The doctor said he saw no problem in moving Mr Hancock. He’d send us a copy of the Cause of Death certificate digitally, he said. The two of us needed to compose Mr Hancock, but someone had to look after the rest of the patients and Timmy was still recovering in the staff kitchen. Besides, he was only a cleaner; we needed someone with the necessary expertise.

‘Will you call Alanna in?’ said Mona. ‘We need some help sorting out this mess.’

‘Alanna?’ I replied. ‘She isn’t likely to be the most efficient. Why else would she take herself off the rota without saying?’

‘Come on, Ruth, you want us to help you or what? I don’t think you’re in a position to be particular,’ Mona said, though I hadn’t considered I might be in need of help.

‘It’s just I don’t have her mobile number,’ I said.

Mona snapped open her phone and handed it to me without a word and I went down the corridor to make the call. The signal was better there and I needed to get away from the room for a moment. All that blood had started to get to me. The mobile rang a few times before Alanna picked up, her voice doughy with sleep.

‘Yes?’

‘Alanna? We need you at work. We are hugely understaffed.’

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s irresponsible.’

‘Ruth? Is that you?’

‘Yes, it’s Ruth.’

‘Ruth … Listen …’

‘No. You listen, Alanna. You need to come now.’

‘Come now?’

‘There’s been an accident.’

‘An accident?’ She was alert now.

That was a slip-up. We would never refer to it as an accident again. At Mr Hancock’s age, anything can be ‘natural causes’.

The girls arrived. They must’ve really rushed because they were wearing no make-up. They looked both younger and more tired. Just in time: Miss Hancock was due to arrive in less than an hour, and we needed the care home to look its best. Half of the patients were still waiting for lunch, and it was nearly 2 p.m.

Mona and I had bleached the blood from the floor, and the room, disinfected, was back to normal. The man’s body lay under a white bed sheet. The girls seemed underwhelmed by the lack of action.

‘So it’s about Mr Hancock,’ said Bex.

‘Can we see him?’ asked Emmy.

‘Later, babe,’ said Alanna. ‘I’m sure everyone will get a chance to say goodbye to Mr Hancock.’

Bex looked up. ‘No thanks.’ She frowned.

Mona waved her hand in irritation. ‘This is not the time, girls. This is about the worst time you could’ve picked.’

‘We need some help, OK?’ I said. ‘To look after the other patients.’

Alanna said: ‘OK.’

‘Then go make yourselves look nice,’ I said.

SOME KIND OF PUDDING

The Girls

Now