‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of coffee,’ said Annabel, rubbing her face, looking back over her shoulder, watching Michael’s breathing carefully for a moment before they left the room.

In the kitchen she quickly told him what the doctor had said: that the virus had reached Michael’s brain, that he was on the last, downward run, to death.

‘There’s absolutely nothing more we can do Harry,’ and her eyes filled with tears. ‘They’re giving him morphine now. He only knows us occasionally.’ He saw how exhausted she was. ‘We just have to be with him now,’ she said in a small voice.

He put his arms around her, let her cry, stroked her back for a few moments. Then he went back into the bedroom and sat by the bed, took Michael’s hand gently in his own. He heard the rain on the road outside. Michael stirred, woke, saw Harry.

‘Hello darling,’ said Harry.

Michael gave a small smile. His eyes seemed to have sunk down into his head and yet they were young eyes, the same brown eyes. In this old, old man’s face a young person stared out. ‘Was it good,’ Michael said, ‘in San Francisco?’

‘I was in Morocco darling, and it was very good, but it’s good to be home, to see you. How are you feeling?’

Michael considered. ‘I’m not bad,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be up and about in a few days. I’d like it to be sunny.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Harry, ‘when you’re feeling a bit stronger, and when I’ve finished my telly series, we could go somewhere, get some sun. It’s always sunny somewhere in the world.’

‘Where’s Fiona?’ said Michael.

‘Fiona?’

‘We need to get the binoculars for the birds.’

And then Michael closed his eyes again.

When Annabel came in a few minutes later Harry said, ‘Who’s Fiona?’

‘I don’t know, why?’

‘He asked where she was and said they needed the binoculars for the birds.’

‘Oh Harry, his mind wanders all over the place, he says all sorts of incoherent things. God it’s so unfair,’ and she began to weep again. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m so tired, I was up with him most of last night. I massaged his feet, it seemed to help somehow. ‘

Harry sat there, one hand holding Michael’s, the other holding Annabel’s, a mixture of rage and frustration and sorrow in his heart. No cure. No cure. No cure.

‘Who’s coming at two?’ he asked finally.

‘Fred’s been coming in most days, since you’ve been away. He can be here till seven.’

‘Then I’ll sleep here tonight,’ said Harry, standing and picking up his case. ‘You have a good long rest this evening. Get drunk. See you later.’