Mr Hancock is lying in his bed at an angle. He’s wearing a white vest with thin straps, so that his large limp muscles are exposed. One of his arms is hooked on to the headboard; the other, stretched out, is punctured by the IV drip, its twitching blue vein pulsing through his jaundiced tan. When did they put him back on liquids? Has he been getting worse? I’ve lost track. I don’t care. He looks unconscious, but I know better than that. One of his knees is bent, the other relaxed along the side of the bed, like an underwear model. A memory from Saturday night congeals in my head: Stuart Brandon Pierce stubs out my cigarette on a brick out back, taps my glass. ‘Drink up, that’s a good girl,’ he says. His dumbstruck face as he looks up at me from the toilet floor. I shake my head to get rid of it. A yellow pool has collected between Mr Hancock’s legs. There’s piss on the bed sheet. It’s filthy.

He snaps his head upright and opens his eyes. He stares at me and puckers his reptile lips. I notice he isn’t wearing his lower dentures and so his upper teeth look too large, too many.

‘Right, Mr Hancock!’ I clap my hands and the sound sends a sharp pain through my right eye socket. ‘You called.’

He is looking at me. His mouth and neck are barely moving. The voice exits his throat like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Did you show him that you cared? Is that how the song goes? Did you show him that you cared, Ruth? Did he just say my name? He can’t have. My head feels like it’s about to explode. Did I do the things he liked to do?

‘What happened here, Mr Hancock?’ I say. I opt for the caring, babying tone that can snap our most difficult patients out of their mood. I don’t feel very caring. I feel like throwing up. I decide to keep things straightforward. ‘I think we need to get your bedding changed, don’t we?’ I make towards the window, towards where his wheelchair is parked. I roll the chair next to his bed and slip the brakes on with my foot. He starts singing again, delivering each line with precision, a nauseating balance between sugar and decay. ‘We love Dusty Springfield, don’t we, Mr Hancock? But how about we get you nice and clean now—’