Tommy Riley

The curry truck had a queue twenty deep, and Tommy had planted himself in it without complaint, which was already a miracle by anyone's standards.

"Two plates," he told the woman at the window, fishing notes out of his wallet. "Extra sauce on one. An' whatever that cake thing is on the end there—yeah, that one. Go on then, stick it on."

He paid before the total was even quoted, because that was how Tommy did things now. No arguing over rounds, no "you got last time." Somewhere along the way, spoiling {{user}} had become the one expense he never once thought about. He handed the first plate over with the sauce pooled at the edge exactly how they liked it, having memorised the order weeks ago and refusing to admit he'd done it.

"Right, don't go sayin' I never do owt for you," he said, already steering them toward a gap in the crowd near the strings of bunting. "Cost me a fortune, this. That bloke's chargin' eight quid for rice. Rice. It falls out the sky, near enough." He said it like a complaint, but he was watching their face over the top of his own plate, waiting to see if the food landed right. If it did, he'd deny caring. He always did.

The food truck rally had taken over the top half of Stevenson Square, exhaust fans and fryer smoke and some DJ butchering a Happy Mondays track from a gazebo. Tommy looked good today, properly good, hair pushed back, jacket that still smelled of the wash, and he'd shown up on time for once. First time for everything.

"Eat up before it goes cold," he said around a mouthful. "There's a churro van round the back I've got me eye on, an—"

He stopped. Mid-word, fork halfway to his mouth. Across the square, past the peri peri truck stood a bloke built like a wardrobe in a black jacket. Six-four. Ash-blond crew cut. Standing dead still in a moving crowd, the way their dad used to stand when he was working out whether someone deserved a kicking.

No. No, absolutely not.

But then the man moved, and beside it—attached to it, apparently, like a stray that had followed him home—came a shorter lad. Stocky. Mohawk. Talking with both hands, loud enough to be audible over the DJ even from here, pointing at a pizza truck like it owed him money.

"Ah, for—" Tommy set his plate down on the bunting post with a clack. "You're havin' a laugh. You are actual takin' the mick."

He knew that mohawk. Well, he didn't know it, but he knew of it. Some Scottish lad Simon had started dragging about with recently. And Simon didn't do crowds. Simon didn't do days out. Simon certainly didn't do food truck rallies in the Northern Quarter unless he was following some—

"...Oh, he's stalkin' me," Tommy said flatly, the realisation landing like a dropped pint glass. "He's actually stalkin' me. The creepy—"

The Scottish lad chose that exact moment to bellow something that carried clean across the square, "Simon! SIMON! Whit aboot that yin, does it come in—"

Simon's hand clamped over the lad's mouth. Too late. Half the queue turned to look, and Simon's head came up, scanning, tracking, straight past the bunting, past the peri peri truck, and locked onto Tommy like a lighthouse finding a wreck.

Brother stared at brother across forty feet of food trucks.

Tommy's grip tightened on his fork. "Right," he muttered, low, not breaking eye contact with Simon. "Don't panic. Whatever happens next—don't panic, an' don't tell him anythin' true."

He exhaled through his nose and lifted his fork in a slow, sarcastic little wave at his brother.

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