When he came back into the bedroom Alice was stirring, tugging feebly at her nightdress. Her breathing was much louder now, though whether that was good or not Larry had no idea. He put the oxygen bottle on the bed, opened the valve and pressed the mask over her face. It seemed to frighten her at first, as though he were trying to stifle her, but as she took in the gas she grew calmer.

‘Everything’s all right,’ he said. ‘Everything’s dandy.’

He pulled off the soiled panties and dropped them on to the floor by the bed. ‘We’ve got to clean you up,’ he said. ‘Is that OK?’

He dipped the sponge into the bowl, squeezed it out, and began to wipe her legs. He worked methodically, wiping her with the sponge and dabbing her dry with the towel. He washed between her legs, wiped the pinched red skin of her backside, cleaning her as sometimes he had cleaned Ella. He was unaware of any emotion other than an irreducible tenderness that embraced them both. He was babbling, telling her things he had told to no one. Shameful moments. Low-life moments culled from his progress through the bars and motel rooms of America. Private, frightened moments in the last third of a bottle on nights when getting drunk would not do at all. He gave her names, acts, everything he could dredge up, including the deal with T. Bone and Ranch. The garage at San Fernando. The gorilla mask. ‘And this is me,’ he said, ‘this is what I am now. The other’s all gone. I fucked up. Do you see? I fucked up and I can’t get back. I’m sorry, Mum. I’m very, very sorry.’

While he spoke he went on washing her, towelling the wasted muscles, the tissue-paper skin, the black-and-grey pubes that still seemed to grow strongly from her sex. When he thought she was clean he fetched a fresh nightdress, a good warm woollen one, from the chest of drawers. He was hurrying now. She was so cold. Her arms, thin as his wrists, had no force of their own. He had to guide them into the sleeves of the nightie, trying not to get her fingers tangled.

‘Larry?’

It was Kirsty. She was standing by the open door in the long T-shirt she had been sleeping in. He wondered how he looked to her, his face glazed with tears, dried shit on his arms. What kind of madman.

She came closer, leaning over Alice from the other side of the bed.

‘How is she?’ she whispered.

He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘I spoke to Alec. Una’s coming first thing. We have to call her again if, you know, we get worried.’

‘Where’s Alec now?’

She touched his cheek. ‘He can’t deal with any of this. You know that.’