Towards the end of the summer I went to Gozo to meet up with my parents for a few days. On the second day I became ill and was rushed to the island’s hospital, a crumbling single storey building, its paint peeling and metal windows rusting. The only spare bed they had for me was in the geriatric ward.
I spent a sleepless week with the old and the dying. Four o’clock in the morning is the optimum time to die. The death rattle? It’s loud and long and lonely.
I was flown back to hospital in London. Word was sent to Alison that I wouldn’t be returning to Hydra.
I never got in touch with Alison. Never apologized for letting her down, for walking out on a young boy who had placed his love and trust in me.
More tomorrow, the finale.