I close my eyes for an instant and I see splodges of indigo and aqua, the view from my bedroom window, high in the attic where my grandmother hardly ever climbed. And the small islands of rock that Milly and I used to imagine invading, living there as two princesses, and Queen Peggy sailing out in a magnificent boat to bring us cakes. And the white torch of the lighthouse, always there to give me my bearings.

But the sea colours change, and I see the livid white around Jane’s nose and mouth, the congealing blood, the blue tint to her skin. I can taste sick again. I take a large gulp and it goes down as if I am swallowing a rock.

My grandmother’s ankles are extra swollen today, seeming to spill over the openings of the velvet house slippers I bought her. I crouch in front of her to loosen the Velcro, perplexed that somebody who was once so tall and bony could become so puffy.

‘Why bother,’ she says. ‘It’s not as if they’ll let me walk.’

‘But they’ve got you out of bed. They’ve even got you taking a few steps with assistance. That’s wonderful.’

She throws her head back and moves it from side to side with her eyes closed. ‘I am ready to go.’ This is a grand announcement, made with such theatricality I am worried she will injure her neck.

‘Go where, Grandma?’ She and I play out this exchange every time I visit.

‘You know where.’ She drags out each word, in a sort of dirge. ‘Take me now and bury me. Don’t let my coffin touch your mother’s. I refuse to lie near her for eternity. I will be next to your father when I rot. He was a hero, you know.’

Despite the absurd dark comedy of my Sarah Bernhardtesque grandmother, the word rot makes me feel as if my heart is throwing in extra beats. Once more I picture Jane’s mottled face, the features unrecognisable, and her birthmark like a black star sapphire. Her body will be changing still more in death. I can feel myself shaking with pure fury and absolute hate. I want to destroy Zac for doing this to her.

I pull myself back into the place I am now, into this poor imitation of an elegant room that smells of cabbage and body odour and old people, however many windows they open, however much disinfectant they drench it in.