The viral pneumonia didn’t respond to antibiotic treatment, understandably.

But they had to try everything, and steroidal antiviral treatment did not prevent Ever from slipping into a coma brought about by an ever-decreasing weakness in his immune system and his soul having decided finally to go. It thought, his soul, that it should never really have come back. Ten days he lay in this condition, his mother, in a rare display of emotion, unbeknown to Ever, was dragged away from his bedside, screaming, when she was told to prepare for the worst. Ever’s fading memory, as he drifted, was of the deep-voiced consultant in his pinstripe suit looking at him with that look of concern reserved for the truly sick. Ever knew he was truly sick because a smell emanated from him that he had never smelt before or since. It was a heavy, overpowering smell, stale – yes, putrid – not quite. It just hung and it came from deep in his body, his body that was fighting at a cellular level where the rot was being forced out. He was fifteen.

Chapter Thirty-four

‘I can’t believe you bought them and gave me way more than I would have asked. Or, to be honest, even expected, so I will most definitely adjust your payment. They are well on their way.’

Mr Lorken was sitting opposite Lomita at their Friday lunch appointment. They were dining at Atalam, a restaurant afforded its celebrity by the owner chef, Transient Dillane. Lomita had ordered a kale salad and Mr Lorken had the squid ink bucatini.

A dish Lomita never understood, turning your mouth a dark colour with the dubious over-intensity of fishy taste. And you ended up looking like a schoolkid who’d sucked his pen. She was happy she would be able to push around a few walnuts and some quinoa, another food she failed to understand.

‘And Mexico, you have a house there.’

‘No, it’s a gallery. I am sending them to a gallery. I have faith Ingmar, you see, they will have a life.’

‘Well I admire your faith, but I think in this case it’s misplaced. Certainly not a safe bet. Not like a Metzinger.’

‘Oh, you mentioned this before.’

Lomita was feeling her fears were about to be justified.

‘You never told me which one, and you see, Lomita, I can account for ownership of every single one, either in personal collections or museums. Except for one.’

‘I didn’t say I still had it.’

‘No, that is true. So which one was it?’

‘I told you. I don’t feel obliged to tell you.’

‘You do not have a completely anonymous past. I mean it is possible to find out who you were connected to.’

‘And you obviously have.’

Said a resigned Lomita.