‘Colin,’ William whispers in his ear, ‘I’m going to tidy you up. Your family are coming.’ In a private room in Addenbrooke’s hospital, there’s no longer any grip to Colin’s fingers and his breathing is shallow. ‘The doctors think I’m bonkers, but who cares?’

Martin holds Colin’s hand while William kneels in the corner with the bulging plastic bag and takes out the newspaper, laying it flat on the floor.

Martin glances from Colin to the photo they’ve propped up on the bedside cabinet. ‘You’ve got your work cut out.’

‘Watch me.’ William rolls one of the towels and angles it under Colin’s head. He hacks off the outer three inches of hair, dropping it onto the newspaper. Dipping his fingers in warm flask water, he teases through what remains, breaking the lugs. Looking every now and then at the photo, he combs it, parts it, and cuts again.

‘How long have I got?’ He asks without looking up.

‘They left London about half an hour ago, so I’d say less than an hour.’

‘What did you say to her?’

‘That Colin had been in an accident and wasn’t going to make it. That I knew the three of them were always on his mind, and if they wanted to say goodbye they should come now.’

William’s hands are still. ‘What did she say?’

‘Once she’d ascertained who the hell I was, she asked what state he was in and would it upset the children.’

‘And?’

‘I told her not to worry about that.’

‘Well done.’ William gets on with the final touches to the hair.

While William tips hot water onto a flannel, Martin leans in towards Colin and starts to sing ‘Myfanwy’. William wipes Colin’s face, rubbing at the corners of his eyes and the encrusted edges of his lips. The skin feels thin and tired against the pull of the flannel. Shaving cream expands like a living thing on his palm. William is soothed by Martin’s voice, the resistance of the stubble to the razor, and the clear path of fresh skin that appears with each stroke.

William trims the eyebrows, then shapes them with his dampened thumbs until they lie sleek and thick, with a touch of grey. Martin’s back at the first verse, but William has no idea how many times he’s sung it. With the remaining water, he washes Colin’s hands, dragging his nails through the bar of soap, then scooping out the gunge with a nail file. He cuts the fingernails down to a slim arch of white. Once the hands are dry, he files each nail. Finally, he dowses the toothbrush in mouthwash and carefully slides it into Colin’s mouth.

Colin looks ten years younger, thinner, smaller. William smooths the left eyebrow again with his thumb and then sits next to the bed opposite Martin.