The Lewis Lloyd ward was on the other side of the hospital to where we’d spent our special night. When passing the entrance to A&E, I stopped and smoked a fag in one of the abandoned wheelchairs while reminiscing about us. Avoiding other hospital memories. The dread. The day they operated on her, and the four hours I couldn’t breathe after she’d kissed me and walked down to surgery. I didn’t even know patients could walk down to surgery. That’s not what happens in films.

Disinfectant fumes stung my cried-out eyes. I pressed the buzzer outside the double doors of the ward. It took so long to get a response I jumped when the loud noise unlocked them. I had no idea if Edward was still there, or even if my vileness had killed him. A lanky nurse stood behind the reception desk, unwrapping a Quality Street, which she’d plucked with angular fingers from the tin next to a grubby fan. She chewed while watching me dispense the antiseptic gel onto my hands. I did it twice, to prove my thoroughness. No germs. Must avoid the germs.

‘I’m here to collect Edward Seymour.’

‘It’s visiting time. You can go through anyway.’

I thanked her and walked down the corridor, only to turn back once I realized I didn’t know where I was going.

‘He’s got a side room. Room four,’ she said, sensing my ignorance. ‘Second on the right.’

He was asleep when I entered. Mouth dropped open. A pale blue knitted blanket pulled up under his chin, which had sprouted a beard. Even with the additional cladding, his face appeared thinner. A copy of the Guardian lay folded across his belly. I picked up his pen from the floor, as quietly as possible, uncertain whether to sit and wait or wake him. I wasn’t even sure why I was there. Other than guilt. The fear of another death on my conscience.

I chose the waiting option. But as soon as the back of my legs touched the uncomfortable plastic of the chair, he snorted and opened his eyes, which widened with surprise when he saw me.

‘Hi. How you feeling? What’s wrong with you?’

‘A bout of pneumonia.’

‘Oh God . . . I’m sorry, that’s awful.’

‘Awful? I contracted malaria when I was posted in Africa. This is nothing.’

He attempted to push himself up and I rushed over to help him. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? Come to finish me off?’

I expelled my last remnants of anger by forcefully plumping his pillows. ‘No . . . no . . . I’m sorry about that . . . I should explain.’

‘I had no right to call on you – you’re right. You don’t even know me. I am merely . . . What was it? A “stupid old idiot”.’

‘“Fuck” . . . It was “fuck” . . . But anyway, I didn’t mind you calling on me. It’s just—’