From his hospital bed, Tom is looking out the window through the Glasgow rain, pondering the debris of his career. The doctor who had just left him had told him that his hand had been saved but would never again be strong enough to take the strain of driving a Formula 1 car, or, indeed, any kind of race car. He had suspected it, ever since he had come out of the semi unconscious state he had been kept in, but now he knows for certain. The other injuries – the broken ribs, the broken leg, the slight concussion – are harmless, but the hand is bad. His life is over.

  He does not want to cry. He would have been world champion, and now he is a cripple. It is over. There are many drivers who had made a comeback after horrible accidents, but burnt skin is different from a hand that had been squashed and nearly torn off. It would never be strong enough, or quick enough. He fights back the tears, they will not help.

  There is a knock on the door. He is not expecting anyone, nor does he want to see anyone. Still the door is pushed open, and the visitor enters, hidden behind a huge bouquet of blue flowers. These flowers grow in abundance in the grounds of Wake Hall. Tom swallows. Faith.

  They had told him that Faith Casadoro had found him, taken care of him, and basically saved his life. He dimly remembers having seen her, weirdly distorted, for some reason, in his memory, her face was upside down, so the information made sense. He had not expected to see her again so soon.

  She nods at him and places the flowers on the table. Then she stands by his bed.

  Tom does not dare to look at her. He does not want her to see that he has been crying. He had often seen her in the past couple of years, had seen the teenage girl disappear and turn into a young woman who often accompanied her grandfather to the races. She had become very beautiful, and she would not be able to walk around the paddock unnoticed for much longer. He had never spoken to her, but he had always supposed that they would renew their acquaintance at some point, when he would have something to show for himself, and she would not be a girl any more. He had had no plan, and it was not a romantic fantasy, it was not even an idea. It was something he had known. He does not want it to happen now.

  “Hello, Thomas”, she says softly.

  “Hello, Miss Casadoro”, he replies, feeling even more embarrassed. She had used his first name, and he had replied as if she was his superior. He corrects himself. “Faith.” He sees her slight smile. Not bad. He clears his throat. “Faith, the doctors say that you saved my life. I would have bled to death if it hadn’t been for you. Thank you so much.”

  She does not reply immediately. Biting her lip, she glances at his hand in its massive bandage. “Saved your life”, she murmurs, dismissing the statement with a sweeping gesture. “But how do you feel? What about your hand? Are you going to be okay?”

  Tom avoids her eyes. “Oh yes. It will be fine. The doctors have pieced it together brilliantly.” He fails miserably at smiling.

  She looks at him, shaking her head. “And… but… so…” She breaks off.

  He cannot take it any more. “No. No, I’m not going to drive again”, he bursts out, suddenly furious. He is out of breath for no reason.

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  She just stands looking at him. “Oh”, she says, and then she waits. She looks around the room, at the things on his table, the hospital machinery behind his bed, the generic artwork on the wall, the view from the window. The longer she stands there, the less he wants her to leave.

  “I’m sorry”, he says at last. “Won’t you sit?”

  “Thank you.” She slides onto the edge of his bed. He had meant the chair, but this is better.

  “My grandfather sends his best wishes”, she says. “I had to tell him, and he was very upset.”

  “I’m sorry.” Burns had been poorly when he had visited. The old man is declining, and it had been hard to see.

  “Is there anything we can do? Call someone? Get your family over? Is there anything you need?”

  “No, no, thank you. My manager has been here this morning. To tell you the truth, I cannot really deal with people right now.” Shit. He does not want to complain and be whiny.

  Too late. She has risen already. “I’ll be off then.”

  “No, no”, he says hastily. “Please stay awhile. It’s good of you to have come.”

  He must have sounded desperate, for she sinks back on the edge of the bed, looking at her hands. Her face is without make-up, it is flawless, she does not need any. He can smell her perfume, very faintly, sweet and pleasant. He does not want her to leave.

  “What exactly happened?”, she asks straight into his thoughts. Her blue eyes are suddenly upon him.

  “Cow shit”, he says promptly.

  “Cow shit?”

  “Someone must have driven cows across the road without cleaning up. Then there was the rain, and the turns get very slippery indeed.” He laughs bitterly.

  “Cow shit”, she echoes. “Couldn’t it have been sheep shit?”

  “No.”

  Her smile is overwhelming. He sighs. “You know, when one thinks about the risks there are in racing, one always imagines terrible accidents, flames, explosions. The worst. We never think of things that will not kill us but disable us, take us out forever while leaving us alive and…” He breaks off.

  “Yes”, she says simply.

  He turns his face away. She must not see the tears. “We never think of cow shit.”

  “No.”

  He cannot let her go. “Faith”, he says, reaching for her with his good hand. “I’m so glad that you are here. I would love to get to know you – so much better. I…”

  But Faith has jumped up and moved away from him. She looks terrified and he wants to hit himself. “I’m sorry, Faith, I shouldn’t have said that. Please, I…”

  She silences him with a gesture. “I have to go now, Mr Healey. I wish you all the best. Good bye.”

  Then she is gone. And he is the world’s biggest crippled fool.