Synopsis: Draft 3 A lower middle class home on an autumns afternoon.

A boy in his upper teens stands by a sink in a kitchen, finishing washing up several plates. The room is visibly clean and tidy the presence of cleaning products dotted around the room and a broom resting beside a counter suggests its recent cleaning. Once he has finished the washing up, he pulls the gloves off, turns away from the sink and addresses a surface opposite, on which a piece of paper containing a list of Jobs to do before me and Mum come back around the house instructions, signed dad. He takes a pen, which resides beside the paper, and marks a tick by the final instruction, which reads do washing up. The boy rests his palms on either side of his head, stretches his back forward and yawns. He makes his way into the dining room, a relaxed slouch finding its way into his posture. The room, like the kitchen, is readily cleaned. Its centrepiece is a great wooden table, behind it is a fireplace. Above the fireplace is a banner, made using a series of A4 pieces of paper and sellotape. A bold, childish hand has written WELCOME HOME MUMM in brightly coloured felt tip pen, the second M is crossed out. He observes the banner with a smile, and looks down at the table another teenage boy is sitting with his back to the fireplace, an almost theatrical grin on his face. This boy is visibly younger than the other, though not by much: a year perhaps. He is drawing on a piece of paper using a felt tip pen, his eyes locked in a concentrative trance. The older boy watches him draw, and snaps his fingers before long. The younger boys head jolts upwards, his jaw hanging open dumbly, his eyes now vacant and indifferent. His elder smiles at him, and tells him to get dressed, saying that mumll be coming back soon. He obediently nods, leaving his drawing and the room from a door on the other side of the kitchen. He runs up a pile of stairs from the other room. Alone, the older boy makes his way to the table where his brother was sitting, he perches himself on the table, observing the drawing. It depicts a rather crassly drawn stick figure, two long hairs growing from the top of its head. That is labelled mum, below the stick figures feet is a scribble, labelled CanCar. The older brother appears to smirk, and then grimaces soon after. His eyes survey a photograph sitting beside it. Within this photograph, the two brothers are huddled on either side of a bed, upon which rests a pale, sick looking lady. She is smiling, a smile make awkward by the series of tubes and medical apparatus around her. His eyes widen somewhat, though relax soon after. His fingers lift the picture, and overturn it. The boy turns away quickly back into the kitchen, opening the back door and walking into the garden. In the garden, beside the door, is a bench which the boy readily sits on. From his pocket, he pries a cigarette box from which he picks a cigarette, and lights it. He sits there for a matter of moments, taking occasional and long drags from the cigarette. It is too late when footsteps clang into the kitchen, racing upwards through the open door. The cigarette smoke lingers around his mouth when the younger brother re-enters, dressed in a neatly ironed pair of jeans and t shirt. A small silence ensues, in which the brother attempts to throw the cigarette away unnoticed. The boy yells, in a guttering gurgle of a cry that he was smoking, he turns around almost instantly, wailing Im telling mum! gleefully walking away from him. The older brothers face sets in panic: he jolts up, into the kitchen, following his brother. He calls for his name, catches up with him occasionally and grabs his arm, though the younger brother doesnt turn around. He just repeats the phrase Im telling mum, mockingly as he walks away from his brother. They go out of the dining room, into a room which houses the front door and from there into the living room. Each room is equally clean and tidy. When they reach the living room, the older brothers face turns to anger, and he grabs his brothers arm with his left arm, dragging him towards his

face. The older brother now clenches his fist towards his brothers face, the tightness of the grasp forces his fist into a violent shake. Now the younger boy does not speak, he looks onwards, his jaw hanging. They remain in this position whilst the older boy speaks through his teeth, dont ruin this, he says. The younger brother hesitantly nods, though slurs as a response stop smoking. A pause. The older brother nods and his grip loosens. Their bodys morph into a kind of hug embrace, during which their grips continue tightly. A ring on the doorbell.