She found K-blast and Zenblood within a few moments.

Blood thinning doesn’t have to be frightening. With our new fibrin protocols, any injuries will clot within 15 minutes regardless of thinning protocols, while the risk of thrombosis is cut to barely 2% with our latest 3.1 update.

The combined cost for both was £270 a month.

“Fuck.”

“Babe?” Jiannis, bare chest, hairless, tight jeans compressed around a perfect backside, glanced round from his sizzling, one eyebrow arched.

“Mum’s upgrades. They’re pricey.”

“How much?”

“More than I think she can afford.”

“Does she need them?”

“They’re supposed to help prevent strokes.”

“You’d better get them for her, then.”

“Me?”

“Well, she’s your mother.”

Hot fat bouncing in the pan, a sudden rush of noise and juice as he threw the sausages in.

Harmony scrolled down through the app, reading. Maybe just K-blast, or just Zenblood?

The ad auto-played after she’d been inactive for more than twenty seconds.

Immobilised by the stroke, she lies, paralysed from the shoulders down, unable to control her bladder function. It’s hard to tell if the tears she cries are from nerve damage, or fear. The risk of a deep vein thrombosis climbs every day, until finally a new clot breaks away and rushes straight to her heart. As shooting pains rush through the left side of her frozen, unresponsive body, she begins to gasp for breath, panting for oxygen that her heart can no longer . . .

Harmony fumbled for her credit card and didn’t hesitate as she put in her details.

Sometimes it was easier to deal with her mum by remote control, after all.

Chapter 14

It was at the Burns Night feast that it all began to change.

The feast was organised by Jeremy, who was half-Scottish and had lived in Glasgow until he was seven. He didn’t sound Scottish, and lived in a four-bedroom down in Gerrard’s Cross, but what was the point of even a glimmer of heritage, he’d say, if you couldn’t have a massive piss-up once a year?

“Fair fa yoooouuurr honest, sonssiiiieee fassse!” intoned Graham, four whiskies in as he wobbled precariously on top of the table, while the room howled and swayed around him, windows slithered with condensation, floor sticky with dry beer. “Great CHIEFtaaannn o’de puddin’ rassssee!”

Had any argument ever been more convincingly put forward for Scottish independence than Graham’s accent, Harmony wondered?

“Abooooooooonnn them a’ye tak your PLASE!”

Jiannis squeezed her backside and pressed up tight as the crowd surged and cheered towards the kitchen door at the climax of Graham’s inexorable verse. With a roar of drunken delight and a shattering of glass tumbling from inebriated hands, the haggis was brought forth, a bulging, swelling sheen of translucent tissue stuffed to the gills with onion, suet, shredded heart, liver and lung, raised up high on a silver plate. The plate was spun, spun high round the room, as hands reached and clawed up for the aloof dish, before the man carrying it lost his footing and with a rupture of hot fat and crimson cooked organ it tumbled to the floor, splitting across high-heeled foot and pressed linen trouser to a howl of approval from the crowd.