‘You mean HIV’, he had said to her. She shook her head. Her puffy red finger trembled as it pointed at those four capitals.

Andrew had tried to stay calm, but his head span between reality, past and present. Déjà vu made him nauseous.

Later, back in Barrowbury, they talked. She had arrived for her first day at the North Western Isles’ cancer research wing at the hospital. They dealt with many critically ill people, and as a matter of course, she had been given a thorough medical. After the test they had not told her outright. A second sample was taken which they used to confirm the results. She had a T Cell count of only 189. Andrew wished he had not spent so much time trawling the Internet for information on AIDS and HIV. He knew what a count of 189 meant. Two hundred was the cut-off point. Below that was very bad.

They slept together that night – Drew was surprised by his mother who actually encouraged them by not making up the bed in the guestroom. Neither him nor Heather could bear the subject for the moment. They talked about other things. He did not want to think. He needed time before he could talk beyond sympathy.

Early the next morning, Andrew pulled on his jogging suit and ran into the dewy pre-dawn haze. Close-by there was a large stately home owned by an unseen aristocrat. The grounds had several public footpaths, which were muddy gateways to grand views. After thirty minutes of rhythmic jogging he reached the crest of a low hill overlooking the house and lake. He sat down on a bench, panting, blinking rapidly as sweat stung his eyes. Shaking his head free of the perspiration that dripped from his forehead, he stared at the distant shoreline. He attempted to regulate his breath as he arranged his thoughts into a logical order.

The fact was, Heather would almost certainly leave Andrew alone. The timing was unknown. In his current state of mind he could not comprehend watching Heather dying. He could not conceive coping with interminable days and nights seeing her deteriorate. He could not envisage the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, life without Heather. He could not see how he would survive the last time she ever spoke. He could not reconcile himself to the fact that all of these would happen, and that he could not intervene into the plan and change it.

The most obvious answer was suicide. That had to be the easiest solution. He was probably going to die soon anyway. Heather and he could have the luxury of dying together, then he would never have to experience anything without her. And it was not unfair on everyone else. Alright, yes it was, but why should he give a damn? Firstly, the consequences would not have to be faced, he would not know the sadness his family would endure. No-one could blame him. Secondly, was ‘fair’ not now an inappropriate concept in his life? Was it fair that by loving Heather, the one entity he had loved unfathomably more than any other, he had designed her demise? Of course it was not fair. Thirdly, well was there a need for thirdly? The simple fact was that if he committed suicide a much large percentage of his life would be bearable than if he carried on living. That was the fact. It would always be an option – it did not have a finite time window. If he did it now (right now), or in five years the outcome would be the same for him. Which made it a last resort. But it was not just a last resort, it was also a first resort. He could jump merely because the train of thought, the burden of life was too much. Or he could jump because he had thought through all of the options carefully, and suicide was the only escape route left which he could cope with. And there was the dichotomy, suicide was always the easiest option, yet any event that preceded it would seem an anticlimax, it would not have the finality of suicide. Hence putting suicide off for another day or two would always be the decision he would make. Suicide was not an option. It was merely a comforting notion to get him through. But Andrew had come here to think through all of the options. So, statistics : within five years Heather would die. 95%. He’d read that somewhere – only 5% of patients with AIDS last longer than five years from when their T Cells first drop below 200.

He had HIV. He was sure of that, which gave him a maximum of seven to ten years. Probably. Or less. That was practically fact then – he had something like three years of waiting for death. One thousand days of counting past each hour without Heather.

A cure for AIDS? Was that likely before Heather died? It seemed possible – how many times had he heard scientists heralding a new dawn, a breakthrough – yet it was always a headline for a day, an editorial, then it would fade. 40% Maybe 45% maximum. The statistics were meaningless though. He was trying to rationalise an irrational soup of thoughts and emotions. By now the sun was visible in the lower reaches of a terracotta sky. He stood up and retraced the route to his parents’ house.

After a brisk icy shower, Andrew stood in his room towelling his matted wet chest. He knew what he had to do. He had to be there for Het. All of the time. What happened after, well that would just happen. They would not waste moments. He now had a timetable.

* * *

Heather held her parents in wretched contempt. How could two people who had given birth to her be so thoughtless, yet two people who only knew her as their son’s sick girlfriend could be unfalteringly kind? The weekend with Andrew had turned into a week. She had decided to spend most of the summer in Barrowbury. The final fortnight before term started, she would spend with Andrew on Stornoway. She just had to return to get some clothes and to tell her parents the truth.

Three hours after a reluctant farewell, Heather found herself fiddling with her food in her parents' house. She told them. Then silence. She felt reassured that no matter how they reacted she had a ticket back to Andrew in two day’s time. A spell in Lewis was more of a sentence than a break.

Her father stood up. He did not say a word. He hit her. He hit her so hard that she was knocked off her chair.

His voice thundered from his granite chest, blown from cheeks the colour of ripe burgundy grapes. ‘You’ll never see that murderin’ bastard again. You’ll no leave Lewis. We’ll look after you here, now.’

At 4 am she left. She stayed with a friend the next day. She flew away the following day. She did not attempt to say goodbye to her parents for she despised them.

Andrew’s family was welcoming. They did not ask, but Heather suspected Andrew had told them.