I experienced the hospital mainly as a succession of smells. Near the front desk there was a coffee shop of the kind you find in every shopping center and high street. I could hear the hiss of cappuccino being frothed. There was a café as well. As we walked, the aroma of frying bacon gradually gave way to the smell of floor polish, air freshener, then the sting of cleaning fluids, carbolic and bleach, with an under-smell of something nasty. I hadn’t been able to take in the instructions that the receptionist had given us but Gwen led me along corridors, down in a lift to a basement and another reception, with nobody in attendance.

“There’s probably a bell or something,” Gwen said.

There wasn’t. Gwen pulled a face. “Hello?” she called.

There was the sound of footsteps and a man emerged from an office behind the reception desk. He was wearing a green coat, like someone at the counter of a hardware shop. He was very pale, as if he spent all his time down there underground, away from the sun. His stubble stood out plainly. While shaving he had missed a patch under his jaw. I thought of Greg shaving, holding his nose as he did the area beneath his nostrils. The man looked at us inquiringly.

“My friend is here to identify a body.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. “I’m Dr. Kyriacou,” he said. “I’m a senior registrar. Are you a relative?”

“He’s my husband,” I said. I wasn’t ready to use the past tense yet.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, and for a moment I thought he really was sorry, as sorry as you could be when you expressed it every day, except for weekends and holidays.

“Do you need my name?” I said. “Or his?”

“The deceased’s,” said Dr. Kyriacou.

“His name is Gregory Manning,” I said.

Dr. Kyriacou rummaged through some files piled in a metal tray on the counter until he found the one he wanted. He opened it and examined the papers inside. I tried to lean across and see but I couldn’t read anything.

“Do you have any identification?” he asked. “I’m sorry. It’s a regulation.”

I handed him my driving licence. He took it and wrote something on his form. He frowned. “Your husband’s body was badly burned,” he said. “This will be distressing for you. But may I say that in my experience it’s better to see the body than not.”

I wanted to ask if that was really true, even after plane crashes, people hit by trains, but I couldn’t speak.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Gwen asked.