I almost forget to check the inside pocket too, but when I do, my fingers touch plastic. I pull out a tiny bag, the resealable kind, only big enough for buttons and beads. And drugs.

The bag is empty. But it’s enough to help me join the dots.

I sleepwalk through breakfast with Elaine as she speculates on how Tim’s talk has gone and whether he and his doctor chums had a wild night out afterwards.

We’re in the living room when I hear the wheels of his case outside. As he walks up the path, I see the apprehension in his face, and I turn to Elaine.

‘He looks green around the gills,’ she says, sounding proud of him for having a hangover.

I let him say hello to her, and, without meeting his eye, say, ‘Before we hear how you took them all by storm, I reckon you need a walk around the block.’

Elaine smiles approvingly. ‘I hope you were celebrating a standing ovation!’

He grimaces.

We get all the way to Dyke Road before I dare to look at him again. His eyes are hooded and his skin is lined from dehydration: a snapshot of the man he’ll be when he grows old.

‘You read it?’ he asks, his voice dry as parchment.

I nod and keep walking. ‘How much of it is lies?’

He catches my arm. ‘None of it. I’m sorry. I know it must be a shock but it’s all the truth. I promise you.’

I shrug him off. ‘Like you promised me it was going to be my turn next?’

The streets are busy with Sunday couples and their Labradors and their pushchairs. ‘Kerry, it will be. We’ll find a way. If you even want to be with me anymore. I’d understand if you don’t—’

I stop suddenly. ‘This is your last chance to be honest, Tim. I can handle you failing, but not that you didn’t tell me till now. So. Any other skeletons in the closet?’

Or baggies in the jacket pocket?

Panic flickers across his face.

I can’t do it, I can’t let him lie to me again.

‘For fuck’s sake, Tim. I found your notebook. And the little bag in your suit. You failed your exams because you’ve been taking drugs!’

Please, please, please let there be another reason.

What little colour there was in his face drains away. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

‘Aren’t you meant to deny it? Tell me you’re all doing it, that medics pop pills like Smarties?’

He stares at me. ‘They do. But . . . probably not as often as I do.’

The first honest answer he’s given me. That’s something. ‘What do you take?’

‘Depends on what I need. I’ve struggled with the course, with the patient contact, with everything. It felt like any port in a storm.’