He’s not a doctor, because he’s already close enough for me to see that there’s no lanyard flapping around against his chest, but he’s not a visitor, either. Anyone visiting this place is . . . tentative. Doesn’t matter if it’s their first time or if they’re old hands, nobody ever sets foot in the Shackleton Unit without a degree of apprehension or, more often than not, plain reluctance. It’s never going to be a picnic, is all I’m saying.

You certainly don’t walk towards it . . . purposefully, like it’s something you’re looking forward to. Not the way this bloke is bowling down that hill, only a few seconds away now, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be

‘Who is he?’

‘No idea,’ George says.

‘Can you go and find out?’ George looks at me like I’m starting to take the piss and he’s done more than enough already. ‘Please . . .’

He mutters something under his breath then sighs and starts to trudge up the hill.

I’m still watching the mystery bloke, because there’s something far too easy and confident about him. A shape that’s familiar. So, as soon as George has taken enough steps towards him, just enough steps away, I turn.

And I run.

I’m wearing trainers and I’m fast. George isn’t and he’s a big bloke, so by the time I turn to look he’s already fifty yards behind me.

He’s waving and shouting.

I run . . . past humming generators and overflowing skips, then across a car park and now it’s all downhill towards the side gate. Two people are walking towards me, but they step quickly out of my way. They both look a little alarmed and a glance tells me they’re hospital staff who know it’s never a good sign when someone comes running hell-for-leather from the direction of the Shackleton.

I run . . . and I can see my dad’s face light up when I come round that last bend and he’s jumping up and down and urging me on and, even though I’m knackered, I find a final burst of speed and sprint towards the finishing line where a couple of the other parents are holding up a tape.

I dip at the last minute, like you’re supposed to . . .

. . . out through the gate and then I stop. I’m bent double, panting on a quiet road that I don’t recognise, so I look both ways but I’ve not got the first idea which way I should go. It’s been a long time since I’ve run that fast and it feels like I’m going to be sick, but I know I need to keep running, one way or another, before George catches up to me.