PROLOGUE
4 March 2013
Ealing, London
He can breathe today. Every exhale and inhale no longer felt as though barbed wire was being dragged across his lungs, but it’s still painful to open his swollen eyes. He tries to focus but all he can see is shadows. He can’t see her, but he can smell her. He gazes at the shadow which he knows is his wife, Deborah. Family and friends no longer pop in for a chat and a drink or to sit idly in the garden on the long summer nights but instead visit him as a patient. They talk in hushed, pained and pitiful whispers; unsure how to sit in a room that is no longer used for living but for end-of-life care.
The leather creaks as Deborah rises from the armchair.
‘He looks like he’s turned a corner,’ Deborah whispers and gently places a hand on his leg. ‘The doctor came by this morning and was really pleased.’
‘We often find patients make a vast improvement when they’re being cared for at home. Less stress, familiar smells.’
He feels gloved fingers rest on the dry and flaccid skin on his right arm and he smiles. He knows her touch. His nurse.
‘Sian. Knew that you couldn’t resist me,’ he says.
‘How could anyone resist you. You’re a superstar,’ Sian replies as she places the blood pressure cuff around his arm.
He can sense the smile in her voice. It has occurred to him,more than once, that there aren’t many people in the world who make you feel seen. Sian never treats him as another item to tick off her itinerary. He winces as the machine sings and the cuff tightens around his arm.
‘There we go,’ Sian says brightly as the cuff on his arm quickly depresses. ‘All done.’
‘And I’m still here,’ he replies.
‘Of course, you’re still here,’ Sian says gently. She steps back and records his blood pressure and pulse readings in his chart.
‘Are you staying over?’ he asks, eagerness managing to break through the hoarseness.
‘I told my husband I was spending the night with another man.’
He smiles as he hears his wife, laughing for the first time in weeks.
‘Unfortunately, you’re not my only bit on the side,’ Sian says. ‘I’ve got other patients to see this afternoon, but I’ll be back.’
Sian clears a space on the kitchen island and lays out the vials of medication, sealed packets of needles and syringes.
‘Are you sure I can do this?’ Deborah asks anxiously as she pushes aside the shopping bags she hasn’t had a chance to unpack.
‘You’ll be fine. You’ve been practising and I have faith in you,’ Sian replies, picking up a vial. ‘This is the easy one. Morphine, which you will deliver orally in three hours. How many mils?’
‘Five,’ Deborah answers nervously.
Sian smiles with approval as she picks a second vial. ‘Warfarin,’ she says. ‘You will inject 5mil into his thigh. What do you need to do before you inject?’
Deborah straightens herself and places her hands – her fingernails bitten to the quick – on the island as though she needs the extra support.
‘Check for air bubbles in the syringe and if there are any I should—’ Deborah pauses as doubt fills her eyes.
Sian nods encouragingly.
‘Hold the syringe up, gently tap it and wait for the bubbles to rise to the top. Then I will push the plunger until the air bubbles are gone. Double check the dosage and then inject,’ says Deborah.
‘I promise you everything will be fine,’ Sian reassures her. ‘I’ll be back at 8.30 p.m. and you can finally get a decent night’s sleep.’
‘I don’t know what we would do without you,’ Deborah says as she grabs Sian and hugs her both with relief and gratitude. ‘You’re an angel.’
The sirens are now silent but the sharp wailing of a woman falling into grief can be heard on the street. A curtain in the upstairs window of the house on the opposite side of the street twitches as the front door of number 25 opens. A paramedic walks out with no sense of urgency. A silver BMW, its engine quiet, drives at speed and brakes sharply outside number 25, blocking the driveway. From her position, next to a large ash tree on the opposite side of the street, Sian can see and hear everything. The car door opens, and a man attempts to exit but he hasn’t unclipped his seatbelt and he’s forced back. He finally releases it and stumbles out of the car as the door of number 27 opens and a young woman steps out, barefooted, into her front garden.
