Every time I was short with him because my back hurt. Every time I said right then in that bright voice you use when you are turning somebody and do not want to think about what you are doing.
Once, in the October, I said out loud, to nobody, while changing a sheet: I cannot do this much longer.
I have never asked him whether he remembers that one, and he has never brought it up, and I am fairly sure both of those facts are deliberate.
And I want to record that in that moment I had already decided to do nothing, because I had a child asleep two rooms away and a contract that ends at the end of a sentence like the one Christo had just said to me.
What changed my mind was not courage. It was four o'clock.
PART 3
At four the doctor arrived with a leather case.
Osric Halloran. Fifty-seven. He has been coming three times a week since the September and he has never once said my name.
There were about twenty people in that house by then. Family in from two cities, two agency staff, a woman from the office with a folder, a man who I still do not know who he was.
Several of them were in the hallway because the door was open.
And I did a thing I had not planned. I stood between the bed and the door and I asked what was in the syringe.
Not cleverly. Not in a way that would stand up anywhere. I said: sorry — can I ask what that is? It's not on my sheet.
And he put his hand on my wrist and said it loud enough for all of them:
Step away from the bed. You are staff.
Nobody moved. Somebody set a cup down on a side table, and I heard it, from four feet away, in a house that size.
He did not let go. He leaned in and said: step away.
And what I noticed, with his hand on my wrist in front of twenty people, was that he was not angry.
He was not even hurried. His voice did not go up.
A man who has been caught doing something raises his voice. A man who is simply removing an obstacle does not.
And two words in that sentence did all the work, and they were not step away.
You are staff.
He did not tell twenty people that I was wrong. He told them what I was, and then the question I had asked stopped being a question and became a carer getting above herself.
Nobody in that hallway had to decide anything. He had done the deciding for them in four words.
I have thought about that a great deal since, because it is the most efficient thing I have ever seen a person do, and it took him about a second and a half and he did not even look at me while he did it.
Ten minutes later, Rendel's breathing changed and his fingers stopped answering me.
And Halloran said, to the room, in the same even voice: he's fading. Five days. Maybe six.
Then he put the vials back into his case instead of leaving them in the cabinet with everything else.
The cabinet is on the wall by the window. It has a key and I have one and the other carer has one.
Everything that goes into that man lives in it. That is the entire point of the cabinet and it is the first thing the agency checks.
I have watched him do that nineteen times.
I had watched him do it nineteen times and had thought nothing about it at all — and that is not quite true, and I am going to correct it now rather than at the end.
I had thought something about it on the second visit.
I thought: that's odd.
And then I carried on making up a bottle, because a nine-month-old does not wait while you think about somebody else's briefcase.
PART 4
I am not a nurse. I have a level three qualification and eleven months of experience and I did not work any of this out from medicine.
I worked it out from the chart.
I am the one who fills it in. Every shift, for six weeks, in my handwriting, because the agency requires it and because I am the person in that room.
And that vial has never once appeared on it.
It is not on the prescription list taped inside the cabinet door.
It is not on the handover sheet. It is not on the agency's medication record, which I sign at the end of every week.
Three times a week, for six weeks. Nineteen visits.
Not one of them recorded anywhere.
Something was going into that man and then leaving the house in a leather case.
I did not need to understand medicine.
I needed to be able to count, and to know what a blank line in my own handwriting means.
