He sat beside Paul’s bed, sucking a mint, exhaling in sharp breaths so its smell replaced that of the hospital. Walking up the corridor this afternoon he had seen a porter hurriedly pushing a trolley on which there lay a dead body, covered from head to toe with a green sheet. Now Jamie looked at Paul, his chest rising and falling, the steady pulse of his heartbeat amplified electronically by the machines that monitored his condition, and felt a rush of gratitude and relief: Paul was still alive, and whatever else happened, that was a blessing to cling to. Every morning, a nurse came to give Paul a wash and a shave. Periodically, hospital staff trimmed his nails and cut his hair. In fact, Heather had asked if she could cut his hair herself and, having done so, she carried a lock with her in her bag. Jamie thought that was pretty morbid himself, but he understood Heather’s motivation. Paul’s body was still functioning – growing, aging, shedding, replenishing; all the things that bodies do. These things were a tangible reminder that Paul was still with them.

Jamie sat silently as usual. He had spoken to Dr Meer earlier, who said there had been no change in Paul’s condition. Jamie wondered how far beneath the surface Paul was, if he was making any progress that they couldn’t see. He wondered if, in his comatose state, Paul dreamed – and, if so, what he dreamed of. Women, probably. Megan Fox mud-wrestling with Rihanna.

He stood up. It was six o’clock – time to meet Kirsty and take her home. As he was about to leave the room he turned round and looked down at his friend. He could have sworn he had moved. He bent over him, holding his breath, searching for signs of movement or change. There were none.

‘Must have imagined it,’ he murmured to himself. He touched Paul’s cheek. It was warm.

He walked back down the corridor and up a long flight of stairs. A pair of nurses passed him as he headed towards the children’s ward. They recognised him, and smiled. After they’d passed by he heard them laugh, and he felt a stab of paranoia, convinced they were laughing at him. He hurried on, suddenly desperate to be out of here, away from the smell and the people and the bright, sterile lighting. He wanted to be at home.

But when he thought of home, he felt anxious too.