Sharon snorted at this, but said nothing.

Esther added, ‘I know Ernie does whatever he wants, but there are moments he seems to care for me. And a lot of what he does is for me, he says.’ Her hand beneath his moved. ‘I wish he wasn’t here, in hospital. Makes it all seem worthless now.’

‘Does he hit you?’

Sharon saw Esther’s back heave. ‘Your husband hit you?’ she finally said.

‘No. He doesn’t.’

‘Oh. Well.’ Then, turning to face Sharon, she said, ‘You could get off of your high horse.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘You’re just as bad as I am.’

‘Yeah,’ Sharon said. ‘I know.’

‘Just as bad.’

She breathed. ‘I know.’

‘Least my bloke’s worth something.’

‘So? That makes it okay?’ she said. ‘An arsehole’s still full of the same shit, no matter how deep you search. Anyway’—she breathed out, her voice trembling—‘I just came to say he’s an arsehole to his face. You can tell him I quit when he wakes up. If he wakes up.’

Esther had already turned back around. It was hard for Sharon to tell what she made of those last words. It didn’t matter.

She walked back to her own bed, replaced the tube in the cannula and called for a nurse to make it drip again. The nurse glanced at the machine with a puzzled look before fixing it and leaving. Sharon gazed at the ceiling, again, the way the television light played over the tiles. A ghostly reflection of an image already distorted with static. She wondered how Vernon Moore might be faring, and knew she could do nothing further to stop what was about to happen to him.

THIRTY-TWO

SIDNEY CAHILL

He was scrambling eggs. Elsewhere in the house his daughter was crying because her mother wasn’t paying attention to her. Sarah was busy packing their things. They didn’t own much. All the furniture here belonged to his father. It was mainly clothes she was stuffing into their bags, her make-up, toiletries, a few of Amy’s playthings.

Stabbing the eggs with a wooden spoon, he yelled out, ‘Your folks got a place for Amy to sleep on?’

‘No,’ came Sarah’s voice.

‘Should we take the crib?’

‘The crib won’t fit.’ She rounded the kitchen door to face him. In her arms Amy sniffling, momentarily mollified. ‘We can take the mattress.’

He nodded. ‘Good thinking.’ As she turned to go back to their bedroom he said, ‘These are about done.’

He took the frying pan off the stove and set it on a cork mat on the table. He put in some toast for Sarah and himself and ladled some of the eggs into a bowl for Amy to cool. Her bowl was pink with hippos in floral dresses around the edge. The eggs slightly black from overcooking.

Sarah placed their daughter into her highchair before heading back down the corridor. Sidney strapped Amy in, who was wailing again now, throwing her arms around as he struggled with the buckle. He put the bowl of eggs before her and she stopped crying immediately and used one chubby fist to grab at it, the bowl at risk of being swept over the side, as usual. He kept an eye on her as he sat down.