‘He’s stable for now. I’m afraid there was extensive damage to his liver where the knife went in. He also has a head trauma, from where he fell on the pavement.’

‘Is he awake?’

‘I’m afraid not. We’d try to keep him under in any case. He’ll need a head CT but we’re waiting for the neurologist to come in. Busy weekend, you know. We’re a little backed up.’

I followed dully, waiting to be told where to go, where to sit. It was easier in a way, surrendering like this. I remembered it from being in hospital having the kids. The comfort of it, giving up all responsibility for yourself. Mike was being looked after, capable strangers putting their hands on his body, cutting off his expensive suit. But still I was afraid.

Behind the scenes was chaos. In three cubicles doctors were working fast, and I saw a child struggling and screaming on a bed, her arms livid with burns, and on another an emaciated young woman, machines beeping round her as doctors pressed on her chest. She looked no older than Cassie, but her legs were marked with sores and cankers. A drug addict, I told myself. Outside the realms of my life. Poor girl.

We approached the last cubicle, and I felt the doctor’s hand on my arm, gentle, but stopping me. ‘Wait here a moment, Mrs Morris.’ He pushed aside the green curtains and I heard murmured voices. My stomach lurched. The swish of the rails was a terrible sound, somehow. He was back in a second, and I noticed he was careful not to let me see past him. ‘We’re just taking him to surgery, I’m afraid.’

‘Already?’

‘We need to get into his liver . . . there’s a bleed we’re concerned about.’ How they couched it. A bleed. Concern. Panic seemed to be creeping up from the bottom of my lungs, so that I could only breathe into the top of them, as if concrete blocks sat on my chest.