‘How does Dad seem?’ Jazz asked.

‘I haven’t been allowed in since I telephoned you. They’ve been doing all sorts of tests, wiring poor Tom up to bits of machinery . . . They said someone would come and tell me when I could go back in, but that hasn’t happened either.’ She squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘Thank you so much for coming. I know how busy you are.’

‘Mum, please don’t thank me. I need to be here.’

‘Would you like a coffee? There’s a machine just along the corridor.’

‘No thanks, Mum. I’m fine.’

‘So, how was the journey?’

Jazz knew that under the circumstances, small talk was their only option.

‘Awful, but luckily enough Pa—’

Before she could finish, the door opened and an attractive middle-aged man walked through it.

‘Mrs Hunter?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Robert Carlisle, your husband’s consultant.’ He looked at Jazz. ‘And this is?’

‘Our daughter, Jazmine.’

‘Okay.’ Mr Carlisle pulled up a seat facing them and sat down.

‘Has he had a heart attack?’ Jazz asked, unable to contain herself any longer.

‘Yes, I’m afraid he has.’

Jazz squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘How bad was it?’

‘We’re still running some tests to find out. He also has a chest infection. Had you noticed he’d been coughing recently, Mrs Hunter?’

‘Yes, but he said it was nothing, that he was fine.’

‘Don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t the chest infection that caused the heart attack, although it probably didn’t help. The problem we have now is one of treatment. He’s sustained two major organ failures, his heart and his lungs, which have filled up with fluid. This is due to the infection, but also due to his heart not pumping satisfactorily. His body isn’t draining the fluid off in the way that it should.’

‘Will he . . . be . . .?’ Celestria couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘Mrs Hunter, your husband is a very sick man. We’re doing everything we possibly can to help him. He’s being put on a course of intravenous antibiotics to try and stem the infection, we are giving him drugs to help stabilise his heart and, this is what you might find most distressing, he’s having to endure an air-tight mask which is forcing pure oxygen into his lungs to try and remove the fluid. It’s unpleasant for him and not nice for you to look at. He won’t be able to talk to you, just at the moment.’

There was silence as the two women processed the news. Eventually Jazz asked, ‘What are his chances?’

‘The next twenty-four hours are critical. We are obviously concerned that having had a major heart attack, he might have another one. Equally, his lungs may not clear. If you are asking me for a percentage,’ Carlisle shrugged, ‘I’d say he has around a thirty per cent chance of pulling through.’

Jazz nodded, willing herself not to cry.

‘We’ll do everything we can. And he seems like a fighter to me,’ Carlisle smiled. ‘Never underestimate the power of the human spirit. You can go and see him if you want, just for a short while. He’s awake, which is a good sign. He knows he can’t talk, so try not to encourage him.’