Gordon was sitting outside his mother’s apartment block in his Car With No Name. The vehicle, a fifteen-year-old Japanese station wagon, did have a make, model and colour, but it had been known as the Car With No Name ever since the night Gordon was organising to pick up Firie Sam from Central Station and Sam had asked, ‘What car are you driving?’

Gordon, who had only recently bought the car, replied famously, ‘Dunno.’

‘What do you mean you don’t know what car you’re driving?’

‘I dunno, it’s a car.’

‘But what type is it?’

‘I told you,’ Gordon said. ‘It’s a car.’

‘Okay,’ Sam said. ‘Can you tell me what colour it is?’

‘Nope.’

It was agreed that Sam would tell this story at Gordon’s funeral. What was more Gordon Grimes than not knowing the make or colour of his own car?

When visiting his mother, Gordon sometimes had to park the Car With No Name (for the record, a gunmetal grey 2004 Nissan Pulsar wagon, currently worth less than its insurance premium) and sit for a few minutes to summon up a pleasant state of mind. Because of the heavy stone of duty sitting in his oesophagus, because he had been avoiding his parents so he could maintain the glow from his holiday Up North, he had to remind himself that he was a good person. He was guilty about not seeing them, just as Norma was guilty over her relief at having got Ronald into the nursing home, a guilt she paid for by receiving a twice-daily scourging she observed as faithfully as a bride of Christ.

And then Norma still felt bad about coming home to sleep in her own bed.

And then Gordon felt bad about thinking all of these thoughts about her.

‘I am a good person,’ he said aloud.