George is resting on a paper-covered table, in a bay whose blue curtains are drawn at the sides but not the front. In the facing bay, a man with a bloody nose is lying on a gurney. Another hulking police officer is standing beside him. There is so much in the news about how there aren’t enough police officers. Clearly it’s because they are all in this hospital. Invisible on the other side of the curtain to George’s left, a woman is swearing loudly, and I wonder how long it will be before the police officer across the way goes to look in on her too.

Bits of sick are congealing on George’s jumper. He puts his hand, lightly, to the back of his head, near the top, and winces. ‘I seem to have grown an egg here.’

‘I heard them telling you your CT scan looks good. No sign of brain injury so far.’ He is so pale. I continue to count the ways he has passed his medical tests. ‘You seem to be good in your verbal responses and physical movements.’

‘I like to think I excel in those areas.’

‘The doctor doesn’t want you alone for the next twenty- four hours.’

‘You mean to make sure fluid doesn’t start streaming out of my nose and ears? It does that most days.’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘Are you trying to invite yourself over, Helen?’

‘Unless you’d rather call someone else to babysit you, I suppose I am.’

Bath, Sunday, 7 April 2019

When I open my eyes the next morning, I don’t recognise the white T-shirt I’m wearing, or understand why I am lying on top of a strange quilt, covered by a velvety throw.

There is a wooden stool, draped with my skirt and sweater. The sight makes me remember sponging George’s sick from my clothes, and where I got the T-shirt. I’d taken it from his chest of drawers under his direction. Now I know where I am, and why I am here.

As carefully as I can, I turn and face the middle of the bed. The curtains are open, and George looks ghostly in the pre-dawn light. His eyes are closed, his legs are beneath the quilt, and the rim of his boxer shorts is visible just above it. His stomach is exposed, and I can’t help but think it is beautiful, though worryingly statue-like, so that the resemblance to Michelangelo’s David isn’t entirely a good thing. I wonder so intensely about how it would feel to trail my fingers and lips from the centre of his chest to his belly button that I picture myself doing it.