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Didn’t know if you would get my message.”
    â€œWhat’s happened, Aggie?”
    â€œIt’s your Nan, Danny. She’s had a stroke. Came in for a little chat and found her lying at the bottom of the stairs. Put the fear of God into me, I can tell you—I thought she was dead, see? I mean she looked dead, even though she had her eyes open, couldn’t see her breathing. Sweet Jesus, I said when I saw her.”
    â€œWhere is she now? At your place?”
    â€œSaint Luke the Physician’s, Danny. They took her away in an ambulance, put an oxygen mask on her and everything. I thought I should go with her, but I wasn’t family and my Tommy’s on the night shift and the buses don’t run this route. ’Sides, nothing I could do, was there? Don’t think she even knew me, Danny. But you should go. Need to be somebody there when she wakes up.”
    â€œI’m on my way,” said Danny.
    Saint Luke the Physician Hospital was a sprawl of grimy buildings at the far end of Victoria Street. There was a large woman on reception who gave him a tired fake smile and asked, “Can I help you?”
    Danny discovered he was sick with fear. He licked his lips. “Come to see about Dorothy Bayley.” He knew he was muttering, but he couldn’t seem to get his voice any louder.
    It made no difference to the receptionist, who was probably well used to nervous visitors. “Dorothy Bayley,” she repeated clearly, and turned sideways to flick through card index drawers. After a bit she frowned. “I don’t suppose you know what day she was admitted?”
    â€œLast night, I think,” Danny said. “They brought her in an ambulance.”
    â€œAh,” said the woman. “Excuse me a minute.” She reached for a phone.
    Danny waited. When he couldn’t hear what she was saying, he looked around the reception area. There was a young woman with a small child sitting in an armchair near the second set of glass doors. A cheery-looking old guy in a porter’s uniform nodded to her as he walked past.
    The receptionist was saying something. Danny turned back. “Pardon?”
    â€œAre you a relative?” the receptionist asked him again. Her voice had taken on a kindly, sympathetic tone, which was worrying.
    â€œGrandson,” Danny told her woodenly. “Come to visit.”
    â€œThe doctor will be with you in a minute,” said the receptionist. “You can take a seat over there.”
    Danny took a seat beside a little table that was littered with old Hello! magazines. He didn’t like this at all, didn’t want the doctor to be with him in a minute. When your Nan was fine, just had a bit of a turn, they said, “She’s in ward eighty-eight—go on up.” When there were problems—bad, serious problems—they said, “The doctor will be with you in a minute.” Doctors were too busy otherwise. Only got to see them when the receptionist didn’t want to give you the bad news.
    He was leafing through Hello!, calculating how much he could get for the ornaments on the singer’s mantelpiecein the main photo feature, when he noticed a man in a white coat talking to the receptionist. His stomach sank another notch as they looked in his direction. Then the doctor was walking toward him. “For Mrs. Bayley, is it? You’re…?”
    â€œLipman,” Danny said. “Danny. She’s my grandmother.” There was bad news. He could tell from the man’s face.
    The doctor sat down beside him, which meant it was even worse news. “Is your mother here?” he asked. “Or your father?”
    Danny’s father wouldn’t be here for another five years, given time off for good behavior. God alone knew where his mother was, still with the Romanian maybe. Danny shook his head. “No.” Usually it was best not to explain, not to say anything more, but he could appreciate