The plastic seats had arms — to keep us from touching and infecting one another, Leonard was thinking. He nagged at a knob of plastic on the edge of his chair. Bloody touch. Bloody sex. He hated sex. Hated himself. And Winston, he hated him, too, not just for leaving, but for leaving him to do this alone. And if the test turned out to be positive, the punishments would just keep rolling in: the confessions, the exposure, the appalling illnesses, the shame, the pariah status, and of course, the death sentence. He couldn’t bear it. Better to call it cancer and swallow a handful of pills. It would be terrible for Sylvie and Andrew, but not nearly as bad as the truth and the end that would entail.

He turned a page of his unread newspaper. A name was called, and the woman who was probably a prostitute responded. First names only in this place, he noticed, or perhaps she was known here, a regular like muscle-man. And he turned another page.

‘I’m getting a coffee. Would you like one?’

It was the man in the sports clothes. He was coming on to him.

When Leonard remained silent, he added, ‘There’s a machine in the foyer.’

Whatever the man’s motivation, he did seem kind and friendly, and Leonard was tempted. Yet he declined the offer: his actions alone had brought him here, he was in this alone, he had to suffer alone.

After nearly an hour of pretending to be engrossed in his newspaper, he heard his name called, and was directed to one of the consulting rooms. The doctor seated behind the small desk was fortyish, with brown, receding hair, a grey suit, and no wedding ring. Of course, many men didn’t wear wedding rings, and Leonard had considered removing his for the appointment, in the same way he had considered giving a false name. But he had determined to do everything by the book. He was so scared, and there was an irrational voice suggesting to him that good behaviour would be rewarded — as if behaviour of any sort could save him now.