The sofa gives way under the weight of my body. I am sinking into it and the sensation is foreign and alarming. I get up quickly and lie instead on the carpet. The moment my head touches the twisted wool, pain erupts, images of that night cascade. The man is standing over her, pressing his weight on her as she kicks and struggles. I can see it from where I am on the floor, but fear or cowardice binds my hands and mouth.

If I had stood up, then what?

The edge of her face flashes before my eyes in the dying light of the fire. Her skin is already flat, pale. The red stain on her shirt is still spreading. It travels until it reaches her neck and then it spills over, pooling in the dips created by her throat. And then it rises and rises until it is up to her chin. It brims over her lips for a second and then her eyes snap open. She screams as the blood fills her mouth.

I open my eyes and catch the ceiling as it begins to drop on to my head. The walls begin to move, too. I have to get out of here.

Once opened, the front door lets in a wave of cold air that forces me to shut it again. I can’t leave in this weather without better clothes and shoes. I go up to the bedroom I slept in and root around the wardrobe there. A few old suits hang from the rail along with a few white and some pastel-coloured shirts. There are some polished Oxfords and Monks at the bottom but nothing you could wear for long in the cold and the wet. There are some brand new walking shoes with the labels still on but I leave them there and try his room instead.

Seb’s room, softly lit, is laced with the scent of lime and basil. I flick the hangers along, looking guiltily for a coat. There are new cashmere and wool ones, but I take a heavy wool one instead. I try it on and find that it fits nicely enough even though he is a little thicker and shorter than me. His clothes, all those chinos and pale shirts, haven’t changed a bit, either. His life has cocooned him.

I worry about taking them but he has more clothes than he can wear. It’s fine. I look down at the brogues and keep tight hold of the thirty pounds of Oyster. At the end of everything, I know he is my friend. Or was my friend. But friends, real ones, like siblings, can’t be lost through the effluxion of time. They are stars, still in their places, whether you look at them or not.