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arm. He had deliberately lied to Dr Singh about being careless with the kettle because he had thought that otherwise it might seem that he couldn’t be trusted with a gas fire. Scalding oneself sounded less dangerous, somehow.
    It was four days since he had been into Deaconsbridge and had his arm seen to. He hadn’t been back to the surgery; he had decided there was no point. He had finished the short course of antibiotics several days earlier than he should have, working on the theory that the pills would take effect faster if he tripled the dosage on days one and two. What was more, he had changed the dressing himself, swapping the bandages and gauze for a clean handkerchief and securing it with a couple of safety-pins. By rights the doctor should be grateful for being let off the extra work. If more people were like Gabriel, the National Health Service wouldn’t be in such a mess.
    But now he had this wretched eye to deal with. He would give it a day or so, and if there was no improvement, he would go into Deaconsbridge - make his Friday visit on Thursday perhaps. He pressed the heel of his hand against the eye patch, resisting the urge to give it a damn good rub. It was so itchy and sore. To distract himself he set about making a pot of tea for his breakfast.
    For such a large kitchen, there was little space to work in: every surface was crowded with crockery and paperwork that lay in untidy piles awaiting his attention. As did all those things that needed mending, but which he never got round to: an Anglepoise lamp that wouldn’t stay in position; a battery charger he’d ordered from one of those junk catalogues and had dropped and broken; an iron that needed a new plug; a wobbly mug tree; a wooden bread-bin that wouldn’t open properly; and several shirts that were down to just a few buttons. But the mess was getting to him; there was something tidal in the stealthy manner in which it was creeping up on him. He would have to do something about it soon.
    But not today.
    Domesticity didn’t suit him. He wasn’t cut out for defrosting freezers or knowing how to get a crease-free wash out of the washing-machine. Val had taken care of all that. It had been her domain and he had willingly left her to it. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was old school when it came to defining the boundaries of a husband and wife. The system had worked perfectly until the world had gone mad and everyone had become obsessed with
    equality and role reversal.
    He switched on the wireless to listen to the Today programme, sweeping aside several days’ worth of plates, cups, knives and forks, dirty pots and pans and a couple of empty pilchard tins, until at last he had cleared a space around the kettle and toaster. His breakfast made, he added a tot of twelve-year-old Glenlivet to his tea, just a drop to kick-start his day. Time was when a new day for him had been like cracking an egg - short, sharp, and he was off. Now he had to ease himself into it. He sat at the cluttered table and answered the wireless back, dishing out his objections and criticism with a fair hand: he disagreed on principle with everything the presenters or politicians said.
    He was still sitting at the table when he heard a knock at the door.
    He checked his watch, as though it would tell him who was
    bothering him at such an unsociably early hour. But it was later than he had thought, almost ten o’clock. Even so, who could it be? Callers at Mermaid House were rarer than hens’ teeth.
    There was another knock, louder this time. Whoever it was seemed determined to summon him to the door. He pushed his feet into his slippers and shuffled off reluctantly to deal with whoever had come to bother him. He slid the bolts back, top and bottom, turned the key and opened the door.
    ‘What the hell do you want?’ Gabriel growled, when he saw Dr Singh standing before him. ‘And don’t tell me you were just passing and thought you’d see if I was in.’
    ‘No, Mr