The front room held a daybed, made up with military precision, a table with one straight chair and a bookcase with a miniature television, a laptop and a CD player on top. One corner had a tiny sink, a microwave, an under-counter refrigerator and one cupboard for food, utensils and tableware. There was a door leading, I assumed, to a bathroom. There was no back room. Jonathan sat in his wheelchair, and motioned me to the bed. ‘It’s far more comfortable than the chair, I assure you. Sorry, Alan.’ ‘You’re very . . . cosy here,’ I said. Jonathan grimaced. ‘I’ve only noticed how small it is the past few months. Yes, I could easily afford a better place, what with my inheritance. But until I . . . had to retire, I was almost never here except to sleep.’ There was that hesitation again, as if he weren’t sure how to refer to his horrifying experience. Or didn’t want to. ‘Yes. Well. Jonathan, we need to talk.’ ‘Yes. Would you like some tea?’ ‘Not right now, thank you,’ said Alan.
