After a short silence, Bridget says, ‘I know you’re a comedian. I don’t recognise you, but Fiona told me. She says you’re quite famous.’

‘I can’t go into a room full of death and pretend it’s anything else,’ I say. ‘Or rather, I could, but I won’t. I’ve spent a fair bit of time in there. I didn’t like it, so now I’m staying out.’

‘Well, I can’t force you …’

‘Hold her hand, tell her I love her? No. Do you tell everybody to do that?’

‘Well …’ Bridget looks around, as if hoping for a prompt.

‘Do you have any idea how bad Marion’s feeling at the moment? Not physically; emotionally. Here’s what you can’t know: historically, when Marion feels bad, terrible things happen to me. So forgive me if, when she’s feeling worse than ever before, I don’t want to get too close to her.’

‘She’s drifting in and out of consciousness, dear,’ says Bridget. ‘Whatever’s passed between you, she really can’t hurt you now.’

Yes she can. She can say something before she dies. She could say that me turning up after all those years made her get cancer …

More hand-patting from Bridget.

‘I think you’d benefit from a chat with one of our counsellors,’ she says.

‘Do they have either a large bag of morphine and a syringe they’re willing to hand over or an ability to cure terminal cancer? If not, I think I can manage without them.’

Drew would be apoplectic with rage if he could hear me. He insisted I stop making morphine jokes or else the ward staff would grow suspicious. And it’s disrespectful, he said.

That’s what I do, though: I joke. It’s the only useful contribution I make to society. In situations where jokes don’t cheer people up, I might as well not be there. Which, coincidentally, is what I want. I would love not to be here on Ward 10 today.

‘How about a cup of tea?’ Bridget suggests. ‘And maybe after that you can go back in and see Marion?’

‘Do I have to pretend I will to get the tea?’

She leaves me alone, finally; walks away with pursed lips.

Another nurse – young, with hair that’s crew-cut short apart from one long, skinny plait draped over her shoulder – approaches from the other side. ‘Kim!’ she says. ‘Remember me? Fiona?’

‘I remember your plait.’

‘How are you holding up?’

‘I’m okay as long as I don’t have to go back in.’ I indicate the doors behind me. ‘Your colleague Bridget keeps trying to persuade me.’

‘No.’ Fiona shakes her head. ‘Don’t do anything you don’t want to. If you want to sit here, that’s what you should do. If you want to go home and sleep, do that. Whatever feels right to you.’

‘I swallowed a ringpull,’ I tell her.