And he really did know his way around the new unit. That was the polite name for the clearing house where the daily intake of nervous wrecks was sorted out and dispatched to appropriate destinations. Alcoholics. Manic depressives. Schizophrenics. The bewildered. Or those simply suffering from emotional exhaustion. They were all categorized and sent on to the relevant units, wards, centres, medical departments or simply discharged.

So there was no need for any further questions at reception. Hughie knew exactly where Room 212 was situated. The last door at the end of the corridor on the second floor. Great!

But Birdie couldn’t manage the stairs. She stood to the rear of the lift as a tearful woman in a black plastic anorak was coaxed in by three overweight teenage girls who kept assuring her that their daddy would be disappointed if she turned back now.

Hughie’s long face was blank. His brown hair was combed backwards and glued to his skull with Brylcreem. He was used to the intimacies that spill out on hospital corridors. His face had the serenity of a man who has heard everything in life twice.

They stepped out on the second floor. The lady who was being dragged to her husband tried to get out with them. But no such luck. The daughters grabbed her and pulled her back.

Birdie hopped along behind the big man. Him pacing slowly. Her behind scooting along at full speed to keep up with his long strides. It was the black leather shoes she kept looking at for comfort. She could almost see her face in them they were that shiny. And they never faltered.

Step by step in an easeful rhythm. Squeaking along the polished linoleum. And gentle. A gentle, firm step. Like a lion creeping up on the deer. As if the sound of heavy footfalls might unease the patient before they had met.

‘Poor Gussie,’ she kept muttering, as they approached the room. Getting herself all excited. Imagining him lying on the bed. His back as stiff as a wooden plank. His eyes staring at the ceiling. Maybe they’d have him all drugged up and he wouldn’t be able to talk to them.

And at the last moment she faltered; she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go in. It was all too much. She wheeled to the window and stared out and clutched her handbag and told Hughie to go in on his own.

‘What if he’s naked or something?’ says she.

‘Ah now,’ says Hughie ‘after you coming all this way!’

‘Tell him his mammy is out here,’ says she. ‘Maybe he’d come out and see me.’

Hughie didn’t knock. He eased the door open as gently as a thief in the night. A warrior sneaking up on the enemy. He stood at the foot of the bed and presented a bottle of whiskey in a crumpled brown paper bag. She saw that. And then he closed the door gently.

For a long time he didn’t come out. And Birdie would put her ear to the door sometimes, to see if she could hear anything. But there wasn’t a sound.