The next weekend, Zeph and his father looked at each other warily across the breakfast table.
"May I be excused please," Zeph asked, deciding to risk it.
"Not yet, Zephyr," his father replied sternly. "Your mother hasn't finished eating yet. You know that it isn't polite. I was thinking that we could do something together today. Your dear mother suggested that we make a weather vane for the shed roof. It would make a nice ornament if it was well done, and I don't trust those shoddy, shop affairs." Zeph looked at him, looked at his mother and hastily agreed,
"That sounds great dad, really great."
"Don't call him 'dad', Zephyr dear," his mother said. "You know he doesn't like it."
"Sorry Mother, sorry Father. I apologize for my rudeness."

Zeph thought longingly about his brother while he waited impatiently for his mother to finish her fifth slice of toast. Rick had always been so kind to him - and even their father had liked him. He had been tall for his age, muscular, with blond hair that had been bleached by the sun on their holiday to Australia that Christmas, and blue eyes that twinkled with happiness the whole time. Zeph remembered his favourite green sweatshirt and baggy jeans. The younger boy had them now, but he never wore them. They hung by themselves in the wardrobe, along with everything else Zeph had of his. Godric been kind, helpful, brotherly, a real friend to his younger brother. Rick had been older by five years, so Zeph had been small when he had died, but he could still remember how happy the house had been.

One day, Rick had left for school in the morning, just as he had done every day. He went to the local comprehensive then, and he had a huge crowd of friends that were always in and out of the house. The first Zeph knew about his death was when he hadn't returned from school at four o'clock as he normally had. Rick had promised to help him build a model aeroplane with him, so Zeph had been waiting eagerly by the door. At five, his mother had rung the police. Zeph hadn't understood what was happening until the memorial service they'd held in the church. All they'd ever found of his beloved brother had been his old leather school shoes and satchel. It was assumed that the body had been dropped into the river and swept out to sea with the tide. Nothing had been the same since.

* * * * * * *

A few months later, Zeph was helping his father fix the new weather vane to their shed roof. They'd spent the whole summer (or at least the whole summer since the mysterious letter came) making it together. It hadn't been nearly so boring as Zeph had anticipated, and he'd even begun to enjoy it and like being with his father.

Fred was perched precariously on the roof, waiting with a hammer to nail the product of their labors onto the stout post they'd attached for it. Zeph climbed nimbly up the ladder, the strange, chicken shaped weather vane clutched in one hand, and handed it proudly to his father. A few blows to the nails and it was on. Zeph looked at it, very pleased with the result
"It's very good, Zephyr, isn't it?" his father said, looking happy for once. "If only we had some wind today, then we could see that it worked properly. Still, we mustn't be disappointed. Maybe tomorrow will be more favorable in the way of wind.

Zeph was thinking wistfully that based on today's dead calm, there was no chance of wind today or tomorrow, when his dad suddenly clutched desperately for the edge of the shed. Fred threw himself flat on his face on the roof of the little structure, as if buffeted strongly by a sudden gust of wind. The new weather vane was torn violently from its secure fastenings and Zeph watched, amazed and horrified, as it smashed beyond repair on the ground. Then it was calm again. He hadn't felt a thing, and couldn't understand what was happening.
"How could you do that, boy?!" his father screamed at him from about ten centimeters away, climbing roughly down the ladder. "You almost killed me! What are you, some freak! You should be in a mental home! You're as bad as your aunt; if I thought the police would believe me, I'd have you sent to prison, believe me I would!"

Zeph stared at him. What had he done wrong? It had all been going so well until then and now he was suddenly being blamed for something he hadn't done. He'd never try to kill his father, never, however much he disliked him, would he? Zeph took a shaky step back from his father's red, angry face, burst into tears and fled inside, up the stairs to his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him and wedged it shut. His father was raging downstairs - he could hear him.

The boy cried himself out with his head buried in his pillow to muffle the sounds. He wouldn't give his parents that satisfaction. When the pillow was soggy, and he was finally calmed down, although with a splitting headache and sore, swollen eyes, he made up his mind. He was obviously not wanted here at all, so he'd leave, right now. He found his large school rucksack and packed some clothes and the total content of his piggy bank. Then he slipped down the stairs, past the dining room door where sounds of his mother having hysterics and his father shouting could be clearly heard, and out the front door.

Zeph wandered mournfully down to the local park. It was quiet today, probably because of the wet, grey, cold weather. The plain grassy field that composed most of the so-called park was deserted but for a solitary keeper miserably mowing the shaggy grass. The ducks had the pond to themselves and the playground in the corner had only a single mother and child there, both well wrapped up against the chilly October rain. A drop of water trickled down Zeph's nose as he sat on one of the cold, graffiti covered metal benches. He shivered. If only he had a better mackintosh, or better still an umbrella. It was too late now, but he'd only just discovered that his old coat leaked quite badly.

It was lonely, just sitting there on his own. Zeph could feel his feet and hands starting to go numb. He set his shoulders grimly. He wouldn't go back now, they didn't want him and there was nothing for him there.