Fergus lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He could feel his blood slowing to a crawl around his arteries and veins. His lungs seemed to be allergic to the air. Beneath him the sheets had moistened to a cotton swamp, filthy with toxins and reeking with body odour.

An oxygen tank sat next to his bed like some bizarre relative waiting for interaction, the plastic mask dangling from a clear tube offering little relief from his symptoms. Taking his own pulse, he noted its elevated beat, feeling the irregularity and wondering what his heart looked like internally right now. Grey and worn, struggling to pump effectively. He pictured it as a semi-deflated tyre, ready to burst next time too much pressure was applied.

Throwing a selection of pills into his mouth and washing them down with an energy drink, he wished for sleep. No amount of beta blockers seemed to kill his pain. High-strength sedatives would offer some assistance, but there was no guarantee he’d wake up from them. Suicide wasn’t the end he wanted. His eyes filled with tears. It was so unfair. He wasn’t a bad man, yet such bad things were happening to him. The sickness that had him in its grasp didn’t care about its victims’ track records. It didn’t matter that he had never abused drugs or alcohol, that he’d never come to the attention of the police or the courts. He was going to pay the ultimate price, leaving behind a barely blotted copybook and so much wasted potential.

Elspeth was supposed to save him. Fergus wanted to impress his mother in the afterlife, to show her the man he’d become – a husband, a father, the perfect brother. Family was everything. Especially when you’d never really had one. He didn’t want to die alone; nor did he want his mother to be disappointed in him again.

His wife was just the start of his plans. He’d worked so hard on making their home lovely. All Elspeth had to do was keep it clean and hygienic, particularly given how prone he was to sickness. His grandmother had reminded him of it regularly during his childhood. Back then he’d thought she was a fusspot. Now he knew better.

‘It’s cold out. You shouldn’t be playing in the snow. You’re not strong enough. As soon as you get wet, you’ll be back in bed. You heard what the doctor said about your poor lungs.’

‘Aw, Gran, that’s stupid,’ he’d declared.