We all waited, awkwardly, for the ping of the lift.

‘You know, Daddy just wants to get out.’

‘Right,’ Alex said, bewildered, but Claire was staring directly at me.

I shot my eyes to hers. ‘Right,’ I said.

‘Well, goodbye then,’ she said, with a little wave.

‘Bye.’

‘Bye,’ Alex said. ‘All the best to your dad, with the elections and all, hope he pulls out … round. Ground, please,’ he said to a man in green scrubs with a white coat and white shoes, mask around his neck.

‘Hold,’ someone yelled and the man put his white plastic shoe to the door and we all squeezed up, Alex dragging the commode over to allow a young porter with Manchester United arm tattoos, push in his trolley.

‘Thanks, man,’ he said, as we accommodated a young kid, fresh from theatre.

His mother’s panicked face softened and she smiled down at me. ‘Celebrating?’ she asked, desperate for a distraction.

‘Kind of,’ I said. ‘I’m going Home.’

‘Ah, that’s great to hear. Hear that, Mark? You’ll be out next, see, everyone gets better.’ She smiled down at the child on the small trolley. ‘Great to be getting out of here. Best of luck.’

We watched as they all took leave of the lift.

Alex then wheeled me out and round the corner past the public toilets, past the entry to Accident and Emergency where a man sat crying as a child bounced beside him with a bar of chocolate. We went on out past the café with long queues for the deli counter. I didn’t speak. I didn’t dare open my mouth. Truthfully, we were both a bit pissed, and afraid of getting caught. Alex didn’t usually drive under the influence, but he was too astray in the head to stop now.

He didn’t stop at the café; he didn’t change his mind when the air hit back at us through the revolving doors. I felt light and giddy as we went out towards the night.

Under the street light some magpies swarmed over the roof of the Volvo. White plumage, neon orange lamps. Fluttering. Circling.

One for sorrow.

Two for joy.

Three for a girl.

Four for a boy.

Five for silver.

Six for gold.

Seven for a story never to be told.

I saluted seven times.

Chapter 23

Shortly after returning home, we decided, together, that I should go for treatment and we decided, together, for better or worse, not to prepare the children yet, or speak much of it, not directly. Not in a sit-down way, for they were all of such different characters; especially Nathan who I worried about the most, how much like me he was, how he’d retreat, disconnect.

We took long slow walks. My mother visited every day, and in her way, and she avoided all conversations around my sickness, though I heard much about other people’s misfortunes. Language failed her, though she stayed for hours, often past teatime, just there, in our company, in a new comfortable silence, or pottering about. I grew less and less impatient with her, as she sat on the couch watching The Chase, or helping the boys with their routine.