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town. I pointed at a spot right next to my bed, and I turned the cover of The Idiot towards her. We would discuss this book like we’d discussed most of the books I’d plucked from our collection at home – the rows of classic and modern novels that had left the upstairs bookshelves and littered my floor until they’d earned fresh creases. She would ask me what I thought, what I felt, and, talking to her, I’d work this book out like I’d pieced together the others.
    She waved at the door:
    â€˜I like to be able to see who’s coming in and out,’ she said.
    It was a sensible reason in theory, but in practice she rarely looked up from her reading stack.
    â€˜It’d be easier to talk if you were sitting here,’ I said.
    She smiled, moved to a chair by my bed, and plunged right back into her papers.
    â€˜Have you read this?’ I asked her.
    She took a few seconds to look up.
    â€˜A long time ago,’ she said, and she looked down again, squinting.
    From the way she was reading her papers, I realised that her usual prompts – How far along are you? Are you enjoying it? – wouldn’t come. I lowered my voice until I felt sure that no one else would hear me. My words were travelling in a space that belonged to no one else but us:
    â€˜Everyone loves him, but I’m not sure why.’
    She looked up sharply.
    â€˜In the book, I mean,’ I said, lowering my voice further, so that she had to lean forward to catch my words. ‘They all pretend that he’s a fool, but they all love him. Don’t you remember?’
    â€˜No, I don’t.’ She leaned back on her chair, glanced at the window, and plunged back into her papers, squinting hard this time.
    The lines of my book went blurry, and the house shone through the ash. I heard her chair squeal. Standing up, she squinted and pointed at the window.
    â€˜Natural light’s better for my eyes.’ She moved her things to her old chair, and I didn’t mention it again.
    There were many hours when she was away and my body wouldn’t slip past slumber. My eyes ajar, I spent time looking at my three companions. There were curtains to divide the room into four but they were only ever drawn when nurses needed to undress patients. The rest of the time we were together because there was nothing to separate us.
    The man in front of me fascinated me – my diaries include three long entries on his actions. From the safety of my cot, I spied on him in his bed, on his feet, in his chair. But spying isn’t the word I’m looking for. I wasn’t impinging on his privacy and no one wanted to know what I saw. It would be more accurate to say that I watched him like one watches a street performer. Except that his was the only act. While the two women to my right were staying still for days on end, this man was taking control of his space. He was younger than they were, in his late sixties I would guess, still infused with the energy to rise out of his bed.
    The old man was a starer. He would lie down and stare. And then he would move to his chair and stare. And he would stand up and stare – sometimes out of the window down at the city. I could see something of Mr Johnson in him. He would rest the back of his hand on his lower back and gaze out of the window quietly, just like Mr Johnson liked to do. But whereas Mr Johnson would look at the field for a few minutes and then turn back to us, the old man could stare for five minutes, ten minutes, half an hour, without registering an emotion. And then he’d sit and stare. He stared at nothing in particular – his eyes were open and they needed to rest on something. I can only presume that he didn’t need stark reminders to recall episodes of his life, that our mundane ward was enough inspiration. But he was certainly aware of what was going on around him. He knew I was looking at him – once, just as I was starting to think