I don’t know if it was Goth girl’s pep talk, the drugs I’d been necking for the past eighteen hours or the gentle reassurance of Leonard’s presence, but I felt strangely calm about the whole situation. Everything just felt...taken care of. When Dicky arrived at the hospital to deliver us to the Austin, I wished my doctor good luck on the rest of his career, Uncle Lenny took my arm like he was walking me into the Oscars and we departed Wishaw Hospital, I sincerely hoped forever.

There was a small hitch when we got to Mickey’s garage in Biggar, when the car wasn’t quite as ready as it should have been, but instead of getting worked up about it I simply told myself Norman was perfectly safe back at the Soft Fudge and we still had plenty of time to get back to Edinburgh before his show. Then I lay down across the only two chairs in the oily garage waiting room and took a little nap, if you don’t mind. Probably the drugs, then.

When we finally got on the road a little over three hours later, the Zen I’d been emanating was definitely more than a little reduced. But within a few minutes of waving goodbye to Dicky and Mickey I realized that Leonard probably really had been the 1969 British off-road rally champion. Because when speed mattered, Leonard stepped up.

I looked over at him leaning into the curves of the narrow road and he suddenly looked about twenty years younger. The steering wheel rested effortlessly in the wrinkled hands I’d seen fumbling ineptly with door handles and mobile phone buttons, and it felt like the car was hovering a few inches above the bumpy bitumen. As I sat back, relaxed and enjoyed the ride, I thought to myself, well, one just never knows, eh? And it turned out there was quite a bit more of that to come.

Back at the hospital, I’d broached the topic of Leonard’s early-morning jaunt again, and again he’d dodged my questions, but with a promise to tell me everything on the trip back to Edinburgh. So now that we were well and truly on the road, even though the drugs were definitely wearing off, I decided the best way forward was straight through. Which was uncharacteristic, to say the least.

“All right, Leonard, no more beating around the bush. What were you doing going off like that yesterday morning? Did you... I mean... Well, I’m sorry, but I have to know. Are you on the run from the Wheeler Center?”

I braced myself. Literally. I held on to both sides of the seat, fully expecting Leonard to veer off the road with the shock of being found out and head off Dukes of Hazzard style across an expanse of Scottish cow pasture. But the wheels stayed steady and he gave it to me with both barrels to the heart.

Leonard’s story was bit like walking into a movie at the end without having seen all the best bits. And, of course, I’d got it all wrong. The first year into her eighth decade of life, it wasn’t him but Iris who had developed full-blown dementia. And after two years of soul-destroying decline, two months previously she’d virtually stopped recognizing him, except for a few lucid moments once or twice a week.