"Well, it's not that urgent, really."

"Or you could call him at work tomorrow. He's in the dispensary in the Rainbow Clinic on the South Side. If you phone Levanglen they'll put you through."

"Thanks," said Maureen, and put the receiver down as if it had burned her.

She could feel tiny Jim's eyes on her back as she locked the front door behind her. Out in the dark street the policemen in the car nudged one another awake and waited until she was halfway down the hill before starting the engine and turning the lights on.

Maureen tried to come up with a good justification for wasting money on a cab instead of hanging about and waiting for a bus. If she ran out of her own money she could use some of Douglas's, but she didn't want to. It was Sunday and there wouldn't be many buses about. She might have to wait for ages; she might miss the visiting time. She walked down the hill to the main road and hailed a cab, asking the driver to take her to the far end of Whiteinch.

The driver began a monologue about his daughter's wonderful exam results and kept it up all the way down Dumbarton Road. Maureen asked him to stop at a newsagent's and nipped out, blowing more money on an unhappy bouquet of dying flowers and a box of chocolates to take to Yvonne.

Daniel House looked like any of the other detached brownstone houses in the street. Only the economy-model cars in the driveway marked it out: the other houses had Mercedes and BMWs parked outside. A discreet brass sign screwed into the low garden wall identified it as Daniel House Nursing Home. The storm doors were open and folded back against the porch; the doorstep had been replaced with a short ramp. The inside door was enormous and had a four-foot-tall glass panel, etched with an elaborate Grecian vase design.

Maureen pressed the white plastic doorbell and stepped back. A young nurse opened the door. She wore a white pinny over a blue candy-striped uniform. "Hello?" she said.

"I phoned earlier, about Yvonne Urquhart."

"Oh, yes," she said, and opened the door wide, welcoming Maureen in.

Maureen felt the heavy-duty nylon carpet squeak and drag on her rubber-soled boots. The heating in the nursing home was very high and she started sweating as soon as she stepped through the door. Twin oak doorways on either side of the hall led into large communal rooms. Directly opposite the front door a broad oak staircase swept up to the second floor. A stainless-steel rail had been screwed onto the elegant balustrade and a folded lift chair nestled idly at the foot of the stairs. In the shadow of the graceful staircase stood a gray medication trolley with the lid down.

The nurse saw the box of chocolates in Maureen's hand and flinched. "It's a while since you saw Yvonne, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Maureen.

"I don't think you should give her those," she said, pointing at the box. "She could choke."

Maureen put them in her bag. The nurse smiled apologetically and led her up the staircase to the second floor. She pointed to a half-open door with a brass number five screwed onto it and trotted off down the stairs. The doors marked three and four were firmly shut, so Maureen guessed this was the right one. She pushed it open with her fingertips.

The room was smaller than the big door suggested. It had been partitioned badly: the window consisted of a two-foot offcut from next door's window, the ceilings were too high and the new walls looked patched on and flimsy. The only light came from a pink-shaded lamp sitting on top of the chest of drawers, giving off a dull pink glow – it was a nightlight for a frightened child. There didn't seem to be any personal effects in the room. The pictures of flowers on the wall had been chosen because the red plastic frames matched. On top of a locker next to the sink sat an unopened matching set of soap and talc and a glass of weak orange squash with a toddler's feed lid on it.

A painfully thin elderly nurse was dressing a woman sitting in a chair. She was wearing the striped uniform, and thick support tights over her varicose veins. She kept her back to the door as she wrestled Yvonne's limp body into a washed-out nylon nightie. The nightdress was frantic with static and clung to Yvonne's face and arms. It was split up the back like an incontinence dress. The nurse muttered soft words of encouragement as she popped Yvonne's head through the neck and buttoned it up. Maureen coughed notice of her presence and the nurse turned on her heels. "Who are you?" she said, annoyed and surprised.

"I've come to visit Yvonne."

"Will you wait outside until she's dressed, please?" she said crossly.

Maureen stepped out and stood like a scolded child on the landing until the nurse came out. "You may go in now," she said, as she passed on her way downstairs. Maureen held the flowers in front of her and went into the room.

Yvonne's hair was honey blond, turning brown through lack of sun and cut into a short, manageable hospital style. She was sitting in an orthopedic armchair; cushions had been placed between her hips and the chair sides to stop her slipping over. A freshly puffed pillow in a transparent plastic cover lay in front of her on the table attachment. She was slumped over it, her hands in her lap. Her glassy blue eyes were half-open, her cheek was resting on the plastic-covered pillow in the slick of warm saliva dribbling horizontally out of her mouth. She was forty at most. The skin on her face was loose, sagging to the side, folding against the pillow but devoid of wrinkles. It was a long time since Yvonne had had an expression on her face. Both her hands were curled shut like a stroke victim's and swatches of heavily talcumed cotton wool had been worked between the fingers to stop her getting contact sores.

Maureen put the flowers in the sink and pulled a chair round to Yvonne's left side so that she could see her face as she spoke to her. She asked her whether she had been at the Northern, did she remember Siobhain McCloud, had she seen Douglas, Douglas with the dark eyes and the low voice? Maureen found herself describing him slowly and softly, her voice dipping so low that she could only have been whispering to herself.

She waited with Yvonne for ten minutes to make it look good.

When she stood up to leave she noticed Yvonne's feet. They were curled over the arch like a ballerina's point. Someone who cared about her had knitted little pink booties with a white drawstring around the ankle. The light from the hall shone under the table, illuminating the dry, flaky skin on her skinny legs. An inch above the ankle the skin color changed. It was a ribbon of pink shiny skin, like snakeskin, running all the way around her calf. And then Maureen realized it was a scar. From a rope burn.

She went back downstairs. The young nurse was sitting in the dayroom, watching TV and holding a woman's hand. The patient was nodding and twitching in a vain attempt to resist medication-induced sleep. The nurse saw Maureen standing in the hall and waved her in. The color on the TV set was turned up too high: the actors' faces were orange and their red lips were blurred and undefined. Six or seven empty identical brown orthopedic armchairs were arranged around the television. A folded wheelchair and a Zimmer frame were tidied away against the wall. There were no pictures on the walls and the glorious windows were defaced with beige nylon curtains. It was a desolate, functional room. Maureen sat down in a chair. The nurse reached over with her free hand and touched Maureen's arm. "Are you okay there?" she said, whispering so as not to disturb her sleepy companion. "You look a bit shocked. You haven't seen her for a while, have you?"

"How long's she been like that?" Maureen whispered back.

"Long time. Where do you know her from?"