‘He took a tow rope and hung himself in the local park two nights ago. Some children found him swinging from a tree. He had a note in his pocket saying he didn’t want to stick around in this rotten world anymore. He was very low. Didn’t think that what he fought for was worth a toss to people now and so he was better off with his pals. He was never the same when he come home. Not my Arthur, more like a stranger. I never thought he’d shame us like this, though. He wouldn’t want to scare kiddies like that. It must have been the booze. He were teetotal before the war.’

Drew listened in silence with a sinking heart. He made the right noises and left in a turmoil. He did not want to be alone.

*

He took the high winding road northwards on to the moors away from the cold comfort of his flat in West Park, parking his car to face the twinkling lights flickering through the mist from the city below. It was lashing with rain. He opened the door to feel the water splashing on to his face, stinging his cheeks, then closed it quickly. On the windscreen the raindrops bubbled down, full of faces trapped like ships in bottles: faces of long-dead comrades and dying soldiers, children. Bobbing in front of him the pudgy, paleface of Arthur Bates glistened: such a quiet, sad man. All the torrent of rage and sadness tearing his soul apart had been hidden by his unassuming exterior.

Drew banged his fist on the glass. How could he have misread such misery? His own sense of failure thundered like a punch in the gut, taking his breath away. What sort of doctor are you, Stirling? he asked himself. He felt under his seat for his usual comfort but there was not enough left to anaesthetise a flea. He revved up the engine and headed for the nearest off licence.

*

How he found his way to Netta’s door was a mystery of automatic driving. Drew stepped out of the shadows in the pouring rain, looking like a drowned rat holding a bottle of whisky. Netta couldn’t make out at first if tears or rain were dripping down his cheeks. Then she saw it was both. ‘Drew, for goodness’ sake, away inside. You look like death warmed up. What’s happened?’

‘I’ve been standing soaking in the rain, staring at this damn’ bottle, looking inside for an answer until I’m numb. Liquid gold, my little comforter. Tonight for once it’s let me down. I can still feel the pain and there’s no answer inside any bottle, is there? So I thought, Do I buy another or do I come and see my friend one more time? That’s what I thought to myself: the bottle or Netta. And for once you won.’