When I get back, Alan Shearer is asleep and Mum tells me not to wake him. My book says that hamsters are ‘crepuscular creatures’ which I think means ‘sleepy’, so I just sit for a bit and watch him sleep. I try accidentally bumping the bit of Hamsterdam where he’s sleeping to see if it wakes him, but it doesn’t.

The letter from my dad is still in my school bag. I am itching to get it out, but at the same time, I don’t dare to, in case I am disappointed.

Steve comes back from work. “Hey, champ,” he says, “glad you like the shirt!” I had put it on to please him. Well, to please Mum really, because I knew that she’d be happy if I liked the thing that Steve had got me.

He goes straight to the TV. Newcastle United Under-21’s are playing in some European game with a team whose name I have forgotten.

“Come on, son – they’re about to kick off!” He pats the sofa next to him.

“You know what, I think I’ll just, um … I’ve got homework to do.” I hold up the memory stick on my key ring that I keep my homework on and back out of the sitting room. It isn’t fast enough to avoid a glimpse of Steve’s crestfallen face.

“But it’s Dortmund! The Germans!” he calls after me, a bit sadly, I think.

That’s the thing with Steve. It’s so obvious that he wants me to be the son he hasn’t got, but even if I was his son, there’s no guarantee I’d like football, is there? I mean, take Daniel Somerset in my old class. His dad does brilliant magic tricks and once made a coloured hankie appear in my pocket at a party. Daniel thought the whole idea of magic tricks was totally lame, but his dad didn’t seem to care, and even went off for weekends with other amateur magicians and didn’t drag Daniel along with him every time.

So I’m up in my room, lying on my bed trying to read Grandpa Byron’s book, and The Letter is now propped up against my clock. By midnight the sixteen hours will be up.

I can’t concentrate on the book. It’s not like it’s boring or anything. It’s just that Grandpa Byron wrote it years and years ago, so the language is a bit difficult, and there are no memory tricks or anything. I haven’t quite grasped it.

So I put the book down carefully, marking the page I’ve got to with a bookmark. Normally I would fold a corner over, but as this is the last remaining book by Grandpa Byron I don’t think he’d like that.

I turn to stare again at The Letter. I stare for ages, then reach out and pick it up, as I lie with my head on the pillow. Dad’s instructions say not to open it until sixteen hours after I receive it. But surely a few hours won’t make a difference?

“Al!” Mum calls from the kitchen. “Dinner!”

I sigh and put the letter down again on my bedside table, then go downstairs.

Because it’s my birthday, Mum has made lasagne. She’s been trying to ring Carly to come back for supper, but she’s got her mobile switched off again. Steve’s phone is on the counter and it pings with a text.

“She’s with that Jolyon Dancey again,” says Mum, reading the screen. I can’t tell whether she’s pleased or not. “Is that her boyfriend?” she asks me.

“How would I know?” Where Carly and Jolyon are concerned, I figure it’s wise to steer a very cautious path.

“I just think it would be nice if she had come home for her stepbrother’s birthday supper.”

I say nothing, using a mouthful of lasagne as cover. Mum has timed the serving up for half-time and Steve joins us.

“Nil-nil,” he says.

I grunt and raise my eyebrows in pretend interest.

Come bedtime, I still haven’t opened The Letter, but I am wide awake when I hear Carly’s key in the door at ten thirty, and then there are raised voices – hers and Steve’s – from downstairs.

By eleven p.m. I’m dizzy with tiredness and I can’t wait any longer. I reach for the envelope from my bedside table, and, one hour sooner than I should, I ease my little finger under the glued-down flap.