My Brother's Secret by Dan Smith

to see a pair of shoes close to my face. Shiny black shoes.
    ‘… hear me?’
    Someone put a hand on my shoulder and shook me. He seemed fuzzy, my head was a jumble and my vision was blurred.
    ‘Are – you – all – right?’ the smart-suited man asked as I turned onto my back and sat up.
    There was blood on my palms and little black spots of grit under my skin. My knees were the same, and as soon as I looked at them, they started to throb with pain.
    A few people had stopped on the opposite side of the road to see what had happened. Some had come to the windows of their houses when they heard the crash, or had ventured outside and waited by open doors, but none of them came to help. None of them came near except for the man in the suit.
    ‘Do you always rush out into the road without looking?’ Every word seemed to drip with poison.
    I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘Well, I don’t think “sorry” is going to fix my car, is it?’ He waved a hand at the vehicle and I looked across to see a faint dent in the shiny bumper. Hardly much more than a scratch.
    ‘Or your bicycle,’ he said.
    My bike was lying a few metres away, at the side of the road, the front wheel bent out of shape.

    ‘It can go for scrap,’ the man said. ‘To help the war effort.’ He turned around and looked at the people on the other side of the road. ‘Someone bring this boy a damp cloth and a glass of water.’
    For a moment, no one moved. They stared at the man in the suit, then glanced at one another.
    ‘Come on then,’ he snapped. ‘One of you. Get on with it.’
    It was as if the man in the suit had reached out and slapped them each on the face. Suddenly, they were breaking apart; some of them going back into the houses, others rushing towards the shop on the corner.
    ‘We haven’t met,’ he said, looking down at me. ‘So perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Gerhard Wolff. Kriminalinspektor Gerhard Wolff.’
    The man from the Gestapo.

TRUTH AND LIES
    K riminalinspektor Wolff didn’t help me to the car so much as drag me to it. He took one of my arms, hauled me to my feet, and marched me towards the glimmering Mercedes.
    ‘Don’t get in until you’re clean,’ he said, opening the rear door and sitting me down on the edge of the rim. ‘This car was just washed this morning. Now, let me see your hands.’
    I hesitated.
    ‘Your hands, boy, hold them out.’
    I put them both out in front of me, palms to the road, but Wolff continued to stare at me.
    His eyes were like steel. Hard and grey and cold. Hisnose was slightly crooked as if it might have once been broken, and his lips were thin. He had a strong jaw and his forehead was lined with experience. His blond hair, flecked with grey, was neatly combed into a side parting. His suit was clean and well pressed, and he carried a strong sweet smell of aftershave.
    When he looked down at my hands, he took a pair of black-rimmed spectacles from his pocket and put them on, leaning closer. ‘Turn them over.’
    I did as I was told.
    ‘Tell me about this.’ He pointed at the white blobs on my fingertips. ‘Have you been painting?’ He looked at me as if he could see right inside me.
    ‘No, I …’
    ‘The truth,’ he said.
    ‘I touched the wall. In the alley. There was a flower.’
    ‘Was it you?’ he snapped. ‘Have you been painting walls?’
    ‘No, sir. I promise.’
    ‘Turn out your pockets.’
    I dug into the pockets of my shorts and pulled them inside out to show him they were empty apart from my penknife with the broken handle.
    ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Twelve, sir.’
    He stood straight and stared down at me, with his eyes narrowed and his thin lips held tight together as if he were deciding whether or not to eat me.
    ‘Stay where you are.’
    Kriminalinspektor Wolff walked around to the front ofhis car to inspect the damage. Standing with hands on his hips, he shook his head, distracted only when a woman approached him, carrying a glass of