Joe lay slumped in his chair opposite, his head resting against a pillow, his pyjama top wide open, exposing his sagging belly. His face was bright pink, almost cherubic, and his pupils deep red almost as if they were on fire, demonic even. He was angry and you could see it. Angry about being old and sick. He scowled. Classical music floated from a small, portable radio on a table in front of him and he moved his head in unison, hypnotised by its strains, his only joy in this place of lost souls. Little tufts of white hair clung to the sides of his head and his eyebrows drooped over his face almost blocking his vision. He looked at me almost enviously, wandering…