Sunshine burst in Harry’s head. He tore his eyes away from the holes in the wall, stared at the doctor.

‘Are you sure?’ he said and the doctor smiled a tired smile.

‘You all say that,’ he said, ‘whether you’re positive or negative, are you sure? Well Mr Donaldson that’s what your blood says.’

‘And it is my blood, there hasn’t been a mistake?’ But Harry saw Dr Aziz’s face, saw how exhausted he looked, how he was trying to be pleased, for Harry.

‘God man, sorry,’ said Harry, getting up from the chair, ‘but – oh how I thank you. I don’t know how you can bear going through this day after day.’ The doctor said nothing, conserving his energy for the next person on the list, who – he looked down at his papers – was positive.

Just as he was going out of the door Harry turned back.

‘Dr Aziz. I just want to ask you one question.’

‘Yes?’ said Dr Aziz.

‘What are all those little holes?’ he said.

The doctor looked bewildered. ‘What little holes?’

Harry pointed to the green wall. Dr Aziz stared for a moment and then his face cleared.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘In the beginning this was the records room, we used to pin the HIV positive results up there in rows, we were short of filing cabinets. But it became impractical, the wall overflowed. And anyway everything is computerised now.’ He gave a funny little smile to Harry.

‘Good luck,’ he said.

*

Harry almost danced home to pack for Morocco, did actually tap dance along Camden High Street just next to a flower seller who looked bored, tap tap tap in my two high shoes, he sang. He went into one of the little art galleries along Parkway that he often looked into. He chose a painting he’d had his eye on for some time: it was a painting of an almost unknown beach along the Suffolk coast that Harry had once visited. The sun shone on the green-blue sea and in the distance a liner, or a tanker, merged with the horizon. He got the dealer to wrap it, and he posted it to Dr Aziz from the Parkway post office. He just wrote: for the wall with the holes in, thank you, and signed his name.

As he got in, the phone was ringing. Instead of leaving it to the answering machine as he had been doing since the day of his test, he picked it up, throwing his coat on a chair like a toreador.

‘Hello,’ he said, his voice strong. ‘Hello whoever you are.’

‘Harry? Darling how funny you sound, it’s Pauline Bonham. I wondered if today wasn’t the day you got your results. I’ve been thinking of you.’