A sign in the window.
No Bible Bashers.
I’m suddenly conscious of the fact I’m holding my appointment diary up to my chest, very like a bible. I just have time to lower it when the bolts go back and the door opens.
A rugged old man with a plaster on the side of his face. Wild white hair clumping out either side of a knitted hat. T-shirt, jogging bottoms, slippers held together with duct tape.
‘Hello, Mr Holdsworth. My name’s Jim. From the Rapid Response Team. How are you feeling?’
‘Hey?’
‘I said how are you feeling?’
‘Bloody awful, thanks for asking,’ he says, leaning back. ‘But I suppose you’ve come for John.’
‘Oh.’
‘He’s still in bed. He’s been so tired lately, you see.’
‘Yes. Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘You’d better come in.’
‘Thanks. And you are…?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘It’s no good. You’ll have to speak up.’
‘I didn’t catch your name…’
‘Eloise,’ she says. ‘He’s through here.’
And as his wife leads me through to the bedroom, I can only pray she didn’t hear me call her mister.