I clutched his hand in mine and sat at his bedside all that day and all night, wrapped in my grey hospital gown. I watched shadows touch his face where his left cheekbone and eye socket were broken, while a needlepoint of moonlight threaded its way through one of the tall windows and turned his skin to pewter. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and nurse him back to health the way I’d done with so many puppies and kittens or injured calves and foals since I was old enough to hold a bottle for them.

I laid my head on his hand, my own limbs trembling. I thought about the massive steel bumper grinding against my brother’s poor bones. Somewhere behind those blinding headlights had sat a driver, foot stamping on the accelerator.

*

‘Eloïse.’

It was barely a whisper. Did I imagine it? My head shot up. I had dozed off. A nurse had drifted silently to the bedside to check on my brother earlier and had pronounced, ‘No change. His condition is still critical.’

A ruptured spleen. Broken bones. A smashed sternum. Internal bleeding. His life on a thread. Yet his amber eyes were staring at me. Thin slits, bloodshot and battered. But open.

‘André,’ I tried to whisper, but it came out as a moan.

It was light now. I could hear the rattle of a breakfast trolley, as well as early-morning coughs and the protests of old bedsprings. I leaned close.

‘You’re safe here. The doctors are—’

‘No.’

His lip split open and a trail of scarlet trickled along his chin. It glistened on his morning stubble.

‘I won’t leave your side,’ I promised. ‘I’ll make sure you’re safe.’

‘I know.’ His fingers tightened on mine. ‘Thank you, Eloï . . .’ A spasm of pain shook him.

‘Don’t speak,’ I begged.

Our eyes held and I knew what he needed. He didn’t have to tell me.

‘Who shall I contact?’ I asked.

His eyes slid painfully to one side to indicate the tiny bedside cabinet. I pulled open the drawer. Inside lay his black leather wallet and his watch. I lifted up both because I knew he needed to leave no trace of himself. I’d been an attentive pupil. I tucked them under my hospital dressing gown.

‘A telephone number?’ I asked.

He closed his eyes. After a full three minutes, during which I watched the pulse in his throat flicker, he murmured a number. A Paris number. I nodded and committed it to memory.

‘And you?’ His narrow gaze skimmed my face. ‘You don’t look good.’ I had a rich assortment of cuts and bruises, my cheek swathed in a bandage and a plaster cast on my arm.

I smiled at him. ‘A damn sight better than you.’

His breath was making a noise like a bird, high-pitched and unbearable. I kissed his swollen cheek.