His behaviour in the first part of term had left serious problems in its wake, and he spent much of his time shuffling between tutor, dean and bank manager in an effort to avoid being sent down. He looked awful, and the receding waters of the drugs had sucked away the last of his charm. It became apparent that the things that had been making him ill had also been sustaining his wit, and so his efforts to arrest his descent seemed like a pyrrhic victory. His boxer’s body seemed to have become both loose and small at the same time. He no longer walked the way he used to, bounding backwards and forwards to every point of interest, covering two miles for every one we actually travelled, but took slow, methodical steps with his gaze fixed on the pavement. His grace was all used up, and at mealtimes he fumbled his cutlery with a regular clatter that made other diners tut. His eyes were round and red around the dark centres, bloodshot like a Bedouin’s from the desert. He had begun to see Michael again, and he had not mentioned the fact to us. Jessica had seen them drinking together at our old table through the fish-tank window of the Copper Kettle.

In the penultimate week of term he came to see us in the early evening, and told us that he had been for a consultation with a psychiatrist, and the college had agreed to allow him to write off his debts and repeat the year in return for a stint in rehab, and commitment to a programme of random drug-testing. The deal was a good one, and a testament to his residual ability to inspire affection. He spoke to us at the University Library. It was only six o’clock, but a bitterly cold night had already settled on the internal courtyard where we went to smoke and chat during breaks. My head was full of quotes and the thread of arguments, and his startling words formed an odd cocktail with the rarefied concerns of my dissertation.

‘Michael has booked me into the Priory. He’s paying for everything. I asked him if Papa was behind it, but he says not. I believe him.’ He smoked as he said this, the cigarette mingling with the steam of his breath. Jessica had finished her fag and blew into her cupped hands, looking at Francis over the tops of her white fingers. I leant back against the cold brick wall and tried to give proper consideration to what he had said. The cigarette in my hand was one of his. Since we had signed over the money he was always trying to do little things for us, despite his penury.

‘I guess that’s good,’ I said at last, ‘if it’s really what you need.’

‘That’s really great, Francis,’ Jessica said. ‘Will you excuse me? It’s too cold for me out here.’

She broke away from us a little faster than seemed natural, and strode with her head down towards the heavy glass door that led back into the warm hive of book-lined corridors. She was so thin now that she had to lean back on her heels and use her whole body to pull it open. I had not noticed how thin she had become under the jeans and jumpers.