‘Don’t say that!’ Zoë slaps his hand angrily and they start to bicker.

Kerry frowns at them, then turns to me. ‘You know where I am if you ever want to talk, Joel.’

This big, empty part of me wants to follow her, beg for help. But she’s done more than enough for me and look where it got her.

‘Good to know,’ I say. ‘Just call 999, right?’

The other three laugh and I join in.

Kerry blinks. I’ve hurt her again because that’s my only bloody talent.

As she walks away, I track her green-lapelled shoulders till she’s lost in the crowd. The fancy cafe with the glass doors starts to play Pavarotti’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ at full volume, and I hate myself even more than I hate whoever started that fire.

Chapter 24: Tim

1 July 2003

I expect my mother to sob at the departure gate but instead she leans stoically against Kerry’s mum and waves goodbye, as though the two of us are off to war, not India.

There’ve been so many times in the last weeks when I’ve wanted to cancel: to go back to the Northumbrian cottage hospital I originally picked, where I could have observed day-cases, taken long walks in clear air, and tried to gain a handle on the parts of this year’s curriculum that are a blur, like stations passed on an intercity train.

But this trip is no longer only about me. It’s about us.

I promised Kerry an adventure, a thank you for all the support she’s given me so far.

‘Make sure you always sleep under your nets and don’t pet any dogs; they all have rabies. And watch out for people who might have SARS,’ Mum calls out, when we’re about to go through security. We found a charity that gives grants for short-term respite care, so Mum will be properly looked after while I’m gone. I wave one last time and turn away.

‘I need to stock up on vodka,’ Kerry announces as soon as our cabin bags have been X-rayed. Mine has been packed and repacked countless times over the last month. I have a change of underwear, a small mosquito net, sunscreen, repellent, painkillers, my vaccination record, hydrocortisone cream and alcohol gel in my little bag of liquids.

Kerry packed this morning: a Stephen King paperback as thick as a brick, a T-shirt and shorts to change into as soon as we land, sunglasses and a bottle of her favourite shampoo, because it’s the only one that tames my mad hair. Oh, and the iPod her control-room buddies bought her; barely bigger than a cigarette packet, with 4,000 tracks loaded onto it.

She didn’t think her boss would agree to a month’s unpaid sabbatical, but she’s wasted in that job and he’s clearly willing to do what it takes to keep her.

As am I.