‘OK,’ I muttered. My voice was so shallow; none of my replies could hold weight.

The man needed to be let off the hook.

‘So, here’s the machine and I’d like to get this sorted, let you …’ he said. ‘And push on, you know, to let you have some rest.’ Then he started to cry again and on impulse, a rather cringey impulse, I rubbed his thigh. It was an odd reflex response; the static energy gave me an electric shock. I apologised and we started to giggle, hysterically, prone as I am to wholly inappropriate reactions. He shook out his leg like a worm arriving up from the soil.

‘I have a charger here somewhere,’ his head back down rummaging in the bag. ‘I’ll plug it in for you.’

‘No, I get out the odd time, you’re grand, I can get to the plug,’ I said, wryly. ‘They let me off out, you know, to piss or shower.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ he said, his eyes lingering longer than before over me, scanning. He pulled his abdomen as far into himself as he could and turned towards the door and checked his exits. ‘I’d better head on,’ he said, trotting his index fingers along my nightstand, previewing himself walking out.

My phone vibrated. Margaret Rose coughed loudly, and coughed again.

‘I hear it,’ I acknowledged her.

‘Well, check it,’ she said, shooting a nasty glance at Stephen.

It was Alex. I didn’t open it.

Stephen was focused. He needed absolution, and people in need of guilt removal or absolving from sins are usually completely self-consumed in their own mission. I was familiar with this.

‘Where’d he sleep?’ he said, as he stood up to take his leave. I pointed to the vacant bed, blue mattress – the wet patch, last of Shane, had dried in – and Stephen moved himself, side-stepping awkwardly to Shane’s cell beside me, the curtains opened back.

‘Yeah, yeah, just there, there …’ I whispered, my fists tight. I didn’t want to discuss a bed with him, not one with a metal hoist and a rubber mattress, or try making idle conversation about the bars they hoist up, clangclang, which keep you from falling out.

‘I’d better run … you know, before …’ Stephen said, trailing off, excusing himself by bowing awkwardly, and took his leave. Hulk’s angry face stared back at me.

I wanted to say I’m Sorry. I wanted to tell him how handsome he was. I wanted to say that it really was a tragedy for him and his brother. I wanted to say that I missed his brother’s smell, as awful and noxious as it was. I knew this was a lie of sorts, but it might have made him happier. I should have said that his absence created a draught and that’s the most any of us can hope for. But he was too far removed from our world on the Ward not to take that as an insult. Then I wanted to tell him that I was dying too. I wanted to ask him if he had a wife, and if she was dying, what would he do? What would she do? Would she have rushed home in the Volvo, summoned him to a meeting in the bedroom, spilled the whole fucking sad lot of it out? Would they aggressively Google every known drug and cure and procedure and American oncologist and yogi and kefir grains and spinach plants and reiki and mindfulness and everything they could to save her? I bet they would. But she’d die anyway. And all eyes would be on her. And all energy into phone calls and tests and trials and everything would revolve around her. And fuck that. And I worked up immeasurable anger with his imaginary wife. Because she’d probably do everything perfectly, just like other people do.