Dave, Martin and Marvin are back. They popped round to ask whether I could lend them a teabag. We shared a pot of tea and they talked about their studies. It’s their final year, and they’re planning to really get down to things this time: no more heavy drinking, no more parties, just good old-fashioned studying. By the time they’d left and their guests had begun to arrive next door, they’d somehow managed to deprive me of the three-quarters-full bottle of red wine that was out on the kitchen table, as well as an unopened bottle of white and six beers that were in the fridge.

Saturday September 22nd

Another disturbed night filled with disquieting dreams. Even Dylan has noticed how tired I look. I was expecting another team talk from him but it seems he’s through with the whole motivational-speech business. Stuart’s unflagging positivity has really begun to irritate him, he told me. I sympathised. That kind of relentless cheeriness can wear anyone down.

We began to plan our remaining Saturdays together, while we still have them. We decided that we’d go to the zoo next week. We used to go there a lot, before the break-up with Sophie and before his childlike wonder metamorphosed into something more adolescent and moody.

Today, though, we dripped around indoors. I asked him whether there was any homework I could help him with but he said he’d rather watch a film.

We settled down to watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I put my arm around him. We had nothing to hold on to – except each other.

Sunday September 23rd

The deadline for this quarter’s Well Versed competition is tomorrow. The chosen topic is ‘guilt’. I sat for a few hours mulling this over before deciding to give it a miss this time around.

Monday September 24th

Où est Toby Salt? Il a disparu! Pooof!

He didn’t even make it to his own book launch, by all accounts. The assembled rabble in the bookshop that evening waited two hours for him but he never showed up. They all shuffled off home, dejectedly clutching their unsigned copies of This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave.

I discovered this upon opening the door this afternoon to a magnificent beard, beneath which was a man. The beard was vibrant, well tended, possibly perfumed: everything, in fact, that mine hadn’t been. Its owner introduced himself as DI Lansbury and then nodded at his assistant behind him, a younger, fresh-cheeked figure, who he announced as Detective Sergeant Tuck.

They were making some general enquiries of anyone who happened to have seen Toby Salt in the last month or so. His disappearance had been causing some concern although they assured me there was no reason to view it as suspicious.

I told them I hadn’t seen him since early August, the last time he’d visited Poetry Club. Sergeant Tuck scribbled this down in his notepad.