The List

My brother has always had perfect handwriting. When I was twelve hours old he showed my sister a list he’d compiled. It was called ‘How to Get Rid of Her’. He was ten. Pretending to be doing my mother a favour, he took the three-year-old me fishing for sticklebacks in the river. I had a new pink dress and red wellies, successors to the ones my mother had spotted sticking out of the water tank. She always said I’d turned blue before she dragged me out. My brother was watching out of the window. This time he was determined to get it right. I was squatting with my yellow net, fascinated by the weeds and gravel I was dredging when his shadow blinded the sun.
He moved surprisingly quickly for a fat boy. I felt the hard, deft shove of his saggy palm in my back and heard ‘Die bitch, die,’ before the world turned wet. Someone, I doubt if it was him, dragged me out and took me home. My mother did nothing about it.
We went to Scotland that summer. I was engrossed in picking the heather growing at the side of the road. When I refused to get in the car, my dad pretended to drive off. Panicked I fled after the car, screaming. My brother opened the back door to let me in, then slammed it in my face. I still have the scar on my lip. No wonder we went to different schools.
After university, he told me I’d always be inferior. He was thirty-one and newly married. I’d been a bridesmaid. My mother was very proud of her son, her daughters couldn’t keep anyone. She always kept his photos by her side.
We were in Paris when she died. My brother sent me a text, then he phoned. Listening in, John said, ‘I’m sorry, but he’s a twat.’ We didn’t go home.
Her funeral became his show. The superfluous priest stood and watched my brother lead the service. Several mourners were heard to complain how he’d hijacked the day. My sister hasn’t seen him since, I have. I suppose we’re still family.