So it was Saturday night, and we’d made the blancmange – even though he was too old, even though we knew that if he did laugh it would be only to indulge us – and we’d gone up to bed. Robert had been out all day. He’d said he was studying at a friend’s house, and there wasn’t much I could say to stop him; he was fifteen, after all, and since the change of school and the silence that had followed, I’d felt I shouldn’t question him too much. He knew, though, that he was to be in by eleven.

I remember Kathryn wore pyjamas that night. Stripy pyjamas, with a tassled cord around the waist to keep the trousers up. They were exactly like a man’s pyjamas. She hadn’t announced the fact that she intended to make this switch; she just turned up in a pair that night, tassle dangling over one striped thigh, slipped between the sheets, and opened her novel.

‘Is that pyjamas you’re wearing?’

She nodded, not looking up from her book.

‘They’re new, then.’

‘They’re warm, Howard. And they don’t ride up.’

I switched off the light on my side of the bed, lay my head on the pillow, and watched her read for a few moments. She balanced her novel in one hand, her index finger tucked between the creased paperback cover and the first page.

I wondered if the pyjamas had a slit in the front, like mine. ‘You could have worn mine, if you’d asked.’

She turned a page. ‘I’ve got my own now.’

When I woke, I was sweating, and my hands ached. Kathryn was sleeping, so I knew that Robert must have come in. I flexed my fingers beneath the covers, feeling the tightness in the joints. Probably I had been clenching them in my sleep again. It started around that time, this waking up with my hands feeling stiff, my fingers aching and useless.

I shifted on the mattress, brushing Kathryn’s foot with mine. I’d forgotten about the pyjamas, and was surprised by the feel of the thick hem around her ankle.

Then I heard the tinkling sound that must have woken me.

I raised my head a fraction off the pillow and looked towards the light coming through the crack in the door. There it was again, a faint scraping sound, like metal on metal. I waited, blinking into the darkness. There was a juddering noise. It sounded like a drawer closing.

I swung my legs out of the bed and pushed my feet into the nests of my slippers. I looked back to check Kathryn was still sleeping. All I could see of her was a mess of thick hair on the pillow, unmoving. I pulled on my dressing gown and opened the bedroom door.