‘None,’ I agreed. I had to plant my foot firmly on the floor to stop my off-putting swaying.

‘Chalkie, why are you even bothered?’ Roxy asked, doing my job for me. They get like that when they’re nearing the end of their six weeks, thinking they know it all, it’s sort of lovely. ‘You couldn’t stand him, said he was “a middle-class prick—” ’

‘ “—corrupted by his own privilege”. Same as yourself, nothing personal, like.’ Chalkie’s blue eyes burnt with fervour. ‘But he’s still entitled to a fair hearing.’

Chalkie was a self-educated firebrand from Dublin’s inner city. I wasn’t supposed to have favourites, but if I had, it would have been him. Articulate, angry and compassionate (unless you lived in a leafy suburb, in which case he wouldn’t ‘piss on you if you were on fire’), he was in danger of burning up in his own rage.

With his star quality, he was great at galvanizing his community behind a cause—for example, he took on and won breakfasts for hungry school kids. He did a lot of good. But every now and then—often at the most important part of one of his campaigns—he lapsed and began taking heroin again.

‘Simon broke the rules,’ I said. ‘Twice.’

‘Well, maybe those rules are bullshit.’

At this, Giles began to chafe. A well-heeled cocaine addict in his mid-fifties, he was no fan of Chalkie and his causes. A dazzlingly successful, thirty-year career in advertising had imbued him with the conviction that everyone made their own luck.

‘ “ The most effective way to restrict democracy”,’ Chalkie said—he was quoting somebody, probably Noam Chomsky; it was usually Noam Chomsky, ‘ “is to transfer decision-making from the public arena to unaccountable institutions.” ’

‘Christ.’ Giles recrossed his lanky legs and hissed through clenched teeth.

Chalkie fixed his gaze on Giles. ‘Got a problem, man?’ He paused. ‘Ya tennis-playing prick.’

‘Chalkie.’ My voice was low but very firm. The patients were encouraged to go in hot and heavy when discussing each other’s addictions but gratuitous insults were not okay. ‘Apologize to Giles.’

‘Sorry…’

Giles inclined his head, to demonstrate pained acceptance.

‘. . . for saying you play tennis.’

Giles’s head jerked up again, colour flooding his handsome, bony face.

‘Prancing around in your white shorts, yelping, “Deuce!” ’ Chalkie scoffed. ‘No wonder you got a taste for the snow. The shame, amirite?’

Laughter broke out. Nearly everyone loved Chalkie, that was part of his problem. He got away with far too much.

‘Sorry, Rachel,’ Chalkie said, with a grin. ‘Sorry, Giles.’

Abruptly, Giles began to weep. Entering his fifth week, it was textbook behaviour. His denial was stripped away, his selfishness detailed by everyone in his life, he’d moved through rage and was currently mired in grief.

‘All right, Giles?’ I passed him a tissue.

‘Fine,’ he choked, his face in his hands.