We came to the village during the worst period of Mark’s life. I don’t know why he agreed to come; I was shocked when I managed to convince him. My brother has always been stubborn, determined to get his own way. Now, that makes the truth even more incomprehensible.

Even when we were relaxing in the hotel I knew something was wrong. While I settled down into the mattress and wrapped myself in a cocoon of blankets, ready to read my book and go to sleep, he would pace around the small bedroom, rattling the door handle to check it was locked. He was constantly complaining his mouth was dry, the only solution being to go along the hall to the water fountain. When he returned, he would lock the door, walk to the window to ensure it was secure, and back to the door again. Eventually, when he went to bed and struggled to fall asleep, having drank so much water he was struck with the urge to go to the bathroom. He would get up, unlock the door, go to the communal bathroom down the hall, return, lock the door, check the window, etc, etc. And so the cycle continued.

He defended the tiny space as if it were an indispensable castle rather than a cramped room in a three-star bed and breakfast. At first, I was merely irritated by Mark’s erratic nighttime routine; dismissed it as mere nerves for what was to come. After all, we had travelled for hours in the car to get here. Dr Campbell is the best psychiatrist we know of, renowned across the nation. I think Mark knew that no one believed him. He had almost come to accept it. When I told him I’d booked us a room and made the plans to come, he reluctantly accepted without protest, no doubt worn out by my relentless reminders that he needed help. Now, I worry that his paranoia could have been an indicator of something more.

He was convinced people were watching him, always phoning me while he was out to tell me where he was and who he was with. At first I thought it was nothing, it seemed like a good thing that he was telling me; he had every reason to be worried, especially after the incident last year. But over time I became more and more doubtful of his tall tales, always ranting and raving about cameras in his house and people following him off the bus on the way to work. I stopped humouring him, tried to tell him that it was nothing, but it seemed he just couldn’t shake the feeling that people were watching him. Nothing and no one was able to convince him otherwise. Eventually I decided enough was enough. I love my brother and wanted nothing more than to help him, and I knew that my blunt confrontation would only push him away.

That’s when I suggested we come to the village.

It seemed like the perfect plan. Book a room, drive for three hours, settle into the hotel, maybe get some takeout and watch TV. However, the morning after we arrived he was increasingly agitated. I tried to calm him down, reassure him that Dr Campbell was only going to help, but the more I tried to console him the more frustrated Mark was. He said he was going for a run, just twenty minutes of fresh air to blow off steam before the meeting. I suggested we could grab a muffin for breakfast and eat in the park, but unsurprisingly he said he wasn’t hungry. Reluctantly, I let him leave and told him to call me when he was on his way back.

That was the last time I spoke to my brother.

It’s been more than a month and no one has seen him. The police said they’re doing all they can but I suspect they’ve given up. No doubt they think he ran away, maybe had another breakdown or got cold feet about the appointment. I would too if I didn’t know any better. But I know my brother. And no matter what he would never, EVER leave me like this, not by choice.

Maybe Mark was right. Maybe there was something sinister going on. Or maybe I’m just going crazy too. Either way, it won’t make much difference now. Regardless of what happened, the result is the same.

I am never going to see my brother again.