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at the lights on the third floor opposite, knowing now that those rooms were empty and the light came from the corridor beyond. It didn’t help to tell myself that the operations were going on as usual, in another part of the hospital, because the fact was that they were no longer there, where they should have been. Knowing that ruined my concentration.

      I gave up trying to read, got up from my desk and walked out of my office. Seeing one of my assistants helping a young man on a crutch limp into his room, I told him I had been called to see a patient in the geriatric wing and that I would be back as soon as possible.

      The entrance hall was busy. Porters were crossing it in different directions, briskly pushing patients in wheelchairs. A family stood near the signpost looking lost and a female guide was giving a tour to a group of men in suits, who with their heads tipped back, were politely inspecting the stained-glass window above the great door, which depicted various ancient and obsolete forms of healing. I walked past them, heading in the direction of the geriatric wing.

      As I’ve explained, the paediatric and geriatric wings were smaller than the north wing and had no gardens of their own. However, the geriatric wing did have one distinguishing feature: a small, circular chapel built just beyond the end of it, which was reached by a gravel path that extended from a door in the wall of the building. This chapel was of a rather unusual design. Inside, it was arranged on a hexagonal plan, with six recesses facing a central pulpit. In the days when the hospital was an asylum, each alcove would accommodate a different category of patient, who were prevented from seeing the others but had a full view of the priest at the centre. At the time, the prevailing wisdom was that the different varieties of insanity mixed badly, so it was thought that the drunks should be separated from the suicides who should not be allowed to mingle with the prostitutes.

      This chapel was where I now headed. There was no one else there, and I sat down in one of the empty recesses, breathing in the odour of warm stone and wood polish. I am not religious, but I believe that churches are the last corners of our cities that are conducive to quiet reflection. Perhaps because no one goes there any more. And for that very reason, perversely, people might come back to God.

      A chapel in the geriatric wing of a hospital is quieter than most, and this was where I went when I wanted to think through a knotty problem. After a few minutes I heard the heavy door of the chapel open and then the slow shuffling of feet and the rhythmic tap of a cane. It sounded, from their muffled voices, like two old men. They sat down in the recess next to mine, close to the wall against which I leaned, and continued their conversation in hushed tones. Their quavering, feeble voices, issuing no doubt through false teeth, rose up to the vaulted ceiling and echoed round the walls. I let the soft, insipid sound wash over me, but at one point one of them said something that made me prick up my ears.

      ‘Latimer is off-limits,’ he said, and I recognised the name of one of the geriatric wards. I didn’t catch the other’s reply, something about a sore throat. Then the first said that was how it started, with a ticklish throat. He for one didn’t intend to hang about, he had a good mind to discharge himself that afternoon, even though he didn’t know how he’d manage by himself, especially when it came to his dressings. I waited to hear what else they would say. But the conversation turned into a dispute over a card game and I lost interest. The volume of the old men’s voices gradually increased until it became intrusive, and I was obliged to clear my throat. They broke off their argument in a surprised silence. A few minutes later I heard the tap of a stick and more shuffling, and then the heavy oak door open and close.

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