One of the attendants steps away. Very slowly, Adam’s huge head comes round, trying to track what he’s doing, while his long, thin arms first flail and then twitch in a grotesque parody of some tribal dance. This, I think, has all the makings of an epileptic fit in slow motion, every limb moving inch by inch through the glue that is motor neurone disease, Adam’s mouth gaping open, his head thrust back, then forward, then very slowly sideways as the attendant reappears with the kind of plastic non-spill cup you might offer a small child.

Adam is still in the wheelchair, his hands plucking at thin air, and then the nurse comes closer, trying to calm him, trying to tease the lip of the cup into his open mouth, but the sheer weight of this poor man’s head is beyond his control, and it rolls back and forth until the male attendant physically steadies it, both hands, and then gently tips it back, allowing the water to trickle down Adam’s throat.

Evelyn has joined us. She stands behind the sofa, staring down at the laptop. The frozen image of Adam’s tortured face hangs on the screen, and then come contact details for the Palo Alto hospice foundation while a warm American voice urges us to be generous with our contributions. The voice repeats the contact details, then we hear Adam again, a faint gargle of agreement, or perhaps a thank you for the water, or maybe something else – some strangled plea for help that none of us will ever fully understand.

‘Ghastly.’ Evelyn is appalled. ‘Everyone should see this. Send the link to Beth. She’ll know what to do with it.’

At midday, at Mitch’s suggestion, all three of us go up to the golf club. I take the precaution of phoning Nathan in advance, and he says we’re very welcome to join him for drinks at the bar, and perhaps lunch afterwards. I find a space in the car park and help Evelyn out of the car. Mitch, as ever, sees no point in sartorial compromise, even here. A steady drift of players in Glenmuir shirts and Ryder Cup trousers are making their way into the clubhouse from a morning on the links, while Mitch has no intention of abandoning his jeans, Doc Martens and scruffy grey anorak.

The bar is already busy. Nathan, I suspect, has been watching out for us and spots me at once. When he insists on buying a round of drinks, Mitch asks for a pint of Guinness. He seems to know already that Mitch is a journalist and I’m still wondering whether Bill has marked his card when he appears at my elbow.

‘Blind guess, I’m afraid.’ Nathan hands me a large gin and tonic. ‘But might I be right?’