you find me?'

There are a lot of answers I could give. I choose this one.

'I don't know. I was lucky. I spoke the right languages, I sniffed you out. I talked to a lot of different people. The j.a.panese waitress at the restaurant, some German guy at the shipping line, the Russian sailor at the docks-'

'You spoke to Alexi?'

'I met him.'

'He was rude to you?'

'Exceptionally.'

'Helpful?'

'Eventually.'

Daniel's lips twitch, half a smile.

'What was it like?'

'On the ship? I was seasick...I puked up a lot.'

That's all he says. He drifts off, I'm losing him and he's gone again. I desperately try to bring him back.

'And when I got out here...then I went to our old apartment. I went everywhere I thought you might be. I went to the port and the beach where we used to swim and I met this old man who'd seen you running, and...I saw the meteor shower, you were there at the park...I just missed you, and I ended up at the Blue Hotel. Dad's Dad's hotel.' hotel.'

The mention of our father brings the pain flooding back and Daniel retches and clings to his stomach.

'I have an ulcer,' he says. 'Just like his.'

'Does it hurt?'

He winces. He breathes in and out.

'He thought it was heartburn, that's what he thought. He thought it was a bad dose of heartburn.'

I shake my head. I don't know what he's talking about.

'When we were out in the car,' Daniel says. 'On the way home from the launch. He thought he had indigestion, he took a Rennie. I was so f.u.c.ked off with him...so f.u.c.ked off off.'

I put my arm round my brother's shoulder. He shakes it off.

'You never talked about it.'

'No. Well, I couldn't.'

'Was it really that bad. All this time?'

'Yes,' he says, quietly. 'It really was.'

'You couldn't have run any faster,' I say. 'You couldn't have done any more. You did all you could. You were a hero, that's what they said. No one's ever doubted what you did.'