‘He’s gone downhill in the last few weeks,’ she mouthed in a stage whisper, preserving decorum. ‘He might not know you straight away, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate the company.’

I pulled up a leatherette chair next to her and sat down. A sudden wail of indeterminate anguish came from another room. The carer looked quickly from McGee to me and back again. The wail came again, with an added note of urgency.

‘I wouldn’t normally ask but we’re so short-staffed today. Would you mind feeding him the rest of the yoghurt while I see to another resident? He needs a little while to swallow so don’t take it too fast.’

What could I say?

‘Of course, not a problem.’

I took over the spoon and the yoghurt from her as she bustled out. Something about the sweetish, acrid smell of the substance repelled me. Now I was sitting in her chair McGee’s eyes were fixed on me, without any gleam of recognition. His face was pale and cross-hatched with wrinkles, but there was still a trace of stubbornness in the set of his chin.

I brought the spoon towards his mouth and it duly opened and received the gloop. I noticed that my hand was trembling a little. Some of the yoghurt slipped out of the side of his mouth and I quickly rounded it all up with the spoon and scraped it back in.

Then I leaned towards him just as he swallowed and said, in a low voice but very clearly, ‘What happened to your wife?’

His gaze stayed on me, a hard, uncomprehending grey-blue stare surrounded by rheumy, reddened lids. I locked eyes with him and said it again: ‘What did you do with your wife?’

Not a flicker. Nobody home.

I delved for another spoonful, a deep, full one this time, and brought it back towards his opening mouth. The spoon landed and dropped off a significant deposit.

‘I know your game,’ I said, close up and deliberately. The belligerent assertion felt pointless and crass, hanging unacknowledged in the air.

I tried for one last time: ‘Your wife. Where did she go?’

A brief pause. Then he shot the accumulated yoghurt back out of his mouth with sudden force, spraying it all over my face and jacket. The splattering took me by surprise. I recoiled sharply and was glaring at him when the carer suddenly walked back in.

‘Och dear!’ she said, ‘I should have warned you. He does that every now and then. You can never predict.’

She extracted a wet wipe from a nearby tub and began fussing, dabbing at my jacket. I took it off her, gently: ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it.’ I was still shaken. The clean-up gave me something to do.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Helping becomes a bit of a habit in here.’ She looked regretfully at the half-finished yoghurt. ‘Do you want to give it another go?’