He looked smaller than she remembered, lying in that bed and hooked up to all those machines. The big blue one snaking into his mouth was helping him to breathe, she knew that. But it looked so obtrusive and she had a strange urge to yank it out.

He seemed old. Her son old. How could that be true? His skin was waxy and pale where it wasn’t patchworked with livid blue and yellow bruising.

What had made him do this?

When she had arrived at the hospital, that kind man, Frank, had insisted he come in with her to help her locate the right department. She had been grateful in an abstract way but was too distracted to thank him properly when she had finally been directed to the Intensive Care Unit. As she’d rubbed the alcohol gel into her shaking hands, he had written his phone number on a scrap of paper and gently popped it into the top of her handbag, ‘Just in case,’ he’d said. In case of what, she couldn’t really think, but it had been nice not to feel so alone for a moment. In fact, an impulsive urge meant she almost blurted out a request to come into the ICU with her. Two visitors were allowed, she had been told that by the doctor, a softly spoken West Indian lady who had explained Michael’s injuries. There were too many for Irene to take in – broken this and ruptured that … but the head injury part was the only one that really mattered. Irene understood that Michael had been put into an induced coma in an effort to stop swelling on his brain but knowing it was deliberate didn’t make it any easier to see.

She had asked about the circumstances of where he was found, and the doctor had hesitated for only a moment before asking Irene if she knew whether her son had been depressed? All she could do was shake her head and mumble that she didn’t really know.

Then the doctor asked if she would like to see the hospital chaplain. That hadn’t seemed like a very comforting question and it had taken quite an effort of will not to tell this woman with her serious, kind manner that she and God had parted ways some years ago, thank you very much.

Her eyes were scratchy with fatigue now and she was desperate for a cup of tea and something to eat. But she wasn’t allowed to take a drink into the ICU and she hadn’t wanted to waste any more time that could be spent with Michael.

Oh Michael, she thought. What have you done?