‘Yeah, I can,’ I say, trying to ignore the hammering in my chest. ‘But shouldn’t the consultant looking after them do that?’

I call the consultant, hoping that he’ll do the awkward job of calling the family, but he asks me if I can do it.

‘Maybe just text me the husband’s mobile number,’ he says, ‘and I’ll call him later.’

‘So, do you want me to tell Mr Davies you’ll be giving him a ring?’

‘No, no!’ he says, sounding flustered. ‘Just don’t mention me! I’ll think on it.’

I stare into the receiver. Seriously? I manage not to say, ‘Thanks for nothing, fucko’, and hang up.

‘The husband, Keith, he always rings the ward around this time to check on her,’ the nurse says, hovering behind me, sounding anxious. ‘He lives pretty far away but he comes in every morning and stays till the afternoon, then calls at night to check how she is. You’d better call him straight away.’

She finds me the number for Keith Davies, and as the phone rings I flip through his wife’s chart. It looks like she’s been sick for a while. I feel a twinge of relief. He’s probably expecting it, to a certain extent.

‘Hello?’

‘Ah, hello. Is this Mr Davies?’

Suddenly his voice changes. ‘Yes,’ he says, and I hear the trepidation in his tone.

I swallow. ‘My name’s Katarina Holliday, and I’m the after-hours doctor at Holy Innocents. I’m sorry to be calling so late. It’s about your wife, Mary.’

‘What is it?’ His pitch rises. ‘What is it? She’s all right, isn’t she? I knew I shouldn’t have gone home! I was there earlier.’

I realise immediately that I’ve completely misunderstood the situation and that this isn’t an expected death at all. I’m about to say words that Keith Davies will never forget. My voice will be indelibly imprinted upon his subconscious. He won’t remember my name, but this phone call, this moment, this unwanted exchange between the two of us, will stay with him. What I am about to say will alter his life forever.

I start to feel mild panic rising in my chest. What the fuck do I say next? That she’s dead? Isn’t that too blunt? There’s no going back, so I push forward.

‘I’m so sorry to tell you this,’ I start, and I mean it, ‘but about half an hour ago the nursing staff noticed Mary’s re—’ I stop. ‘Respirations’ is a medical word. Too clinical. Too sterile. This is a human being I’m talking about. The love of his life, by the sound of it. The mother of the man’s children, for God’s sake. ‘They noticed that, ah, Mary’s breaths had started to slow down.’