‘I wasn’t trying to kill myself, if that’s what you’re driving at.’

‘Really?’

‘No.’ His face shuts down, and he starts fiddling with his earphones.

‘Jonathan …’

‘What? What do you want me to tell you? “Oh, Robbie, I’m so unhappy, blah blah blah, it was a cry for help, thank God you saved me, oh, you actually didn’t, did you? But you’ve been such a good friend to me, look at these lovely flowers, wouldn’t they look super on my grave?’”

‘I’m only trying to help. I care about you.’

‘Well don’t.’

The earphones are back in, he’s burying himself in Me, and I guess visiting hours are over.

‘I’il be off, then.’

‘Oh fucking sit down.’ He tears the headphones off and throws Me on the floor. ‘God, you’re such a drama queen.’ I’m not the one lying in the hospital bed after a suicide attempt, but I don’t mention that. ‘As you’re obviously determined to get all the juicy details, yes, I was very depressed, yes, it seemed like a good way out at the time, and yes, I’m glad the ambulance got there in time because now I’d quite like to live.’

‘Pleased to hear it.’ I take his hand. That was one of our fastest ever fallings-out-and-makings-up.

‘Yeah, well, there’s no need to make a big thing out of it.’ He doesn’t remove his hand. ‘I still owe money’

‘To Hadley?’

‘Her? God, no. I paid him off. I told you I would.’

‘You never went on the game,’ I asked, suddenly sick with worry, as if I’d just heard my kid sister was doing punters behind King’s Cross.

‘No, that’s a mug’s game.’

‘So how did you get the money? Did you earn it?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I stole it, of course.’

‘You … stole it?’

‘I went up to Hadley’s gallery one night and nicked a couple of pictures and sold them on eBay. Who would have thought that crap was worth so much money?’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘I’m so serious. A picture of a pile of vomit on the pavement, and a collage of prostitute phonebox cards. Two grand each.’

‘But Hadley …’

‘Never had a clue. Doesn’t know arse from elbow. That’s the marvellous thing about cancer,’ said Jonathan. ‘He just took the money, said thank you and we shook hands.’

‘Right.’ I withdraw my hand from Jonathan’s.

‘You don’t approve, of course, and I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but there you go. Take me or leave me.’

‘Don’t tempt me, Jonathan,’ I say, but I stay till he’s tired, and when he’s sleeping I put Me on the table and kiss him goodbye.

Two days later, I get a floral notelet in the post from Michael, thanking me for my visit. ‘PS,’ it says at the end, you asked me if he ever went to the gym. The enclosed may answer your question.’

There’s a black-and-white photograph with the words GERALD OF LONDON stamped on the back, and a name written in pencil. Mervyn.