Patrick watched him as he sat down. He was only a kid. Twenty at the most.

‘The nurses are turning her and that.’

His voice was apologetic. Patrick felt an enormous surge of sympathy for the boy. Christmas night and he was stuck here waiting for a half-dead girl to say a couple of words when he would much rather be at a party or something.

He offered the boy his hip flask.

‘Go on, son, have a shot.’

The PC took the flask and had a few sips, coughing as the liquid hit the back of his throat.

‘Merry Christmas, son.’ Patrick’s voice was sad and flat.

‘She’ll pull through, sir. It’s amazing what they can do now.’

The boy was talking for effect. They both knew that.

Suddenly they heard the frenzied high-pitched bleeping of the monitors attached to Mandy. They stamped on their cigarettes and ran from the room.

Mandy’s bed was surrounded by nurses and doctors. The sister pulled Patrick away from the scene as they tried to save his daughter’s life.

Finally, everything was quiet and all that could be heard was the low buzzing sound of the heart monitor. Then that was unplugged and all there was was a deathly silence.

‘I want to use the toilet again. George, Joseph, help me to the toilet.’

They helped their mother heave her huge bulk from the settee. This was the sixth time they had toileted her since she had been in the house.

As they walked her from the room Elaine glanced at the clock. Eight thirty. They would be leaving soon, thank God.

‘So how’s Betty these days, Lily?’

‘Fine. She’s a buyer for a big fashion store as you know. She’s doing very well. Of course, we don’t see as much of her as we’d like . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished but even without the words being said, Elaine knew why. Nancy was hated by her grandchildren.

Nancy sat on the toilet. Her two sons stood outside the door, puffing and panting. Getting Nancy Markham up the stairs was a major event. Both the men were aware that she could walk perfectly well, yet like everything in their lives that had to do with their mother, they studiously avoided mentioning it.

George could see the blue tinge around Joseph’s mouth. His mother would put him into an early grave.

‘I’m ready!’ Nancy’s voice broke through the air like a thunderbolt. The two men opened the bathroom door. The smell of faeces was overpowering.

‘You can wipe, George. Joseph did it last time, and made a bloody awful job of it.’ She held a warning finger up. ‘Do it properly or there will be hell to pay!’

Nancy stood, forcing all her considerable weight on to her sons’ arms, before deliberately letting herself drop to her knees. Joseph and George were dragged to the ground with her.