*

‘Happy Wednesday ta us,’ said Margaret Rose, yawning. ‘How’re you this morning?’ Her eye was drooping towards her stiff chin, but she looked better. Facially. Fresh. Not entirely daisy-like, but she was definitely in better fettle.

Hegs was back in his place, snoring.

I waved my hand in the air, unable to speak, and lay back. My chest was a vice-grip. My stomach was on fire, and my pelvis was only safe if I lay down absolutely still; for rising up or attempting to move put tremendous pressure on it, like I was going to give birth or have some prolapse thing about to happen that I’d read about online. I desperately wanted a walk or a swim, to take the pressure off, and because each time I closed my eyes to try and rest, I saw Ann goggly-eyed hanging from the banister. Hospital rest means lying there with your fleeting thoughts on acid.

Alex arrived, his temples were taut or hollow, his skin looked dry and he was agitated, greeted me in the way he does, not by smiling, but by lifting up his eyebrows and opening his eyes wider. This irritated me, but after a few moments, he revealed he had brought some nail polish, Punchy Soup Can Red.

‘I thought maybe I could paint …’ he drifted off mid-sentence, lifting my hand, and settling it on a pillow. ‘You know, maybe paint your nails, cheer you up … I’m no expert, but I’ll give it a try …’

I smiled.

‘Don’t stir,’ he said, as he rummaged in his pockets.

I tried to sit upright, but couldn’t.

‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘I can do it while you lie down. I’ve brought some sweets too,’ and he lifted a crisp small brown paper bag from the left pocket of the wax jacket. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and dipped the brush in and out of the pot. ‘Are you actually trying to lose even more weight?’ he whispered coarsely, eyeing around the Ward nervously, as though they were in on it.

‘Yeah, I am, yeah,’ I snarled, hardly able to speak.

‘Why?’

‘Just drop it … Jesus, paint if you’re going to paint …’ I said.

‘’K.’ Alex paused. ‘It’s just … well … I’m sorry but fuck me, Sinéad … you look like … death.’

‘Fuck. ’K.’

‘I’m sorry, but you do.’

He placed the brushstroke a millimetre from the cuticle and began to stroke the nail, rounding it nicely at the tip, over the nail edge. After awkwardly manoeuvring the thumb, he blew them quickly, and gently lifted out the pillow and laid my hand on the bed sheet. He circled the bed and came around to the right hand, miming his actions.

To break the silence, I attempted to tell him about Ann, but he looked concerned and furrowed down his brow. I was wheezing madly, and he told me that I was talking too much to the other patients. Wasting my energy. That ended the conversation, because it took the wind out of my sails and the moment was gone; upon noticing, he apologised, and with the tiny brush between his finger and thumb, he blew gently down again on my fingernails.