He slams a hand on the bedside table. A stack of paper cups falls to the floor and jiggles to a standstill on the turquoise lino. For a moment, nothing happens and I don’t know what to do. I’m paralysed, a rabbit in the headlights. Did you show him that you cared just for him? Everything is so still for a moment, paused in the room. I hate him. We stare each other down. His head snaps towards me, his half-empty mouth wide open and hissing. I hear his neck clicking as he inches closer, nape rolling against the metal of the headboard. I withdraw. My elbow hits the IV stand and it pulls away from the bed, rolling towards the wall. The plastic tube tenses up.

‘Mr Hancock,’ I say. ‘I’m going to change your bedding now.’

His head is hanging to one side of the headboard, like a doll’s. He is unresponsive. He often slips in and out of consciousness but it’s hard to tell exactly when. It’s one of the official reasons why he requires constant medical surveillance. And also, might I add, one of the reasons why you should never trust him.

My elbow hurts.

I repeat myself. I am sure he is listening.

‘Mr Hancock, I’m going to put you in your wheelchair now. So I can change your bedding.’

There is no reply. After a few seconds it seems safe enough for me to begin protocol. I am keeping it practical. I find the box of latex gloves in the cabinet. I pull out a pair and slip them on. I remove the top bed sheet from the foot of the bed and shove that fucking blanket to the side. We get them sent over from rural Ireland. What a fucking nuisance. And look at what good your cotton pads have done. The urine is beginning to dry and I have to peel the top sheet off his calves. It offers a faint resistance but I keep at it, pulling firmly until the organic glue of piss and sweat comes loose and separates from his legs. There is no reaction. I ball the bed sheet up and toss it on the floor at the foot of the bed.

‘Mr Hancock?’ I say. He is unresponsive. His eyes are empty and fixed. How long, I wonder, until they will positively, permanently look like this? It’s hard to tell, but he is pretty old. I rebuke myself. You don’t wish death upon someone, anyone, no matter how horrible they might be. You just don’t do that. What kind of sick nurse are you? Guilt pushes me closer to him, to his face, to take a closer look. I can hear his steady breathing scratching at his throat. His mouth gives off the odour of uncooked bread, breeding yeast. It makes me retch. I straighten my back and look down at him.