She said: "She likes the radio. She's got a chair by the window and they put the radio on at ten and she's — yes. She's alright. It's a good place. It's the reason it costs what it costs."
And then she said the thing that finished off whatever I had arrived with.
"He's been twice, Wynn. In six years. Twice."
"He pays for everything. He does the reviews on the phone. He rings the manager every month and asks about her feet and her weight and whether the chiropodist's been."
"And he can't go in the building."
The twenty-fourth of October.
Imelda Foyle died the following afternoon.
I was there.
Not in the room — Grady was in the room, and Verity, and a nurse called Oyin who had known her eleven years.
I was in the corridor on a chair, because I had driven four hours on the strength of a car park conversation and I did not know what else to do with myself.
