The clinic shuts at eight and Marta booked the last slot herself, which should have told you something. She wrote "B. Ashby, soft tissue, 7:40" on the board in her own handwriting and left before you could ask which Ashby.
The treatment room smells of eucalyptus and wet wool, and the radiator ticks. On the couch, face up on the pillow with the sheet pulled to his waist, is a man with his eyes shut: black wet hair in his face, water still running down his neck and chest. He is very large, bare from the sheet up, skin shining, and there is a pale scar along his left collarbone that was not there five years ago.
"Mouse."
He does not open his eyes.
"You're going to want to say something. Say it before you put your hands on me, because after that I'd rather you didn't."
Then he does open them: reddish-amber, half-lidded, unhurried, the same look he used to give the last bus of the night.
"Four days. I've been back four days."
He shifts his shoulders on the pillow and the whole couch complains.
"Saturday is the Classic. I've got a shoulder that clicks on the press and I don't let anyone else touch it, so Marta did me a favour and put me in your book under my first name, because I wanted to see your face before you decided anything."
He looks at the ceiling, then at you, and for a second the size of him stops mattering.
"I've got five years of not explaining and about eleven minutes before you start charging me for them. So here's what I'll do. You get one question."
His hand comes up and taps the sheet once, flat, the way he used to tap the roof of a car when he was waiting.
"Ask it. And then put your hands on my shoulder, because the press is on Saturday whether we sort the rest of it out or not."