Ray holds the door for William, who is out of breath from the three-flight climb. It took them twenty-five minutes to walk ‘just round the corner’, so it’s already 5.30. The soles of his shoes stick to the lino that curls up in the doorway. Ray flings his bag across the room onto the unmade bed. In the corner is a tiny sink. Against the wall to their right, a camping stove sits on a table, surrounded by dirty plates and dishes. There’s a clothes rail with one jacket on a hanger, but trousers and shirts are draped over the rail. A yellowing net curtain hangs from a wire halfway down the window.

Ray takes off his tie as he kneels next to the iron bedstead that reminds William of boarding school, with its skinny mattress. Ray pulls two bottles from under it, drops them on the blanket, and gets a bottle opener from a basket on the small Formica table. He pops the lids off and passes one to William before he can say no. He’s not a fan of beer, and he doesn’t want the Finches to smell it on him when he returns.

‘Take a seat.’ Ray gestures to the rickety wooden chair next to the table as he sits on the bed and lights a cigarette. Straightening one leg, he pulls a brown envelope from his pocket, bent now into the curve of his thigh. With the cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, he pulls out the question, drops the envelope on the floor, and reads, squinting his eyes against the smoke.

‘I hate this.’

‘What?’ says William, noticing it is now 5.45.

‘Doing this. I thought that’s what I was paying for. They want to get us up to speed as fast as they can to do their dirty work, but we have to learn the difficult stuff on our own.’

‘If you think embalming’s dirty work’ – William takes a swig of beer – ‘I’m not sure you’re going to last.’

Ray drops the paper on the bed next to him and sits forward, towards William.

‘Now I’ve got you to help me, I can’t fail.’

‘Let’s get on with it. I haven’t got long.’ William regrets how mean-spirited he feels when he’s with Ray.

‘Jammy bastard.’ Ray drags on his cigarette. ‘A family to go home to, hot meals. Bet your room’s better than this, eh?’

‘What’s your question?’ William nods at the paper discarded on the bed.

Ray reads it out. It’s the same one William had on his first day.

‘Where’s your Scudamore?’

Ray waves his hand under the bed till it bumps against the book. He pulls it out and bats away the dust on it.

William takes it from him, leafs through it and lays it open on the right page. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘I visualise the arteries like branches of a tree.’