She seemed lost for a moment then:

‘Oh… it’s “Feel”.’

The sleep had retreated and he near barked:

‘And that tells me what exactly?

She gave him a playful pat on the shoulder, said:

‘It’s Robbie Williams, he’s gorgeous. Don’t you listen to the radio?’

‘I listen to classical music. Like, for example, yesterday, when I got home, I had Avro Part and then Gorecki.’

Heard himself, realised he sounded like his father, like a complete prig. His dad was a highly successful businessman, had remarried the previous year. A memorable event to which Porter had taken Brant.

The father has asked Brant:

‘How come you’re hanging out with a fag?’

Or words to that effect.

Then he’d offered Brant a job. To Porter’s everlasting delight Brant, in typical form, had said:

‘I’d never work for an asshole like you.’

Brant had brought a hooker to the reception and told all her occupation. She’d done major trade in the afternoon: they weren’t called working girls for nothing.

Porter had listed his father as next of kin on the admission sheet. And here he came, striding up the ward, looking like he couldn’t believe people were actually taken to public wards. He was wearing a Burberry raincoat, open to reveal a blue blazer, grey slacks. A silk cravat was carelessly tied around his neck. This was his father’s casual gear.

He glared at Porter in the bed, near roared:

‘What’s all this nonsense?’

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Is it one of them faggot diseases? I don’t want to catch anything.’

‘They think it’s my heart but they moved me out of Coronary Care, so that’s a good sign.’

His father turned his head, searching for someone to order. Then said:

‘You always were an idiot; only you would think there’s some good sign in being hooked up to monitors.’

Porter Nash was trying to remember the name of the new wife, but no, it wouldn’t yield. So he went with: