I’ve seen dead people; Rita isn’t one of them.

It’s not because she’s holding her eyes shut, and her mouth closed, and it’s not because her skin is a lovely pink colour. And it isn’t because even from the doorway I can see she’s breathing. It’s because someone buzzed me through the main door when I rang, and she’s the only one in the flat.
‘Rita? It’s Jim, from the hospital. I’ve come to see how you are.’
No response.
‘How are things?’
I put my bag down and go over to her.

*

It was supposed to be easy. A handful of calls first thing. A quick trip back to the hospital to catch up on admin. Out again without lunch, all the omens good for a prompt finish. Father’s Day and all that. Cake and cards…
‘Could you just ring this patient before you go?’ says Michaela, handing me a file, super energised as usual, despite the chaos. ‘We need to know how she’s getting on with the equipment that was delivered yesterday. Thank you, Jim!’
Michaela has a way of getting you do stuff even though you’re exhausted. I don’t know how she does it. Drugs, mind control, religion – even if I had the time, I’d be too scared to ask.
I skim the notes. All pretty straight-forward. Elderly woman, independent, no package of care. Family involvement. Low to moderate health problems. Toilet frame and kitchen trolley dropped round the day before. Nothing to report.
I pick up the phone.
‘Hello? Is that Rita? Hello, Rita. My name’s Jim. I’m calling from the Rapid Response Team at the hospital.’
‘Yes?’
‘How are you today?’
‘I’m ill.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. In what way are you ill?’
‘What?’
‘Are you in pain? Do you feel short of breath?’
‘No. Look – I’m far too ill to talk about it.’
And she hangs up.

I re-order my calls as I drive over there. I might just make it…

*

All Rita’s obs are fine. In fact, many are better than mine. But despite encouragement she still sits in the chair like a WRVS version of The Death of Chatterton. (It’s not a stroke. Her neuro obs are as sound as everything else. And I’m pretty sure it’s not arsenic).
I hardly know how to put the next question to her, but I’m horribly conscious of the time, something the novelty bird clock on the wall behind her cruelly accentuates with a cuckoo.
‘The button to open the main door downstairs – it’s in the hall, isn’t it?’ I ask, leading her on like some shabby prosecutor.
She nods.
‘So how did you manage to get from the chair to the button and back again before I came in?’
‘I crawled,’ she says.
‘You crawled?’
‘Yes. I crawled.’
I try to picture how that would have looked. A marine would’ve been sweating, covering that amount of carpet and back in the time given.
‘I’ve never felt so unwell,’ she says.
‘Rita? What we need to do is find out exactly what you mean when you say unwell.’
‘Unwell! I don’t know how else to describe it.’
‘Do you feel sick?’
‘No.’
‘Short of breath?’
‘No.’
‘Dizzy?’
She shakes her head.
‘And you don’t have any pain anywhere?’
‘No.’
‘Any strange sensations of any kind anywhere at all?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘I feel ill.’
I pause, write something – anything – down.
‘I want to go to hospital,’ she says.
‘Why?’
‘I’d be safe there.’
Well – that’s true. You would be safe there. But you’re doing pretty well here, too. You’ve got your red button to press if anything happens. You’ve got your son a few streets away. You’ve got the telephone in easy reach. The thing is, Rita – it’s difficult to find a reason to send you in to hospital. Especially today. It’s incredibly busy down there. You’d probably end up on a trolley for ages, and then sent home with nothing changed.’
‘I just want to die,’ she says. ‘I’ve had my time. Sorry to be a nuisance.’
‘You’re not a nuisance, Rita. And I’m sorry you’re feeling so low.’
Her eyes snap open and she looks straight at me.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my mind,’ she says. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the way I feel.’
‘No! Absolutely! It’s perfectly understandable and natural to get fed up sometimes and want someone to talk to.’
‘Just leave me. Just leave me to die.’
She closes her eyes again and reverts to pose.
Maybe if I had an easel – and the time – I’d set up and paint her. I could do with the practice and she could do with the company. But I’ve got a lot to get through, and my dream of an easy day is fast disintegrating.
‘What are we going to do, Rita? Hey? What are we going to do?’
But Rita doesn’t say anything, and keeps her eyes closed. And a silence fills the room, the dizzying breadth and depth of it marked by a sudden burst of skylark from the bird clock on the wall.

 I’ve been well-briefed about the situation.
‘Try very hard not to get drawn in,’ the social worker said. ‘Just go in, be reassuring but business-like. Do her obs, make her a cup of tea and something to eat, then so long as everything’s okay, leave. She’ll make out she’s dying and she’ll try to get you running around to the doctor’s and lord knows who else, but don’t fall for it. She does have capacity, even though you might not think so. Don’t worry. She’s on the radar. The plan is to get her in for some privately funded respite and therapy in the next few days. In the meantime, we’ll just keep her safe. Oh – and she’ll be wearing everything at once, her entire wardrobe, pretty much.’

He wasn’t kidding. Even though the flat is stiflingly hot, Marie is under a duvet and two throws, wearing a thermal one-piece, a pair of pyjamas, a jersey and a cable-knit cardigan.
‘Help me!’ she says. ‘Please!’
I manage to calm her down long enough to agree to come through to the lounge. I serve her tea, a sandwich and a little custard tart from a box she has in the fridge. It’s strange to see her eat with such quiet focus, methodically working her way round the pastry, from the serrated rim of it to the centre. Then she dabs up the crumbs with a wet finger, looks up, hands me the plate and says: ‘I’ve never felt so bad! Please – do something! Please! You won’t leave me like this before I’m better, will you?’
‘I’ll certainly make sure you’re okay,’ I say, feeling shifty.
She agrees to an exam. It takes five minutes just to free an arm for the cuff.
‘You make me feel hot,’ I say.
‘Well I’m cold.’
‘I can see.’
Incredibly, all her obs are completely fine. Even her heart rate is normal, despite her heightened state.
‘What are your symptoms, Marie?’ I ask her, packing the kit away, struggling to maintain my poise in the oppressive, orchid-house atmosphere. ‘What’s the worst thing?’
‘My back,’ she says. ‘It’s never been so bad. Please!’
‘What about your back? Is it painful?’
‘No! It’s cold. It’s cold!’
And unable to bear it any longer, she stands up, pulls the outer dressing-gown cord so tight she looks like a gigantic cottage loaf, asks me to bring her more tea, and takes herself off to bed.

Jack collapsed in the early hours of the day before, on his way to the bathroom.
‘God knows how long he was on the floor,’ says his wife, Rita. ‘I woke up sometime after and got up to go to the loo. I didn’t even realise he wasn’t in bed. I got quite a shock when I put the landing light on and found him stretched out like that.’
‘How was his breathing?’
‘A bit snory. He was on his front, with one arm stretched up ahead of him, like Superman, only lying down.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I phoned our son, who told me to hang up and call the ambulance. They were here incredibly quickly. And they were so nice. Really, I couldn’t fault the attention we’ve had. You hear all these stories, but I’ve not got a bad thing to say about anyone.’

Jack is sitting in his armchair, blithely taking it in. A lean, tall, comfortable man, browned from long hours in the garden, he looks surprisingly youthful in a stripy red and white T-shirt and slacks.
‘How are you feeling now?’ I ask him.
‘Fine!’ he says, slowly unlacing his fingers, moving his hands apart, and then linking them back together again, like an oven releasing heat.  ‘Absolutely tip top!’
‘They took him up to hospital and he had every test you could think of,’ says Rita. ‘He was scanned, dipped, poked and X rayed. He had an ECG. You see those bruises on his arms there? They had to take his blood twice. The first lot clotted they said.’
‘Why? Do you have a clotting disorder, Jack?’
‘No, nothing as exciting as that,’ says Rita. ‘No – it was just one of those things, they said. One of those things. What things? As if that’s supposed to be reassuring.’
‘So every test came back clear?’
‘A medical mystery,’ says Jack, rather shamefacedly. ‘I’m sorry to cause all this bother.’
‘It’s no bother, Jack.’
‘Everyone’s been so kind.’
‘You’re worth it, as they say in the advert.’
‘What advert?’
‘You know. The one about the shampoo.’
‘Oh! You’ve just reminded me! I’ve still got my shower cap on!’
Rita snatches a plastic turquoise hat from her head and tosses it across the room.
‘Why didn’t you tell me I had it on?’ she says to Jack.
He shrugs. ‘I didn’t think it mattered.’
‘You must have thought I was mad.’
‘No. To be honest I hardly noticed.’
‘Men,’ she says, shaking her head and patting her hair.
I tidy up the paperwork.
‘Well! All your observations are absolutely normal,’ I say to Jack. ‘I can’t find anything out of the ordinary. What did the doctors say at A and E? Did they have any theories?’
‘Not a sausage,’ he says.
‘Sometimes these things happen…’
‘There we are again! These things…’ says Rita.
‘Did you have any warning of the collapse? Did you feel dizzy or faint before you went down?’
‘No. I didn’t even know I had. I remember getting up to go to the loo, and the next thing was Rita leaning over me.’
‘How long were you out?’
‘I’ve no idea. An hour maybe?’
‘That’s a long time. And were there any untoward sensations or feelings you were aware of? Were you sick or breathless? Did you have any pins and needles or numbness?’
‘My arm was pretty numb, but then I’d been lying on it, I suppose.’
I close the folder and lean on it.
‘Whatever it was, it passed without any lasting effect. It could’ve been your heart throwing out an arrhythmia. It could’ve been what they call a transient ischaemic attack or mini-stroke. It could’ve just been a simple faint from getting up too quickly in the early hours. But whatever it was, there’s no lasting damage. Your GP will want to do some more tests and keep an eye on you over the coming days and weeks, but other than that, I think you’re pretty good.’
‘There are so many things medicine doesn’t know about,’ says Rita.
‘Absolutely.’
‘I mean – take me, for instance. I’m allergic to so many things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Goats milk. Electricity. Cats. Potatoes.’
‘That must make life difficult…’
‘Tree pollen. Grass pollen. Pollen, basically.’
‘Do you take medication…?’
‘Gold and silver, brick dust, latex, plasters, gluten.’
‘What on earth do you do?’
‘And electromagnetic radiation. We’re surrounded by that, all these computers and things. You know – we lived abroad for much of our lives. In a very poor part of West Africa. There was really nothing there, no power, no cars, not anything modern. And then when we came back to this country I started to fall ill, and I realised it was because I’d become so used to an absence of things, I was reacting to pretty much everything.’
‘We’re all right,’ says Jack. ‘We’ve got it pretty good.’
‘Do you know about the blue light?’ says Rita, undeterred.
‘What d’you mean? The blue light?’
‘The television – it runs on blue light. It’s the high frequencies, the waves that carry it all through the air.’
‘Oh?‘I’m very sensitive to it. Very sensitive. If I was to turn that television on, I’d be asleep in minutes.’
‘I have the same problem,’ I tell her.
‘You do?’
‘Kind of.’

I’m ushered in to see Leoneta by Jeremy, her neighbour from the second floor. Even though he’s elderly himself, he sprints up the elegant staircase two steps at a time. It’s a job to keep up.
‘A visitor for you, Leoneta,’ he sings when we reach the landing. ‘From the hospital.’
‘Send him in, Jeremy!’
‘If there’s anything you need, just give me knock,’ he says, smartly stepping aside, nose in the air, toreador sans cape.

Leoneta is waiting for me on a velvet ottoman, her hands neatly folded in her lap, a flounce of white hair emphasising the sparkle of her eyes. She’s surrounded by antiques – richly carved furniture, oil paintings of serious gentlemen with their serious dogs posing in rococo frames, fertility statues, masks, primitive instruments, tall ferns lolling from majolica jardinières, the whole place feeling like The Victorian Explorers room in an ethnographic museum.
I introduce myself and shake her hand.
‘Sit down and tell me all the news,’ she says. ‘When you’ve got your puff back.’ Yip yip yip.
Her laugh is extraordinary, a series of rapid in-breaths sounding high in her throat. If there was a casting call for an actor to voice an animated squirrel who loved adventure and always saw the best in people, she’d be a shoe-in.
‘Well I must admit you win the prize for the most extraordinary surname,’ I tell her, getting out my folder and clicking my pen. ‘It’s lovely, but one heck of a job to spell.’
‘I know! All those Us and Qs!’ she says. ‘Just throw in a good handful. No-one’ll notice.’ Yip yip yip.

The next day I’m sitting next to Michaela, the Co-ordinator, giving her the feedback from my latest batch of patients, when Richard strides into the office, throws his bag on the floor and takes a seat opposite.
‘Developments on the Helga case,’ he says, folding his arms. ‘When you’re ready.’
Turns out, he’d been in to see her that afternoon for another capacity assessment.
‘My guess is, she has it,’ he says. ‘Although I couldn’t actually prove it. She’s adamant she doesn’t want carers going in. She doesn’t want anyone checking up on her, or bothering her about food and getting washed and what have you. She just wants to be left alone. Which is absolutely fine, of course. She’s perfectly entitled to refuse whatever she likes. The only thing she wouldn’t do is stop cursing long enough to listen to me explain the risks she’s running and then repeat it all back to me. So I can’t sit here and categorically say she understands the results of our actions. But can she look after herself? No, I don’t think she can. Is she a danger to herself? Not in the short term. Do we have a duty of care? Of course! Even though she’ll fight us every step of the way.’
He repositions his glasses, and smiles, his teeth white and clamped together, emphasising a slight kink in the crown line, the perfect fit for a pipe.
‘It’s a tricky one,’ he says, to sum up. ‘But as a general rule you have to assume capacity if there’s no direct evidence to the contrary. She seems okay in herself. Her bedding was soiled but I changed that when she was downstairs feeding the cat. There’s food in the house. I think the nephew drops by now and again. It’s just – I can’t stand here and tell you she’s not vulnerable.’
True to her role, the Co-ordinator zones in on the most salient point.
‘So we still need to send carers in to keep an eye on her until the GP has decided what to do next.’
‘Correct!’ says Richard, standing up and towering over us. ‘I’d suggest first thing in the morning, to see she hasn’t spent the night on the floor. She’s not actually that bad, if you take an aerodynamic approach.’
He picks up his bag and turns to go, but then has another thought.
‘You’re right about the cat,’ he says. ‘The cat’s the key. She likes it if you make a fuss. Yes! Lateral thinking! We must use the cat as a lever.’
‘I don’t think the cat’ll be too happy about that,’ says Michaela, typing it all up on the smart board.
‘Oh don’t worry! I can’t imagine that cat’s too happy about anything!’

These questions of mental capacity – they’re always fraught.
Which is why I’m relieved to have caught Richard on the phone. Richard works for the city Mental Health team. He’s great at untangling these things. Vigorous, avuncular, thorough, clear, with a reassuring volume to him, like I’m floundering about in the boat, panicking, and he’s striding along the shore with a megaphone.
‘Helga? Not one I’ve dealt with personally, but I’m pretty sure she was triaged a couple of months ago,’ he says. ‘Just reading the notes, Jim… ah yes. Here we are. Initial referral from GP. Ninety year old female, query more confused than normal. Carers reported bizarre behaviour, putting faeces on the table and so forth. When the GP went in she wouldn’t let him do anything, no bloods, dips or anything. So we went in to assess capacity.’
‘What was the result?’
‘It doesn’t appear we got very far, I’m afraid. She was marked as having moderate cognitive impairment, but wouldn’t engage in any further tests. Wasn’t bad enough to section, not sufficiently a danger to herself or others. We ended up referring her back to the GP. What’s your involvement?’
‘Helga’s private carer has gone away for a few weeks. The family wanted her to go into a home for respite, but she declined at the last minute. The GP’s sent us in to bridge the care gap, and to try our luck assessing her medically again.’
‘Oh? And how did that go?’
‘Not that great, Richard. She was aggressive, abusive. And now she’s insisting on white females only.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘Yep. She dropped the C-word on me.’
‘The C-word? What d’you mean?’
‘Well not cat. Although she has got one. One of those big furry nightmares, with a squashed up expression, like it’s planning something.’
‘I bet it is,’ says Richard. ‘I bet it is.’

Lionel is lying in bed, everything in line with everything else – nose, arms (outside the covers), legs (inside the covers) – as neat and square as a newly-boxed toy: The Recently Discharged Patient (batteries included).
On the wall at the foot of the bed are four paintings. The Pope, A Jaguar, Angela Rippon and Twiggy. The three personality paintings are only just recognisable, all slightly off. Angela Rippon looks startled, like an owl that swallowed an over-large mouse. The jaguar doesn’t fare any better, his muzzle twisted, like he caught it in the door of a jeep.
‘I did them,’ says Lionel. ‘What d’you think?’
‘I think you’ve really got something.’
‘That’s my favourite. There.’
He nods at the Pope. A man who seems to be praying so hard his face has turned brick red.
‘I  spent a long time on the eyes,’ says Lionel. ‘On all the little veins and bits.’
‘Amazing!’
‘Of course, you know why he’s praying, don’cha?’
I look at the painting more closely.
‘I don’t know. Where’s his hat? Someone’s nicked it and he wants it back.’
‘No. He’s praying the jaguar doesn’t catch wind of him.’

Once Alan discovers I’m a socialist, he launches into a complex lecture on the rise of Neoliberalism and the dismantling of the Welfare State. He’s so enthusiastic, in such a rush to get his words out, that every now and then he gives a convulsive little sneeze, like an ancient cat clearing a hair-ball. There’s not much opportunity for me to speak, even though I think he gives Stalin an easy ride, considering.
‘So there we are,’ he concludes, gripping the arms of his chair, ‘The post-war consensus replaced by a neoliberal conspiracy and precious little to be done except perhaps civil war.’
I’ve been waiting to chip in with something else, too, something I know he’ll like.
‘You know what I think sums up the Establishment’s contempt for the working class? Zero hour contracts.’
‘Absolutely! Absolutely!’
I want to confess that I nicked that line from Owen Jones’ book, The Establishment, but I’m supposed to be getting on with the examination and I’m running out of time.
Alan’s a fascinating case. His notes describe self-neglect, and whilst it’s true his bungalow is extremely unkempt, it’s also true to say that I’ve never seen such a beautiful bookcase, filled with interesting books, some of great age, on philosophy, history, politics – all the spines nicely aligned, everything looking as carefully tended and height-ordered as a cottage garden.
Apart from the general frailty you might expect of someone in their late eighties, Alan’s past medical history is remarkably clear. Except for one term, something I had to look up before I came out to see him. Somatoform disorder. Distinct from psychosomatic in that his symptoms – dizziness, unsteadiness – have no discernible medical cause, and that after many years of detailed investigations. The fact is, the doctors simply don’t know what’s wrong with him.
‘Let me fetch you my folder,’ he says, standing up and tottering precariously across the room. ‘You’ll never find it.’
I write up his obs, which are all normal.
‘It’s been lovely talking to you,’ I tell him, shaking his hand.
‘Likewise. Keep up the fight!’
‘Don’t get up. I can see myself out.’
‘No, no,’ he says, struggling up and almost pitching sideways into a pile of clothes and newspapers (a soft landing, at least). ‘It’s the least I can do.’
I hear him lock the door behind me as I walk down the path. When I reach the garden gate I turn to look back. He’s still there, watching from behind the patio glass. I give him a raised fist salute: solidarity or something like. He waves back cheerily.
I throw my bag in the car and carry on with my visits.

The sign outside the main door of the residential home is admirably clear. Big white letters on a green plastic plaque: Ring and Enter. Just beneath it is a large Bakelite nipple. I press it, there’s a resonant buzzing deep inside the house, I push the door open and go through into the hallway. Another door, this one with ancient stained-glass panelling. Another notice. Big white letters on a red plastic plaque: Please use the hand gel provided and, just below it, Please sign the visitors’ book.
This one opens of its own accord. An elderly carer stands there, her smile as wide and fixed as a woman who allowed a psychopathic nephew to do her make-up, then dried it all off in a wind tunnel.
‘Can I help you?’ she says.
‘Hi! Yes! I’m Jim, from the Rapid Response Team. Come to see Derek.’
‘Derek?’
‘Weasenham.’
‘Derek Weasenham?’
‘Yes. Derek Weasenham. Does he live here?’
I look at my diary for comfort. (It’s not even open).
‘Ah, yes! Derek!’
‘That’s him!’
But just as she’s about to show me the way, another, younger, fiercer carer approaches, dressed in the same fluourescent pink pinafore, both hands thrust deep into the front pocket, like she’s concealing a weapon.
‘How did you get in?’ she says.
The first carer makes a discreet sideways step. I feel like doing the same – in fact, there’s a big, floor-standing vase filled with fake sunflowers. I’m tempted to dive behind that.
‘Well – I just rang and came through.’
‘The door was open, was it?’
‘It wasn’t open, but it wasn’t locked. If you see what I mean.’
‘So the door wasn’t locked, you rang the bell and you came through.’
‘Yes.’
I make a backwards thumbing motion. With my thumb.
‘There was a sign,’ I say, pathetically.
‘I know there’s a sign. I work here.’
‘It says ring and enter.’
‘Which means ring the bell and wait for someone to come and let you in.’
‘That’s not what it says.’
‘That’s what it means.’
‘I’m sorry to make a point of this….’ (not as sorry as the first carer; although her make-up is still supporting her smile, there are worrying signs of fatigue).
‘…but, the way I’d read, ring and enter is ring the bell and let us know you’re around, then come in and make yourself known.’
‘Make yourself known?’
‘Present yourself. For inspection.’
‘No. You should ring and wait like everyone else.’
‘Well I think in that case you ought to change the sign.’
‘What to?’
‘Ring and wait.’
The first carer has opened a cupboard. She takes a vacuum cleaner out, and then stands there with the flex in her hand, still smiling. She’s so stressed, I wouldn’t be surprised if she plugged it in her ear.
‘Not now, Davina,’ says the second carer.
And then to me: ‘Who is it you’ve come to see?’
‘Derek. Derek Weasenham.’
‘This way,’ she says.
Which I have to admit is pretty damned clear.

I open the keysafe and let myself in.
‘Hellooo.’
Even if Myra hadn’t hollered out, I’d know where she was. A long green tube runs from the compressor in the hallway, snaking through the kitchen and on into the back room, terminating in the nasal specs looped around her ears.
‘Where’s Stella tonight?’ she says.
‘Stella’s sick, so they asked me to drop by instead.’
‘Well that’s good of you, pet. Thank you.’
‘How are you doing?’
She shrugs.
I put my bag down.
‘Your line’s a bit kinked.’
‘It’s a kinky line,’ she says. ‘Always has been.’
‘What d’you fancy for supper, Myra?’
‘There’s one of them microwave meals on the side. Could you heat that up for me? And I’ll have a trifle out of the fridge n’all, if you don’t mind.’
‘How about a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’
‘Good idea. And one for yourself while you’re at it.’
‘Thanks.’

The ready meal takes a little longer than normal. Five minutes on full power; one minute to stand, then another five minutes. Whilst it’s cooking I take the teas through and start writing out the yellow sheet. It’s only then I notice Myra has the same December birthday as me, give or take forty years.
‘Fancy that!’ she says.
‘I was due on Dad’s birthday the day before, but I made a point of coming out a few minutes after midnight.’
‘You dug your heels in.’
‘Fingers, heels. I wonder they didn’t get a vet in and use a rope.’
‘Your poor mother.’
I take a sip of tea.
‘People always used to ask me if I minded having a birthday that late in the year. Did you?’
‘No. Never.’
‘I didn’t, either. I’d open the last present on Christmas Day, but then I’d know I’d have a load more in a few days’ time. Well – some.’
‘You poor thing!’
The compressor makes a clanking noise; Myra adjusts her specs.
‘We never had presents at Christmas,’ she says. ‘My parents were Jehovah’s Witnesses.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well – they had a lot of rules. Blood transfusions was one. I was an only child. One day my mum was ill with internal bleeding. In a coma – close to death. The doctors asked me for permission to transfuse her but I really didn’t know what to do. In the end I said yes.’
‘So what happened?’
‘She got better. Didn’t speak to me for a good long while, but we made our peace. Silly really. All over a book.’
‘The bible?’
‘Ay. It’s just words, after all. Human words. I never did understand. It’s just one person’s interpretation. Don’t get me wrong. I still believe in God and everything. Just not the kind who’d get himself stuck in an old book.’
The microwave pings. I go into the kitchen to put the meal on for another five minutes.
Back with Myra, she’s finished her tea and getting ready to eat.
I set her up with a tray and some cutlery. She hands me the knife back.
‘Just a spoon, pet,’ she says. ‘It’s gloopy. And I spill stuff off a fork.’
‘I’ve always been a little jealous of people who have religion,’ I tell her, putting a napkin by her side. ‘I think it must make life a bit easier. You’ve got a ready-made set of rules. You don’t have to think much for yourself. And you’d have that feeling someone’s looking out for you, whatever the situation.’
Myra flips the tubing on her lap and sits up straight.
‘I don’t know about easier, Jim, but it definitely helps,’ she says.
‘I think that desire to worship some greater being must be pretty deep in our DNA,’ I tell her, fetching her a spoon. ‘I remember seeing this documentary about some Palaeolithic caves they found in France. Sealed for thousands of years by a rock fall. Paintings of animals all round the walls, then in the centre of it all, a standing stone like a plinth with the skull of a bear on the top.’
‘A bear?’
‘I think it was a bear. Like an altar, in the middle of a cathedral. A hundred thousand years before Christ.’
‘Do you think they worshipped bears, then?’
‘I don’t know. Something, at least.’
‘Who’d have thought?’
‘I know.’
The microwave dings again. I serve it onto a plate, put it on a tray, bring it through.
‘Haute cuisine,’ I say. ‘Or hot, at least.’
‘Lovely!’
I finish the paperwork. Myra pushes the ready meal around to help it cool.
‘D’you think it’s still there?’ she says.
‘What?’
‘That bear. On the altar.’
‘I think so. Maybe. They said they were going to seal the caves up again, because if they had too many visitors, all the condensation would damage the paintings.’
She nods, and turns the spoon round and round in her hand, like the
dish of a radar receiving signals.
‘Still,’ she says at last, scooping up a mouthful. ‘It sounds like something, don’t you think?’