The head of the bed was against the wall. A solid wall, load-bearing, a metre twenty thick at the base.
One morning he reached back and his hand went into air. The bed head was two fingers off the wall.
He shoved it back and heard the legs scrape on the floorboards.
The next day, two fingers again.
He took a marker and drew round all four bed legs on the floor. The next morning the legs were outside the circles by two fingers.
He went to the hardware shop and bought four expansion bolts, drilled, and fixed the bed frame to the floor. He pushed it hard with both hands and it did not give.
The next day the bed had not moved.
The wall had. There were still two fingers between the bed head and the wall face, and a gap had opened between the skirting board and the plaster.
He put a finger into the gap. It went in to the knuckle and did not find a back.
He fetched a torch and shone it in.
Behind the gap was not masonry. It was wallpaper on another wall — pale green, with a small scattered floral print. It was the paper they had in the house when he was a child.