Frank’s carer, Eloise, appears by my side at the front door so unexpectedly it makes me jump. I think she must’ve been watching from her window across the street, but then again, she’s such a thin and hyper-active woman, with such a mass of fine, frizzy black hair, I suppose it’s just possible she picked up the vibrations by other means, like a spider, dashing out at the smallest touch of the web.
‘He won’t want no hospital,’ she says, pushing open the door and hurrying inside. ‘He’s a stubborn old git, but I’m used to him.’
It’s a strangely bare little flat – nothing to it, just a kitchen counter, a bed, a commode, and then Frank himself, lying on his back on the bed, waving his arms around. It doesn’t take a stethoscope to figure out that he’s got a chest infection. When he coughs it’s like someone trying to crank start an old tractor.
‘Oof!’ says Eloise. ‘Let’s have it up, Frankie Baby!’ She jabs me in the ribs with the point of her elbow. ‘He likes it when I call him Frankie Baby. We go back a long ways. Don’t we, Frankie?’
He gapes and groans.
‘What’s that, Franks? You want some Williams? All right then. Here we go.’
On the kitchen counter there’s an old record player, and behind it, a stack of LPs. She flips through them and pulls out the one she wants – Andy Williams, in a tuxedo and sunglasses, tipping his head back to a bank of coloured lights.
‘C’mon Andy’ she says. ‘Cheer us all up, mate. We have a need.’
She crashes the record onto the player, and drops the needle halfway through Moon River.
‘Hark at that’ she says. ‘Lovely.’
‘I remember reading this thing about Andy Williams,’ I say, clipping a SATS probe to Frank’s finger.
‘Oh yes?’ says Claudie. ‘Som’ink about a murder?’
‘No. It was when he was starting out. He said he was so poor he used to eat dog food.’
‘Dog food?’
‘I know!’
‘I can’t imagine Andy Williams eating dog food.’
She picks up the record sleeve and studies it more closely.
‘He had such nice teeth.’

I’ve stopped outside to chat to Enid’s next door neighbour, Sam. He’s an extraordinary-looking man – craggy as an outcrop of granite, growl-voiced, huge hands. He reminds me of The Thing in The Fantastic Four, but retired now, packed into a rumpled suit and hat, given to walking with a stick.
‘It’s a terrible business,’ says Sam, ‘Terrible. Did you think it was cold in there?’
‘It was cold. I told her I thought she should turn the heating up, but she said she used to run a florist’s shop and she was used to it chilly. It kept the blooms fresh.’
‘Well it’s not keeping her fresh. If anything she’s gone downhill. You know she heats her water in a pan on the gas?’
‘I saw.’
‘How the house hasn’t burned down I don’t know…’
Whilst we’re talking, a brisk elderly woman dressed almost entirely in red heads straight towards us along the pavement.
‘Oh – watch out,’ says Sam. ‘Here’s Gladys.’
Before I can think much about that,  Gladys stops in front of us, points at me and says: ‘I know you.’
‘Do you?’
She stares at me.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she says.
‘I wish I could…’
She considers the problem, then points at me again.
‘Your wife’s name is Katherine and you have two girls, Martha and Jess.’
‘Wow! That’s amazing!’
‘You could go on the stage with that,’ says Sam.
‘…and your name…your name is something like Tim. No – Tom. No – John.’
‘Jim.’
‘Jim! That’s it! Jim! I knew I knew you.’
‘Well, well,’ says Sam. ‘Small world.’
‘I’m really sorry but I can’t seem to…’
‘Gladys,’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘I used to have lunch with your mother-in-law, Annette.’
‘Gladys!’ I say, shaking her hand even more warmly. ‘Curtain Gladys!’
‘Eh?’ says Sam. ‘That’s a new one.’
‘Gladys made Annette a pair of curtains once. Sorry, Gladys!  It’s been a while.’
‘And out of context!’ she says, brightly. ‘Now then – about poor Enid…’

I’m lost, but it’s not surprising. It’s the kind of estate you need a ball of string or a bag of bread crumbs to find your way around. Or an app. I’m sure I’ve passed that discarded fridge before. And yep  – here I am, back beneath the stark, anti-climb pole with the security camera spiked on top like a traitor’s head. No doubt there’s someone in a control room somewhere looking up from his copy of Empire magazine, (Superman edition), slowly taking his feet off the desk and saying What’s this fella think he’s playing at?

I ring the patient.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Julie. ‘Even the posties get lost.’
She gives me directions, along the lines of stand with your back to the big graffiti dog, walk due north about twenty paces… and so on, until five minutes later I’m standing at Julie’s back fence. It’s a high, dark structure with a serrated top. If you didn’t know it was there you’d never find it. A place so secretive and protected it reminds me of Robinson Crusoe’s stockade. I half expect to see a hand-tied ladder tentatively lowered over the side, but instead it seems that one of the panels is actually a gate, with a latch, and I let myself in.

Whilst the estate is characterised by tangled junk yards, discarded furniture, cars parked every angle, on every level surface, Julie’s back garden is a vision of Eden. Aromatic herbs perfectly arranged on raised beds; exotic plants lolling out of bright mosaic pots, a sweet ceramic stork peeking out from beneath a lush banana tree. The back door stands open, and Julie’s old sheepdog Juno comes out to see me. She angles her head as she looks up at me, then turns and guides me through the house to where Julie is waiting, breathing painfully, propped up on cushions.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she wheezes. ‘I know it’s not easy.’
Juno hops up onto the sofa opposite, and resumes her position – her head resting on her paws, her sad eyes fixed on her mistress.

Maureen’s hair is an art form, a talking point, a thing. A great, ribbed dome, a few singed curls escaping round the netting edges, the rest stuffed up into an immense, squashy, off-centre beehive actually filled with bees for all I know. I expect to see them start pouring out in a fury and circling their queen.

‘He’s in the lounge,’ she sniffs, holding the door open and standing aside with a murderously mournful expression, like the proprietor of a dodgy fairground exhibit showing the last punter round before she can lock up and retire to do her hair.

I go on into the sitting room to introduce myself to her husband, Stan; Maureen slams the door shut, slides the bolt to, then shuffles past me heading for the far side, taking care to reach up and stop her hair from slumping completely overboard, and then carefully climbing up onto what I’m guessing is her usual pew, a beaten up old kitchen stool over by the window. When the hair is balanced to her satisfaction, she crosses her legs, repositions her dressing gown, and then divides her attention between the quicks of her nails and my examination of her husband.
Stan is pleased to see me, though. He grips my hand firmly when I go to shake his, draping the other across for good measure, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth one happy, toothless chasm.
‘Stan!’ he says. ‘Call me Stan! Pleased to meet you!’
‘Put everything back when you’re done,’ says Maureen, the very second I move a cup. ‘There’s a black bag for rubbish in the kitchen. And don’t forget to sign the book.’

Mrs Williams’ granddaughter, Phoebe, is sitting quietly on the sofa by the window, her arms folded, her legs jogging up and down. Mrs Williams is sitting in her riser-recliner, wearing a white baseball cap with a kangaroo motif. She keeps her chin down, so all I can see from here is her mouth, moving as restlessly as her granddaughter’s legs.
‘…because poor Phoebe has to catch a plane this afternoon…’
‘It’s tomorrow, grandma.’
‘…and it’s ever such a long way away. I mean – Australia. You couldn’t get much further than Australia, could you?’
‘I’ll be back at Christmas.’
‘…I mean, you’d think I did something wrong. They’ve all scattered. To the four winds…’
‘Honestly, grandma. It’s not that big a deal.’
‘… you can’t even go swimming without getting eaten by a shark…’
‘I’ve never seen one. No-one I know has seen one.’
‘… and the spiders. The spiders are enormous! And they bite.’
‘Everyone knows where the spiders hang out, grandma. You’d have to be really dumb to get bitten by a spider.’
‘…I just don’t see the attraction. Tell me one thing you can get out there that you can’t get here…’
‘A tan.’
‘…I mean – it’s hot. It’s dusty. It’s full of flies. And it’s the other side of the planet, for God’s sake. I never get to see you…’
‘We Skype all the time.’
‘…Skype! It’s good, Phoebe, but it’s not the real thing, is it? It’s not like being in the same room…’
Phoebe shoves her hands in her pockets and stares out of the window.
‘No,’ she says. ‘It isn’t.’