‘Did you take your heart spray?’ she went on, distracted.

‘Yes, yes, I did, I never forget, I’ve promised you,’ Hegs softened.

‘Pull up those socks,’ Jane shouted at Claire, nodding at the fluffy bed socks. Margaret Rose laughed.

‘And your Prothiaden?’

Nod. Bobble-Head-Hegarty. Nod.

‘Look, Claire, I took whatever they gave me … they’re too busy to be asking all your questions.’

‘Always a little thundering bitch,’ Jane whispered into the large hairbrush clutched in the palm of her red leather hand, before suddenly passing out on the pillow with her bottom jaw opened downwards so her chin dropped onto her chest.

Hegs had lung cancer. This was the only definitive diagnosis on the Ward. It pleased me to know something definite, an actual real piece of specific information. His cancer had travelled upwards, awkwardly, and was now to be found meandering into his throat crevices. There were spots of cancer on his liver also, mapping here and there like stars over the night sky.

Claire was the woman to give all the words to, he explained, for he had very sore eyes and wouldn’t mind going to sleep and if they would just leave him be, he’d be most happy. Not to be rude. Or a nuisance. But best if they let him be. And he’d take anything they could give him for the pain that would help him back to sleep after he’d cleaned up the jelly and ice cream.

The medical staff reassured Hegs at great length that his cancer was slow and he had plenty of time, though he should be more stable and they’d be closely monitoring his odd, but rapid, demise. They didn’t like the look of him. And more specifically, his colour was off. If there was anything at all that he could think of, he was to let them know, especially Ms Jo Moran, who seemed to be the most in charge, and constantly arriving, carrying a wedding edition of Cosmopolitan, if only to open the curtains and complain that they were shut, stylish in civilian clothes and a stethoscope accessory around her neck that cut off at her bony collarbone. The stethoscope seemed to be her most powerful fashion accessory, hanging like a necklace or other useless adornment, and she carried a large solitaire diamond on her ring finger, that was two point five carats, bought in one city and set in another, as you do, indeed as you do, Margaret Rose said, smirking at me.

No. Hegs couldn’t think of another thing that would be causing him such a rapid demise, and they should/could/would have better things to do with their time and leave him be. For now, he was just grand, he wouldn’t mind if they stopped asking questions altogether, and maybe get him the pills. To take the edge off.

But the more he said he was fine, the more the Hospital staff seemed to doubt him.

Claire glanced out at them from underneath a long side-split fringe, soft chocolate brown, and while she had experimented well with honey tones, on close inspection they were brassy. She seemed tired, rather drained around the sides of the mouth that bent downwards, and the creases between her eyebrows were deep like an unformed W. When she flicked her hair back, there were significant greys above her temples. Her face had an odd serum-like texture, a duck’s moist eggshell, wide almond eyes held a long nose stuck between them, slightly lower down on the face than where a nose should sit, like a Picasso line drawing. But her skin, for all its pretty texture, had an unnerving whack of corpse about it, dark downy fluff growing impatient on her jawline. Her figure was clean, nipped at the waist with incompetently skinny calves. And every so often she would blink her eyes furiously, as though congratulating herself or suddenly remembering a personal triumph.