She put a change of clothes, nightgown, slippers, washbag and make-up bag into the case. Forget the taxi, she needed air – if she cut through by the footpaths, the hospital was close enough to walk to. She googled the hospital map to locate the neurology unit. Her father would be there by now. There’d been no phone call; she assumed that was good.

Night had fallen as she reached the hospital; inside, it buzzed with the electricity of artificial light and air-conditioning. The duty sister in the neurological unit tried to give her a comforting smile which she found dismaying, and led her to the intensive care unit. Her father was on his own in a separated corner of the recovery ward with its own entrance, bordered by glass and blinds. She was shown into a small ante-space; a nurse sat there alone in front of a computer and shelves of medical supplies.

Sara introduced herself.

‘Hello, Sara. My name’s Bridget and I’m looking after your father.’ The nurse had curly red hair and chubby cheeks. A soft Irish accent. Like the ward sister, she offered a smile of sympathy. ‘We’ll be doing our very best for him.’

‘How is he? Can I see him?’

‘Of course you can.’

Sara entered – ‘room’ was too domestic a word but it was his own unit and gave him privacy and quiet. She felt grateful to them for it.

His appearance was ghastly – her chest and stomach tightened; she had a momentary breathlessness. Bridget noticed. ‘Don’t be put off by what you see, it’s all there for a reason.’ Tariq was lying on his back, two, if not three, drips fed into him from different sources and a metal tube hung out of his mouth, like the hook from a caught fish, gasping for air. Sara felt the direction of her gaze being watched by the nurse. ‘We’re pleased with his breathing but that there in his mouth is the artificial respirator. So we can give him a helping hand if he’s faltering.’ Sara looked at her, noting the choice of language, and then back to the bank of monitors. ‘Heartbeat, breathing, blood pressure, temperature,’ said Bridget.

Sara peered more closely and tried to remember the last time she’d had her blood pressure taken and what sort of figures they showed. These seemed much lower. Again, Bridget needed no prompting. ‘The blood pressure’s a little low but we’re pumping in stimulants to raise it. You can see from his vital signs that he’s giving it a good fight.’ Sara saw nothing but felt too overwhelmed to ask for further explanation. She sat down on a chair beside the bed and laid her hand on the back of his right hand.

‘So what happened, Dad? What on earth were you up to?’