Jonathan is off the ventilator and breathing normally when I get to the hospital. The ward sister says he came round for a while in the afternoon, and asked if anyone had been to see him. She says he smiled when she told him I’d sat with him all night, and muttered a very rude word’, so I suppose he’ll survive.

I sit beside him and tell him all about Stuart and work and the blog and he appears to be sleeping, but when I’ve lapsed into silence I feel him squeeze my hand and whisper ‘cunt’.

The next day is Saturday and I really need a lie-in but someone’s banging on the door and ringing the bell and although I’m doing my best to ignore it eventually I have to get up. I’m assuming it’s Stuart so I haven’t bothered to put on any clothes. I’m wearing a pair of white CK briefs, and my hair is sticking up like a clown’s.

‘Oh, you’re in, then.’ It’s Stephen, Michael’s friend, his enormous glasses glinting like an insect’s eyes. He’s got his arms folded across his chest, his weight on one leg, a hip thrust out at an angle – it’s international gay body language for ‘and what the bloody hell do you have to say for yourself?’

I rub my eyes. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh yes, thank you, I will come in,’ he says, stepping past me. ‘Well well well, look what you’ve done to the old place, who’d have thought it. Right you. I want some answers.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, although I know.

‘Every day he waits, and every day he’s disappointed. Do you have any idea what it’s like for him?’

‘I’ve been very busy’

‘I’m sure you have.’

‘Look, Stephen, I don’t know what Michael has told you, but we hardly knew each other.’

‘You were his neighbour, for God’s sake.’

‘Yes, but… I mean, that doesn’t mean …’

‘And he’s gay, dear, unless you hadn’t noticed.’

‘So?’

‘So we’re meant to look out for each other! We’re meant to take care of each other! What the bloody hell is the point of it all if we can’t do that?’ He’s shouting now, and his voice sounds shrill in the confines of the hall. ‘Oh put some fucking clothes on, for Christ’s sake. It’s like waiting at the butcher’s.’

Within minutes we’re in his car and driving out of London, through the suburbs, having several near misses with stationary vehicles, oncoming buses etc. Stephen is keeping up a monologue punctuated only when he lights or puffs on a cigarette.

‘… and don’t look at me like I’ve just farted, I’ll smoke in my own car if I want to, God knows I can’t bloody do it anywhere else and you should see the bitches’ faces when I light up outside Michael’s place. Open the bloody window if you don’t like it although I imagine compared to what you stick up your nose a little bit of fag smoke isn’t exactly going to kill you.’