For three nights Ed stayed at his parents’ house, sleeping in his childhood room, waking in the small hours and running his fingers across the surface of the woodchip wallpaper behind his headboard, recalling the sound of his teenage sister’s feet thundering up the stairs, the slam of her bedroom door as she digested whatever insult their father had apparently directed her way this time. In the mornings he sat and had breakfast with his mother in the too-silent kitchen and slowly grasped that his father was never coming home. That they would never see him there again, flicking his paper irritably into straight corners, reaching without looking for his mug of strong black coffee (no sugar). Occasionally she would burst into tears, apologizing and waving him away as she pressed a napkin to her eyes. I’m fine, I’m fine. Really, love. Just ignore me.

In the overheated confines of Room Three, Victoria Ward, Bob Nicholls spoke less, ate less, did less. Ed didn’t need to speak to a doctor to see what was happening. The flesh seemed to be disappearing from him, melting away, leaving his skin pulled translucent over his skull, his eyes great, bruised sockets: Death was claiming him.

They played chess. Talking tired him but, oddly, he could play chess. He often fell asleep mid-game, drifting off during a move, and Ed would sit patiently at his bedside and wait for him to wake again. And when his eyes opened, and he took a moment or two to register where he was, his mouth closing, and his eyebrows lowering as he took in the state of play on the board, Ed would move a piece and act as if it had been a minute, not an hour, that he had been missing from the game.

They talked. Not about the important stuff. Ed wasn’t sure either of them were built that way. They talked about cricket, and the weather, and the ridiculous cost of the pay-as-you-go entertainment system at the foot of the bed. Ed’s father talked about the nurse with the dimples who always thought up something funny to tell him. He asked Ed to look after his mother. He worried she was doing too much. He worried that the man who cleared the guttering would overcharge her if he wasn’t there. He was annoyed that he had spent lots of money in the autumn having the moss removed from the lawn and he wouldn’t get to see the results. Ed didn’t try to argue. It would have seemed patronizing.

‘So, where’s the firecracker?’ he said, one evening. He was two moves from checkmate. Ed was trying to work out how to block him.

‘The what?’

‘Your girl.’

‘Lara? Dad, you know we got –’

‘Not her. The other one.’

Ed took a breath. ‘Jess? She’s … uh … she’s at home, I think.’

‘I liked her. She had a way of looking at you.’ He pushed his castle forward slowly onto a black square. ‘I’m glad you have her.’ He gave a slight nod. ‘Trouble,’ he murmured, almost to himself, and smiled.

Ed’s strategy went to pieces. His father beat him in three moves.

33.

Jess

The bearded man emerged from the swing doors wiping his hands on his white coat. He paused in the doorway, like someone who had walked into a room and couldn’t remember why they’d gone in.

‘Norman Thomas?’

Jess had never considered their dog might have a surname.

‘Norman Thomas? Large, indeterminate breed?’ he said, lowering his chin and looking straight at her.

She scrambled to standing in front of the plastic chairs. ‘He has suffered massive internal injuries,’ he said, with no preamble. ‘He has a broken hip and several broken ribs and a fractured front leg and we won’t know what’s going on inside until the swelling’s gone down. And I’m afraid he’s definitely lost the left eye.’ She noticed there were bright smears of blood on his blue plastic shoes.

She felt Tanzie’s hand tighten in hers. ‘But he’s still alive?’

‘I don’t want to give you false hope.’ His voice held the careful modulation of someone who had witnessed drowning men cling to the smallest pieces of driftwood. ‘The next forty-eight hours will be critical.’

Beside her Tanzie gave a low moan of something that might have been joy or anguish, it was hard to tell.

‘Walk with me.’ He took Jess’s elbow, turning his back on the children, and lowered his voice. ‘I have to say that I’m not sure, given the extent of his injuries, if the kindest thing wouldn’t be to let him go.’

‘But if he does survive forty-eight hours?’

‘Then he may stand some chance of recovery. But as I said, Mrs Thomas, I don’t want to give you false hope. He really isn’t a well lad.’

Around them the waiting clients were watching silently, their cats in pet carriers cradled on their laps, their small dogs panting gently under chairs. Nicky was staring at the vet, his jaw set in a tense line. His mascara was smudged around his eyes.

‘And if we do proceed, it’s not going to be cheap. He may need more than one operation. Possibly even several. Is he insured?’

Jess shook her head.

Now the vet became awkward. ‘I need to warn you that going forwards his treatment is likely to cost a significant sum. And there are no guarantees of recovery. It’s very important that you understand that before we go any further.’

It was her neighbour Nigel who had saved him. He had run from his house carrying two blankets, one to wrap around the shivering Tanzie, the other to cover the body of the dog. Go indoors, he had instructed Jess. Take the kids indoors. But as he drew the tartan rug gently over Norman’s head, he had paused, and said to Nathalie, ‘Did you see that?’