Dying Seconds: Boxer Boys, #3

Prologue

IT lay there, heavy, in the lining of his coat.

Through a forest of facial hair, the tramp’s bloodshot eyes scanned the room full of lowlifes, many of whom would mug their mothers for loose change. Was anyone paying him special attention?

Goose bumps tap-danced along his spine like a column of ants seeking shelter beneath his tangled, greying, rock-star curls. Feeling vulnerable and afraid, he rubbed at his forehead, irritated by the prickly sweat forming there and amazed his body could react this way when the temperature barely rose above damn cold.

Eyes settling on a group in the corner playing dominoes, his finely attuned ears picked up laughter, banter and jokes interspersed with the odd argument, just normal guys letting off steam. They were the exception to the rule though. Like the tramp, most of the other customers found their closest companions to be loss, regret, shame or debt.

More self-respecting establishments would have pumped this tide of human flotsam out of the door long ago.

Not The Sheldon.

The landlord turned a blind eye to his customers’ shortcomings simply because it gave him an edge in the market, affording him protection against an avalanche of economic pressures. Watching the publican serve the thirsty hordes gathered around the bar, the tramp pulled the donkey jacket closer around him.

The coat itself was the type once worn by Irish navvies on the building sites and had been the tramp’s single constant companion for more than twenty years. When he first bought it, the jacket had provided him ample protection from the elements on the market stalls of London. Now it was a worn-out husk, the guts spilled out, the pockets ripped, all manner of things having fallen through the holes over time. It closely mirrored the story of his life.

Still, at least it provided a suitable hiding place for things he didn’t want discovered. The padded envelope which nestled there now contained £3,000 in notes, enough cash to get him out of the shit, though, as with anything good, there were strings attached.

Patting the bulge, he allowed himself a moment of melancholy, thinking back to the last time he’d had real money, a time when he meant something to someone.

The teeth-jarring sound of warped wood scraping on uneven tile jump-started him back to the present. Looking in the direction of the noise he saw a tall, bulky figure push his way through the front entrance, watchful dark eyes peering out through skin the shade of mocha, jewellery dripping from throat and wrist, a gold tooth clearly on display.

Damn it!

It was too soon.

He needed time to collect his thoughts before the inevitable confrontation. Abandoning his drink, the tramp levered himself from behind the heavy, wrought-iron table and sank further back into the room, watching as the new arrival pushed his way through the crowded bar.

‘Hey!’

The protest came from one of the domino crew, the tramp having nudged their table inadvertently in his haste to escape. Ignoring the complaint, he pushed hard at the rear door and disappeared into the alley beyond.

If it was cold inside The Sheldon, outside the bitter wind hit him full force, icy tentacles shooting through the dark to penetrate his bones. For God’s sake, it was almost April. Surely, he had a right to expect it to be warmer. He doubted he would ever acclimatise to the weather in this godforsaken part of the world.

Holding his breath to block out the pungent smell of urine wafting from the outdoor toilet, he bowed his head and pressed on, his arms wrapped tightly around the jacket. Reaching a fork in the alley he turned left and, having escaped the prying glow of the solitary street lamp, stopped to light a rolled-up cigarette. The nicotine spread a welcome sense of calm through his body.

Whomp!

A hand clamped his mouth and a rabbit punch crashed into his kidneys. It knocked the breath from his lungs and he dropped the cigarette, following it to the ground. As the shadow hovered over him, the tramp felt a searing pain at his neck and reached for the affected area, a sticky, oily substance coating his fingers.

Prone on his knees, he looked up in the hope of identifying his assailant, but his vision was blurred, and he was unable to pick out any significant features. A palm pushed against his forehead and he fell backwards, head bouncing off the broken ground, thoughts pinballing around his brain.

The gurgle came from nowhere, the closest he could manage to a chuckle, the memory that flashed through his mind so out of place it was laughable, yet perfectly in keeping with this ludicrous situation. The last time he’d been flat on his back like this, some dirty slapper from Newcastle-under-Lyme had been riding him like a seaside donkey and making braying noises to match.

The flash of absurdity disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by an involuntary shudder which travelled the length of his body to toes too numb to notice. By contrast, his head was stuck firm, like a fly in a gum-lined trap. In the bewildering moments that followed, there was the rapidly fading sound of gravel being displaced by heavy boots.

‘No, please,’ he mumbled. ‘Don’t go ... I’m hurt! What am I supposed to have done?’

It was as if his protest was being filtered through cotton wool and he thought there was no chance of grabbing his attacker’s attention.

He was wrong.

The footsteps slowed and stopped. The only sound now came from his own ragged breathing.

Then the crunching boots started up again, heading back in his direction until halting abruptly at his side. His assailant cleared his throat, and the tramp peered into the shadows of a hooded top, detecting fury in a pair of piercing eyes. With slowly dawning horror, he realised he was a sitting target for the missile falling out of the darkness. The slimy globule exploded on his cheek before rolling slowly into his beard.

‘You know what you did.’

The words were delivered in a low growl. Did he recognise the voice? The tramp probed the depths of his memory and came up blank. The attacker sank down beside him and grabbed his right hand.

‘But just in case you need a reminder ...’

Hearing his knuckles crack, he prepared for more violence. Instead the other hand withdrew, and the figure stood, looked in both directions and then walked off, footsteps fading into the darkness.

The money!

Summoning his remaining energy, the tramp reached down and patted the lining of the coat, sighing with relief when he realised it was still there. The key was to live long enough to spend it. He couldn’t let it end here, his lifeblood draining away in an anonymous alley. Not when he’d been given a second chance to make things right.

‘Stabbed.’

A squeak of desperation entered his voice. ‘Help! I’ve been stabbed.’

He listened carefully, but it was no use.

No one came running.

The words to the old Sinatra song passed through his brain, the cliché apt.

‘Regrets, I’ve had a few.’

A damn lot really.

If he’d stayed in London perhaps his kids would still be speaking to him. He might be the proud father of a Premier League football star rather than the estranged parent of a boy crippled as a direct consequence of his selfishness. Now he would never get the chance to say sorry.

Sorry to the boy, his wife, his daughter, the other ...

Pulse weakening, the chill air settled on him like a shroud. He closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

Hang on!

The eyes sprang open again as the tramp registered the item in his hand. Unclenching his fist, a scrunched-up piece of card slowly bloomed like a budding flower in a time-lapse film. Fully extended, it was slightly bigger than a beer mat.

The brief message was spelt out in capital letters and as he read it, an anguished protest formed on blood-caked lips.

‘No, no, no! You don’t understand.’ His voice was a weak croak. ‘I was trying to do the right thing. It’s not what you think.’

A salty residue of tears staining his cheeks, he mustered his remaining reserves of energy and ripped up the card. Then, in a final act of defiance, he opened his fingers and urged the wind to carry the pieces away.

If he was to leave a legacy, it couldn’t be this one.

Mission accomplished, the tramp let his head fall back, seeking in death the peace which had eluded him in life.

Recovery

‘I never knew my father neither’

- Stan, by Eminem

One

January 2016

‘CAREFUL you little twat, you’re not driving around in one of your old bangers now!’

Arnold Dolan gripped the armrests of the chair as he bumped through another set of double doors, the wheels rumbling across the polished tiles.

‘Sorry, Arnie,’ said the younger man. ‘Why didn’t you get an electric one, though? Me and Mum would have clubbed together and got you one for Christmas.’

‘You object to pushing me, Bruce, is that it?’ said the man in the wheelchair, brushing his hand over his closely shaved head. ‘After all I’ve done for you an’ all.’

‘Hey, I’m here aren’t I?’ said Bruce. ‘You’re lucky you got anyone left. The rest of the family have washed their hands of you and I can’t see your pal Vickers burying the hatchet after what you done to his bird.’

‘And what did I do exactly, Bruce? You shouldn’t listen to tittle-tattle. It’s like that bloody TV soap opera Eastenders round our way.’

Arnie, born and bred in Barking, east London, didn’t even crack a smile at the irony in his words.

‘All I know is you’ve upset a lot of people,’ said Bruce. ‘Even our sister’s disowned you, and Anj used to be your number one fan. It’s going to take a lot for her to forgive you – you tried to kill her bloke, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Hey, Anj has to take a large portion of the blame for that. She helped create this bloody monster everyone thinks I am. Bitch!’

‘Aww, don’t call her names Arnie, you don’t mean it,’ said Bruce. ‘She’s our sis, and she’s always looked out for you in the past.’

‘Yeah, until she chose my best friend over me, her own flesh and blood. She sent me down for eight years.’

‘She loves Gazza, though, don’t she?’ said Bruce. ‘We all sussed it years ago, but you were too wrapped up in your own stuff to notice.’

‘My own stuff? It was called developing the family business, Brucie boy,’ said Arnie, warming up for a trademark rant. ‘It needed 100 per cent concentration, 24/7 attention to detail. You can’t be distracted from the job for a second or, bam! Someone else has stepped in and taken it from you. I didn’t hear any of them complaining when I was making ’em all rich fuckers. Fuck ’em! I bet they’ll all come around when they realise they can’t do it without me, though. Look at our lovely older brothers, Chuck and Sly. How are they gonna keep it going, eh? If you took the best parts from both of them, you could assemble a pretty good idiot. They ain’t got the nous – neither of ’em.’

He let out a mirthless laugh. ‘Families eh? Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill ’em. Well, not without spending the rest of your life inside.’

Bruce shook his head, which was also covered in close-cropped stubble. You didn’t need a birth certificate to work out the two men were related.

‘I hear Anj has shacked up with Gazza down in Wales,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘She managed to get a hospital transfer. It’s for Max’s sake, you know?’

‘Oh yeah, my nephew.’ Arnie thought for a moment. ‘Really, those two should be thanking me. It was me that introduced them. Bastards.’

‘I doubt Gazza’s gonna be sending you a thank-you card,’ said Bruce. ‘I imagine he don’t write so well since you stuck a knife through his hand.’

‘Wrong hand,’ said Arnie. ‘Anyway, I only meant to cut him a bit, teach him a lesson for taking the piss. He couldn’t even see the error of his ways; felt he hadn’t done anything wrong. I just exploded at that. I mean, if you ain’t done something wrong why change your name and disappear? That’s an admission of guilt in anyone’s book.’

He fell silent again, mind fully immersed in the past.

‘It’s a horrible thing when it dawns on you there’s no one you can trust,’ he said, sparking back into life. ‘Still, she owes me now, Anj does. She’ll be back. I know she loves me whatever and, you’re right, she’s a good girl deep down. Compassionate. Nothing can change that. When she finally comes around, Gazza will come crawling back, too. What is it they say – time heals?’

Bruce raised his eyebrows, his disbelieving gaze focused on his brother.

‘For fuck’s sake, what would you have done?’ Arnie asked him.

His raised voice attracted strange looks from an elderly group of residents sitting in a side room off the corridor. They were clearly unhappy the loudmouthed newcomer was disturbing their night’s entertainment. He saw the opening credits for the Antiques Roadshow flash across a small TV screen in the corner, heard the famous theme tune. ‘What are you lookin’ at, you wrinkly old muppets?’ he demanded, wheeling around to face his new audience. ‘I may be in a Bader-bus but I can still sort you lot out – isn’t that right, little bro? Eh? Still use my head, can’t I?’

‘What’s a soddin’ Bader-bus?’ whispered Bruce.

‘Oh, come on!’ said Arnie, raising his voice again as the residents looked away, realising it might be best for their dwindling health not to make eye contact with the troublemaker. ‘I know you’re a thicko, but I can’t believe you ain’t heard that one. Think about it. What am I sitting in?’

Bruce went silent. ‘A wheelchair?’ Then he shook his head. ‘Nah, I got nothing.’

‘Douglas fuckin’ Bader, ain’t it?’ said Arnie, raising his voice again. ‘War hero who fought in the Battle of Britain. Ring any bells? I thought you learnt about the war in that fancy school of yours. I saw a film about this Bader bloke when I was in hospital. If it wasn’t for the likes of him we’d all be talking Kraut. He had both his legs lopped off, but still whipped their arses. I’ve lost the use of mine ... hence calling this chariot of mine a fuckin’—’

‘Excuse me! Please could you keep the swearing down?’

The raised voice came from behind them. Arnie looked over his shoulder to see a woman in a white uniform marching in his direction. She was in her mid-30s, black, with red streaks adorning hair cropped closely to her skull, her determined expression indicating you didn’t mess with her.

‘Oh fuckin’ ’ell, here we go!’ said Arnie. ‘What’s the problem, ossifer?’

‘Think it’s funny, do you?’ she demanded, standing in front of him, feet anchored solidly to the ground and arms wrapped around her torso, cushioning an ample chest. He averted his eyes, focusing on a pair of white trainers. He had been caught staring, not that Arnie was usually bashful about anything. He couldn’t argue with the fact she was a nice shape, though. She was just the way he liked them. Shame about ...

‘Chill, sister,’ he said. ‘If I wanted to get into an argument with the Muslim Brotherhood I would do it intentionally. Hurt your little sensibilities, have I?’

‘I’m Christian, not Muslim, for your information,’ she said. ‘Methodist. You should try some religion for size. It helps you get rid of any large chips that may be resting on your shoulders.’

‘Come on, Bruce, ain’t got no time to waste on jigaboos.’

Bruce went to push on, but she reached out and stopped him in his tracks.

‘What did you say, mister?’ she demanded, squatting and glaring into Arnie’s eyes. He gave her his meanest stare, but she wouldn’t back down.

‘Ah, it’s all right for you, picking on a bloody cripple,’ he said. The self-pity was out of character, like an admission of defeat.

‘For your information, you’re not the only person in here confined to a wheelchair,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be working here if I didn’t care about people and I wouldn’t dream of picking on anyone. We have rules against prejudice, though, so let’s start again, shall we?’

‘Sorry, sister, he’s very tired,’ Bruce interrupted. ‘He’s had a long and not particularly comfortable journey down from Cardiff. He’s been in a few places since the accident in a bid to help him adjust but it’s a slow process. We’ve brought him to Devon because this place came highly recommended.’

‘Bloody expensive, too!’ said Arnie.

‘Shhhhh!’ said Bruce.

‘Well, first things first,’ said the woman, addressing Bruce. ‘I’m not a sister, I’m a care worker. What’s his name?’

‘I’m sitting right fuckin’ here!’ said Arnie.

‘Don’t f’ing swear!’ she scolded, but there was a mischievous glint in her eye.

Looking up at her, at first his forehead creased in fury. Then the corners of his mouth turned up, he flopped back in the chair and burst out laughing. People could get the better of him once, but it was unheard of for them to do so twice.

‘Funny!’ he said. ‘I like that. Forget my name. What’s yours? You’re all right.’

‘Jeez mas’er, even though I is black?’ she said in a fake African slave accent.

‘Well, I’ll have to overlook that for the moment, won’t I? If you’re going to be working here, I mean. Anyway, no need to ask the monkey when you can come straight to the organ grinder – I’m Arnie.’

She took a small pad from her pocket and flipped through it. ‘Ah yes, Mr Arnold Dolan. Mas’er I’s so grateful to you for letting me wait upon you. Ma name is Abigail,’ she said in the mock accent.

‘Oh, stop with the silly accent!’ he said. ‘This ain’t Driving Miss soddin’ Daisy. Come on, Bruce, can we find this bloody room?’

‘Down here,’ she indicated, a long, slender finger pointing along the corridor. ‘We put you in the Presidential suite.’

THE room was OK. A bit small perhaps, but it was an improvement on Wandsworth Prison. He was only here for a few weeks to have some physio, rest and recuperation.

‘Help us to the bog would you, Bruce?’ he said. ‘Reckon that fall has done something to my internal workings. I’m virtually bleedin’ incontinent.’

‘I’ll get the nurse.’

‘Fuck off, will you? You’ll do it yourself. You’re my brother, right? We’re supposed to be blood. Least you can do is help me onto the fuckin’ karzy. What’s the matter with you?’

‘I’ve had enough of your shit to last a lifetime, that’s what,’ said Bruce.

‘Little cunt,’ said Arnie, laughing.

‘Nurse! Ah, look, there’s a buzzer.’ Bruce pulled the cord away from the headboard and pressed. They immediately heard a beeping sound in the distance. ‘I’m sure they won’t be long,’ said Bruce. ‘Now I’ve got to go. It’s a long way back to Barking from here.’

‘You’re not staying?’

‘I told Mum I’d be home and, anyway, Bernice said she’d come around and keep the bed warm.’

‘And there was I thinking you batted for the other side.’ Arnie chuckled.

‘No, that’s you. You keep telling us how well you did to last eight years in Wano – maybe you were the perfect bitch for some of the tough guys in there.’

Without warning Arnie swung at his younger brother, catching him in the stomach but overbalancing and sprawling onto the floor. Bruce fell backwards and, reaching out for something to steady himself, pulled down the curtain used by patients who needed privacy. ‘You twat!’ said Arnie, flopping around like a fish out of water.

‘What on earth is going on here?’ Abigail appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh great! I can see you’re going to be real trouble.’

‘I don’t need you!’ said Arnie, grimacing as a pain shot through his abdomen.

‘Yes, he does,’ cut in Bruce, emerging from beneath the fallen curtains. ‘He needs a bloody shit, sister, which is why I called you.’

‘Right, well let me get him up then,’ she said, ignoring the fact Bruce had elevated her to a higher rank once again. As she summoned up all her strength and lifted the patient back into the chair she looked over her shoulder at the younger Dolan. ‘Now I think it would be best for all concerned if you left us to take care of your brother. You seem to be more of a hindrance than a help.’

Arnie felt satisfaction flood through him to see Bruce looking suitably chastised. He was starting to warm to this Abigail, which might explain why he was so unhappy at the thought of her seeing him at his most vulnerable. Still, at some stage he would have to face facts. He was a cripple, and that wasn’t going to change. It didn’t mean it was over for him though. He might have lost the use of his legs, but people had written him off before: that bastard Big Mo who called himself a father; his sister, his brothers and that fucking spunk donor Stan Marshall.

Out of all those who had deserted him, his entire sequence of misfortunes since birth could be laid at the doorstep of his biological dad, Stan the Man. Once he got out of here, he would make it his priority to find the man who had disowned him and left him at the mercy of others.

‘Stick around until I’m done,’ he told Bruce over his shoulder as Abigail pushed him into the large bathroom, the space adapted specifically for the disabled and wheelchair-users. Wheeling over a hoist, she then placed the sling underneath him before pressing a button to lift him out of the wheelchair. She swung him over to the toilet on the hoist, pulled down his designer tracksuit bottoms and lowered him. Gripping her arms, he was surprised at how much muscle she possessed for such a petite character.

‘I’ve done a lot of heavy lifting in my time,’ she said, reading his mind. ‘I’ve plenty of experience and operating these things isn’t easy. Normally I would call for a bit of assistance but you’re pretty lightweight.’

‘Yeah, I reckon I’ve lost at least a stone – most of it muscle,’ he said. ‘I’m wasting away in these hospitals. I need to get back to my fighting weight.’

‘The physios can help with that,’ she said. ‘You’ve still got a grip on you, though, that’s for sure. You’re gonna leave me with bruises.’

‘How can you tell?’

She gave him a hard look, raising her hand above her head. He flinched.

‘It’s OK,’ she said, chuckling. ‘I’m just getting the circulation flowing again. I don’t hit those who are worse off than me. You can talk tough, but you need me, boy. Let’s try to get along while we are stuck together.’

‘I wasn’t thinking. Sorry.’

‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? People just blurt things out, not thinking how it might make the other person feel. I get it a lot, but I’ve learnt to turn the other cheek. My faith helps.’

A loud fart and an acrid smell interrupted their conversation.

‘Oh fuck.’

His face coloured. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt more embarrassed.

‘That’s the way I look at it,’ she said. ‘You can be black, white, yellow, green or even blue, but at some stage we all gotta take a dump.’

She turned and walked out of the door, leaving him alone with his shame.

Two

‘AH, Mr Dolan, isn’t it?’

A podgy, colourless face stared down at Arnie, a shock of white hair flopping over wispy, thin eyebrows. The new arrival was practically Albino in appearance. He wore a fixed smile, the kind false service workers displayed when they instructed you to ‘Have a nice day’.

‘How are you, sir?’ said the Albino. ‘I hear you’ve been in the wars.’

Arnie had met plenty of misguided souls in the caring profession over the last few months. It was no secret they were paid a pittance, but their cheery outlook suggested they thought their good deeds would be fully rewarded in heaven.

Suckers.

Still, there was no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth.

‘I’m OK ... a bit sore,’ said Arnie, determined to lay it on thick.

‘Yeah, the work with the physio does that to you,’ said the Albino. ‘I’m sure it must be helping, though. I’m Malcolm, by the way, one of the night staff. I’ve just come back off two weeks hols. You seem to have settled in OK and my job is to help make you as comfortable as possible. Can I get you a nice cup of hot chocolate? You might appreciate it after your exertions.’

‘Thanks. Tell you what I’d really like though. A TV. The Hammers are on tonight, big game against Newcastle.’

‘You’re a West Ham fan? I don’t believe it!’ said Malcolm, his face gaining a smidgen of colour. ‘I follow the Hammers a bit myself. My granddad was from that neck of the woods.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Upminster. He used to take me to Upton Park as a young ’un. I loved it, that tense, close atmosphere, like everyone was one happy family; the shouting and rivalry with the opponents; the banter; singing the songs ...’

‘I’m from Barking,’ said Arnie. ‘Me and my mates were regulars down there. Got into the odd scrape, you know? Who was your favourite player?’

‘Oh, it was a while back now,’ said Malcolm.

Bullshitter, thought Arnie. Probably never seen a game in his life.

‘Come on, everyone has a favourite.’

‘Well ... yeah, I guess it was, um, Paul Hartson.’

‘John.’

‘Eh?’

‘It’s John Hartson.’

Malcolm smacked his palm against his head. ‘Of course, it is! What an idiot. Don’t know where I got Paul from. Like I say, it was a long time ago. I was a nipper. Anyway, look ... I’ll go and get that drink for you and see if I can purloin a TV. OK?’

Arnie watched him walk away, the swish of material caused by the care assistant’s fatty thighs rubbing together. Bloke had to be 18 stone at least. Still, if he managed to get hold of a TV it didn’t matter how unsightly he was, he would have served his purpose.

A SHORT while into the second half Arnie’s eyelids felt heavy and he started drifting. The Hammers were getting a shoe-in from the bloody Geordies, 2-0 down at St James’ Park. They had begun the season well under their new manager Slaven Bilic, but this was poor. Newcastle were bottom of the Premier League.

‘Need some shut-eye?’ asked Malcolm, sitting beside him. ‘I’d better check on the other patients. Finish your drink, though, it will help you sleep.’

Arnie peered through a fog of semi-consciousness at the cup held out towards him, grabbed it and knocked back the sickly chocolate beverage. It was the second one Malcolm had bought him and though he hadn’t really wanted it, there was no harm in keeping the slob onside.

Arnie had felt rough all afternoon and could put it down to a number of things, not least the torture administered by a physio called Dave earlier in the day. By the end of the session he wanted to punch the bloke’s lights out. It was as if his tall, dark-haired tormentor didn’t realise the extent of the pain he was inflicting on his patient. Either that or he was just a born sadist. Dave had explained in great detail how Arnie’s muscles had lain dormant during his extended stay in care institutions and were in need of re-training.

Another reason he felt peaky was the uninspiring dinner they’d plonked in front of him. He’d managed the watery bowl of pea and ham soup but had only picked at the main course, some sort of savoury mince concoction, accompanied by lumpy mashed potato and stringy green beans, all wallowing in a pool of lukewarm sludge they had the cheek to call gravy. It had taken time, but he’d managed to eat most of it, something he was starting to regret.

His eyes sprang open as sharp, uncomfortable cramps launched a full-scale assault on his guts. He looked around for Malcolm, but the carer had long gone, the television turned off and the room cloaked in semi darkness. There was just a dim light escaping from the toilet area. Arnie’s head throbbed out of control, his vision strangely blurred.

Clenching his teeth, he vowed to ride out the pain but when another jolt speared through him like an electric shock, he decided enough was enough. Reaching for the chord, he pressed the button, noting the travel clock at his bedside said it was just after 1.00 a.m. Where had the time gone?

When the night staff  didn’t turn up he began to feel mildly alarmed. So much for Malcolm’s assurance he would be there to answer Arnie’s every beck and call. He hated relying on people for anything, let alone something as intimate as using the toilet. His doctrine, developed in response to years of disappointment and betrayal, was that the only person you could truly trust was yourself.

Finding the TV control on the nightstand, he pressed the red button, hoping some late-night show might take his mind off his predicament. The screen flickered into life and he was assaulted by a deafening noise, the volume turned to maximum. Adjusting it, he realised it was tuned to a medical drama, a subject hardly likely to improve his mood. Channel-hopping quickly, he came across a group of people with shouty Mancunian accents, gathered around a bar.

‘Northern muppets!’ he muttered.

In a corner of the screen a woman performed motions with her hands. Sign language for the deaf. He was about to click off when the woman leaned towards him as if she was about to climb out of the set. Pointing a bony finger aggressively in his direction, she said, ‘You’re the biggest Muppet here.’

He sprang back in shock. Was he going crazy? Pressing the off button, he then threw the remote across the room. He was shaking, losing control.

‘Nurse!’ he shouted. ‘Nurse!’

Vulnerable and paranoid, he watched the door expectantly. Was he being deliberately ignored? At the point of no return, he held his finger down on the buzzer, shouting, ‘For fuck’s sake! Call this a nursing home? Where is everyone?’

Staring upwards in frustration, he noted the ceiling was spinning, a strange gathering of flies congregating in the centre, a constant buzz drilling into his skull. Stop! He needed to