She turned to the window. There was nothing much to see, just the stealthy undermining of the sky. 3:51 said the clock, 3:52. Not long now.

At the second attempt she stood up. The world swung, then settled. Her feet found her slippers and she shuffled to the window, struggled with the catch, rested, struggled again, and finally got it to open. Was it night or day that washed over her now? She caught a whiff of the fields, the moor, the five-miles-off sea. Somewhere out there a car was driving through the lanes. She couldn’t see its lights, but the drone of its engine carried very clearly. Some man or woman with his own burden of happiness or confusion. Someone who knew nothing about her and whom she would never meet. Not now.

Her cigarettes (and a spare Ventolin inhaler) were in the blue pomander pot of Venice glass on the window ledge. Una knew that she had them there, but all she had ever said was to be careful not to have a flame near the oxygen bottle unless she wanted to blow the roof off. The idea was not without appeal. A great blue flash, a bang that would echo for miles, then no more nights to be sweated through. She took the lid off the pot and shook a cigarette from the pack, an ultra-light, a breath of fresh air she used to call them. They no longer gave her any pleasure but they gave her the memory of pleasure, and that was something. She flicked the lighter. The coughing on the first drag almost shook her off her feet. She used the inhaler, coughed again, then spat the bitterness into a tissue and pushed the window wider, letting the breeze slide like water over her skin.