‘James, would you take him home and see he’s all right?’ she said. ‘I know Lisa has another engagement she can’t miss, and I quite want to get out of this dress and take a shower. It’s been rather a long evening. The debate was fucking awful, Francis, you didn’t miss much. I’ll be in to check on you later.’

We all of us went our separate ways. I helped Francis over the side gate to avoid the photographers by the porters’ lodge.

I moved Francis through his door with my shoulder beneath his, holding him up. The support was not physically necessary, but I felt him trembling and wanted an excuse we could both live with for being close to him. His breath had the sweet reek of booze. The room was in partial darkness, the only light coming from the dim bulb in the standing lamp by the sink. I helped him negotiate the piles of possessions on his floor, finding the bare spaces between the expensive leather shoes that never seemed to be in pairs, the wooden coat hangers imprinted with the names of London tailors, the stacks of books, the silk cushions and the miniature colour-glass tower of the hookah, and then finally, in a drunken stumble, to the unmade bed. He let me lift up his legs by the calves, tilting him gently back on to the pillows, and as I looked at him lying there in a stupor I felt a brief pang of resentment. How dare he deliberately jeopardize our material comfort, the foundations of our fun, by alienating his father? With his eyes closed and his features slack it was as if the lights had gone out in a beautiful building, revealing it to be nothing more than bricks and mortar. I thought what best to do next. The kitchen on his floor was directly opposite on the landing, and Francis had installed a small freezer for the sole purpose of storing cocktail ingredients. It was an ugly little white breeze-block that squatted under the counter. The contents, decadent and expensive, made an odd counterpoint to the functional bareness of the communal kitchen, the stainless steel sink that sounded like a drum when water fell from the taps, the stained and peeling yellow walls flecked with fat from the grill. I went and opened it, and behind a bottle of Angels’ Tears vodka, chilled to a sluggish white syrup, and the ranks of smoky shot glasses there was a plastic sack of ice. I thought about taking through the bottle, but I was afraid he might drink. I tore open the sack of ice and tipped a quarter of the contents into the filthy gingham tea towel. I wound the corners up into a knot, fixed it with a rubber band and brought the whole thing through in a plastic salad bowl, so he would have somewhere to drop it when it began to melt. Francis took the ice pack from me with a total lack of surprise or gratitude, and held it to his rapidly expanding cheek. This practised gesture reminded me that he must be quite used to being hit. With his free hand he groped around on his dressing table until his fingers found a small blue leather cufflink box. It rattled ominously when he picked it up. He flipped the lid to reveal several round speckled pills of unknown vintage, and about ten plain white tablets. Valium.