Each time he remembers what happened, his body responds afresh, as if it were happening to him right there at the steering wheel. Once it was decided that William was going to Aberfan, Gloria stood up and led him by the hand, out of the ballroom and into the lush hotel gardens where she planted a kiss on his surprised mouth. He wonders now if, after the last year, when his reticence has scuppered so many possible moments of intimacy with Gloria, it was his sudden resolution to volunteer that made her want to kiss him.

‘Thank you,’ he said, as the liquefying sensation swept his body, and her hands sat in his without him knowing how they’d got there.

‘You’re welcome.’ She laughed, her eyes so glittery and alive, so hopeful. ‘You daft bugger.’

‘Can we do that again?’ he said, already leaning down towards her magnificent lips, his whole body alive to the thrill of a future filled with Gloria.

▪ ▪ ▪

He reaches Merthyr Vale at 3.35 in the morning, the Lavery and Sons hearse loaded with 30 gallons of formaldehyde, embalming instruments and four child-sized coffins. He’s already passed through two police blocks with the password, ‘Summers’, the largest undertakers in Cardiff. Though his journey has been in the dark, the thick belching chimneys sitting close to the countryside and the narrow lanes tell him he’s in a different country.

There’s no denying the excitement, even though for the last hour each blink has scratched his tired eyes. He feels noble, heroic even, driving through the night on his own, armed with all the skills he’s learned this year. Perhaps disaster embalming is his future. Perhaps the next twenty-four hours will shape his life. When stray thoughts of his mother, physically nearer to him now than for five years, flash through his mind, he bats them away.

For the last half-mile into Aberfan, he’s opened his window to stay awake. The spindly paths are periodically washed with yellow light and he has to pull over to let open lorries pass, humpbacked with glistening heaps. A harsher halo of white light shines above the village like a foreboding star. Now, yet another policeman stands shrouded in a rain cloak, waving him down.

‘Embalmer?’ He glances through the hearse window. Despite himself, William wants to laugh; he sounds exactly like Tom Jones.

‘Yes. Password Summers.’

‘You’ll be needed in Bethania Chapel’ – the policeman leans in closer – ‘where the bodies are being put.’ With a dart of surprise, William realises the police officer is crying. Suddenly backlit by the lights of an oncoming truck, his slick mac turns silver-white. ‘Pull over a minute.’ William edges the hearse onto the verge and the officer waves the lorry on. ‘You’ll see it on your right.’

‘Thank you.’ William engages the clutch, starting to feel the urgency, the need to get on with what he’s come to do.