He shook out two. A third fell to the floor and ran for cover among the discarded clothes. He popped them into his mouth and washed them down with a swig from an old glass of water on the windowsill. I considered taking one myself, but decided against it. I did not want to slip away into oblivion before I had digested the evening’s events. He settled himself against the pillows, and after a few moments’ meditative silence he began to speak.

‘He was right, though. I mean, he rather undermined the force of his logic by punching me (so like Papa, that), but he was right.’ He was beginning to sober up, to enter the quiet, oddly lucid period that always came with him after the drugs and before the come-down. The Valium would take about fifteen minutes to work their soothing magic, massaging out the mental knots and cramps that kept Francis awake.

‘Right about what?’ I said, smoothing his forehead with my hand. I felt the rough texture of his curly hair against my palm. He let me do it. It made me wince to see the swelling already starting in his fine features; I felt as if a schoolyard bully had knocked down my younger brother.

‘I do think the world owes me a living. How could it be otherwise? The birds, the lilies, they don’t do any work. No one hassles them.’

‘I think you’re taking that parable a little out of context,’ I said, smiling down at him like a nurse at a recovering patient. ‘Lilies don’t have gambling debts.’

‘You see this picture on my wall?’ He propped himself up on his elbows and cocked his head so that he was looking at the picture upside down.

I looked up at the Tudor Picasso. I was, as ever, amazed and a little disappointed at its blunt reality. To my mind this kind of treasure belonged in museums, or the houses of the incredibly wealthy, and only such locations could provide appropriate context. I preferred to keep the idea of genius as abstract and remote as possible; it gave me something to aspire to whilst alleviating the anxiety of competition with its untouchable nature. The effect of seeing it hanging in partial darkness among the detritus of Francis’s room, with his cracked mirror on one side and a framed Thunderball poster on the other, was like meeting a favourite movie star and discovering that they are much shorter than you had imagined.

‘How much do you think it’s worth?’

I blew out through my lips, and conjured a figure out of the air. ‘Ten million?’

‘Twelve. We must sell it.’ He smiled at his own brilliance and lay back on the pillow. I thought he was joking and smiled back. The two of us grinned at one another in mutual incomprehension. Eventually he seemed to realize, and repeated, ‘We sell it,’ his tone now one of careful explanation.

‘Francis, we don’t own it,’ I said.