I make the mash, reheat the sausages and have a late lunch. We eat upstairs first and take it down after; I figure that’s better, Danny doesn’t have to stay as long, won’t get agitated. Sherwin doesn’t say anything about his yelling, or the fact we’ve already eaten, and neither do I. His eyes are soft, pleading. He’s soiled himself like I knew he would and I have to clean it all up and change him, but that’s better than the permanent alternative – we all know it. We creep upstairs, ever on the lookout for the guy from the shops, or anyone else, and as soon as we’re inside I’m boiling water for soup. Danny chops vegetables beside me, throws them into the pot and we let it all bubble while I read a novel and he listens to music. His eyes are closed. His foot taps out constant rhythm and I’m trying to concentrate on the words on my page, but I keep getting distracted by Danny. What he said. As much as I try to ignore it, force it to the back of my mind like everything else over the last two months, I can’t. I just can’t.

The soup’s a gorgeous-smelling mush. We turn off the heat, dish it into bowls and take it down. This time Sherwin is clean, and when he eats with a plastic spoon his eyes are grateful. Danny ignores him, mouth a solid, dark streak. The atmosphere is thick as my soup. Sherwin eats like there was little or no lunch, performs his exercises and asks to use the toilet. We try not to listen, don’t talk while he’s gone. When he comes back and sits down he winks, giving me a tiny smile.

‘Thanks, sis,’ he says.

Danny and I maintain our silence until we’re back upstairs. He flops on the bed and lies with his hands behind his head, eyes closed. I remain standing, listening to noises from the street. Dustbins falling. The shuffle of riffled contents. Either dogs, foxes, or people.

‘So? What do you think?’

He lifts his head, chin tucked into his chest, hands still clasped. I can hardly see his eyes.

‘Better,’ he says. ‘Much better.’

We make love, fall asleep. In what feels like an instant I’m back there, at the beginning. I see people that died returning three days later, coming back to lovers and families, knocking on doors and windows, not in a zombie, arms-outstretched kind of way, but really back to life, with memories and feelings, just like me and you. Thousands in London, millions all over the world, old, young, fresh and unspoiled as the day they were born, bodies cold and hearts still, otherwise normal, at first.