“Close your eyes,” I instruct him. I work the shampoo through the long waves of his hair, and the cubicle fills with the scent of melon. I work my fingers hard in a massage that I know he loves, and he gives the usual stifled groan of happiness that makes me smile.

“I’m sure most library managers have their own butlers by now,” I say. “You could have this done every day.”

“I don’t think butlers usually engage in hair washing. Maybe I need one who’s interested in diversifying.”

“One should never stand still in the face of progress,” I say pompously, and he snorts.

Then his smile slides away. “I’m struggling a bit at the moment, Misha,” he whispers.

The smallness of the words don’t seem enough to make my eyes fill, but they do, and I hug him tight.

“I know,” I whisper. “And I’m always here for you and so is everyone else. But maybe occasionally you could let us help you, sunshine.” I tip his head back to wash off the shampoo, my fingers resting on the sharp bones of his face.

He’s pale, the freckles on his face standing out starkly. I hate with a passion what I’m about to do next because it feels like I’m taking advantage of his momentary weakness. I don’t usually interfere with his treatment. He’s a grown man, and it’s his own body and his condition. However, I can’t sit back and watch this happening.

“How many turns are you having a day at the moment, Charlie?”

He leans closer and mumbles something, his head down so I can massage some more shampoo into his scalp.

I hesitate. “I’m sure you just said two?”

He nods. “One or two a day.”

I repress the urge to shake him. Instead, I say calmly, “That doesn’t seem good. What did Freda say?” Freda is the epilepsy nurse who usually does his reviews.

“She doesn’t know. I haven’t been to the reviews,” he mumbles.

“How many have you missed?” My voice is calm and even, and I carry on rubbing the shampoo in.

“Three.”

I want to shout, but I settle for saying in a light enquiring voice, “Why?”

He shrugs. “You’re very good at washing hair,” he says quickly, employing a very obvious diversionary tactic.

I shake my head, secure in the knowledge that he can’t see me, and go along with him for now. I’ve wedged the door open, so I’ll kick it down soon. “All those hours I spent having to do Tessa Doll’s hair,” I say gloomily.

He laughs with what sounds like relief. “I’ve still got the video somewhere.”

“Show it at your peril,” I say in a singsong voice.

He smiles. “I can still see that surly sixteen-year-old holding the dolly while Anya directed you to do it again and do it better.”